AN: Short drabble that I wrote in Italian ages ago and that I decided to translate. It's set somewhere in the first half of season 2. I hope you enjoy!
"It's absurd," Wilson's statement trails off with a resigned sigh.
His isn't an objection, nor an attempt to be polemic. It's a simple statement, and a quite obvious one – one that he finds himself repeating every day, several times a day; one that he's been repeating for years.
It's absurd to arrive at work three hours late, with pupils dilated from a triple dose of Vicodin. It's absurd to eat lunch in the room of a coma patient – on the coma patient, truth to be told – just to watch General Hospital reruns undisturbed. It's absurd to run an illegal gambling establishment, accepting bets about final diagnosis. All absurdities, follies.
Yet, he's the one who prescribes the Vicodin and laughs behind the door of his office, when Cuddy yells irate about lack of respect and work ethic. He's the one who joins lunch and comments the promiscuous relationships of the doctors and the nurses moving inside the tv screen. He's the one who collects the money from gamblers and who bets, from time to time, the highest sum.
"It's brilliant," retorts House with a smirk, making the dark wooden cane whirl with slight, quick motions of his agile fingers.
What's so brilliant about locking two albino rabbits into Cuddy's office, so that tomorrow morning she'll be welcomed by a room fool of excrements, Wilson doesn't know. He doesn't even ask himself this kind of questions anymore.
"Don't look at me like that, Wilson," the tone of House's voice is overly dramatic and somewhat childish. "The evil witch wants me to do six extra hours of clinic duties."
Wilson rolls his eyes. "Because you broke the MRI." He concedes himself the amusement of a theatrical pause, before saying: "Again."
"You're so dramatic."
"Right," Wilson scoffs, "because considering the idea of turning Cuddy's office into a warren absolutely insane makes me a petulant, tedious man."
"Oh my God!" House's eyes open wide in fake surprise. "You can read my mind!"
Wilson doesn't answer, a bothered frown crumpling his brow, as he comes to realize that he's fighting a lost battle.
House is smirking again: a sly smirk that matches the victorious twinkle of his blue eyes. "I'll give you 200 bucks if you do it in my place."
A huff escapes Wilson's pursed lips. They're always stuck there: challenges, bets. And then more challenges and more bets. "300," he raises the stakes.
"If you can't," House declares, "I get the money."
"Deal."
House ducks his head to side, stares at him for a full second and then stands up.
They're still stuck there, Wilson thinks: House tries to trick him and he falls for the trick. Purposely falls, of course. "You don't think I'll do it, do you?"
As expected, his question doesn't get an answer. House's hand is already on the door's handle and when he bursts into a laugh, he's already disappeared into the hallway.
"What the hell…?!"
Cuddy's voice stops for a moment, before reaching its most acute pitch when she pronounces a rather uncharacteristic yet explicit imprecation. Every single person at the reception turns to see two bundles of white fur bolting into the room and starting to slalom between the legs of people waiting for their turn.
And Wilson laughs, shamefully, trying to hide the blush of his cheeks behind a folder that contains the medical record of a terminal cancer patient.
"You actually did it." House gazes at him in shock for a long moment and then he snorts. "You really can't help but indulging me, Jimmy."
There's something sickly true in that statement, but Wilson decides he doesn't want to think about it, as he lets his briefcase fall on the floor and collapses on his best friend's reclining leather chair. House's office is almost completely dark.
"We made a bet," he weakly objects. "I always honor my bets."
"Oh, I am sure of it, Wilson."
Cuddy's voice, coming from the pitch-dark conference room, startles him and he sits up just in time to watch her cross the door into House's office with a threatening expression. She's obviously livid.
"Lisa…"
She stops his vain attempt to justify himself by raising her hand. "You'll be doing House's clinic duty, other than yours. It's about time you stop being his partner in crime."
They're always stuck there, Wilson wonders once again, as he makes his way back home with a portion of take-away Chinese food and absolutely no will to talk to his wife: challenges, bets; more challenges, more bets.
But, at least, he gained 300 dollars – and the memory of House's disappointed face when he reluctantly placed the banknotes over his open palm one by one is worth every extra hour of work.
Foreman has the most funereal look when he finds him by the coffee machine the next day, and Wilson doesn't have the time to mentally prepare the usual good advice on how to tell someone they're dying (isn't it the reason why they usually ask him for help, after all?).
"I lost 100 bucks because of you," Foreman utters instead. "And so did Chase and Cameron."
Wilson feels his eyebrows raise in surprise and then wrinkle in confusion. "Uh?"
"We had bet that House wouldn't have managed to make you cover his clinic duty hours this week."
And a cold shower falls on him all of sudden, reminding him that House never pays for a lost bet; not even when it looks like he did.
"Rabbits in Cuddy's office?" Foreman excalaims, shaking his head at Wilson's perplexed expression. "What is wrong with you?"
Wilson doesn't know what's wrong with him. He doesn't even know why he isn't truly surprised that he has been deceived – again. But he remembers that sneaking into the hospital in the middle of the night and breaking into Cuddy's office with two rabbits was fun; the most exciting moment of his week by far.
"It's absurd," he mutters to himself, taking a sip of tasteless, watery coffee. Then, he smiles over the plastic cup. It's absurd, he tells himself again, but it's okay.