Fic: Burns
Title: Burns
Author: Mer
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Disclaimer: House, Wilson et al, are not mine,
Warnings: A distinct lack of plot and the quoting of 18th century poetry
Summary: Happy Burns Day
Author’s Notes: My toast to the Immortal Memory. Quotes from “To a Mouse,” “The Selkirk Grace,“ “Green grow the rashes, O!” and “A Red, Red Rose.” My own Wilson ancestors did immigrate to Derry, New Hampshire in roughly 1720 along with the Archibalds, Taylors, and Fishers, with whom they intermarried to a disturbing extent.
“Wee sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!”
The three diagnostics fellows looked up in surprise at the strange words spoken by the Head of Oncology. James Wilson strode into the boardroom, an expansive smile on his face and a tartan tie around his neck. He dropped a paper bag on the conference table in the diagnostics boardroom. “Happy Burns Day,” he proclaimed.
“If that’s haggis, I’ll kill you,” Greg House warned, suspiciously eyeing the bag as he limped into the room. “Cuddy would even help me bury the body.”
“Haggis?”
Wilson turned a shocked gaze on the questioner. “Allison. You’re a Cameron and you don’t know what haggis is? Shameful.”
Allison Cameron rolled her eyes. “You’re Jewish.”
“The Wilsons have Scots connections. We were border reivers.” His enthusiasm flagged a bit at the lack of encouragement. “My ancestors were sent to Ulster as part of the Plantation and immigrated to New Hampshire in the early 1700s.” His voice faded away along with the rest of their interest. “I brought scones,” he said hopefully.
House snatched the bag up before the others had a chance to investigate. “From the bakery on Witherspoon?” He opened the bag and breathed deeply. “You’re a prince among men, Wilson.” He handed a freshly baked fruit scone to everybody, rapping Chase on the shin with his cane when he started to take a bite. “Grace first.” He nodded at Wilson, who had regained his earlier cheer and struck a dramatic pose.
“Some hae meat and canna eat
And same wad eat that want it
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thank it.”
“We na hae meat here,” Foreman observed.
“So literal,” House scolded. “You have to think in poetic terms.” He turned to Wilson and raised a warning eyebrow. “Not you, though. Your marriage is in enough trouble without you floating about quoting Burns to the nurses.”
A dreamy smile tugged at Wilson’s lips.
“The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O.”
“Stop it,” House ordered. “Not in front of the children.”
It was like throwing gasoline on fire. Wilson sat down at the table across from Cameron and leaned forward, looking soulfully into her eyes.
“O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my luve is like a melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.”
House growled and Cameron blushed. Chase looked as though he wanted to take notes.
”As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.”
Wilson stood up abruptly and walked over to the window looking out onto the balcony, still quoting softly.
”Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o life shall run.”
House heard the regret in his voice and knew another divorce was looming on the horizon. He picked up the final verse, joining Wilson at the window.
”And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho it were ten thousand mile!”
He bumped shoulders with Wilson, who shrugged and jammed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. They stood silently, looking out at the grey January sky, words written two centuries before hanging heavily in the air. “I’ve got a bottle of Talisker in my office,” Wilson said finally. “Come by later for a drink.” He managed a bright smile for House’s team and left, his step not quite as jaunty as when he’d arrived.
House stared out the window a moment longer, caught in the immortal memory.
Author: Mer
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Disclaimer: House, Wilson et al, are not mine,
Warnings: A distinct lack of plot and the quoting of 18th century poetry
Summary: Happy Burns Day
Author’s Notes: My toast to the Immortal Memory. Quotes from “To a Mouse,” “The Selkirk Grace,“ “Green grow the rashes, O!” and “A Red, Red Rose.” My own Wilson ancestors did immigrate to Derry, New Hampshire in roughly 1720 along with the Archibalds, Taylors, and Fishers, with whom they intermarried to a disturbing extent.
“Wee sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!”
The three diagnostics fellows looked up in surprise at the strange words spoken by the Head of Oncology. James Wilson strode into the boardroom, an expansive smile on his face and a tartan tie around his neck. He dropped a paper bag on the conference table in the diagnostics boardroom. “Happy Burns Day,” he proclaimed.
“If that’s haggis, I’ll kill you,” Greg House warned, suspiciously eyeing the bag as he limped into the room. “Cuddy would even help me bury the body.”
“Haggis?”
Wilson turned a shocked gaze on the questioner. “Allison. You’re a Cameron and you don’t know what haggis is? Shameful.”
Allison Cameron rolled her eyes. “You’re Jewish.”
“The Wilsons have Scots connections. We were border reivers.” His enthusiasm flagged a bit at the lack of encouragement. “My ancestors were sent to Ulster as part of the Plantation and immigrated to New Hampshire in the early 1700s.” His voice faded away along with the rest of their interest. “I brought scones,” he said hopefully.
House snatched the bag up before the others had a chance to investigate. “From the bakery on Witherspoon?” He opened the bag and breathed deeply. “You’re a prince among men, Wilson.” He handed a freshly baked fruit scone to everybody, rapping Chase on the shin with his cane when he started to take a bite. “Grace first.” He nodded at Wilson, who had regained his earlier cheer and struck a dramatic pose.
“Some hae meat and canna eat
And same wad eat that want it
But we hae meat, and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thank it.”
“We na hae meat here,” Foreman observed.
“So literal,” House scolded. “You have to think in poetic terms.” He turned to Wilson and raised a warning eyebrow. “Not you, though. Your marriage is in enough trouble without you floating about quoting Burns to the nurses.”
A dreamy smile tugged at Wilson’s lips.
“The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O.”
“Stop it,” House ordered. “Not in front of the children.”
It was like throwing gasoline on fire. Wilson sat down at the table across from Cameron and leaned forward, looking soulfully into her eyes.
“O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my luve is like a melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.”
House growled and Cameron blushed. Chase looked as though he wanted to take notes.
”As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.”
Wilson stood up abruptly and walked over to the window looking out onto the balcony, still quoting softly.
”Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o life shall run.”
House heard the regret in his voice and knew another divorce was looming on the horizon. He picked up the final verse, joining Wilson at the window.
”And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho it were ten thousand mile!”
He bumped shoulders with Wilson, who shrugged and jammed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. They stood silently, looking out at the grey January sky, words written two centuries before hanging heavily in the air. “I’ve got a bottle of Talisker in my office,” Wilson said finally. “Come by later for a drink.” He managed a bright smile for House’s team and left, his step not quite as jaunty as when he’d arrived.
House stared out the window a moment longer, caught in the immortal memory.