Written for a tumblr meme challenge in which a song and pairing are assigned randomly, with the fic being inspired by (but not necessarily including) the song. I got Let's Get It Started (Black Eyed Peas) and House/Wilson, which reminded me of the bachelor party from 5x22. I've obviously taken a bit of artistic liberty with some events. Don't own, don't profit, you know the drill.
I'm not entirely sure why I was shocked when I opened my door to find a bachelor party in full swing.
I should have known something was up when he let me go with a simple 'okay'; House is not a guy who lets a little thing like consent get in the way of what he wants, at least in terms of party attendance. The last time he threw me a bachelor party I arrived blindfolded with my own tie, not entirely sure if I was going to see a strip club or a CIA interrogation room when it was removed. And honestly, despite my obligatory protestations about my future ex-wife and the mess, it ended up being fantastic aside from the thing with the duck. That's the thing about obsessive man-child best friends, I guess: they can really throw a party when you need them to.
I eased into the-apartment-formerly-called-mine and stared around in disbelief. God, this was going to take forever to clean up. Strippers everywhere, already a drink or two had been spilled, and I didn't even want to know what had happened to the couch. House was making some ridiculously smug and smartassed 'Master of Ceremonies' speech, with an arm around Dr. Chase.
"HOUSE!" He leaned back to look at me from behind the tower of flaming shots (Way too close to those paper lanterns Amber insisted on hanging, I noted with some distress) and grinned.
"You knew you couldn't stay away." He punctuated the sentence with a cheeky wink. My heart leapt in my chest, something it hadn't done since before I started dating Amber. Damn. I had thought I was over that by now. My little totally-not-gay crush on my totally-not-gay best friend. It wasn't even a huge thing; god knows actually BEING with him would eventually drive me to homicide, if nothing else. I was amazed that I hadn't done it already. But every once in a while some small thing, some little idiosyncrasy that was part of being friends with House, would leave me stunned and breathless; a crooked smirk after a particularly off-color joke, my hand brushing his when we walk together. Unconsciously matching my gait to his three-legged stomp so I don't leave him in the dust. The piercing, unnerving blue stare he gives me whenever I have some secret for him to unravel.
Fearing a major slip in my totally-not-gay facade (He's always been able to read you like a book, keep it together James), I covered with my usual House-has-done-something-stupid outrage-and-concern routine before slipping off with Karamel for a badly-needed drink. Despite the mocking I'd almost surely get for not paying enough attention to the glorious specimen of femininity in front of me, I couldn't help but look back at where he had been standing as I shuffled off.
Seeing empty space instead of six feet of scruffy misanthrope stung a lot more than I'd like to admit.
Four hours later I was falling drunkenly into the bathroom, absolutely on the verge of pissing myself. Too many body shots had left my back teeth floating. I stumbled across the tile to the toilet, tried to unzip (Where the fuck are my pants?) and eventually got myself situated. After what felt like an hour I was finally done, thank god, and turned to wash my hands.
"Jesus, Wilson. I bet you'd get laid about twice as much as you do currently if the ladies knew Little Jimmy was packing a fire hose." I yelped in surprise and whacked my knee on the cabinet. Clutching what I suspected was going to be a whopper of a bruise (alcohol's a mild blood thinner, god that's gonna be huge in the morning), I turned to find the object of my secret totally-not-gay affections lounging in my bathtub, lovingly cradling a bottle of something that probably doubled as lighter fluid. When I didn't immediately reply he saluted me with the bottle and took a long drag.
"Hell of a party," I slurred. I was suddenly acutely aware of my lack of trousers, and tried to plot a course toward the towel rack that wouldn't send me crashing through a wall. "You should really get out there."
"And do what, dance?" He rolled his eyes at me and tapped his cane against the toe of his right sneaker in annoyance. "Nah, I've got all the party I need in here." He rolled over and pushed himself to a standing position, one hand on the wall to keep his balance as he clambered out of the tub. I knew better than to offer to help. The music changed outside, and I vaguely recognized the tune as one I'd heard on the radio a few times, by some group named after peas or beans or something.
"You really should install a handrail in here, Wilson. If I'm going to be camping out in your tub I need to be capable of a more graceful exit than that." He waved his cane vaguely towards the tub, the movement making me dizzy. "Makes a better impression on the ladies."
"Planning on spending a lot of time naked in my bathroom? My god, we may as well announce our engagement now, if only to put those rumors to rest." I staggered towards the door and missed, bumping into a wall instead. "Oh, I think I've had too much."
"Oh come on, Wilson. It's barely one AM. Bust a move." He began dancing around and singing along to the music, making extra sure to wag his ass at me just to be annoying. "Let's get it started." I sagged against the wall and ran a hand through my hair. An idea, one that I'd had a few times before and dismissed as a ridiculous pipe dream, wormed its way to the forefront of my mind. (No, don't be ridiculous. He'd never go for it.) But goddammit, why not? I'm lonely. I'm ignoring a room full of strippers and booze to watch my best friend dance around like an idiot in my bathroom. And maybe he had a point about Amber being...well, him.
(Oh, what the hell.) I realigned myself to face him and took a careful step forwards. He was still facing away from me, attempting to perfect a three-legged version of some dance move he'd probably seen on Jersey Shore. I took a deep breath, and tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled around and started, surprised to see me standing so close. His mouth opened to toss out some sarcastic remark, but I was too quick for him; I cupped his face in my hands and went for it.
The kiss was surprisingly good considering how shitfaced we both were. I could taste his bourbon on my lips afterwards, and was shocked to find out that stubble really does hurt like a bitch when scraped across bare flesh. No wonder Bonnie had always insisted that I shave every morning. Maybe, just maybe, I could convince him to do it more often. Assuming he was still speaking to me tomorrow, that is.
When I finally released him, he kept his eyes closed for a second before fixing me with a look that was somewhere between confusion and horror. I was breathing hard, and almost certainly had some dopey, soppy expression on my face. God, I wanted to kiss him again, but he was staring at me in shocked silence. Not even a snide crack about my sexuality to be found. This was bad. I backed away and blushed, holding my hands out in a conciliatory gesture. (oh god ohgodohgod what the fuck did I just do?)
"Sorry. I'll, uh...I'm going to go now." I managed to cover the distance from the bathroom to the front door at about mach five, muttering some excuse about having to go home, family emergency, to several confused coworkers. In my drunken embarrassment I had forgotten where I was, or that I wasn't wearing any pants, until I was already out the door and several blocks away. But I couldn't go back in, not without having to look him in the face. Not that it mattered anyways; I could already see the blue-and-cherry lights of a police car pulling up beside me. (Great.)