swatkat

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Title: So Swing Up On This Little Horse
Fandom: House, M.D
Pairing: House/Wilson
Words: 1255
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me.
Summary: So swing up on this little horse, the only thing we'll hit is sunset.

A/N: Title and summary from Josh Ritter's 'Good Man'. This is not beta'd; your comments/crit are welcome. Spoilers up to 5.4. 'Birthmarks'.

And afterwards, Wilson scuttles around the room, fishing out pieces of discarded clothing and looking more than a little foolish in the process. House settles back on the bed and proceeds to watch, because, hey, free entertainment. He's almost wishing for a bowl of popcorn when Wilson finally looks up and says, no, mumbles, really, 'This… isn't what I had in mind when I said I wanted to thank you.' There's a flush creeping up his neck and his ridiculously pretty face. His shirt is still unbuttoned.

'Relax,' House tells him. 'I always rescue damsels in distress and allow them to thank me afterwards. Cheaper than hiring hookers.'

Wilson looks a little appalled—which, of course, was the intention—and, if House isn't wrong—which is unlikely—also a little amused. Which is intriguing.

Wilson finishes buttoning his shirt and meticulously puts on his (stupid) tie. And stands in front of the mirror and fixes his hair. 'I'll pay you back,' he says, collecting his socks from the floor.

'I don't charge for sex.'

'That's not what I – '

'Forget it,' House says expansively. 'What are friends for?'

'We barely know each other,' Wilson points out.

'We may not know each other, but we know each other,' House says. 'Biblically.'

Wilson's face is beet-red now, which is expected, and—ha!—there's that sliver of amusement again, lighting up his eyes. And if House were a simpering airhead he'd find it charming, but he isn't and so it's merely intriguing—worth further investigation.

'I guess I'll see you around, then,' Wilson says.

Wilson leaves without actually paying him back the money for the bail (damn!).

He's seen that express package, though. Observed the way Wilson clutches it, the way he carries it around without actually opening it, as though he'd rather not know.

Yes, definitely interesting. Maybe even worth his time. Which, to be honest, he has in spades.

He'll consider it an investment.

*

House drags Wilson to the hospital roof one slow summer afternoon and holds him hostage till he drinks the pint of beer House has reserved for the occasion (it involves a bet and a complicated backstory).

It's the first and only time Wilson will ever drink on duty (it's House's third).

Wilson leaves work early that day and refuses to speak to House for almost two whole days until House shows up at his doorstep with a single white rose in hand and a promise/threat to sing love songs underneath his window till he's forgiven.

House thinks of it as one of his finest hours.

*

Life as a serf in Cuddy's shiny new fiefdom is dreary.

It's the first thing she does after she assumes the administrative throne, and it's not that House isn't grateful for the paycheck because he is. Grateful. Within reasonable limits.

Except that he's already proved Hamilton wrong (once) and insulted his intelligence in front of his subordinates (twice) this very morning, and it's getting old fast. Hamilton's easy, a walking target—what House needs is something different, something new. What he needs is a good puzzle or perhaps a worthy adversary, and there's only so much entertainment Cuddy herself will provide, her cleavage—which is a comfort—notwithstanding.

'House!' He hears Whathisname call out from somewhere behind him and starts walking faster. 'House!'

Paperwork, he thinks. Or yet another patient with a kidney stone. And of course Whatshisname will want him to do all of it and go crying to Hamilton—who will then go crying to Mommy—when he doesn't obey.

House ducks past a nurses and a couple of patients and heads straight for the elevator, down to the Clinic and Exam Room One, his current favourite spot now that the Nephrology lounge is no longer feasible.

He has contemplated a transfer to Infectious Diseases—he supposes it's possible that Shah is somehow less of an idiot than Hamilton.

Not that he's holding his breath.

Of course, it's also possible that Shah might object to having House in his department, given what happened at Mount Sinai (House was right).

House sighs and switches on his trusty little handheld TV, flipping to the one with the busty infomercial girls. Television, at least, never fails to deliver.

He tenses when the doorknob twists open, only to reveal a guy in jeans and a hoodie. 'Uh, can you tell me where the doctor is?'

'I have no idea,' House tells him, truthfully.

'I, um, have a – '

'No idea,' House says, loudly, and the guy quickly back away and leaves. Whew.

He concentrates on the busty informecial girl, who, true to her ilk, has a magnificent rack. She takes the bottle of health drink in her hand and begins in to expound its virtues in earnest; House switches off the volume and watches the rise and fall of her chest.

The click of the doorknob again, and House yells, 'The doctor's not in yet.'

'Are you sure about that?' Wilson says, not bothering to hide his amusement.

'Absolutely,' House says.

'I just ran into Herrera. Apparently, he terrified you into running away.'

House shrugs, 'I was bored.' And adds, in an afterthought, 'Wanna play hookie? I discovered a bowling alley in the neighbourhood.'

*

Wilson's debt is paid three years into their acquaintance, post one wife and on the verge of another, with a bag of fries House steals off Wilson's plate.

Wilson, of course, will never know.

House gets him to buy him an ice cream in honour of the occasion.

*

It might go like this.

'Why did you really bail me out?' Wilson will ask, slurring a little on the 'really' because he's a bit drunk. And House will say, 'I always pick out the pretty ones,' with a small leer and a smirk (he might even mean it).

'A hooker would've been easier,' Wilson will point out.

'A hooker wouldn't kiss me on the mouth,' House will say, fumbling with his keys, drawing in a sharp breath at the touch of skin—Wilson's fingers underneath his shirt, crafty and insistent; his breath hot against his ear, his neck.

*

It's freezing when House when finally steps outside the hospital. He draws his jacket tighter, shivering a little as he puts on his helmet. He doesn't mind the Boston cold, but he's exhausted and the roads are wet: one wrong turn and it'll be a trip straight to Hell.

He rides back carefully, hoping he doesn't fall asleep on the way.

Thirty-six hours on his feet. He's had worse in the past, but he is counting the days till this residency ends.

He needs a drink, House decides. He presses the 'play' button on his answering machine and makes for the kitchen. Beep, boring, boring, his mother, boring, and then a familiar voice saying, 'Hi, this is James Wilson. We, um, met in New Orleans, at the conference.'

House comes out of the kitchen, half-empty glass in hand.

'I was in town and I, uh, thought I'd give you a call,' the voice continues.

Wilson sounds uncomfortable, even on the answering machine.

House smiles.

*

House hates conferences. Hates the aura of Very Important Business around them and the mutual back-patting that goes on in the name of cutting edge research.

He slept through the morning session and tried to entertain himself by hitting on the pretty brunette from Nebraska post-lunch, with mild success.

He doesn't know how he'll survive two more days of this.

Maybe he'll just hit the bar.

*

End