Rating: T
Disclaimer: If you plan on suing me, rethink that. You'll end up with a lot of Ramen Noodles and some TicTacs, since that's all I have to my name.
Author's Note: Hello again, Hector! Thanks for the great high last time, man-- the reviews were just the fix I needed! Unfortunately, this whole 'addiction' thing is a bit cylcical, I'm afraid, so you'll have to keep dealing me the drugs! In this addition, Steve McQueen makes his grand debut as an insightful advisor. Wilson's voice also makes a cameo, as does that of Lindsay House. Enjoy, and remember that I'm jonesin' for feedback!
P.S. - Charlie Blue was the only one to point out my reference to Robert Sean Leonard in the last chapter (the line about 'O Captain My Captain' from Dead Poets Society)! Now, was this because she was the only reader to pick up on it, or because she was the only one to speak up in a review? Oh well. Kudos and thanks for the comments, Charlie Blue... I'll dedicate this installment to you!
"Steve-o, Daddy's home!" House called enthusiastically as he dropped his helmet in the entryway and shrugged languidly out of his leather Jacket. Over on the coffee table, a little pink nose twitched in response.
After emptying his pockets and ducking into the fridge for a beer that had survived Wilson's last visit, the diagnostician limped into the living room and all but fell onto the couch with a sigh Letting his body sink into the worn leather, he kicked his sneakered feet up onto the table next to the small cage. "Uuugh, what a day…"
From within his wood-shaving nest, Steve McQueen poked his furry head up to see what was going on. House smiled. Who said people made better company than rodents? Once, Wilson had ribbed him about talking to his rat, but had quickly shut up when House had pointed out that Steve was a much better listener than the current Mrs. Wilson—or at the very least, he didn't throw hairdryers.
"What happened? Oh, just the usual torture— Cuddy was in fine fire-breathing form over the fact that Chase was doing my Clinic hours…"
Steve blinked and placed his paws on the bars of his white wire home.
"I know, that's what I said!" House agreed wholeheartedly, using a fist-full of his shirt to work on the cap of his beer. Damn screw-tops! "I mean, don't know why she cares who does them, so long as they get done—Damnit—" he grunted in frustration as the stubborn bottle cap refused to budge. Bending his good leg and bracing the beverage against the thigh, he threw his weight into the twisting motion. With a light pop followed by a rushing noise, the vessel gave way and subsequently covered its vanquisher in foamy spray.
Steve McQueen squeaked and scurried in tight circles around his food dish. House opened one eye, beer dripping from his features, and glared at his small companion.
"Shut up, Steve—I've seen you struggle with that water bottle!" he retorted, taking a moment to wriggle out of his now-saturated over-shirt and then using said garment to towel off his face. Once dry, he balled up the article of clothing and lobbed it unceremoniously towards the bedroom. "So, where was I, before I was so rudely interrupted?" A meaningful glance was not lost on the rat. However, it was at that moment that the phone rang.
Glancing over at the noisy object on the kitchen counter, House quickly made the easy decision of ignoring it. In actuality, he wasn't sure why he had a telephone at all; he hardly ever used the damn thing. The annoying ring sounded again and he rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. Maybe he should just turn the ringer off so it would automatically go to voice-mail… But then his own voice filled the apartment via recording, and he sat back to listen.
"You have reached this recording because… A) you are Wilson, or B) you have dialed the wrong number. If the former applies to you: get a life, or at least more friends— you can't come over and drink my booze. If the latter: hang up and buy a proper phonebook. Thanks for your call!" BEEP!
Pause. Sigh. "Niiiice, House…"
House cheered for himself silently and smirked with satisfaction as he immediately recognized the voice as belonging to James Wilson. Sometimes he did think it would be great if Steve were at least big enough to give him a high-five.
"Listen, I know you're there... Probably sitting on the couch with your dirty shoes up on that coffee table—"
House sat up and put his feet flat on the floor, staring at the answering machine accusingly.
"—Drinking a beer and talking to that louse-infested vermin of yours—"
"Steve does not have lice!" the diagnostician protested indignantly to the disembodied voice of his best friend. He also put his beer down on the table.
"—Oh, and speaking of beer… I sincerely hope you grabbed the one that I violently shook this morning while waiting for you to get out of the damn shower even though I said I was going to pick you up at 9 o'clock sharp—"
"Bastard!" House griped with a grudging smile at the thought of the oncologist finally taking some sort of vengeful initiative. He had been trying to get Wilson to grow a backbone for years now!
"—But anyway, I was just calling to find out what you were planning on doing for this wedding mess that you've sunk yourself in. Call me back if you feel like conversing with a vocally-endowed human instead of a possibly diseased rodent. Bye, House." And the call ended with a click.
Sitting once again in silence marked only by the soft shuffling noises that Steve McQueen was making in his cage, House couldn't help but roll his eyes at nobody. Oh, that Wilson—thought he knew everything, didn't he? He thought, making a point to ignore the fact that his friend had correctly guessed every single one of his actions. More to the point, though, his friend's voice-mail had brought up the one thing about the day that he had been trying to avoid. Wedding. More succinctly: Vomit incarnate.
"Wondering what that wedding thing is all about, huh, Steve-o?" House piped up, turning his attention back to his pet. It was always easier for him to think aloud… and Steve provided the perfect outlet for him to do so.
The rat sniffed at a sunflower seed and looked back at his owner. Clearly Steve was very curious about the wedding. He needn't have worried, House would tell him.
"Well, buddy, I'll tell you— I've really done it this time…" He exhaled heavily for effect, taking a swig of the somewhat flattened beer. "See, I sorta kinda told Lindsay—you remember my cousin, don't you—that I'd go to Dumb Mike's wedding."
Steve nibbled on the seed a bit and then paused. House imagined that he looked very distraught over the dilemma. He nodded emphatically, pleased for the compassion.
"Yeah, you're telling me! Anyway, that's not even the worst part—"
Beady little eyes begged to know what the worst part could possibly be. Steve McQueen was on tenterhooks waiting for his human counterpart to finish the thought.
"—The worst part is that I had to ask Cameron to go with me 'cause I sorta kinda told Lindsay that I had a hot date."
"WHAT?! NO WAY!" Steve yelled—or he would have had he been capable of speech. That was okay, House understood that his rat was sufficiently shocked and outraged by the very idea. As it was, Steve had to settle for leaping onto his wheel and making it whir around as fast as his little feet could go.
"You're so right," The diagnostician groaned, slumping his head back against the couch cushions. "I should have just cut my losses and run while I still could. Cripes, Steve—why couldn't I have asked you for advice instead of Wilson?"
The small, brown rat stopped running abruptly, and as a result was carried around a few times on sheer momentum before being thrown off. He hit the soft shavings with a squeak, and House quickly leaned forward to check if his little pal was alright. Almost immediately, the furry head reappeared and black eyes met blue ones with amused accusation.
"What do you mean I just 'pulled a Cameron'—? You flew off your wheel at high-speeds, how was I supposed to react?!"
Blink, blink. Joke's on you, Gregory House!
House sighed and nodded reluctantly, knowing that his rodent friend was right. "Okay, I get your point—She's not that bad, I guess. Well you know, insufferably moral and fluffy at times, but mostly alright… Even decent company sometimes. Every once in a while. Maybe."
Steve McQueen scrubbed his whiskers with two tiny, pink paws for a moment before disappearing back into his nest at the corner of his cage. Conversation closed—you know what to do, House. The grizzled doctor sighed on more time. He began casting about for his cell, and more precisely, Lindsay's phone number—he had to call up and ask about dress code.
It wasn't as if he had a choice. Steve was a very wise rat with very compelling arguments, after all.
...x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x...
Press 'send'… NOW! He thought determinedly, squinting one eye at his thumb that was currently poised over the afore-mentioned button. However, said digit did not respond accordingly. Instead, it curled back onto itself and the wrist holding both and phone up went limp. House groaned at this blatant disobedience and used his unoccupied hand to slap across his forehead.
It wasn't that he was reluctant to talk to his cousin, or even that he was anxious about what he might be required to wear—although that was pretty alarming for a guy found typically in jeans and band t-shirts. No, it was more to the point that he was afraid of jamming his foot even farther down his throat. Let's face it: Gregory House wasn't exactly known for plotting his comments and examining possible repercussions before he rattled them off. Frankly, he just didn't want to open another can of worms.
Despite all of that, though, the fact of the matter remained that he had to make the call. It shouldn't have been that hard to press a simple 'send' key in the first place—Lindsay's phone number was already entered in, and had been for the last five minutes. HIT SEND, DAMNIT! He screamed mentally at himself, and thankfully, it seemed to be enough. One long index finger came down and punched the appropriately marked button. Now, all he had to do was lift the phone to his ear, ask a simple question, and try not to say anything completely moronic. Rudimentary plans were easy to stick to. Yeah, right…
The call rang—once, twice, three times… House reminded himself to breathe, but only after noticing that he was becoming strangely light-headed. The ringing continued, despite the fact that at any second he expected to hear her voice. Where was she..? Lindsay always had her phone on her—ever since becoming an Advertising Executive, the stupid thing had become surgically attached to her person! Suddenly, there was a click.
"Hello—"
House took a deep breath and launched the most casual greeting he could muster. "Hey, Linz—"
"—You've reached Lindsay House. I'm sorry I'm not available to take your call at the moment—"
He cocked an eyebrow in confusion for a split-second, before feeling like an idiot as the obvious occurred to him. It was her damn voice-mail.
"—But if you'll leave your name, number, and the nature of your call, I'll be sure to get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks!"
The recording ended, and another voice told him to record his message after the tone, and that afterwards, he could either hang up, or press 'one' for more options. Finally, there was a tell-tale beep. Another deep breath.
"Hey, Loser... Nice recording—Very professional!" the diagnostician began sarcastically, leaning back on the couch and spinning a vial of Vicodin absently between his fingers. "I'm sure the potential clients appreciate it, seeing as how there's no indication of your true personality anywhere in there. Yeah, they may buy the business persona, but I certainly don't—I happen to know you to be a sophomoric goon whose greatest accomplishment to date is beating Kingdom Hearts on PlayStation2."
He paused here, allowing himself the ghost of a smile at the memory of sitting on that same couch with her last summer, playing that stupid game all day. "Anyway, the fact that you're a liar aside… I just called to ask about the dress-code for this wedding thing. Got to tell the girl if she's allowed to wear those fishnets that I love. Call me back."
Another click and he had ended the call, tossing his cell phone back into his lap and lacing his fingers behind his head. As an afterthought, he took a moment to dry-swallow another white pill. The silence was broken, almost immediately, by the jarring ring of the phone he had just put down. House stared at it in surprise for a moment, reading the LCD display on the front: 'INCOMING: L.HOUSE.' Oh, well that was fast. Without further ado, he opened his cell.
"So tell me, do you screen all your calls—or just the ones from Dr. Feelgood?"
Sitting at her desk a few states away, Lindsay House snorted at the typical greeting from her cousin. "No, why would I screen calls from Dr. Feelgood?"
"You just did."
"Did not."
"Yes you did, that's what I'm entered into your phone as."
"Not anymore. I found that as soon as you dropped me off at the airport, so I re-edited the caller details. The promise of hearing your sultry voice is currently heralded by 'DON'T PICK UP' in all capital letters."
House snickered at this, he couldn't help it. She was his favorite cousin for a reason, after all. "Good one," he conceded, rolling his blue eyes towards the ceiling.
"Thanks. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your acerbic presence? I mean, I'm assuming you didn't call to enquire about my health," she asked, using the same accusation he had earlier.
"You'd be right, O Wise One," he agreed. Might as well cut to the chase. "I'm actually just calling to ask you what guests are supposed to be wearing to the blessed-event-turned-Hell-on-toast."
"Wearing to the… Wait, Mike's wedding?"
"Yep, that's the one."
"Why do you need to know?" Lindsay swiveled her chair around so that her elbows could rest on the desk. Suddenly, this call had become a lot more interesting.
"Well, I left the invitation at the office and I'm assuming someone might be upset if the date and I showed up dressed inappropriately… Say, naked, for example. Or in ponchos and galoshes. Or in loin-cloths and propeller-topped baseball caps—"
"Stop. Back up."
House smirked to himself, enjoying his younger cousin's confusion. He waited for her to catch up.
"You're… You're actually going to come?"
"I believe I already told you that earlier, Schnookums."
"Well, yeah, but—But I thought you were kidding!" She blurted, wholly taken aback by his nonchalant sincerity.
"Usually that's a safe assumption, as I'm typically not to be taken seriously at any cost, but this time I actually meant what I said." He replied casually, drumming his fingers on his knee. So far, so good—no disastrous word-vomit.
Lindsay wasn't fairing quite so well, as far as remaining neutral--she was in some state of shock! She tore her eyes from the Boston sky-line visible from her office window to better focus on the conversation at hand. "So you're coming."
"Yeeesssss," he drew out with slow annunciation. "Want me to spell that out for you? Think there's a 'y' in there somewhere; you'll have to give me a minute to remember though—"
"Okay, I get it. You're coming."
"Hey, you know what? That sounds familiar—who was it who said that, again..?"
"Cram it, Greg."
House smiled at the exasperation in her tone. "Gladly, Rain Man."
"Shut up. Okay, so wait, you're coming to the wedding… and you're… bringing someone?" the voice on the end of the line sounded skeptical, at best.
"Yep. And unless you tell me the dress-code, I'm going to give her the green-light on the black leather corset." He prodded. That should get an answer.
"Alright, alright—hang on a sec…" a couple of hundred miles away, Lindsay House shuffled through the many papers on her desk to find a certain fancy stationary. After a few moments of scrabbling, her fingers closed triumphantly on the invitation and she scanned it. "Okay, so this is a huge wedding…"
Oh, Ugh. He thought, closing his eyes in distaste at the thought of a place swarming with family. "I was afraid of as much."
"Right. So, anyway, as far as style goes, it's high-class and traditional. Military, even."
House muffled a pained groan. Oh yeah—Mike had been in the Navy for a stint. No wonder he didn't like the guy! "For the love of…"
"Long story short—this is a black-tie affair." She cut him off, suddenly chuckling as a certain thought popped into her head. "Black tie. Hey, Greg, do you even own any tie—let alone a black one?"
"Shut up, or I'm hanging up," was the less-than-witty retort that he came up with. This wedding was going to suck. Hard.
Lindsay shook her head with a smile, clearly picturing the look of utter dismay that she knew would be crossing her cousin's face. However, once glance at her watch cut any other ribbing short. "Well hang up, then," She teased. "No, really, Greg… I have a meeting in five minutes."
"Oh."
"So yeah, you can tell your…" a pause. "Your date that it's a formal event."
"My date. Sure." Apparently, he was all out of clever retorts.
"…Okay, well then I'll see you in three days, G— Gotta run. Miss you, can't wait!"
...x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x. .x.x.x.x.x...
It wasn't until the phone clicked that he realized that the call had ended, and that he was still sitting there, frozen. First of all: tuxedos and gowns..?And secondly... THREE DAYS?! Jesus Christ… House swallowed hard and sighed. Now he really should call Cameron and tell her about the attire…
He glanced at his phone again before tossing it to the coffee table. No, he didn't want to deal with it any more right now. Lord knew Wilson would be goading him about it sooner or later any way—He would just talk to her about it in the morning. Reclining lengthways across the couch, the diagnostician crossed his arms securely across his chest and gazed glumly at the ceiling.
This was going to be… Well, he couldn't even fathom how it was going to be. Sure, anticipating outcomes was his forte, but then again. Gregory House massaged a temple. Never before had those results come under the heading of: Allison Cameron—The Wedding Date.