Drabble for cryptictac's drabble-a-thon

            House returned from his run out in the August heat.  Sweat ran rivulets down his face, arms, and legs.  He tossed his iPod on to the couch, and kicked off his sneakers.  He padded into the kitchen in search of hydration.  He found Wilson sitting at the butcher-block table, typing fiercely into his laptop.  This occurrence wasn’t odd, since Wilson was staying with him while he recovered.  What was odd was the fact that Wilson was wearing a surgical mask.

“Halloween’s not for another few months,” House remarked casually, as he opened the fridge and took out a bottle of water.  He gulped half of it down, and then ran the cold bottle across his forehead, seeking relief in the coolness.

Wilson tilted his head so he could face House.  “Ifikj I’m cming dn wth a cod.”  House blinked a few times, trying to process what Wilson said.  “Will you take that thing off, so I can understand what the hell you are saying?”  Wilson sighed, and pulled the mask down.  He cleared his throat and said, “I said that I think I’m coming down with a cold.  I don’t want you to get it, you have rehab to get through.”  To prove his point, Wilson sneezed, as if to say, “see.”  “Bless,” House mumbled quietly.  “So, symptoms?”  He drew an imaginary whiteboard in the air, and prepared to “write.”  Wilson folded his arms across his chest. “House, I’m a doctor too.  I think I know when I have a cold.”

House rolled his eyes.  “But I’m the diagnostician, and you’re just a wonder boy oncologist,” he remarked.  Wilson sighed again, knowing if he didn’t give in, House would irritate him the rest of the day.  “Fine.  I’ve been sneezing and my nose is stuffy.  It’s a cold.  Can I get back to what I was doing now?”  Wilson gestured to the laptop that he had been working on and the stack of paperwork beside it.

  “One more test,” House replied.  He crossed the short distance between them, and gently ran his thumb across Wilson’s sinuses, looking into his eyes, while he simultaneously caressed the side of his face.  Wilson sniffled, still trying to get his point across.  “Your throat hurt?”  “No, it’s a bit scratchy, but it doesn’t hurt.”  House continued to peer into Wilson’s eyes, slowly stroking his cheek, and then gently leaned in for a kiss.

“House, what are you doing?  I told you I was sick!”  Wilson became exasperated as House began to laugh, practically bent over in gales of laughter.  Wilson stood up, hands on hips, trying to figure out what was so funny.   “Wilson, you’re fine.  It’s allergies.  I noticed it in the air the other day when I was out running.”  Wilson processed that information for a moment and then, eyes sparkling with mischief, posed a question to House. “Well, in that case, steam room?”