Disclaimer: Don't own them.

Thanks to my beta reader, starlingthefool. Concrit and feedback always welcome.


Wilson tried to ignore the incessant tapping. Really, he did.

"I know you're in there."

He hunched against the headboard, pulling the corners of the comforter to his ears. Tap. Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptap.

With a growl, he heaved himself off of the bed and stalked to the door, cracking it open. His eyes dropped from House's insufferably smug grin and widened. House donned a pinstriped vest over a crisp button-down. He wore matching pants and a knee-length jacket, all reflected in a pair of shiny black shoes. Wilson's eyebrows disappeared under the sweep of hair across his forehead. "Nice suit," he mumbled.

"This?" House gestured to himself. "This is nothing. You should see what I did to your Volvo. Any idea what Spinners are?"

Wilson scowled. "Get in." He stood back and let House push his way into the room, toting along a plastic shopping bag. House stopped near the window and dropped his bag, twirling a polished cane, its silver handle reflecting the incandescent light.

Wilson swept his hand through the air as he fumbled with his words. "What—why—what's with the get-up?"

"Representin', as they say in the hood."

"Representing what? All the black stereotypes on the streets of New York?"

"Nah, just the ones I learned from Foreman."

Wilson stared, shaking his head.

House bounced his cane on the floor, grinning. "Cuddy's dinner party is tonight." House hooked his cane through the bag on the floor, raising it to the windowsill. He extracted an armful of clothes and thrust them at Wilson. "You're coming with me."

Wilson eyed the lump of fabric in House's arms and wagged a finger. "No, no. I'm not going, especially if you think I'm wearing that."

"Oh, don't start trippin'," House drawled as he stepped forward, tossing the clothes onto the bed. "Now, come on." He nodded at the wrinkled heap. "Don't make me dress you."

Wilson leered at him and separated the clothes, holding each piece at arm's length. "Why do you get to wear the suit?" he asked.

"'Cause I have the sweet cane." House waved it between them.

"Right. And I get the fur coat?"

"Relax." House held out a thick black t-shirt. "Here."

When Wilson made no move to accept it, planting his hands on his hips, House lunged forward. Wilson tried to swat House's hands away as they unbuttoned his shirt.

"Stop it, House."


"Oh my God."

Wilson wriggled out of his sleeves and swiped the t-shirt from House's arm. He pulled it over his head and let it fall. Almost to his goddamn knees.

Wilson threw his hands in the air. "It looks like I'm wearing a nightshirt."

"It'll look better with the coat."

An exasperated "hmmph" left Wilson's lips as he shrugged on the pair of jeans House offered, then the coat. He didn't even want to look in a mirror.

When House held up a thin black piece of fabric and held it to his head, Wilson scurried away. "No, I know what that is," he said, pointing. "And there's no way it's going on my head. No."

House tried again.

"I swear, House, I will beat you with your pimp cane."

"Fine." House stuffed the fabric into the bag. "But only if you wear this instead." He dug inside the bag and, after some rustling, waved a thick chain in Wilson's face. An enormous letter "J" gleamed at the bottom of the chain.

"Where did you get that?"

House fastened the chain at the back of his neck. "Wannabeagangsta dot com." Wilson doubted Olympic medals weighed more than this. When Wilson tugged on the offered pair of snow-white sneakers, House stepped back to survey the damage.

"Oh, yeah." House's voice was positively giddy. He parked Wilson in front of the vanity mirror, standing behind him.

Wilson winced at his own ridiculous reflection, but as he spied House's grin broaden into a toothy smile, he felt the beginnings of his own smile tease the corners of his mouth.

Then House pulled Wilson by the furry sleeve towards the door. "Come on," he said. "Let's go make Cuddy our ho."