House-fics, Nick/Greg-ness, and Renee

Nov 30, 2005 09:19

Renee is a freelance costume designer. She works for all those production houses and design beautiful clothes for stages and stuff. She used to work for some high-flying designer once -- not the calibre of D&G or anything, but respected enough.

We were waiting for my therapist when she said something about House/Wilson AU. "Can you imagine what it'd be like for House and Wilson, if they were designers instead of doctors?"

Or, she asked again, what if Greg was a designer and Nick played the uptight, bland accountant of his.

Much craziness, I suppose. Bad!fic insanity, that's for sure.



"You're not ready," James accused. House hated, absolutely hated it, when Wilson barged into his office like that. Especially when he's watching a Coco Chanel documentary.

"Good morning to you too."

"We're leaving in half an hour."

"I know."

"You're not ready."

"You're repeating yourself," House said, waving his hand so that Wilson would move away from his line of vision.

"House."

"Wilson."

"House." Wilson and his annoyingly tenancious streak, House groused inwardly. He tried to suppress a growl when Wilson pressed the off button on the television.

There was silence, and a black screen, and a scowling Wilson. House didn't like this one bit. "This is exactly why Versace got shot. You do know that, don't you?"

"Wrong fashion history," Wilson chuckled as he maneouvered House out of his chair and pressed the cane into House's hand. "Let's go."

"Fuck Milan," House grumbled.

"You can't afford to fuck Milan."



Most of his designer-friends and fellow businessmen (and women, Greg reminded himself) bristled at the thought of a yearly audit. They obviously didn't have a certain Mr Stokes as their auditor. The same Mr Stokes (Nicholas, Nick, Nicky) who was busy poring through his accounts. He could hear that cluck of distress with every turn of a page. Greg knew what would come next.

"Mr Sanders. Your accounting is a mess," Mr Stokes frowned in mild disgust.

"I'm a busy person. I don't do accounting."

"Then you should find someone who does." How about you? Would you like to be my accountant? Greg wanted to ask, but kept his silence. My oh my oh my. Greg stalked towards his suit closet instead. "And you need to find someone who can dress you." Greg didn't bother trying to suppress a smile as Mr Stokes's frown deepen.

"There's nothing wrong with my suit," Mr Stokes begged to differ, his hand running unconsciously over the buttons of his suit.

"Of course, of course," Greg was already half-way buried in suit closet. "There's nothing wrong with it, if you're auditing a funeral parlor. But, you're auditing a fashion house, Mr Stokes. Dress appropriately."

Greg emerged with a suit in his hand, which promptly caused a mewl to escape from a visibly cringing auditor.

"I'm here to audit your accounts, Mr Sanders, not jump on your catwalk."

"I wouldn't know," Greg shrugged.

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