bironic

You know I love you, right?

~

House shot an irritated look at his bedside clock. It had been twenty minutes since Wilson went to the bathroom to prepare for the night's festivities. He was already naked and eager, more than ready to engage, everything was ready to go--except for the other party, who was taking his bloody sweet time.

"What the hell are you doing in there, Wilson? Hurry up!"

A dragging five minutes later, Wilson finally emerged, crab-stepping into the bedroom. House should have realized what was up then--though in his defense, other parts of his anatomy were ruling his brain at the moment. As it was, House was more annoyed that Wilson was still wearing his pajama pants.

"You're overdressed for the occasion," House snapped, gesturing to his erect penis. "Snap to it."

Wilson shook his head. "Maybe it's better that you go on without me tonight."

House blinked at Wilson's quiet demurral, then scowled. "Right. Last I checked, it takes two to indulge in the pleasure of anal sex. You and me, or more appropriately, me and you. One to give, one to receive--"

"Not tonight, OK?" Wilson lowered himself down onto the side of the bed gingerly and winced.

"Oh, sure. 'Not tonight, dear, I have a headache,'" House sing-songed in a mocking voice. Wilson shot a dirty look at him; House's eyes narrowed. "Your discomfort is a lot lower than that," he said, intrigued, studying Wilson's fidgety unease. His eyes widened. "Oh, God, please tell me it's not diarrhea, because that's just gross."

Wilson shook his head.

"That's a relief. And obviously you don't extinguish your sissy bath candles with your farts--"

"I wish," Wilson said through gritted teeth. "It might not burn so much."

House's face fell as the meaning of the words sank in. "No. No way. You're kidding."

Wilson swung his legs onto the bed and stretched out, grimacing with each movement.

"You're not kidding." House slammed his head into the pillow as he felt himself fall to half-mast. "Dammit, Wilson!"

"Excuse me for ruining your evening," Wilson said wryly. He folded his hands on his stomach. They both stared up at the ceiling, both a little awkward with the disappointing turn of events.

"So how long are you out of commission?" House looked over at Wilson again. "It's not an anal fissure, is it?"

"I think it's just hemorrhoids," Wilson said. "I felt some lumps just inside my sphincter. They were reducible. My guess is it should only be a few days." He turned his head towards House. "It's odd though, varicose veins don't run in my family--"

"Most cases of hemorrhoids don't have a cause. Drink your Metamucil in the meantime--"

"I probably could use some more fiber in my diet, more exercise--"

"And invest in stocks of Preparation H. I hear it's also good for reducing puffy eyes."

Wilson grinned despite himself. "I'll remember that for my next supermodel shoot."

House's mouth twitched with amusement. "Your improving your anal health is all well and good," he continued, hefting himself up on one arm, "but it still doesn't solve our current dilemma."

Wilson glared up at him. "I am not going to subject myself to an anal fistula just so you can get your rocks off."

"I didn't say that." He lifted one of Wilson's hands from his stomach and set it over his penis, while sliding his own hand down Wilson's waistband. "I can do without your post-coital flatulence for tonight."

After they were both spent, the lights were turned off, and they were snug under the blankets, House was drifting toward a satisfied sleep when Wilson's voice rang in the darkness of the room.

"House, what the hell did you mean by extinguishing my sissy bath candles with my farts?"