House ficlet re: writer's strike

[triedunture]

Title: Writer's Strike ficlet
Pairing: H/W friendship
Rating: G
Warnings: None. Unless spoiler for General Hospital count.
Summary: House is missing his stories. :(

<><><>

"Wilson, I am tired of this writers' strike!"

The door to Wilson's office banged open; if Wilson had been deaf and blind, he would have still recognized House by the thrumming vibration the door made against the wall. He carefully penned his signature on a patient's file and fought the urge to look up.

"You said that yesterday," he mumbled. "And the day before that. In fact, you've been telling me this non-stop for weeks."

"Well, I think it bears repeating," House growled. He stomped his way over to Wilson's couch, but instead of sitting down, he lifted his cane and used it to tilt framed pictures sideways on the wall. "I'm missing my stories."

One folder flipped shut and moved to the Out box. A new folder flipped open. Wilson scanned the pages for a blank line to sign.

"You're not missing anything," Wilson pointed out. "There isn't anything new to miss. Stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"These tweed-wearing, sign-waving pansies," House gestured at the window as if a crowd of picketing writers was out in the hospital parking lot, "need to suck it up and get back to work! They can't just leave me hanging. I need to know if Luke's going to recover from his bypass. And what's going to happen to that hack, Monica!?"

Wilson finally did look up then, his eyebrows arched in a look of refined judgment. "Pansies."

"Yes, absolute pansies." House stumped his way closer to Wilson's desk and knocked his framed Vertigo poster off-center. It swayed precariously on its nail. "So they want more money. Who doesn't?"

Wilson laid his paperwork aside and began the methodical process of rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. "You do know that those writers aren't getting paid a cent when you watch the shows online, right?"

"Oh, like anyone does that." House waved his hand in the air dismissively. "I can just pirate them and skip all those annoying ads. That's the internet, suckers!" And he made a machine gun motion with his cane, pretending to shoot down all the knick-knacks on Wilson's shelves.

"And you do know that the writers make peanuts on the DVD sales." A question, though it didn't sound like one.

"Who watches soaps on DVD? That's like watching a replay of the six o'clock news." House huffed, but his eyes darted to the corner of the room in a subconscious admission of guilt.

"Aha!" Wilson pointed a finger at him. "You do, you liar!"

"Just the spin-off! " House cried in his defense. "And maybe a compilation special. Or two." He grimaced and scratched at his eyebrow with his thumbnail.

Wilson made firm creases in his rolled sleeves with an air of satisfaction. "Look, just because you manage to get paid for doing nothing doesn't mean we all do. In fact, some people don't get paid for doing everything."

House regarded Wilson through slitted eyes. "Why, Jimmy, I never took you as a pro-labor man of the people. Is there some blue-collar blood somewhere in that annoyingly lily-white background of yours?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Come on, House. Even you can't be so mean-spirited."

House shrugged and gently pushed the film poster back into its rightful position with the tip of his cane. "I guess I can find other things to amuse myself with until this storm cloud passes. Got any political aversions to amateur night at the Purring Kitty? The girls write all their own material, but don't worry. They're non-union." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Scabs," Wilson admonished lightly. "I'd prefer a night in, thank you."

House popped his lips, blowing a kiss in Wilson's direction. "I bet you would." He limped over the the door and yelled over his shoulder, "Bring the booze!" And he slammed the door shut just as loudly in leaving.



fin.