misery loves company (and the gary marshall film)
Spoilers: Set somewhere in between "Hunting" and "Sex Kills"
Word Count: 1,224
Summary: Wilson's wife troubles drive him to an evening on House's couch. Featuring Goldie Hawn flicks, Steve McQueen, and much homoerotic banter.
Author's Note: This just cements that I'm doomed to really, really love this show until the end of time, doesn't it? Although, well, who didn't see that coming, honestly. And at least I wrote something. I was starting to doubt I was actually capable of doing that anymore.
Outside, it's raining. Inside, they're sitting on the couch thoroughly immersed in a TNT showing of Overboard. Again. It's hard to decide which of the two is more depressing. Either way, Wilson feels like crap.
"Is this ever going to work out for me?" he mutters, not entirely meaning to.
"No," House answers bluntly, and doesn't bother to tear his eyes away from the TV screen. Which is understandable – Wilson gets how the zany Goldie Hawn vs. Household Objects montage is far more important than his third probably-doomed marriage in a row.
"Right," Wilson says, scowling, and takes a swig from his near-empty beer. He's had just enough to drink to be reminded that alcohol is, in fact, a depressant. And that life tends to suck. "I should've known I could count on you to be supportive."
"It will never work out for you," House says, infuriatingly wise, even more infuriatingly aware of it, and still mesmerized by Goldie's very bubbly battle with the washing machine, "because you don't want it to work out for you."
"Of course I don't," Wilson agrees sarcastically. "I just keep getting married to pass the time."
House shrugs. "Ehh, who doesn't love a good excuse to ask that immortal question?"
Wilson stares blankly over at him.
"'Chicken or fish'?" House supplies, making a 'duh' face as he finally looks away from the TV screen. "Jeez. Remind me again why I waste most of my sterling wit on you."
"Because you're such a good friend," Wilson deadpans.
"BFF's, buddy," House says, and holds out his fist. Wilson rolls his eyes and bumps his knuckles against it. "Point is, you keep getting married because you like to be needed by the poor little saps just waiting for Prince Charming, with his floppy hair and his oncology degree. Then, they get better, and you get bored."
"I do not get bored with my wives," Wilson protests, and decides that it's probably best to argue the floppy hair point at another time.
"Sure you don't," House says, not bothering to even attempt to sound convinced. His eyes wander back over to the television.
"I don't!" Wilson insists.
It's enough to get House to look at him again, at least. Even if it is skeptically. "Then why are you here?"
"Because she's mad at me," Wilson reminds him, exasperated. "You don't think I'd rather be spending the evening with my wife?"
House just stares at him. There's silence, save for the manic banjo music pouring from the TV and the manic squeaking from the wheel in Steve's cage. Pathetically, it's a completely unnerving combination, which House probably realizes and is choosing to use to his full advantage.
"Okay," Wilson relents with a sigh. "I wouldn't rather be spending the evening with my wife. Which is profoundly depressing, by the way."
"Well, I've got beer," House says, shrugging. "It's understandable. She off that health kick yet?"
"I should just marry you," Wilson grumbles. "It seems like I always wind up spending more time cuddling on the couch with you, anyway. Except, you know, the cuddling," he adds. Unnecessarily, but still.
"Is that really how you pop the question?" House asks critically.
"Yeah, yeah," Wilson says. "Mock away."
"I'm not mocking," House protests innocently. "I'm just saying. It lacks sensitivity."
"Well, the next time that I don't propose to you, I'll keep that in mind," Wilson scowls.
House remains quietly thoughtful for a couple seconds before musing aloud, "Steve would have two daddies." He glances over at Wilson. "You think he could handle it?"
Wilson holds back a smile.
"I think he could take it," he responds lightly. "He seems pretty open-minded about that kind of stuff."
"Tell me about it," House says with a short laugh. "Don't think I haven't caught him watching Queer as Folk more than once."
"Oh my." Not smiling keeps getting more and more inconveniently difficult.
"He says he just respects Hal Sparks's acting ability—"
"Who doesn't?" Wilson allows, smirking. Smirking's not quite smiling, after all.
"—but I know he's secretly all about that dude-on-dude action." House finishes, rapping a fingertip – dare Wilson think it – affectionately against the cage. Fine. He's smiling. "Aren't you, Steve? You filthy rat."
"Yeah," Wilson decides, "Maybe I should just move in so he doesn't have to deal with you solo."
"Please," House scoffs. "He adores me."
Wilson raises his eyebrows. "That's possible?"
"Har dee har," House deadpans. "That'd hold a lot more weight if you weren't currently ditching your wife to hang out with me."
"I'm not ditching her," Wilson protests. "We both just needed some space. That's all." And, just because that alone doesn't seem like enough all of a sudden— "It'll be fine."
House is unconvinced. Big surprise. "What happened to 'is this ever going to work out for me'?"
"A moment of melodramatic weakness," Wilson retorts. "Not that you'd understand those, of course."
"Well," House says, "Steve and the couch will be waiting for you."
"The couch," Wilson repeats flatly. "I'm theoretically leaving my wife to marry you, and I'm still stuck on the couch? Sorry, that's not gonna cut it."
"You want to be in the bed," House realizes, with the grim expression that usually accompanies staring down the whiteboard.
"I want to be in the bed," Wilson confirms gravely.
"Well," House says, considering. "You'll have to work your way there with lots and lots of sexual favors."
"That doesn't sound like the healthiest marriage," Wilson points out.
"How 'bout if there's counseling after the sexual favors?" House suggests.
"Oh, much better," Wilson says, and downs the last of his beer.
"A man's got needs, Jimmy old boy," House announces grimly. "Not all of us get our kicks from weeping tenderly, Sarah McLachlan serenading us in the background, as we realize that – hey, this isn't just sex; it's making love. Tear," he adds, and wipes an imaginary one from his eye.
"You sure seem to know a lot about it, for someone who's 'got needs,'" Wilson reminds him.
"Ahh, you caught me," House says, snapping his fingers. "Let's fumble towards ecstasy. You bring the emotional significance, I'll bring the Cool Whip."
"Sounds like a plan," Wilson agrees sardonically, figuring it'll be followed by yet another witty retort. Instead, House is frowning pensively. "What?"
"You think there's such a thing as banter that's too homoerotic?" he contemplates.
Wilson considers this for a second. "Nah."
"Cool," House says, and passes him another beer. He eyes the TV thoughtfully, then asks, "Say, can I get into your pants if I buy you a new washing machine?"
"That part's like a half hour away," Wilson reminds him, following his gaze to the TV.
"Sorry," House says, voice thick with pseudo-emotion. "I just get so excited. Totally the best scene ever."
Wilson rolls his eyes at him. Unsurprisingly, this doesn't stop House from making expectant puppy dog eyes at him. Finally, Wilson responds, with an indulgent chuckle that's mostly an accident, "I'll think about it."
"Nice," House mutters triumphantly, pumping his fist, and is promptly riveted by Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell again.
Wilson tries to follow suit. Otherwise, he might have to acknowledge the fact that House is actually capable of making him feel better – through obscure methods of sexual harassment, no less. He's pretty sure that's a truth better left unexamined.