A/N: I wrote this at 1 AM. It just came to me so I just had to write it down. Hope it's not terrible…
I hear him even before he barges in on me. I take a deep breath. The last thing I needed was Greg to tell me how pathetic I was. It was 2 AM, what the hell was he even doing here still? I-
"Wilson." At the sound of my name, I instinctively look up. House's voice was so serious that I thought maybe...but, no. I see that arrogant smirk again, and I sigh as I look back down again.
But this was Gregory House. He despised being ignored. He plopped himself down on one of my chairs and tried, tried again.
"Hey." He said, his gruff voice piercing my misery. "Usually, when someone says your name, it means that they want to have a conversation."
I have to keep my temper in check. I can't lose it. Not now, not here. It was a horrible day, why do I have to put up with this?
"Well, I don't want to have one." I murmured childishly, scribbling my signature on some forms; avoiding his eye contact.
"How many bald kids died today, Jimmy?" He asks, as if it was the most natural thing to say.
"Three." I mutter, my voice cracking slightly. Why am I playing his games? Why can't he just leave me alone? Or why can't...why can't he listen for once? I grimace at that. Greg, listen? Ha...
He must have heard something in my voice though, but his next question is more curiosity than anything.
"If you're so worked up about those bald kids, Jimmy." He says, "Then why the hell did you become an oncologist? You should be used to this by now, people die, every single day."
I know he doesn't mean to sound harsh. This is his way of... reassurance. But those words hit me. Hard. God damn.
"To help people through their pain, House!" I say, trembling, on the verge of snapping.
"You can't-"
"No! I don't want to hear it!" I say, agonized, bewildered through all this; of my vulnerability, my weakness.
I can feel those blue eyes analyze me, calculating every movement of mine. He's going to devour me now, with those biting words of his. I close my eyes, hands into fists and they're on top of my head as my forehead touches the cool surface of my desk.
I hear a shuffling movement. I tense up, waiting for that crack at my self-pity, my softness. But it never comes. I feel his hands, gently clasp my wrists off my head. I don't try and resist now. I'm spent. I'm wary.
With his hands, those long, slender piano hands, surprisingly gentle, encircle me. He's crouched down, and he's going to pay for that later when his leg cramps up.
My breathing speeds up as I shift against him. I slide away from the chair and we're on the floor.
House and me. In the privacy of my office, House wraps his arms around me, and I feel so...so safe. Like nothing in the world that was corrupt could touch me, hurt me. I cling onto him. He stays silent, for once. He feels the tension in my back, the strain that was evident in my voice.
And he just holds me.