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Chantily Lace
Title: Chantily Lace
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phinnia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The first real thing Wilson said to House was 'Can I help you?' The second thing was 'dude, you're gonna want that in at best a 'B' cup.'
Warnings: vague crack. cross-dressing.
Disclaimer: A wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. I own nothing.
Author's Note: Forsavemoony's 'Odd Couple Challenge'. One version of how House and Wilson met. Unadulterated ridiculousness because I wanted some and damnit, I'm good at it.
Boston, 1985. A nameless, faceless strip mall, now long flattened as part of some urban development project and probably replaced by yet another nameless, faceless strip mall. The only thing that was even remotely remarkable about this strip mall in 1985 was that it contained a Frederick's of Hollywood, home of lingiere too outrageous and cheesy for the discriminating Victoria's Secret consumer, but slightly less tawdry than the sort of thing that comes out the faded windows of Arnie's Skin-FliXXX-O-Rama down south Boston way.
James Wilson, with the ink barely dry on his McGill diploma, has moved to Boston for the summer for a fellowship. Unfortunately the fellowship pays barely enough to cover food in this godforsaken city, let alone rent on a decent apartment, and because he's kind of keen on having roommates with only two legs and without carapaces (even though roach roommates would undoubtedly be more useful at the end of the world), he takes a second job. And the best second job he can find that doesn't involve flinging meat around large men with dangerous knives is working retail, and the only place that looked at his application twice was, indeed, Frederick's of Hollywood.
It's really not that bad. He makes quite a bit on commission, actually: something about big brown eyes and boyishly floppy hair tends to charm women into buying this sort of thing. Maybe they imagine the cute salesman while they flounce around the room in flimsy nylon and marabou: that's the going theory of one of his coworkers. James doesn't know and he doesn't really want to think about it. It's just a job, and it's paying the bills, and that's good enough for the moment.
He's working closing one night; it's a Friday, after eight. It would be busier but it's pelting down hail and it's past Valentine's Day, so there's no Hallmark-inspired need to buy teddies with the front split open down to the navel in an attempt to look like Claudia Schiffer. It's just an ordinary Friday and it's slow so he's getting caught up on charting and watching reruns of Cagney and Lacey, keeping half an eye on the door.
The little bell rings over the door, and a guy comes in.
"Let me know if you need anything." James says automatically. The guy grunts in response and starts flicking through the cami and panty sets. Tall guy, late twenties, leather jacket and jeans. Pretty unremarkable. Wilson goes back to his charts.
Five minutes pass, maybe ten; it's hard to tell. Time is moving slowly tonight. The only real sounds are the scratches of a pen, canned laughter from the little TV set, and the metallic slide of hangers across stainless steel racks.
And then he hears it - a sound more suited to his other job, but a sound he's trained himself to respond to without thinking. The sound of a body hitting the floor.
He's around the counter and past the racks of garishly coloured bras before he even realizes, pushes aside a forest of feather boas -
And is confronted with the guy, sprawled on the ground flat on his ass, his long legs out in front of him - trying out a pair of marabou high-heeled bedroom slippers. In pink.
Well. James tries very hard not to laugh and mostly succeeds.
"Can I help you?"
"I doubt it." The guy mutters, mostly to himself. "I think I'm pretty far beyond help at this point."
James' eyes travel up those long, long legs (the heels suit, and that's an odd thought, but not so odd considering some of the things he did as an undergraduate) and then the laughter spills over, and he has to lean on one of the racks to keep from falling, because the guy has chucked his jacket over one of the dressing room doors and is wearing a bright pink leopard-skin bra and a flimsy white robe over his Yes t-shirt.
"Dude," he sputters, "you're gonna want that in at best a b-cup. What are you doing?"
"Lost a bet." he sighs, and tries to get back up again on the heels. "Never play poker with anyone who's been to prison. That's all they do in there - well, that and make license plates and figure out new and innovative ways to accidentally drop the soap."
James wipes tears away from his face and holds out a hand, still grinning. "You lost a bet and it led to this?"
"Long story." Guy takes it and pulls himself up. He's got a strong grip and long-fingered hands. Once he's on his feet again he tries to balance in the heels, and does a little better, holding both hands out like wings.
"I've got time. And I know how to erase the security tapes so no one sees this charming spectacle. Spill."
"I was playing cards with our bass player and ran out of cash." Guy rolls his eyes, which are a rather astounding shade of blue. "And well, it came down to one last hand, and the loser has to cross-dress for our next gig. Which is tomorrow. I guess it's probably better it's me, really, at least if we want to ever get booked again. Charlie in heels and a miniskirt would probably cause blindness and psychotic episodes."
"You do have the legs for it." James snickered, shaking his head. "Tell you what. Give me a ticket to your show and I'll help you with this - we'll go all out. I've even got a coworker who does cosmetology school at night. I'm sure she'll play along, it'll be great."
"Why?"
"Why not?" He sticks out a hand. "Hi. I'm James Wilson."
The guy's eyebrows furrow. James feels like he's being scanned, like he's nothing but a can of peas on a supermarket check-out belt. And then he smiles - just a little one, blink and you'll missi it, but it's there, and the guy sticks out a hand in return.
"House. Greg House."
Author:
phinniaRating: PG-13
Summary: The first real thing Wilson said to House was 'Can I help you?' The second thing was 'dude, you're gonna want that in at best a 'B' cup.'
Warnings: vague crack. cross-dressing.
Disclaimer: A wandering minstrel I, a thing of shreds and patches. I own nothing.
Author's Note: For
savemoony's 'Odd Couple Challenge'. One version of how House and Wilson met. Unadulterated ridiculousness because I wanted some and damnit, I'm good at it.Boston, 1985. A nameless, faceless strip mall, now long flattened as part of some urban development project and probably replaced by yet another nameless, faceless strip mall. The only thing that was even remotely remarkable about this strip mall in 1985 was that it contained a Frederick's of Hollywood, home of lingiere too outrageous and cheesy for the discriminating Victoria's Secret consumer, but slightly less tawdry than the sort of thing that comes out the faded windows of Arnie's Skin-FliXXX-O-Rama down south Boston way.
James Wilson, with the ink barely dry on his McGill diploma, has moved to Boston for the summer for a fellowship. Unfortunately the fellowship pays barely enough to cover food in this godforsaken city, let alone rent on a decent apartment, and because he's kind of keen on having roommates with only two legs and without carapaces (even though roach roommates would undoubtedly be more useful at the end of the world), he takes a second job. And the best second job he can find that doesn't involve flinging meat around large men with dangerous knives is working retail, and the only place that looked at his application twice was, indeed, Frederick's of Hollywood.
It's really not that bad. He makes quite a bit on commission, actually: something about big brown eyes and boyishly floppy hair tends to charm women into buying this sort of thing. Maybe they imagine the cute salesman while they flounce around the room in flimsy nylon and marabou: that's the going theory of one of his coworkers. James doesn't know and he doesn't really want to think about it. It's just a job, and it's paying the bills, and that's good enough for the moment.
He's working closing one night; it's a Friday, after eight. It would be busier but it's pelting down hail and it's past Valentine's Day, so there's no Hallmark-inspired need to buy teddies with the front split open down to the navel in an attempt to look like Claudia Schiffer. It's just an ordinary Friday and it's slow so he's getting caught up on charting and watching reruns of Cagney and Lacey, keeping half an eye on the door.
The little bell rings over the door, and a guy comes in.
"Let me know if you need anything." James says automatically. The guy grunts in response and starts flicking through the cami and panty sets. Tall guy, late twenties, leather jacket and jeans. Pretty unremarkable. Wilson goes back to his charts.
Five minutes pass, maybe ten; it's hard to tell. Time is moving slowly tonight. The only real sounds are the scratches of a pen, canned laughter from the little TV set, and the metallic slide of hangers across stainless steel racks.
And then he hears it - a sound more suited to his other job, but a sound he's trained himself to respond to without thinking. The sound of a body hitting the floor.
He's around the counter and past the racks of garishly coloured bras before he even realizes, pushes aside a forest of feather boas -
And is confronted with the guy, sprawled on the ground flat on his ass, his long legs out in front of him - trying out a pair of marabou high-heeled bedroom slippers. In pink.
Well. James tries very hard not to laugh and mostly succeeds.
"Can I help you?"
"I doubt it." The guy mutters, mostly to himself. "I think I'm pretty far beyond help at this point."
James' eyes travel up those long, long legs (the heels suit, and that's an odd thought, but not so odd considering some of the things he did as an undergraduate) and then the laughter spills over, and he has to lean on one of the racks to keep from falling, because the guy has chucked his jacket over one of the dressing room doors and is wearing a bright pink leopard-skin bra and a flimsy white robe over his Yes t-shirt.
"Dude," he sputters, "you're gonna want that in at best a b-cup. What are you doing?"
"Lost a bet." he sighs, and tries to get back up again on the heels. "Never play poker with anyone who's been to prison. That's all they do in there - well, that and make license plates and figure out new and innovative ways to accidentally drop the soap."
James wipes tears away from his face and holds out a hand, still grinning. "You lost a bet and it led to this?"
"Long story." Guy takes it and pulls himself up. He's got a strong grip and long-fingered hands. Once he's on his feet again he tries to balance in the heels, and does a little better, holding both hands out like wings.
"I've got time. And I know how to erase the security tapes so no one sees this charming spectacle. Spill."
"I was playing cards with our bass player and ran out of cash." Guy rolls his eyes, which are a rather astounding shade of blue. "And well, it came down to one last hand, and the loser has to cross-dress for our next gig. Which is tomorrow. I guess it's probably better it's me, really, at least if we want to ever get booked again. Charlie in heels and a miniskirt would probably cause blindness and psychotic episodes."
"You do have the legs for it." James snickered, shaking his head. "Tell you what. Give me a ticket to your show and I'll help you with this - we'll go all out. I've even got a coworker who does cosmetology school at night. I'm sure she'll play along, it'll be great."
"Why?"
"Why not?" He sticks out a hand. "Hi. I'm James Wilson."
The guy's eyebrows furrow. James feels like he's being scanned, like he's nothing but a can of peas on a supermarket check-out belt. And then he smiles - just a little one, blink and you'll missi it, but it's there, and the guy sticks out a hand in return.
"House. Greg House."
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