Work Text:
There’s an object on his desk when House enters the room.
It’s quite large, perched ominously on top of a pile of papers he’ll force Cameron and Chase to go through later. He stops in the middle of the room, tilts his head, stares at it a moment more, and promptly turns to leave.
—
“You can’t be serious,” says Cuddy when she follows him back to the office. She crosses her arms over her chest; House takes the opportunity to appreciate what it does for her breasts, exaggerating the downward flash and subsequent widening of his eyes. She follows his gaze, dark eyebrows shooting upward and a scowl jerking her lips in the opposite direction.
“Deadly.”
“It’s clearly a holiday gift.” Cuddy’s arm sweeps an arc in the air, fingers coming up to pinch the skin at the bridge of her nose. “It’s not even unidentified,” she adds, leaning forward a bit to peer at what appears to be a tag taped to the ribbon. “It’s from Wilson, by the way. Just open it.” A click of her tongue. “Bother me again, and I’ll double your clinic hours.”
House lets his jaw go slack and slaps his free palm to his chest in mock affront, to no avail—Cuddy leaves without another word, sleek black pumps echoing with every step. Momentarily defeated, he rounds his desk and sinks into the comfort of his chair.
On closer inspection, it appears his overbearing demon of a boss is correct. The tag reads, in barely-legible lettering: For House, and more interestingly, From Wilson.
He refuses to open it. Maybe if he stares at it long enough, it’ll explode, and save him from the personal hell that clinic hours are.
—
House will not give in. He announces as much to his team, moments after unceremoniously dumping the object onto Cameron’s lap.
“Can I ask?” asks Chase.
“You’ve just answered your own question,” says House. “Now”—he delivers two short raps on the whiteboard—“what is it?”
Foreman’s eyes dart back and forth across the ceiling. “It’s not my job to play your games,” he says.
“Bad, Dr. Foreman,” says House, wagging a finger at him. “Very bad. And incorrect, on two counts!” He turns to Cameron, who holds the object in her lap with the very tips of her fingers. “It’s a wonder that one ever got a degree.”
In his peripheral vision, Foreman is mouthing something. House ignores it.
“It’s Dr. Wilson’s game,” Cameron says, voice soft. “The present is from him, so it’s his game, isn’t it?”
“Very good, Dr. Cameron.” House writes Wilson in capital letters. “What else?”
“It’s probably medium-sized, yeah?” Chase has his chin propped up on his palm, gaze locked on the object where it sits in Cameron’s lap. She promptly picks it up and gingerly sets it on a nearby table.
House snorts. “Well, I dunno, Robert.” He adds probably medium-sized to the whiteboard. “That, or Wilson has chosen to wreak havoc on the environment by wrapping a small item in entirely too much cardboard and cheap snowman-patterned paper.”
This, of course, prompts the team to look at the object with a little more attention; even Foreman scoots his chair a fraction of an inch forward.
Cameron uses a neatly-manicured finger to trace the shape of one of the snowmen. “It’s kind of cute,” she says. Chase scoffs.
“Cute as it may be, I have to say I still don’t see the justification for this,” Foreman grumbles, clasping his hands.
“Maybe it’s for the holiday season,” says Cameron.
“I thought you and House were atheists.”
House pulls a face, tapping the board more insistently. “All of this is irrelevant to the task at hand,” he says. Foreman’s gaze remains trained on him, so House adds, “Oh, live a little, Dr. Foreman.” Then, after a brief shake of his head, “The hospital, to our great misfortune, is severely lacking in its share of mysterious, incurable diseases as of late. Treat this as a sort of alternate exercise in diagnostics, if you must.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Foreman says, “Fine.”
“Fantastic,” says House with a sniff. “Clearly, this is a matter of great import for our team. Who knows what nefarious purpose might have driven Wilson to deliver this thing to my office?”
“Well, personally, I think it’s a book,” says Chase after a beat, picking it up and shaking it lightly. His expression turns pensive, brow furrowing. “Or, you know, a torture device.”
The room devolves into a chorus of disagreement.
—
“You haven’t opened it,” says Wilson from the door to his office. House’s eyes flick upward, linger briefly on the small smile tugging at his lips, then drop back down to the object on the desk.
In lieu of a response, he fiddles with the pencil in his hand, idly passing it between his fingers. He thinks for a second that by the time he stops staring at the object he’ll have little snowmen burned into his retina.
When the sound of footsteps reaches his ears, he can’t prevent himself from glancing upward. Wilson, mid-stride and halfway across the office, catches his eye and gives him that same half-smile; House snaps his gaze back to the object immediately.
Wilson comes to a stop a foot or two away from the edge of his desk, body casting a shadow over it. The metal end enveloping the eraser of the pencil is dented where he’d gnawed on it once that week he’d gone off the Vicodin.
“It’s a key, of course,” says House.
Wilson’s next breath ghosts over House’s skin. He’s still standing, towering over the desk, hands shoved in the pockets of his lab coat. House watches the twitch of his thumb through the cotton—he’s nervous.
“Of course,” Wilson echoes. He clears his throat, “Well, what do you think?”
“I think,” House says, “that this means I win.”
“Not the question.”
“Not the important one, no.” House finally sets the pencil down, lining it up with the edge of the forgotten stack of papers from earlier in the morning.
Wilson’s thumb has stopped twitching when he looks up again. The corners of his eyes crinkle instead, and his voice comes out low and steady when he asks, “Are you going to answer the important one?”
“I doubt it,” says House. Robbed of an object to occupy his hands, he settles for clasping them in his lap.
“Well,” says Wilson, “If this is a game, it’s my move now.” He rounds the desk, finally, turning House’s chair to face him. House scoffs in indignation, but Wilson only intrudes on his space more, until he’s standing between his open thighs. “And I think you like it. You wouldn’t have done the whole song and dance with your team otherwise.”
House narrows his eyes. Wilson’s smile toes a little too close to the line between grin and smirk; it makes something in him flare red-hot. “Tell me more about my secret motivations. I do so enjoy this.”
“It means whatever you want it to mean,” says Wilson with a slight incline of his head, notably ignoring him. “Thought I’d save you the trouble of breaking in or making a copy behind my back.”
“Aw, but it’s so fun,” House says.
Wilson only hums, picking the present up from off the desk and passing it to him. “You should open it.”
“This is an absurd amount of packaging for an item so small.” House turns the gift over in his hands. “Are you trying to hasten the onset of climate change?”
“Didn’t want it to be too easy,” protests Wilson, pink dusting his cheeks. He steps away slowly and then crosses the distance between the desk and the door with much swifter strides, turning around before he reaches the threshold. “I’ll see you later?” he asks.
House’s eyebrows shoot up. He puts Wilson’s key back down on his desk, eyes flitting briefly from it to its owner at the door, pursing his lips in faux contemplation. “Maybe.”
Wilson nods, satisfied, and steps through the door.
Clinically, House cuts apart the tape and wrapping paper, letting snowman-patterned strips fall to the floor. When he pulls out the key, he takes a moment to thumb over its grooves, letting them press indents into his skin, before slipping it into his pocket.
Wilson’s win, indeed.