peg22 | A New Fic Amidst the Striking Wordies . . .

It's going to be so interesting watching how this strike is affected by the interweb. Already, we have up to the minute reports from the front line, with the studios so deservedly cast in the role of Voldemort. Go Writers. Go Unions.

On the other hand, if peeps would just get this jazzed over things that truly affect their lives like healthcare and education and fresh drinking water . . . if only. Maybe if it was a very special episode of Healthcare Anatomy . . . sigh. Or if you gave more than a damn about the teachers in your public schools, then George Clooney AND the entire cast of Heroes would give you a 30 minute massage . . .

But I digress.

Here's a little fluffy sumpin sumpin I wrote whilst waiting to post my Starsky/Huggy - which is neither fluffy nor could be used to solve any crisis. Anywhere. Ever.

It's House/Wilson. It's slash. It's for those writers who created this amazing set of characters for us to play with. Thank you.

Air Guitar
by Kaye

He heard the guitar from the sidewalk. All squeal and twang, electrical growl mixed with mechanical wail. He had always thought an electric guitar sounded more like a locomotive than a musical instrument. Except in the hands of the gifted few, it was just chugging and whining. Of course this metaphor cast House in the role of demented train conductor. It fit. House was definitely demented. But, Wilson admitted, albeit to himself, he liked this dementia.

This dementia was not turned inward. This tiptoe through madness didn’t involve pills or police or midnight confessions. He winced as he stood at the apartment door, which was vibrating. How the man still had neighbors . . .

No, this dementia was shared by . . . everyone with ears. He smiled grimly at the woman who was coming down the stairs, a howling dog under one arm, suitcase in the other.

“Ought to be put in jail . . .”

Wilson gave her a weak nod and wondered if there would ever be a time when he managed to avoid the fallout. When his name wasn’t pulled into the mix, his lab coat stained with identical brushstrokes of contempt – by proximity alone. When he could stand and tsk tsk with the rest of the population, as opposed to opening the door to hell and walking through.

Of course he refused to admit, even to himself, he hoped that answer would always be no.

The door burst open and House stood there, feet spread, eyebrow arched. He gave the guitar one last strum, which made Wilson’s teeth rattle, and in the echoing reverb shouted, “Well, come in already – you want to wake the neighbors?”

“The neighbors have all moved away,” Wilson shouted back as he closed the door. “Ever heard of a concept called air guitar?” He felt a little better when he saw House limp over and turn off the amp.

“Buzzkill,” House muttered as he lifted the strap over his head and gently set the guitar on its stand. “I hope that sack in your hand is dinner.”

Wilson walked into the kitchen. “You called me and begged me to bring you sesame chicken. What else would it be?”

He opened the fridge and shut it immediately. “What the hell died in there?”

House nudged Wilson out of the way and opened the fridge, breathing deep. “I don’t smell anything.” He grabbed two beers and shut the door with his hip.

Wilson shook his head at the offered beer. “I touch nothing that’s been in that . . . science experiment. I thought you were having someone come in.”

“I am. You.”

Wilson opened the cabinet and pulled out two plates. “I am not cleaning your apartment, House.”

“You’re cleaning our apartment.” House grabbed a plate and opened a sack. “Chili sauce?”

“In the bottom.” Wilson nudged House and reached down into the sack. “This is not our apartment. You made that very clear last time.” He handed House a container of chili sauce. “The cheese stands alone – remember?”

House filled his plate, dousing it liberally with the chili sauce, and then limped into the living room. “Yeah, yeah. Last time you were rebounding. This time you’re . . . what are you calling this crisis?”

“It’s not a crisis. I’m just weighing my housing options.” Wilson joined House on the couch.

“You’re wallowing in bad thread counts.” House flipped on the TV. “Granted, you do get better porn, but I’ve got Tivo and a season pass to The New Yankee Workshop.”

Wilson watched House bring a “too full of chili sauce for any human being” bite to his lips and cringed as he sucked it all in. He waited for the heat to invade every molar in House’s mouth and then, when House’s face turned a disturbing shade of crimson, he handed him a glass of water, taking the plate and setting it on the table. House leaned forward and coughed and choked and smacked the couch with his hand. Wilson just sat, arms folded, waiting.

After a good three minutes, House sagged against the couch, wiping a hand across his eyes. Wilson took the glass of water out of his hand, set it on the table, picked up the plate and held it out. House took the plate, and then turned to Wilson.

“See, you have to move back in. You just saved my life.”

“I have to move back in with you because you don’t know how to properly season your food? That’s a new one.” Wilson took a bite and grabbed the remote. “How about I’ll move back in if you get rid of The New Yankee Workshop?”

House tried to swipe at the remote, but had to steady his plate at the same time, and so only managed to clip Wilson on the chin. Wilson held the remote high above his head and turned his shoulder away from House.

“Not so fast. I saved your life, remember? You owe me.”

“What has Norm Abram ever done to you, huh? The man is a genius with hand tools.”

Wilson snorted. “Exactly – I don’t want you getting any ideas. Dare I mention the cane pieces glued to your bathroom wall project?”

“Dare I mention the sleep with dying patients to feel better about myself project?”

“Dare I mention the driving away your staff so you never have to admit you like them project?”

“Dare I mention the date Cuddy so you can claim her unborn child as your own project?”

Wilson stuttered on that one. “Whaaa? What?”

House shrugged and grabbed the remote. “I don’t know – I ran out of projects.”

Wilson set the plate down and turned to House. “Is Cuddy pregnant?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe.”

“And you withhold this kind of information from me?”

House traded plates with Wilson and took a bite. “If you lived here, I would withhold nothing from you.”

Wilson sighed and leaned against the couch. “Not exactly your top selling point. I kind of like being in the dark about some things.”

House flipped around the channels twice and then turned off the TV. “We can do it in the dark if you want.”

Wilson did a classic double take that House would have surely appreciated had he not chosen that moment to become a statue on his couch. For just a minute, Wilson thought maybe he didn’t hear what he knew he heard. But one look at the flush creeping up House’s neck told him all he needed to know. Except how the hell to return that kind of volley.

So they sat. House fingered the edge of the seam in his jeans and Wilson worked his eyebrows, and cleared his throat. When all the voices in his head that were telling him why this was the worst of a hundred bad ideas he had come up with while sitting on this couch grew quiet, he spoke.

“I kind of like it with the lights on. Too many years in an operating room, I guess.”

A smile crept up House’s face. “Really? The operating room?”

Wilson’s face matched House’s. They had yet to look at each other, instead staring straight ahead, at a blank television screen. Wilson thought this may be the only time in his life that he desperately wished for that damn Norm Abram to be sawing or gluing on something. He wondered if they were crossing some invisible line.

“Or the dark’s okay, too. I’m flexible.” Line definitely crossed.

House raised an eyebrow. “Good information. Me – not so much.” He tapped his knee. “Bum leg.”

Wilson tapped his head. “Bad judgment.”

“One for my side, then.” House took a deep breath. “Anything else I should know?”

“Well, depends what you have in mind.” Wilson felt his heart speed up, his chest grow hot. Hoped he didn’t stroke out before the end of this conversation.

“My mind has nothing to do with this.”

Wilson swallowed hard. “Are we talking hypothetical or virtual, maybe?”

“I was thinking we start out slow, see how it goes . . . unless you think otherwise.”

The tone in House’s voice was making it difficult for Wilson to breathe.

“I think . . . I think . . .”

And that was the last coherent thought Wilson had for quite a while. House finally moved, twisting quickly and pressing Wilson against the back of the couch, placing his hands on either side of his head, breathing hard.

“So, Jimmy – wanna put your mouth where my money is?”

Wilson reached out and grabbed House around the waist, pulling him almost onto his lap, careful not to twist his leg. He felt House’s breath on his face, and the line they had obviously crossed was obliterated under the heat and desire and the look in House’s eyes. He opened his mouth to protest (well, later that’s how he would tell it – that House pounced – but really, it was more invitation than protest on his part) and suddenly they were kissing.

Wilson tasted chili and ran his tongue around the inside of House’s lips, which caused House to lose his grip on the back of the couch and Wilson caught him in his arms. He leaned down and teased House’s mouth open again, flicking his tongue in, testing the heat, the wet. House groaned and wriggled a bit, trying to get closer and then suddenly wrapped both arms around Wilson’s neck and pulled.

Wilson had a hard time distinguishing between falling into the heat and desire of the hottest kiss he had experienced since med school, and actually falling off the couch. In fact, it surprised him when his head hit the floor, House sliding off the couch on top of him a second later.

“How bout the floor, Jimmy? You okay with the floor?” House whispered in his ear, nipping his earlobe, making speech impossible.

Wilson answered instead by reaching between them and squeezing the bulge in House’s jeans. House rolled a bit, pinning himself against the couch, and thrust his hips into Wilson’s hand. For just a minute, one of Wilson’s voices clamored for attention. What the hell were they doing? This was House. This was House’s floor. This was . . .

“Oh God . . .” Wilson’s voice disappeared as House found the zipper in his gabardine trousers and managed to unzip and plunge his hand down them in one stroke. The coolness of House’s hand clashed with the heat coming off his half erect dick and he bucked up against House.

“Hang on there, bronco,” House growled and worked Wilson’s pants down over his hips. The cool air hit his dick and he bucked again. House just chuckled and pushed the coffee table back with one hand, lowering himself onto Wilson, propping his leg up on the fallen couch cushion.

Wilson flung a hand over his eyes, and allowed himself to stop thinking. House’s mouth was hot and wet and as he gently scraped his teeth down the length of Wilson’ s dick, Wilson moaned and reached out, fisting House’s hair, pulling him farther down. Pulling them both farther over the edge . . .

Later, after the living room was put back together and they were both broken into a million pieces, Wilson found himself lying on the couch, with House snugged between his legs, House’s head on his chest, House’s fingers absently tracing circles around his left nipple, watching New Yankee Workshop. He fought the urge to look out of the window, sure that the world had disappeared into some post-Armageddon nuclear winter. At the very least.

House sighed and pinched his nipple.

“Ouch.” Wilson slapped House’s hand.

“Stop thinking so much.” House reached up and poked Wilson’s chin toward the screen. “Just watch the genius with his power tools. Maybe you could get a few pointers.”

Wilson watched as a man wielding a huge chainsaw cut through a four foot wide board. House nudged the volume up three decibels and the growl of the chainsaw chattered Wilson’s fillings. He held his hands over his ears and shouted at House.

“Turn that down!”

“It’s gorgeous!” House sat up and took the volume to the limit. “Listen to that reverb.”

Wilson, positive his ears were bleeding, reached over and grabbed at the remote. House evaded the attempt, but Wilson had discovered House’s vulnerable spot in the last hour, and so he poked his finger in House’s ear and House immediately dropped the remote. Wilson retrieved it and hit the mute button. The silence echoed around the apartment.

“Buzzkill,” House muttered for the second time that day, and untangled himself from Wilson.

“Haven’t you ever heard of air chainsaw?” Wilson made a grab for the back of House’s t-shirt, to pull him back down, but House stood up and hobbled away from Wilson’s grasp. Wilson made a concerted effort not to think about the fact that he didn’t want House to get up. That he liked House sprawled across him like a comfy old hound dog. Chuckled at the idea. Looked up to see House staring at him.

“What? I like my hearing.”

“I’m starting to reconsider asking you to move back in. I forgot about what a Nancy boy you are.”

Wilson sat up straighter. “I didn’t ever say I was moving back in.”

“Hello? You said you were moving back in right about the time you stuck your dick in my mouth.”

“Hello? Since when is oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck the synonym for I want to live with you?”

“Duh, since, like forever.” House put both hands on his hip.

Wilson couldn’t help but smile. Juvenile House was one of his favorite. But his head was also spinning with everything that had happened since he had heard the guitar riffs cracking the foundation.

“What about your guitar?” Wilson stood and walked toward House.

“What about my guitar?”

“I can’t move in with you blasting your David St. Hubbins impression at me all day long.” Wilson stopped a mere inch from House’s face. “Besides, I got an ax you can grind . . .”

House’s eyebrows flew up and then he laughed. Threw his head back and howled.

Wilson frowned at the reaction. He was hoping for seductive, not hardy har har. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” House managed between breaths,” that just sounded so . . . wrong coming from your lips.”

“You weren’t so jovial the last time things were coming from my lips.” Wilson put his hands on his hips, which only made House laugh harder.

“Oh, god. You have to move back in, Jimmy.”

“Stop calling me Jimmy.”

“Stop talking like that, then. Just stop. I can’t take it.” House wiped his eyes. “It’s just not . . . you.”

“How do you know?”

House stopped laughing then, closing the gap between them, pulling Wilson against his chest. “Because Jimmy, I know you. And I know I want you here with me. And I know you want to be here with me. And I just got tired of waiting for you to figure it out, so I just figured it out for the both of us. See? I can embrace change.”

He leaned down and kissed Wilson. “So go check out of the Holiday Inn and get back here so we can get back to figuring out the rest of it.” He kissed Wilson hard on the mouth and released him, hobbled over to the couch, and turned on the volume. The chain saw was still at it.

“And hurry up – there’s a marathon of This Old House on next. I might even let you hold my . . . power tool . . . if you know what I mean . . .”

Wilson just stood in the middle of the room, wondering how his life had flipped back so effortlessly into focus with just a remote control and a blow job. Wondered why he even took the time to wonder such things. Watched House stuff a pillow under his head and settle in to another episode of chainsaws and glue guns.

Wondered if he could get the guitar out of the door without House noticing.

“And don’t touch my guitar.” House called out as he nudged the volume on the TV all the way up to eleven.

fin