On Monday, Kutner bounces into the office with an expression on his face that Taub has come to both dread and enjoy, like the slasher scenes in a horror movie or the audition rounds of American Idol. Whatever loss in income he suffered in his desperate bid to salvage his marriage, he's more than gained in free entertainment over the past year.
"You'll never guess what I saw on the weekend!" Kutner exclaims, dumping his backpack in the corner and heading straight to the coffee machine.
It's a familiar refrain, echoed almost every Monday morning. The answer could be anything from a Princeton Tigers hockey game to the latest Battlestar Galactica webisode — a phrase that holds virtually no meaning for Taub. Kutner finds everything fascinating and expects the rest of the world to share his enthusiasm.
"The face of God?" Hadley asks. She's been happier, more stable, recently, which Taub suspects has something to do with the way she and Foreman look at each other when they think no one else is watching. Taub is all for inter-office romances, especially ones that don't involve him and therefore deflect House's attention away from his personal life.
"Better," Kutner says, stirring two spoonfuls of sugar and a heavy dollop of cream into his coffee. "On Saturday, I went out for drinks with this woman I'm seeing. She's a golfer, amazing body torque. Anyway, we went to her club, and the bar was filled with guys in tartan. For a minute, I thought it was some new dress code that she hadn't told me about, but it turns out there was a Burns Supper upstairs and they were getting a head start on the drinking before the piper arrived. I wanted to see if there were any tickets left, but it was sold out. I've always wanted to try haggis," he muses.
It's quite possibly the first time Taub has ever heard those words uttered. "It's internal organs and oatmeal boiled in a sheep's stomach. It's something to be endured, not anticipated."
"It can't be that bad," Kutner replied. "Those people were paying $60 a head for it." Taub can almost see him trying to work out a way to turn a profit on haggis next year. Kutner sees potential in everything. It's one of the things Taub likes best about him.
"That's for the whiskey needed to drown out the taste." In fact, Taub doesn't mind haggis. Like many dishes, it's much more palatable when he doesn't think too hard about its origins.
"Do we have to start the week by talking about offal?" Foreman asks.
"What's so awful about offal?" Kutner replies, chuckling at his own joke. "And that's not what I was talking about. You'll never guess who I saw going into the dinner when I was leaving."
Taub already knows where the story is going, but he doesn't begrudge Kutner his moment of revelation. Foreman, on the other hand, brings the train to an abrupt halt. "House," he says, and it's hard not to smile at the way Kutner's face falls in disappointment. Bursting Kutner's bubble is far more entertaining than watching it inflate.
"How did you know?" Kutner asks, struggling to retain his enthusiasm.
"I overheard Wilson saying something about Sean Connery and embracing his heritage, and then he gave House a ticket and told him to be ready by six thirty on Saturday." Foreman smiles. "There were some vague threats involved, as well."
"And House went?" Hadley sounds surprised, as if she can't imagine House in a setting outside the hospital, especially a social setting.
"You think he's going to turn down a free dinner?" Foreman replies. "Besides, he always does what Wilson wants eventually, if not exactly the way Wilson intended."
That's true enough, if not the whole truth. House, they now know, will do just about anything for Wilson, including frying his brain and, rumour has it, apologizing.
Kutner tries to rally. "Okay. But you'll never guess what he was wearing."
It doesn't take three intelligent people, trained to make obscure connections in even more obscure diseases, to figure that out. Taub speaks up first. It's his turn for the reveal. "Argyll jacket and vest, bow tie, kilt, sporran, garters and sock knife," he says. "Royal Stewart. Wilson was in Gunn." It's the little details that make the victory complete.
"How do you know what tartans they were wearing?" Kutner asks suspiciously.
"I asked." Taub knows the smile on his face is smug, but he thinks he's earned it. "Wilson is a sept of Clan Gunn. And Wilson rented Royal Stewart for House because, quote, House is a royal pain in the ass, unquote." Top that, he thinks, though he knows that once Kutner recovers from his disappointment, he'll happily scrounge for any morsel of information Taub is willing to share.
"You were at the dinner?" he asks. "But you're Jewish."
"So is Wilson," Taub points out. "My wife's best friend is on the board of the club. She had two extra tickets for her table, so Rachel said we'd go. I don't exactly have right of refusal these days." Which, as it turns out, is a good thing. He never would have agreed to go otherwise, and Kutner would have won this round.
"So you had dinner with House?" Hadley asks, and this time her surprise is justified.
"Different tables." Thank G-d. "But we had a scotch and cigar together while Wilson danced with my wife. House might solve the tough cases, but Wilson's the real lifesaver." It's not that Taub dislikes dancing. But there's a difference between swaying to a slow song, two bodies fitting together in all the right ways, and trying to remember which direction to weave through the other half-drunken idiots that have only just learned the steps. But Rachel loves dancing, and he loves Rachel, so he's willing to make a fool of himself for her. But he'll never object to someone else looking the fool, as long he gets that last slow dance.
"Wilson loves to dance. It's the only time in a relationship he gets to lead." For a man with a cane, House can be surprisingly stealthy. None of them heard or saw him enter the conference room, an impressive feat given the glass walls.
"Amber let him lead?"
One day an ambitious neurologist is going to do a detailed scan of Kutner's brain and identify the switch that's been disconnected between his mouth and internal censor. Taub worries that one day he'll make some meaningless comment that will get him beaten up or worse, but in the meantime he's happy to let Kutner express those better-left-unexpressed thoughts for all of them. This time, though, it's not the words that are ill-advised, but the expression of utter disbelief that they all feel but are smart enough to disguise.
"We took turns." Somehow, Wilson has managed to slip into the room behind House. They need to get a bell for the door. "Once she was certain I wouldn't trample her toes." He smiles, but Taub had seen the sadness in Wilson's eyes when he watched the couples slow dancing at the end of the night.
"You'd better hope that the lovely Mrs. Taub isn't looking to even the score, because Wilson has a secondary specialty in healing broken hearts," House interjects. "A sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on, a spin around the dance floor, and then it's wham, bam, thank you Dr. Wilson for the horizontal tango."
This time, Taub doesn't mind being House's object of deflection. Amber's ghost is already too heavy a presence in the room.
"Actually," Wilson says, winking at Taub, "we talked about signing up for salsa lessons on Tuesday nights."
By rights, Taub should be the one concerned by that, but it's House who looks disturbed. House upbraids Wilson constantly about moving on from Amber, but that doesn't mean he actually wants it to happen. Especially not out of sight and surrounded by single women looking for more than salsa to spice up their lives. Taub has taken dance lessons with his wife before. Wilson would be more sought-after than a regiment of officers in Meryton.
"Sounds like a great idea," Taub replies, pleased by the furrow that appears in House's brow. "There's a photography course that I've been meaning to take on Tuesdays. We could meet for dinner beforehand, make it a weekly get-together." He has no more intention of taking photography classes than Wilson has of learning salsa, but baiting House is even more entertaining than listening to Kutner, especially when he has back-up.
"You could start a club," House snipes. "The Princeton chapter of Adulterous Jews International. Your wife might not be able to join yet, but give her time. Revenge is a dish best served cold, after all." He looks almost abashed when Wilson frowns at him, but Taub doesn't waste his energy getting upset by jabs he deserves.
"I assume you managed to lure him out of his lair with the promise of a free dinner and drinks," he tells Wilson instead. "But how did you get him dressed appropriately?"
Wilson's look of self-satisfaction is eerily familiar. "It was part of the bet. Length — word count and time — of the inaugural address."
Of course. House would run book on the date of his own death. It's probably the only thing keeping him alive. "What would have happened if you'd lost?"
Wilson just shrugs. "I would have had an extra ticket for the dinner. But I'm sure Cuddy would have liked a few hours break from the baby. Win-win either way. For me, at least." His expression of innocence doesn't fool anyone, and it certainly wouldn't have fooled House.
"You bought the tickets, rented the formal wear, and kept House in scotch most of the night," Taub muses, though the latter was probably a defensive measure. "You must have dropped $500 on the night. I'd call that a loss."
"Only when measured in monetary terms," Wilson replies. "I'd call it money well spent."
"You can't put a price on an evening out with a good friend," Kutner says, apparently sincerely.
They all stare at him in disbelief. "That's right," Wilson says kindly, but as he turns to leave Taub sees him roll his eyes at House.
"What was your guess?" he asks once Wilson is out of sight.
"Five hundred words and 33 minutes," House replies. "I was expecting heckling. Boy, was I disappointed."
Taub doubts that. The bet was clearly just a formality, another step in that odd dance House and Wilson have been mastering for years. Maybe Kutner isn't entirely wrong.
It's not until a few minutes later, when the video arrives in their inboxes, that Taub appreciates the full value of that five hundred dollars, not to mention the steady stream of scotch. House in formal Highland regalia was disturbingly attractive, though Taub would run naked through the patient wards before he admits that to anyone. House in formal Highland regalia drunkenly singing "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" is the highlight of his year so far.
House's angry bellow carries clearly from Wilson's office to the conference room, but it's cut off sharply by the sound of Wilson's genuine, unrestrained laughter. When House returns to the conference room, his step is lighter than it has been for weeks.
House lives to win, but Taub knows that victory comes in many different forms.