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Excuses, Excuses
by Asynca
Excuses, Excuses.
Asynca
The clincher was when, on a comprehensive search for an actual clothes iron, I
discovered what I had always (stupidly) assumed was the cleaning cupboard actually
wasn't. Supposing a cleaning cupboard was as good a place as any to stash a disused
clothes iron, I pulled the slat doors open and found myself staring into the floral-print
face of an old, discoloured mattress. One of House's canes - last Tuesday's actually -
had been discarded casually against it.
Serenity now. "House."
"Oh, oh, I know that tone!" The clink of a metal knife against the rim of a jar and the
acrid smell of burnt toast was more than enough evidence to convict him of using my
strawberry conserve. "Now let me see," The reply began in faux excitement,
"Apprehension! No, wait... Exasperation? I always did like that word. It's frustration,
only with an implied acceptance of defeat."
"House," Neutral, controlled. "What is this?" Experience dictates that asking House
an obvious, open question is conversational suicide, but anger always trumps common
sense.
A face tilted out of the kitchen, "I see a door," His eyebrows were whimsically in his
hairline, "We use those for getting through walls."
"And then there are those other, less important uses such as privacy and security," I
mentally smacked myself for engaging with him out of reflex. Perhaps shock therapy
would help.
He shook his head, nose scrunched, "Both overrated," he concluded, before
disappearing back into the kitchen.
Excuses
I stared dumbly at the mattress, and considered forwarding a chiro bill directly to
221B. Of course, seeing a chiro would either mean having to contend with that cute
receptionist again (awkward, given than I actually hadn't returned her call as
promised, and that I couldn't remember anything about her except that her name
began with "L"), or spend ages googling the names of various practitioners in PPTH.
House would probably know who was worth seeing, but asking him to recommend a
chiro would sort of take the edge off the surprise when the bills showed up in his mail.
I shut the slat door, exhaling. My breath left a cloud on the smooth surface, warping
the reflection of tie in the paint, which reminded me that my pants were still unironed.
Due to the state of my clothes, my residents, blissfully unaware of my domestic
situation, had begun to ask me if I'd taken to sleeping in on-call room. I calmed a
surge in my blood pressure; at least the on-call room had an actual bed.
Sweeping my toiletries into a plastic bag (which smelt suspiciously of whiskey, for
reasons I'll hopefully never know) and locating where House had hidden my hairdryer
took the best part of thirty seconds; it was only when the ceremoniously loud zip of
my suitcase cut through the apartment that House came to supervise my efforts.
"You can't leave," House advised me through a mouthful of toast, "I've captured your
car keys."
I glanced up at him leaning casually against the doorframe, unrepentant in his use of
my strawberry conserve, "That was a gift from one of the parents in paediatrics."
He looked blankly at me for a moment, before stopping mid-chew, "Ooh. Right," He
held out the rest of the toast to me, "Want some?"
I declined by turning sharply back to my case, and packing distressingly creased items
into it.
I saw him shrug in my periphery, "It was probably meant for their kid, anyway. But
strawberry jelly loses its appeal the fifth time you try to wash vomit stained with it out
of your dying son's sweater."
Since 'Go to hell', was becoming a new catchphrase for me, I opted on silence as the
best response to his morbid (yet still surprisingly shocking) insensitivity.
"You won't get very far without pants," House pointed out, reminding me that I was
still in my boxers, "Fifty says you won't make it to the bus stop without marriage
proposal number four."
I stood, extending the arm of my suitcase, "I hate you," I told him thoughtfully, and
pushed past, managing to run over his toes with one of the wheels.
"Aww, honey, I hate you, too," He replied, his voice disappearing down the corridor
that lead to the bathroom. There was a pause, before he called, "Now that we've
exchanged sentiments, does this mean I can have my way with you?"
Seeing as he'd been having his way for close to a decade, it seemed redundant to
supply him with even a sarcastic answer.
My crumpled pants awaited me in the living room, draped over the offending couch.
It was easy enough to pull them on, but without a mirror, fixing my tie was somewhat
harder. The only mirror was in House's bedroom, and going back into the corridor
would make my progressive exit less dramatic.
I also somehow managed to resist the urge to fold my blankets as I retrieved the faded
t-shirt I had discarded at some point during the night from within the recesses of the
couch. A private triumph; the thought of House unbalancing whilst trying to fold them
was sadistically satisfying.
Once the extraction of my belongings was complete, I realized that I would actually
need to go through with the act of leaving. It wasn't like there weren't at least five
excellent, accommodating hotels in the precinct, I reasoned, but the prospect of living
in one for an indefinite period of time was more exhausting that the ritual of finding
the secret hiding place of my hairdryer every morning.
House reappeared, looking decidedly smug.
"I suppose this is the part where you tell me you've flushed my keys down the toilet.
There's a U-bend for a reason, you know."
His gleeful grin was less disturbing than the fact he had his cell in the hand not
bracing his weight against the wall. "Amex thinks I sound like a Dr. Wilson. What do
you think?" He placed his phone on the bookshelf and laboured toward the kitchen.
My expression must have conveyed my disbelief, because he added, "Oh, come on.
It's not like I don't know your birthday or your mother's maiden name."
I suppose beating on a cripple is frowned upon in most societies. Pity.
I could hear the door of the refrigerator being pulled open. "If anyone asks, I promise
not to tell them you were a victim of a violent assault which lead to the theft of your
credit cards," He recounted the story with all the false tragedy he afforded my
terminal patients.
Well, at least I had an excuse to unpack my suitcase.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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