A/N: Written in comment_fic comm on LJ for a prompt by Merry_gentry. House/Wilson/Chase FS (H/W slashy undertones) Enjoy.
Chase swallows down the dregs of his fifth beer as Wilson orders himself another martini. The clumsy nudge to his elbow means House wants another bourbon. The bartender eyes the three of them up, his gaze lingering a little longer on House's form – draped awkwardly over the bar in a stupor – before shrugging and fixing them another round of drinks.
Reaching out for his bourbon, House sits up on the stool, swaying, but managing to stay on the seat – miracle in itself. He takes a sip and puts it back on the bar. Wilson and Chase are suddenly aware that House is smirking at them and they know that, even with half a dozen drinks in him, he's managed to scramble around in his brain and find another game to play.
"Wilson," House says a little louder than he aims for, "I'll give you ten bucks to flirt with the bartender. And make it dirty." He fumbles around in his pocket for a ten and slides it to his right so it's next to Wilson's martini.
"N-no waaay. He'll kick us out!" To Wilson's right, Chase scoffs and also waves a ten in front of his eyes.
"Oh, come on," Wilson whines. Chase begins putting his ten back in his pocket. House does the same, but Wilson gives in. "Okay, okay." A challenge is a challenge. He quickly knocks back his martini.
"Same again?" the bartender asks.
Wilson takes a deep breath, aware that he's being watched intently by both House and Chase.
He locks his glassy, chocolate brown eyes with the bartender's. "No thanks. Actually, I think I'll try a Sex on the Beach," he says, slurring his words.
Wilson bites his bottom lip, teasing it with his tongue. He doesn't break their gaze.
"No, no, wait! A Screaming Orgasm." He's getting into this; right now he's resisting the urge not to wink at the poor man.
"Hold on! Sorry. Changed my mind," he blurts out.
He makes a deliberate show of looking the guy up and down before meeting his eyes again.
"How about…a Bartender on the Rocks?" To the watcher's eye, he looks slightly drunk, perhaps a little lecherous, but ultimately confident. Inside, he's cringing at his words. Now he's embarrassed.
Surely he must be feeling a little uncomfortable by now. I am.
To his surprise, the bartender leans over and whispers, "I get off at three," before taking the empties and serving someone else.
From his right, Chase lets out a snigger and hands the money to Wilson. House is more reluctant to hand over his doe.
"I said flirt, not verbally molest."
But it doesn't take much strength to pry the note out of House's fingers – his entire body is a limp, swaying mess of alcohol.
"Twenty dollars says House can't stand up straight right now," Chase says, his words melting together.
"That s'not fair; House can't stand up straight when he's sober."
Still, not one to walk away from a bet – especially when intoxicated – House weakly grips his cane and pushes himself onto his feet – momentarily – before falling into Wilson, of whom he could now see five.
"Damn it," he mutters and allows one of the Wilson's to settle him back into his seat. Pulling his wallet from his pocket, House can't open the damn thing so he thrusts it into the army of Wilson's, signalling for him to take the money.
House then slumps back over the bar, complaining the he thinks he's going to throw up. Again, Chase laughs – forever the happy drunk – and decides that perhaps it's time they were all getting home. Although wobbly on their feet themselves, Chase and Wilson almost carry House out of the bar (leaving one slightly dejected bartender behind) and hail a taxi to share.
In the back of the cab, Wilson decides to continue House's game and picks a bet that leaves both House and Chase sighing typical Wilson in their heads. The stakes are higher this time – two hundred bucks and a week's clinic cover stand in the balance. At this point in time, Wilson thinks it's a good idea. If only he were sober…
He spends his morning letting down the hem of his pant legs and digging through the bottom of his wardrobe.
Cuddy knew of their night out before it happened and told them not to come into work until they didn't smell of alcohol, so all three of them have a free morning, though it's not win-win when your brain is pounding too.
Finding what he wants he chortles.
Thank you, Rocky Horror fancy dress party!
Reaching the hospital, he berates himself for suggesting such a stupid bet, but he also prefers the two hundred dollars in his wallet. Taking a deep breath, he strides into reception, through the clinic and stops at the elevator. Having pressed the button, he waits for it to come, glancing down every so often, hoping it wasn't noticeable. Hearing the familiar click-clack of Cuddy crossing the clinic, he barely gives the elevator doors time to open before jumping in. As the click-clacking gets louder, Wilson stabs repeatedly at the elevator button, willing the doors to close quicker. But it's too late and the foot kicks into the crack, forcing the doors wide again.
Wilson's jaw drops.
"Oh my God. I thought you were Cuddy!"
Chase rolls his eyes, but can't stifle a grin. Wilson can't take his eyes off the shiny black heels showing from under Chase's slacks.
"How high?" Wilson asks, not able to grasp how exactly Chase was able to stand in them let alone walk.
"Six and a half inches. Show me yours."
Wilson's face flushes, but he hikes up his pant legs to reveal a pair of knee high kink boots, with an admirable heel. Chase immediately lines his foot up with Wilson's and compares the heels.
"Bad luck Wilson," Chase says, smirking victoriously, "mine's bigger."
"You'd better hope that House was so out of it that he doesn't remember the bet."
Wilson decides it's best to resign himself to defeat now.
Reaching the fourth floor, both men step out of the elevator, acutely aware of the sound of their heels. Wilson follows Chase to House's office – Chase wants to win, Wilson just doesn't want to lose to House again.
"He's not here yet," Thirteen says without looking up. Taub stands from the table.
"I'm going down to the clinic; page me when he gets in."
Walking past Chase and Wilson, Taub gets the strangest feeling. It's as though everyone's towering over him all of a sudden. Granted, he's always had to crane his neck a little higher to look at them, but this is just bizarre.
"When did you get so tall?"
Wilson blushes and squirms. Chase simply shrugs. Taub leaves, completely bemused.
Everything seems a little bit awkward. Chase and Wilson don't speak, because what is there to speak about but the fact they're both wearing women's shoes to work? Thirteen seems engrossed in a medical journal and Kutner is playing space invaders on the desktop computer in the corner of the room.
The mother of all awkward silences hits the room – it's almost too awkward to breathe.
Then, from the corridor they hear Taub shriek.
"Woah! Hou –" But he's cut off. Chase and Wilson venture into the corridor to investigate and see a hand drag Taub round the corner. Moving closer, Chase is sure he hears Cameron's counting one, two, three. Followed by a very Housian groan.
All of a sudden, House appears from behind the corner wall.
"Welcome to Mardi Gras!" he bellows down the hall.
Immediately Wilson recognises that he's lost this game by a mile. He cranes his neck upwards to see House's face, but can't form any words. House is obviously revelling in his friend's shock.
"That's cheating," Chase blurts out, "stilts so don't count."
"No one said anything about not wearing stilts. Just think of them as shoes with a precariously large heel," he shoots back, steadying himself with one hand on the wall.
"But…b-b-but…stilts?" Wilson is in awe of House's commitment towards this bet.
"And they came with this oversized novelty cane. It's like they knew I was coming."
"Because you're obviously not compensating for something," Wilson deadpans, coming out of his state of surprise.
Taub and Cameron pop out from behind the corner, red faced and grinning profusely.
Well, that answers the question of how House managed to stand up on the damn things, Wilson thinks.
"They count. You lose. Money on my desk by the end of the day. Cuddy's expecting you." He grins.
"Damn it," Chase and Wilson mutter in unison. Chase grunts before stomping off to surgery. As Wilson begins the walk of shame to his office, House takes his chance at one final humiliation.
"Hey, Wilson! Nice heels!"