Ficlet and artwork
Title: If
Author: Fayding_fast
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 873
Warning: Slashy undertones
Spoilers: Yes, for season 3
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: I find it interesting that Wilson is very clearly head over heels in love with House and yet, he often tells Cuddy that she should treat House like a six year old. Very interesting.
How was it, Wilson wondered, with a hint of amused exasperation, that House could spin him around so easily?
One moment, he'd been stalking to Diagnostics, intending to wrench the jerk's head from his shoulders, and the next, there he was, planning a fun packed party for two..... nudity electrifyingly optional..... blithely presupposing that House would quite happily go along with it!
Yeah, he should be so lucky.
So. Clearly, something had gone wrong.
Unobtrusively watching his friend lean on the balcony wall, Wilson refused to shoulder all of the blame. Well, any of it, really.
House was out there modeling the best fitting jeans known to man. Or perhaps the guy had rolled out of bed that morning and decided to spray paint them on. Wilson wasn't sure, but anyway, they clung, they hugged, they molded to his body like a second skin and in all fairness, Wilson was only human. Smitten and pathetic but, still, a human nonetheless.
He had the red blood, drenched with hormones now, to prove it.
Wilson fidgeted in House's conference room, restless and yearning. He turned to look furtively behind him, grateful that the fellows weren't around to catch him drooling over their boss like some besotted Juliet. He'd be forced to swim amongst the fishes to unearth his lothario reputation.
As if it wasn't, even then, in tatters.
Stories were already flying around the hospital about a couple experimenting with bestiality on their honeymoon. Okay, the names might have been changed to prevent the odd law suit, but he knew only too well, that the rumors had to be about him. And he knew who to blame. Wilson scowled. Tell House something in confidence, and the guy would first twist the truth into something farcical and crude, then he'd scurry over to the nearest crowd of gossips, gleefully brandishing a megaphone.
His best friend was a bastard. Wasn't he blessed?
Helplessly, Wilson stared at House again, drinking in the long, lean lines of him. Wilson had to concede that the guy was a hot bastard. And the sexiness was so effortless! That was the annoying thing! He sighed in frustration. He supposed that was why he made so many allowances. He'd been attracted to House from the very first moment they'd met, and he'd probably still be lusting after him well into his eighties, when all his joints were twisted and sore from arthritis, and he had dozens of snail like trails of drool plastered all over his chin!
But for now, they were both, relatively speaking, quite young.
His smoldering gaze panned up House slowly, hungry and assessing, and although he was well aware that House could turn at any moment, preternaturally alerted to his presence, still, he stood transfixed in place, reluctant to step forwards and unable to step back.
James Wilson was walking a very reckless line.
Eventually, however, as it had to, his common sense prevailed. He mentally slapped himself. Nice as it would have been to just remain there and happily fantasize about House all day, he was virtually begging to be caught. He snorted back a laugh. From Norman Bates to stalker in the fraction of a heartbeat. No-one could accuse him of not being on a roll.
He spun on his heel ready to leave. Ruefully, he glanced, just one more time, in his friend's direction.
House leaned further over the wall, jeans pulling, disturbingly, even tighter across thighs and hips and ass, and he looked so aggravatingly beddable, that Wilson was snagged, yet again.
Desire seared the back of his throat. He stiffled a groan. Boy, the man was hardly playing fair, and just as he'd been about to make his escape, too! If he had ever married House, he certainly wouldn't have been looking for puppies or kittens on his honeymoon, that was for damned sure.
His imagination kicked, unhelpfully, into overdrive. And he was lost once more - pinned willingly up against a wall. Or panting and writhing face-down on his bed. Both men were where they were meant to be. He had dreamt about this so many times.
Dark lashes lowered, curtaining off bright eyes. The desire to join House on the balcony and make an advance was hot and sharp, and, no doubt, complete madness, but he was so, so tempted.
What would actually happen if he confidently strode out there, gently eased in behind House's body and then dared to embrace him? Would House push him away in annoyance, or would the man invitingly press back? Which way would it go? What would his infuriating, unpredictable friend do?
The thing was, he was fairly certain that House felt the same way. How often had House gazed at him - his eyes full of surprising tenderness or - and this was worse - speculation? Sometimes the eye fucking just seemed to go on and on until he wanted to beat his fists against his own forehead in sheer frustration. Because..... God! They were supposed to be grown men! They weren't a couple of body-shy vestal virgins! Why couldn't one of them just summon up the required courage to make the first move?
The slim possibility that House might actually welcome an advance blazed there, teasingly in his mind, and so help him, if that didn't inflame him further. In fact, it obliterated every other rational thought.
Wilson opened his eyes. He stepped forward with single-minded purpose, gaze determined, shoulders braced - willing, in that insanity flecked moment, to jeopardize everything. Just for clarity. Because he had to know.
A woman's shriek echoed up from the courtyard, and he stopped, startled, just as House jerked away from the wall.
House whirled, eyes mischievous, water pistol clutched in his hand, as exuberant and wayward as the most exasperating child. He finally noticed Wilson and grinned over at him.
Wilson was sure that he'd been dowsed with an unwelcome shock of icy water himself. He gulped in a shuddering breath and stared in unfeigned dismay at his friend. He was suddenly appalled at what he'd been about to do.
House mistook his friend's shame for sorrow. "Jesus, Wilson," he drawled, chancing a quick look over the balcony to revel in his victim's delightful indignation, below. He glanced back over one casually shrugged shoulder. "Who burst your bubble?"
Author: Fayding_fast
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Wordcount: 873
Warning: Slashy undertones
Spoilers: Yes, for season 3
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: I find it interesting that Wilson is very clearly head over heels in love with House and yet, he often tells Cuddy that she should treat House like a six year old. Very interesting.
How was it, Wilson wondered, with a hint of amused exasperation, that House could spin him around so easily?
One moment, he'd been stalking to Diagnostics, intending to wrench the jerk's head from his shoulders, and the next, there he was, planning a fun packed party for two..... nudity electrifyingly optional..... blithely presupposing that House would quite happily go along with it!
Yeah, he should be so lucky.
So. Clearly, something had gone wrong.
Unobtrusively watching his friend lean on the balcony wall, Wilson refused to shoulder all of the blame. Well, any of it, really.
House was out there modeling the best fitting jeans known to man. Or perhaps the guy had rolled out of bed that morning and decided to spray paint them on. Wilson wasn't sure, but anyway, they clung, they hugged, they molded to his body like a second skin and in all fairness, Wilson was only human. Smitten and pathetic but, still, a human nonetheless.
He had the red blood, drenched with hormones now, to prove it.
Wilson fidgeted in House's conference room, restless and yearning. He turned to look furtively behind him, grateful that the fellows weren't around to catch him drooling over their boss like some besotted Juliet. He'd be forced to swim amongst the fishes to unearth his lothario reputation.
As if it wasn't, even then, in tatters.
Stories were already flying around the hospital about a couple experimenting with bestiality on their honeymoon. Okay, the names might have been changed to prevent the odd law suit, but he knew only too well, that the rumors had to be about him. And he knew who to blame. Wilson scowled. Tell House something in confidence, and the guy would first twist the truth into something farcical and crude, then he'd scurry over to the nearest crowd of gossips, gleefully brandishing a megaphone.
His best friend was a bastard. Wasn't he blessed?
Helplessly, Wilson stared at House again, drinking in the long, lean lines of him. Wilson had to concede that the guy was a hot bastard. And the sexiness was so effortless! That was the annoying thing! He sighed in frustration. He supposed that was why he made so many allowances. He'd been attracted to House from the very first moment they'd met, and he'd probably still be lusting after him well into his eighties, when all his joints were twisted and sore from arthritis, and he had dozens of snail like trails of drool plastered all over his chin!
But for now, they were both, relatively speaking, quite young.
His smoldering gaze panned up House slowly, hungry and assessing, and although he was well aware that House could turn at any moment, preternaturally alerted to his presence, still, he stood transfixed in place, reluctant to step forwards and unable to step back.
James Wilson was walking a very reckless line.
Eventually, however, as it had to, his common sense prevailed. He mentally slapped himself. Nice as it would have been to just remain there and happily fantasize about House all day, he was virtually begging to be caught. He snorted back a laugh. From Norman Bates to stalker in the fraction of a heartbeat. No-one could accuse him of not being on a roll.
He spun on his heel ready to leave. Ruefully, he glanced, just one more time, in his friend's direction.
House leaned further over the wall, jeans pulling, disturbingly, even tighter across thighs and hips and ass, and he looked so aggravatingly beddable, that Wilson was snagged, yet again.
Desire seared the back of his throat. He stiffled a groan. Boy, the man was hardly playing fair, and just as he'd been about to make his escape, too! If he had ever married House, he certainly wouldn't have been looking for puppies or kittens on his honeymoon, that was for damned sure.
His imagination kicked, unhelpfully, into overdrive. And he was lost once more - pinned willingly up against a wall. Or panting and writhing face-down on his bed. Both men were where they were meant to be. He had dreamt about this so many times.
Dark lashes lowered, curtaining off bright eyes. The desire to join House on the balcony and make an advance was hot and sharp, and, no doubt, complete madness, but he was so, so tempted.
What would actually happen if he confidently strode out there, gently eased in behind House's body and then dared to embrace him? Would House push him away in annoyance, or would the man invitingly press back? Which way would it go? What would his infuriating, unpredictable friend do?
The thing was, he was fairly certain that House felt the same way. How often had House gazed at him - his eyes full of surprising tenderness or - and this was worse - speculation? Sometimes the eye fucking just seemed to go on and on until he wanted to beat his fists against his own forehead in sheer frustration. Because..... God! They were supposed to be grown men! They weren't a couple of body-shy vestal virgins! Why couldn't one of them just summon up the required courage to make the first move?
The slim possibility that House might actually welcome an advance blazed there, teasingly in his mind, and so help him, if that didn't inflame him further. In fact, it obliterated every other rational thought.
Wilson opened his eyes. He stepped forward with single-minded purpose, gaze determined, shoulders braced - willing, in that insanity flecked moment, to jeopardize everything. Just for clarity. Because he had to know.
A woman's shriek echoed up from the courtyard, and he stopped, startled, just as House jerked away from the wall.
House whirled, eyes mischievous, water pistol clutched in his hand, as exuberant and wayward as the most exasperating child. He finally noticed Wilson and grinned over at him.
Wilson was sure that he'd been dowsed with an unwelcome shock of icy water himself. He gulped in a shuddering breath and stared in unfeigned dismay at his friend. He was suddenly appalled at what he'd been about to do.
House mistook his friend's shame for sorrow. "Jesus, Wilson," he drawled, chancing a quick look over the balcony to revel in his victim's delightful indignation, below. He glanced back over one casually shrugged shoulder. "Who burst your bubble?"