deelaundry | Rock Your Body (PG-13)

Title: Rock Your Body
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House-Wilson friendship
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 863
Summary: House knows a lot about Wilson, but he doesn't know everything.
Notes: Spoilers through late Season Six.

The Justin Timberlake song was the first indication.

As House let himself into Wilson’s loft, the tenor’s voice filled the air at decibel levels Wilson had never permitted House to play his music. House was going to give Wilson so much shit for this; Wilson’d know he was bagged and the guilt-shame combo would give Wilson the little hitchy-breath defensive deepening of dimple that never failed to amuse House.

“So go ahead, girl, just do,” urged JT as Wilson came into view, bent over the kitchen island, surrounded by files and paper, pen in hand, obviously working.

Then Wilson just did, and Holy Fucking Crap. This was incredible. Literally. There was no way the sight in front of him was worthy of belief.

“I’m hallucinating again,” House informed Wilson, loudly, to be sure of being heard over the music and the gogging of his eyes.

Wilson immediately spun around. “The Vicodin? Do you want me to call Mayfield?” A remote was in his hand, and the music stopped. “Or is, is it something else? What tests do you want to run?”

House continued, bulldozing over the tinge of panic in Wilson’s voice, “Because the best friend who I’ve watched enough at the urinals to know for a fact is a guy cannot be wearing women’s underwear.”

Wilson’s face morphed from fear to embarrassment-hued anger, and House barely had time to think, Huh, that’s interesting, before the man (alleged) responded to House’s challenge with an indignant: “You look at my penis in the bathroom?”

“You put it on display, what do you expect? And speaking of on display, why are you wearing women’s underwear?”

“It’s not women’s underwear,” Wilson dismissed, and then crossed his arms, the fabric of his gray shirt bunching huffily. “House, I realize your concept of privacy has more in common with cop-show interrogation room mirrors than it does with two-way streets, but there is a commonly held standard--”

Boring, and utterly off point. “Women’s! Underwear! You are wearing!”

Wilson sighed. “It is not women’s underwear, Yoda. It’s men’s underwear with ruffles on it, that I am wearing during my personal, private time in my personal, private home, and thus it is none of your damn business!”

“It’s women’s underwear! Remember me telling you about the Cuddy striptease dream? You’re --”

“Which Cuddy striptease dream? The Yankee stadium one, or the board meeting one, or the Mary Carey conjoined twins one?”

“The point is,” House stressed, not about to admit it was the what-happened-on-that-bus one, because Amber wasn’t a subject they needed to slog their way through again today, and wow, was it Amber who started Wilson on this path? She seemed more the type to put him in pinafores and pigtails, but ruffled panties weren’t far off. “That you’re wearing the same damn thing Cuddy was wearing, minus the bland shapeless shirt. So you are cross-dressing, and you really, really ought to warn a guy.”

Another sigh, this time accompanied by a disgruntled moue. “Personal, private time in personal, private home, and I am not cross-dressing. It’s men’s underwear, shaped for a man’s body, that has ruffles. I like the way they feel.”

“You feel up your ass while you’re feeling up your dick?” House had moved from alarmed and indignant to genuinely confused. This was the weirdest fucking thing Wilson had ever done.

Which was saying a lot.

Shaking his head, Wilson replied, “Not like that. How it feels against my, you know, butt when I’m wearing it.”

“What do you mean, how it feels on your butt? You can’t feel the ruffles from inside the underwear.”

“So you’re saying you’ve worn ruffles?” Wilson’s eyebrow raised challengingly.

He was a rat bastard.

“No, of course not,” House protested. This was so fucking weird. House tromped his way to the couch and took a seat.

Wilson stayed planted by the kitchen island, arms crossed, bare legs and underwear area out of sight now behind the dining room table and chairs. “So you have no experience with it, but you think you know how it works. Typical. It feels good, and that’s why I wear it sometimes. I like the feel of fringe, too, and beaded fabric, and satin garters. Not lace, that shit itches. So. Now you know it all. You may commence mocking.”

House sat for a moment, his mind surprisingly quiet. He couldn’t tell if the thousands of jibes had crushed each other to death in a mad stampede to the exit, or if Wilson’s bald-faced honesty had shocked him into silence. Or, maybe if a guy had cleaned you up after you shit yourself, more than once, and then never whispered a word about it later, maybe you could keep your mouth shut about what said guy had covering his ass now.

Maybe.

OK, stupid inner conscience, shut up; yes, of course definitely.

“Kingdom of the Spiders is on in ten minutes, so why don’t you ditch the boring paperwork and get us some beers.”

“Yeah, OK,” Wilson replied, and tossed House the remote. “Just let me change into some sweats.”

“Please,” House said fervently, but he bet Wilson could hear his smile even from across the room.