deelaundry | Gramercy (PG)

Posted to house_wilson and housefic

Title: Gramercy
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House-Wilson friendship
Rating: PG for language
Words: 913
Summary: This was Thanksgiving, for Christ’s sake, a day to spend with the ones you truly loved.
Notes: Set in November 2008, but no spoilers for any season. (Gramercy is a real word, although archaic.) Thank you to Early Readers for beta.

The knock at the door woke House from his mid-day nap. He debated closing his eyes again and ignoring it completely, but the gentle rap turned into an extremely annoying pounding.

“No solicitors,” he yelled as he hoisted his right leg off the couch arm and sat up.

“It’s your super,” a deep voice replied.

Getting slowly up – his couch really kind of sucked for sleeping on – he muttered, “All right, all right,” and then made his way slowly to the door. He didn’t need this crap today. He didn’t even know what crap it was, but he knew he didn’t need it. This was Thanksgiving, for Christ’s sake, a day to spend with the ones you truly loved.

Which was why House was spending the day alone. No invitations accepted (his mother was happier with her sisters, anyway), pager off, cell phone off, landline unplugged.

The pounding began again seconds before he reached the door, striking right at his nascent headache, and he snapped angrily, “What?” as he flung the door open. “I don’t give holiday tips.”

“Yeah,” Tom – or Dick, or Harry, one of those three – replied, “I’ve figured that out. I’m here to tell you to go check your refrigerator.”

Huh. Interesting. “For gas leaks, you usually check the stove.”

“No gas leak.” Tom/Dick/Harry jerked a thumb over his shoulder, back down the hall. “I gotta go; my wife needs me to stuff the celery.”

House raised an eyebrow.

It took the man a long beat of perplexed goggling before he divined House’s implication, and then he frowned, puffy eyes squinting. “Pervert. Just look in your damn fridge.”

He hulked off, and House took extra joy in slamming the door behind him. Perfectly decent nap ruined, and for what? A lame, poorly thought-out twist on the “Is your refrigerator running?” crank call gag.

On the other hand, it was early afternoon and House hadn’t eaten anything yet today. Wouldn’t hurt to grab some of the cheese sticks Wilson had foisted off on him two weekends ago, or maybe the leftovers of Monday’s lo mein.

House was picturing Cuddy in a saucy little Pilgrim’s outfit as he opened the refrigerator door, so it took him a couple of seconds to see it. First shelf, giant Pyrex dish with tinfoil and a bland, boring any-traditional-stationery-store folded-over ecru note on top.

Wilson.

The note was addressed to Preheat, 375 deg, 45 min, but House supposed it was meant for him. He twisted the oven dial around to 375 as he flicked the note open and read.

I’m thankful for you.

Huh.

He thunked the refrigerator door closed and grabbed a glass from the cabinet before taking it and the note back out to the living room.

A finger of scotch later, he was sitting on the couch giving the note another look. He noticed a small Over near the bottom and flipped the card around to read the back.

Don’t over-analyze the semantics and misinterpret that sentence. It does not say that I’m thankful on your behalf. It says that Greg House is on the list of things James Wilson feels blessed to have in his life. Top of the list, even.

House snickered as he read the final sentence.

Shut up and eat your food. –W

He had another sip of scotch as he waited for his cell to power up.

Speed dial seven, picked up on the first ring. “Hi.”

“Turkey’s dry,” House whined.

“I left you a lasagna.”

“Oh, yeah.” House kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. “Eaten yet?”

There was a short pause. “The plan is three o’clock.” Wilson murmured something indistinct, and then House heard the rumble of a door sliding shut.

“You sound skeptical,” he noted.

“Nannaw’s got a plan,” Wilson replied, his tone letting House know just how likely it was that Nannaw’s plan would be executed flawlessly.

House couldn’t help smiling. “What’s your cousin Tammy wearing?”

“A 250-pound man named Bubba.”

“Wearing him?”

“She’s covered more than a schoolmarm, and I can’t see what color her outfit is.”

House snickered, and Wilson let out the soft short coughs that meant he was trying not to laugh. House rubbed the phone against his ear and listened to Wilson pulling himself together.

“You’re bringing me leftovers on Sunday, right?” House said.

“Saturday, actually. I don’t want to fight the traffic on Sunday, so I’m coming back Saturday afternoon. Your place at six o’clock all right?”

It was all right. Wilson’s place at mid-afternoon might be even better, but Wilson didn’t need to know that.

House grunted noncommittally over the rumble of the door again. “I don’t like that oyster stuffing thing, or your mom’s gravy.”

“Yeah, but I do, so you can deal,” Wilson replied. “Uh-oh.”

No. No uh-oh. House didn’t need any more uh-ohs in his life. “What?”

“I have to go. Bubba’s asking Pop where we’re going to put the nativity scene.”

Smiling, House took another sip of his scotch. It was warming his chest.

Or something else was.

No, definitely the scotch.

“See you Saturday.”

“No, wait,” House said.

He could hear Wilson’s face twisting with dubiousness. “What?”

“Me, too.”

And now Wilson’s head had no doubt flicked in confusion. “You too what?”

“The not-to-be-misinterpreted sentence.”

A small pause, and then Wilson’s chuckle danced in House’s ear. “See ya, House.”

“See ya,” House replied, and hung up. Oven ought to be ready by now, he thought as he headed for the kitchen.