Chapter Text
“You pick up scents really well for a beta.” The patient says, voice laced with awe.
House resists the urge to wince.
“Yeah, lucky for you. If I couldn't, you'd be dead in that hospital bed by this time tomorrow.” His tone is filled with annoyance.
While his catchphrase is “everybody lies,” it doesn’t make his patients lying to him any less irritating when he is trying to save their lives.
Pacing back and forth in front of the patient's bed, he continues his diatribe about how exactly the patient's scent led to his diagnosis and hopes his momentary pause went unnoticed. It isn’t the first time someone has commented on his sense of smell. Beta’s can’t usually smell scents because beta’s don’t have scents.
The obvious answer that no one ever guesses is that he isn’t a beta.
His patient properly chastised for lying and treatment administered, he limps back to his office. The halls of PPTH are bustling with their usual frantic nurses and stressed family members. As he reaches his office he notices snow is starting to fall outside, not unexpected for November in New Jersey. Sitting in his desk chair, chin balanced on his cane, he watches the flakes fall gently onto his balcony and laments the slippery conditions he’ll be dealing with until spring.
He sits for an undetermined amount of time. It’s easy to get lost in his own thoughts, from his patient to his soaps, to admitting to himself it’s probably time to put his bike away for the Winter. It’s easy to get lost in his own mind. Some days he’ll do anything to distract himself from it - play loud music, break into places he isn't supposed to be, prank Wilson. Other days, when the thoughts are benign and non-bothersome, he lets himself float around his own consciousness.
Footsteps outside his office door catch his attention and he knows immediately it’s Wilson. He’d recognize the sound of those shiny only-worn-indoors oxfords anywhere.
“Heard you saved your patient.”
The voice confirms his assumptions, as does the warm alpha sent that wafts over him as Wilson breezes in through the glass door.
“Wow word travels fast.” He responds without turning away from the window. This doesn’t deter his best friend, who pulls out the chair on the opposite side of the desk and sits down.
“What was the final piece of the puzzle?” Wilson asks, and House can hear him getting comfortable in the decidedly uncomfortable chair.
“His scent.” He tells him, turning in his desk chair to face Wilson as he says it, for dramatic effect.
Facing his friend of over a decade he takes him in. Wilson is impeccably dressed as always - beige dress pants, a white button up with a brown sweater vest over it, with a matching tie. He’s wearing his white coat over it all of course, dutiful doctor he is. He even completes the ensemble with his stupid little pocket protector. For being one of the most eligible alphas at PPTH, and possibly the greater Princeton-Plainsboro region, he sure dresses like a nerd.
“Ah yes, patients can lie but their scents can’t.” Wilson says with a ridiculous wave of his hand.
House takes a deep breath, looking away, “Patient told me I pick up scents really well for a beta.”
“And you didn’t correct him.” Wilson says matter-of-factly, one eyebrow raised and looking up at him through unfairly nice eyelashes.
“No, I didn’t.” House confirms.
Wilson is one of only a handful of people that know he’s actually, technically an omega. It’s not a secret per say, if you were to look at his driver’s license or medical file his sex is listed as ‘MO,’ but few people have any reason to look at those and thus people make assumptions based on his lack of scent and the fact he never takes heat or rut leave.
“You know, House. No one would care if they knew you were an omega. There are lots of omega doctors these days, in fact the world-renowned genius doctor being an omega would be a win for omegas everywhere.” Wilson’s expression is soft.
It pisses House off.
“Yes but I’m not just an omega. I’m a useless, sterile omega.” He snaps.
Wilson doesn’t get it. He’s an alpha, the perfect alpha, and just because he would never judge or change the way he sees someone just because they were omega doesn’t mean everyone feels the same. John House made sure a younger Greg knew that, that no one would respect him if they knew he was an omega. If he couldn’t be an alpha, passing as a beta was the next best thing. While House grew up to realize that none of that was true, he unfortunately also realized that society has no place for a sterilized omega.
“You're not useless. What those doctors did to you was beyond reprehensible. There is a reason chemical sterilization is illegal in every first world country. You aren’t less of an omega just because you can’t carry pups.” Wilson presses.
The mention of his forced sterilization brings memories to the forefront of his mind. Memories of a hospital in a foreign country, restraints, pain. He shakes his head and locks eyes with Wilson.
“I also can’t go into heat, can’t slick, don’t have a scent, can’t bond .” House reminds him.
They’d taken everything from him when they sterilized him. It was fine, really it was. He liked beta women just fine, he didn’t need an alpha to make his life worthwhile.
“The right alpha wouldn’t care about any of that.” Wilson says it like it's the truth. House knows better though, alphas rarely mate with betas for a reason.
“No alpha in his right mind would overlook all that.” He replies, turning back towards the window.
He’s done with this conversation. This isn’t the first time they’ve had it, and neither can ever change the other’s mind. Why Wilson is so hell bent on trying to convince him he has worth as an omega, House doesn’t know.
“You’d be surprised.” Wilson says sadly, before House hears him get up and walk out.
He goes back to staring at the winter wonderland outside his window. Wilson had preached to him on multiple occasions that “the right alpha” wouldn’t care about his situation but House finds it rich coming James “three omega wives” Wilson. He supposes he can’t blame Wilson completely, omegas have a tendency to throw themselves at him.
He’s the kind of gentle alpha omegas dream of, he listens to your feelings, cares about your comfort, and is also one hell of a lover, apparently, if the rumors from the PPTH nurses are anything to go by. Even after three divorces omegas line up to date him. It never lasts though, something always makes him stray from his perfect persona. Sometimes it’s his wandering libido, but mostly it’s House himself.
It gives him a smug sense of satisfaction to know Wilson will drop his wives to come be by his side, sometimes even without prompting. Like the Christmas when Wilson ditched his then wife, Julie, to spend Christmas with him. They’d eaten Chinese food and House played the piano. They’d drank and laughed, and Wilson crashed on the couch and made pancakes the next morning. It was… nice.
Now he has Wilson all to himself. Divorced but with no new omega on the horizon for him, he’s able to devote much of his time to him. Being the only friend really pays off sometimes. He wonders what things would be like if he was a real omega. Would Wilson feel differently about him? See him as more than just a best friend?
But those are thoughts best left for dark and lonely nights. Glancing at the clock on the wall he decides that 3:11pm is the perfect time to head for home. He solved a case, he deserves to knock off early. Gathering his things he dreads the icing parking lot - always hell on his leg. Though once he’s braved that he’ll be home free, and he looks forward to a couple of hours of uninterrupted soap opera watching with a glass of scotch before Wilson arrives after work with pizza.
————————
“Seriously, you were the one who left early today but I’m still the one who has to pick up dinner?” Wilson gripes as he makes his way into the dimly lit apartment, pizza balancing on his left forearm.
“You were out anyway. You really wanted to make the poor cripple venture out into the cold, harsh winter to bring you sustenance?” House sulks dramatically, not moving from his spot on the couch. He throws in a pout for good measure, just to annoy Wilson with the slight guilt he knows it will elicit from the oncologist.
Wilson rolls his eyes at House’s antics and toes off his shoes to cart the pizza into the kitchen.
House has been home for a couple of hours now. He changed from his work clothes to gray sweatpants and one of his rattier (see: comfier) band t-shirts. He’d watched three episodes of Days of Our Lives before Wilson’s arrival, and now switches over to The Discovery Channel as he watches Wilson retreat.
“You could have ordered in.” Wilson calls through the kitchen door.
House opts to stick his tongue out in Wilson’s general direction, his way of saying thank you. Wilson reappears to hang his coat up, and hangs House’s which had been thrown carelessly on the floor when he got home, while he’s at it. He scowls at the offending piece of outerwear like it insulted his mother, a sure sign of impending nagging.
“You know it wouldn’t kill you to pick up after yourself.” Wilson says after both coats are hung up in their rightful place. He takes up his classic hands- on-hips lecturing pose.
“And it wouldn’t kill you not to bitch but here we are.” House levels him with a stare.
They lock gazes, and the tension grows behind them as blue stays locked with brown for more time than can be considered normal for an alpha and an omega who are not in any sort of relationship. Wilson gives in first though, like always. Throwing his hands up, Wilson returns to the kitchen muttering something about “lazy slob.” He comes back with two plates, each with two slices of pizza, and two beers tucked under his arm.
God, Wilson is whipped.
Wilson settles down on the couch next to him and hands him his beer. He obviously didn’t stop off at his own apartment to change because he’s still in his work clothes, though he ditched the tie and sweater vest in the kitchen apparently because he’s just in his button up, still crisp despite the day, and his slacks. His hair is mussed, starting to fall down onto his forehead and House would say it’s cute, if House wasn’t House .
“So what's tonight’s documentary?” Wilson asks before taking a sip of his beer.
“Cats of Africa.” House responds, mouth still half full of pizza though, so it comes out sounding more like caas off af-a-a.
“You know, in some cultures, it’s considered rude to talk with your mouthful.” Wilson says sarcastically.
“And in some cultures being spit on during a conversation is considered a sign of respect.” House counters, mouth now pizza-free.
Wilson screws up his face. His eyes go all squinty and he stares off into the distance and purses his lips. It’s his “thinking” face and it's one of the most ridiculous expressions House has ever seen. It brings a rare smile to his face.
“I can never tell if you’re serious when you say things like that.” Wilson finally says, turning back to the TV.
“That’s part of my charm.” House informs him.
Wilson grunts a reply, and not much more is said for the course of the documentary. There are occasional ohs and aws as the cats hunt and capture their prey, but it’s mostly just the narrator and the sound of their chewing that fills the small apartment. Half way through Wilson gets up to get another slice of pizza. He points at House’s plate in a silent question and House shakes his head. He does however hold up his near-empty beer and Wilson gives him a thumbs up in reply.
When the show is over they are both leaning against the back of the couch with their feet up on the coffee table, pleasantly full and relaxed. It’s not a bad way to spend an evening and House is once again thankful Wilson doesn’t have an omega to spend his time with at the moment.
“Hand me the remote, monster trucks are on SPIKE tonight.” House points to the remote that was moved to Wilson’s side of the coffee table when they were making room for plates.
“No.” Wilson says, grabbing the remote and holding it in the hand furthest from House.
“Don’t be an idiot, give me the remote.” House says, holding out his hand.
Wilson is for some reason under the impression he doesn’t like monster trucks. House begs to differ because they’ve been going to monster truck rallys for ten years, and they’re monster trucks. Who doesn’t like monster trucks?
“No. I don’t want to watch monster trucks.” Wilson says, standing his ground.
Wilson must just do this to annoy him. That’s the only logical explanation. This is some elaborate prank to get back at him for doing things like leaving his coat on the floor. Well, House isn’t going to stand for that.
“Tough noogies. It’s my apartment and we are watching monster trucks.” House argues.
“Well I-I-I bought dinner and I say no monster trucks.” Wilson stammers.
House eyes him harshly, waiting to see if Wilson will give in. When all that meets his gaze is cool defiance, he springs into action.
He lunges across Wilson’s lap to make a grab for the remote, but Wilson quickly shimmies up the couch to sit on the back and hold the remote above his head. House begins attempting to climb Wilson, but between trying not to put too much weight on his bad leg and his sweats not really having any traction on the leather of the couch he is only half successful. He gets his face up by Wilson’s neck before he slips, and not wanting to watch his friend fall, Wilson locks the arm not holding the remote around House’s waist. This effectively pulls him against Wilson, leaving his face buried in the crock of his best friend's neck. His nose smushed right into none other than Wilson’s scent gland.
The rush of alpha scent delivered right to his olfactory system is dizzying. Wilson smells like leather and coffee and vanilla. It’s warm and it’s comforting and it sends a shiver down his spine that he knows Wilson must have felt. Something inside of him prickles and he wants so badly to dig in and inhale nothing but that wonderful scent for the rest of his days.
But Wilson is his best friend, and a perfectly respectable alpha who doesn’t need a defective omega like House hanging off him. So as quickly as he came to be jammed against Wilson, he pulls away.
“If you want to cuddle I’m sure there's a lot of nurses to help you with that.” He quips, moving back to his side of the couch.
“S-sorry. Didn’t want you to fall.” Wilson looks as uncomfortable as House feels.
The alpha’s face is red and he is looking anywhere but at House. Wilson clearly feels awkward about them having been so close. He’s sure Wilson is worrying about how to make sure that House doesn’t get the wrong idea, or about letting him down easy or some crap. So House makes it easy for him.
“I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Lock up when you leave.”
Pushing himself up off the couch with his cane that he’d left leaning on the arm rest closest to him, he limps to his bedroom. Throwing himself down on the bed he grabs on his pillows and curls around it. His body is still alight from having momentarily been surrounded by Wilson’s scent. It tingles from his head to his toes. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation but unwanted all the same.
It’s strange, he’s been surrounded by Wilson’s scent before and it’s never elicited this response. They played sports together before the infarction and Wilson’s scent would be full and ripe from his clean sweat and House never batted an eye, never felt a thing. But now, tonight, for some reason the smell of the alpha has him all a flutter. Why now?
He can hear Wilson puttering around. He hears him approach the bedroom door. He hovers there for a few minutes before apparently changing his mind. The last thing House hears before he drops off to sleep is the sound of Wilson’s key in the lock.
——————————
House wakes up with an ache low in his abdomen. He silently curses Wilson for feeding him probably bad pizza, and pulls himself out of bed. His morning ablutions offer him no relief from the cramping and as he gingerly pulls on his clothes he makes a mental note to stick close to a bathroom until this sorts itself out.
The ride to work is uneventful aside from the occasional pain that has him pulling his long coat tighter around his stomach. It’s a half baked attempt to provide more warmth and help lessen the cinching pain between his hips. It doesn’t help, and he struggles to get from his car to his office without stopping to clutch at his painful midsection. He knows if he can just get to his office he can sit down behind his desk to hold and massage his rolling guts without anyone being the wiser.
The team has a case for him. They don’t question him when he refuses to move from his office to the DDx room, used to his somewhat bizarre behavior by this point. He only hears half of what they tell him about the patient, each time another wave of pain hits him their voices fade into the background as he tries not to let on that he’s hurting. He never likes the team to know about his pain levels, and he especially doesn’t want to end up explaining to them that his bastard of a best friend cheaped out on the pizza last night and now sometime in the next couple hours he’s going to need to shit his guts out.
In the end he sends them to do a range of tests that cover most of the bases regardless of what symptoms the patient actually presented with. He goes off the information he did hear, and he must have got most of the important bits because Chase and Foreman leave to get started without questioning him. It’s only Cameron who sticks around.
“Go, fly, be free.” He tells her.
She’s looking at him with that stupid concerned face again. For a beta she’s awfully soft. Or maybe because she’s a beta and is trying to make up for something she feels she lacks. House doesn’t know, and frankly doesn’t care. Right now he just wants her gone.
“Are you feeling okay?” She asks him gently.
“I’m fine. Now run along and help the other kids run tests.” He tells her, trying to keep his voice even.
“Are you sure? I know your new pain meds after rehab aren’t as effective as the Vicodin was so if your leg is bothering you…” She trails off.
After the whole Tritter debacle his fake rehab stay had turned into a real rehab stay and they’d put him on a new, non-narcotic, less fun painkiller. He longs for Vicodin now, not because of his leg but because of the cramps that are becoming less crampy and more constant. As the pain increases it gets harder to school his expression and voice.
“I said I’m fine!” He snaps, slamming his fist down on his desk.
Her eyes grow wide, that pathetic way they always do when he yells, but she does hold her ground for a minute or so. Her silent “fuck you, you don’t scare me” to him before she she scurries off to do his bidding.
He almost feels bad for yelling, what she was doing was not nearly stupid or invasive enough to warrant yelling. Alone in his office he decides to move to the DDx room to pace. If he needs to pass something, moving around will help him work it out sooner. Luckily enough Foreman had once again ignored the rule about House being the only one allowed to write on the whiteboard, and had listed the patient's symptoms. This gives him something to focus on as he paces up and down the length of the room. He realizes he may have miscalculated what tests to do, but not by a wide enough margin that the ducklings will notice.
He opts to keep up his pacing instead of tracking them down. They’ll come a-running when they finish their tests and have no answers. He'll put them on the right path then. He isn’t in the mood to go chasing after them.
—————————-
They make it back with their negative test results just before lunchtime. He sends them off with the new, correct set of tests to confirm his diagnosis just as Wilson is making his way into the DDx room.
“Lunch?” He asks.
House hasn’t seen him all day. That could mean he has people dropping dead, but the tone he used to ask about lunch isn’t right for that. No, with that upbeat tone it sounds like he has a lot of baby cue balls who have promising outlooks. He always spends extra time with the little ones, regardless of how close to death's door they are.
He stops and considers. His pain has dulled to a quiet ache, so he decides lunch can’t hurt. He won’t get his own, he’ll just steal Wilson’s fries. Wilson owes him after feeding him bad pizza anyway. While the prospect of getting the trots in the cafeteria isn’t ideal, there is a bathroom right off it so he figures it will be fine.
“Sure. Your treat.” House says, following him out of the room.
“When isn’t it my treat?” Wilson rolls his eyes.
They walk in a practiced step. Wilson knows just how to slow his natural gait so House can keep up without any extra strain on his leg. It’s nice, it’s kind. It’s the type of thing that makes Wilson so attractive as an alpha.
Speaking off, Wilson seems to smell particularly strong today. He does the math in his head, thinking Wilson must be nearing a rut, but he isn’t due for another one for at least seven weeks. He doesn’t have a better explanation for why he’s drowning in the alpha’s pheromones however. He considers asking Wilson, but if Wilson thinks he smells too strongly he’ll go put on a scent blocking patch, he always wears them for about a week before his ruts. Then he’ll have no Wilson scent at all. He doesn’t want Wilson to cover his scent, because for some reason it’s soothing the ache in his abdomen. So he says nothing.
“So, you seem in a good mood today.” House tells him as he stuffs two of the oncologist’s fries in his mouth.
“Oh, yeah. One of my peds patients got into a drug trial out of San Diego. It’s shown some very promising results. She’s only five so this is an excellent opportunity.” Wilson enthuses.
“The widdle baldies are your favorite.” House mocks.
“I don’t have favorites, House. But getting a child into a trial that might give them the chance to grow up, have a future, that feels good.” Wilson says, slightly exasperated.
House is about to berate his friend with some truly cutting remarks about the legitimacy of his alpha-hood when the pain intensifies again and has him doubling over at the table with a groan.
“God, House. Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Wilson is at his side in seconds.
“You. Fed me. Bad. Pizza.” He responds through gritted teeth. The pain is worse than ever.
“I did not. House, I’ve been fine all day. We ate from the same pie. Whatever is happening has nothing to do with last night's dinner.
“God why does. Everyone here. Smell like they are about. To start a new breeding cycle.” House forces out.
It’s true. Now it’s not just Wilson’s scent overwhelming him, but the scent of everyone in the place. He must be getting a fever too, because sweat is starting to drip down the back of his neck. Whatever he has, he realizes Wilson is right, it’s not food poisoning.
“Alright, I’m getting you a wheelchair and admitting you to run some tests.” Wilson’s voice is stern. House knows better than to argue.
He’s loaded into a wheelchair, and while Wilson pushes House from the cafeteria he calls Cuddy. Before they even get to the elevator Wilson repeats a room number that is apparently going to be House’s own. It’s a room on med surg, and House barely manages to make it from the wheelchair to the bed. He would have collapsed if Wilson hadn’t been supporting him, his alpha strength allowing him to take most of House’s weight without issue.
There is a flurry of nurses, bringing him a wristband with his information and a gown to change into. One wheels in an IV stand and another comes with a phlebotomy kit. Wilson shoos them tactfully, saying he’ll help House change and get his vitals. Once they are gone, and it’s just the two of them, House finds himself letting out a pained whimper.
“Shh, it’s okay. We’ll figure this out. Let’s start with changing, okay?” Wilson soothes.
As quick as is possible when moving from the ball he’s curled up in is torture, they get him stripped to his boxers and socks, and the gown is tied on. He’s thankful it’s thin, because he keeps sweating. His body feels like it’s on fire, and the only relief is the coolness of Wilson's hands when they make contact with his skin.
Wilson takes his temperature, his heart rate, his blood pressure, and listens to his lungs and bowels. He has a fever, his heart rate is up as is his blood pressure. Thankfully his lungs sound fine. His bowels sound fine as well, which is less fortunate because it means his pain is unlikely GI related.
“Do you want me to send in the nurse for your bloodwork and IV?” Wilson asks softly.
“No. You.” House replies.
He hates being admitted to the hospital. So many times in his life he’s been admitted and had things done to him against his will. He doesn’t trust anyone to look after him except for Wilson. Even Cuddy was partially responsible for his leg, but not Wilson.
“Okay. I’ll draw your blood and place your IV but then I’ll send a nurse in to hang some meds. Nothing crazy, just a stronger non-narcotic pain killer and something to bring your fever down. I’ll leave instructions to show you both before they hang them, okay?” Wilson says.
It’s like Wilson knows. Of course he knows. House has rarely had to actually tell Wilson anything to get him to understand. House doesn’t notice the prick of the blood draw or the IV through his pain. Wilson talks to him the whole time, nothing important or worthwhile, just letting House hear his voice. It’s more reassuring than anything Wilson could actually say.
God, what’s happening to his body? The bedsheets are irritating to his skin, he hurts, he’s too hot, everything is starting to feel fuzzy. He hates it, hates it, hates it. Too many times his body has been out of his control and it feels like it’s happening all over again.
“Alright. I’m done. I’m going to take these to the lab, and then I have an appointment with a patient but I’ll be back with your results after, okay?” Wilson says.
House only nods. He fears if he opens his mouth he’ll beg Jimmy not to leave. Something about his presence is soothing, and he knows he’s going to feel worse once he leaves.
He was right. Wilson walks out and the change is palpable. The nurse comes in shortly afterwards, all perky and blonde. She’s got wide hips and large breasts, with big eyes and blonde hair. She’s a perfect little omega.
“Hi Dr. House. Here’s the meds Dr. Wilson prescribed. He also wants a urine sample, so I’ve brought a sterile urinal for you so you don’t have to get up. Do you think you can urinate?” Her voice is high pitched and annoying.
He tells himself it’s just easier not to argue while he pees into the jug. The perky nurse hung his meds and left to give him “privacy” for collecting his urine sample. It is probably easier not to argue, Wilson wouldn’t hesitate to catheterize him if he refused, but that’s not why he’s doing it. Not really. Truthfully, he just wants to do whatever Wilson wants.
The nurse comes back to retrieve the jug.
“Dr. Wilson said to try and rest once the meds kick in.” She calls over her shoulder as she leaves.
He’s just starting to feel like he could sleep when the door to his room opens and Cuddy comes in. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know it’s Cuddy. Her perfume mixes with her alpha scent in a very distinct way. While it usually doesn’t bother him, today he finds it off putting.
“Your team solved your case. Sarcoidosis.” She informs him.
“Good. Knew it.” He says quietly.
“We’ll figure out what’s wrong, House. I promise. This won’t be like last time.”
She means his infarction. When he came in with excruciating pain and he was sent home to rest. When it took them so long to diagnose his clot that his thigh muscle started to die. He knows she still harbors guilt over it, and he won’t say anything to relieve her of it.
“I’m tired.” Is all he says.
She takes the hint and leaves with a promise to check on him later. He finds it difficult to fall asleep for the weirdest reason.
He’s loney.
——————
When he wakes up a couple of hours later he sees a distinctly Wilson-shaped shadow outside the glass door of his room.
“Wilson!” He calls. The shadow jerks, and Wilson comes into full view.
He slides the glass door open and slips inside, but doesn’t venture further in than the doorway.
“I didn’t want to wake you. How are you feeling? The meds working?” Wilson asks.
His body language speaks volumes, always does. Wilson is an expressive guy. Right now? He’s stalling for time. He knows something he doesn’t want to say.
“I’m peachy. Don’t just stand there, give me the bad news.” House says adamantly.
Wilson has this habit of hovering around doors when he has bad news to give. After years in a profession where he mostly gives bad news you’d think he’d have become less anxious about it. People thank him for telling them they have cancer for christ sake. The guy is clearly very good at delivering bad news. If only Wilson could quit being insecure and just trust himself.
Wilson comes into the room with a sheepish expression. He rubs the back of his neck in discomfort. Taking a seat in the chair next to bed he explains,
“Your blood work came back. Everything looks good, except for your hormone levels. They are… elevated. House, I think you have a hormone secreting tumor on one or both of your ovaries. Omegas in your… situation are at a higher risk of developing them.” Wilson sounds even toned and matter-of-factly as he speaks. This is Wilson’s oncologist voice.
That is the last thing he was expecting to hear.
He's had his reproductive system messed with enough. He doesn’t particularly like the idea of having it messed with some more. He was, however, unlucky enough to have learned a long time ago that you don’t get to pick what bad things happen to you, and at least it’s a part of his body that’s already messed up.
“So remove my ovaries. It’s not like I’m using them anyway.” House replies, aiming for cool indifference but landing somewhere closer to resigned acceptance.
The pain is flaring up again, the IV barely having any effect against the increasing, burning pain low in his abdomen that's reverberating through his pelvis. He should have had his reproductive system removed years ago. It served him no purpose since the sterilization. He hears what Wilson isn’t saying too - disused organs are cancer factories.
“Cuddy is pulling strings to get you in for a scan. If we find a tumor we’ll schedule surgery as soon as possible.” Wilson assures.
As the pain reaches a fever pitch, he cries out and curls tighter on the hospital bed. He tries to form words, to ask for something for the pain, but nothing comes out. Luckily Wilson, sweet sweet Wilson, is already upping his pain meds.
“Cuddy’s going to call when there's an opening. We just have to wait until then. Do you want to try and go back to sleep?” Wilson asks, placing a hand on House’s shoulder.
They don’t usually do physical affection, but today the weight of Wilson’s hand is soothing.
“No. Just, wait with me?” His voice comes out sounding small.
“Of course.”
Wilson grabs a chair from the corner of the room and places it at House's bedside. Wilson looks more ruffled than usual, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s because of him. Does Wilson find him being unwell that stressful?
“Did you know that proportal to its size, the barnacle has the largest penis in the animal kingdom?” Wilson says.
House can’t help but laugh at the call back to his own distraction attempt during a poker game last year. They continue like that, swapping ridiculous facts until Cuddy appears to let them know the MRI is available.
Wilson continues his weird facts while the MRI whirrs to life around him. His voice is like a balm to House’s frayed nerves. If Wilson sees anything of concern, he doesn’t let it show in his voice. House has made peace with it though. Best case scenario it’s a benign but hormone-secreting tumor, and he gets his reproductive system removed. Worst case, it’s a cancerous, hormone-secreting tumor, and he gets his reproductive system removed and gets a round of chemo.
The scan doesn’t take long, and House agrees to be wheeled back to his room by Cuddy so Wilson can grab the print outs of the scans. He tries to get a read on how bad the results are from her, she was in the room with Wilson, but the woman has a mean poker face when she wants too.
He’s only alone in his room for five minutes before Wilson returns, scans in hand.
“So, when do I get the surgery? I’m thinking I might as well go for a full hysterectomy.” He says nonchalantly.
“You aren’t getting surgery.” Wilson replies, clipping the scans to the lightboard.
“What do you mean I’m not getting surgery?” House asks.
What else could have caused all this? He doesn’t have time to ask out loud, because when the scans are illuminated it is abundantly clear what’s causing the pain.
Letting out a low whistle, House says, “Wow, that's a lot of cysts.”
“Yes, again not uncommon for omegas in your situation. A large one rupturing is what caused your pain…” Wilson trails off.
“But ovarian cysts don’t cause elevated hormone levels or fevers.” House finishes for him.
So they are no closer to finding out what’s causing his other symptoms. He supposes the problem could be in his uterus, a tumor there. It sounds like he has an ultrasound in his future.
“No. The elevated hormones are being caused by this.” Wilson points to a small spot on the scan.
“That light board is like, a million miles away from me. Spit it out, Boy Wonder.” House demands, growing impatient. What the fuck is wrong with him?
“That… is a follicle. Your hormone levels are up because you're ovulating, House.” Wilson presses his lips together into a tight line when he finishes speaking.
“But that. That’s impossible. I’m sterile. I’m fixed. The doctors at that fucking backwater hospital saw to that.” House spits.
This has to be a sick joke. He hasn’t ovulated since he presented when he was thirteen. He can’t be ovulating, he can’t be.
“Apparently, whatever they did to you only lasts about thirty years. This follicle and your rapidly increasing hormone levels confirm it. Like it or not, House, you're going into heat.”