Mondays by definition were never good days. But this one was even worse than normal.
It had started with the discovery that not only was there no coffee prepared when House got up - Wilson usually took care of that - but they were also out of the good grind they normally used. House had to resort to the tin of instant they kept at the back of the shelf for emergencies. It tasted even worse because he knew it was his own fault. When they went shopping on Friday Wilson had asked him to pick up a packet of the Ethiopian grind they both enjoyed, but House had been side-tracked by that stupid elf. In the ensuing chaos, the coffee had been forgotten.
House grabbed a Tastykake butterscotch krimpet, ripped open the package, and ate one of the cakes. Still munching, he sipped his coffee and hoped the cake would make it taste better. It didn't work - if anything the brew was worse than if he'd just gulped it down.
"Dammit," he muttered, and ate the other cake. He'd have to make it to the office on a minimum dose of caffeine then and hope that someone from his team had already started the coffee maker.
The drive across town was miserable. By the time he reached the PPTH parking lot, he'd flipped off three other drivers and nearly gotten involved in a fender bender with some idiot soccer mom in a white Escalade. His temper not improved in the least, he pulled into his parking spot and growled at the car when it knocked and coughed its way into shutting down. "Piece of junk," he snapped, and slammed the door twice before he stumped his way up the sidewalk.
Of course the foyer was tarted up with holiday decorations. Cuddy had insisted on a big dreidel to go with the Christmas tree; they sat on opposite sides of the walk-in area. The sight of them aggravated House's bad mood further, but he limped past them to the elevator banks and avoided the reception desk with its display. Pretty colored lights flashed from nearly every available surface, and saccharine music played over the PA system. House gritted his teeth and stepped into the elevator when the doors opened. The people inside moved away from him for some reason, which suited him just fine. He tapped his cane on the floor and wished the car would move faster. He just wanted to get this stupid day over with.
For a moment he considered stopping off at Wilson's office to complain about the lack of quality caffeine at home, but he was drawn towards his own by the faint but unmistakeable smell of coffee.
Apparently, Chase had arrived early and started the coffee maker. House limped into his office, pointedly ignoring the younger man in the conference room, and began the process of getting settled behind his desk.
As expected, coffee arrived in due course.
"Morning." Chase put a mug in front of House, stepped back and crossed his arms. "Good weekend?"
House ignored the question, closed his eyes and took a sip. The supply in the office wasn't great, but at least it was reliable.
Chase was still standing there when he opened his eyes again. And he had a grin on his face.
"What? You want a medal for pressing a button on a machine? Haven't you got some work to do? I distinctly remember a stack of files with potential new cases. Go and find me something interesting!"
Chase shrugged and disappeared, still smiling. How anyone could be in a good mood on a Monday morning was beyond House.
He put on some music, leaned back and waited for the caffeine do its job.
By the time he felt able to face the world outside his office, Foreman had also arrived. Both he and Chase were bent over a small stack of files when House joined them.
Every now and then they'd read aloud from a file. In each case, it took between two and three symptoms before House shot them down. Since he had to be here and endure the holiday spirit rampant in this building, he needed something to get his teeth into, something to make the days until Christmas fly by - not something a six-year-old with a medical dictionary and a copy of Gray's Anatomy could solve.
"Hey, Foreman," Chase suddenly said, "you send all your Christmas cards yet? I saw they're now selling them downstairs at reception. Nice selection."
House looked up just in time to see Foreman shrug. "I haven't sent cards since I was in high school - and that was only because my mother made me write them as a punishment."
Chase grinned. "Yeah, me either. But I'll definitely write some this year. The cards I saw downstairs are really good. We should go check them out. Seriously."
Foreman still wasn't convinced and turned back to his file.
"You could get one for that cute radiologist…" Chase didn't give up.
Time for an adult to intervene. "If Cuddy wants to branch out from selling medical services to stationery, that's her decision. You're here on my dime, so leave your calligraphy exercises until later."
"Um, technically, we're all here on Cuddy's dime. Or rather, the taxpayer's and some stinking rich donors'."
House shot Chase a look. "You just don't know when to keep it zipped, do you?" He sharpened his gaze. Something was up; the blond one radiated suppressed glee. "Santa brought you a blow up doll this year, no doubt. That's why you're all giggly."
Chase said nothing, but his dimples deepened just a bit. House narrowed his eyes. Something wasn't right here, but he didn't have the time or inclination to do any digging, at least not at the moment. He'd wait a while, until everyone was off running errands. Then he'd poke around and get some information . . . House took another sip of coffee and frowned. It was fresh and hot, but otherwise bland and on the watery side. He missed Wilson's coffee. Maybe, just maybe, Wilson had an extra stash of the Ethiopian blend in his office. And maybe he could be convinced to brew some of it, with a little arm-twisting. No time like the present. He got up and took his mug with him to the sink, dumped the lackluster brew down the drain, tipped the mug on its side just because he could, and headed for the door.
"Uh-still involved in a differential," Chase said.
"You haven't chosen a case yet," Foreman pointed out.
"I'll choose something when you give me a case worth my time," House snapped. "Get busy!" He emerged into the corridor and limped over to Wilson's office. "WilSON!" he bellowed, and pounded on the door. "I need coffee!"
"Busy right now, either brew your own or go to the cafeteria!" Wilson's muffled voice sounded . . . cheerful. House frowned. The words didn't match the tone, always a bad sign. He thumped the door again.
"Your coffee's better! Lemme in!"
"I can't buy better coffee anymore, we've been banned from the source. You might remember how that occurred."
House groaned under his breath. "That dump can't be the only place-"
"It is. I googled it."
Silence followed. House bounced his cane on the floor a couple of times as he considered the problem at hand. "I suppose you think this is all my fault," he said finally.
"You don't?" Wilson's voice held frank disbelief.
"No, I don't! It was an accident!"
"Sorry, I'm busy. Talk to you later."
"Wilson-" House hesitated. If he gave a little ground now, he'd gain it back and more besides later. "Okay, maybe it wasn't an accident."
"'Maybe'?" Wilson made a derisive noise. "Try harder."
"Shit. Fine. I did it on purpose. But I had a reason!" House put a hand on the door. "Come on, let me in. I'll tell you what happened."
After a few moments the lock snicked. Wilson opened the door, but just enough to look at House. He took his time about it. House glared back and fought not to fidget. At last Wilson turned away. "Come in then," he said. House followed him into the office. He stopped and sniffed the air.
"You didn't make coffee."
"I've got nothing to make it with. So I went to the cafeteria and picked up a latte." Wilson sat at his desk and gestured at the tall go-cup perched next to a stack of what appeared to be holiday cards in bright red envelopes. "It's not too bad, once you get past the first sip."
"How can this be coffee if it doesn't even smell like coffee in here?" He was not going to resort to cafeteria sludge, no way. "That stuff tastes like used motor oil, and I'm sure the caffeine content is actually negative."
"Why do I not find it surprising that you know what used motor oil tastes like? Anyway, what you say could be true. Not my problem," Wilson said in what House considered to be an unduly snotty tone. "I happen to know Chase brewed a fresh pot earlier. And if that isn't good enough for you, try the kiosk by the gift shop."
"That's just cruel, forcing me to buy swill," House snapped. He considered it though; he'd tried it before, and at least it had the virtue of being strong enough to keep him awake during clinic hours. Without further comment he left Wilson's office. As he moved into the hallway he thought he heard a quiet chuckle, but didn't bother to investigate. Wilson probably enjoyed this.
However, the reason for Wilson's amusement became clear as House crossed the lobby to get to the coffee kiosk. A group of people barred his path and forced him to slow down. As he did so, he glanced at the display on the reception desk - and stopped, surprised to see a battered little Elf on the Shelf perched on the display he'd glimpsed earlier. The figure had its skinny, mangled arms around two stacks of cards with bright red envelopes. That's the elf I trashed in the store. And those are the same cards Wilson had in his office, House thought. A sense of apprehension swept over him. Slowly he came closer, reached out to take a card. The damn thing was coated with glitter except for a square in the middle, which held a photo. House's eyes narrowed. He stared at the picture and felt his cheeks grow warm.
"Son of a bitch," he growled under his breath. When the hell had Wilson had the chance to take pictures of him on the scooter? And why hadn't he noticed the ornament on the bumper? He lifted his gaze to the display and caught one of the receptionists smirking at him. He glared at her and pitched the card at the Elf, who promptly fell over and scattered cards everywhere. "Fucker," House growled, and limped off to the kiosk, his mind in turmoil.
While he was waiting for his coffee, he realized that these were the cards Chase had been hinting at earlier. Half the hospital had seen them at this point, he was sure. And now of course everyone would know he knew, the hospital grapevine would see to that. That meant his revenge would have to be both swift and comprehensive.
He made a stop on the third floor, to check out the unisex bathroom by the geriatric wing. It was usually deserted at this hour, and true to form, it was empty when he entered. He pulled out his phone, did a quick google search, and made a call.