Fic: Gotta Run 2/6
Title: Gotta Run 2/6
Summary: Remember the days when Wilson and House were friends? So do I.
Word Count: 5378 total
Head Count: House, Wilson, OC. Cameo appearance by Foreman. Chase gets three lines, because it’s in his contract. Cameron and Cuddy have the week off.
Directions: 2 C. fluff, 3 T. angst, 1 C. heavy drama. Beat ingredients well. Cook in hawt oven til a crisp golden brown. Season to taste (S1, S2, or S3).
Disclaimer: Don’t own. Don’t even rent. Just squatting illegally. (Hey, back off, Tritter. It was a joke, man! Can’t you take a joke? No, really. Put those cuffs away. I-- )
A/N*: This is set in early fall, a few weeks post Cane and Able.
A/M**: “A chapter a day keeps the No-New-Ep-for-Two-Weeks Blues away.”
* A/N=Author’s Note
** A/M=Author’s Motto
Chapter 2: The Importance of Being Earnest
“You’re actually cooking?” asked Wilson, twisting on the couch to savor the sight of House in the kitchen.
“Figured it was my turn to make something stuffed with vomit.”
“Not take out? Not order in?”
“That’s such a cliché.”
“Be still my beating heart. What is it? Was there a special on the Reduced for Quick Sale aisle? Discontinued-- ”
He was interrupted as the microwave buzzed. House removed several items, transferred them to two plates, and managed, though limping heavily, to transport them into the sitting room without spilling anything from either plate. “In the immortal words of the Pillsbury Dough Boy: ’Nothin’ says pukin’ like somethin’ you been nukin.’” He put the plates proudly on the coffee table and returned to the kitchen.
Wilson stared for a few minutes wordlessly. “What are they?” he asked at last.
House read from the back of the box. “’Jimmy Dean’s Chocolate Chip Pancake and Pure Pork Sausage.’ The best part? They come on a stick. A sausage/pancake/chocolate chip-sicle. So you can eat and hold onto the remote at the same time. Gimme.” He grabbed the remote from Wilson and heaved himself over the top of the couch. “Do you think they need maple syrup, too? I think they need something.”
Wilson picked up a sausage-popsicle with its pancake cover and examined it. “Everything else aside-all the toxic chemicals, the cholesterol-aren’t they kind of fattening? For someone who’s, you know, getting fat?”
House gave him an appraising once-over. “Nah,” he said. “You can afford it now. The chin has receded. The belt has returned to its default setting. The needle is out of the red zone. You haven’t been dieting, so you must have been hitting the treadmill.”
It was a typical House question disguised as a statement. Wilson took a big bite of the revolting sausage. “After a fashion,” he said, once he had swallowed. “Good to know it’s working.”
“The treadmill in the fitness room is a bitch. It’s so old, none of the computerized settings work. You should get Cuddy to replace it.”
“It’s still a good workout.” Wilson held up the half-eaten sausage-sicle. “Hey, you know, these things aren’t half bad.”
“Yeah,” said House. “I think you can safely eat them for breakfast, too. So, what do you say: come by tomorrow morning, we’ll have ‘breakfast,’ and then I have it on excellent authority that try-outs for the Princeton cheerleading squad are at nine o’clock in the college stadium. I bet we could sneak in and heckle. Maybe they’d even let us be judges.”
Wilson squinted thoughtfully, as if trying to picture the event. “Yes, you’d be a great Simon Cowell.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” said House, sitting up straight and putting on a God-awful English accent, “but that looked to me like something you’d see at a preschool Gymboree.“
Wilson laughed out loud and reached for the plates, taking them back into the kitchen.
“So, we’re on for tomorrow?” House turned to watch him stack the dishes in the sink.
“Sounds like all kinds of fun,” said Wilson without turning around. “But I’ll take a pass. I’m tied up all morning.”
“Too bad. I’ll just have to finish off these chocolate chip beauties by myself then.”
“Go ahead. They’re your arteries.” He returned to the couch and they watched in silence for a while. They’d put The L Word on mute, so they could talk, but it still required concentration.
“Oh, that’s nice, what they just did there,” exclaimed Wilson. “Now they’re licking it up. Do you suppose that’s legal?”
“Not in New Jersey. I’m pretty sure the FDA has banned it. So, how’s Slobodan working out?”
“Slobodan?”
“Yeah. The new fellow.”
“Oh, Anton. He’s a really good fit. Smart. Dedicated. Nice guy.”
“Earnest as all get out, too. He’s a little old to be a fellow, isn’t he? Bet he did a stint in the Peace Corps after med school.”
“Doctors Without Borders, actually. And what’s wrong with earnest?”
“He’s probably atoning for the sins of his father.”
“Excuse me?”
“Slobodan Milosovic. The mass murderer of Serbia. Mr. Ethnic Cleansing? Does no one read the paper anymore?”
“Anton’s Albanian, actually.”
“Even worse. Do you have any idea what Ceausescue did to kittens?”
“House…not everyone is evil. Not everyone lies. There is such a thing as goodness, plain and simple.”
“You’re so right. I’m crying. But they’re happy tears.”
Wilson sighed and got up from the couch. “I’m going home. Got to get an early start in the morning.”
“Sure. It’s Saturday. Early mass. Oh, wait. Isn’t that on Sunday?”
“Ha ha.” Wilson paused at the door. “So…enjoy your heart-attack-on-a-stick tomorrow.”
“Yeah--not to mention the yummy cheerleaders.” House had turned on the sound and was intent on the TV. He didn’t look at Wilson. “You enjoy your run.”
“I’ll try.“ Wilson froze, halfway out the door. He stood there for a long moment and listened to the murmur of the television. “How did you know--?”
House didn’t even bother to look around. “The hospital treadmill works just fine, which you’d know if you were really using it. So that means you’re actually running, outdoors. And you wouldn’t be running if you didn’t have someone to run with. And the fact you didn’t tell me means you don’t want me to know who you found to go running with. Not Grace-she’s half dead. Debbie? Francoise?”
“No. And no.”
“Then it must be someone who"--his voice took on a slavic lilt--"very much enjoys to run.”
Wilson turned with a sigh to look at House. But House had gone into the kitchen. Wilson took a deep breath and followed him in.
“He wants to run in the Boston Marathon in the spring, and he needs someone to train with him.”
“Good. You should do it.” House rummaged around inside the freezer. “How often do you run?”
“Every morning.”
“Excellent. Really. I’m…that’s great. Here.” He pulled out the box of Jimmy Dean monstrosities and thrust them at him.
“What?”
“Take them. If you’re doing all that running, you need carbs and protein. And Slobo will love these, trust me. It’s the national food of Hungary. Says so right on the label.”
“I really don’t-“
“Take them.”
Wilson took them without a word.
****
Chapter 3 is here: http://maineac.livejournal.com/5328.html#cutid1
Chapter 1 is here: http://maineac.livejournal.com/4833.html#cutid1
Summary: Remember the days when Wilson and House were friends? So do I.
Word Count: 5378 total
Head Count: House, Wilson, OC. Cameo appearance by Foreman. Chase gets three lines, because it’s in his contract. Cameron and Cuddy have the week off.
Directions: 2 C. fluff, 3 T. angst, 1 C. heavy drama. Beat ingredients well. Cook in hawt oven til a crisp golden brown. Season to taste (S1, S2, or S3).
Disclaimer: Don’t own. Don’t even rent. Just squatting illegally. (Hey, back off, Tritter. It was a joke, man! Can’t you take a joke? No, really. Put those cuffs away. I-- )
A/N*: This is set in early fall, a few weeks post Cane and Able.
A/M**: “A chapter a day keeps the No-New-Ep-for-Two-Weeks Blues away.”
* A/N=Author’s Note
** A/M=Author’s Motto
Chapter 2: The Importance of Being Earnest
“You’re actually cooking?” asked Wilson, twisting on the couch to savor the sight of House in the kitchen.
“Figured it was my turn to make something stuffed with vomit.”
“Not take out? Not order in?”
“That’s such a cliché.”
“Be still my beating heart. What is it? Was there a special on the Reduced for Quick Sale aisle? Discontinued-- ”
He was interrupted as the microwave buzzed. House removed several items, transferred them to two plates, and managed, though limping heavily, to transport them into the sitting room without spilling anything from either plate. “In the immortal words of the Pillsbury Dough Boy: ’Nothin’ says pukin’ like somethin’ you been nukin.’” He put the plates proudly on the coffee table and returned to the kitchen.
Wilson stared for a few minutes wordlessly. “What are they?” he asked at last.
House read from the back of the box. “’Jimmy Dean’s Chocolate Chip Pancake and Pure Pork Sausage.’ The best part? They come on a stick. A sausage/pancake/chocolate chip-sicle. So you can eat and hold onto the remote at the same time. Gimme.” He grabbed the remote from Wilson and heaved himself over the top of the couch. “Do you think they need maple syrup, too? I think they need something.”
Wilson picked up a sausage-popsicle with its pancake cover and examined it. “Everything else aside-all the toxic chemicals, the cholesterol-aren’t they kind of fattening? For someone who’s, you know, getting fat?”
House gave him an appraising once-over. “Nah,” he said. “You can afford it now. The chin has receded. The belt has returned to its default setting. The needle is out of the red zone. You haven’t been dieting, so you must have been hitting the treadmill.”
It was a typical House question disguised as a statement. Wilson took a big bite of the revolting sausage. “After a fashion,” he said, once he had swallowed. “Good to know it’s working.”
“The treadmill in the fitness room is a bitch. It’s so old, none of the computerized settings work. You should get Cuddy to replace it.”
“It’s still a good workout.” Wilson held up the half-eaten sausage-sicle. “Hey, you know, these things aren’t half bad.”
“Yeah,” said House. “I think you can safely eat them for breakfast, too. So, what do you say: come by tomorrow morning, we’ll have ‘breakfast,’ and then I have it on excellent authority that try-outs for the Princeton cheerleading squad are at nine o’clock in the college stadium. I bet we could sneak in and heckle. Maybe they’d even let us be judges.”
Wilson squinted thoughtfully, as if trying to picture the event. “Yes, you’d be a great Simon Cowell.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” said House, sitting up straight and putting on a God-awful English accent, “but that looked to me like something you’d see at a preschool Gymboree.“
Wilson laughed out loud and reached for the plates, taking them back into the kitchen.
“So, we’re on for tomorrow?” House turned to watch him stack the dishes in the sink.
“Sounds like all kinds of fun,” said Wilson without turning around. “But I’ll take a pass. I’m tied up all morning.”
“Too bad. I’ll just have to finish off these chocolate chip beauties by myself then.”
“Go ahead. They’re your arteries.” He returned to the couch and they watched in silence for a while. They’d put The L Word on mute, so they could talk, but it still required concentration.
“Oh, that’s nice, what they just did there,” exclaimed Wilson. “Now they’re licking it up. Do you suppose that’s legal?”
“Not in New Jersey. I’m pretty sure the FDA has banned it. So, how’s Slobodan working out?”
“Slobodan?”
“Yeah. The new fellow.”
“Oh, Anton. He’s a really good fit. Smart. Dedicated. Nice guy.”
“Earnest as all get out, too. He’s a little old to be a fellow, isn’t he? Bet he did a stint in the Peace Corps after med school.”
“Doctors Without Borders, actually. And what’s wrong with earnest?”
“He’s probably atoning for the sins of his father.”
“Excuse me?”
“Slobodan Milosovic. The mass murderer of Serbia. Mr. Ethnic Cleansing? Does no one read the paper anymore?”
“Anton’s Albanian, actually.”
“Even worse. Do you have any idea what Ceausescue did to kittens?”
“House…not everyone is evil. Not everyone lies. There is such a thing as goodness, plain and simple.”
“You’re so right. I’m crying. But they’re happy tears.”
Wilson sighed and got up from the couch. “I’m going home. Got to get an early start in the morning.”
“Sure. It’s Saturday. Early mass. Oh, wait. Isn’t that on Sunday?”
“Ha ha.” Wilson paused at the door. “So…enjoy your heart-attack-on-a-stick tomorrow.”
“Yeah--not to mention the yummy cheerleaders.” House had turned on the sound and was intent on the TV. He didn’t look at Wilson. “You enjoy your run.”
“I’ll try.“ Wilson froze, halfway out the door. He stood there for a long moment and listened to the murmur of the television. “How did you know--?”
House didn’t even bother to look around. “The hospital treadmill works just fine, which you’d know if you were really using it. So that means you’re actually running, outdoors. And you wouldn’t be running if you didn’t have someone to run with. And the fact you didn’t tell me means you don’t want me to know who you found to go running with. Not Grace-she’s half dead. Debbie? Francoise?”
“No. And no.”
“Then it must be someone who"--his voice took on a slavic lilt--"very much enjoys to run.”
Wilson turned with a sigh to look at House. But House had gone into the kitchen. Wilson took a deep breath and followed him in.
“He wants to run in the Boston Marathon in the spring, and he needs someone to train with him.”
“Good. You should do it.” House rummaged around inside the freezer. “How often do you run?”
“Every morning.”
“Excellent. Really. I’m…that’s great. Here.” He pulled out the box of Jimmy Dean monstrosities and thrust them at him.
“What?”
“Take them. If you’re doing all that running, you need carbs and protein. And Slobo will love these, trust me. It’s the national food of Hungary. Says so right on the label.”
“I really don’t-“
“Take them.”
Wilson took them without a word.
****
Chapter 3 is here: http://maineac.livejournal.com/5328.html#cutid1
Chapter 1 is here: http://maineac.livejournal.com/4833.html#cutid1