Work Text:
So Tramadol is Better Than Vicodin?
House came in to work early on Monday – a Monday! – and positively swaggered into the Diagnostics conference room, very impressively indeed.
"Look who got laid last night," Taub muttered under his breath, pretending not to have noticed anything strange. Almost as if he wanted to emphasize the point he wasn't really making, House began to hum.
"And the night before," Thirteen agreed with a smirk. Foreman rolled his eyes and pointed an accusing eyebrow at them, but he also hid a smirk.
"House, there's a new case." Cuddy came bustling in to the conference room, already looking suitably annoyed, obviously preparing to have to plead, beg, bargain, and negotiate.
"Excellent!" House grabbed the file out of her hands and opened it to skim its contents. "And who is this fine new specimen?" Cuddy wrinkled her nose and his use of words, but supplied him with a name anyway, to spare him the effort of already having read that part, thanks.
"Fredrick Burgess, admitted with back pain."
"Yeah, I already read that part, thanks." House gave her a condescending look, then spun around (it was really quite amazing how he managed to do stuff like that with a handicap) to face his team. "Differential."
"Cameron's," the three all said in unison. House would've crossed his arms if he hadn't been standing. Taub shrugged. "You never know," he said. "STDs. They're out of control." Instead of pointing out that Cameron's was for all intents and purposes a fluke, House just half-grinned.
"Well, let's go ask who he's been sleeping with," he ordered with a wink, then turned again and pushed past a shocked Cuddy, leaving her and his flabbergasted team behind in his speedy-cripple dust.
House was much noisier, more impressive, and ruder than usual in his entrance of the patient's room.
"Good morning, Freddie old boy!" He really did have a flare for the obnoxious, there was no one that could deny that. The rather large, hairy, old man lying in the hospital bed looked up at him with a confused 'hi-I'm-an-idiot' look on his face. Great.
House's team and Cuddy filed through the door, curious as to exactly how this was going to go, and took in their patient. The guy had a hospital gown on and an IV probably pumping some sort of pain-killer into his bloodstream.
"What've you got here?" House asked, lifting the IV pouch and peering at the label. "Vicodin. Great stuff, that." With apparent ease, he moved away from the IV and threw himself dramatically into a visitors' chair (don't try to figure out how he managed not to hurt himself, even he hasn't worked that out yet). He crossed his legs at the ankle and opened 'Freddie's' file on his lap, pretending to check it over. "So, back pain, huh?"
"Uh-huh," the patient answered, his voice annoyingly nasally. House nodded, then looked up suddenly (again with his usual obnoxious flare) and said, "Did you sleep with my boyfriend?" The guy squished up his face in confusion.
"No."
"You sure? He's a good-looking man."
"I haven't slept with anybody but my wife since I was in college," the guy assured. House raised an eyebrow.
"Suppose that was a while ago?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah." This guy sounded really, really dumb. "I'm 67, and proud of it."
"So, back pain, huh?" House repeated. He stood and walked closer to the patient's bedside, back by the IV. He plastered a solemn – no, tragic look onto his face. "Sir." He did his best Wilson 'you-have-cancer' voice. "Are you… old?" The man's face wrinkled further.
"Yeah. Just said I was 67, didn't I?" House whirled around once again, limping over to Cuddy and shoving 'Freddie's' file in her arms.
"Osteoporosis," he said. "Or degenerative disc disease. Both are irreversible, easily preventable, and have the same pain treatments." He faced the patient again. "Enjoy your diagnosis, and have a great day," he told him, this time using a flight-attendant-esque tone of voice. He strolled through the door and headed back to his office, again leaving shell-shocked doctors in his wake.
"Did he say boyfriend?" Taub asked.
"House, will you marry me?" Wilson asked. House choked on his beer, and looked incredulously at his lover, sitting on the other end of the couch sipping his own beer. He raised a disparaging eyebrow.
"Do you always propose like that?" he wondered, taking in Wilson's slouched demeanor and the fact that he wasn't looking at House at all, thinking maybe that was part of the reason Wilson never stayed married.
"No," Wilson answered. "Usually, when I propose I do the whole shebang, but I thought you might punch me if I tried to give you a 'delicate and expensive' diamond." House thought about how it was kind of depressing that Wilson could say, 'Usually, when I propose…' and then moved on to thinking about exactly how hard he would punch if Wilson put an engagement ring on his finger.
"Huh," he said. A few minutes of silence passed between them, before Wilson fidgeted a little, though he still didn't look at House.
"So… Was that a yes or a no?" he mumbled nervously. House didn't answer with anything for a couple seconds. Then, "Why now?"
"You're not on Vicodin anymore."
"That doesn't change how much of an asshole I am, you know," House said lowly, almost – almost – terrified that Wilson was going to leave now that he realized House was a pretty horrid person with or without drugs.
"I know." House sighed in relief, refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was just about ready to jump off a bridge (not really a bridge, there are easier, more handicap-accessible ways of killing oneself, but you get the point) there for a second. "But it does make you slightly less of a criminal."
"Slightly," House felt the need to point out again. Wilson nodded.
"Yeah, slightly." There was a pause. "You still haven't given me a real answer."
"Likewise." There was yet another pause, during which Wilson fidgeted incessantly and even appeared to bite his lip.
"Actually… I was kind of nervous about telling my parents about getting hitched to a drug addict." Wilson finally looked at House, and House raised his eyebrow again to prompt further information. "They weren't really too happy with a waitress or a real estate agent, so I figured, drug addict…"
"Why were they upset about you marrying a waitress or a real estate agent?"
"Job provides too much temptation."
"How ironic."
"Anyway." Wilson skated over the subject. "Now that you're off the Vicodin, they won't have much to complain about. If you behave, that is."
"So you're not worried they'll complain about me being a guy?" House asked doubtfully. Wilson picked at the hem of his sleeve, took a sip of beer, shrugged.
"Well, that part I'm not willing to give up," he said, all quiet, blushing, and cute. "You being addicted to Vicodin, however. I'm more than glad to get rid of that."
"Huh," House said. The two sat in silence for another few minutes, sipping their beer and staring blankly at whatever was happening on the TV.
"So…?" Wilson prompted. He sounded really nervous now. House hid his smile in the neck of his beer bottle.
"So… what?" he said, just to be mean. It wasn't as if he would ever even think about saying no. Not under pain of death. Really. Looking almost as if he might cry, Wilson tossed a square, velvety blue box into House's lap. With some feeling that House refused to acknowledge (always did, when it came up) in his chest somewhere, House opened the box's lid.
Two extraordinarily plain golden rings sat next to each other, shining a little in the dull light of the apartment. They were a little big, and House didn't think they'd fit one of his fingers (no matter how big and manly and muscled-out from playing piano they were), but… still.
"Well," he hummed, grin on his face and in his voice. "Since you went to all the trouble." Wilson, finally grinning now himself, set down his beer and crawled over to House's side of the couch. He took one of the rings out of the box and put it around House's right thumb. He did the same to himself with the other ring, then kissed House deeply. When they pulled up for air, Wilson dug in House's pocket for the Tramadol bottle, so they could do everything they were gonna do, right here.
"Okay, I don't care what either of you two say, that's way too cheerful even for two nights in a row," Foreman said out of the corner of his mouth to Taub and Thirteen while they made their slow and cautious way back to the conference room. Taub nodded ("He said boyfriend," he repeated in a whisper.) He looked vaguely traumatized. But Thirteen grinned.
"I'll go get Dr. Cameron," she told them, sounding like she was scheming. She rushed off in the general direction of the ER.
"Cameron," Foreman repeated. "What's getting Cameron gonna do?" Taub only shrugged.
It was a little chilly on the couch when you were naked and slightly wet and had no covers. House and Wilson didn't really care too much though. Neither one would ever admit it, but at the moment they were both getting all the warmth they needed from inside – the idea of spending the rest of forever together. There were doubts, obviously, but those could wait.
"We'll go see my parents and tell them next weekend," said Wilson. House shuddered.
"Let's not talk about parents when we're naked, 'kay?" he suggested. Wilson ignored him and continued on.
"We gonna talk to your mom?" House shuddered again.
"Do we have to?" he whined. Wilson hid his Indulgent Smile in House's chest – not that that was very efficient.
"We should."
"Should is not the same as 'have to,'" House pointed out hopefully.
"House."
"Oh, alright," House conceded, a little less reluctantly than he put on but still pretty reluctantly. The things he did for love. "But let's wait until all the plans are solid." House could've sworn Wilson's skin started glowing, just as brightly as his eyes when he looked up at House through his fringe.
"There's going to be plans?" Oh, now look what he'd got himself into.
"So, House," Cameron began, making it all up as she went along. "How's the Tramadol working for you?" She was surprised when he grinned at her, but then Thirteen had said he was over the top happy-go-lucky, for him.
"Much better," House answered, his grin widening a little. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket, and jiggled a pill into his palm. He flipped it into the air as if to catch it in his mouth like he used to do sometimes with his Vicodin, and for one horrid second Cameron thought they'd just given him another drug to abuse, and that this was him finding a new high. But then House caught the pill, put it back in its bottle, and stuffed said bottle back in his pocket. Then he winked at her.
Cameron almost stared blankly at the spot House had been as he left the room, but she spun around just in time to see House throw open the door and strike an impressive pose before heading over to Wilson's office via the hallway.
"The Tramadol's working better?" Foreman repeated at Cameron incredulously.
"He winked at you!" Taub said in much the same tone.
"Did you see his pose?" Thirteen didn't really seem quite as upset as the boys were. Cameron, personally, wasn't upset at all. She grinned radiantly at House's team, her eyes sparkling merrily.
"He was wearing a ring," she explained. The looks on their faces would've been comical if Cameron wasn't too happy for House to pay attention to them.
"Colors."
"I don't know." House pouted, refusing to allow his mind to remind him that he pretty much gave Wilson this whole idea of planning. Of having something to plan.
"Colors, House."
"Okay, black and white."
"House." Wilson smacked House's shoulder with the legal notebook he'd dug out from somewhere, glared. House held up his hands in surrender.
"Okay, okay. Colors. I'm thinking. You're gonna be one of the naggy ones, aren't you?"
"That's not a color!" House surreptitiously recoiled (as much as he could while underneath someone, naked, and laying flat on his back on a sticky couch) from Wilson's threatening look.
"Blue."
"Lunch."
"Only if you pay."
"Okay." House grinned wickedly as he pulled Wilson's wallet from the pocket of his lab coat hanging from his desk chair, subtracting enough money from it for lunch in the cafeteria for two.
"House, that doesn't count as you paying."
"Sure it does," House argued, trying to control his grin and failing. "Your money is my money, now."
"We're not married yet," Wilson grumbled, but he got up from his desk and walked with House to the cafeteria anyway.
"Date."
"Soon."
"Good enough."
"Omigod," Taub breathed. "She was right. They're getting hitched. To each other." Foreman nodded, mute. Thirteen grinned.
"Hello, bachelor parties," she said quietly. Foreman half-glared at her, but she only grinned wider.
"Ooh, I've got one." House sat up a little, his eyes bright enough to make Wilson a little nervous about what might come out of his mouth next. "Bachelor parties." Wilson looked at him sideways, warily.
"What about them?"
"I'm planning yours," House answered gleefully. Wilson grimaced. "And… Thirteen's planning mine."
"Thirteen?" Wilson repeated. "I thought you didn't want to tell anybody but parents until the day of."
"Well, I changed my mind."
"So?" Wilson hedged as they sat down to lunch. "Have you told Dr. Hadley she's got a bachelor party to plan yet?"
"Nope," House replied before taking a huge bite of his Reuben and then continuing with his mouth full. "Waiting for her to bring it up herself." Wilson brought his eyebrows together, confused.
"How's she gonna know she has to?" he asked.
"Well, they got Cameron to figure out why I've been so happy all day, and she told them about my ring, so it should only be a matter of time." There was a long pause in which House ate and pretended not to notice that Wilson wasn't doing the same.
"You're happy?" Wilson finally whispered, seemingly in awe. House smiled lightly.
"Yeah, Jimmy. I'm happy." He covered his embarrassment and the seriousness of the admission by taking another way-too-big-for-his-mouth bite of Reuben.
"Kids."
"Kids?" House repeated. He'd kind of gone a little blank when Wilson said it, and he wanted to make sure he'd heard right before he reacted, just in case.
"Yeah, kids."
"As in…?" Just making sure. Really, really sure.
"As in how many and how soon."
"Uh, zero and never."
"Zero?" Wilson sounded hurt and crestfallen and all those other things that inspire puppy-dog eyes on a person. But House didn't soften or concede or any of those other things that puppy-dog eyes made other people do. Instead he gaped incredulously up at Wilson for a few seconds before saying, "Wilson, I'm old!"
"So who do you think is planning them?" Thirteen asked Foreman and Taub as the three slid back into the conference room.
"Planning what?" Taub asked blankly.
"The bachelor parties," Thirteen clarified condescendingly.
"House," Foreman answered immediately.
"Well, yeah, I guess he'd plan Wilson's," agreed Thirteen. "But who's going to plan House's?" The three doctors sat in silence for a while, before Taub spoke.
"I wouldn't be surprised if it was you." Reluctantly, Foreman nodded.
"Only way to find out is to ask," purred Thirteen smoothly, slyly. Foreman and Taub tried not to show how frightened they were at the prospect of doing so.
"Guests?" It's the first aspect of the planning Wilson seems to be unsure about. House can understand that. Guests are always difficult. Especially with him in the mix.
"Guests," House repeats, thoughtfully and hesitantly, as if he doesn't quite know what to make of the word. Even the kids aspect of the planning wasn't as big of a deal as guests. Kids was just an automatic no, guests require thought.
"Starting off with how many would probably be easier than starting off with who," Wilson muttered, resting his chin on House's sternum. House nodded, and they both stared off into space for a while, deciding.
The best they'd come up with at the end of five full minutes was, "not too many," (House) and "not too little," (Wilson).
"We'll come back to this one," Wilson said eventually, and they gratefully moved on to the next aspect of the planning.
"Hey, House," Thirteen called into House's office when he finally made it back into his desk chair. He looked up and she continued. "Who's planning your bachelor party?" He grinned like a jackal and said, "You are."
The leers following that passed through the glass wall between the conference room and House's office were palpable. Thirteen's eyes got dark, her cheeks slightly flushed, and her mouth curled up to one side in quite the sexy smirk. House's eyes got bright and mischievous, he twisted his cane, and had a Grinchy grin stretching his own lips. Foreman and Taub cautiously drew back from the two.
Unfortunately, it was exactly then that Wilson walked in to the conference room for his 'don't-fall-asleep-on-the-afternoon-patients' mug of coffee. He froze in the doorway, looking from House to Thirteen and back, and going a little pale.
"Why did I agree to this?" he croaked. House snapped from the horn-dog telepathy thing he'd had going with Thirteen to glare (sort of; he had a smile on his face to rival even one of Wilson's indulgent ones) at his… fiancé.
"It was your idea," he said indignantly, complete with a squeak.
"Oh right." Wilson rolled his eyes up to look at the ceiling. "I'm not so sure what I was thinking, exactly."
"Second thoughts?" House asked, suddenly forgetting about everyone else in the room. "Well, then let me woo you with French." He walked over to invade Wilson's personal space and purr "fiancé" with an over-exaggerated accent. Then he slid out the door behind Wilson.
"Yes, House, fiancé," Wilson agreed, smiling and blushing and all together cute and fluffy. After a few seconds of feeling his warm-fuzziness to the fullest, Wilson turned around and shouted after House, "Where are you going?"
"Well, now it's going around, I figure I might as well tell Cuddy," House answered over his shoulder. "Maybe then she'll work a little harder to get her breasts to leave me alone."
"Cameron, Chase…" Wilson counted them off on his fingers.
"Chase and Mrs. Chase," House corrected.
"Right. Chase, Chase, Foreman… Um, Cameron…"
"You already said her; she's Chase."
"Right, yeah. Cameron, Chase…"
"Chase and Mrs. – oh, fuck it, let's just ask those two for their guest list." Wilson looked disapproving for a few seconds, but then he sighed.
"Yeah, okay."
"Cuddy, I'm getting married." House said it the very second his foot hit the carpet inside her office. She looked up from the paperwork she was doing, blinked, and then asked him to repeat himself. "I. Am. Getting. Married." She blinked again.
"To?" Honestly, Cuddy was actually almost half-expecting it to be Stacy, but that was stupid of her wasn't it. While House took his dramatic pause before answering, she went through all the possibilities. Cameron? No, already married. Some stranger he'd met at the bar a few months ago and hadn't told anybody about yet? No, he wasn't Wilson. Was he proposing? No, he'd know she'd need something much more impressive.
"Wilson." Cuddy's brain broke a little.
"Wait, wait, wait. Ex-wives."
"What about the little fuckers?"
"House!"
"What? I have perfectly good reason to hate them." Wilson raised a doubtful eyebrow.
"And what is that?" House possessively gathered Wilson closer to him, even though gravity had them pressed flush together.
"They had you first." He pouted. Wilson smiled, unable to deny how good it made him feel that House was that jealous.
"You'll have me longest," he assured. "And last."
"I'm taking you to dinner tonight, Wilson," informed House as Wilson stepped into his office at five-or-so.
"Taking me to dinner as in picking the place, or as in treating me to food I didn't pay for?" Wilson waited patiently by the door while House gathered his things and wrestled himself into his jacket.
"Both." Wilson's eyebrows jumped in surprise, but he didn't say anything. Not even when House commandeered the driver's seat, telling Wilson the restaurant was a surprise.
The restaurant was a big expensive, fancy French affair. House looked at Wilson out of the corners of his eyes, saying "fiancé" again, and Wilson couldn't help but laugh. When House courteously held the door open for Wilson to step through – without tripping him – Wilson finally began to get a little suspicious.
House ordered all the food (their waiter only spoke French, and Wilson didn't know any) and all the wine – the good stuff, too – and steered the conversation as well, keeping things light and simple. Until halfway through the meal.
"You forgot a few things last night," House mumbled, fidgeting a little like Wilson usually did. "When we were planning."
"Yeah?" Wilson prompted.
"Yeah." House slid a few sheets of yellow legal paper across the table for Wilson to look at. Wilson unfolded it and began to read. The first part of it was a guest list, containing everyone on the Chases' guest list (Wilson hadn't known House had gotten it yet), anyone from the hospital – the entire hospital – that hadn't been on that list, Wilson's whole family, and House's mother. Wilson looked at House over the top of the paper.
"I thought you didn't want a big deal?" House shrugged one shoulder.
"I changed my mind." Wilson went back to reading. The second part of it was a dress code for the guests (practically) and a layout – complete with diagrams – of what the two of them were going to wear.
The third part was the best part. The third part was House's vows. That he'd written. By himself. Wilson read them twice, and would've had a goofy grin on his face if he wasn't shocked into a witless mess. Who knew House could be so (he'd say sappy, but he couldn't manage to apply the word to such a man) romantic.
"So?" House asked. "What do you think?" Finally, Wilson looked up from the papers.
"I think I love you." And now Wilson even got to see House blush for the first time since their first kiss, and he loved that too, obviously.
"Love you too, Jimmy."