Work Text:
All things considered, it didn't take long to adjust to Wilson transforming into a cat. Yeah, cool, whatever, he'll be turning back in a week so it's not as much of a big deal as it could be.
House is taking care of him by process of elimination. Taub didn't want to look after a cat for a week, Foreman didn't want to get involved in any of House and Wilson’s antics—even though this technically wasn't their fault—and Kutner’s allergic (but he was still enthusiastic about cat sitting anyway).
He even tried asking Chase and Cameron, but they both took one look at him and got disgustingly gooey eyed as if Wilson was a regular cat. He couldn't subject Wilson to that, even in this form.
At that point, House had already decided he'd be the one to babysit Wilson, but he asked Thirteen anyway so he could make several pussy jokes. She appreciated at least one of them, he thinks.
If only she knew Wilson is trans, he could've made so many more. Although, that didn't stop him from referring to Wilson as Doctor Pussy.
House doesn't know shit about cats, but they can't be that hard to figure out. Lonely old ladies have cats and they're fine, so House can handle Wilson. Cats eat, shit, sleep, and chase lasers. Easy.
He's a brown cat but House doesn't know what breed he is, if cats even have distinct breeds. Mostly solid brown with deep brown eyes, and his two back legs have white feet—white paws—as if he's wearing socks. He's smaller than most cats House has seen in real life; maybe he's not fully grown yet. His ears do seem slightly too big for his head.
At the moment, he's traversing House's desk, carefully sniffing all of the trinkets scattered on top of it. It must be riveting, considering that's all he's done in his half hour of being a cat so far.
“How much awareness do you think he has?” Thirteen asks from the doorway, arms crossed. “Does he have his human mind right now?”
“Dunno.” House shrugs. “Hey, Wilson, if you can understand me, lick your own dick.”
Thirteen snorts.
Wilson finds a pen on House's desk and bats it onto the floor before looking up at House. When House tries to prod his tiny cat-face, Wilson bites his finger. Then he trots off to push more of House's belongings to the floor. After each item, he looks up at House to gauge his reaction.
“He's human in there,” House decides. “No cat is that spiteful.”
“...you've never owned a cat, have you?” Thirteen asks, coming further into his office to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk.
“I’m not depressed, a lesbian, or a depressed lesbian, so no.”
Thirteen picks up an empty Vicodin bottle and waves it in front of Wilson's face. His head follows it and when she stops moving it, Wilson inexplicably wiggles his ass before launching himself at it. In doing so, he knocks even more of House's stuff off his desk.
Then, clearly bored of that game, he turns away from the Vicodin bottle and pounces on House’s oversized tennis ball instead, digging his claws into it.
“Hey, hey, no,” House says, scruffing him and scooping him up. “That's enough property damage for you.”
Wilson doesn't struggle against his grasp like he thought he would. But, as House cradles him against his chest so he doesn't escape, Wilson starts vibrating.
“Are you seriously growling at me?”
A stifled laugh from Thirteen makes him look up. She's smiling like she knows more than he does. It's an expression he generally hates to see, regardless of who's wearing it.
“He's purring, genius. It means he's happy.”
House thought cats were meant to meow when they're happy, not buzz at him.
“Ah, so he's all cat inside that head of his,” he says, scratching the top of Wilson's head for emphasis. It's softer than he thought it'd be. “There's no way he'd willingly let himself be happy. His guilt complex couldn't handle it.”
Wilson continues vibrating—purring—but digs his tiny razor claws into House's arms, one paw at a time. And, if anything, he's purring louder now. The pain doesn't bother him because he's so tough and manly and definitely not because he's hiding his real reaction from Thirteen. Wilson's claws are sharp.
“Normal cat thing?” House asks, frowning at Wilson’s clearly tired eyes judging by the way they're half-open and keep slowly blinking closed.
“Yes,” she says, sounding almost bored.
The novelty of observing Wilson has clearly worn off since she's picked up her phone and started tapping away.
“Your coworker turned into a cat and you're struggling to stay awake,” House says. “God forbid something interesting happens in this hospital.”
House holds Wilson up to his eye level, staring at him, looking for any sign of Wilson-ness.
Wilson blinks sleepily at him.
“Stop that,” House says.
“What'd he do?”
“The idiot's falling asleep, he can barely keep his eyes open.”
Wilson's tail swishes gently as he wriggles in House's hands. House sets him down on his lap, but he climbs up House's shirt until he's resting in the crook of his neck instead. House brings one hand up to support him so he doesn't fall.
“Cats blink slowly at you when they trust you,” Thirteen says, a glint in her eyes. “When they love you.”
“Wilson loves everyone,” House says dismissively.
With his spare hand, House drags his fingertips down Wilson's back, watching the way his tiny body twitches and reacts to the touch.
Wilson slowly blinks at him again, then sniffs at his armpit. His tiny snuffling breaths are kind of cute, not that House will ever admit it.
When Wilson resurfaces, his innocent cat face is radiating human audacity.
“Alright, I need a sack and a couple of bricks for this thing,” House says. “He just told me I stink.”
“Cool, he can talk now?” Thirteen deadpans, putting her phone back in her pocket.
“No, but he took a whiff of House couture and literally dropped his jaw, the overdramatic theatre kid wannabe. Learn some subtlety,” he tells Wilson, poking his furry stomach for emphasis. Wilson slaps his hand with one furry paw, thankfully sans claws.
His office door opens and Kutner comes in. Ah, so that's who Thirteen was texting.
“Hey,” Kutner says. “So he's a regular cat right now? No human thoughts?”
“No,” House says, rolling his eyes. “If your disaster bi girlfriend was paying more attention, she'd know that Wilson is messing with me like only a human can.”
“We're not dating,” Thirteen says, but her eyes flick to Kutner with some kind of look.
Interesting. He'll investigate whatever their inevitably messy situation is once he gets bored of kitty cat Wilson.
“Wilson's definitely just a cat right now, and House is upset because Wilson did a stinky-face at him,” she tells Kutner conspiratorially.
“You’re annoyed that he thinks you smell good?” Kutner asks, frowning, drawing closer to the desk as if he isn't allergic to cats.
“In what world does stinky-face not imply that someone stinks?” House says.
“Cats do that when a scent is so strong they can't process it properly,” he says. “They open their mouths so they can get a better smell. Whatever he smelt, he likes. Can I hold him?”
House passes Wilson over without comment, his mind whirring. Wilson like-likes the smell of House's sweaty t-shirt enough to want to basically taste it.
“Oh, Wilson, you little freak,” he says, a grin overtaking his face.
He can't wait for the week to be over. The sheer amount of bullying material when human-Wilson returns will be immense. James Wilson, lover of men’s sweaty armpits.
On the other side of the desk, Kutner is wiggling his fingers around Wilson's head while he holds him, darting them away when a paw swipes at him. Thirteen is watching with a soft smile on her face, occasionally petting Wilson's back.
“Okay, pussy whisperers,” he says, “enough games. I need to know everything you know about feline body language.”