Fic: I Think I Love You

[rubberbutton]

Title: I Think I Love You
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,000
Summary: fluffy to the point of being wildly out of character; also, comes dangerously close to song!fic

“I think I love you—then what am I so afraid of? I’m afraid that I’m not sure of…a love there is no cure for!”

House cracked open one bleary eye, registering the bright midmorning sunshine streaming in through the open blinds. He rolled over, willing sleep to return again, but it was too late, consciousness already had him in its cruel grasp. He sighed heavily, opening his eyes for the sole purpose of scowling. The object of his displeasure, however, was out of view—busy prettying himself in the bathroom by the sound of it. House stretched and pulled a pillow over his head, but its downy filling wasn’t enough to muffle the verse.

“I’m sleeping and right in the middle of a good dream, all at once I wake up from something that keeps knockin’ at my brain…” The next part of the song was lost to the sound of running water and enthusiastic teeth-brushing. A gurgle-spit followed and House took the opportunity to chime in.

“Oy, shut up! You’re not exactly David Cassidy,” House called, pulling the pillow from his head.

“But I am dreamy,” Wilson answered, appearing a moment later in the doorway, vigorously toweling damp hair. He wore a towel slung low on his hips, the end tucked in an uncertain knot at his hip. House mentally willed the terrycloth to slip, but just as it was about to give, Wilson anchored it with a hand. House’s scowl deepened.  “You’re up. Finally. It’s almost eleven,” Wilson chided brightly, oblivious to House’s bitter disappointment. He opened a drawer of House’s dresser. “I’m borrowing a pair of boxers. These are clean, right?” He held up a light blue pair he’d just dug out. The bright light illuminated the pale skin of Wilson’s shoulders, making him glow like sun-warmed marble—if that marble had gone just a bit soft around the middle.

“Hey!” House protested, realizing his boxers were about to get up close and personal with another man’s package—never mind that he’d already gotten up close and personal with that selfsame package—but Wilson had already slipped the pair on under his towel, an oddly modest gesture. “A man’s underwear is sacred.”

“Okay, I’m wearing your sacred underwear.” He considered this and added, “Feels a lot like cotton.” He began hunting for his jeans, finding them in a crumpled heap under the bed, where they’d been discarded last night. Picking them up and shaking them out, he inspected them for damage. Apparently finding them in acceptable condition, he stepped into them.

“Are you always this cheery when you get laid?” House asked, watching as Wilson’s nimble fingers zipped his fly and lingered on the button at his waistband. “No wonder your wives all cut you off.”  

Even this jibe failed to ruffle Wilson’s good humor. “And isn’t it lucky for you that they did,” he observed, wearing a merry expression. He collected the towels, hanging them carefully over the door, while House watched the flex and stretch of trapezius, posterior deltoid, and latissiumus dorsi.   

“If you’d asked me last night, I might have agreed, but I didn’t realize that I was going to be serenaded by fabricated 70’s pop hits this morning. And I’m not sure it’s a fair trade.”

Wilson set his hands on his hips, but his customary stance was somewhat undermined by his shirtlessness. “Oh, oh—you cannot tell me your dislike of cheerful music outweighs your affection for sex.”

House studied the spackled texture of the ceiling as though considering that very question. “Hm. That’s a hard one to call.” He smoothed a hand over the sheets, fingers running along the machine-stitched pattern of the duvet.

“Really,” Wilson asked, looking entirely unconvinced. “You’d rather listen to Jimi Hendrix than sleep with Jimmy Wilson? I don’t know if that says more about you or me.” He shrugged helplessly and held his hands up in surrender. “Oh well. If you don’t want to sleep with me ever again that’s your decision; I’m not going to try and change your mind.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” House interrupted, pushing himself into a seated position, his back against the headboard. “Let’s not get hasty.”

Wilson smiled softly, an expression that took years off his face, reminding House of the carefree boy he wasn’t sure Wilson had ever actually been. “You’d like to say differently?”

House managed a disaffected shrug, despite the tangle of sheets. “It’s just, you know, that I sort of like sleeping with you.”

“Sort of like?” Wilson sniffed indignantly. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“Okay, more than sort of,” House granted. “Closer to really like. Possibly even really, really like.”

“I can work with that.” Wilson leaned over the end of the bed, placing his hands on the comforter. “Believe me; you really don’t have to worry.” He started singing again in his mellow tenor and House groaned elaborately. Wilson put first one knee on the bed than the other, crawling toward House. “I only want to make you happy and if you say ‘hey, go away,’ I will.”

“Go away,” House grumbled, but Wilson continued his approach, undeterred.

“But I think better still, I’d better stay around and love you.” Wilson straddled House’s hips, his hands resting on the headboard. “Do you think I have a case?” He leaned in until their faces were inches apart. “Let me ask you to your face. Do you think you love me?”

House tried to scowl, but his rebellious face twisted itself into an unwitting grin. “Nope, sorry.”

Wilson pursed his lips in petulant disappointment. “Aw. I can keep singing. Try and win you over,” he offered, smelling of House’s cheap shampoo and bar soap.

House quickly covered Wilson’s mouth with a hand, before he could continue. “Fine.” He rolled his eyes and sighed in a put upon sort of way. “I think I love you,” he sang finishing the song, unsure who was more surprised—Wilson or himself.

Wilson smiled delightedly, his eyes bright, and pressed his lips to the palm of House’s hand. House withdrew it, but only so Wilson could lean in for a real kiss. “You think?” he whispered against House’s lips.

House let his hands rest against Wilson’s ribs and squeezed slightly. “I know.”

Comments

[evila-elf.livejournal.com]

eeee :D
This was all kinds of fun!
Was grinning all the way through and I love the image of Wilson in the slipping towel...I was frowning along with House when it didn't slip!

Lovely :D