House Gift Fic

[triedunture]

Title: The Grey Album
Pairing: House/Wilson, snarky!Foreman cameo
Rating: PG-13 (non-graphic m/m)
Words: 1600
Summary: a gift fic for cadeira, who was a great help to me. She asked for something with the Beatles. This sort of qualifies?

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The morning after. The sun, bright. The window, open, the breeze, pleasant. The day would get hotter, like, 90 degrees. House wasn't looking forward to that. His A/C unit had crapped out last month during the first heat wave. Fucking global warming.

He reached a hand out and brushed it against Wilson's side. The other man wasn't awake; he flinched in his sleep, he mumbled something into his dream. House did it again, just to annoy Wilson, even though he was unconscious.

This is all Foreman's doing, House thought idly. Foreman and his stupid new iPod, the kind with the touch screen. As crazy as that sounds.

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Foreman had been fiddling with it in the conference room, trying to set up all his preferences. He seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time selecting a ringtone. House was about to throw his oversized tennis ball through the glass wall at Foreman's head just to stop the noise.

But then Foreman finally found one he liked, a self-satisfied smile spreading across his face. His head bobbing with the music, a rap song. (He made a separate mental note to laugh at Foreman for being even more of a stereotype.)

House's sensitive ears picked up a familiar twang in the alien song. He listened for three more seconds, then grabbed his cane and stormed through the connecting door into the conference room. "That's Helter Skelter," he accused.

Foreman didn't even glance up. He appeared to be setting up his calendar. "Do we have a case yet? I might just run out of things this iPod can do."

"Who cut up Helter Skelter and started rapping to it?" House continued. It was a boring day, after all. Picking a fight with Foreman was right up there with making black jokes with Foreman. But this had the potential for both. "I'm almost certain Lennon and McCartney didn't sign off on that."

"It's a mash-up," Foreman said slowly, as if explaining a very technical procedure to an old woman. "You take two seemingly unrelated things, and you combine them to make something new. This," he held up his iPod, which was cheerily continuing its custom ringtone, "is the White Album mixed with Jay-Z's Black Album. Old school rock and gangster. They go surprisingly well together."

"And you pay for this stuff?" House scrunched up his face.

Foreman rolled his eyes. "No. I downloaded it illegally." He turned back to his shiny touch-screen. "Insert joke about a black man stealing here," he mumbled.

Because Foreman had beaten him to the punch, House limped away to find other people to mess with. Wilson was a likely target. And he was nearby, down in the clinic.

The good-natured teasing and barb-trading ensued. At one point, the childishness got to the point where House stuck his tongue out at Wilson. Wilson returned the gesture, and House cocked his head, noticing just how pink Wilson's lips were for the first time. For some reason, this translated into an offer to come over after work.

"Why?" Wilson had asked, the dubious nature of the invitation showing plainly in the curve of his eyebrows. "Is there a game or something on TV?"

House shrugged. "Sox/Rays," he offered.

Wilson frowned, signing forms while leaning against the nurses' station. "You hate the Sox. And the Rays."

House lifted his eyebrows. "And one has to lose. So I'll be happy at the end no matter what happens."

"Fair enough." Wilson closed his file and looked up. "I'll bring sandwiches from that Cuban place."

That night was one of the really good ones, in House's opinion. The food was delicious, the beer was cold, the game was hilarious. All was right in the world.

"Oh my god!" Wilson laughed, clapping at the action on the screen. "Did he really just charge the mound?"

"His name is Coco." House sipped at his beer. "All the residual anger must have been building."

As the game degraded into a punching contest, they laughed at the commentators' new play-by-play and ate the last crusts of their Cubans. This was all he needed, as far as House was concerned. Life might not be great on the whole, and the pain sure did suck, but if he had a few nights like this every so often, that was enough.

If only there was a way to combine this with sex, House thought. Then I'd be set.

House glanced over at Wilson, who was flushed with the long bout of laughter. His mouth was awfully pink. Did he wear gloss for something? Or maybe it was just "balm." Whatever it was, it was just unnaturally dewy, that mouth.

This is what happens when you've been single for five years, House seethed. You get lonely. You get desperate. You start thinking about your best friend's mouth in indecent ways, just because he's there. Sex and Wilson weren't supposed to go together. Not on this plane of existence.

He looked over at Wilson again. He was licking the sauce from between his thumb and forefinger. He caught House watching and pulled a face that said what?

What had Foreman said about mashing things together? That it might not seem possible at first, but two wildly different pieces could be part of the same puzzle? House mused on this for about three seconds. There was a commercial break on for Doritos.

"Hey," House said. "You wanna do it?" He raised his eyebrow meaningfully.

Wilson looked over at him, mid-sip of beer. "You serious?" he asked when he finished swallowing. "This is how you broach the subject?"

House tipped his head to the side and twisted his lips in thought. Huh. He probably should have done more of that beforehand: the whole thinking thing. "It sort of makes sense, doesn't it?" At Wilson's palms-up 'How so?' gesture, House continued: "You're, like, the one person I can stand."

"Wow." Wilson ate a chip. "Thanks. Should I take my pants off now, or do you want to see the final score of the game?" he drawled.

"Fine, if you don't want to..." House stuffed the remains of his ropa viejo in his mouth.

"Oh, don't act hurt!" Wilson threw his hands in the air. "You're-- This is insane. How would this even work?"

House shrugged. "It's just adding one more part to this." He gestured to the air between them.

Wilson finished off his bottle. "And here I thought I'd make it through life without one single homo-erotic experience."

"Oh, that's such a load of horseshit," House snorted. "You went to an all-boys middle school. You can't fool me."

"Well. Okay." Wilson picked up both their plates and took them into the kitchen. "But I want to see who wins first!" he shouted from the sink.

House grinned, took up his cane, and strutted his way into the kitchen.

"You're really okay with this?" he asked, coming up behind Wilson. "You're not shocked at this momentous shift in our friendship or whatever?"

Wilson scrubbed at a plate with a sponge. "Being your friend requires a certain adaptability. This isn't the most bizarre thing you've ever asked. Remember that night in Philadelphia?"

"Vaguely." House winced.

"This is way less weird than stealing an anvil. Also," he placed the dish in the drainer, "I've, well, been wondering about it too."

House thought of Foreman briefly: smashing together 'friend' and 'lover,' two things that seem completely separate, yet aren't. Sexual remix.

"Where do you want to start?" he asked. He briefly considered brushing his lips against the nape of Wilson's neck, but then decided it was too girly.

"How about the beginning?" Wilson twisted his head around and kissed House's stubbled cheek. "There. Now our first kiss is out of the way."

"That was lame."

"Then you give it a shot!"

"Fine." House threaded his fingers into Wilson's hair and pulled his forward. The kiss began closed-mouth, but then one of them gasped (it was hard to tell which one) and suddenly, tongues were dueling.

If it ever seems strange, kissing your best friend, maybe you're not doing it right. Because House catalogued each sensation following from Wilson's kiss, and each smack of lips, each nibble of teeth, seemed just right. Just like it seemed right to move from the kitchen to the sofa, where their hands could creep under shirts and into pants. Like teenagers in a backseat. Then, finally, the bedroom.

They didn't quite make it to the bed on the first try. Their knees were rugburned by the time they managed to crawl under the sheets.

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House blinked at the sunlight streaming through the cracks in the window blinds. Sex is sex, he thought. Whether it's with a hooker or your...Wilson. Except, with Wilson, at least he was combining all the good times into one, giant great time. And it was cheaper. And he might not want to ever tell Wilson that.

From the other side of the bed, Wilson finally groaned himself awake. "Oh geez," he muttered. "I'm starving."

"Eggs are in the fridge," House said, slapping a palm lightly against Wilson's backside. "Up and at 'em."

"You can't even make your bedmate breakfast?" Wilson grumped. "What exactly do you bring to the table in this arrangement?"

"Let me give you a reminder," House said with a wicked smile, and heedless of morning breath and crusty eyes, he gives Wilson a repeat performance. And despite everything, it all seems to fit together.



fin.