There was nothing worse than limping home to Wilson swing dancing with one of the sexiest women on earth. So House thought.
No, there was something worse. Something much worse. And that was coming home to Wilson laughing like a maniac (collapsed on the couch, a hand clutching his stomach, tears rolling down his cheeks) at the very last thing House had ever wanted to see displayed on his own television screen: his own face, looking some twenty-odd years younger than it did presently.
Panicking, House limped over to the couch and poked Wilson sharply with his cane, knowing that it could only be one of three things.
"Hey! Chuckle-Pants!" he said loudly. "Where the hell did you find this?"
Wilson batted the cane away, still laughing, and pointed toward the screen, choked on whatever words he was about to say, and burst into a whole new fit. House lay a hand on the side of his face and tapped it lightly a few times.
"C'mon, big guy, pull yourself together and tell me - " he began in an urgent tone, but Wilson grabbed at his hand and yanked it down.
"Okay - " he laughed breathlessly. "Okay - listen, I was - I was - " He shook his head, laughing even harder if possible, dropping his head. This prompted the extremely unwanted urge to crack a smile, but House somehow managed to smother it. He sighed heavily and plopped down next to Wilson to wait out the worst of the hysteria, occasionally elbowing him in the ribs to help it along.
"Alright," Wilson said, pushing back against him after about the seventh time he did this. He chuckled softly, wiping the wetness from his face. House wasted no time to begin interrogating him, struggling not to let his gaze wander over to the screen. Likewise, he turned Wilson's head away when he seemed about to give in to the same temptation.
"Tell me," he said firmly, "where you could have possibly found this - "
"This unbelievable, buried gem of pure, underrated, comic genius?" Wilson suggested, still smiling like a loon. "When did you do that?" He pointed in the direction of the television, for his gaze was still being forced onto House. "And why - ? Talk about me hiding things I did when I was a kid - "
"No - this is completely different," House told him. "I was clearly in my twenties, you were - what? Seventeen?"
"Nineteen," Wilson chuckled.
"Same thing. Where did you find this?"
Wilson shoved House's hand away from his face to pick up the remote from the coffee table and press the pause button. "I was surfing through our Netflix for - "
House gave him an scandalized look before he could finish. "Old, British, skit shows?"
"Well, if you would let me speak. No, actually, just - British Classics. And imagine my surprise when this shows up with what looked like your face on it. House, there's a laughing audience in the background - you did this live - "
"I was there," House snapped.
"Who's that?" Wilson asked, pointing to the tall man who was standing next to House on the screen. His nose was crooked, his hair dark, and he seemed to be in the middle of some sort of dance. House almost smiled at the memory.
"Stephen," he said grudgingly. "Stephen Fry."
"Well," said Wilson, sitting back against the couch, his arms folded over his middle. He looked at House, his eyes still twinkling. "Tell me about this."
House rolled his eyes and, snatching the remote from Wilson, copied his pose. He pressed "Play".
"Consider yourself lucky, Jimmy boy. We never put out any commentary. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so listen up."
Wilson brightened at once, and House thought that maybe there were worse things to come home to.
