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  Hound Dog 
 by Mer  

 At lunchtime, Wilson dropped by House's office, carrying a tithe of two
sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper. He tossed one to House and sat down in
the Eames chair in the corner, crossing his feet on the ottoman.

House unwrapped the sandwich eagerly, his stomach grumbling in
anticipation. Waxed paper meant Wilson had made it. "Peanut butter and
banana?" House asked, confused. It wasn't that he disapproved, but it was
a far cry from Wilson's usual culinary standards. He hadn't done anything
to freeze Wilson's bank accounts lately  at least that he knew about.

"It's August 16th," Wilson replied, as if that explained everything.

House wondered if that were International Peanut Butter and Banana
Sandwich Day and he'd been missing out all these years. 

"Elvis's death day," Wilson elaborated. "Thirtieth anniversary. Sorry it's
not grilled." He tilted his head to the side. "We could go to the oncology
lounge and use the toaster oven."

But House had no intention of postponing peanut butter gratification. He
took a deep bite and sighed happily. There was something perversely
satisfying about peanut butter stuck to the palate. He swirled his tongue
over the roof of his mouth and took another bite. Wilson had even used
white bread and cut off the crusts.

"Do you remember where you were when he died?" Wilson asked through a
mouthful of sandwich.

House didn't even have to think. It had been a memorable day in more ways
than that. "I was hitching out of Lejeune. I caught a long-haul ride at a
truck stop outside Fayetteville, and we heard the news on the radio just
after we pulled away." He remembered feeling saddened and surprised,
though it shouldn't have been surprising at all. He'd thought, later, that
it had made a fitting end to his childhood. He glanced at Wilson. "What
about you?"

"I remember my mother cried. Then she played his records all day. Peter
and I danced to 'Hound Dog' and made her laugh when we tried to gyrate our
hips like Elvis. Laughter and tears. That's what I remember."

House scrolled through his iPod until he found the right playlist. "Let's
see you strut your stuff."

Wilson groaned when he heard the first, familiar words. "This is why I
don't tell you things."

"And yet you volunteered that little memory. C'mon," he said. "It's
Elvis's death day. Make me laugh. I'm all verklempt."

"You're smiling," Wilson pointed out, slouching a little lower in the
chair.

"I'm crying on the inside." He flicked the song back to the beginning.
"You ain't nothing but a hound dog," he sang along in illustration.
"Crying all the time." He knew he was going to win when Wilson's shoulders
started to sway. Chair dancing was just the gateway. By the time the first
guitar solo came around, Wilson was air drumming and jittering in his
seat. It took only one more verse for him to stand up and start swivelling
his hips in a way that shouldn't have been possible for a man who wore a
pocket protector.

House felt a brief pang of envy as Wilson curled up on his toes and
waggled his legs in time to the drumbeat, but Wilson was grinning like a
village idiot, and it was impossible not to grin back. House air guitared
the next solo and nearly laughed out loud when Wilson shuffle-stepped
backwards and spun - only to find himself face to face with Cuddy, who was
leaning against the open door and not even trying to hide a speculative
smirk.

Wilson froze, and House thought he would scurry past Cuddy and flee to his
office. But then "Jailhouse Rock" came on, and Wilson grabbed Cuddy's
hands and danced her into the office. Once she was clear of the door, he
swung her into an easy triple step, still holding her hands lightly.

After a moment, she let Wilson pull her into his arms and they tried a
couple of spins, laughing when their arms tangled and they had to
improvise an almost-graceful release. They moved well together, House
realized, and again he felt a pang of envy. The last person he'd danced
like that with was Stacy.

"Come on, House!" Wilson called out, laughing and slightly breathless. "We
need a guitar hero."

House rolled his eyes. The piano part was far more interesting in
"Jailhouse Rock." The track switched to "Fever," and Cuddy slipped away
from Wilson and sashayed over to House, snapping along to the song. She
held out a hand and House allowed himself to be pulled up and out from
behind his desk. 

Wilson whistled appreciatively as Cuddy danced a slow figure eight around
them. House wasn't sure he liked the way Wilson's hips were moving now. He
was going to have to start attending hospital functions just to make sure
Wilson didn't dance like that without a chaperone.

Then Cuddy leaned towards him, her breasts brushing against his arm, and
he forgot all about chaperones. She stretched up on her tiptoes and
whispered in his ear, "You're half an hour late for clinic duty."

House blinked and sat down on the edge of the desk. "Way to kill the
mood," he complained. He reached back and turned off the iPod. "And I'm
sure my contract stipulates that I don't have to work in the clinic on the
anniversary of any music legend's death."

"Clinic. Now." Cuddy replied. She turned to Wilson. "And forget the
theatre. You're taking me dancing next week. House can sit at the bar and
glare at us." She strode out the door, once again a busy administrator. It
was a loss worth mourning.

Wilson sighed as she disappeared from sight. "I've got a patient in ten
minutes anyway. I'll see you after you've tunnelled your way out of the
clinic."

House pulled the iPod out of its docking station and plugged in his
earbuds. There was nothing in his contract that actually required him to
listen to patients. He wondered how hard it would be to convince Wilson to
come over and watch bad Elvis movies after work. He was pretty sure it
would only take a couple of beers to get him dancing again. He couldn't
think of a better way to celebrate.

  
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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.