Characters: House/Wilson, Chase (Slash? Crack)
Disclaimer: Not mine, not ever.
Rating: PG-13 to be safe
Summary: It could be flirting, or just an ordinary snark-filled conversation...
Author's Notes: For 60_minute_fics for the prompts of "Double Entendre" and "Euphemisms." And I just couldn't make myself write one for Sam and Dean-- Dean's euphemisms make me cringe. House, though? Is so aggressively obnoxious with them...
“Have you seen the charts on Mrs. McClaren yet?” Wilson reached for the coffeepot, but it was empty. He waved it at House. “Doesn’t Cameron usually make a fresh pot?”
“She called in sick this morning. Sounded more like 'sleeping one off' to me,” House muttered. “Besides, I like your coffee better. It’s got that silky-smooth texture without the undertaste of bitterness.”
“Hmmm. My coffee, your creamer. If only I had the espresso machine here.”
“Ooh, steamy conversation, you polishing the percolator. Make mine a double,” House winked.
“Mrs. McClaren has blood poisoning,” Wilson went on doggedly. “Along with possible lung tumor indication—“
“Nipple shadow,” House put in just as Chase walked through the door and started to turn right around again. “Sit!” House barked out. Chase sat warily, his eyes flicking from one man to the other.
“Tumor,” Wilson continued, “And longstanding malaise.”
“So that’s what they’re calling it these days. How long since she rode the pink pony?”
Chase stared at House, aghast. “She’s sixty-seven!”
House cocked a finger at him. “Granny Get Your Gun,” he said. “She’s old, not dead.”
“Widowed,” said Wilson. “Two years now.”
House stroked his stubbled chin. “Must be about ready to get back on that horse.”
“If she isn’t put out to pasture first,” Wilson remarked. “What’s your treatment plan?”
“Antibiotics and a date with Chase.”
“Absolutely not,” Chase protested. “Besides, you’re much more her type.”
“Always trying to get someone else to do your dirty work, eh Chase?” House crowded in next to the coffee machine, teetering between anxious and obnoxious as always.
“She said the cane was ‘dashing,’” Chase rolled his fingers over House’s favorite ball, twisting and teasing every inch of it.
“House has physical therapy this afternoon,” Wilson stated.
“Behind closed doors, no doubt,” Chase said darkly. He lost interest in the ball, in being the patsy for the innuendo-laden atmosphere. He gathered his set of folders together again and stood up to leave.
“Just when the party’s getting started?” House purred.
Chase fled faster than a wombat plummeting from a tree.
“Now you’ve made him rabbit off again,” Wilson chided.
“I know where to find his 'hole' if I need to.” House waggled his eyebrows and Wilson punched him. House stuck out his lower lip in a pout. “Ready now?”
Wilson crossed his arms and smiled playfully. “Me or the coffee?”
“I’ll take either. With whipped cream.”
“Encouragable,” House countered.
“Da plane!” House pointed skyward.
“How many Vicodin have you had today?”
“I could tell you, but it’d be more fun if you’d count through my pockets.”
“Is that an intubator, or are you just happy to see me?”
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