(no subject)
Title: Whistling in the Dark
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: G, unless you consider somewhat suggestive dialogue between two guys to be PG material. If you do, you need more help than this rating system can offer.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, and I'm making no money off of them.
Summary: House whistling at Wilson. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?
Author's Notes: Not meant to be serious ficcage. Just a silly little something, stolen from my life, proving what a total ass I can be, and how long-suffering my boyfriend is. Dedicated to Kare, for putting up with this sort of thing all the time.
House is whistling at him again.
Not a wolf whistle, although it wouldn't be the first time he'd done that in the halls.
The whistling would be maddening, but he does it all the time.
A song, probably something Wilson has never heard of, something popular that everyone else in the hospital will recognize immediately. It's a challenge, trying to figure out what song House is attempting to embarrass him with, before the entire staff (and the patient population) starts singing it at him.
Of course, this isn't the halls, and Wilson doesn't really appreciate being followed into patient's rooms without explanation, but he's gotten used to House's odd behaviors. Wilson has no idea how the man gets his pop culture information, but the teenagers in the cancer ward are the most likely suspects.
The boys, especially, seem to get along well with House, either because of his complete lack of respect for authority, or his penchant for creating chaos wherever he goes, which certainly added something to the otherwise mind-numbingly, soul-destructively, horrifyingly-boring pediatric ward.
"I'm with a patient," he mutters, not as if it will do a bit of good. It's worth the pout on House's face, though. The patient in question is looking between the two of them, dark eyes dancing with mischief. House either has a new fan, or a co-conspirator. Maybe a bit of both.
House tilts his chin up in greeting, and Malcolm does the same. Mutual respect and familiarity, two things that don't often crop up around House. Co-conspirator, then.
Wilson begins his examination, ignoring the Game Boy as it changes hands, although he does pick up on Malcolm's mp3 player being traded into House's hands. Interesting. Always nice to have a theory confirmed.
The first week of their acquaintance had brought "Brown Eyed Girl", a classic that had never faded altogether from House's repertoire, and probably never would. That had been easy enough to guess, Van Morrison being within Wilson's listening parameters.
It would never again be that easy for Wilson to divine the name of a song. He suspected House's listening tastes wouldn't have been nearly as varied if torturing Wilson hadn't come into the equation somewhere.
Over the years, the brown eyes motif had been used nearly to death, but it was useful in gauging House's mental state. If he was falling back on the old standards, the creative juices were being stifled, and a problem case would be searched out post haste. A bored House was a dangerous animal, more to himself than anyone else.
Besides, it was too easy. No fun in that, for either party, especially with the advent of Google, and the comparative ease of finding songs with "brown eyes" in them.
He scrawls a few notes in the chart, and waits for the two boys to finish with their toys. After a while, he gets tired of being completely and utterly ignored (and maybe he's just a little bit jealous of not being included in the toy swap), so with a wave and a soft "see you", both of which go unnoticed, he takes himself into the hall to update Malcolm's parents.
There were other common threads, and often it was just as much a challenge to find out what House was trying to say to him through his song choices as it was finding out what was being whistled in his direction. The breakup songs were easiest, they generally only came about when House was feeling frustrated with Wilson's continued matrimony, or when the two of them were fighting.
However, this current song is the newest addition to a thread that has been running for nearly three months, a thread that has Wilson intrigued, if a bit worried. It started with "Pour Some Sugar on Me", had progressed through "Cherry Pie" and "Brick House", and had culminated in last week's killer performance of "Foxy Lady."
Along the way there had been a number of songs that were completely unknown to Wilson, but had either sounded suggestive, or had been confirmed as suggestive by the curious stares (and later, laughing confessions) of his younger patients. Kind of like the stares he's getting now, actually.
Wilson is surprised to be actually allowed to work unmolested for nearly three hours without any House interruptions, so surprised that he seeks out the man in question after lunch. Finding him in his office, working, is almost too much surprise for one day.
"Where were you?" he asks, collapsing into one of the back-breaker chairs House keeps around to discourage visitors. His spine cracks obligingly, and Wilson twists around, working out the kinks. Cheaper than the chiropractor, and nearly as effective.
House doesn't answer, but Wilson knows better than to take offense. Leaning back, arms behind his head, Wilson is more comfortable than he's been all day. Closing his eyes, he can hear the music playing from House's computer over the headphones. He wants to fuss about listening to music over the recommended decibel level, but a jaw-cracking yawn stops him.
It just goes in one ear and out the other, Wilson thinks, although with the music at that volume, he doubts House can hear anything at all. After a moment, he recognizes the hook as being from the song that House had whistled at him earlier. The office is still except for the occasional rustle of paper or scratch of pencil, and Wilson can just barely make out the words of the song.
"I'm in love with a stripper?" he asks incredulously, eyebrows raised in disbelief. His eyes are round and dancing with humor as he asks, "Are you trying to tell me something?"
House doesn't look up, but the shit-eating grin on his face makes Wilson want to hug him and slap him at the same time. "Just a thought."
A pause and then, "I thought we were never going to speak of that again." He matches House's grin with one of his own, lips twitching with barely-contained laughter.
House bites his bottom lip, also struggling not to laugh, and answers, "Best two dollars I ever spent." He leans back in his chair, propping his legs onto the desk, getting comfortable.
Wilson scoffs at this, "Please. You think I'd let you get away with being that cheap. Besides, that's Stacy's line." House nods his head in agreement, "My bad. Keep forgetting that you're a higher-priced whore than I am."
Grinning, Wilson throws his feet on the desk, mirroring House's position. "Of course. Better-quality merchandise here, pal."
"And in high demand, or so the scuttlebutt says."
Wilson's forehead furrows, "Scuttlebutt says that? I don't know of any demand."
"Any more than usual," House corrects, adding, "But you don't have my sources. And my sources say that you've crossed over into a new market."
"Huh." Wilson doesn't know what to say to that, exactly. Not that he hasn't suspected it before, and not that the idea actually bothers him. "Guys, you mean."
"Duh." House says. He is not looking at Wilson. He is not looking much of anywhere. Staring off into space, in that way he has.
"Huh." Wilson says again. His mind is clicking away, piecing together what House has said with what House has not said and with what House has done. He comes to a rapid, and not quite as startling as it should be conclusion. A split-second decision is made, and he blurts, "Well, that wouldn't be too bad. Change of pace and all."
House, for the first time in their acquaintance, looks absolutely stunned. His usual mask of indifference and barely-disguised boredom is nowhere in sight, and he appears about ten years younger. If anything, he looks scared. And possibly hopeful.
Wilson smiles suddenly, happily, "And for the right guy? I could probably be persuaded to strip." His smile is so bright, it lights up his entire face.
House is utterly speechless. Wilson considers this a fine accomplishment, and decides to make a quick exit, before it wears off and he has to actually deal with the havoc his words are going to cause in their lives.
Standing, he stretches, slowly, seductively, and reaches for his tie. With careful fingers, he loosens it, hips swaying just the slightest bit.
At the door, he looks back at a completely hypnotized House, and pitches the tie in his direction. Reflexively, House catches it, with a sharp bark of laughter, spots of color appearing on his cheeks. His glance at Wilson could almost be called bashful.
Wilson smiles, unbuttons the top button of his shirt, fingers moving slowly, but purposefully. He tilts his head to one side, as if in thought, then shakes his head. "No. I'm not that much of a slut. You're gonna have to buy me dinner if you expect to see the rest of the show."
House just nods dumbly, the tie stretched taut in his hands. After a moment, his face clears, and his eyes brighten with mischief. Recognizing the look, Wilson ducks into the hall, before House can get any ideas about furthering the show.
As he walks to his office, he's not surprised to hear House call after him loudly, "Tease!" He grins, not caring about the curious stares of the various people littering the hallway. He's got a song to find, and maybe some serious thinking to do, and possibly a visit to a therapist, because he's obviously lost his mind.
None of it seems to matter as much as the appreciative wolf-whistle leveled at his backside as he strolls into his office.
End.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: G, unless you consider somewhat suggestive dialogue between two guys to be PG material. If you do, you need more help than this rating system can offer.
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, and I'm making no money off of them.
Summary: House whistling at Wilson. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?
Author's Notes: Not meant to be serious ficcage. Just a silly little something, stolen from my life, proving what a total ass I can be, and how long-suffering my boyfriend is. Dedicated to Kare, for putting up with this sort of thing all the time.
House is whistling at him again.
Not a wolf whistle, although it wouldn't be the first time he'd done that in the halls.
The whistling would be maddening, but he does it all the time.
A song, probably something Wilson has never heard of, something popular that everyone else in the hospital will recognize immediately. It's a challenge, trying to figure out what song House is attempting to embarrass him with, before the entire staff (and the patient population) starts singing it at him.
Of course, this isn't the halls, and Wilson doesn't really appreciate being followed into patient's rooms without explanation, but he's gotten used to House's odd behaviors. Wilson has no idea how the man gets his pop culture information, but the teenagers in the cancer ward are the most likely suspects.
The boys, especially, seem to get along well with House, either because of his complete lack of respect for authority, or his penchant for creating chaos wherever he goes, which certainly added something to the otherwise mind-numbingly, soul-destructively, horrifyingly-boring pediatric ward.
"I'm with a patient," he mutters, not as if it will do a bit of good. It's worth the pout on House's face, though. The patient in question is looking between the two of them, dark eyes dancing with mischief. House either has a new fan, or a co-conspirator. Maybe a bit of both.
House tilts his chin up in greeting, and Malcolm does the same. Mutual respect and familiarity, two things that don't often crop up around House. Co-conspirator, then.
Wilson begins his examination, ignoring the Game Boy as it changes hands, although he does pick up on Malcolm's mp3 player being traded into House's hands. Interesting. Always nice to have a theory confirmed.
The first week of their acquaintance had brought "Brown Eyed Girl", a classic that had never faded altogether from House's repertoire, and probably never would. That had been easy enough to guess, Van Morrison being within Wilson's listening parameters.
It would never again be that easy for Wilson to divine the name of a song. He suspected House's listening tastes wouldn't have been nearly as varied if torturing Wilson hadn't come into the equation somewhere.
Over the years, the brown eyes motif had been used nearly to death, but it was useful in gauging House's mental state. If he was falling back on the old standards, the creative juices were being stifled, and a problem case would be searched out post haste. A bored House was a dangerous animal, more to himself than anyone else.
Besides, it was too easy. No fun in that, for either party, especially with the advent of Google, and the comparative ease of finding songs with "brown eyes" in them.
He scrawls a few notes in the chart, and waits for the two boys to finish with their toys. After a while, he gets tired of being completely and utterly ignored (and maybe he's just a little bit jealous of not being included in the toy swap), so with a wave and a soft "see you", both of which go unnoticed, he takes himself into the hall to update Malcolm's parents.
There were other common threads, and often it was just as much a challenge to find out what House was trying to say to him through his song choices as it was finding out what was being whistled in his direction. The breakup songs were easiest, they generally only came about when House was feeling frustrated with Wilson's continued matrimony, or when the two of them were fighting.
However, this current song is the newest addition to a thread that has been running for nearly three months, a thread that has Wilson intrigued, if a bit worried. It started with "Pour Some Sugar on Me", had progressed through "Cherry Pie" and "Brick House", and had culminated in last week's killer performance of "Foxy Lady."
Along the way there had been a number of songs that were completely unknown to Wilson, but had either sounded suggestive, or had been confirmed as suggestive by the curious stares (and later, laughing confessions) of his younger patients. Kind of like the stares he's getting now, actually.
Wilson is surprised to be actually allowed to work unmolested for nearly three hours without any House interruptions, so surprised that he seeks out the man in question after lunch. Finding him in his office, working, is almost too much surprise for one day.
"Where were you?" he asks, collapsing into one of the back-breaker chairs House keeps around to discourage visitors. His spine cracks obligingly, and Wilson twists around, working out the kinks. Cheaper than the chiropractor, and nearly as effective.
House doesn't answer, but Wilson knows better than to take offense. Leaning back, arms behind his head, Wilson is more comfortable than he's been all day. Closing his eyes, he can hear the music playing from House's computer over the headphones. He wants to fuss about listening to music over the recommended decibel level, but a jaw-cracking yawn stops him.
It just goes in one ear and out the other, Wilson thinks, although with the music at that volume, he doubts House can hear anything at all. After a moment, he recognizes the hook as being from the song that House had whistled at him earlier. The office is still except for the occasional rustle of paper or scratch of pencil, and Wilson can just barely make out the words of the song.
"I'm in love with a stripper?" he asks incredulously, eyebrows raised in disbelief. His eyes are round and dancing with humor as he asks, "Are you trying to tell me something?"
House doesn't look up, but the shit-eating grin on his face makes Wilson want to hug him and slap him at the same time. "Just a thought."
A pause and then, "I thought we were never going to speak of that again." He matches House's grin with one of his own, lips twitching with barely-contained laughter.
House bites his bottom lip, also struggling not to laugh, and answers, "Best two dollars I ever spent." He leans back in his chair, propping his legs onto the desk, getting comfortable.
Wilson scoffs at this, "Please. You think I'd let you get away with being that cheap. Besides, that's Stacy's line." House nods his head in agreement, "My bad. Keep forgetting that you're a higher-priced whore than I am."
Grinning, Wilson throws his feet on the desk, mirroring House's position. "Of course. Better-quality merchandise here, pal."
"And in high demand, or so the scuttlebutt says."
Wilson's forehead furrows, "Scuttlebutt says that? I don't know of any demand."
"Any more than usual," House corrects, adding, "But you don't have my sources. And my sources say that you've crossed over into a new market."
"Huh." Wilson doesn't know what to say to that, exactly. Not that he hasn't suspected it before, and not that the idea actually bothers him. "Guys, you mean."
"Duh." House says. He is not looking at Wilson. He is not looking much of anywhere. Staring off into space, in that way he has.
"Huh." Wilson says again. His mind is clicking away, piecing together what House has said with what House has not said and with what House has done. He comes to a rapid, and not quite as startling as it should be conclusion. A split-second decision is made, and he blurts, "Well, that wouldn't be too bad. Change of pace and all."
House, for the first time in their acquaintance, looks absolutely stunned. His usual mask of indifference and barely-disguised boredom is nowhere in sight, and he appears about ten years younger. If anything, he looks scared. And possibly hopeful.
Wilson smiles suddenly, happily, "And for the right guy? I could probably be persuaded to strip." His smile is so bright, it lights up his entire face.
House is utterly speechless. Wilson considers this a fine accomplishment, and decides to make a quick exit, before it wears off and he has to actually deal with the havoc his words are going to cause in their lives.
Standing, he stretches, slowly, seductively, and reaches for his tie. With careful fingers, he loosens it, hips swaying just the slightest bit.
At the door, he looks back at a completely hypnotized House, and pitches the tie in his direction. Reflexively, House catches it, with a sharp bark of laughter, spots of color appearing on his cheeks. His glance at Wilson could almost be called bashful.
Wilson smiles, unbuttons the top button of his shirt, fingers moving slowly, but purposefully. He tilts his head to one side, as if in thought, then shakes his head. "No. I'm not that much of a slut. You're gonna have to buy me dinner if you expect to see the rest of the show."
House just nods dumbly, the tie stretched taut in his hands. After a moment, his face clears, and his eyes brighten with mischief. Recognizing the look, Wilson ducks into the hall, before House can get any ideas about furthering the show.
As he walks to his office, he's not surprised to hear House call after him loudly, "Tease!" He grins, not caring about the curious stares of the various people littering the hallway. He's got a song to find, and maybe some serious thinking to do, and possibly a visit to a therapist, because he's obviously lost his mind.
None of it seems to matter as much as the appreciative wolf-whistle leveled at his backside as he strolls into his office.
End.