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“Gee, I wonder what this could be,” House says, twirling the suspiciously cane-shaped gift wrapped in red-and-green paper.
Wilson rolls his eyes. “I wrapped it, you bitch. If I hadn’t wrapped it, you would have bitched. It was a lose-lose scenario.”
“Then why’d you wrap it? Took longer, and you know I don’t care.” From anyone else, the question would be innocent. From House, it’s calculating.
Wilson smiles. “This is more annoying for you, which is more fun for me.”
House stops twirling the still-wrapped gift just long enough to side-eye Wilson, who gives him his best butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression. “I don’t need a new cane,” he says, continuing to spin it in the air, the red and green pinwheeling back and forth. His current cane lies abandoned against the couch arm.
“I know you don’t.”
“So you wanted to blow your money on something useless."
“Just wanted to do something nice, House. It’s Christmas.”
“You’re Jewish.”
“You’re not.”
House smiles, like a shark smelling blood in the water. “You felt guilty.”
“I did not feel guilty.”
“I knew the cleaners didn’t mess it up.” House’s last cane had been an eyesore of a thing. It had a gold snake for a handle, with two green rhinestones for eyes, and House refused to stop referring to it as his pimp cane for the first month after he bought it. He’d been forced to leave it in the hospital overnight when an unexpectedly early snowfall had left the sidewalks too icy for even his risk taking, swapping it out for a medical-grade one from the hospital supply closet for the night. When he’d returned the next morning, the cane’s coating had bubbled and started to peel.
“You spent six weeks trying to prove otherwise and came up dry. Not even trying to bribe the janitor made him fold. Are you suggesting the great all-knowing Gregory House wasn’t smart enough to figure it out? It was the cleaners. They felt very bad. There’s no mystery here.”
“No, no,” House says, taking two steps toward Wilson, using the still-wrapped cane, until he’s crowding his space. “This gift is thoughtful. You know I hate thoughtful gifts—“
“—And yet I keep giving them to you—“
“—And a cane is personal. You tiptoe around my leg like I’m a wild animal and you’re sticking a hand into my enclosure.”
“Well, if the collar fits—“
House taps the base of the cane on the ground, wrapping paper dulling the thud.
“The only reason to buy me one is because you were feeling bad about ruining mine.”
“Just shut up and open the gift, House.”
House unwraps it, or at least he tries to. Wilson has used so much tape that the entire process is almost enough to make House snap the cane in two and walk away.
“Cool,” he says when he finally breaks into the package, voice tinged with awe. The cane itself is made of a dark, elegant wood. At the base are flames, much like the ones on the cane House lost in the accident years ago. Instead of stickers, however, the flames have been carefully carved into the wood and filled with a deep red resin that catches the light and flickers as House spins it in his hands. The handle, which House inspects last, is entirely made of resin, which has been poured in such a way that, from the top, there appears an image of red, orange and yellow flames.
“It’s medical grade, too, so it’ll be durable,” he says, gesturing at the base. “Should be fine to take in the snow and be pretty secure on patches of ice.” He pauses, watching House. Unable to help himself, he asks, “You like it?”
“I’m gonna look bitchin’.” He looks up at Wilson, smirking. “How’d you mess up the old one?”
Wilson sighs. “I was stuck at the office late, and hadn’t eaten all day so I was carrying a sandwich with me and looking in your drawers for some whiskey because my day sucked. I had to move your cane to open the drawer and I got strawberry jelly all over it. I tried to use those medical-grade bleach wipes to clean it off, and before I knew what was happening, the coating was peeling.”
House laughs. “Idiot.”