THE LINES IN DISNEYWORLD ARE PROBABLY SHORTER (ESPECIALLY WITH FAST PASSES)

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, just playing

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Wilson shuts his eyes tightly.

“House,” He warns, through gritted teeth. House ignores him and continues to strike his cane against the paving stone in impatience.

Tap. Tap.

“How long does it take to pull one lever? A monkey could do this faster.”

The cane-tapping persists under House’s all too loud voice and Wilson has to take a deep breath to calm the annoyance that is currently fighting it’s way from the pit of his stomach.

“It’s a hot day; he’s probably going as fast as he can-”

“He’s going so slowly, by the time he hands the ice cream over it’ll just be a sticky puddle of goo in a tub.” House cuts him off, gesturing towards the truck, and the acne-faced teenager manning it.

They move two steps closer to the truck and Wilson rubs the back of his neck impatiently – he should be sitting in an air-conditioned office right now, not standing directly underneath the sun on the hottest day of the year, waiting in a ridiculously long queue to buy House ice cream.

Tap.

A silent, air-conditioned office.

5 Minutes Later

“This is ridiculous.”

“Some people have places to be.” House shouts up at the boy in the ice-cream truck, pointedly.

The boy turns towards House and narrows his eyes, in the way a cartoon might do. He then lifts a hand to push his blue, cardboard hat further up his forehead, possibly in some kind of warning and turns back to his customer.

“What was that you ordered again?” Wilson hears him ask the lady.

“You couldn’t have just let me go to work this morning.” Wilson says, his eyes rolling upwards to the heavens in exasperation. “The lines in Disneyworld are probably shorter than this one.” He lifts his wrist to look at his watch, as if to reinforce the point.

House turns round to him, an innocent look adorning his face.

“But then how would I have paid for the ice cream?”

“Well yes, ensuring that you are fully stocked on chocolate chip ice cream is generally recognised as a far more pressing job than treating patients suffering from and dying of cancer.”

“Who buys chocolate chip ice cream? All the cool kids are getting strawberry.”

“House.” Wilson repeats, once again unsure why he even agreed to this idiotic plan in the first place. “I like chocolate chip.”

“Well of course you would – I said cool kids.”

“I’m cool.” Wilson says, almost dejectedly.

“You own a label maker.”

Wilson rolls his eyes again, unable to think of a suitable defence.

They shuffle two more steps forward and House’s tapping – which Wilson hadn’t noticed had stopped – starts up again, this time louder and more insistent. Wilson eyes the queue ahead, sighing.

10 Minutes Later

“This better be the best ice cream in the world.”

5 Minutes Later

“But Spiderman can swing from- finally.” House eyes the truck greedily as the two giggling boys in front of them move to the left, clearing the way for the counter.

“Can I help?” The teenager in the cardboard hat asks, his voice nasal and monotone.

Wilson jumps in before House can say anything embarrassing about the boy’s scooping skills or idiotic blue uniform.

“One strawberry, single scoop-”

House clears his throat loudly.

“-double scoop, sorry.”

“You call yourself my best friend.”

“Right, obviously I don’t know you at all, if I don’t know the particulars of how you take your ice cream.”

“Gimme, gimme.” House says suddenly, facing the spotty teen and reaching out for his almost-ready ice cream. Wilson fishes change out of his pocket to pay the kid, as House begins to attack the cone furiously, as if he had not eaten in days.

“Do you want to get a brain freeze?”

House mumbles something entirely incoherent, his voice muffled by the ice cream.

They begin to walk back to House’s apartment, accompanied by the sound of House noisily slurping his ice cream.

“That’s really quite disgusting.”

House emits another muffled response.

“Right.”

Just as they reach the front door of 221B, House throws the last part of the ice cream cone onto the street curb and digs his hand into his pocket to search for his keys.

“Worth it?”

“A six year old could make better ice cream than that piece of crap.”

“What?”

“Seriously. Worst ice cream ever.”

“House, you- God, why did I even expect a different answer?”

“You don’t know me at all anymore.”

House dumps his coat on the couch and heads into the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

“It’s three in the afternoon.” Wilson shouts back, automatically picking up House’s discarded jacket to put it away.

“So? It never hurts to get an early start.”

“I think that kind of reasoning is how alcoholism starts.”

“Tell that to the shrinks.” House comes out of the kitchen, throwing Wilson a beer.

“So, what, we’re just going to sit around for the rest of the day, drinking and watching bad movies?”

“It’s never bothered you before.”

Wilson considers arguing his point, but quickly comes to the conclusion that really, what else is he going to do?

“What’s on?” He says, taking a seat next to House on the couch.