All righty! This is a response to the House, M.D. Fic Challenge from pgrabia. The prompts used are as follows:
1.) Beginning line:"Snap! House cursed as the crayon snapped between his fingers."
2.) Sidekick(s): Wilson with some Taub thrown in for the heck of it.
.) Verb: run/ran
5.) Noun: talisman
7.) Adjective: purple
Just want to say, I had a ton of fun writing this. xD
Disclaimer: I do not own House, M.D.
The Not-So-Great Crayon Experiment
Snap!
House cursed as the crayon snapped between his fingers. Muttering viciously under his breath, he dropped the sad little fragments into the waste basket beside his desk – the funeral pyre already containing the heaped remains of several other doomed crayonic souls – or, rather, their mortal bodies. From the point of view of an individual with a fascist mind, it might have looked rather like the wax version of the Holocaust.
House grabbed the next intended victim – a purple crayon this time, as opposed to the sunshine yellow one that had just died under torture. Actually, he wasn't regretting the former's loss. It had been too happy looking anyway. His forehead furrowed in concentration, he tied a length of string around the crayon's middle, and, holding it up so that it dangled helplessly before his eyes, he lifted a lighter beneath the quivering figure. His thumb moved to switch it on.
"Um."
House glanced up. Taub had entered, carrying an ominous looking folder.
"Go away," he told the plastic surgeon, focusing again on the crayon, which clearly had been hoping that the other doctor's arrival meant rescue. "Busy here." He tried to flick the lighter on, and failed completely. "Damn."
"Well, I know how occupied you are with your experiments, and I really hate to interrupt what's clearly the next breakthrough in the common crayon's disease-wracked world – but we've got a case." Taub held out the folder. "Thirty-eight year old male, suffering –"
House's face snapped up again to glare at him. "I said I'm busy. Take it to Foreman."
"Foreman," Taub replied, shaking the file slightly in his hand, "is already with the patient."
"Good," House muttered distractedly. "You can go keep him company." He managed to get the lighter on, and almost immediately succeeded in setting the string on fire. "Damn it!" he said again, dropping both lighter and crayon-held-hostage onto his desk. He sent the latter object zinging sadly into the waste basket with its fellows, where the flame shriveled away after consuming the few bits of paper that were at the bottom along with the remaining crayon wrappers.
A new voice joined Taub's as Wilson pushed open the office door. He frowned. "I probably shouldn't ask, but – why are you burning crayons?"
"Not burning," House corrected him, picking up the empty crayon box, shaking it, and then tossing it away again. "Melting."
"Apparently he's gotten bored with torturing human subjects," Taub remarked, "and has now moved on to inanimate objects."
"Well, there's less screaming," Wilson conceded, seating himself. "But," he advised his friend, "you might want to break all their points off first – I mean, you wouldn't want one to write you up."
"Ha. Ha. Ha," said House sarcastically, clearly not amused. He shoved the lighter back in his pocket, then looked over at Taub. "Patient. Go." He illustrated the point by twirling one finger in the direction of the door. Taub shrugged, tossed his folder onto the desk, and left.
Looking back at Wilson, House found that the oncologist was eyeing him with raised eyebrows. "What?" he asked, rather defensively, leaning back in his chair.
"You're not even going to look at the case?" Wilson queried. He reached over and picked up the folder, glancing through it. "Mm," he said absently. "Looks like fun. Seriously." He threw the folder at the diagnostician, who caught it and immediately dropped it again. "Oh, come on. Do something productive. Save a life, instead of murdering helpless Crayola products."
"Nope," House replied. "But if you want to do something productive – go kidnap me another box of crayons from the cancer kids' play area."
"Forget it." Wilson stood, spreading his hands. "I'm not doing your dirty work for you."
House scoffed. "Oh, come on. It's not dirty. It's an experiment."
"An experiment? To test what, exactly? The heat capacity of the average crayon?"
"I'm trying to get it soft enough so I can bend it."
"Riiiiiight," Wilson said slowly. "Because curvy crayons are all the rage now."
House sighed in frustration. "Didn't you ever annoy the hell out of your parents by demonstrating how you can melt a plastic spoon over a candle during Thanksgiving dinner?"
Wilson blinked. "Not to my knowledge, no."
"Seriously? Who hasn't tried melting plastic-ware over a candle?"
"Enabling oncologists, apparently," Wilson admitted. "But okay, say you succeed in softening this crayon – assuming you don't set anything else on fire and the melted wax doesn't spatter all over your papers. And… you bend the crayon." He paused. "Then what? Are you going to tied the string around your neck and wear it as a talisman to ward off any Crayola agents who might try and sell you their latest brand of erasable marker?"
House shrugged. "Then I'll probably throw it away."
"I know, I know," said Wilson, sighing. "As long as you've proved to yourself that you can do it." He glanced almost sympathetically at the waste basket. "It does seem like an awful waste of crayons, though."
House also looked down at the pathetic remains. A mischievous grin spread slowly across his features.
"Y'know, Wilson," he said thoughtfully, "you're absolutely right." He rose, grabbing his cane in one hand and the waste basket in the other. Wilson groaned, putting a hand over his eyes.
"Oh, God," he muttered dully. "What did I say?"
"You provided me with the basis for an hour's entertainment," House responded cheerfully, rounding his desk. "Thanks. I owe you lunch tomorrow." And he exited the office.
Halfway down the hall, he looked back and saw Wilson practically running out toward the oncology department, clearly desperate to be as far away as possible when the diagnostician commenced with his nth evil plan. Snickering, House limped away.
He spent the next fifty minutes leaning over the balcony that overlooked the lobby, dropping bits of crayon onto the heads of passersby, taking particularly delight in lobbing them forcefully in the janitor's direction when the poor man wasn't looking.
-snickers- I need to write more humorous House pieces. Please review! And thanks to pgrabia for the inspiration! May the Force be with you.