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wanderingwidget has, is, and does not plan in the future to make any money on any of the fics here archived. They were written and are provided for pure entertainment purposes.
Rating: PG-13
Author: wanderingwidget
Word Count: 883
Summary: Foreman visits the University Museum and sees more than he bargained for.
A/N: written for dontkickmycane‘s challenge to include House and Wilson in a non-hospital, non-apartment setting, with a lost cane and the throwing of popcorn at pidgins. Un-beta’d and sorely lacking in plot. It’s just a scene, written in about thirty minutes.
Foreman didn’t make a habit of hanging out around the campus. It made him feel old, being surrounded by tee-shirts and jeans and flip-flops, with his pressed suits and boring ties. Besides, he didn’t get enough free time as it was; What time he did have for himself he preferred to spend as far away from PPTH as possible. Even so, the Museum’s new exhibition of ‘recent acquisitions in African-American art’ had caught his interest, if only because he knew that House would know about it. And - knowing House - Foreman was relatively certain that he’d get some sort of comment to the tune of supporting his ‘peeps.’ It would be nice to have some sort of come-back this time.
So that was how he’d ended up in the Museum gardens, sipping a chai latte, and staring at a very naked reproduction of a very well put-together Greek.
“For Christ’s sake, how hard can it be to find a piece of wood!”
Half of Foreman’s latte jumped out of the to-go cup and all over his shirt. “Shit!” He dropped the cup, stared down at the mess he’d made of his shirt and shoes, and resisted the urge to curse some more.
“Ugh!” He grunted, clenched his hands into fists, and did a quick scan of his surroundings.
No one was in sight, which was good, but House’s voice had come from somewhere.
“Eat your popcorn.” Another familiar voice called from even further away.
Foreman frowned. Wilson and House were friends, it wasn’t weird for them to be out doing something together, but that didn’t mean it didn’t feel weird. Kind of like catching sight of his high school biology teacher in the row ahead of him when Poltergeist came to the local theatre. He’d long since moved past the assumption that his superiors had no lives outside of their functions, but it was still weird. He thought about that for a moment, dabbing uselessly at his shirt with his single napkin, and decided that it had to be because it was House. House, who did his best to live in a bubble, who ‘cleverly’ had no life. He smiled, well now he had the proof necessary to refute that statement.
He looked around again, and finally spotted his boss, seated on a metal bench on the other side of the clearing, with his back to him. He winced in spite of himself, that bench couldn’t be good for the leg, but even so he didn’t want to feel sympathy for the bastard. He didn’t want to risk turning into Cameron. From what he could see House was sullenly flicking little white flecks of something towards a steadily growing mass of pidgins.
They cooed and bobbed their way back and forth in front of him and Foreman wondered - just for a moment - if House had gotten bored and was tossing his Vicodin at them. He quickly quashed that notion, no way was House that bored. Minutes passed and House never looked over his shoulder. Foreman was about to turn and leave when he caught sight of Wilson climbing up the embankment.
Wilson’s appearance was worth a second look. Leaves in his hair, mud splattered around the cuffs of his jeans, arms tan and firmly visible thanks to his very well fitting tee shirt. He was clutching House’s muddy cane in one hand and, stopping next to the bench to stare down at his friend, he planted the other on his hip.
“I didn’t buy that for you so you could feed the wildlife.” He said.
House looked up at him. “It got cold while I was waiting.” He said, shrugged, and flicked another piece towards the birds.
“Why’d you throw your cane at them if you were just going to turn around and feed them?” Wilson held the cane out to him.
House took it and levered himself to his feet, in the process knocking his bag of popcorn to the ground. He leaned close and said something that Foreman couldn’t make out, though he could definitely see the way Wilson flushed at the words.
Interesting, he thought to himself.
Then House leaned even closer to Wilson and bent his head, their lips just brushing, and Foreman turned away with his own cheeks burning. He hadn’t been raised to gawk at other people, even though he glanced back. Twice. Each successive look revealed the same uncharacteristic gentleness. It was almost like watching an old married couple.
That thought would do him no good and Foreman banished it - along with his coffee cup - to the trashcan. He ducked his head and walked away from the scene, his mind strangely quiet. There were a million things that he could have been thinking, a million reactions, but none of the above were in evidence. Instead all he found was a quiet smugness, wrapped in a layer of amusement.
Next time House felt like dragging his observations of Foreman’s personal life into a discussion Foreman would have more than enough ammunition to shut him up. Even better, he could bring it up himself, all he’d have to do would be mention the interesting ‘exhibition’ he’d seen in the museum gardens. He smiled to himself.
Life was going to be good for a while.
THE END
