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Getting On Board
by Flywoman
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Fox and to David Shore and his talented colleagues. I am borrowing them for personal pleasure, not financial gain. Please don't sue.
"I signed us up," House announced as he set down a second pitcher of Yuengling and reclaimed his chair.
"For what?" Chase asked, even though he knew instinctively that he shouldn't.
"Karaoke," House clarified, the drawn-out "du-u-uh" merely implicit. He pulled a battered sheaf of stapled papers from under his arm and slapped it on the table. "Here's their song list. Not as much variety as I had hoped, but we'll just have to make do."
"You've got to be kidding," Foreman said.
"Nope," House said. "We're on in ten."
"We promised Wilson we'd take you out for drinks, not allow you to humiliate us in public." Chase nodded in silent but emphatic agreement.
"Don't worry, I'm pretty sure you'll be able to humiliate yourselves up there without any assistance from me."
"You are not helping your case," Foreman pointed out.
"Oh, come on. The ladies will love it." House gave Chase an exaggerated wink. "The gents will, too."
"Very funny," Chase said, but he had straightened up in his seat, interest clearly piqued.
House regarded each of them in turn, the corner of his mouth quirking up. To Chase: "You know you want to." To Foreman: "You can't possibly be as boring as you look."
Foreman rolled his eyes. "Again with the persuasive charm. Stop it, I'm blushing."
"Have another beer," House said, pushing the pitcher towards him. "I'm in, Chase is in. You're not going to poop on our parade, are you?" He paused, frowning fractionally. "Sorry, unfortunate mix of metaphors there."
Foreman glowered but quit arguing and refilled his glass. "Fine. Whatever. So what's your plan?"
"Chase will do lead vocals," House announced, poking the man in question in the deltoid, not gently.
Chase spluttered into his beer. "What? Why me?"
"Because you're the prettiest," House replied, at the exact same time that Foreman said, "Because we've all heard House sing."
Chase and Foreman both smirked, while House hid the strong temptation to grin with a sip from his glass.
"See?" he said to Foreman. "I knew that once you got on board, your competitive streak would naturally kick in." He turned to Chase. "Besides, coming to this place was your idea."
"No, it wasn't!" Chase protested.
"Well, letting me pick the place was your idea."
"No, it wasn't!"
Foreman rolled his eyes again. "Chase. You know it's only a matter of time."
Faced with rare consensus among the two stubbornest men he knew, Chase decided to concede defeat. "All right, but I get to choose the song." He pulled the packet of papers out from under House's hand.
"Nothing from 'Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,'" House mandated. The two younger men stared at him blankly. "Oh, never mind," he snapped, looking pained.
Chase raised his eyebrows and continued thumbing through the dog-eared song catalog, then suddenly stopped. "How 'bout this one - 'Midnight Train to Georgia'?" He looked up with a wary expression, clearly bracing himself for cutting remarks from both sides.
House opened his mouth with a reflexive sneer, then paused and looked thoughtful. "Hmm, Gladys Knight and the Pips, a classic. Good choice."
"Really?" Chase couldn't stop himself from saying. He looked at Foreman, who just shrugged.
"Er... right, then. Midnight Train it is."
A flicker of interest flared in Foreman's eyes. "You'll need back-up."
"Naturally," Chase nodded.
"I think I remember some dance moves from when my brother and I were kids."
"Great," House said. "This, I gotta see."
"This, you gotta do," Foreman retorted.
"Oh, sure, make the cripple dance." Chase and Foreman just stared back at House until he leaned forward and leered, "Okay, but only if you two take me out back and give me a good massage after the show."
"Aren't we a little old for you?" Foreman deadpanned. Chase snorted beer up his nose and started coughing as House glared.
"Does my housemate have no sense of discretion?"
"Actually, we heard it from Cuddy," Chase gasped, pounding himself on the chest.
"Have another beer," Foreman said unsympathetically, pushing the pitcher back over to House.
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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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