New Fic: The Thought That Counts
Dec. 15th, 2007 11:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: The Thought That Counts
Author: Namaste
Summary: House has his own take on holiday gifts for Wilson. House and Wilson friendship, about 3,300 words.
Author’s Note: I’d meant to have this done during Hanukkah. Insert random “real life” excuses here. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
npkedit for some early info. I’m putting this just up on my LJ for now for feedback and concrit before linking elsewhere.
Sample: “You’re regifting?”
The First Day
“Happy Hanukkah.” House tossed the bag onto Wilson’s desk. It skittered across the surface, coming to a stop when it collided with the file he had open in front him.
Wilson stared at the red glossy paper of the bag, blinked twice, then looked over at House.
House sat on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. His eyes were bright, and Wilson couldn’t quite figure out what was happening behind them: excitement, amusement or just some new game that only House knew how to play.
Wilson stared back down at the bag. The crumpled paper was a stark contrast to the dark wood of his desk and white and cream of the papers and file folders.
“Well,” House nodded toward him, “aren’t you going to open it?” He didn’t even try to hide the slight smile on his face.
Wilson leaned back, away from the bag. “I’m trying to decide if it’s safe.”
House sighed. “Of course it’s safe,” he said. “It’s a present.”
“You can see why that’s not exactly reassuring coming from you, right?”
“If you don’t want it ...” House planted his cane on the floor and began to push himself up.
“No, no.” Wilson waved him back. “That’s all right.” He leaned forward again, and took a pen out of his pocket and poked the bag.
“It’s not going to explode.”
“Never hurts to be cautious.” Wilson glanced over at him. House was spinning his cane back and forth between his index finger and thumb. Wilson slowly opened the bag. He looked inside, and pulled out the long piece of cloth and held it up in front of himself.
“You got me a tie?”
“You like ties.”
Wilson studied it. “Wait. This is the tie I gave you.”
“That’s how I knew you’d like it.”
Wilson smoothed it out, feeling the silk beneath his fingertips. “Not just the same style of tie,” Wilson said, “but the exact same tie.” He loosely folded the tie, then picked up the bag. “It’s even the same bag.” He looked up at House. “You’re regifting?”
“I prefer to think of it as recycling.”
“You’re regifting,” Wilson repeated.
“Al Gore would approve.”
Wilson stared at House.
“It’s not as if I was going to wear it again,” House said.
Wilson shook his head. “I think it’s safe to assume you’ll end up in court again.”
“So you can buy me another one then.”
---------
The Second Day
Wilson was reading the radiologist’s report from an MRI study as he walked into his office, and didn’t notice the bag until he’d sat at his desk and reached for the telephone.
It was bright yellow and blue with a picture of perfect potato chips on the cover, the same brand they sold in racks in front of the cash register in the cafeteria. He picked it up, and shook his head. He knew he hadn’t bought it. He hadn’t even made it down to lunch yet.
He walked to the door, then around the corner to his assistant’s desk.
“Carol, has anyone been by my office?” he asked. “Janitorial crew come by early?”
“No,” she said. “No one.”
He turned to leave, still holding the bag.
“Well,” Carol said, and he stopped. “Dr. House stopped by, but I told him you were in a meeting.”
House, Wilson thought. He looked at the bag again. It was still sealed -- at least it looked like it was still sealed. He held it closer to check for any signs of tampering.
He thanked Carol, then headed down the hall. He glanced in the conference room first. Taub was eating a sandwich, Foreman was pouring dressing on a salad. An open bag was in the middle of the table.
Wilson passed the door, then walked into House’s office. House was leaning back in his desk chair, his feet up on the desk, and a journal spread across his legs. Another bag of chips was open on his desk and he shoved two of them into his mouth as Wilson walked in.
Wilson held up the bag. “These from you?”
House nodded and swallowed his own chips.
“Why?”
“You like chips.”
“Yes, when you actually let me eat them.”
“Well now you can.”
Wilson sat across from House’s desk. He looked at the bag, then at House.
House rolled his eyes. “You want these instead?” He held out his own bag. It was open and nearly empty.
“Uh, no.” Wilson tore open the bag, took one out and ate it. “So what do you want?”
“What makes you think I want something?”
Wilson raised his eyebrows and ate another chip.
“That’s profiling you know,” House said. “It’s unconstitutional.”
“Take it up with my lawyer.” Wilson ate another chip. He heard voices in the other room and looked over to see Thirteen reaching into the bag in the middle of the table. She took out a sandwich, then looked over at Taub.
“You eat my chips?” she asked.
Taub shook his head. Foreman didn’t say anything, but he looked up and into House’s office and smiled when he saw Wilson. Wilson glared at House. “You stole Thirteen’s food?” He crumpled up the bag and what was left of the chips and tossed it into the garbage can.
“Look at her,” House said, and nodded toward the other room. “What were the chances she’d actually want to eat them?”
------------
The Third Day
Wilson was weighing the benefits of adding Taxol to one of his patients’ chemo regimens when someone knocked at his door. He almost didn’t hear the sound. It was soft at first -- almost muffled -- then louder.
“Come in.” He looked up and saw Kutner push open the door. He had a paper cup of coffee in each hand, and one glove held between his teeth. He nodded at Wilson, then put a cup on his desk.
He took the glove out of his mouth. “Hey,” he said. “House said to give this to you.”
“Why?”
“He said you needed some coffee." Kutner stuffed the glove in a pocket, shifted the second cup of coffee into his bare hand, then took off the other glove.
“And, you just, went out and got some? You know you’ve got the job now, right?”
Kutner nodded. “I lost a bet.” He unzipped his coat. “Did you knows that ears of corn always have an even number of rows?”
“He’s making random bets on vegetables?”
“We were talking about the case with the guy with diacetyl poisoning from his microwave popcorn,” Kutner said. “Then we started talking about popcorn in general, then corn, then ...” he shrugged. “It made sense at the time.”
“And the stakes were getting me coffee?”
“Just him,” Kutner said, “then he offered double or nothing.”
Wilson sighed. “You know, now that you’re working for him, you should be aware that ....”
“I know,” Kutner interrupted. “Foreman warned me about the bets. So did Chase, and Cameron, and this one nurse down at the clinic.”
“Brenda Previn,” Wilson said, “and you should ...”
“And House told me I should watch out for her.” Kutner smiled, and Wilson found himself smiling too, even as he shook his head. He reached for the cup, feeling the heat through the paper and cardboard.
“Wait,” he said. “Did House handle this at all?”
“Um, no?”
“Aren’t you sure?”
“I haven’t even seen him yet,” Kutner said. He cocked his head to one side. “Why do you ask?”
“Long story.” Wilson took a sip. “Thanks.”
-------
The Fourth Day
House was leaning against the nurses’ station when Wilson walked out of the room.
“I thought you’d gone home already,” House said.
“I did.” Wilson placed the chart on the counter and noted the change in meds. “I got a call from a patient.”
“You give your patients your home phone number?”
“Cell number,” Wilson said. “And not everyone, just end stage patients.”
“So someone has to be dying to get your attention?”
Wilson ignored the question. “Why are you still here?”
“Kutner’s convinced that a patient he found in the clinic has something other than a bad case of the flu.” House reached into his pocket. Wilson heard the rattle of the pill bottle, but House didn’t take it out.
“Is it?”
House shrugged. “Probably not.”
“But you’re still letting him run tests. Why?”
“He was right last time.” House pulled his hand out of his pocket and placed a quarter and a dime in front of Wilson. “Here,” he said. “Someone left their change in the vending machine.”
“And ... you’re giving it to me?”
House nodded. “Eight days, right?”
“Eight ... wait, you mean Hanukkah?”
“Eight days, eight gifts.”
Wilson stared at House. “Is that what this is about?” Wilson thought about the last three days. “The tie, the chips, the coffee...”
“And thirty-five cents.”
One of the nurses sitting nearby looked up at them. Wilson ignored her. “OK, first off, I haven’t really done the whole Hanukkah thing since I was a kid.”
“And there’s no god, never mind any son of god, never mind any birthday of the son of god, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want presents at Christmas.”
“And second, random cash from the vending machine counts as a gift?”
“I thought it was supposed to be the thought that counts,” House said. “They’re symbols.”
Symbols of what, Wilson almost asked, but didn’t.
There was the tie that he’d bought nearly a year ago, that House had worn for his court hearing. Coffee from the same place where Wilson had bought it for weeks, spiking House’s with antidepressants -- and the coffee House had spiked with amphetamines.
There were the chips, and God knows how many times House had stolen his, and now money. He’d lost count of how much House owed him for lunches and candy or just random purchases on any given day.
Symbols, he thought.
He looked up at House. “And what does it symbolize that you haven’t actually paid for any of these gifts?”
House smiled, but before he could answer, his pager went off. He looked at the number. “Sorry,” he said, “got to go.”
-------
The Fifth Day
Wilson looked in the box, then looked up at House. “You’re giving me your crock pot?”
“Pffft,” House snorted. “Like I’m ever going to use it.”
--------
The Sixth Day
The office door swung open and House stood there with one hand on the doorknob and a plate balanced on the fingertips of his right hand. His cane hung loosely from his fingers. He took two short steps in, pushed the door closed and shifted the plate to his left hand.
He bent down and placed the plate on Wilson’s desk. Wilson glanced at the cookies beneath the plastic wrap, thick homemade sugar cookies cut into the shapes of snowmen and angels and covered with red and green frosting.
“So now you’re just stealing food from random patients’ rooms?” he asked.
“You know who are even bigger idiots than patients?” House didn’t wait for an answer. “Their families.” He took a seat and stretched out his legs. “Who brings cookies for a guy who’s just had surgery for a perforated ulcer?”
“So of course, you felt that was the perfect opportunity to take them for yourself.”
“Of course not,” House said. “They’re for you.”
“Of course.” Wilson rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Here’s a novel idea, why don’t you -- I don’t know -- buy gifts.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Maybe it might be fun to get something that wasn’t used or stolen.”
“I meant fun for me,” House said. “It’s supposed to be more of a blessing to give than to receive, right? So I should get something out of this too.”
“I’m not sure that’s what the proverb is supposed to mean.”
“It should.” House reached forward and removed the plastic wrap and took a cookie. “It makes more sense if there’s actually an incentive for the giver as well as the recipient.”
“Help yourself,” Wilson said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” House said, and bit off a snowman’s head.
---------
The Seventh Day
Wilson picked up the red mug. A strip of gauze -- probably stolen from the clinic, he thought -- was tied around the handle.
He stared at House.
“This way you’ll have your own mug at my office,” House said. “I wanted you to feel welcome.”
Wilson turned it over, then held the bottom out to House, pointing to the large letter “C” marked on the surface with black ink. “So did this belong to Cameron? Or Chase?”
“Does it matter? They’re not using it.”
Wilson sighed, and House took the mug from him. He reached into his desk for a pen, then drew a straight line up from the center of the “C.”
He held out, then turned it so the letter now resembled a stylized “W.” “There. Happy now?”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “Overjoyed.”
-----
The Eighth Day
Wilson didn’t see House in the morning, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’s shown up with a copy of the New York Times nabbed from a waiting room. He didn’t show up offering leftovers for lunch or a sucker stolen from the clinic in midafternoon.
He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly four o’clock and didn’t quite succeed in convincing himself that he’d been looking forward to seeing what House would come up with this time. Maybe House had finally gotten tired of the game. Maybe he’d forgotten.
He looked out the window at the gray sky filled with clouds and decided he needed to take a break. He left his office and walked down the hall. He passed House’s office on the way to the bathroom. The lights were on, but it was empty.
It was still empty when he walked back. He paused for just a moment, then pushed open the door to the conference room.
Thirteen and Foreman were sitting at the table, Foreman reading a journal, Thirteen making notes in a patient file. “Where is he?” he asked.
“The clinic,” Thirteen said.
“At least that’s where he told us he was going,” Foreman said. “Cuddy came by here two hours ago looking for him. Maybe he’s with Coma Guy.”
Wilson shook his head. “That’s the second place Cuddy would look.”
“Second place is your office,” Foreman corrected, and Wilson remembered that Cuddy had stopped by earlier, saying she needed to confirm a time for a meeting next week. “Coma Guy’s room is third,” Foreman said. “You want us to page him?”
“No, don’t bother. I’m sure he’ll show up.”
House still hadn’t shown up by the time Wilson left. Both his office and the conference room were dark when Wilson checked. He drove past House’s apartment. The curtains were open, but the windows were dark. He fought back the impulse to stop the car, get out and check. He told himself he’d wait a few more hours. If he didn’t hear from House by ten o’clock, he’d come back.
He pulled into his own parking lot, and sat there with the car still running, watching the time click by on the dashboard clock. 7:32, 7:33, 7:34. He reached for the ignition switch and paused for a moment before finally turning off the engine.
The hallway was dim, and he fumbled to put his key in the door. He’d just managed to slip it into the lock when he felt the knob turn beneath his hands.
“About time.” House stood there, silhouetted against the bright lights of Wilson’s room. He walked away. Wilson stood in the doorway for a moment, studying House as House took a few steps. His limp was a little more pronounced, and he seemed a little stiff, but it wasn’t enough to worry about. House came to a stop on the far end of the couch, and Wilson finally shook his head and walked into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Where have you been all day?” Wilson asked. He tossed his coat onto a chair.
“You miss me?”
“No, but Cuddy did. She said to tell you you’ll have to make up your clinic hours on Christmas Eve.”
House groaned. “Think she’d believe I had a sudden conversion and needed to spend Christmas Eve in a church repenting my sins?” He sat on the end of the couch and lifted his right leg onto the coffee table, then casually crossed his left leg over it.
“Doubt it,” Wilson said. He walked to the couch and sat at the other end. He spotted House’s backpack on the floor to House’s left.
“These better be worth it, then.” House leaned forward and took a box from his backpack and handed it to Wilson.
Wilson recognized the name of a Philadelphia bakery stamped on the cardboard. It was the same place that made his favorite bagels, the place where he always stopped to stock up whenever he ended up in the area.
“You can’t get decent sufganiyot in Princeton,” House said.
Wilson opened the box. There were a dozen of the jelly doughnuts inside. He could see red filling oozing out of a couple of them, white icing and sugar covering the fried surface. “You actually spent money?” Wilson asked. “Your own money?”
“No, I robbed a bank this morning, then outran the cops in a two-mile foot chase.” House grabbed one of the doughnuts and took a bite. “I came here to hide out for a couple of days because they’re staking out my place.”
“And here I was worried that you’d actually done something nice.” Wilson smiled and took a doughnut. “I feel much better now. Thanks.” He put the box on the table and sat back. He took a bite, tasting the soft dough, sweet icing and raspberry filling.
“There’s more,” House said, and pulled a bag out of his pack. He put it on the table next to the doughnuts.
Wilson swallowed.
“But there’s a catch.”
Wilson looked over at him. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Don’t worry. It’s just a little catch.”
“Right,” Wilson said, “your incentive to give me something.”
House nodded toward the bag. “Open it.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You’ll find out when you open it.”
“Why don’t you tell me first?”
House reached for the bag. “Fine, I’ll take it back.”
“No, no.” Wilson snatched it away from him. It was heavy. “That’s OK.”
He opened the bag, looked inside, then looked at House. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope,” House said. “Unless you don’t want it. I’ve got the receipt. I can always take it back.”
“No, no. It’s ... it’s great.”
Wilson pulled out the box set of DVDs, black with red lettering: “Ford at Fox.” There was a black and white photo of Henry Fonda’s face staring out at him from a scene in “The Grapes of Wrath.” Twenty-four movies, twenty discs. “Wow.” He looked up at House again, seeing the smile he knew that was on his own face mirrored back in House’s slight grin.
He read down the list of movies: “How Green Was My Valley,” “What Price Glory,” “My Darling Clementine,” “Prisoner on Shark Island.” He wondered briefly if House was trying to show him some hidden symbol with the box set, then decided it didn’t matter. “Thanks,” he said. “This is ... amazing.”
“You’re welcome,” House said, “and here’s the catch.”
Wilson sighed. The catch. He’d almost forgotten. He put the box down and braced himself.
“You have to start with this one,” House said. He picked up the box and pointed out one of the movies. “And I get to watch.”
Wilson read the title out loud. "'Wee Willie Winkie?’” he said. “You want to watch a Shirley Temple movie?”
“No,” House said, “I want to watch you watching a Shirley Temple movie.” He grabbed another doughnut and took a bite. “Come on,” he said. “This is going to be fun.”
Wilson smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
Author: Namaste
Summary: House has his own take on holiday gifts for Wilson. House and Wilson friendship, about 3,300 words.
Author’s Note: I’d meant to have this done during Hanukkah. Insert random “real life” excuses here. Thanks to
npkedit for some early info. I’m putting this just up on my LJ for now for feedback and concrit before linking elsewhere.Sample: “You’re regifting?”
The First Day
“Happy Hanukkah.” House tossed the bag onto Wilson’s desk. It skittered across the surface, coming to a stop when it collided with the file he had open in front him.
Wilson stared at the red glossy paper of the bag, blinked twice, then looked over at House.
House sat on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. His eyes were bright, and Wilson couldn’t quite figure out what was happening behind them: excitement, amusement or just some new game that only House knew how to play.
Wilson stared back down at the bag. The crumpled paper was a stark contrast to the dark wood of his desk and white and cream of the papers and file folders.
“Well,” House nodded toward him, “aren’t you going to open it?” He didn’t even try to hide the slight smile on his face.
Wilson leaned back, away from the bag. “I’m trying to decide if it’s safe.”
House sighed. “Of course it’s safe,” he said. “It’s a present.”
“You can see why that’s not exactly reassuring coming from you, right?”
“If you don’t want it ...” House planted his cane on the floor and began to push himself up.
“No, no.” Wilson waved him back. “That’s all right.” He leaned forward again, and took a pen out of his pocket and poked the bag.
“It’s not going to explode.”
“Never hurts to be cautious.” Wilson glanced over at him. House was spinning his cane back and forth between his index finger and thumb. Wilson slowly opened the bag. He looked inside, and pulled out the long piece of cloth and held it up in front of himself.
“You got me a tie?”
“You like ties.”
Wilson studied it. “Wait. This is the tie I gave you.”
“That’s how I knew you’d like it.”
Wilson smoothed it out, feeling the silk beneath his fingertips. “Not just the same style of tie,” Wilson said, “but the exact same tie.” He loosely folded the tie, then picked up the bag. “It’s even the same bag.” He looked up at House. “You’re regifting?”
“I prefer to think of it as recycling.”
“You’re regifting,” Wilson repeated.
“Al Gore would approve.”
Wilson stared at House.
“It’s not as if I was going to wear it again,” House said.
Wilson shook his head. “I think it’s safe to assume you’ll end up in court again.”
“So you can buy me another one then.”
---------
The Second Day
Wilson was reading the radiologist’s report from an MRI study as he walked into his office, and didn’t notice the bag until he’d sat at his desk and reached for the telephone.
It was bright yellow and blue with a picture of perfect potato chips on the cover, the same brand they sold in racks in front of the cash register in the cafeteria. He picked it up, and shook his head. He knew he hadn’t bought it. He hadn’t even made it down to lunch yet.
He walked to the door, then around the corner to his assistant’s desk.
“Carol, has anyone been by my office?” he asked. “Janitorial crew come by early?”
“No,” she said. “No one.”
He turned to leave, still holding the bag.
“Well,” Carol said, and he stopped. “Dr. House stopped by, but I told him you were in a meeting.”
House, Wilson thought. He looked at the bag again. It was still sealed -- at least it looked like it was still sealed. He held it closer to check for any signs of tampering.
He thanked Carol, then headed down the hall. He glanced in the conference room first. Taub was eating a sandwich, Foreman was pouring dressing on a salad. An open bag was in the middle of the table.
Wilson passed the door, then walked into House’s office. House was leaning back in his desk chair, his feet up on the desk, and a journal spread across his legs. Another bag of chips was open on his desk and he shoved two of them into his mouth as Wilson walked in.
Wilson held up the bag. “These from you?”
House nodded and swallowed his own chips.
“Why?”
“You like chips.”
“Yes, when you actually let me eat them.”
“Well now you can.”
Wilson sat across from House’s desk. He looked at the bag, then at House.
House rolled his eyes. “You want these instead?” He held out his own bag. It was open and nearly empty.
“Uh, no.” Wilson tore open the bag, took one out and ate it. “So what do you want?”
“What makes you think I want something?”
Wilson raised his eyebrows and ate another chip.
“That’s profiling you know,” House said. “It’s unconstitutional.”
“Take it up with my lawyer.” Wilson ate another chip. He heard voices in the other room and looked over to see Thirteen reaching into the bag in the middle of the table. She took out a sandwich, then looked over at Taub.
“You eat my chips?” she asked.
Taub shook his head. Foreman didn’t say anything, but he looked up and into House’s office and smiled when he saw Wilson. Wilson glared at House. “You stole Thirteen’s food?” He crumpled up the bag and what was left of the chips and tossed it into the garbage can.
“Look at her,” House said, and nodded toward the other room. “What were the chances she’d actually want to eat them?”
------------
The Third Day
Wilson was weighing the benefits of adding Taxol to one of his patients’ chemo regimens when someone knocked at his door. He almost didn’t hear the sound. It was soft at first -- almost muffled -- then louder.
“Come in.” He looked up and saw Kutner push open the door. He had a paper cup of coffee in each hand, and one glove held between his teeth. He nodded at Wilson, then put a cup on his desk.
He took the glove out of his mouth. “Hey,” he said. “House said to give this to you.”
“Why?”
“He said you needed some coffee." Kutner stuffed the glove in a pocket, shifted the second cup of coffee into his bare hand, then took off the other glove.
“And, you just, went out and got some? You know you’ve got the job now, right?”
Kutner nodded. “I lost a bet.” He unzipped his coat. “Did you knows that ears of corn always have an even number of rows?”
“He’s making random bets on vegetables?”
“We were talking about the case with the guy with diacetyl poisoning from his microwave popcorn,” Kutner said. “Then we started talking about popcorn in general, then corn, then ...” he shrugged. “It made sense at the time.”
“And the stakes were getting me coffee?”
“Just him,” Kutner said, “then he offered double or nothing.”
Wilson sighed. “You know, now that you’re working for him, you should be aware that ....”
“I know,” Kutner interrupted. “Foreman warned me about the bets. So did Chase, and Cameron, and this one nurse down at the clinic.”
“Brenda Previn,” Wilson said, “and you should ...”
“And House told me I should watch out for her.” Kutner smiled, and Wilson found himself smiling too, even as he shook his head. He reached for the cup, feeling the heat through the paper and cardboard.
“Wait,” he said. “Did House handle this at all?”
“Um, no?”
“Aren’t you sure?”
“I haven’t even seen him yet,” Kutner said. He cocked his head to one side. “Why do you ask?”
“Long story.” Wilson took a sip. “Thanks.”
-------
The Fourth Day
House was leaning against the nurses’ station when Wilson walked out of the room.
“I thought you’d gone home already,” House said.
“I did.” Wilson placed the chart on the counter and noted the change in meds. “I got a call from a patient.”
“You give your patients your home phone number?”
“Cell number,” Wilson said. “And not everyone, just end stage patients.”
“So someone has to be dying to get your attention?”
Wilson ignored the question. “Why are you still here?”
“Kutner’s convinced that a patient he found in the clinic has something other than a bad case of the flu.” House reached into his pocket. Wilson heard the rattle of the pill bottle, but House didn’t take it out.
“Is it?”
House shrugged. “Probably not.”
“But you’re still letting him run tests. Why?”
“He was right last time.” House pulled his hand out of his pocket and placed a quarter and a dime in front of Wilson. “Here,” he said. “Someone left their change in the vending machine.”
“And ... you’re giving it to me?”
House nodded. “Eight days, right?”
“Eight ... wait, you mean Hanukkah?”
“Eight days, eight gifts.”
Wilson stared at House. “Is that what this is about?” Wilson thought about the last three days. “The tie, the chips, the coffee...”
“And thirty-five cents.”
One of the nurses sitting nearby looked up at them. Wilson ignored her. “OK, first off, I haven’t really done the whole Hanukkah thing since I was a kid.”
“And there’s no god, never mind any son of god, never mind any birthday of the son of god, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want presents at Christmas.”
“And second, random cash from the vending machine counts as a gift?”
“I thought it was supposed to be the thought that counts,” House said. “They’re symbols.”
Symbols of what, Wilson almost asked, but didn’t.
There was the tie that he’d bought nearly a year ago, that House had worn for his court hearing. Coffee from the same place where Wilson had bought it for weeks, spiking House’s with antidepressants -- and the coffee House had spiked with amphetamines.
There were the chips, and God knows how many times House had stolen his, and now money. He’d lost count of how much House owed him for lunches and candy or just random purchases on any given day.
Symbols, he thought.
He looked up at House. “And what does it symbolize that you haven’t actually paid for any of these gifts?”
House smiled, but before he could answer, his pager went off. He looked at the number. “Sorry,” he said, “got to go.”
-------
The Fifth Day
Wilson looked in the box, then looked up at House. “You’re giving me your crock pot?”
“Pffft,” House snorted. “Like I’m ever going to use it.”
--------
The Sixth Day
The office door swung open and House stood there with one hand on the doorknob and a plate balanced on the fingertips of his right hand. His cane hung loosely from his fingers. He took two short steps in, pushed the door closed and shifted the plate to his left hand.
He bent down and placed the plate on Wilson’s desk. Wilson glanced at the cookies beneath the plastic wrap, thick homemade sugar cookies cut into the shapes of snowmen and angels and covered with red and green frosting.
“So now you’re just stealing food from random patients’ rooms?” he asked.
“You know who are even bigger idiots than patients?” House didn’t wait for an answer. “Their families.” He took a seat and stretched out his legs. “Who brings cookies for a guy who’s just had surgery for a perforated ulcer?”
“So of course, you felt that was the perfect opportunity to take them for yourself.”
“Of course not,” House said. “They’re for you.”
“Of course.” Wilson rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Here’s a novel idea, why don’t you -- I don’t know -- buy gifts.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Maybe it might be fun to get something that wasn’t used or stolen.”
“I meant fun for me,” House said. “It’s supposed to be more of a blessing to give than to receive, right? So I should get something out of this too.”
“I’m not sure that’s what the proverb is supposed to mean.”
“It should.” House reached forward and removed the plastic wrap and took a cookie. “It makes more sense if there’s actually an incentive for the giver as well as the recipient.”
“Help yourself,” Wilson said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” House said, and bit off a snowman’s head.
---------
The Seventh Day
Wilson picked up the red mug. A strip of gauze -- probably stolen from the clinic, he thought -- was tied around the handle.
He stared at House.
“This way you’ll have your own mug at my office,” House said. “I wanted you to feel welcome.”
Wilson turned it over, then held the bottom out to House, pointing to the large letter “C” marked on the surface with black ink. “So did this belong to Cameron? Or Chase?”
“Does it matter? They’re not using it.”
Wilson sighed, and House took the mug from him. He reached into his desk for a pen, then drew a straight line up from the center of the “C.”
He held out, then turned it so the letter now resembled a stylized “W.” “There. Happy now?”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “Overjoyed.”
-----
The Eighth Day
Wilson didn’t see House in the morning, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’s shown up with a copy of the New York Times nabbed from a waiting room. He didn’t show up offering leftovers for lunch or a sucker stolen from the clinic in midafternoon.
He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly four o’clock and didn’t quite succeed in convincing himself that he’d been looking forward to seeing what House would come up with this time. Maybe House had finally gotten tired of the game. Maybe he’d forgotten.
He looked out the window at the gray sky filled with clouds and decided he needed to take a break. He left his office and walked down the hall. He passed House’s office on the way to the bathroom. The lights were on, but it was empty.
It was still empty when he walked back. He paused for just a moment, then pushed open the door to the conference room.
Thirteen and Foreman were sitting at the table, Foreman reading a journal, Thirteen making notes in a patient file. “Where is he?” he asked.
“The clinic,” Thirteen said.
“At least that’s where he told us he was going,” Foreman said. “Cuddy came by here two hours ago looking for him. Maybe he’s with Coma Guy.”
Wilson shook his head. “That’s the second place Cuddy would look.”
“Second place is your office,” Foreman corrected, and Wilson remembered that Cuddy had stopped by earlier, saying she needed to confirm a time for a meeting next week. “Coma Guy’s room is third,” Foreman said. “You want us to page him?”
“No, don’t bother. I’m sure he’ll show up.”
House still hadn’t shown up by the time Wilson left. Both his office and the conference room were dark when Wilson checked. He drove past House’s apartment. The curtains were open, but the windows were dark. He fought back the impulse to stop the car, get out and check. He told himself he’d wait a few more hours. If he didn’t hear from House by ten o’clock, he’d come back.
He pulled into his own parking lot, and sat there with the car still running, watching the time click by on the dashboard clock. 7:32, 7:33, 7:34. He reached for the ignition switch and paused for a moment before finally turning off the engine.
The hallway was dim, and he fumbled to put his key in the door. He’d just managed to slip it into the lock when he felt the knob turn beneath his hands.
“About time.” House stood there, silhouetted against the bright lights of Wilson’s room. He walked away. Wilson stood in the doorway for a moment, studying House as House took a few steps. His limp was a little more pronounced, and he seemed a little stiff, but it wasn’t enough to worry about. House came to a stop on the far end of the couch, and Wilson finally shook his head and walked into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Where have you been all day?” Wilson asked. He tossed his coat onto a chair.
“You miss me?”
“No, but Cuddy did. She said to tell you you’ll have to make up your clinic hours on Christmas Eve.”
House groaned. “Think she’d believe I had a sudden conversion and needed to spend Christmas Eve in a church repenting my sins?” He sat on the end of the couch and lifted his right leg onto the coffee table, then casually crossed his left leg over it.
“Doubt it,” Wilson said. He walked to the couch and sat at the other end. He spotted House’s backpack on the floor to House’s left.
“These better be worth it, then.” House leaned forward and took a box from his backpack and handed it to Wilson.
Wilson recognized the name of a Philadelphia bakery stamped on the cardboard. It was the same place that made his favorite bagels, the place where he always stopped to stock up whenever he ended up in the area.
“You can’t get decent sufganiyot in Princeton,” House said.
Wilson opened the box. There were a dozen of the jelly doughnuts inside. He could see red filling oozing out of a couple of them, white icing and sugar covering the fried surface. “You actually spent money?” Wilson asked. “Your own money?”
“No, I robbed a bank this morning, then outran the cops in a two-mile foot chase.” House grabbed one of the doughnuts and took a bite. “I came here to hide out for a couple of days because they’re staking out my place.”
“And here I was worried that you’d actually done something nice.” Wilson smiled and took a doughnut. “I feel much better now. Thanks.” He put the box on the table and sat back. He took a bite, tasting the soft dough, sweet icing and raspberry filling.
“There’s more,” House said, and pulled a bag out of his pack. He put it on the table next to the doughnuts.
Wilson swallowed.
“But there’s a catch.”
Wilson looked over at him. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Don’t worry. It’s just a little catch.”
“Right,” Wilson said, “your incentive to give me something.”
House nodded toward the bag. “Open it.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You’ll find out when you open it.”
“Why don’t you tell me first?”
House reached for the bag. “Fine, I’ll take it back.”
“No, no.” Wilson snatched it away from him. It was heavy. “That’s OK.”
He opened the bag, looked inside, then looked at House. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope,” House said. “Unless you don’t want it. I’ve got the receipt. I can always take it back.”
“No, no. It’s ... it’s great.”
Wilson pulled out the box set of DVDs, black with red lettering: “Ford at Fox.” There was a black and white photo of Henry Fonda’s face staring out at him from a scene in “The Grapes of Wrath.” Twenty-four movies, twenty discs. “Wow.” He looked up at House again, seeing the smile he knew that was on his own face mirrored back in House’s slight grin.
He read down the list of movies: “How Green Was My Valley,” “What Price Glory,” “My Darling Clementine,” “Prisoner on Shark Island.” He wondered briefly if House was trying to show him some hidden symbol with the box set, then decided it didn’t matter. “Thanks,” he said. “This is ... amazing.”
“You’re welcome,” House said, “and here’s the catch.”
Wilson sighed. The catch. He’d almost forgotten. He put the box down and braced himself.
“You have to start with this one,” House said. He picked up the box and pointed out one of the movies. “And I get to watch.”
Wilson read the title out loud. "'Wee Willie Winkie?’” he said. “You want to watch a Shirley Temple movie?”
“No,” House said, “I want to watch you watching a Shirley Temple movie.” He grabbed another doughnut and took a bite. “Come on,” he said. “This is going to be fun.”
Wilson smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 04:21 pm (UTC)I really like how the course of the year, with all its tragedy and changes and, finally, the healing, is charted through House's choice of gifts. That's a great use of a framing device, and it's just lovely writing.
The Fifth Day made me grin from ear-to-ear, because I think you and I are the only people who've ever written about House's mysterious crock pot. :)
The only thing I saw you might want to change was in the first section, where you mention House's cane being planted on the floor and then tapping on the floor. The two mentions of the floor are very close together, and sort of draw attention to themselves.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 05:57 pm (UTC)I made a switch in the opening segment, per your suggestion. Thanks.
(no subject)
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Date: 2007-12-15 04:23 pm (UTC)psst: I’ve got he receipt wants its very own "t" for christmas ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 05:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 04:53 pm (UTC)“He said you needed some coffee. Kutner stuffed the glove in a pocket You're missing the end quote after coffee. And that's about all I found for typos.
Absolutely enjoyable. :-)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 05:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 05:37 pm (UTC)Anyway cute piece.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 05:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 05:46 pm (UTC)House told me I should watch out for her - should that be for her or from her? Both can work, but the second makes more sense to me.
The beginning of the fourth day has a lot of dialogue and hardly any dialogue tags or blocking, so it feels a bit disconnected to me. If you framed the dialogue with one or two more sentences, it'd be easier to visualize.
"Pffft," House hissed - 'hissed' always feels either secretive or threatening to me, which I don't think is what you intended. But that's just my association with the word.
That is all the concrit I have, and this is lovely, and I hope you crosspost it to
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 06:05 pm (UTC)Is
(no subject)
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From:(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 06:11 pm (UTC)This fic is awesome!
It´s funny, witty and sweet. *w*
I love it!
*mems*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 06:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 06:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 07:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 06:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 07:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 06:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 07:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 06:39 pm (UTC)The best was of course saved for last. That was brilliant. And the way that you did it was perfect. Sweet but not too.
Am meming.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 07:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 06:55 pm (UTC)“This way you’ll have your own mug at my office,” House said. “I wanted you to feel welcome.”
^---ridiculously awesome line!
And I loved Foreman's knowing the exact order of Cuddy's looking-for-House destinations. That's so S4 Foreman...good stuff.
And of course House got Wilson a nice gift at the end, just because...they really are friends. (I'm sure Cuddy would give him a pass on the clinic duty if he mentioned that he was buying a gift for Wilson when he skipped).
The fake gifts were cute, too, as symbols. I love your Kutner--so funny, and so much like the real Kutner, as far as we can tell. I also love that you're using the new fellows instead of pretending they don't exist, because it's fun.
In short, this comment can be summed up in one word: Yay!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 07:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 06:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 07:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 08:08 pm (UTC)I loved that House, despite recycling the gifts, actually gave some thought about them (and they were meaningful, somehow) and at the end he bought something new - a DVD box with old movies... So House!
I don't think I ever saw "Wee Willie Winkie", so maybe I need to watch it to understand why House wanted to watch Wilson watching the movie...
And now I'll go to buy some donuts - they're called "dreams" in Brazil, I thought you'd like to know :)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 09:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 08:30 pm (UTC)A lovely, lovely fic.
You’re regifting?” “I prefer to think of it as recycling.” “You’re regifting,” Wilson repeated. “Al Gore would approve.”
:D
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 09:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 09:01 pm (UTC)The gifts were exactly the types of things House would give to Wilson. Loved how he changed the C to a W. :)
Also, little things like Kutner answering Wilson's question with a question such as “Wait,” he said. “Did House handle this at all?”
“Um, no?” Totally Kutner. He always seems to have that questioning look on his face anyway.
And, of course, the last few sentences... I would love to see the smirk on House's face as he watched Wilson.
I always love your writing.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 09:26 pm (UTC)(And I thought about writing that Kutner had a confused look on his face, but I think that would fit every situation with Kutner.)
(no subject)
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Date: 2007-12-15 09:45 pm (UTC)Thank you
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 10:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 10:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 10:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 10:47 pm (UTC)I loved it. And a crockpot is such a Jewish gift :-)
I'm not sure House would know the term Sufganiyot (which is very Israeli), but I suppose he could have picked it up somewhere. And, in point of fact, the tradition is actually to give cash (Chanukah Gelt) on Chanukah, not presents (that aspect was co-opted from Christians way later)...but Wilson might not know that.
Only one other minor housekeeping item that needs fixing (though reading the typo definitely gave me a chuckle):
“You give your patents your home phone number?”
I think you meant patients :-)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-15 11:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 12:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 01:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 12:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 01:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 03:57 am (UTC)If everyone had a friend like how House was in this fic, war would be an extinct concept.
What made it especially beautiful for me was the fact that the gifts weren't extravagant. It was more real, more like House, but at the same it, it made me feel that House took pains to ensure Wilson got gifts without giving too much away. God, indeed, is in the details. This is proven by your fic and how House was written in it.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 03:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-16 06:19 am (UTC)As soon as I read this sentence, I knew this was going to be one great story. Well worth the wait! Now if I could just finish up my last few remaining
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Date: 2007-12-17 02:53 am (UTC)