Disclaimer: Don't own anything, not even a van down by the river.
A/N: A Christmas present for hibernia1. She posted the YouTube vid that inspired the fic.
Warning: Don't try this at home. House has nine lives, but most of us don't. Hot glass can shatter and cause major injuries.
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Lab coat flapping against his legs, Wilson barrels out of the elevator, setting a direct course for the doctor's lounge. He decelerates and carefully weaves through clusters of doctors and nurses mulling outside of the room, and stops in front of Chase who is chatting up two nurses. "Well?"
"Everyone fled the lounge when they saw what House was cooking up." Chase shrugs. "So far, there are no explosions or dismembered body parts."
Wilson nods and takes a deep breath as he pushes open the door to the lounge. His quiet bravado cracks and his emotional mortar crumbles as he moves closer to House. He jabs an accusing finger at the wires dangling from House's hand. "What are you doing? I left a half-naked clinic patient stranded in the middle of an exam when I heard what you were up to."
House looks pointedly at his watch. "By my calculation you should have arrived two minutes earlier. The hospital grapevine is running on dial-up during the holidays."
Wilson's hands plant on his hips. "This is crazy, House. You can't replicate everything you see on YouTube."
"Sure I can. Watch." House opens the microwave door and thrusts a pile of Christmas lights into its belly. His fingers tap the display pad, and the turntable comes to life, spinning to the drone of the motor.
About to wrap his arms around House and force him out of the room, Wilson stands dumbstruck, mesmerized. There's something scab-picking fascinating about the surreal sight of tree lights roasting inside the oven. He feels pressure on his arm, and House is tugging him backward.
Six feet away, House flourishes his cane like a wand and says, "Behold! My kind of Christmas magic, Wilson." On cue, the nest of bulbs twinkle in rainbow bursts of bubbly cheer. Wilson's mouth drops open. The display is damned impressive.
House accompanies the lightshow with a rendition of, emDeck the Halls/em, in double time.
The recital barely registers with Wilson except he recognizes the Chris Farley variation at the end.
"Fa la la la la, frickin' la dee da!"
Still immovable after the flashing lights run out of pop, Wilson watches House limp back to the counter, hit pause, and return with industrial oven mitts and a hard hat fitted with a face shield, which he shoves unceremoniously into his hands. "Now perform your own special kind of OCD magic, and clean up after me. When you're finished, come by my place. Antlers, optional."
Returning to his senses, Wilson raises a finger, and opens his mouth to protest. House lands a big, wet smooch over it with a side of tongue, effectively cutting off any discussion. Before Wilson has a chance to catch his breath, House is walking out the door.
Hat on his head, Wilson slowly pulls on the mitts. He mentally compares this Christmas surprise to House's earlier Hanukkah production. It's hard to choose which one is better. House is a whiz with candle wax.
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Thanks for reading and Happy Holdays!