A Hymn to Him
By: Masked Maiden
As insensitive as it might have seemed, Wilson learned to take advantage of his friend's handicap. He told himself it was a survival tactic, something he needed if he was going to live in the apartment for the next month or so, and that was enough to pacify his conscience… Also, it was the truth. If there was anyone who had a distinct sound based on their footsteps, it was House. Whenever he walked with his cane, he could always be heard before he was seen.
Wilson sat up once he heard the front door open and close, which was followed by the familiar sound of a limp and a rubber bottom hitting the hardwood floor. That was his cue. Before House entered the living room, Wilson quickly grabbed the remote control lying on the coffee table and placed it on his side of the couch.
"I saw that."
Wilson rolled his eyes and looked over his shoulder, shooting his friend a death glare. "I'm watching this," he told House. There had been a constant power struggle over the remote for the past week. Wilson was not about to let House triumph and control the 200 channels with one press of a button, not for the umpteenth time.
A very amused expression etched itself across House's face. "Somebody's in a testy mood."
"Well, gee, let's figure out why. To start off with, a certain someone - whom shall remain nameless and apparently cannot read post-it notes - stole my lunch. Not that I would've eaten it, because I spent my lunch hour on the phone with a patient's insurance company, telling them my treatment for said patient was not classified as experimental and was therefore covered by her policy. Then, a 15-year-old patient of mine…"
House partially tuned Wilson out and averted his eyes to the television screen. He raised an eyebrow as he watched two British gentlemen verbally pat themselves on the back, while an elegant, young lady stood alone in the corner. It took a second or two before House recognized the song and the voices, and then he knew which movie Wilson was obviously indulging himself with.
"… and like always, you're ignoring me," Wilson ended with a fact he knew so personally well.
"I'm not watching that."
"I thought you liked musicals."
"I said I liked some musicals. I don't like this one."
"Well, tough. I like it, so I'm watching it. Go to your room and play your video games like a good boy. Or if you want to be a bad boy, grab your stethoscope and put it on the bathroom doorknob."
"This apartment's small, though. I'll hear the music through the walls."
"How can you not like My Fair Lady? You, of all people, should at least appreciate the characters. Such as the older man who becomes a mentor for the much younger woman…"
"See, but there's a difference between me and Professor Higgins. Higgins willingly volunteers for the role as mentor. And most importantly, he actually gives a damn."
"So you have seen it."
"Of course I've seen it. Who hasn't seen it? That's how I know I don't like it."
"… Wait." A thought crossed Wilson's mind. He turned his body to where he could comfortably look at House, to carry on their conversation. "Are you telling me that you sat through a three-hour movie you didn't like? If you did, this either means you secretly liked it, or there was a woman involved."
"I'll be sure to tell my mom you said that."
"You watched it with your mom?"
"Why do you sound so surprised?" House purposefully added a touch of impatience in his voice. He leaned his cane against the back of the couch and shifted his weight slightly, ready to sit down. If he sat down on the couch, however, that would be a sign of surrender. And he was not about to surrender and watch an idiot sing a reprise about the streets where the young lady lived.
Wilson knew House would eventually sit down when he was desperate enough, so he continued. "I don't know. Maybe it's because that sounds… rather sensitive of you."
"She had a cold. I humored her."
"I think you liked it."
"I just said I didn't."
"Exactly. Using your own logic against you, one of your rules is that everybody lies. And you are but one person in the vastness of everybody, so you fall into that category."
"God, how I wish the woman would behave like a man."
"Aha!" Wilson held up a finger and wagged it at his friend, a small smirk upon his face. "You remembered some of the lyrics. That means you liked it. Admit it, House. You love it when Eliza returns to the Professor's at the very end."
"You know, that sappy ending was added in for the movie. In the actual Broadway musical, the professor returns to his home and the curtain closes. No one ever finds out if Eliza comes back or not."
"And how do you know that?"
House never answered the question, his silence incriminating him more than any words he could ever say. He knew this, quite well, yet he did not show an expression of defeat as he grabbed his cane and limped away from the couch. He stopped for just a second to pick up his stethoscope from a lower bookcase shelf, and then he proceeded to the bathroom.
There was a very satisfied smirk on Wilson's face as he watched his friend close the door behind him. He never won many arguments when House was involved, but that only made this victory taste even sweeter. And the fact he now could watch the rest of the movie in silence was a nice incentive.