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This story, like many stories I’m sure, starts in the omega needs aisle of Target. James Evan Wison, head oncologist at the Princeton Plainsborough Teaching Hospital, has his hands determinedly on his hips, worried eyes calculating, staring at display shelves full of scent therapy aids. He is the only alpha in this section of the store, but he is so focused he doesn’t even notice. Judging by the pitying stares Wilson doesn’t know he’s receiving, the omegas in the section definitely notice what he seems so focused on buying.
Dr. Wilson, single alpha with no pups to speak of, is trying to decide what Baby Blanket to buy. “Baby Blanket” is, of course, the colloquial term referring to the postpartum scent therapy aid popularized in the 90s after many studies came out backing up the old wive’s tale that scent alone is a powerful treatment for many maladies such as postpartum depression, broken heart syndrome, stress-exacerbated mental illnesses, and even substance abuse. The theory behind it is that familiar, comforting scents stimulate an old instinct that naturally helps regulate dopamine and serotonin. Further studies showed that “newborn scent” is a real pheromone that babies secrete to help ensure that a baby’s needs are met, by making people- alpha, beta, omega- crave the scent and the natural oxytocin it creates in the body. Baby Blankets are marketed as being a scent therapy aid that resists taking on extra scent and is infused with a neutral, synthetic “baby” scent that mimics a newborn’s pheromones.
Pheromone therapy is so effective that hospitals stock cheap Baby Blankets to give out. When Wilson decided just an hour ago to give one of these aids to House, he could have grabbed one from the supply closet at PPTH, but something in him wanted to pick out a special one for House. Something… not necessarily personalized but certainly more personal than the scratchy, thin, pastel blue hospital ones.
Not that putting thought into the purchase will make House more likely to accept the gift. Wilson can feel tension building up in his shoulders just imagining how House will react to Wilson just showing up to his apartment with a Baby Blanket.
Just because House gave another omega a Baby Blanket just hours prior doesn't mean he wants one. House has verbally eviscerated more people than Wilson can think of in this moment for less personal, less aggressive overtures. And they're just friends! The most codependent friends he's ever heard of let alone experienced, but still. Baby Blankets aren't given by friends. It's just too intimate.
Wilson stands in front of the shelves in Target, feeling so much anxiety he might as well be facing a firing squad, and mostly he sees fluffy blankets promising to be various sizes. They're mostly non-obtrusive colors and designs, keeping to a demure, non-offensive color palette. The most adventurous one seemed to have flowers and bees patterned on it.
House would fucking hate these on principle, even if he'd be open to the therapy.
Wilson takes a deep breath and pushes on. He narrows his focus on the plastic covered baby blankets that promised to be 6" and larger, starting to rifle through, checking the little picture on the packaging that gives away the design on the blanket. He goes as far as pushing aside the boring, normal ones in the front to see if maybe there's at least a black one in the back. On the top shelf, behind every other plastic cube, Wilson found it. A silly grin spread across his face, and he didn't bother to suppress it.
He comes over to House's apartment, lets himself in when prompted and drops the bag on House's stomach where he's lying on the sofa.
"Old wives’ tales or not, I know you know these help." With that, Wilson turns and gives House a minute to unpack the Target bag in his lap. Wilson does this by going into the kitchen, taking off his coat and throwing it on the kitchen stool. He checks out the fridge, complains about there not being real food to eat, gets a beer, and starts making some kind of pasta. He figures that House will let him know if he oversteps, but also figures that House oversteps on the weekly, so it's his turn.
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Meanwhile, House is opening the bag and pulls out a plastic covered cube of fabric. He knows what it is before he turns it to see the garish, pastel words "Baby Blanket" written on the packaging in what he knows are supposed to be comforting, nonthreatening fonts.
House can feel himself start to grind his teeth. “Hey, Wilson?” he calls out.
“Yeah, House?” And how dare Wilson not even glance back to the sofa where House lays. He just continues rifling through House’s cabinets like he has the run of the place.
“Just in case I haven’t told you yet today, go fuck yourself.”
“Uh huh. Want a beer?”
Presumptuous fucking alphas. House would like a beer, though, so he keeps that thought to himself.
Wilson drops off the peace offering and sees that the plastic cube is still in House’s hands. It’s not like it was there for any reason, ok, but James “Superiority Complex” Wilson gets a smug look on his face anyway.
House can’t come up with anything bitingly insightful right now, but as soon as he does little Jimmy will get his comeuppance.
Whatever. If Wilson already thought he won, House won’t lose anything by taking a peak at the blanket, which he’s sure will be an attempt at non-confrontational neutrality to make sure not to overly stress any delicate widdle omegan minds.
Ugh. Fuck the alpharchy.
And Wilson is too afraid to express himself decorationally (totally a word), so House is sure this will be a boring beige or something. Maybe black, if House is lucky. (And when is he, really?)
House unzips the plastic cube holding his new Baby Blanket and is assaulted by that new baby smell that reminds him, first, of his rounds in obstetrics as a resident. The next thing that assaults him is the garish, eye-searing pattern of flames on the black and white checkered blanket. The smell sends a wave of painful emotion through his body that House wishes had anything to do with his round in obstetrics, but the pattern of the blanket tempers the melancholy.
Wilson isn't trying to make him something he's not. Wilson isn't trying to get him to change who he is, or get in touch with his feelings. He's just trying to give him a therapeutic tool that House himself gave to a patient just hours ago, which noticeably improved her vitals. He knows that the eye-searingly immature pattern is also Wilson's way of keeping this less serious. It also kicks ass more than the pastel blue ones the hospital hands out.
As House pulls it, hypnotized, out of the packaging, he notices how incredibly soft the fabric is. Perfect nesting material, a long-ignored part of his brain almost whispers.
He also notices that the blanket's slightly weighted, which is even more luxurious than the hospital one.
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To dip his toes in and assess the mood of the man on the couch, Wilson asks, "Marinara or alfredo?" and really doesn't expect an answer.
House just gives a hum, and a "yeah, sounds good."
Wilson puts down both jars and walks closer so he can see over the couch. House is sitting, mouth open, eyes closed, the blanket wrapped over his head and shoulders like a cocoon. Wilson smiles and chooses alfredo sauce since that won't stain the white checkers on the blanket as badly.