Title: Worst Foot Forward
Pairing: H/W
Rating: T for language
Summary: Set in an AU where House and Wilson do the romantic love thing without getting too OOC (I hope). Wilson has an accident and House gets to play doctor. Humor, angst, h/c. Fairly conventional fic.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Credits/Notes: This story was inspired by part of PWCorgigirl's story "Pesach" (story id: 2649691) which I highly recommend to anyone who likes good House fic. I'm shamelessly stealing from it here. Also, this fic takes place in the little AU I've been carving out for House and Wilson in another story, "The Perils of Coming Home Early" (M rated – avoid if that bothers you!), but you don't need to read it to get what's going on here. :)

Chapter 1: The Accident

Wilson set his teeth for the hundredth time—surely he would have no enamel left by the time House got home—and tried to focus on something other than pain. For the hundred and fiftieth time, in lieu of letting himself scream, he replayed the scene from an hour ago that had landed him on their couch with his foot wrapped in dish towels of ice, doing his best to adjust to what he was becoming more and more certain was a broken bone or two. Probably two.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It had been a stupid mistake. An accident. It had been over a month since they'd confessed their undying love in the form of almost violent physicality, he and Julie had agreed to go their separate ways, and his stuff had begun the great migration from a roomy house to a relatively small apartment. God forbid House keep anything clean or in order. Wilson wasn't too much of a neat freak, but after two weeks of boxing and moving his things on stray afternoons and two more weeks of walking past the boxes every day, he'd had enough: it was time to sit down and unpack. House had managed to weasel out of helping by volunteering to buy groceries and cook dinner. Wilson had parsed out the real message: he needed some time to himself. Okay. Fine. They had seen an awful lot of each other recently, what with sleeping in the same bed, driving to work together in nauseating new-couple-in-love fashion, and still keeping up the old habits of lunching together and barging in to one another's offices. Wilson understood. In fact, he'd been looking forward to a little time to himself too.

But then he'd picked up a box that had seen one too many moves, the bottom seam had split, and the twenty-pound door stop shaped like a rainbow trout his crazy aunt had given him ten years ago had fallen on his bare right foot. He yelped, hit the floor, and curled into a ball, fingers digging against the hardwood floor until he could see and breathe properly again. When he could move, he'd dizzily picked himself up, limped to the kitchen for ice and towels, and picked up the phone. And when he heard the Mexican Hat Dance, House's ringtone of the moment, playing across the room, he'd loudly cursed House for not taking his cell phone with him, limped to the couch, and begun grinding the enamel off of his molars.

As much as he needed House to get home and make him feel better right now, Wilson wasn't exactly looking forward to the million and one comments House would have about the irony of the situation. In fact, he was dreading it. And the longer he had to wait with this unbelievable pain radiating from his foot, the more irritable he became.

He replayed the scene four more times, thought up creative new curses to rain down on House, and swallowed the same mouthful of vomit twice before he heard the step-thump combination he knew so well in the uncarpeted hallway. The jingle of a key in the lock. He turned his eyes toward the ceiling and closed them with a soft groan.

The next few hours couldn't be anything other than unbearable. House would make him go to the ER and he'd have to endure tests and poking and prodding, then House was taunt him about dropping that hideous rainbow trout on his foot every day until one of them died.

"Hey, Wilson, come help with the bags, you lazy son of a—what happened?"

Wilson smiled bitterly. He'd heard House thumping across the room and he probably could've come up with that opener himself.

He felt House take up the space next to him and a hand on his hairline.

"Hey."

He'd forgotten how gentle House could be. He opened his eyes and…oh, crap, there was that bile again.

"Aww, Jimmy, my favorite pair," House griped.

Not too keen on eyeing the remains of lunch, Wilson looked up at House who was making his best grossed-out frowny face at his shoes, the deep lines in his forehead and mouth cutting cartoonishly into his flesh.

Wilson hiccupped and tried to catch his breath. "Sorry." He hoped House would say something nice right now. He needed nice from House.

But House kept making faces at his shoes. "Gross," he complained, "even cats aren't this rude."

Wilson closed his eyes again, 'sor-ry' ringing out in his head. Sometimes he couldn't take House. Really. Sometimes he needed House to be human and— he hissed as House removed the top towel from his foot. Dully, he watched House dump the ice out, grasp the end of the couch, and bend down as best he could to clean his shoes. Of course House would do that first. Of course. He closed his eyes again.

When he heard House rattling that damn pill bottle, he felt himself begin to snap. So sorry for annoying you, he seethed inwardly.

"Wilson."

"What?" he growled.

"Here."

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again. House was holding out two pills and giving him a semi-concerned look. He curled his lip at the offering. I don't want any of your damn Vicodin.

"Your foot's broken," House said plainly. "I don't want to listen to you bitch about pain when I can give you something now."

"Wasn't bitching," Wilson muttered.

House half-smiled and put the pills on his chest. "You didn't see your face," he said. "You were bitching." Wilson watched him prepare to move. "Chew both of those," he said, taking a step back so he could navigate the couch and the coffee table successfully. "Odds are you won't keep them down."

Ringing endorsement, Wilson thought, but he put the pills in his mouth anyway. House probably did have some idea of how much this hurt. He made a disgusted face at the taste as he crushed the pills between his molars. House liked this?

He heard House return and drop something in the vicinity of his favorite chair, then House appeared in his line of sight, gulping down water. House stopped drinking and offered the glass to him. He didn't have to shake his head to say no. House shrugged and disappeared again. Wilson heard the creak of leather and a level three sigh as House sat down. House was settling in? After a sigh like that, it was useless to try to get him to move for at least an hour. At the rattle of the bottle again, Wilson was ready to twist his body around just so he could give House a scathing glare.

House spoke before he started moving. "I've been on my feet for an hour and a half," he heard House say. "Give those fifteen minutes to kick in. At least."

Wilson swallowed the last of the chewed Vicodin. It was an improvement on the taste of vomit—slight but definite.

"So," he heard House say with another deep sigh that indicated this wasn't the way he wanted to spend his afternoon either, "want to tell me what happened?"

Wilson closed his eyes again and hoped this stuff kicked in fast.