[House MD - fic] Drinkery

House/Wilson, R.
Drinking in a bar.
Written October 8, 2006 by Zekkass.

---

The first drink was a long, sordid affair. House smirked every single time Wilson took a sip, and he ended up nursing it for at least ten minutes. (House had his eyes on Wilson every single time he drank. Every. Single. Time.)

The second glass was a gulp-gulp-gulp-nevermind-the-burn affair.

(House wasn’t watching – Wilson didn’t know why.)

The third went down fast, and so did the next three.

By the ninth drink, Wilson was very, very drunk.

---

The lampshade was an odd touch, House thought.

---

“I’m not stupid, Housh.” Wilson slurred against House’s shoulder.

“Of course you aren’t, Jimmy. Just drunk.” While it was incredibly entertaining to watch Wilson wear a lampshade and hit on everyone in the bar, once he started slurring, well, unless he did something incredibly embarrassing, House wasn’t amused.

“I’m not Jimmeh. Mm James.” Wilson stopped for a second, and finished off another drink. “Yeh know I luove you, man.”

House raised his eyebrows and wished for a tape-recorder.

(In House’s mind, Santa suddenly jumped in through the window, bitch-slapped the bouncer, and handed House recordings of everything Wilson had ever said. And a shiny red recorder. Then he departed via helicopter with three girls in tow.)

"Dancsh?"

House sighed. Things were not going his way, tonight. “My leg? Hello?”

“So?”

“Hell.”

The music was slow, and they waltzed together with the oddest dance steps ever seen outside a strip bar. No one noticed, and no one cared, though. (Drunks were drunks, even if they were gay drunks.)

It wasn’t magical, to House, just a series of painful movements for his leg - he hadn’t taken his Vicodin, yet, and if there was any chance of him scoring tonight, he wasn’t going to. (It’s no fun if you can’t feel anything, after all.)

Wilson didn’t notice, and danced with his lampshade hiding his grin. When the song ended, he pushed his ‘shade up, giggled, and kissed House.

It was sloppy, it was alcohol-tainted, it was an opening: House immediately began guiding Wilson off of the dance floor.

“Come with me, Jimmy.”

“’m not Jim – “

“I know. Come on.”

As soon as they were outside and in the cold night air, House kissed Wilson again, hard.

Wilson almost sobered, then didn’t.

“Housh?”

“My place. Come on.”

---

Wilson was bad, horribly drunk bad, but House didn’t care. It was Wilson, the untouchable. He had a lampshade, and House found that kinkable.

---

Wilson swore off drinking in the morning.

---