Mar. 10th, 2009

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"So, are you going to tell me what's going on?"

House glanced at Wilson as they stood in the line at one of the many burger stands that were stationed around the truck jam fairground. The air smelled strongly of oily burgers, cotton candy, hotdogs, dirt and exhaust; people milled around with big foam fingers, truck jam baseball caps, merchandise t-shirts, food and drinks. It was the perfect escapism atmosphere and yet House hardly felt like he'd escaped anywhere. He looked away again. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We watched Gravedigger crumple Monster Muck and all you did was stand there like a vegetable."

"Monster Mutt," House corrected him. "Do you even pay attention to what goes on at these jams?"

Wilson waved his hand. "Muck sounds like Mutt when it's said over a distorted loudspeaker. That's besides the point. Normally you go crazy over these things. Shouting, yelling, poking people in the back of the head with your big foam finger. Your inner caveman comes out full force at these things. And yet..."

"I'm fine," he said dismissively.

"No, see." Wilson turned and pointed at him. "Don't deflect."

"Oh, please. I'm here to have fun, not to be the subject of one of your many pseudo-psycho thought-terminating cliches." House gave Wilson an annoyed look, then made a beckoning motion with his hand. "Give me your wallet."

"What for?"


Wilson looked like he was going to argue, but then sighed and pulled his wallet out. "I don't know why I let you do this," he muttered, slapping a few bills onto House's open palm.

"Because you're an idiot who loves spending money on his friend."

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October 2010

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