Something new...
Title: Ending the Day
Author: simple__man
Fandom and Pairing:House, House/Wilson (if you squint)
Rating:G
Prompt:Fluff, cane
Warnings: Any grammar/spelling errors are to be blamed on the complete lack of anything more than superficial editing.
Notes:Today's prompt over at promptlywriting was indignation. So, I set myself a time limit of thirty minutes, and this is what I got. 500 words of ...something.
Summary: The best part of their day is when it's all over...
Much to House's indignation, Wilson never immediately answers his cell phone on the first ring. It is vastly annoying to be completely certain of a diagnosis, so certain that he could taste it, and to be frustratingly stymied by Wilson's stubborn insistence on always (compulsively) checking his caller ID.
It is frustrating, and it is wrong on some level, to be denied the release of his triumphant victory yell (or at the very least, the release of a long and meandering description of the disease in question, with pauses added for extra effect, and the bestowal of the customary 'I told you so').
Besides, money will be changing hands on this one, and all roads lead to House. His palm has been itching for three days, though he'll never admit to believing such superstitious nonsense. His left eyeball has been twitching all morning, and there’s a horse with his name (and Wilson’s money) on it.
"Answer your phone," he growls, smacking his palm on the desk, attempting to will his friend to pick up the phone by sheer mind power alone. "For once in your miserable, useless..."
"Excuse me? Is that directed at me?" Wilson's voice from the hallway, his phone conspicuously not ringing. House mimes a double take, which leads to the (also-customary) patented Jimmy Wilson eyeroll. "The curious incident..." House begins.
"What?" Wilson asks, but they have been friends too long for him to lag behind for long. "The phone, you mean? I knew it was you, calling to gloat, so I turned it off."
House holds his hand out, palm out, the universal signal for "Pay up, bitch". The sign language is unnecessary, as House doesn't stutter, and very much enjoys calling Wilson "bitch". Wilson blushes, and smacks the hand away.
Wilson is threatening to grin, his lips twitching in that adorable way that reminds House of things better left unsaid. Sighing in mock-defeat, he pulls out his wallet, and counts out a succession of bills. “Between you and my wives,” he mutters, interrupted by House’s fake coughing a word that sounds suspiciously like ‘harem’.
"When are you going to learn not to bet against me?" House asks, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. Wilson throws the money at him playfully, and puts his legs up on the desk.
"Maybe I just like giving you money," Wilson teases, and House's eyebrow climbs. He almost wonders if it’s true. "So, I'm your rent-boy now? Julie will be so pleased."
"Won't she?" is the serene reply, and Wilson's eyes are sparkling with mischief. House, for once, refuses to take the bait, and settles comfortably into his chair, cane loose between his fingers, to begin his victory lecture. Wilson grins, and settles in to listen, asking all the right questions, and making quite a few of the logical connections all on his own.
The tension of the day bleeds away as they trade story for story, barb for barb, their friendly banter almost disguising the easy flirtation that keeps them both sane.
Author: simple__man
Fandom and Pairing:House, House/Wilson (if you squint)
Rating:G
Prompt:Fluff, cane
Warnings: Any grammar/spelling errors are to be blamed on the complete lack of anything more than superficial editing.
Notes:Today's prompt over at promptlywriting was indignation. So, I set myself a time limit of thirty minutes, and this is what I got. 500 words of ...something.
Summary: The best part of their day is when it's all over...
Much to House's indignation, Wilson never immediately answers his cell phone on the first ring. It is vastly annoying to be completely certain of a diagnosis, so certain that he could taste it, and to be frustratingly stymied by Wilson's stubborn insistence on always (compulsively) checking his caller ID.
It is frustrating, and it is wrong on some level, to be denied the release of his triumphant victory yell (or at the very least, the release of a long and meandering description of the disease in question, with pauses added for extra effect, and the bestowal of the customary 'I told you so').
Besides, money will be changing hands on this one, and all roads lead to House. His palm has been itching for three days, though he'll never admit to believing such superstitious nonsense. His left eyeball has been twitching all morning, and there’s a horse with his name (and Wilson’s money) on it.
"Answer your phone," he growls, smacking his palm on the desk, attempting to will his friend to pick up the phone by sheer mind power alone. "For once in your miserable, useless..."
"Excuse me? Is that directed at me?" Wilson's voice from the hallway, his phone conspicuously not ringing. House mimes a double take, which leads to the (also-customary) patented Jimmy Wilson eyeroll. "The curious incident..." House begins.
"What?" Wilson asks, but they have been friends too long for him to lag behind for long. "The phone, you mean? I knew it was you, calling to gloat, so I turned it off."
House holds his hand out, palm out, the universal signal for "Pay up, bitch". The sign language is unnecessary, as House doesn't stutter, and very much enjoys calling Wilson "bitch". Wilson blushes, and smacks the hand away.
Wilson is threatening to grin, his lips twitching in that adorable way that reminds House of things better left unsaid. Sighing in mock-defeat, he pulls out his wallet, and counts out a succession of bills. “Between you and my wives,” he mutters, interrupted by House’s fake coughing a word that sounds suspiciously like ‘harem’.
"When are you going to learn not to bet against me?" House asks, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. Wilson throws the money at him playfully, and puts his legs up on the desk.
"Maybe I just like giving you money," Wilson teases, and House's eyebrow climbs. He almost wonders if it’s true. "So, I'm your rent-boy now? Julie will be so pleased."
"Won't she?" is the serene reply, and Wilson's eyes are sparkling with mischief. House, for once, refuses to take the bait, and settles comfortably into his chair, cane loose between his fingers, to begin his victory lecture. Wilson grins, and settles in to listen, asking all the right questions, and making quite a few of the logical connections all on his own.
The tension of the day bleeds away as they trade story for story, barb for barb, their friendly banter almost disguising the easy flirtation that keeps them both sane.