Ficlet: Quarter for the Meter (H/W)
Title: Quarter in the Meter
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Houson
Summary: Which is how it all started, really: unseen GM blades and the un-recognized smell of 'what in the fuck was I thinking?'
Disclaimer: Not at all mine; but definitely kid tested and mother approved!
Beta: ...Er.
Usually when there's the subject of fan blades and the mention of excrement, people have this nifty second sense (called 'common') that allows them to step to the one side or the other. Thus out of harm's way.
Dr. Wilson's, however, is impaired. Completely broken. Sadly demoted to a sentence that started with 'I could, at one time...' In all sincerity, though, it's not his fault. He's been fooled by House's fan cardboard cut-out and the novelty, plastic bowel movement so many times that he can't tell the imposter from the real thing anymore. It’s a sad story, by all accounts, though he’s sure no one’s accounting because they’re also too busy deciding whether they, too, really should duck or not.
It's a hell of a thing being House's doorma--... friend.
Which is how it all started, really: unseen GM blades and the un-recognized smell of 'what in the fuck was I thinking?'
House all buddy-buddy up to his side, cane hooking along the underside of desks in the clinic and hauling him to and fro on a wheeled stool like some sort of half-man, half-chair creation that belongs up in an attic somewhere with Edward Scissorhands. Not that he mentions it; House copes. And that's good enough. Except that House's stool is running into his stool and his ink pen scratches a very nasty line in the middle of recommending Plavix and a diuretic. Either it's going to read as the blatantly irresponsible handiwork of one department head annoying another or look like Wilson got suddenly very pissed at whoever invented Fursoemide.
"Hey-hey; I got propositioned!" Stage-whisper, being elbowed eagerly so Wilson's careful to keep his pen safely from the vicinity of his paper just for now, but he's still not looking up, frowning oddly and considering white-out; hospital policy be damned.
"To fling yourself off the top of Princeton?"
"Think of the poor bastard who'd have to clean that up-- no, idiot. Swingers. One had le sneh-fells."
The horribly imitated accent gets his attention, brings brown eyes to amused blue. Okay, no, it's really the swingers part, but... Lean in a little, those whacks of eyebrows pushed up in intrigue.
"Threesome? Female-female... or...?"
House flaps a yellow folder under his nose, braces the rubber stopper against a PC unit and kicks off like a practiced backstroke swimmer. Wilson can practically hear the unspoken 'whee!' by the manner in which both trendily sneaker-ed feet go flashing their soles shamelessly to the clinic at large. Nikes were nothing but a cheap thrill. Okay, maybe not cheap... He also almost clips a large woman wearing far too much pink and towing her two little Snoballs behind her, hand-in-hand.
House's heels squeak when he digs them into tile to slow his careen, drawing both hands up--folder too-- to shield his eyes before lowering them and shaking his head as if clearing up some disorientation or momentary blindness.
"I need side-views; I shouldn't even have come close to hitting that."
Wilson rolls his eyes and makes a 'get on with it' gesture.
"Ehn!" A so-so gesture made in return. "Married couple. They said I should bring a friend-- you in? Might give you some ideas on how to do Marital CPR. With some tongue."
"...Foursomes?"
House's eyebrows waggle so ridiculously that Wilson grins lopsidedly.
"You in?"
"Sure!" He chirps, with all the enthusiasm of a sun-warmed, starving baby bird. Mouth open, wings all a-twitter.
House answers with a smirk, kicking up his feet as he digs in with his cane and rolls behind the counter, leaving nothing but an exaggerated, adolescent "ra-aa-d!" in his wake.
As before mentioned, Wilson has been asked to guess too many times. Wilson's common sense is broken. Wilson blames House. A fucking lot.
Blades whirl, shit splatters and Wilson ends up with some outrageous dry cleaning bill.
All because his Bad Stuff O'Coming meter is broken.
It's how these things happen....
-E-
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Houson
Summary: Which is how it all started, really: unseen GM blades and the un-recognized smell of 'what in the fuck was I thinking?'
Disclaimer: Not at all mine; but definitely kid tested and mother approved!
Beta: ...Er.
Usually when there's the subject of fan blades and the mention of excrement, people have this nifty second sense (called 'common') that allows them to step to the one side or the other. Thus out of harm's way.
Dr. Wilson's, however, is impaired. Completely broken. Sadly demoted to a sentence that started with 'I could, at one time...' In all sincerity, though, it's not his fault. He's been fooled by House's fan cardboard cut-out and the novelty, plastic bowel movement so many times that he can't tell the imposter from the real thing anymore. It’s a sad story, by all accounts, though he’s sure no one’s accounting because they’re also too busy deciding whether they, too, really should duck or not.
It's a hell of a thing being House's doorma--... friend.
Which is how it all started, really: unseen GM blades and the un-recognized smell of 'what in the fuck was I thinking?'
House all buddy-buddy up to his side, cane hooking along the underside of desks in the clinic and hauling him to and fro on a wheeled stool like some sort of half-man, half-chair creation that belongs up in an attic somewhere with Edward Scissorhands. Not that he mentions it; House copes. And that's good enough. Except that House's stool is running into his stool and his ink pen scratches a very nasty line in the middle of recommending Plavix and a diuretic. Either it's going to read as the blatantly irresponsible handiwork of one department head annoying another or look like Wilson got suddenly very pissed at whoever invented Fursoemide.
"Hey-hey; I got propositioned!" Stage-whisper, being elbowed eagerly so Wilson's careful to keep his pen safely from the vicinity of his paper just for now, but he's still not looking up, frowning oddly and considering white-out; hospital policy be damned.
"To fling yourself off the top of Princeton?"
"Think of the poor bastard who'd have to clean that up-- no, idiot. Swingers. One had le sneh-fells."
The horribly imitated accent gets his attention, brings brown eyes to amused blue. Okay, no, it's really the swingers part, but... Lean in a little, those whacks of eyebrows pushed up in intrigue.
"Threesome? Female-female... or...?"
House flaps a yellow folder under his nose, braces the rubber stopper against a PC unit and kicks off like a practiced backstroke swimmer. Wilson can practically hear the unspoken 'whee!' by the manner in which both trendily sneaker-ed feet go flashing their soles shamelessly to the clinic at large. Nikes were nothing but a cheap thrill. Okay, maybe not cheap... He also almost clips a large woman wearing far too much pink and towing her two little Snoballs behind her, hand-in-hand.
House's heels squeak when he digs them into tile to slow his careen, drawing both hands up--folder too-- to shield his eyes before lowering them and shaking his head as if clearing up some disorientation or momentary blindness.
"I need side-views; I shouldn't even have come close to hitting that."
Wilson rolls his eyes and makes a 'get on with it' gesture.
"Ehn!" A so-so gesture made in return. "Married couple. They said I should bring a friend-- you in? Might give you some ideas on how to do Marital CPR. With some tongue."
"...Foursomes?"
House's eyebrows waggle so ridiculously that Wilson grins lopsidedly.
"You in?"
"Sure!" He chirps, with all the enthusiasm of a sun-warmed, starving baby bird. Mouth open, wings all a-twitter.
House answers with a smirk, kicking up his feet as he digs in with his cane and rolls behind the counter, leaving nothing but an exaggerated, adolescent "ra-aa-d!" in his wake.
As before mentioned, Wilson has been asked to guess too many times. Wilson's common sense is broken. Wilson blames House. A fucking lot.
Blades whirl, shit splatters and Wilson ends up with some outrageous dry cleaning bill.
All because his Bad Stuff O'Coming meter is broken.
It's how these things happen....
-E-