Rating: K+ or T. I'm not really sure.
Warnings: Swearing, cruelty.
Prompt: House/Wilson; House isn't feeling so well these days. Any rating is fine, but NC-17 is always good.

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"You ever see Sixth Sense?" asked Wilson, as he placed the tray of soup and bread on House's lap.

House nodded. "You know I have," he replied, then attempted to stifle a coughing fit with one hand and hold the bowl of soup still with the other. Once the coughing had finally abated, he placed his hands back under the covers. "We rented it a few years back, remember?"

"Right, of course. I remember now." Wilson nodded and handed House a spoon. House ignored it. Wilson sighed. "You need to eat House," he said, then shook his head and tutted.

"I'm not hungry."

Wilson frowned. "Show me your hands," he said.

House shook his head and shoved his hands further into the blankets that surrounded him, like a petulant child. "I'm just not hungry."

"Show me your hands!" Wilson repeated, shouting this time.

House just stubbornly shook his head again.

Wilson viciously grabbed House's arms and pulled them out from the covers. He held House's hands in front of his face to look at them. They were shaking like leaves in the wind; there was no way House could possibly have held the utensil like Wilson was asking, let alone kept the soup on it long enough to bring it to his mouth. "God dammit House." Wilson slammed his hand down on the bedside table in frustration. House flinched away, his jerking response only making matters worse by sloshing soup on the clean covers.

"I'm sorry. I can't help it," House said pathetically.

"That's the problem though, isn't it?" Wilson asked rhetorically. He grabbed the spoon and jerkily lifted it to House's mouth, forcing it in, even when House tried to turn away, and forcing another in after he gagged on the first. "You can't help it that your leg hurts, you can't help it you're a drug addict, you can't help it the bus crashed, you can't help it that Amber died, you can't help it you're brain damaged," House flinched at Wilson brusqueness. Wilson just continued shoving soup down his throat, "you can't help it you have pneumonia, you can't help it that you can't take a god dammed shit by yourself. Is there anything you'll just take responsibility for?" Wilson snorted, "Not likely."

"I'm sorry," said House, after finishing the last mouthful of soup.

"Sure you are." Wilson scoffed. He dropped the spoon in the empty bowl with a clank, grabbed the tray, ignoring the uneaten bread, and House's pathetically weak grip on his right sleeve, and left the room, slamming the door behind him, and leaving House alone.

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Note: I was thinking Münchausen syndrome by proxy at first (hence the Sixth Sense comment), but it was a little difficult to get across, so I just made Wilson an ass instead. Yeah…