Run: The Sequel
Characters: House, Wilson
Rating: PG 13 for boykissing
Summary: A lot of readers wanted a sequel. All I can say is, Be careful what you wish for.
Wilson got him into the apartment, propped him against the wall and locked the door behind him.
"So," he said, turning to face House, "where's that jar of Vaseline?"
House appeared not to hear him. Eyes shut, he was humming happily to himself, so Wilson decided to take matters into his own hands. He gripped his friend by the shoulders, pushing him hard into the wall. When House opened his eyes in surprise Wilson leaned in and pressed his lips against his friend's mouth, prying the lips open and thrusting his tongue into his mouth.
After a moment of stunned surprise, House responded. Strongly. He put a hand to Wilson's chest and flung him off him. "What the fuck, Wilson?" he said. "What the hell are you doing?"
He limped into the kitchen and rinsed his mouth out with water, making a disgusted face.
Wilson followed him, looking crushed. "You didn't like that? You haven't been wanting that for years, but suppressing it?" He glanced at House's crotch.
"No, Wilson, I did not want that. And you can stop staring. My erection is not making a tent of my jeans."
"But," sputtered Wilson, "but it always does. In every fic I've ever read. Sometimes it also presses urgently against them."
"What are you thinking? In case you haven't noticed, I go for people who have more cleavage than you do."
"Wait," said Wilson frantically, and he began unbuttoning his shirt. "See, I have nipples."
"Mmm," said House critically, tilting his head for a better view. "Doesn't really count as cleavage. Although you've got more going on than Cameron, that's for damn sure."
"And what's the deal with men having nipples anyway? Why do men have nipples? I've always –"
"But you said, in the car, you said with the Vaseline and the nipples—"
"Oh, Wilson, Wilson, Wilson. That was just subtext."
"What? But what about the crack you made about steam baths, last fall? Remember? 'Why Jimmy!' you said. And waggled your eyebrows at me in that sexy suggestive way. And what about—"
"All subtext." He saw his friend's crestfallen face, the way the tent in his dress pants had gradually collapsed. "Wilson," he continued, not unkindly. "Get a grip. This is Fox TV we're talking about here. All you're ever going to get out of me is subtext. Sorry. I'm just not into…actual text with another guy."
"But you said you were 'game'—those were your very words."
"That was on Inside the Actors Studio. A TV show."
"And what about the way you like to get dragged up? And your friend, what's his name, the one I'm so jealous of. Stephen Fry."
"You've got to stop confusing TV with reality."
Wilson stared glumly at the floor for several minutes. Then he brightened. "Maybe we could move somewhere."
"Why? New Jersey already allows gay marriage. Why would you want to –"
"No. I mean, we could move to cable. Or even NBC. My god, if NBC could do Will and Grace, surely they could--"
"Not going to happen."
"I'll talk to Bryan Singer. He'll understand. I mean, did you see Superman Returns? Maybe he'll get Ang Lee in to direct an episode. We could do Brokeback Hospital. We could have lots and lots of UST, and then it could be resolved! Onscreen. We--"
During this last speech, which had grown more and more frantic, House had gradually propelled Wilson toward the front door. He opened the door, and gently, very gently, pushed Wilson outside.
"Go home, Wilson. Sober up. Tomorrow you won't remember any of this."
"But you're the one who's drunk, not me."
"Pretend, then. Pretend you don't remember any of it." He closed the door in his friend's face, and then leaned against the door with a sigh.
"Damn you, Rupert Murdoch," he said.