Dressed To Cross, a house, m.d. fanfic

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Title: Dressed To Cross (1/1)

Author: Antigone a.k.a. Anty

Fandom: House M.D.

Characters: House, Crandall, Wilson.

Rating: PG-13

Keywords: Short (366 words), Pre-House.

Warnings: Cross-dressing, Prostitution, Potential AU (duh!).

Summary: Efficiently financing med school, the Wilson way (or: How House and Wilson most definitely didn't first meet).

Disclaimer & Notes: Remember my deeply insightful Wilson character-pieces? This isn't one of them. It's pure cross-dressing self-indulgence. Because I love whore!fics. We can all gather from that that I'm neither Fox nor David Shore. Thanks to Nom de Plume for the beta. Oh, and if you're wondering why Wilson didn't freeze to death — he was on the way to his car, okay?

Dressed To Cross
© Antigone, December 17th, 2006

Writing yet another book on a stoned musician had apparently convinced Crandall to try method acting. It was the only explanation for the distinctive smell of weed in the risk-averse guy's apartment. House appreciated the invitation (staying in the seediest part of town while you waited for the weather to leave your continuing flight alone was way more exciting than going to a hotel), but sharing the couch with half a dozen guys exhaling alcohol from their pores was stretching the seedy part a bit.

"While I appreciate your new write-what-you-know risky lifestyle, I had hoped for the scene to be slightly more puritan until I'd gained some sleep."

Crandall, more perky than anybody had a right to be at three in the morning, waved him inside. "G-man," he announced with glee, "you'll never guess what the guys and I got up to tonight."

"Field study of Pleistocene behavior?"

"We called," Crandall's arms gestured excitedly, "a cross-dressing hooker and banged him!"

He'd have said something about definitely identifying too much with whomever, but his thoughts jumped back to what had started this whole train of thought in the first place. Paying off the cab diver, he'd forgotten to actually check whether he was being screwed (that hurt, just there) when a figure made its way around the corner of Crandall's apartment building, dressed in a furry black jacket over a ridiculously tight college-type blouse, tie, and tiny sweater vest. Smeared kohl and lipstick adorned dark eyes and puffy lips, and just when House had received a shy smile and stared at impossibly chiseled cheekbones and a mop of short, unruly hair, he was graced with the backside view of an illegal black pleather skirt and very long, very male pantyhose-clad legs teetering on pointy platform pumps.

"Yeah," Crandall said, and House now stared at him, "sorry you were too late for that; you just missed him, actually." He dug into his pocket and produced a crumpled piece of paper. "But you could still give him a call, if you're staying." He held out his hand.

House's gaze dropped to the slip. It held a phone number, and next to it, a name.

Jamie.

(Fin.)