Because I couldn't stop myself: House/Plumber fic. Call it Hummer, if you like.
Title: Twice On The Pipe
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Plumber (House/Wilson implied.)
Rating: R
Wordcount: 600
Notes: Dedicated to deelaundry for pushing my anti-fluff buttons. Call it return of the Moody Fic. No beta. Go ahead and gang-bang it. Post-ep for Painless, so assume spoilers.
Summary: It hurts to notice things.
Wilson had gotten a hair-cut.
House noticed it when they passed in the hall way at the hospital. A nicer cut than he’d seen on Wilson in a long time. The kind he used to get when he was married to Julie. Which was annoying. Had he also been wearing one of the good shirts? House couldn’t remember. He hadn’t see Wilson with his jacket off lately.
In fact, he hadn’t had the opportunity to see Wilson at all. He’d become something ephemeral that House saw in passing surrounded by a phalanx of medical students, or in a meeting from which no amount of ribald pages could pry him loose, or just plain not there.
That was the worst, because when Wilson wasn’t there, House had a good idea where he was. The idiot still had Amber as the password to his computer, and the search results from his recent shopping were easy to access. A duck so big it was more likely to cause serious injury than happiness to Cuddy’s trial-balloon baby.
He honestly wished Cuddy happiness with this baby thing, although he knew better than to believe it would happen, but he wished no one any kind pleasure at the expense of his own, especially when it came to Wilson.
This was worse than Amber. Worse than a wife. This was Wilson thinking he was just being a friend, right until he looked at Cuddy over a crib and realized it was something else.
Wilson’s haircut made his leg hurt the more he thought about it, and he had plenty of time to think, as the pain wouldn’t let him sleep. Or the drip. Not Kutner, but the bathtub faucet.
What good was plumbing when it kept letting him down? Or plumbers for that matter? You pay a guy a bribe, everything should work. Even if turned out to be your own damn fault, not that he’d admit that. Must be the famous Princeton fault-line at work, loosening the pipes. The guy had known his stuff though. House had to admire a craftsman, even if he worked in other people’s shit. Maybe they weren’t that different after all.
The hot bath wasn’t working, the pills weren’t working and Wilson had a haircut and was somewhere cooing over Cuddy. Not Cuddy, he reminded himself. The puking, pooping, squirming thing that might touch the part of Wilson that still liked to believe he was Mr. Nice Guy, House’s screaming leg and the equally painful erection that had managed to assert itself while he was in the bath to the contrary.
The best efforts of pain and the Vicodin couldn’t put that flame out, even at the least convenient times. He should take pictures and write it up for a medical journal.
House needed a distraction, preferably in the form of a good blow-job. Wilson was his first choice, always, but he still had his favorite service on speed dial. He reached over the side of the tub for his cell-phone, but his fingers were slippery and instead of VIP he got the answering service of the plumber.
He considered hanging up, but decided to leave a message instead. Urgent. Emergency. Come over. Now. The kind of message that used to produce Wilson in five minutes or a hooker in fifteen. It took the plumber about twenty.
The plumber would cost more than a hooker, a lot more, but he'd helped House solve the case and House was curious to find out what else he could be bribed into doing, especially while Wilson was getting haircuts and buying giant ducks for other people's babies.
House's pipes could definitely use some more attention.
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Plumber (House/Wilson implied.)
Rating: R
Wordcount: 600
Notes: Dedicated to deelaundry for pushing my anti-fluff buttons. Call it return of the Moody Fic. No beta. Go ahead and gang-bang it. Post-ep for Painless, so assume spoilers.
Summary: It hurts to notice things.
Wilson had gotten a hair-cut.
House noticed it when they passed in the hall way at the hospital. A nicer cut than he’d seen on Wilson in a long time. The kind he used to get when he was married to Julie. Which was annoying. Had he also been wearing one of the good shirts? House couldn’t remember. He hadn’t see Wilson with his jacket off lately.
In fact, he hadn’t had the opportunity to see Wilson at all. He’d become something ephemeral that House saw in passing surrounded by a phalanx of medical students, or in a meeting from which no amount of ribald pages could pry him loose, or just plain not there.
That was the worst, because when Wilson wasn’t there, House had a good idea where he was. The idiot still had Amber as the password to his computer, and the search results from his recent shopping were easy to access. A duck so big it was more likely to cause serious injury than happiness to Cuddy’s trial-balloon baby.
He honestly wished Cuddy happiness with this baby thing, although he knew better than to believe it would happen, but he wished no one any kind pleasure at the expense of his own, especially when it came to Wilson.
This was worse than Amber. Worse than a wife. This was Wilson thinking he was just being a friend, right until he looked at Cuddy over a crib and realized it was something else.
Wilson’s haircut made his leg hurt the more he thought about it, and he had plenty of time to think, as the pain wouldn’t let him sleep. Or the drip. Not Kutner, but the bathtub faucet.
What good was plumbing when it kept letting him down? Or plumbers for that matter? You pay a guy a bribe, everything should work. Even if turned out to be your own damn fault, not that he’d admit that. Must be the famous Princeton fault-line at work, loosening the pipes. The guy had known his stuff though. House had to admire a craftsman, even if he worked in other people’s shit. Maybe they weren’t that different after all.
The hot bath wasn’t working, the pills weren’t working and Wilson had a haircut and was somewhere cooing over Cuddy. Not Cuddy, he reminded himself. The puking, pooping, squirming thing that might touch the part of Wilson that still liked to believe he was Mr. Nice Guy, House’s screaming leg and the equally painful erection that had managed to assert itself while he was in the bath to the contrary.
The best efforts of pain and the Vicodin couldn’t put that flame out, even at the least convenient times. He should take pictures and write it up for a medical journal.
House needed a distraction, preferably in the form of a good blow-job. Wilson was his first choice, always, but he still had his favorite service on speed dial. He reached over the side of the tub for his cell-phone, but his fingers were slippery and instead of VIP he got the answering service of the plumber.
He considered hanging up, but decided to leave a message instead. Urgent. Emergency. Come over. Now. The kind of message that used to produce Wilson in five minutes or a hooker in fifteen. It took the plumber about twenty.
The plumber would cost more than a hooker, a lot more, but he'd helped House solve the case and House was curious to find out what else he could be bribed into doing, especially while Wilson was getting haircuts and buying giant ducks for other people's babies.
House's pipes could definitely use some more attention.