Let it Snow
"House."
House looks up from his PSP, smirking at the familiar sight of Wilson gearing up to hit Lecture Mode. Right on schedule, Minerva says, stepping out of her nest of crumpled referrals and stretching luxuriantly. How long do you think before he hits the hands-on-hips phase?
Rona's hackles are raised, and he can see a glint of teeth. Couple that with Wilson's air of general irritation, and… About three minutes. Less than two if we push the right buttons. "What?"
"Care to guess where I've just been?"
It's a rhetorical question, but… "Apparently not to get a sense of humor," House says, putting the PSP aside.
"We've just been to Foreman's office," Rona says, taking over. "Where we found Foreman, practically apoplectic. Because said office is covered in tree flocking."
"Four thirteen-ounce cans," Minerva says. "And we got the good stuff: chipping it off is going to take for—"
"House!" Cue the pained look, and—there. Hands on hips, as predicted. "What the hell did you—no, I take that back. I don't want to know what you thought you were doing."
We win, he says to Minerva.
"Don't you dare look smug!" Rona growls. "We just spent half an hour convincing Foreman not to fire your ass. And the overtime he's paying the janitors to clean up the mess is coming out of your next paycheck."
"Still worth it," he says. "Where's your holiday spirit?"
"With my peace and goodwill toward man," Wilson says dryly, his expression a clear statement that all three have left the building. He closes the distance between them, Rona on his heels. "House. If Foreman fired you, it would be very difficult for you and your entire large drawer of disciplinary records to get another job."
"He's not going to fire me," House says. "Because I have an extremely impressive cure rate that lets him brag to rich donors."
Wilson's hands drop back to his sides. "That's true. But someday, my quoting that cure rate—"
"Yeah, yeah. Must you be such a buzzkill?" House says. "The look on his face alone—"
"You didn't get to see it," Rona points out.
"We will," Minerva says with relish. "Lisa promised to get us a copy of the security footage."
Wilson tries to look disapproving, but Rona grins and ruins it: Wilson never is as much of a Good Boy as he wants people to think.
"Good," she says. Then, silk-over-steel, "But the next practical joke, we will personally make sure that Foreman gets the satisfaction of watching you clean up."
Minerva nods, and as Wilson and Rona turn to go back next door, House leans back in his chair, reaching with one hand to card fingertips through Minerva's fur. Not a bad threat, he says to her.
No, she agrees, but that's okay: we love a challenge.
END.