Chapter Text
At 40 years of age, Gregory House didn’t think he would gain a supernatural power just for being such a fucking loser.
But it happened anyway. He had first discovered it after brushing his hand against a cashier’s when paying for a new guitar— a special present for himself on his four-decade birthday.
House’s other gift for hitting 40 without ever having a whisper of a sex life?
Fucking mind reading powers. Only if he’s touching the other person.
Obviously, House wasn’t that pleased. It was annoying, having to hear whatever the hell a random person was thinking every time he accidentally touched anyone.
His patients, even worse.
“What a fucking prick of a doctor! Did this guy even go to medical school?”
Of course, he didn’t like his patients in the first place, but having to hear their annoying voices in his head pretty much ruined the experience even more. Any more of it and he would get tinnitus.
House avoided clinic duty like the plague already, but this was just another reason not to do physicals on patients who clearly just had a mild rhinovirus.
Although this power sucked, House didn’t dismiss the idea of it being used to mess with others.
He used it on the team sometimes to read their thoughts about their personal lives, and then bring up related topics after differentials (or, during them, priorities matter) just to make them freaked out and paranoid.
For example, a differential last week had Chase distracted for the rest of the day.
“What causes fatigue, hair loss, and bradycardia? Go.”
Chase looked up from the file. “Hashimoto’s disease. It explains why she’s getting worse with our treatment.”
House casually put a hand on his shoulder.
Chase’s thoughts were audible now.
“I don’t want to have to call Dad later. He’s just going to berate me for not being good enough.”
House quirked an eyebrow. “Chase. Either work out your daddy issues, or come up with a good diagnosis.”
Chase’s face turned into an unpleasant grimace. “Shut up.”
Maybe it was a little mean, but nothing out of the ordinary for House.
He hadn’t used his power on Wilson yet, since the oncologist had been on a California trip to a medical conference for the past week. It was about some important breakthrough drug about to release on the market or something; House didn’t bother to check.
That Friday he came back to work.
House was, more or less, very excited to hear whatever filthy fantasies his best friend had on the oncology nurses.
He arrived to work that day at 7 a.m. sharp with two coffee cups (one black, one with generous sugar and milk), just to bother Wilson and get a nice taste of his thoughts.
“Rise and shine, Jimmy-boy! You’re back in New Jersey, and I don’t want to hear you whining about any jet-lag.” He rapped his cane on the well-loved wooden table.
Wilson, who had just been dosing off, startled awake. His brown hair was tousled in a way where it covered his eyes—He needed to cut it— and therefore he resulted to lightly blowing on the strands to make them float upward and out of his tired eyes.
“Mhh.. House. You're here early.” Wilson reached out and took the black coffee.
As the oncologist sipped from the insulated cup, House couldn’t help but wonder how he could possibly like the taste of tar.
But then, there were a lot of things he didn’t understand about Wilson. He’d never admit it. He was too proud for that.
“Yeah. Wanted to make sure I saw you before your chemo kids come in for their checkups.”
Wilson snorted. He rarely did checkups anymore as the Head of Oncology, and he knew House knew that. Bastard just wanted to see him. Not that he minded.
House “casually” leaned in to give his friend a pat on the shoulder — a strategic move to read his thoughts.
“I can’t believe he woke up so early just to see me… his hand is on my shoulder. He’s touching me. It feels good. God, what am I thinking? House is my friend. Nothing else. But he looks so attractive with his hair all mussed up like that. Fuck. I just wanna…”
House wasn’t one to blush, but he felt his entire face go red as Wilson’s insanely detailed fantasy blared into his mind.
Wilson pulling him in for an open-mouthed kiss, House moving his hand down to Wilson’s hips, Wilson being careful not to hurt his leg. Wilson tangling his fingers in House’s bedhead, his other hand steadily moving down into the fabric of his pants—
House pulled his hand away from Wilson’s shoulder in that instant. Fucking hell, his best friend was having sexual fantasies about him at 7 in the fucking morning?!
Sure, he had always suspected it… They had a clear “bromance” that everyone in the hospital loved to joke about. They poked fun at themselves as well. But Wilson, actually wanting him this badly?
His best friend having such a filthy secret was a little jarring to House.
However… at the end of the day, House was House.
It would be such a shame if he didn’t make a little fun out of this.
He leaned his hand down on Wilson’s desk, the wood creaking slightly under his weight.
“Got any new cases for me, Jimmy? Cuddy isn’t giving me the usual.” He drawled, hitting Wilson with his loaded gaze.
Wilson seemingly snapped out of his dirty fantasy and cast up his face towards House. “Oh. Uhh— now that you mention it…” He leaned down, opening a drawer in his desk with a clang and started to dig through his collection of manila folders.
House idly stared down at him, admiring the way his hair had grown out more in the past couple of months. He looked similar to how he had looked when House first met him— long, unstyled hair, nervous sweat on his brow, eyes full of lust—
What the hell? Was Wilson contagious?
No. It wasn’t gay for friends to appreciate the other’s looks. House was just thinking about it because Wilson had mentioned it (in his thoughts).
Back in the actual world of Not-House’s-Brain, Wilson had finally found a patient worthy of House’s selectivity.
He held out the file. “38-year-old female. Retinoblastoma. She’s been having intense GI symptoms for about five months now, and she’s not on chemo currently. Colonoscopy found several lesions in her colon. She doesn’t have any of the usual factors…”
“Boring. You think I wanna dig in some cancer girl’s butt for a diagnosis today?” House rolled his eyes.
“She’s hot.”
House froze. He would take the case by now, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about how hot the patient was. Not with Wilson looking at him with those eyes. Fucking hell, what was he doing? Wilson didn’t have any effect on how he thought. Goddamn Wilson and his fantasies.
“Give me the file.” He practically snatched the folder from Wilson’s hand, brushing against his fingers for just a moment.
“His fingertips are cold.”
Stupid Wilson, always stating the obvious, even in his thoughts. He was just glad not to have to visualize another sexual misadventure in his head against his will.
House took Wilson’s bag of chips he had been hiding behind a pile of “Clinical Oncology” textbooks and strode out of the office.
This was going to be interesting.