July 4th
"Are these even legal?" Wilson asked with horrified joy, staring into the large cardboard box House had just plunked on top of the staff evaluation he'd been trying to fill out.
"Of course. In the former Soviet Union." House trailed a loving finger over the roman candles, rockets, snakes, black cats, smoke bombs, air bombs, fountains and, of course, sparklers. "We are going to take these babies and blow some shit up as our forefathers intended."
"Where, exactly? I'm pretty sure your landlord frowns on explosives." Wilson pulled the evaluation out from under the box; he'd really been hoping to have these completed today and it was already half-past five.
"My cousin owns thirty acres half an hour out of town." House snatched the paperwork from Wilson's hand.
"And he's invited us to use it?" Wilson sounded dubious that any of House's relatives would invite him anywhere, or even acknowledge blood ties.
"Well, he probably won't arrest us if he catches us, if that's what you're asking. Come on, Cuddy's in a meeting; now's the perfect time to make a getaway." House made his way around the desk and perched next to Wilson's elbow, making any kind of actual work impossible. No one did distracting quite like House. "We'll grab some burgers on the way out; it'll be a regular date."
"Does this mean I have to let you feel me up in the back seat?" Wilson tried, and almost succeeded, to sound like he genuinely objected to being 'felt up.'
"But of course. And if I pay for the burgers, you have to put out, too," House leered.
"My virtue is safe then, seeing as how that's never happened," Wilson shot back, surveying the pile of paperwork on his desk, obviously torn. He really needed to get this done.
"Aw. Don't make me beg," House said huskily. Wilson sighed; he already knew the inevitable conclusion of this discussion. It was really only a question of how long he'd make House wait before agreeing. The pile of files sat on his desk, a silent admonition.
Screw it. "Okay," he agreed, and then amended, "But I'm driving," before House could think his victory complete.
It took them considerably longer to get there than House had estimated. In fairness, it probably wouldn't have if Wilson hadn't taken the wrong exit out of town, a mistake that he would probably never live down. The beer-run added to their total time too. Plus the going back for matches.
Finally, though, they pulled up an unmarked gravel road that House insisted led to his cousin's property. Overgrown fields threatened to swallow the choked path back up and weeds thwacked along the side of Wilson's car.
"Are you sure this is a place?" Wilson asked, when they came to a rusted red gate impeding their way. He turned off the ignition and wondered if it would be worth the effort to try and talk House into abandoning this misadventure. But once set on a path of destruction, House could not be swayed.
"Sure it is." House was already on his way out. "Leave the car, grab the works," he called, managing to scramble over the offending gate with an agility beyond most of the cane-wielding set. Wilson followed more slowly, trying to avoid getting his loafers muddy and awkwardly carting the box of explosives.
They found a clearing pretty quickly, or at least a patch of bare ground and what was probably a leftover fire-pit that would serve nicely for their pyrotechnics. Wilson ended up being the one actually setting things off. House explained that he couldn't make a quick enough getaway should things go horribly wrong; he failed to elaborate on how likely he thought that was. So Wilson lit the fuses while House shouted advice about technique and aesthetics from several hundred feet away. Wilson quickly learned that lighting fireworks of dubious quality and even more dubious legality was closer to an art than a science. His family had always celebrated the Fourth of July in a more demure fashion, with a garden party and lemonade in a cut-crystal punchbowl, thus his previous experience was limited to the sparklers he and he cousins had been allowed to run around on the back lawns with.
There was something to be said for the thrill of the explosion, the spangle of sparks raining down in a fleeting glitter, Wilson had to grudgingly admit. However, there was considerably less to be said for the panic when a freshly lit firecracker tipped over before take-off.
"I don't suppose you thought to bring a fire extinguisher." Wilson had vivid footage of raging wildfires playing in his head, and, okay, they were usually in place out west, but he really didn't want to be responsible for the first New Jersey blaze in recorded history.
"Quit worrying. It looks like rain anyway," House retorted. Of course, that just gave Wilson something new to worry about, for indeed the sky had that gray, laden look that always promised a downpour. House rolled his eyes in one of those expressions that managed to convey his absolute scorn when he couldn't be bothered to actually put it into words. "Relax, that's the last of 'em anyway. Looks like we failed to do any real damage. Oh well, there's always next year."
Wilson sank to the ground, having given up on keeping his work clothes clean. He didn't want to know what the drycleaner's would think. "There's something sad and desperate about grown men enjoying third-rate explosives this much," Wilson asserted.
"Yeah. Almost as sad as a guy who's sleeping with his crippled best friend as place holder until he can find the next missus."
Even after years of walking the razor's edge of friendship with House, the comment caught Wilson unprepared and left him breathless. "You're not a place holder," was the first thing he could think of to say, a lame comeback if ever there was one.
"So you're going to tell the next thing with long legs and a perky rack that comes along you'd rather sleep with an aging cripple?" Somehow it was the off-hand way in which he said it that stung most of all.
Wilson rose and started gathering the burnt-out ends of spent firecrackers. "I wasn't going to use those exact words, no. But something along those lines."
"Leave it, Wilson," House said, referring to Wilson's attempted clean up.
"What will your cousin think?" Wilson said, automatically falling into responsible adult mode.
"You know, kids these days," House said gravely. "They've got no respect. I blame the parents."
But Wilson didn't get a chance to respond, because that was when the rain hit. They made for the car, but House couldn't exactly run and Wilson wouldn't leave him behind, despite House's bitching that he was a moron. By the time they reached it, they were both hopelessly soaked. Wilson took a morose satisfaction in it; glad the weather so perfectly reflected his mood. The rain drummed a gentle tattoo on the roof of the Volvo. Wilson fit the key in the ignition but didn't start the engine. Gazing out the window, he appeared utterly engrossed in watching droplets wind their way down the dusty glass. House shifted uncomfortably and tried ineffectually to wipe his face off with the hem of his soaking t-shirt. Finally the silence got to him.
"Are we just going to sit here? Because you can give me the silent treatment just as easily at home and in dry clothes."
"I'm not punishing you." Wilson's voice was weary. He reached out and drew a squiggle on the rapidly fogging window. With the world outside a gray-green blur, it felt like they were the only two people in existence. "I'm not even mad."
"Oh, God," House drug the word out, making it two syllables of utter disgust. "You're disappointed in me."
Wilson continued to watch the rain run down the windshield in dirty rivulets as though deeply fascinated by the changing patterns of tributaries. He kept his mouth shut, trying to avoid giving House any more ammunition.
Finally he said, "No, I'm not disappointed in you." He started the car, pretending that navigating the muddy road occupied his full attention so that he wouldn't have to see if House caught the faint stressed he'd placed on 'you' and what it meant.