Closing a copy of 'The Gunslinger', House stood an air of finality about him. "Well Jimmy, this has been fun but I've got to pull a disappearing act."
Wilson just nodded, turning a page and waved.
He hadn't caught sight of House's movements until it was much too late. With Wilson's red mug in hand, House gave him a final wave and retreated.
Damn him.
Wilson poked his head into House's office, wondering why exactly the other hadn't met him for lunch like they had planned. "House," he called, looking around. "Huh, where is he…"
A hand came to rest on his shoulder but Wilson had long ago learned not to tense. House had this amazing way of sneaking up on him but over the years he'd learned that it was just something else to expect from the other and there was little he'd be able to do about it except get used it.
"Hey there Mary Sunshine," he greeted innocently before taking a sip of coffee from the red mug he'd just pilfered from Wilson's office.
He'd locked it away.
He locked the mug in a drawer and was carrying the key with him.
How the /hell/ did House get it?
Wilson stared at the empty drawer, a baffled expression clear on his face. Maybe House had accomplices. Yes, that had to have been it. There were a whole slew of people who were all drinking from his red mug and House was their ringleader. He would lead them in cult-like ceremonies where they would all pass the mug around drinking blood or something.
Now he was just getting stupid, they wouldn't drink blood in his mug, House would have them go for booze instead.
House strolled (well as much as someone with severe limp can 'stroll') into his office, thinking of new and amazing ways to torture his fellows, avoid clinic duty and maybe even getting lunch out of Wilson. Setting his keys down, he raised an eyebrows he caught sight of something rather peculiar sitting on his desk.
The red mug that he had so often stolen from Wilson, sat there, just waiting for him. House looked around, wondering what exactly Wilson was up to before cautiously jabbing the mug with his cane. When nothing exploded, he picked it up, the other eyebrow coming to join the first as he realized that there was a note inside.
Unfolding it, he smirked as he read. Here, just take the damn thing.
Ah, sweet victory.
Somewhere in Oncology, Wilson was drinking from another red mug, wondering if House had noticed that the one sitting on his desk had only cost him four dollars at Wal-Mart.
