[81 - Watch] House MD; someday i'll plant seeds with you

[smallredboy]

Title: someday i'll plant seeds with you
Fandom: House MD
Characters/Pairings: Greg House/James Wilson, Amber Volakis
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Wilson watches House's performance.
Notes: 1920s AU. Reclaimed homophobic language. Also for 100prompts .

Wilson had thought the man was a patron just like him, until he stands up and limps to the stage. He supposes war wound, but that’s given the chance that he’s one of the few older veterans like Wilson himself, which isn’t likely— it could be anything else, really. Cripples don’t come only from the trappings of the Great War, the trenches and the gunfire.

The man introduces himself as House, sitting down on the piano bench in the middle of the blues group around him. Wilson likes to think he doesn’t like jazz, but with this attractive mysterious man starting to play with a skill he’d never quite so seen before, he’s left a little speechless.

“So cool, so sweet, so fair…”

His voice is like honey, too, and as he plays piano Wilson can’t help but watch and think that he looks so much more alive right now than when he was drinking, talking to the bartender. Amber keeps a hand on his arm, like she knows what he’s thinking— it’s long-since been established that they’re both odd, a lesbo and a fag, keeping appearances up by pretending to date.

“You like him,” Amber accuses, twirling a few strands of her blonde hair on her fingers.

He shrugs. “He sings well.”

“You don’t like jazz,” she points out.

House turns to him, still looking alive and so relaxed, like he’s right in his element. His eyes trace over and he’s not quite so sure if he’s looking at him or at Amber when he sings, “She will never find another man like me.” And then he lets out a chuckle, and Wilson stares.

Amber laughs a little, leans against him and squeezes his hand.

House keeps singing, and his voice is stupidly perfect— like he’s wrapping Wilson in his arms and singing to him as they dance slowly. But House is in the stage, and Wilson is with his fake girlfriend, and they’re at a speakeasy drinking illegal alcohol. Nothing’s going on there apart from that, even if Wilson wanted it to (which oh, he does, he definitely does).

He leans into his own hand, keeps watching as House sings, as House owns the stage, so lively and so perfect. His beard and his short, graying hair and oh, Wilson is so doomed.

When House stands up from the bench, he pulls a face, but he keeps standing straight. Everyone claps and cheers, some people clinking their glasses together.

Wilson claps too, and House’s gaze fall into his own, and suddenly the mysterious singer is smiling, tilting his head and bowing for the speakeasy.

House steps off the small stage as the musicians welcome their next guest.

“I think we’ll have to dabble into illegality more often,” Amber teases.

Wilson doesn’t reply, but she knows the answer. Yes, we will have to. Even if just to see House with his honey voice perform again.

Once he was a law-abiding citizen, but alcohol and men make a good exception.