Love is a battlefield, 1/3
Title: Love Is A Battlefield
Author: Starlingthefool
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Wordcount: 11,000, posted in three parts.
Summary: Written for the
betteronvicodin challenge of: "Karaoke leads to love."
Warnings: Cheese. Crack. Smut. Fluff. Smeefftrack! It's the other white meat.
A/N: If you want, you can listen to the songs
Thanks are in order to: 1.) rocknroll_heart , for helping me design the playlist and being my cheerleader throughout the four months I was writing this; 2.) the regulars at the real Jake's in Olympia, WA, who inspired several characters (and song choices); 3). Last but not least,
pinglederry , who provided encouragement, ideas, and an excellent sounding board.
Title taken from a song by Pat Benatar (you know you love it, don't lie!).
"You're taking us to a gay bar?" Wilson asked as House parked in front of the huge rainbow flag waving gaily in the wind. There was a neon sign that read JAKE'S in curly, swooping letters, and a smaller, hand-lettered sign below it that read "EVERYONE WELCOME" in pink marker.
"Actually, I thought we could get a drink at the mechanic's across the street. What do you think?"
"Okay. Fine. Just... why a gay bar?"
"Why not?" House was giving him a slightly sinister glare. "Maybe I just wanted to go somewhere you wouldn't get hit on by some other serial divorcee, and I would be spared listening to another awkward round of self-conscious, middle aged flirting."
"Yes. Flirting is so overrated, especially when you can just pay women to have sex with you." Wilson rolled his eyes and got out of the car. House followed him.
"Am I the only one who sees the irony," House said, as he fell in step with Wilson's strides, "of a Jiffy-Lube being right across the street from a gay bar?"
"No. I’m sure dozens of fifteen year old boys are laughing about it as well," Wilson replied, holding the door open for House. House muttered something about getting your oil changed while you waited and went inside.
The bar was decent-sized. Most of the room was taken up by the currently empty dance floor, but there was also a pool table, some scattered tables, and booths along both walls. There was even a small stage, with bright beaded curtains against the wall and two microphones set up on it.
"Get us a booth, and I'll get some drinks," Wilson said.
"Fine. I want a beer."
"Need to reaffirm your manliness by drinking a brewski in the gay bar?"
"Says the man who knows all the words to 'In The Navy.' You're the one who needs some affirmation."
House walked away before Wilson could think of a clever retort, and he was forced to roll his eyes at House‘s retreating back. At the bar, Wilson ordered two Magic Hats. The bartender, a younger guy with a blonde mohawk and two lip piercings, nodded and set up two pint glasses while not-so-surreptitiously checking out Wilson. Embarrassed, Wilson turned and surveyed the crowd.
It was a decent sized crowd for a Wednesday. There were a lot of younger men wearing tightly fitted t-shirts and hip-hugging pants; a number of women, some with short, choppy hair and ripped jeans, others who looked as thought they’d fit in just as well at one of the numerous sports bars closer to the University; and a few older people, around his and House’s age.
The bartender slid two pints in front of him, and Wilson took out his wallet. He passed over a ten dollar bill, and then said, “Do you think you could put a cherry and an umbrella in one of them?”
The bartender smiled and did as he asked. Wilson laid down a couple dollars for the tip, and tried not to blush when the bartender winked at him.
*****
"So, do you come here often?" Wilson asked, trying to keep a straight face while watching House try to fish the maraschino cherry out of his beer.
"My patient yesterday was telling me about it. In between vomiting blood and losing motor function."
"Was this before or after she coded?"
"After the first time, a couple of hours before the second." House finally managed to catch the cherry by the stem and pulled it out of the beer.
"Why was she talking about this place?" Wilson asked, remembering House's proclamation that dying often illuminated what was most important to people. Try as he might, he couldn’t see why this place would mean that much to anyone.
"She co-owns it with her girlfriend. They offered me free drinks for the rest of my life if I saved hers." House put the cherry in his mouth, noisily sucking the beer off of it. Wilson made a face and tried not to stare.
"You get free drinks, and you still made me buy them?"
"Tastes better that way," House said, then bit into the cherry. He made an obscene noise of enjoyment, and Wilson looked away.
"HELLO AND WELCOME EVERYBODY!" A voice suddenly boomed out of the speakers on either side of the stage, startling Wilson. The small crowd cheered. Wilson looked around, and saw a heavyset woman with pink hair behind four chest-high walls, with a laptop and sound equipment in front of her, along with a wireless microphone. She was in a little alcove beside the stage.
"Oh, I forgot to mention-" House said, gesturing with the cherry stem, the small pit still attached to it.
"IT'S WEDNESDAY NIGHT, AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS," the woman said to the cheers of the crowd.
"Apparently, they have the best karaoke in town here."
"YES INDEED," the woman said, as if she had heard House's statement. "IT'S TIME FOR THE BEST DAMN KARAOKE IN NEW JERSEY. ARE YOU READY?"
"Whoops. Best karaoke in New Jersey, not just in town," House said, tossing the cherry stem onto the table.
"House!" Wilson said. Unfortunately, he didn't have the chance to follow it up.
"OUR FIRST PERFORMER TONIGHT IS A NEWCOMER TO JAKE'S-" Friendly cheers greeted this proclamation, and Wilson felt a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. "PLEASE WELCOME MR. JAMES WILSON TO THE STAGE."
Wilson turned his gaze back to House, who was staring at him with that damned smug look on his face; the look that said, I win.
His friendship with House, Wilson had long ago realized, was like a long series of skirmishes that never really evolved into a war, but never quite resolved themselves either. For some reason, House had decided that the best entertainment in his life was often to be had at his friend's expense. The fact that Wilson enjoyed the attention could probably be used to support the idea that insanity was, in fact, catching. Nonetheless, he did relish the friendly battles between himself and House.
Wilson had learned, over the course of twelve or so years of interaction with the borderline sociopath that was his best friend, when to back down or back off; when to stand by him or stand up to him; and when to take the crap House tossed at him and throw it right back in his damn smug face.
Keeping that in mind, Wilson took a sip of his beer to wet his throat, still glaring at House, and then walked up to the stage. He adjusted the microphone and took a deep breath as the opening notes spun out of the speakers on either side of the stage. The title came onscreen; "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" by Whitney Houston. Wilson smiled; though he would never, ever have admitted this to House, on pain of torture and/or death, he actually loved this song. It had been the defining song of his early twenties. He hardly even had to look at the lyrics on the screen as he sang them.
“Clocks strikes upon the hour
And the sun begins to fade
Still enough time to figure out
How to chase my blues away
I've done alright up 'til now
It's the light of day that shows me how
And when the night falls, my loneliness calls
Oh! I wanna dance with somebody
I wanna feel the heat with somebody
Yeah! Wanna dance with somebody
With somebody who loves me.”
Wilson could feel his face burning. He knew he was off key, probably offbeat as well, and that his falsetto was non-existent. Still, he had an idea that how he was singing was probably less important that what he was singing, and the fact that he was trying to appear like he was enjoying himself. A couple of younger kids in their twenties had taken to the dance floor, giggling and whirling and trying not to spill their drinks on each other. House sat like a troll in his darkened corner, and Wilson suddenly had a plan for his revenge.
”I've been in love and lost my senses
Spinning through the town
Soon or later the fever ends
And I wind up feeling down
I need a man who'll take a chance
On a love that burns hot enough to last
So when the night falls
My lonely heart calls...”
When the song finally ended, Wilson was out of breath, sweat was pouring down his back, and his heart was racing so fast he might have suspected House of dosing him with amphetamines again. If anyone was clapping, he didn't notice over the ringing in his ears.
It was all worth it for the look on House's face, which was somewhere between flabbergasted, petulant, and reluctantly impressed. Wilson sat back down at their table, drained the rest of his beer, and looked at the other man expectantly.
"That was so gay," House finally said. It didn't even really sound like an insult when he said it, and Wilson wondered what to make of that.
"Says the man who picked the song. I need another drink."
"Get me another," House said.
"Sure. But they're going on your tab," Wilson said, before he walked back to the bar.
The bartender smiled at him again as Wilson walked up. "Nicely done. Was that your first time onstage?" His two lip piercings moved in a weird rhythm together as he spoke. It was sort of hypnotizing, and Wilson had to force himself not to stare.
"My first time singing onstage, yes. And it wasn't my idea," Wilson said, wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve.
"Your boyfriend put you up to it?"
Wilson blinked. "Who?"
"The sourpuss in the corner. I saw him talking to Gracie when you were ordering drinks," he said. "Gracie’s the DJ," he clarified when he noticed Wilson’s confused look.
"He's not my boyfriend," Wilson said carefully.
"Really?" the bartender said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, in that case, my name's Clarence. Very pleased to meet you, Mister James Wilson." He held a hand out, and Wilson took it after a second. He wondered how Clarence knew his name, then remembered the DJ had called it out.
"It's Doctor Wilson, actually," Wilson said, then wondered why he'd chosen to address that, rather than the fact that Clarence seemed to be making assumptions about his sexual preferences. Or that the young man was flirting with him.
"Ooh. Well, smell you Nancy Drew. Now what can I get you?"
"Two more of the same. And I'm wondering if you could do me a favor."
Clarence raised his eyebrows at him, and Wilson had to fight down a blush.
"Not that kind of favor."
Clarence sighed. "Pity."
****
"Where's the cherry?" House said when Wilson came back with the drinks. "And what took you so long? Bartender vying to be the next ex-wife?"
"He was just being friendly. He also thought you were my boyfriend, and I deemed it necessary to disillusion him." Wilson said it nonchalantly, looking to see House's reaction.
He'd hoped for something dramatic. Instead, House just shrugged. "I can see how he might."
Wilson was about to ask what the hell House meant by that, but the girl onstage was finishing her song, to the applause of the crowd. She'd done a song that Wilson hadn't heard since high school; "Running Up That Hill" by Kate Bush. They definitely seemed to go in for 80's pop at Jake's. Which was good, as it meant the next song would fit right in.
"NICELY DONE. EVERYONE GIVE ANOTHER ROUND OF APPLAUSE TO TAHNEE! AND I'M PLEASED TO WELCOME UP OUR NEXT GUEST, WHOM I'VE BEEN TOLD IS A FRIEND OF THIS ESTABLISHMENT."
"You didn't," House snarled, glaring at Wilson.
"I don't even know why you're surprised," Wilson replied.
"SO I WANT EVERYONE TO PLEASE GIVE A WARM, JAKE'S WELCOME TO MISTER... SORRY, DOCTOR GREGORY HOUSE!"
"How did you get the request in?" House asked in a low tone, as the crowd started clapping.
"Bribed the bartender to bribe the DJ. He thinks I'm cute," Wilson said, grinning at House.
"IS DOCTOR HOUSE HERE?" the DJ asked. "SOMEBODY GO CHECK THE RESTROOMS."
"He's here!" Wilson shouted, waving an arm. "He's just nervous."
House's glare had daggers in it. A few swords as well, and plenty other kinds of sharp weapons. Nonetheless, he stood up.
"This means war, you know that, right?" House hissed at him.
Wilson smiled, shrugging his assent, and took a sip of his beer. House limped to the stage, took the microphone in his hand, and turned to face the crowd. There were TV screens facing the rest of the bar as well, which Wilson hadn't noticed before, and the lyrics for Paula Abdul's "Cold Hearted" appeared.
He's a cold-hearted snake
Look into his eyes
Oh ohhh
He's been tellin' lies
He's a lover boy at play
He don't play by rules...
"Oh, it is on," House said when he saw them on the screen in front of him. Wilson raised his glass in salute. House returned it with a salute of his own, of the one fingered variety, then cleared his throat and began to sing.
****
Over the next two days, Wilson was on tenterhooks waiting for House’s revenge. It never came. This kind of patience in plotting was unusual. By now, he should have woken up in a puddle of urine or with a faceful of shaving cream, or had manipulated photos of his naked body plastered all over the hospital. He’d accepted the possibility of all these when he’d bribed Clarence at the bar.
But forty-eight hours came and went, and House had been conspicuously absent. No consults, no lunches, no minions sent to spy on him. He knew there was a new case in Diagnostics, which was fairly amazing given House’s usual workload of one patient a week, so he figured House was somewhat busy.
In retrospect, he should have been more suspicious when Diana, one of the LPNs in the clinic, asked him out for a drink after work on that second day. He’d never really talked much with her before, definitely couldn’t remember flirting with her. But hey, a date was a date, and if didn’t turn into anything, at least it had bolstered his ego.
Wilson had agreed to meet her at a bar called Juanita’s, near the university, which he’d never been to before. He didn’t know exactly what to expect, but figured a suit and tie and a little extra cologne was welcome anywhere.
He felt his first misgivings when he opened the door, and a blast of Eminem hit him. It seemed like an average raucous university dive bar. He stepped up to the bar and surveyed the crowd. Most of them looked like frat-boys, recounting either football games or hot dates, or both. Why the hell would Diana want to come here?
Then he saw the microphones. And the fat three-ring binders, spread out on the tables, containing song lists. And the DJ, the same pink-haired woman from Jake’s. She waved at him. He waved back feebly, feeling like an animal with its paw caught in a trap.
“You reek. What did you do, douse yourself in Brute?” House asked from behind him.
Wilson, to his credit, didn’t jump. Much. “This is a new low, even for you. What did you do, bribe Diana or blackmail her?”
“A little of one, a bit of the other, add in some vague promises of sexual favors and bam! You’ve got one very agreeable nurse.”
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. “Sexual favors from you definitely count as threats. I’m leaving.”
House blocked him. “Don’t be a spoilsport just because there’s no chance of bedding some ridiculous nurse. And besides, an LPN? They’re one step removed from candy-stripers.”
“HELLO AND WELCOME, EVERYBODY,” the DJ’s voice bellowed out from the speakers.
Wilson made a desperate attempt to shove past House, but somehow, and he was sure House would insist later that it was a complete accident, his feet got tangled up in the cane and Wilson wound up on the sticky floor, palms stinging from catching his fall. It was then that he noticed that House, for some insane reason, had brought Cuddy with him. She’d been hidden behind House’s taller frame. She was staring down at him, amusement written all over her face.
“OUR FIRST SINGER TONIGHT IS NEW TO JUANITA’S, I BELIEVE. BUT I CAN PERSONALLY ATTEST THAT THIS MAN CAN ROCK OUT,” the DJ called out.
“Oh, Christ. Hi Cuddy.”
She helped him up. “Last minute conversions won’t save you, you know.”
“Why are you here? Don’t tell me he promised you sexual favors as well.”
“Please. All I needed was the promise of seeing a department head singing karaoke.”
“And I let her pick the song,” House interjected.
“And he let me pick the song,” Cuddy agreed. There was a frighteningly devious smile on her face.
“CAN I PLEASE HAVE JAMES WILSON COME TO THE STAGE?”
Wilson groaned. “I’m suing you. Both of you. Emotional damages and sexual harassment.”
“Good luck with that,” Cuddy ventured, sipping at her mojito. House shoved him towards the stage.
Wilson’s walked towards it like a man facing a firing squad: dignified and resigned to his doom. He picked up the microphone and watched the title and artist scroll across the TV in front of him. When he saw it, he almost laughed.
“Love Shack” by the B-52s. Only one of the more ridiculous song to have been spawned by the 80’s, which was saying something.
Wilson sighed. Oh, to hell with it. This was still better than watching Pay-Per-View porn and eating room service, which is about all he had done the past three weekends in a row. Wilson took off his blazer and loosened his tie, then signaled to the DJ that he was ready.
He was surprised when he noticed that he was less nervous this time around. There was a point, Wilson reasoned, where you just had to abandon the idea of trying to retain a shred of your dignity, and make up for that by having as much fun as you could in the meantime.
“I'm headin' down the Atlanta highway,
Lookin' for the love getaway
Heading for the love getaway.
I got me a car, it's as big as a whale
And we're headin' on down
To the Love Shack.
I got me a Chrysler, it seats about 20
So hurry up and bring your jukebox money!”
He felt like an idiot, but everyone in the bar seemed to appreciate his enthusiasm. Especially Cuddy, who was dancing with a guy who appeared to be about fifteen years younger than her. He wondered how many drinks she’d had before he got here. Quite a few, judging by the way she was shouting along with the chorus.
“Sign says.. Woo... stay away fools,
'Cause love rules at the Love Shack!
Well, it's set way back in the middle of a field,
Just a funky old shack and I gotta get back
Glitter on the mattress
Glitter on the highway
Glitter on the front porch
Glitter in the hallway…”
He risked a glance at the House, and at first was just thankful to see he wasn’t recording the performance for blackmail purposes. Then he saw that House had the particular smile that for the most part was reserved only for when he was with Wilson. It made him look younger, and every time he saw it, Wilson felt slightly pleased with himself.
The song ended, and he stepped off the stage to thunderous, if extremely drunken, applause. He went up to the bar, relieved to see a bottle of Corona waiting for him, courtesy of Cuddy. He drained half of it in one swallow, and then wiped his mouth.
“I’m going to have nightmares about the way you were dancing onstage,” House said from the next stool.
“Plenty of ladies in the bar would disagree, I think,” Wilson replied, as a table of sorority girls grinned and waved. He smiled and nodded back, and the entire table started giggling and whispering. “Oh yeah. Still got it,” he said smugly, flipping his hair off his forehead.
“Oh shut up. The fact that you’re enjoying this is really sickening.”
“THANK YOU, JAMES. I’D LIKE EVERYONE TO WELCOME OUR NEXT SINGER, GREGORY HOUSE!”
House glared at him with surprise and certain death in his eyes. Wilson held up his hands.
“Not me! I haven’t even had a chance to talk to the DJ.”
“CAN GREGORY HOUSE, ALSO KNOWN AS…” There was a pause as the DJ squinted at the small slip of paper in the dim light. “LISA’S BITCH COME TO THE STAGE?”
Wilson almost spit his drink out onto the bar.
“You shouldn’t leave your date alone in the bar, House,” Cuddy said, coming up between the two of them. “It’s not polite. Never know what kind of trouble she can get up to.”
House stared at her, looking, for lack of a better word, gob smacked. Cuddy took a sip of her drink and waved him towards the stage. “You heard the DJ,” she said.
House snarled at her, grabbed his cane, and stumped up to the stage.
“Want to dance?” Cuddy asked Wilson. “Trust me, you want to be on the dance floor for this.”
The opening bars of “Nine To Five” by Dolly Parton floated out of the speakers as he took her offered hand.
The party continues here.
Author: Starlingthefool
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Wordcount: 11,000, posted in three parts.
Summary: Written for the
betteronvicodin challenge of: "Karaoke leads to love."
Warnings: Cheese. Crack. Smut. Fluff. Smeefftrack! It's the other white meat.
A/N: If you want, you can listen to the songs
Thanks are in order to: 1.) rocknroll_heart , for helping me design the playlist and being my cheerleader throughout the four months I was writing this; 2.) the regulars at the real Jake's in Olympia, WA, who inspired several characters (and song choices); 3). Last but not least,
pinglederry , who provided encouragement, ideas, and an excellent sounding board.
Title taken from a song by Pat Benatar (you know you love it, don't lie!).
"You're taking us to a gay bar?" Wilson asked as House parked in front of the huge rainbow flag waving gaily in the wind. There was a neon sign that read JAKE'S in curly, swooping letters, and a smaller, hand-lettered sign below it that read "EVERYONE WELCOME" in pink marker.
"Actually, I thought we could get a drink at the mechanic's across the street. What do you think?"
"Okay. Fine. Just... why a gay bar?"
"Why not?" House was giving him a slightly sinister glare. "Maybe I just wanted to go somewhere you wouldn't get hit on by some other serial divorcee, and I would be spared listening to another awkward round of self-conscious, middle aged flirting."
"Yes. Flirting is so overrated, especially when you can just pay women to have sex with you." Wilson rolled his eyes and got out of the car. House followed him.
"Am I the only one who sees the irony," House said, as he fell in step with Wilson's strides, "of a Jiffy-Lube being right across the street from a gay bar?"
"No. I’m sure dozens of fifteen year old boys are laughing about it as well," Wilson replied, holding the door open for House. House muttered something about getting your oil changed while you waited and went inside.
The bar was decent-sized. Most of the room was taken up by the currently empty dance floor, but there was also a pool table, some scattered tables, and booths along both walls. There was even a small stage, with bright beaded curtains against the wall and two microphones set up on it.
"Get us a booth, and I'll get some drinks," Wilson said.
"Fine. I want a beer."
"Need to reaffirm your manliness by drinking a brewski in the gay bar?"
"Says the man who knows all the words to 'In The Navy.' You're the one who needs some affirmation."
House walked away before Wilson could think of a clever retort, and he was forced to roll his eyes at House‘s retreating back. At the bar, Wilson ordered two Magic Hats. The bartender, a younger guy with a blonde mohawk and two lip piercings, nodded and set up two pint glasses while not-so-surreptitiously checking out Wilson. Embarrassed, Wilson turned and surveyed the crowd.
It was a decent sized crowd for a Wednesday. There were a lot of younger men wearing tightly fitted t-shirts and hip-hugging pants; a number of women, some with short, choppy hair and ripped jeans, others who looked as thought they’d fit in just as well at one of the numerous sports bars closer to the University; and a few older people, around his and House’s age.
The bartender slid two pints in front of him, and Wilson took out his wallet. He passed over a ten dollar bill, and then said, “Do you think you could put a cherry and an umbrella in one of them?”
The bartender smiled and did as he asked. Wilson laid down a couple dollars for the tip, and tried not to blush when the bartender winked at him.
*****
"So, do you come here often?" Wilson asked, trying to keep a straight face while watching House try to fish the maraschino cherry out of his beer.
"My patient yesterday was telling me about it. In between vomiting blood and losing motor function."
"Was this before or after she coded?"
"After the first time, a couple of hours before the second." House finally managed to catch the cherry by the stem and pulled it out of the beer.
"Why was she talking about this place?" Wilson asked, remembering House's proclamation that dying often illuminated what was most important to people. Try as he might, he couldn’t see why this place would mean that much to anyone.
"She co-owns it with her girlfriend. They offered me free drinks for the rest of my life if I saved hers." House put the cherry in his mouth, noisily sucking the beer off of it. Wilson made a face and tried not to stare.
"You get free drinks, and you still made me buy them?"
"Tastes better that way," House said, then bit into the cherry. He made an obscene noise of enjoyment, and Wilson looked away.
"HELLO AND WELCOME EVERYBODY!" A voice suddenly boomed out of the speakers on either side of the stage, startling Wilson. The small crowd cheered. Wilson looked around, and saw a heavyset woman with pink hair behind four chest-high walls, with a laptop and sound equipment in front of her, along with a wireless microphone. She was in a little alcove beside the stage.
"Oh, I forgot to mention-" House said, gesturing with the cherry stem, the small pit still attached to it.
"IT'S WEDNESDAY NIGHT, AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS," the woman said to the cheers of the crowd.
"Apparently, they have the best karaoke in town here."
"YES INDEED," the woman said, as if she had heard House's statement. "IT'S TIME FOR THE BEST DAMN KARAOKE IN NEW JERSEY. ARE YOU READY?"
"Whoops. Best karaoke in New Jersey, not just in town," House said, tossing the cherry stem onto the table.
"House!" Wilson said. Unfortunately, he didn't have the chance to follow it up.
"OUR FIRST PERFORMER TONIGHT IS A NEWCOMER TO JAKE'S-" Friendly cheers greeted this proclamation, and Wilson felt a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. "PLEASE WELCOME MR. JAMES WILSON TO THE STAGE."
Wilson turned his gaze back to House, who was staring at him with that damned smug look on his face; the look that said, I win.
His friendship with House, Wilson had long ago realized, was like a long series of skirmishes that never really evolved into a war, but never quite resolved themselves either. For some reason, House had decided that the best entertainment in his life was often to be had at his friend's expense. The fact that Wilson enjoyed the attention could probably be used to support the idea that insanity was, in fact, catching. Nonetheless, he did relish the friendly battles between himself and House.
Wilson had learned, over the course of twelve or so years of interaction with the borderline sociopath that was his best friend, when to back down or back off; when to stand by him or stand up to him; and when to take the crap House tossed at him and throw it right back in his damn smug face.
Keeping that in mind, Wilson took a sip of his beer to wet his throat, still glaring at House, and then walked up to the stage. He adjusted the microphone and took a deep breath as the opening notes spun out of the speakers on either side of the stage. The title came onscreen; "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" by Whitney Houston. Wilson smiled; though he would never, ever have admitted this to House, on pain of torture and/or death, he actually loved this song. It had been the defining song of his early twenties. He hardly even had to look at the lyrics on the screen as he sang them.
“Clocks strikes upon the hour
And the sun begins to fade
Still enough time to figure out
How to chase my blues away
I've done alright up 'til now
It's the light of day that shows me how
And when the night falls, my loneliness calls
Oh! I wanna dance with somebody
I wanna feel the heat with somebody
Yeah! Wanna dance with somebody
With somebody who loves me.”
Wilson could feel his face burning. He knew he was off key, probably offbeat as well, and that his falsetto was non-existent. Still, he had an idea that how he was singing was probably less important that what he was singing, and the fact that he was trying to appear like he was enjoying himself. A couple of younger kids in their twenties had taken to the dance floor, giggling and whirling and trying not to spill their drinks on each other. House sat like a troll in his darkened corner, and Wilson suddenly had a plan for his revenge.
”I've been in love and lost my senses
Spinning through the town
Soon or later the fever ends
And I wind up feeling down
I need a man who'll take a chance
On a love that burns hot enough to last
So when the night falls
My lonely heart calls...”
When the song finally ended, Wilson was out of breath, sweat was pouring down his back, and his heart was racing so fast he might have suspected House of dosing him with amphetamines again. If anyone was clapping, he didn't notice over the ringing in his ears.
It was all worth it for the look on House's face, which was somewhere between flabbergasted, petulant, and reluctantly impressed. Wilson sat back down at their table, drained the rest of his beer, and looked at the other man expectantly.
"That was so gay," House finally said. It didn't even really sound like an insult when he said it, and Wilson wondered what to make of that.
"Says the man who picked the song. I need another drink."
"Get me another," House said.
"Sure. But they're going on your tab," Wilson said, before he walked back to the bar.
The bartender smiled at him again as Wilson walked up. "Nicely done. Was that your first time onstage?" His two lip piercings moved in a weird rhythm together as he spoke. It was sort of hypnotizing, and Wilson had to force himself not to stare.
"My first time singing onstage, yes. And it wasn't my idea," Wilson said, wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve.
"Your boyfriend put you up to it?"
Wilson blinked. "Who?"
"The sourpuss in the corner. I saw him talking to Gracie when you were ordering drinks," he said. "Gracie’s the DJ," he clarified when he noticed Wilson’s confused look.
"He's not my boyfriend," Wilson said carefully.
"Really?" the bartender said, raising an eyebrow. "Well, in that case, my name's Clarence. Very pleased to meet you, Mister James Wilson." He held a hand out, and Wilson took it after a second. He wondered how Clarence knew his name, then remembered the DJ had called it out.
"It's Doctor Wilson, actually," Wilson said, then wondered why he'd chosen to address that, rather than the fact that Clarence seemed to be making assumptions about his sexual preferences. Or that the young man was flirting with him.
"Ooh. Well, smell you Nancy Drew. Now what can I get you?"
"Two more of the same. And I'm wondering if you could do me a favor."
Clarence raised his eyebrows at him, and Wilson had to fight down a blush.
"Not that kind of favor."
Clarence sighed. "Pity."
****
"Where's the cherry?" House said when Wilson came back with the drinks. "And what took you so long? Bartender vying to be the next ex-wife?"
"He was just being friendly. He also thought you were my boyfriend, and I deemed it necessary to disillusion him." Wilson said it nonchalantly, looking to see House's reaction.
He'd hoped for something dramatic. Instead, House just shrugged. "I can see how he might."
Wilson was about to ask what the hell House meant by that, but the girl onstage was finishing her song, to the applause of the crowd. She'd done a song that Wilson hadn't heard since high school; "Running Up That Hill" by Kate Bush. They definitely seemed to go in for 80's pop at Jake's. Which was good, as it meant the next song would fit right in.
"NICELY DONE. EVERYONE GIVE ANOTHER ROUND OF APPLAUSE TO TAHNEE! AND I'M PLEASED TO WELCOME UP OUR NEXT GUEST, WHOM I'VE BEEN TOLD IS A FRIEND OF THIS ESTABLISHMENT."
"You didn't," House snarled, glaring at Wilson.
"I don't even know why you're surprised," Wilson replied.
"SO I WANT EVERYONE TO PLEASE GIVE A WARM, JAKE'S WELCOME TO MISTER... SORRY, DOCTOR GREGORY HOUSE!"
"How did you get the request in?" House asked in a low tone, as the crowd started clapping.
"Bribed the bartender to bribe the DJ. He thinks I'm cute," Wilson said, grinning at House.
"IS DOCTOR HOUSE HERE?" the DJ asked. "SOMEBODY GO CHECK THE RESTROOMS."
"He's here!" Wilson shouted, waving an arm. "He's just nervous."
House's glare had daggers in it. A few swords as well, and plenty other kinds of sharp weapons. Nonetheless, he stood up.
"This means war, you know that, right?" House hissed at him.
Wilson smiled, shrugging his assent, and took a sip of his beer. House limped to the stage, took the microphone in his hand, and turned to face the crowd. There were TV screens facing the rest of the bar as well, which Wilson hadn't noticed before, and the lyrics for Paula Abdul's "Cold Hearted" appeared.
He's a cold-hearted snake
Look into his eyes
Oh ohhh
He's been tellin' lies
He's a lover boy at play
He don't play by rules...
"Oh, it is on," House said when he saw them on the screen in front of him. Wilson raised his glass in salute. House returned it with a salute of his own, of the one fingered variety, then cleared his throat and began to sing.
****
Over the next two days, Wilson was on tenterhooks waiting for House’s revenge. It never came. This kind of patience in plotting was unusual. By now, he should have woken up in a puddle of urine or with a faceful of shaving cream, or had manipulated photos of his naked body plastered all over the hospital. He’d accepted the possibility of all these when he’d bribed Clarence at the bar.
But forty-eight hours came and went, and House had been conspicuously absent. No consults, no lunches, no minions sent to spy on him. He knew there was a new case in Diagnostics, which was fairly amazing given House’s usual workload of one patient a week, so he figured House was somewhat busy.
In retrospect, he should have been more suspicious when Diana, one of the LPNs in the clinic, asked him out for a drink after work on that second day. He’d never really talked much with her before, definitely couldn’t remember flirting with her. But hey, a date was a date, and if didn’t turn into anything, at least it had bolstered his ego.
Wilson had agreed to meet her at a bar called Juanita’s, near the university, which he’d never been to before. He didn’t know exactly what to expect, but figured a suit and tie and a little extra cologne was welcome anywhere.
He felt his first misgivings when he opened the door, and a blast of Eminem hit him. It seemed like an average raucous university dive bar. He stepped up to the bar and surveyed the crowd. Most of them looked like frat-boys, recounting either football games or hot dates, or both. Why the hell would Diana want to come here?
Then he saw the microphones. And the fat three-ring binders, spread out on the tables, containing song lists. And the DJ, the same pink-haired woman from Jake’s. She waved at him. He waved back feebly, feeling like an animal with its paw caught in a trap.
“You reek. What did you do, douse yourself in Brute?” House asked from behind him.
Wilson, to his credit, didn’t jump. Much. “This is a new low, even for you. What did you do, bribe Diana or blackmail her?”
“A little of one, a bit of the other, add in some vague promises of sexual favors and bam! You’ve got one very agreeable nurse.”
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. “Sexual favors from you definitely count as threats. I’m leaving.”
House blocked him. “Don’t be a spoilsport just because there’s no chance of bedding some ridiculous nurse. And besides, an LPN? They’re one step removed from candy-stripers.”
“HELLO AND WELCOME, EVERYBODY,” the DJ’s voice bellowed out from the speakers.
Wilson made a desperate attempt to shove past House, but somehow, and he was sure House would insist later that it was a complete accident, his feet got tangled up in the cane and Wilson wound up on the sticky floor, palms stinging from catching his fall. It was then that he noticed that House, for some insane reason, had brought Cuddy with him. She’d been hidden behind House’s taller frame. She was staring down at him, amusement written all over her face.
“OUR FIRST SINGER TONIGHT IS NEW TO JUANITA’S, I BELIEVE. BUT I CAN PERSONALLY ATTEST THAT THIS MAN CAN ROCK OUT,” the DJ called out.
“Oh, Christ. Hi Cuddy.”
She helped him up. “Last minute conversions won’t save you, you know.”
“Why are you here? Don’t tell me he promised you sexual favors as well.”
“Please. All I needed was the promise of seeing a department head singing karaoke.”
“And I let her pick the song,” House interjected.
“And he let me pick the song,” Cuddy agreed. There was a frighteningly devious smile on her face.
“CAN I PLEASE HAVE JAMES WILSON COME TO THE STAGE?”
Wilson groaned. “I’m suing you. Both of you. Emotional damages and sexual harassment.”
“Good luck with that,” Cuddy ventured, sipping at her mojito. House shoved him towards the stage.
Wilson’s walked towards it like a man facing a firing squad: dignified and resigned to his doom. He picked up the microphone and watched the title and artist scroll across the TV in front of him. When he saw it, he almost laughed.
“Love Shack” by the B-52s. Only one of the more ridiculous song to have been spawned by the 80’s, which was saying something.
Wilson sighed. Oh, to hell with it. This was still better than watching Pay-Per-View porn and eating room service, which is about all he had done the past three weekends in a row. Wilson took off his blazer and loosened his tie, then signaled to the DJ that he was ready.
He was surprised when he noticed that he was less nervous this time around. There was a point, Wilson reasoned, where you just had to abandon the idea of trying to retain a shred of your dignity, and make up for that by having as much fun as you could in the meantime.
“I'm headin' down the Atlanta highway,
Lookin' for the love getaway
Heading for the love getaway.
I got me a car, it's as big as a whale
And we're headin' on down
To the Love Shack.
I got me a Chrysler, it seats about 20
So hurry up and bring your jukebox money!”
He felt like an idiot, but everyone in the bar seemed to appreciate his enthusiasm. Especially Cuddy, who was dancing with a guy who appeared to be about fifteen years younger than her. He wondered how many drinks she’d had before he got here. Quite a few, judging by the way she was shouting along with the chorus.
“Sign says.. Woo... stay away fools,
'Cause love rules at the Love Shack!
Well, it's set way back in the middle of a field,
Just a funky old shack and I gotta get back
Glitter on the mattress
Glitter on the highway
Glitter on the front porch
Glitter in the hallway…”
He risked a glance at the House, and at first was just thankful to see he wasn’t recording the performance for blackmail purposes. Then he saw that House had the particular smile that for the most part was reserved only for when he was with Wilson. It made him look younger, and every time he saw it, Wilson felt slightly pleased with himself.
The song ended, and he stepped off the stage to thunderous, if extremely drunken, applause. He went up to the bar, relieved to see a bottle of Corona waiting for him, courtesy of Cuddy. He drained half of it in one swallow, and then wiped his mouth.
“I’m going to have nightmares about the way you were dancing onstage,” House said from the next stool.
“Plenty of ladies in the bar would disagree, I think,” Wilson replied, as a table of sorority girls grinned and waved. He smiled and nodded back, and the entire table started giggling and whispering. “Oh yeah. Still got it,” he said smugly, flipping his hair off his forehead.
“Oh shut up. The fact that you’re enjoying this is really sickening.”
“THANK YOU, JAMES. I’D LIKE EVERYONE TO WELCOME OUR NEXT SINGER, GREGORY HOUSE!”
House glared at him with surprise and certain death in his eyes. Wilson held up his hands.
“Not me! I haven’t even had a chance to talk to the DJ.”
“CAN GREGORY HOUSE, ALSO KNOWN AS…” There was a pause as the DJ squinted at the small slip of paper in the dim light. “LISA’S BITCH COME TO THE STAGE?”
Wilson almost spit his drink out onto the bar.
“You shouldn’t leave your date alone in the bar, House,” Cuddy said, coming up between the two of them. “It’s not polite. Never know what kind of trouble she can get up to.”
House stared at her, looking, for lack of a better word, gob smacked. Cuddy took a sip of her drink and waved him towards the stage. “You heard the DJ,” she said.
House snarled at her, grabbed his cane, and stumped up to the stage.
“Want to dance?” Cuddy asked Wilson. “Trust me, you want to be on the dance floor for this.”
The opening bars of “Nine To Five” by Dolly Parton floated out of the speakers as he took her offered hand.
The party continues here.