Author's Note: A day late, but I think Rabbie would have appreciated the evening of fine wine and better friends that caused the delay.

On Friday, House wandered into the lobby of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital just before noon. He was in no hurry. He didn't have a patient, he wasn't scheduled for a session in purgatory, and tenure meant never having to say he was sorry.

Even better, Cuddy was behind closed doors and didn't look up when he skulked past her office en route to the elevators. All in all, a good morning.

He didn't think anything of the flash of plaid he saw in the lobby, but when he walked into the Diagnostics conference room and saw Kutner wearing a tartan vest, he began to think something was up. Then he remembered the date. January 25. Robert Burns' birthday. Burns Day.

He looked hopefully at the conference room table, but there were no scones, or shortbread, or even oatcakes in sight. "Has Hamish MacWilson been by?" he asked the three little pigs and the big, bad wolf. The greedy bastards better not have gobbled up his share of the treats.

"I don't think he's in today," Taub replied. "He said something yesterday about taking the day off."

House vaguely remembered words to that effect, but he only paid attention to Wilson when it was relevant to him, and even then it was more interesting to watch Wilson strike poses like he was stuck in a Madonna video than to listen to him.

"You," he said, pointing at his tartan-clad fellow. "Kutner of the Glen. Go down to the bakery on Witherspoon and get me scones. You can tell Wilson to pay you on Monday." He couldn't believe that Wilson had left him pastry-less on Burns Day. "But if I hear bagpipes, you're fired." He glared at the others. "Stay out of my way until I have sustenance."

They made a point of staying out of his way the rest of the day. Kutner even left the bag of scones at his office door, before knocking and scurrying away, an absurd exercise as House had watched him approach all the way down the hall.

House enjoyed the scones, but it wasn't the same without Wilson hanging about quoting odd bits of poetry. And it was no fun mocking Kutner over his ridiculous choice of attire. He was as oblivious to what he wore as Chase. But Wilson still maintained quaint notions about professional dress that would have amused Burns, himself.

Since Wilson had abandoned him, House was forced to play his role. He pushed open the door to the conference room.

"O wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursel's as ithers see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us.
And foolish notion;
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us,
And ev'n devotion!?

He doubted his minions would ever be freed of blunders or foolish notions, but it was worth the wasted breath to see Hadley jump in her chair and knock over a glass of water. "Unlucky, Thirteen," he said. "Make sure you clean that up before you go."

Satisfied that he'd spread enough terror and mayhem for the day, he grabbed his jacket and backpack and headed for the exit. His luck held and he escaped the hospital without attracting Cuddy's attention. To celebrate, and out of a feeling of festivity that he would never admit to anyone else, he forewent his usual Friday evening purchase at the liquor store and splashed out on a bottle of 15-year-old Macallan instead.

It was nearing six by the time he pulled up to his apartment, and the sun was already below the horizon. He didn't think anything of the light shining through the cracks in the curtains, but he was surprised to find his apartment door unlocked.

He opened it cautiously and stuck his head in. The first thing he noticed was that half the lights were on in the apartment. The second was the mouth-watering aromas wafting from the kitchen. Apparently, he was now attracting a better class of burglars.

"Take what you want!" he shouted. "Just leave me my dignity."

Wilson emerged from the kitchen, a plate of scones in one hand. "You lost that long ago." He was sans tartan tie, much to House's disappointment, but he'd more than made up for it by donning an apron that read, "If it's broon it's cooked an' if it's black it's buggert."

House ignored his apparel for a moment, in favour of snatching a scone before Wilson changed his mind. "Where were these this morning when I needed them?" he demanded.

"I assume you're using the term 'morning' loosely," Wilson observed dryly. "Considering that it was well past eleven before I could load everything in."

"What did you do, lurk outside until you saw me leave?"

Wilson shrugged. "It wouldn't have been a surprise if you'd seen me."

The logic was unassailable, even if the action wasn't. "You took the day off to bake scones?" It seemed a little extreme, even for someone as fussy as Wilson when it came to cooking.

"You can't rush a perfect puff pastry," he replied. "And it's a good thing I got here when I did. Two of the elements on your stove aren't working. I've been working at half-capacity all day."

It was too easy, House mused. And Wilson had earned a reward, so he refrained from pointing out that he'd been working at half-capacity for as long as he'd known him. "What's for dinner?" he asked instead.

Wilson stared at him. "You do know what day this is?" he asked in a tone that suggested House was slightly mentally deficient.

House considered retracting his reward. "The day when morons without even a drop of Scottish blood wear ugly patterns? Or stupid aprons?"

Wilson didn't even acknowledge the insult with a frown. "Then you should know what's for dinner."

House's mouth dropped open, a few stray crumbs spilling to the floor. "Tell me you're not making haggis in my kitchen."

"I'm not making haggis in your kitchen," Wilson replied agreeably. "I made it in your kitchen several hours ago." He rolled his eyes, but then apparently decided an eye roll wasn't enough and looked heavenward. "You'll eat it and complain that it tastes like dog food, and then you'll have seconds."

"I wouldn't subject a dog to haggis," House muttered. "Not even that furball with teeth of yours that nearly destroyed my apartment."

"Shut up, sit down, and let me finish dinner." Wilson stalked back into the kitchen, but there was a spring in his step that House hadn't seen recently.

House smiled to himself and made his way to the couch. He looked for a place to put the plate on the coffee table, but it was even more cluttered than usual, so he traded the plate for a small stack of DVDs and a hardcover book. He glanced at the movies - Braveheart,Trainspotting, and Highlander - then tossed them on the couch and examined the book. It was a well-worn collection of poetry by Robert Burns. House opened to a page marked with the receipt from the bookstore and grinned. Wilson could always be counted on to go overboard on details.

"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,/Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!" he declaimed.

"Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm."

Wilson emerged again, a disapproving look on his face. "You're not supposed to say that until the haggis is brought out."

"Don't be such a slave to expectation," House retorted. "Do you think Burns would have approved of that?"

"I think Burns would have approved of a beer right about now," Wilson replied, refusing to rise to the bait. "You want one?"

"Get a couple of glasses, instead," House said. There would be another time to travel that path. "I've a nobler blend of John Barleycorn in mind." He pulled the Macallan out of his backpack. It was worth every penny to see Wilson's mouth drop open in appreciation. He was in and out of the kitchen with two tumblers before House even had time to uncork the bottle.

"Slainte," House said, knocking his glass against Wilson's.

"Blessings on your frosty pow," Wilson replied, hiding his smirk with a deep sip from the glass. "Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes or so," he said.

It wouldn't be soon enough. House's stomach was already rumbling in anticipation. "Shouldn't you be out romancing a wench on a Friday night?" he said to cover his eagerness.

Another eye roll indicated that Wilson wasn't fooled. "Saturday'll do just as well. I'm where I want to be tonight."

He was where House wanted him to be as well.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!