MK
PG
I don't own House, M.D. and am unassociated with it in any professional fashion.
Chase: He likes crazy people. He likes the way they think.
Foreman: They think... badly. That's the definition of crazy. Why would he like--
Chase: They're not boring.
[I actually didn't realize this was written in present tense until I re-read it, but when I changed it to past tense it sounded stupid. So... sorry. I'll try to stop doing that.]
House stretches his bad leg out in front of him and curls the good one under the chair so his shoe can knock repeatedly against the base. On screen, he rolls a colourful ball across a landscape populated by a kicking, screaming populace that try desperately, if with great futility, to escape his momentum. A lot like real life, really.
"I can hear that music out in the hall," Wilson says, crossing the room and slouching into the guest chair that is really only for him. "Not quite your usual fare. What is this?"
"Katamari Damacy," House replies. "Like clinic duty, only fun and no one lies." And Wilson gets it, because hell, he's Wilson. He's smart.
"...Can I play?"
"Get your own." But House exits Eternal Mode and passes the controller anyway.
When Chase stomps into the office smelling of vomit and followed by the other two, neither House nor Wilson look up.
"Patient responded to the Ampicillin by puking on me. And breaking out into hives."
"So he's allergic to it," House snorts, and rolls up a giant squid.
"She," Cameron corrects, "is also allergic to Penicillin and Septra. And god knows what else."
"She's never been tested, and she's too reactive to test now," Foreman adds, rolling his eyes.
House passes the controller to Wilson, who has rolled up his sleeves and whose eyes look remarkably wild, probably from the twisting perspective of the game. "So what are you here telling me for? Go deal with it!"
Cameron and Foreman scamper out and down the hall. Chase pulls at his shirt in disgust and heads in the opposite direction.
"Chase!"
"What?"
Wilson tosses him his keys. "I've got spare clothes in my office," he says, ducking his head and passing the controller back to House. He doesn't make eye contact with either of them. The Brit says 'Thanks,' and leaves.
House takes it and waits a long minute before commenting. "You idiot. You're sleeping on that tiny sob-fest couch when you could have my living room?" He finishes the level and Wilson doesn't say anything. House doesn't pass the controller until he's gone back and gotten the present, too, which takes another three tries. Because it's Wilson. And Wilson is stupid when it comes to asking favours and admitting he screwed up.
In the background, people are screaming, kicking their legs and running from House's giant, colourful ball. The music is giddy.
Ten minutes and three hundred metres later, House's shoe starts tapping against the chair leg again.
They live in some strange parody of domesticity and dorm-life for two weeks before things get out of hand. The first week, he dreams of rolling up clinic patients, hospital staff and entire wings of PPTH with cute, nonsensical music playing in the background and wakes dizzy and disoriented, his leg hurting like he'd actually been there.
The second week has given Wilson time to lower his guard, and this is when House starts drinking milk straight from the carton, leaving wet towels in puddles on the bathroom floor and finally washes Wilson's white and blue shirts on hot with a red tie that House has hated for some time. Everything except the tie comes out an unusual shade of pale purple.
"Huh," he says when Wilson walks into the kitchen frowning with one lavender shirt in hand, "Gay pride colour. Subtle, but there are easier ways to come out of the closet than by dying your clothes." House raises his eyebrows and fork in mock-salute.
"Yes, I suppose I could get those highlights you were thinking about," Wilson says, rolls his eyes and then makes an exagerated face and gags when House deliberately takes a swig from the carton of orange juice before spitting it back inside.
"Hey, I thought I said no pulp!"
"Augh! I can't believe you just did that!"
At lunch, Wilson puts sugar in his Ruben and uses toothpicks and the non-sugared half of House's lunch to build a French Fry Man. He draws a face on it with ketchup and mustard.
The monstrosity is huge. The body is six fries stabbed through with wood, the arms and legs are bundles of two with spikes protruding where the toothpicks are too long. They spend twenty minutes longer at lunch than they're supposed to while they design a background, clothes and car for the French Man. It costs Wilson fifteen dollars worth of food that will go un-eaten and gives House an excuse to conveniently forget his meeting with Cuddy.
She shows up just as they begin arguing over whether the lettuce pants look more like a skirt.
"You," House says, stabbing one finger down onto the table, "Are making our baby into a cross-dresser!"
"He has every right to experiment! Maybe it's because you didn't hug him enough when he was younger!"
"Hey, I'm not the one making a gay-pride statement with my carefully laundered purple shirt."
Cuddy coughs behind him, and they both turn to look up. "You're late." Then she frowns and adds, "Also, he's topless. At least give him a bra or something," before turning on one expensive designer heel and stalking away.
House turns and grins maniacally at a sheepish Wilson, who scrunches his shoulders and huddles down into himself like he does every time he's about to be bad. "I hate to see her leave--" Wilson starts.
"But I love to watch her go," House finishes, and they grin at each other over the prone body of their child.
He thinks the same thing all over again when Wilson apologizes and heads off to pat the heads of dying cancer kids.
The French Man winds up on the conference table, unexplained, for the ducklings to discover when they return from running tests. It leaves House feeling strangely satisfied.
The three of them make conversation over the poor, sexually confused product of excess boredom and creativity. Foreman looks at it from a neurologist's perspective, naturally. "I get it now."
"Get what?" Chase and Cameron ask simultaneously before making faces at each other.
"Why House likes crazy people. He thinks just as badly as they do."
"He likes Wilson, though. Wilson's not crazy."
"He's best friends with House. He's about as crazy as they come."
It's not Wilson's craziness that House likes, though. Or his smarts, or his stupidity. "Hey," Wilson says, popping his head into the office, "Xena tonight?"
He likes Wilson because he's Wilson. And Wilson loves badly.
-----
I've gotten a few comments on calling Chase "The Brit". It was intentional, because the narrator is House-centric. I do know that he's an Australian, don't worry!
Katamari Damacy is a video game where you roll a sticky ball around, picking things up. You start with tiny, tiny things like thumbtacks and work your way up to animals, people, cars, buildings, mountains, whole islands until you have rolled up the whole world. Each level has a time level, a present and a 'cousin' of the main character for you to roll up. It sounds stupid. It's insanely addictive.
