"We can't, House," Wilson protested. "I'm presenting at this conference. If we skip out on it, Cuddy will kill us both."
"She should have considered that when she paid for this kick-ass pad," House drawled, stretching out on the luxurious bed in the hotel room. Wilson sighed, though if pressed, he'd have to agree their rooms were pretty sweet. Miami didn't mess around.
Instead of the standard Ramada-esque accommodations, the Miami conference had arranged for rooms in the Art Deco district at a hotel whose name…Wilson wasn't even sure of. Cuddy had taken care of all the travel plans, and the exterior of the place seemed too posh to advertise its name.
Wilson was afraid to touch anything because it all looked delicate and expensive. He frowned at the white piece of ceramic on the nightstand.
"Is that a vase? What is that?" he asked.
House lifted his head enough to glance over at it. "Ashtray?"
They stared a little longer before Wilson remembered the argument. "We can't play hooky," he said firmly. "Get dressed."
"I am dressed," House groused. Wilson looked at his rumpled T-shirt and cargo shorts pointedly. "It's South Beach!" House protested. "No one's going to show up in a suit."
"I am," Wilson retorted.
House made a face. "Yeah, I wasn't going to tell you, but the other kids think you're kind of lame when you do that. Come on! You don't present for another three hours," he cajoled. "There's the pool, the hot tub, the beach, the…"
Wilson rolled his eyes. "We could have that stuff in New Jersey."
"Not in November," House reminded him. He kicked his sandaled feet like a small child throwing a temper tantrum. "Skip it! Two hours, that's all I ask."
"Absolutely not," Wilson said, perching his hands on his hips. House gave him a Look.
Ten minutes later, Wilson found himself in a lounge chair by the sparkling blue pool, wearing his swim trunks. Beautiful women in tiny bikinis were lounging about too, but that didn't cheer the oncologist one bit. This wasn't New Jersey, and a good-looking thirty-something doctor apparently wasn't the cream of the crop anymore.
Wilson glared at the impeccably well-dressed man a few feet away. The man spoke so loudly, Wilson had already overheard that he, too, was a doctor. And he was also thirty-something. However, this doctor was ridiculously, perfectly, over-the-top gorgeous. The blonde in the pink bikini was completely enraptured.
Miami did not mess around.
"Isn't this the life?" House sighed from the adjacent lounger, folding his hands under his head and adjusting his sunglasses. He didn't seem to care that he was obviously the oldest person in a five-mile radius; he still lowered his shades and winked at the young girls passing by. "I could get used to this."
"Yeah, I bet," Wilson murmured, not bothering to hide his disapproval. He was still watching the doctor across the way. The man was an artist; Wilson had never seen a woman fall for an act so quickly.
The scene was ruined, however, when another man in a brown suit approached.
"Christian!" he called. "Where the hell have you been? Have you even set foot in the conference room yet?"
The other man, Christian, turned around with a sigh, holding up one finger to signal the woman that he'd return his attention to her in a moment. "I'm a little busy right now, Sean."
"Look, I may be the one giving this presentation," this Sean hissed, "but could you at least try to put in an appearance? Pretend that medicine matters to you? Because, I'll tell you something, our reputation could use a little boost from our peers."
The woman in the pink bikini seemed to be losing interest, and sauntered off to speak to another man. Christian didn't notice.
"Peers?" Sharp, expensive sunglasses lowered to reveal bright blue eyes. They looked familiar, Wilson thought as he glanced over at House, who was reading a trashy book. "These doctors treat old ladies with influenza and teenagers with herpes. They don't give a damn about plastic surgery."
Plastic surgery? "Doctor McNamara?" Wilson blurted out. He'd been studying the schedule on the flight, and the McNamara lecture on reconstruction for breast cancer survivors had caught his attention. He had been looking forward to it.
The man in the suit turned and looked down at him. "I'm sorry, have we…?"
"Dr. Wilson, PPTH, oncology," Wilson said, extending his hand.
"Ah, yes." McNamara gave him a dazzling smile and shook his offered hand. "The abstract on your testicular cancer case sounds fascinating. I can't wait to hear you present."
"Same here, same here," Wilson said, finally realizing they were still vigorously shaking hands. He let go of the other man's hand and gave a sheepish grin in return.
"Usually when pen pals meet in real life, it's a disappointment," House muttered from his shaded lounge chair. He stuffed his iPod buds into his ears. "But you two seem to be doing fine."
"Dr. McNamara, my colleague, Dr. House from diagnostics," Wilson said by way of introduction. "I'll warn you not to shake hands. He bites."
"Ruff," House growled, turning his attention back to his copy of Lesbian Erotica Volume 5.
"And this is my partner, Dr. Troy," McNamara said, turning to his well-dressed counterpart. Troy, or rather, Christian, had lost interest in the conversation and was a few feet away, ordering a drink at the bar. "Well, you're lucky he wandered off," he said with a self-conscious chuckle. "He's a crotch sniffer."
"I can sympathize," Wilson said, rubbing the back of his neck. It was too hot; his hair was damp with sweat.
"Listen," McNamara said, glancing between House and Troy. "The bar in the lobby is quieter. Would you like to grab a drink?"
"Sure, that would be…that would be great." Wilson scooped up his white T-shirt from the warm concrete and tugged it over his head. "House, I'll be back in time to get ready to present, okay?"
House's only answer was a light snore. The book had fallen to his chest, and his eyes were closed behind his dark glasses. Wilson sighed. "Well, then, lead the way."
An hour and a half later, McNamara clinked his third empty glass on the bar. "So the kid had swallowed a toothpick?" he gasped. "And he didn't mention that? I mean, toothpicks are hard to swallow!"
The bar wasn't busy at this time in the afternoon; besides the two doctors, no one else was having a drink. The bartender had even wandered off with a tray of dirty glasses after making sure they were taken care of.
Wilson shook his head. "I know. Bizarre. We all just assumed an infection, but House is…different."
"Makes my practice sound very staid," the surgeon laughed. "I had no idea that Princeton was so exciting."
"Oh, come on," Wilson protested. "I'm sure all the beautiful women who come by your clinic more than make up for the usual drudgery."
McNamara, no, Sean, Wilson remembered, just sighed and toyed with the rim of his glass. "That's a, uh, perk that benefits Christian more than me." He held up his hand, showcasing his plain gold wedding band.
"I understand completely." Wilson rotated his own wedding ring around and around his finger.
"Married long?" Sean asked, taking another long pull from his beer.
"Not…comparatively." Wilson lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It's my third marriage. You?"
"Almost twenty years," Sean said, his eyes distant. A moment of quiet settled between them, with Sean lost in thought and Wilson watching him intently. "Actually," Sean gave a bitter laugh, "things are just about over between me and Julia."
Wilson's eyes went wide.
"Sorry. Too much information, right?" Sean gave a lop-sided smile.
"No. No, it's just," Wilson's brow furrowed, "my wife and I are in the middle of a divorce too." He smiled then. "But I'm getting very good at it. Need any tips?"
Sean rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous gesture, one that Wilson recognized from his own habits. "God, I hope not, James. I hope not." It was strange to hear someone using his first name; it sounded exotic.
He groped for something supportive to say. "At least you have your work to keep you going," Wilson said. "You're obviously very talented."
Sean quirked his lips into a smile. "I'm a glorified makeup artist. It's guys like you who are doing real work."
"Hey, everyone needs to look good, right?" Wilson was suddenly very self-conscious of his mussed hair, his sweaty clothes, and his extra post-Thanksgiving pounds. He glanced down at his offending stomach with a frown.
Sean laughed. "No, I think some people just need to look better." He tilted his head and gazed at Wilson's face. "Tell me what you don't like about yourself, James."
"Well, it's not that I, uh, well," Wilson stuttered. "I don't think I need surgery, but, you know, I'm getting older." He peeled away a corner of the label on his beer bottle. "Just the normal things, right? The lines and wrinkles and all."
Sean set his glass down on the bar top again and slowly reached his hands out. "May I?" he asked, his palms hovering over Wilson's jaw.
Wilson regarded him warily for a second, but Sean just smiled. "Just for kicks," he promised. "I don't have my knife on me."
"Yeah, sure." Wilson leaned forward a bit and allowed Sean to touch his jaw, framing his face with his strong, steady hands. Excellent surgeon's hands, Wilson thought idly. Sean turned Wilson this way and that, studying the planes and angles of his face in the dim light.
"High cheekbones, very nice," Sean murmured almost to himself. "Smooth forehead, hairline looks good. Some early signs of crow's feet, but don't worry; it makes guys look distinguished." He ran his fingertips alongside the corners of Wilson's mouth. "A little bit of stress is showing here, though." He traced the light laugh lines next to the lips. "Other than that, fantastic shape, all around. I'd give anything to have skin like yours."
"Thanks," Wilson said, unsure of what else to say. Sean's hands were still warm against his cheek.
"I know I told you to get over that homophobia," Christian Troy's voice rang out in the empty bar, "and your fear of transsexuals, but I didn't expect you to find yourself a husband, Sean."
The surgeon jerked his hands back as if burned, turning to see his partner leaning in the doorway to the lobby.
"Just a friendly examination," Sean spoke in his defense.
"Thinking of having some work done, Dr. Wilson?" Christian pushed off from the doorjamb, hands in his pockets, his stride reminding Wilson of an animal. "Sean has a tendency to go easy on male clients. Totally sexist. Perhaps you'd like to schedule a quick lift before you go back home?"
"I think I'll trust Dr. McNamara's opinion," Wilson replied. He felt his face flush slightly.
"Up to you," the other doctor said curtly, turning to his partner. "I was going to take your advice and put in an appearance at the conference. Coming?"
"Right behind you," Sean assured. When Christian turned to leave in that liquid stride, Sean leaned forward to whisper, "Sorry about him. He can get a little territorial." He grinned widely. "But dog owners like us are used to it, right?"
The corner of Wilson's mouth lifted, revealing a boyish dimple. "And you have the burden of a purebred on top of everything."
"Well, if you ever tire of your old mutt," Sean smoothly flicked a business card out of his breast pocket, "you should give me a call and commiserate."
"Absolutely," Wilson said slowly, taking the card carefully between his fingertips.
The surgeon stood. "See you at your presentation," he said with a smile, walking quickly to catch up with his partner.
Wilson knocked back the warm remains of his beer and tucked the card in the small pocket of his swim trunks. He wandered back through the lobby and outside to the pool deck. In the scant time he'd been inside, the blue skies had clouded over, and the thick smell of rain hung in the air. Everyone had left the poolside except for the still-snoozing, scruffy man sprawled on the chaise with his cane on the ground near by.
"House, it looks like rain," Wilson said softly, shaking the man's shoulder. "We better go back in. I need to shower and dress."
House blinked lazily up at him. "Where did you stroll off to?" he asked.
Wilson raised his ample brows and opened his mouth as if searching for the right words. "I think," he finally said, "I just got hit on by that plastic surgeon."
"You minx," House said with a grin. "You still got it in you." He groped for his cane and levered himself onto his feet.
"I don't want to toot my own horn," Wilson said, following House's limping gait back inside, "but he said, in his professional opinion, that I was kind of hot."
"Oh, I see." House swiped his key card for access to their room. "He went to med school for how many years?"
Wilson rolled his eyes and followed House into the room. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on one of the two queen beds. "It was just nice to hear, is all. I mean, I'll be forty next month, you know?" His fingers worked at the laces on his trunks.
House's hand, still greasy with suntan lotion, rested on his bare stomach. Wilson smirked as he felt the other man press against him from behind, his cane a solid presence beside their legs.
"I don't care," House muttered against his ear. "I think you're…"
"What?" Wilson turned his head slightly, letting House's mouth touch his jaw.
He felt House's grin on his skin, and the hand that was holding the cane wrapped around his waist as well. He leaned back in House's embrace, letting the other man's soft T-shirt rub against his back. House leaned forward into him, and they supported each other's weight.
"I think you're the prettiest girl at the ball," House said in a high-pitched voice dripping with sweetness.
Wilson laughed. "Prettier than Dr. Troy?"
"He might win the swimsuit portion of the competition," House said with a sigh, "but you have the talent part sewn up."
"No, I think you'll beat me on that front," Wilson said, dropping a kiss on the side of House's neck. "Maybe if we combined our scores…"
"All this talk about drag queen pageantry has me turned on," House deadpanned. "You getting dressed or are we going to take a spin in the bathroom's whirlpool?"
Wilson titled his head back to rest it on House's shoulder, eyes on the ceiling. "Whirlpool," he finally said, already feeling House's deft fingers pulling his swim trunks off.
He smiled. Miami didn't mess around. But neither did House.