Disclaimer: The concept for House M.D. belongs to David Shore and his minions.
Notes: Possibly the first in a series of ficlets taking place over lunch between House and Wilson. Some may be AU, some may not.
i: the scottish guy
"No," Wilson says.
"Yes!" House says. He rests his chin over his knotted hands. His mouth twists upward. "Your turn."
"Not even you can give someone heartburn just by talking to them." He pauses. "Well, maybe you can, but not in the first five minutes."
"Obviously Mr. I'm-too-cool-for-pants doesn't know that." House helps himself liberally to some of Wilson's dessert (pudding, garnished with something that is surely as bad for the heart as House's voice apparently is) while Wilson stills, struck down and possibly dead by that image. "Don't worry," he says, waving a spoon. "Hospital won't be sued by a bunch of other clinic patients for unnecessary exposure. The guy's Scottish."
"So? Is there some," Wilson waves a hand through the air helplessly, searching for a word, "arcane Scottish rule that says 'Thou shalt not let other people sue hospitals when thou goest about the place naked'?"
House gives him a look. "He's not naked. He's wandering around in the hospital looking like he came out of a schoolgirl fetish video. Skirts," he clarifies.
Wilson is not quite sure why House knows that schoolgirl fetish videos exist, and doesn't think he wants to. "I think they're called kilts, House."
"A couple of changed letters doesn't make them any more manly," House says. "No one's going to take him seriously. Well," he adds distantly, now eyeing the last slice of Wilson's pizza in obviously predatory terms. "Only if they come close enough to see his legs."
"Urgh." Wilson presses a thumb and third finger on either side of his head, and leans his elbow against the table. "I think you just killed the last of my appetite." He does, however, slap House's hand out of the air before it can snatch away his pizza. "But it does explain why you're not worried that Cuddy will come find you and kill you for causing another possible lawsuit."
"I can't strike down annoying people with a word." He pauses to give a speaking look, which says, or I would. "Anyway, Cuddy knows I'm not the god of heartburn." He starts to grin. Wilson holds up a hand.
"Don't."
House assumes a look of shifty innocence. Of course, any expression of anything other than glee would look shifty on House's face. "What?"
"I know what you were going to say, and I don't want to hear it."
"What was I going to say?"
Wilson reaches for another subject. "So what caused his heartburn in the first place?"
House rolls his eyes. "He didn't stay long enough for me to do much of a checkup. He walked in, he started to clutch his chest and ran out for Cuddy before I could say anything."
"Right," said Wilson. "So you didn't say anything to set him off, and you let him go without figuring out what was causing the heartburn. Because that sounds so much like you."
House smirks a little, glancing down. Wilson follows his gaze. By the time he looks up again, the last slice of pizza has acquired magical powers and has teleported itself into House's hand. "His breath smelled like tomatoes," House says. "And he had some soda, and he threw away an ice cream carton before he came into the office."
"Which you know because..."
"I was looking outside." House grins. "Did you know that Cuddy swings her hips a little more when she thinks no one's watching?"
"Why House," Wilson says, "are you picking up voyeuristic tendencies in your old age?"
"It's not voyeuristic if she catches you watching halfway through." He begins to twirl the cane in one hand; a passing intern accidentally walks into it and shoots him a filthy look. House turns back to his seat. As the intern continues on, the cane drops, swings low, and hits the intern neatly in the ankles.
The intern whirls, but House has already turned and is busy cheerfully applying himself to the pizza crust. With a wary look, the intern passes on - a little more quickly than before.
"And it's displays like that which prove your vigilant morality to the world," Wilson says to his empty plate. "Put that thing away. So what about Scottish guy?"
With wide-eyed obedience, House stuffs the tip of the cane into a trouser pocket; the rest of it leans out into the aisle. People filing by veer away in order to avoid walking into it, and give their table the hairy eyeball. Wilson suppresses the sudden striking desire to cringe.
"Last I checked, he was heading into the wrong wing," House says, mouth full. "My bet is, he'll get tired of trying to complain about his spontaneous mysterious," he wiggles his fingers expressively, "heartburn and go home. And Cuddy will never have to know that people think I have supernatural powers."
"You never know," Wilson says, resigning himself to his salad - the only item on his tray that House hasn't touched. "She might believe it. You can be supernaturally annoying, after all."
"Just so you know," House says confidentally, "'to annoy' and 'to cause someone to have heartburn' aren't really spelled the same way. Or pronounced the same way. Or anywhere close, for that matter. Besides, what're the chances that Scottish guy will ever find her?"
On cue, a voice snaps, "Dr. House," behind him. Wilson heaves a sigh as House turns around. The wood of the cane strikes the table, and rattles to the floor.
"Why Dr. Cuddy," he says, smirking up at her. "Just so you know, that was a cane in my pocket."
-
-
feedback: is like my ambrosia. I am a weak addict for it.