deelaundry | The Pier at Caesars (PG)

Posted to house_wilson and housefic

Title: The Pier at Caesars
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House and Wilson
Rating: PG
Words: 1661
Summary: The morning after.
Notes: Set in early 2007 – after the Tritter arc. No spoilers. Dialogue-only. Thank you again to the most marvelous

daisylily for the beta.

House, stop it.

Good morning to you, too, sunshine. I’m not doing anything.

You’re jostling the bed.

All I’m doing is breathing.

You’re jostling the bed and if you don’t stop it, I will throw up on you. I feel like crap.

How did we end up in the same bed?

How do we ever end up in the same bed? You got us plastered on what seemed like dozens of rounds of jello shots.

I had to keep ordering – they kept arriving accompanied by the most gorgeous set of tits I’ve ever seen.

Yes, I recall. Shut up and let me go back to sleep.

Perky and full and round. Melon-like, one could say, if one were inclined toward cliché.

House, seriously, shut up. My head is killing me.

Brace yourself.

What?

I have to pee like a racehorse, so I’m getting out of the bed. This will no doubt involve jostling, so brace yourself.

I’m going to kill you.

Hey, Wilson.

What?

Open your eyes.

No way.

This isn’t our room.

Whose room is it?

Open your eyes.

Wow, overdoing it with the Ancient Rome theme. It’s making me even more nauseated.

The mirror on the ceiling is quite subtle, too. I think this might be a honeymoon suite.

Ergh.

I wonder if this is even the same hotel we were in yesterday. Ah well, off to find the bathroom.

Bring me a glass of water when you come back. And an Advil, if you can find my bag.

Your wish is my command, o hung-over one.

Piss quieter!

You’re the one who’s yelling. There, I feel much better. Our bags don’t seem to be here, so no Advil, but here’s your water.

Ergh, too sick just now. Put it on the nightstand.

Hey, what’s this?

Hm?

This big folder labeled, “The Wedding Chapel at the Pier at Caesars, Atlantic City.” Oh, good, at least we’re in the same city where we started. Do you remember this at all?

No.

You probably got married again – it has been a while.

You were the one flirting with the topless waitress; maybe you got married.

Oh. Looks like we both got married.

There were two topless waitresses?

To each other.

Ha, ha, funny. Go away.

I’m serious. Certificate and everything.

Not possible. There’s a three-day waiting period for a license. And you’re the wrong gender.

You mean you’re the wrong gender. Here’s a note. “Dear Jimmy and Greggy.”

Greggy? That’s not helping the nausea.

“I know it’s not legal (yet!)” – there’s a heart instead of a point in the exclamation mark – “but I was very pleased and proud to perform your wedding ceremony. Come back in a few months after the law is signed, and we’ll make it official. Luv,” – that’s L-U-V – “Reverend Jade Anderson.” Oh, a Christian ceremony; your parents will be so disappointed.

Yeah, that’s what would bother them about this.

You know, you’re a really sloppy kisser when you’re drunk.

Am not. Wait, do you remember this?

Nope, not a trace. But it’s obvious in the picture the Rev enclosed. See? You never tried to give any of your brides that much tongue.

I was warned heavily, all three times, against smearing the bridal makeup. You weren’t wearing makeup, were you?

Doesn’t look like it.

Well, there you have it.

Are you trying to tell me you’re gay?

I’m trying to tell you I had thrice-suppressed wedding-ceremony-makeout desires and probably just forgot you had a penis.

In the picture, you seem to be trying to make it difficult for me to forget that you have a penis.

What?

Tent City. The poor Reverend, having to see such a shameful display of lust.

Give me that picture! It’s the way the fabric drapes, House; that’s all.

Uh huh.

With how much we drank, House, even if you were one of the Golddigger girls from the Dean Martin variety show, I wouldn’t have been, um, firm on that subject.

Dean Martin? What decade are you living in, Gramps?

Shut up. I still feel like crap. Are you sure there’s no Advil?

I’ll check the mini-bar. Nope, only booze and sex toys.

You’re kidding.

Oh, and macadamia nuts.

Don’t take those; they’ll cost a fortune.

Too late. Yum. Ready to order room service for breakfast?

No. Gross. How are you so chipper?

Threw up an hour ago, so my stomach is settled again and good to go. And wonder of wonders, Vicodin works on headaches, too.

Errggh.

So, Wilson, what do we do next?

We go back to sleep.

No can do. If we learned anything at all from Britney Spears’ quickie Vegas wedding, it’s that there’s only limited time to get an annulment. We’d better get cracking, unless you have such fond memories of divorce court that you want to hold out for that.

House. We’re not going to divorce court.

You want to stay married? Oh, darling.

We’re not going to divorce court because this is not an actual marriage.

You wound me. If you didn’t want to be married, why did you drag me to the wedding chapel?

I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have been me doing the dragging. You must have done it as a joke.

We took it pretty far for a joke. Don’t flinch like that; I didn’t mean consummation-wise. We both have rings on our left hands.

Unh.

Mine’s bigger than yours, though.

You always say that; I have yet to see proof.

Are you hitting on me? Well, we are married, so I guess that’s all right. Seriously, open your eyes and check out my ring.

Holy shit, that’s a big diamond.

Bigger than any of your exes got. Oh, Jimmy, you do love me the best, you do!

We’re returning that today. Later, when I can drag my body out of this bed.

You want me to give up this symbol of our eternal love?

I’ll give you half the money I get back.

Done.

We’ll return the rings, throw the papers away, and forget this ever happened. I’m going back to sleep now.

We can’t throw the picture away. Look how good my hair looks in it. My hair never looks that good in photographs.

Fine. Cut me out of the picture and you can keep the rest.

Nothing doing. I’d have to cut out like half of my face too. That’s quite the enthusiasm you had.

I thought it was your hair you were proud of. Your face looks as haggard as always. No loss to cut that out.

That’s rather harsh.

I’m sick; I’m tired; I want to go back to sleep.

So you insult your loving husband? See if you get any tonight.

Oh, no, whatever will I do? Now, shush.

Wilson?

House, stop being so shrill.

That’s not me; that’s your phone. You going to take that call?

That’s the ringtone for a text message, not a call.

You can get text on this thing?

Twenty-first century, House.

Since we’re all married and everything, you won’t mind me reading your message. Gotta make sure you’re not seeing any girlies on the side. Hm, it’s from DOM – ooh, Wilson, you kink-master, you. Oh, it’s DOMLCUD. Cuddy.

Is it about a patient?

Um, no.

What is it?

You know that whole “forgetting it ever happened” thing? Cuddy is replying to a message sent from this phone at 2:15 a.m.

Oh, no.

Don’t blame me; I didn’t even know phones could type. Anyway, Cuddy’s reply says: “Classy photo. It’ll look good in the next hospital newsletter. Mazel tov, just promise me you won’t spawn.” How sweet.

Unnnnhh.

I don’t remember you making this many terrible noises the last time you were hung-over. Is the bloom off our rose already?

House. Shut up.

Are you snappy like this with all your wives?

No.

Are you saying it’s just your husbands that make you this way?

No, it’s just you. Horrible, loud, annoying you. Now let me go to sleep.

You know, I’ve tried to have a pleasant attitude on this, our first morning together as husband and husband. But you’ve been extraordinarily negative toward me and toward even the thought of being married to me. I’m starting to get a complex.

House.

Don’t “House” me. You’re pissing me off.

House. How long did my longest marriage last?

I don’t know; it’s not like I used a stopwatch.

Well, just comparatively, was it anywhere near as long as our friendship has been, even with all the trials that’s been through?

No. You can barely even measure it with the same metric.

There you go.

So you’re saying…

I’m saying actually getting married would be a step backwards for us.

Hm. That’s acceptable to me.

Good. I still feel like hell. Can I go back to sleep now?

Sure. Give me some money, and I’ll go downstairs and try to find you some Advil.

Check my wallet. And thanks.

I love you, Mrs. House.

Get the hell out and leave me alone for at least an hour…Mrs. Wilson.

***

Did Cuddy see you come in here? She’s trying to corner me on some stupid administrative thing, so I’m hiding.

In your office. Clever.

It’s a double fake-out, reverse psychology thing.

Sure. House, what is this on your wall?

Decided to keep the marriage certificate.

Oh, honestly.

I like having it up where I can see it. When I have a bad day, I can look at that and know that even in this cold, cruel world there’s someone who loves me.

Yeah. Or you’ll fantasize that you’re Britney Spears in her fifty-five-hour marriage.

Not Britney, the guy she married. So perfect – bang Britney, and less than three days later, you’re free again.

Supposedly, they never consummated the marriage.

You’re harshing my toke, dude.

Sorry, Mr. Spears.

Go on and get your bad self out of here. Some of us have actual work to do. Kisses, Mrs. House.

I’ll see you at lunch, Mrs. Wilson.

Note: A law to legally establish either marriage or equivalent domestic unions for same-sex couples is actually being worked on now in New Jersey. According to the courts, state legislators have until April 2007 to pass the necessary legislation.

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From:

awwsugah.livejournal.com

It’s a double fake-out, reverse psychology thing.

You made me giggle SO many time with this, Dee! And also, kudos on getting this out so quick-like. My post-ep won't be out till at LEAST two days from now. This was smashing. Great job, as always.

From:

nutty implies a certain level of pizazz I just don't have

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