Duck Tale (1/1)

[heledren.livejournal.com]

Duck Tale

PG-13 for non-graphic naughty goings-on

Disclaimer: If they were mine, they’d be taken away from me for their own good.

Warnings: Pre-infarction era, slight spoilers for 5-22, “House Divided”

A/N: Wilson and House are not Heads at the time of the fic, and I put House in Nephrology, since the Diagnostics Department didn’t exist. I don’t think this flies in the face of any canon, but apologies if it does.  Beta’d to exacting standards by the srsly fabulous srsly_yes.

 

 

 “You are going to love this!” House insisted, his arm firm around Wilson’s shoulders. Wilson was doing his best to dig in his heels, but his tie was tight around his eyes—almost painfully so. Without sight, his balance was skewed, and it was all he could do to keep upright and keep pace with his enthused friend.

 “House, I said not to go all out for this—Jesus, what is that smell?” Wilson nearly gagged as the pervading aroma of the cool evening air took a distinct turn for the worse.

 He could hear the hidden smile in House’s disapproving tone. “Aw, Wilson, I think you stepped in the scenery.” There was a drawn-out creaking sound, and Wilson rocked back against House’s shoulder as his ears were assaulted by a cheer and a blast of music.

 “Here’s the luckiest guy on the planet, folks!” House whooped into his ear as Wilson ripped off his blindfold. He stared in bewilderment as his co-workers and friends jostled around him, plying him with best wishes, drinks and bawdy jokes. It was obvious that the bartender occupying the far corner hadn’t waited for the guest of honour to arrive.

 Wilson grinned and pumped hands, and even took the plastic pitchfork that was offered to him, and then the majority of the crowd dispersed, heading for the bar or the knots of strippers in—of all things—cowboy boots.

 “Do I know how to throw a party or what?” crowed House, plunking a cowboy hat onto Wilson’s head. He already sported one himself, somehow looking at home in it as though he were born on the range. Wilson doubted that the hat looked as well on him as it did on the grinning nephrologist. 

 Wilson gritted his teeth and grabbed a shot from a passing tray. “House, why in god’s name is my bachelor party in a barn?”

 House raised his brows in surprise and affected a country accent. “Why, a nod to your blushing bride, o’ course! Didn’t Billie come from the farm? Fresh from the pristine countryside of… what state again?”

 Wilson flushed angrily. “Bonnie is from Pennsylvania, House. From Philadelphia.”

 House waved petty details aside and handed Wilson a vodka shot. “Whatever. The place was cheap to rent, and the guy who owns it even knocked off the cost of the animals for the price of an invite.” He pointed to an unfamiliar man gyrating wildly with a pair of strippers across the room. “Farmer Joe says mazel tov.”

 Wilson strained his eyes through the flashing lights and the gloom, and spotted a few cows and a donkey tethered in dim recesses along the far wall. He turned to House and—

 Found himself confronted by a pair of breasts. Really, really great breasts.

 “Meet Karamel,” grinned House.

 “How do you like the party?” said the breasts.

 “Animals… cowboys…” Wilson found himself explaining, before he managed to shut his mouth. His gaze traveled up to meet her eyes. He was moderately relieved that the breasts came with a pair of eyes.

 “I like animals. I have a cat,” smiled Karamel, “and I love cowboys.”

 Well, Wilson reflected, it was a pretty cool theme.

 Later, with Karamel gone to freshen up, Wilson found himself back at House’s side, in an ill-lit corner away from the dancing. House was watching two strippers getting friendly with great interest. He took in Wilson’s appearance with relish. A satisfied smirk curled around one half of his mouth.

 “So, it’s a party after all, Jimmy. Your fly is down.”

 Wilson grinned guiltily at House. “Well, it is my party, isn’t it?”

 House raised his hands in acquiescence. “Sure is, Jimmy. I got you something. Wait one sec.” 

 He strode away through the crowd, not hesitating to move several drunk oncologists from his path with firm pushes.

 That’s my House. Pushy, pushy, pushy, thought Wilson mushily before House returned, hands behind his back.

 “Close your eyes, Jimmy, and put out your hands.”

 Wilson complied, any hesitation swept away in a tide of hazy good-feeling.

 “It reminded me of you. Brown, bewildered, and kosher when properly prepared.” 

 Something silky and surprising warm was placed in his hands, and Wilson looked in startled incomprehension.

 Brown eyes met beady eyes.

 A wave of wild terror shot through Wilson, turning his blood hot and cold. A yell echoed around the room, drowning out even the thumping base. All eyes turned to them, and the DJ swung around a light to illuminate the source of the noise. Wilson, unaware, flung the duck as hard as he could away from him, and then let out a second high-pitched scream of alarm as the creature fluttered up to avoid the floor. 

 A shocked moment passed, and House started to laugh. One or two of Wilson’s co-workers joined in, and then the majority of the party-goers were rocking with laughter, leaning drunkenly on each other.

 Wilson stared at House, seething, and grabbed for a fake pitchfork that was leaning against the wall.

 “You bastard!” he howled, and brought the toy down across House’s shin.

 Cllllaaaaaannnnggg!

 Not a toy, after all. Wilson dropped the pitchfork in remorse and fell to his knees beside House. Several strippers rushed to House’s side, and one seized Wilson by the shoulder and dealt him a blow that would stun a mule. He saw white stars and put a hand to his nose incredulously. When he looked at his fingers, they were stained red.

 An ambulance run and a couple of quick patch jobs later, Wilson and House sat in the lobby of PPTH.

 House fiddled with the shiny metal cane that was his for the next couple of months.

 “I can’t believe you fractured my shin over a duck. Seriously, who the hell has a phobia about ducks?”

 Wilson glared at House over the large white bandage that held his nose in place. “Fug you, Houshe. Cribble.”

 “Huh. I’m a cripple for a couple of months. Your pretty face may never be the same. You’ll have to resort to oncology to bring in the money from now on.”

 House scratched around the top of his cast contemplatively, and glanced sideways at his bandage-swathed friend.

 “Still,” he said with a smile, “what a party, eh?”

 Wilson brought a hand up to pinch at his nose in a characteristic gesture, but found himself gingerly prodding at his face instead.

 “Las’ dibe you eber throw be a barty,” he grumbled.

 House chuckled, “It had better be.  Remember, you’re getting married in the morning!”

 Wilson groaned and slunk further into his seat.