Standard Disclaimer
wanderingwidget has, is, and does not plan in the future to make any money on any of the fics here archived. They were written and are provided for pure entertainment purposes.
Author: wanderingwidget
Rating: R
Prompt: 103. Wilson comes across a photograph of House wearing women's clothes, and makes the fatal mistake of asking him how that came about, exactly.
Disclaimer: Yes, obviously they're mine, whatever gave you the notion that they weren't… wait, you mean they really don't belong to me and all that hot man smex was just in my head? Damn. The characters/universe/plots of House M.D. do not belong to me, and I'm making no profit, so please to not be with the sueing of me.
Author's Note: This fic is missing a scene, a very naughty smex scene, but try as I might I couldn't get it banged out and then I had to go to my mother's (which killed any hope of writing Pr0n) and so therefore, the fic is complete, but at some later point there will probably be an addendum ^^;
Also thanks to my loverly flist for giving this a once over a long while back!
In the end it was House’s fault. He didn’t know why he’d kept the damn thing. Call it nostalgia, or some kind of persistent temporary insanity, at the moment he thought it probably had something to do with his not-so-subconscious desire to sabotage every relationship in his life.
Still, the look on Wilson’s face had almost been worth it.
He’d been sitting at the piano, fiddling, and Wilson had been going over one of the charts he’d brought home with him. The man simply didn’t stop, unless House started taking his clothes off, that seemed to stop him pretty readily. It was disgusting how quaintly domestic they were. Up until the point that Wilson stood to stretch his legs, meandered over to the shelves, and pulled It out.
In House’s mind It would forever be capitalized.
“What’s this?” Wilson had asked, holding It aloft.
House glanced over his shoulder, recognized It, and closed his face. “My people call that a ‘photo album,’ but I’m not sure what yours would call it.”
Wilson smirked at him and flipped it open without looking down. “How come I’ve never seen it before? I’ve even seen your naked baby oh-” He’d looked down.
“Yeah, ‘oh’.” House turned to the piano and picked out twinkle twinkle with his left hand. He didn’t know which picture Wilson was staring at but that didn’t really matter. He turned back to find Wilson considering the page, brows drawn together. Fear sucker punched House into action.
He hadn’t freaked out when they’d fallen into bed together, but House had been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since. Apparently It was it. He pushed to his feet and limped over to Wilson, the picture he was staring at was one of the last. He was standing in the third crappy med school apartment. The fridge had been old enough to be his grandfather and the carpet had been the color of day old piss. He was wearing his little black dress and a wig which now - through the cynicism-colored spectacles of age - he could most definitely call ‘tacky.’ At least he’d had the figure for the dress, not every guy (or girl, for that matter) could pull off such a slick little number.
He wanted to laugh it off as nothing, as a phase, something he’d long since worked out of his system. Irrelevant. He very much wanted it to be irrelevant, but it wasn’t, and neither was Wilson’s reaction. So he waited, and watched, and did his best not to process the mounting feelings of shame and rejection.
Through all of that Wilson didn’t look up, not once, seemingly captivated by the image. His eyes traced every contour laid before him. The curve of a bared shoulder, the alien smoothness of the jaw, the bubblegum pink lips twisted into an all-too-familiar self-deprecating smile.
When he looked up he found House watching him with an impassive face and uncertain eyes. He reached out to cup his jaw, felt the familiar prickle of stubble, and tried to come up with the words. He could only find one.
“Beautiful.” He breathed.
House’s eyes widened and he tried to turn away but Wilson’s hand on his jaw kept him in place. The stinging at the back of his eyes was from his allergies he told himself, and when Wilson leaned in to kiss him gently he didn’t gasp, and he certainly didn’t sob (with relief or anything else). But if he did then Wilson was too decent of a guy to ever bring it up.
Smiling into the kiss, Wilson pulled away and arched an eyebrow. “Bed?”
“Couch’s closer.”
Lust flared in his eyes as he carefully set the album on the coffee table and hooked his fingers into the waistband House’s jeans.
“Why’d you stop?” Wilson asked as they lay tangled together in the afterglow.
“Who says I did?”
“I was starting to wonder about the lack of body hair.” He ran his hand down House’s arm to illustrate. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me, you know.”
House sighed and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “I met someone who… was less flexible than my last someone.”
“And you didn’t tell him to go to hell?”
“Her, and no, I didn’t.”
“Doesn’t sound like you.”
House shrugged, pushed himself up, and used Wilson’s shirt to wipe the come off of his chest.
“Hey!”
He stuck his tongue out and stood. “I was young and stupid and thought I could change.” He shrugged again, picked up the album to flip through it.
“What happened?”
“She left me for a girl named Tinkerbelle. Last I heard she was a dominatrix out in Austin.”
Wilson whistled. “Was she hot?”
“Not as hot as I was.”
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “No one’s hotter than you. You’ve got the sexiest mind I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s what guys tell fat girls when they want them to put out.”
Wilson shrugged. “So why didn’t you pick it back up, after she left?”
“I was finishing up my residency. Didn’t have enough energy to find a new girlfriend, let alone wax and exfoliate.”
“I see.”
THE END
