nightdog_barks: (House and Wilson B&W)
[personal profile] nightdog_barks
Title: The Fifth Time Wilson Promised Himself Never Again to Attend Any Bachelor Party Involving House
Authors: [personal profile] blackmare and [personal profile] nightdog_barks, with a significant contribution from [personal profile] perspi
Characters: Wilson, House
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No
Spoilers: None
Summary: Wilson really needs to learn to stay away from the damsels in distress.
Author Notes: Written for the Housewarming Party at the Dreamwidth sick_wilson community. Cut text is from the film Gypsy.



The Fifth Time Wilson Promised Himself Never Again to Attend Any Bachelor Party Involving House


“Two rib fractures, one cracked collarbone, scratched cornea, large fries and a shake.”

“I only ordered half of that,” Wilson said, sighing and then wincing; sighing was just another opportunity for hurting now. He reached for the shake; the sofa cushions shifted, only a little, but in just enough of an uncomfortable direction to make him wince again. It was all for nothing anyway -- House had snatched the cup away, stealing a sip for himself first.

“Just wait,” said House, when he deigned to hand over the shake, “until the get-well guilt gifts start rolling in. I heard nursing staff pitched in for a new g-string and fishnets.”

“House … ”

“I correctly reported that you’d had a tragic accident with a stripper pole. Your fries are gonna get cold.” House stuffed several of them in his mouth, as if to set a good example, and thrust the greasy paper bag in Wilson’s direction. “If they assumed you were the dancer, well, maybe you shoulda thought that through before you starred in a porno."

Wilson spotted a french fry that had somehow evaded House's grasp and reached for it, but with his compromised depth perception, he only succeeded in grabbing a handful of air.

"Damn it," he mumbled.

"Whoa there, Jack Sparrow," House said.

"Jack isn't missing an eye," Wilson grumbled. Just to make sure he wasn't either, he touched the eye patch gently (again), feeling the reassuring curve under his fingertips.

Still there.

"But he's way cuter than the guy who is."

"I ... I would ask if you just implied I'm attractive, but my head already hurts."

"I get how body glitter in the eye could cause a scratched cornea," House said, "and how a crappy aluminum stripper pole could tragically fail in mid-strip. But what I don't get is how a dancer who can't possibly weigh more than one-twenty managed to -- "

"Velocity and sharp elbows. Also, the metal fixture at the top of the pole. Hand over the other order of fries."

"What makes you think I got two?"

"Same thing that makes me think you're probably having a hospital-wide contest to pick out my stripper name."

"The current front-runner is Crystal Balls."

"Great, I'm a drag act. I'll need sequins on the eye patch. Fries?"

"Avast, me hearties," House intoned, but as if by magic, a second paper bag of french fries appeared from beneath his bike jacket. "Foreman says thank you, by the way."

"He does? For what?"

"For making his cousin's last party as a bachelor a memorable one."

"You're the one who hired her."

"On expert advice." House started to take another fry, paused. "Or should I say, sex-pert advice." He stuck his tongue out and drew in the fry, slowly. It was disgusting.

Wilson shook his head -- surprisingly, that didn't hurt.

"But she's okay?"

"Who's okay?"

"Rio. The ... uh ... exotic dancer."

House rolled his eyes.

"She's fine, Galahad." He picked out another french fry and settled on the sofa at Wilson's side -- the right-hand, uninjured side. He nudged Wilson's knee with his own. "Turns out, she landed on something soft." The fry disappeared -- no disgusting tongue-action this time. "You know that's not her real name, right?" he said.

"I don't care about her real name. I was concerned. Like a regular person might be. You could try it sometime." Wilson was aware of the sulky sound in his own voice. He didn't much care. His ribs ached, and he was tired of reaching for shakes and fries.

House shifted beside him.

"You know the rule at Casa de Cripple," he said. "Biggest gimp in the joint gets control of the remote." He took the clicker from its spot on the coffee table and placed it in Wilson's hand. "Today, that means you."

"Just today?"

"Okay, maybe also tomorrow."

"A week."

"You don't have to stay here, you know."

"No, I don't," Wilson said. He returned the knee-bump House had given him a minute ago.

"Okay," House said. "Because I'm such a nice, generous guy, one week."

"Done."

Wilson picked up the remote and began clicking through channels, finally settling on an old, familiar scene.

Gordon MacRae, wearing a nuclear-orange shirt, was riding a horse next to a field of corn. The sky was a brilliant blue. He looked utterly at peace with the world. He opened his mouth and began to sing.

"Oh, what a beautiful mooooooornin', oh, what a beautiful day ... "

House let his head fall back against the sofa. "Noooooooo," he moaned.

Wilson smiled.

Gordon was right -- it was a beautiful day.



~ fin





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