Stylish
Title: Stylish (#80 from Mother Told Me I Wasn't Jesus Christ expanded)
Rating: PG
Pairings: House/Wilson
Warnings: none
Story:
For the first time in nearly thirty years, Wilson feels the need to delve deep into his dusty Jewish roots and exclaim, Oy, vey. When he agreed to let his grandmother take him shopping, he hadn’t known House would be coming, as well. How did House even know his grandmother? And why would such a sweet, soft-spoken woman nearing the age of ninety want to spend time with him?
“I think she thinks we’re lovers,” House murmurs to him while he watches Wilson’s grandmother looking strangely at them over a selection of purses she’s pretending to be interested in.
Wilson feels the back of his neck turn red, and when he tries to meet his grandmother’s gaze, he notices she looks away quickly. He’s suddenly curious at how open-minded she’s trying to act. “Why would she think that?” Wilson asks, turning to see House beaming demonically at him.
“I told her.”
Wilson wheels around. His first instinct is to shout, are you kidding me? but he realizes this is a stupid question to ask, because he knows House isn’t kidding at all. “Why would you tell her that?” he asks instead, although he knows this question will end up just as fruitless.
“I’m sorry, darling; I thought you said you wanted to be more open with our relationship,” House says rather loudly, feigning regret. Wilson rolls his eyes and looks over his shoulder to see his grandmother looking very intently at a large black bag, her face prominently red.
“House,” Wilson says in a forewarning whisper, “the woman is eighty-seven years old. She has a weak heart-I don’t think she can take the idea that her favourite grandson has switched teams for his jackass of a best friend who is about a decade older than he is.”
House scoffed. “You’re only seven years younger than me. Don’t flatter yourself.” After a moment, he asks, “Self-proclaimed favourite of your grandmother’s? That’s so modest of you.”
“It’s not self-proclaimed!” Wilson insists, feeling instantly more foolish than if he wouldn’t have said anything, “and don’t talk so loudly, House, people are staring at you.”
“They’re staring at us, snookums,” House says, looking smugly amused. "They’re looking to report a domestic disturbance case. Either that, or they’re trying to decide which one plays the man in bed.” He grins wickedly and starts hobbling forward, and Wilson realizes his grandmother is moving away from the purses, traveling farther into Macy’s.
“House!” Wilson snaps, and House turns around, looking falsely dejected. Wilson almost feels guilty, and when he looks to see the slightly disapproving look his grandmother is giving him, his embarrassment causes him to lower his tone. “House…” he repeats, but he can’t remember what he had wanted to say.
“What is it, love muffin?” House leers, and Wilson blinks, raising an eyebrow.
“House, shut up.” Ah yes; that’s it. “Is that why you wanted to come along? To embarrass me in front of my grandmother? Your level of maturity astounds me.” House smirks in response and looks over at Mrs. Wilson, who is trying very hard not to stare.
“I dunno if she’s really buying it,” House says, sounding almost disappointed. “Think she wants us to kiss and prove it?” he asks almost conversationally, turning back to sneer at Wilson. Wilson feels his neck turn red. He splutters indignantly, but it takes him a few moments to form words.
“Prove what? House-,” suddenly, House is too close, and Wilson falters in his speech.
“Jimmy, love, you’re blushing,” House teases gruesomely, the grin on his face so disturbingly wide that he looks as if he one-upped the cat who ate the canary. “Is there something you want to say?” Wilson reestablishes himself and places his hands on his hips.
“House, grow up. You’re acting like a child,” he pauses, and then adds under his breath, “a demented child.”
“You know, in that pose, you’re making it obvious to all these strangers which one of us is the woman,” House warns, his wicked smile still plastered on his face. Wilson drops his arms automatically. He glances over at a group of giggling teenage girls about six feet away, one of them flicking her wrist back to mime the cracking of a whip. He has to bite back his tongue before shouting, ‘I’m not his bitch!’ He looks back at House to see he finds the same display highly amusing. “See?”
“Oh, shut up.” Wilson snaps, wanting to say something harsher, but unable to bring himself to swear in front of his grandmother, who is now walking towards them with a scarf in each hand, both of the same style, one sky blue and one seafoam green. House points at the green one as if he has any idea of fashion, and Wilson’s grandmother grins at him a bit too widely.
“You two aren’t fighting, are you?” she asks in a suspicious tone. Her focus is on Wilson as she speaks, as if she can't believe House to be the one to ever start an argument. House beams at her and snakes an arm around Wilson’s waist. Wilson is unaccustomed to the touch and has to will himself not to jump out of his shoes. House seems to sense this, and pulls him close to spite him.
“Of course not, Esther,” House assures all-too-sweetly, and Wilson doesn’t hide his surprised reaction to House knowing his grandmother’s name. “We never fight.” Wilson laughs out loud at that, but it is cut short by the feel of House’s lips on his temple. “Right, Jimmy?”
Wilson’s eyes widen and a few of his higher brain functions seem to slow down. By the time he’s able to respond, he’s forgotten what he had been asked. “Er…right,” he finally mumbles, noticing his grandmother looks a little too pleased with what she just witnessed. Wilson’s eyes dart to where the teenage girls had been standing earlier, and he’s thankful to find that they’re gone.
Esther walks away to place the sky blue scarf back on its hook, and House waits for her back to turn before he let his hand slide to smack Wilson lightly on the ass. Wilson reacts with a yelp loud enough to make his grandmother turn back around curiously for a moment. “C’mon, Jimbo,” House purrs in Wilson’s ear, making Wilson feel his neck get hot again. House pushes gently on the small of his back, leading him after his grandmother. “Let’s get you something with actual style, or no one will believe you’re gay.”
Rating: PG
Pairings: House/Wilson
Warnings: none
Story:
For the first time in nearly thirty years, Wilson feels the need to delve deep into his dusty Jewish roots and exclaim, Oy, vey. When he agreed to let his grandmother take him shopping, he hadn’t known House would be coming, as well. How did House even know his grandmother? And why would such a sweet, soft-spoken woman nearing the age of ninety want to spend time with him?
“I think she thinks we’re lovers,” House murmurs to him while he watches Wilson’s grandmother looking strangely at them over a selection of purses she’s pretending to be interested in.
Wilson feels the back of his neck turn red, and when he tries to meet his grandmother’s gaze, he notices she looks away quickly. He’s suddenly curious at how open-minded she’s trying to act. “Why would she think that?” Wilson asks, turning to see House beaming demonically at him.
“I told her.”
Wilson wheels around. His first instinct is to shout, are you kidding me? but he realizes this is a stupid question to ask, because he knows House isn’t kidding at all. “Why would you tell her that?” he asks instead, although he knows this question will end up just as fruitless.
“I’m sorry, darling; I thought you said you wanted to be more open with our relationship,” House says rather loudly, feigning regret. Wilson rolls his eyes and looks over his shoulder to see his grandmother looking very intently at a large black bag, her face prominently red.
“House,” Wilson says in a forewarning whisper, “the woman is eighty-seven years old. She has a weak heart-I don’t think she can take the idea that her favourite grandson has switched teams for his jackass of a best friend who is about a decade older than he is.”
House scoffed. “You’re only seven years younger than me. Don’t flatter yourself.” After a moment, he asks, “Self-proclaimed favourite of your grandmother’s? That’s so modest of you.”
“It’s not self-proclaimed!” Wilson insists, feeling instantly more foolish than if he wouldn’t have said anything, “and don’t talk so loudly, House, people are staring at you.”
“They’re staring at us, snookums,” House says, looking smugly amused. "They’re looking to report a domestic disturbance case. Either that, or they’re trying to decide which one plays the man in bed.” He grins wickedly and starts hobbling forward, and Wilson realizes his grandmother is moving away from the purses, traveling farther into Macy’s.
“House!” Wilson snaps, and House turns around, looking falsely dejected. Wilson almost feels guilty, and when he looks to see the slightly disapproving look his grandmother is giving him, his embarrassment causes him to lower his tone. “House…” he repeats, but he can’t remember what he had wanted to say.
“What is it, love muffin?” House leers, and Wilson blinks, raising an eyebrow.
“House, shut up.” Ah yes; that’s it. “Is that why you wanted to come along? To embarrass me in front of my grandmother? Your level of maturity astounds me.” House smirks in response and looks over at Mrs. Wilson, who is trying very hard not to stare.
“I dunno if she’s really buying it,” House says, sounding almost disappointed. “Think she wants us to kiss and prove it?” he asks almost conversationally, turning back to sneer at Wilson. Wilson feels his neck turn red. He splutters indignantly, but it takes him a few moments to form words.
“Prove what? House-,” suddenly, House is too close, and Wilson falters in his speech.
“Jimmy, love, you’re blushing,” House teases gruesomely, the grin on his face so disturbingly wide that he looks as if he one-upped the cat who ate the canary. “Is there something you want to say?” Wilson reestablishes himself and places his hands on his hips.
“House, grow up. You’re acting like a child,” he pauses, and then adds under his breath, “a demented child.”
“You know, in that pose, you’re making it obvious to all these strangers which one of us is the woman,” House warns, his wicked smile still plastered on his face. Wilson drops his arms automatically. He glances over at a group of giggling teenage girls about six feet away, one of them flicking her wrist back to mime the cracking of a whip. He has to bite back his tongue before shouting, ‘I’m not his bitch!’ He looks back at House to see he finds the same display highly amusing. “See?”
“Oh, shut up.” Wilson snaps, wanting to say something harsher, but unable to bring himself to swear in front of his grandmother, who is now walking towards them with a scarf in each hand, both of the same style, one sky blue and one seafoam green. House points at the green one as if he has any idea of fashion, and Wilson’s grandmother grins at him a bit too widely.
“You two aren’t fighting, are you?” she asks in a suspicious tone. Her focus is on Wilson as she speaks, as if she can't believe House to be the one to ever start an argument. House beams at her and snakes an arm around Wilson’s waist. Wilson is unaccustomed to the touch and has to will himself not to jump out of his shoes. House seems to sense this, and pulls him close to spite him.
“Of course not, Esther,” House assures all-too-sweetly, and Wilson doesn’t hide his surprised reaction to House knowing his grandmother’s name. “We never fight.” Wilson laughs out loud at that, but it is cut short by the feel of House’s lips on his temple. “Right, Jimmy?”
Wilson’s eyes widen and a few of his higher brain functions seem to slow down. By the time he’s able to respond, he’s forgotten what he had been asked. “Er…right,” he finally mumbles, noticing his grandmother looks a little too pleased with what she just witnessed. Wilson’s eyes dart to where the teenage girls had been standing earlier, and he’s thankful to find that they’re gone.
Esther walks away to place the sky blue scarf back on its hook, and House waits for her back to turn before he let his hand slide to smack Wilson lightly on the ass. Wilson reacts with a yelp loud enough to make his grandmother turn back around curiously for a moment. “C’mon, Jimbo,” House purrs in Wilson’s ear, making Wilson feel his neck get hot again. House pushes gently on the small of his back, leading him after his grandmother. “Let’s get you something with actual style, or no one will believe you’re gay.”