Julie | Fanfic | House

Happy Days
by Julie Barrett

There had to be a time in Greg House's past when he was happy. Even if only for one night.

“I'll bet you a hundred dollars you can't make that shot.”

Greg House leaned back in a plastic chair, his feet propped up on the scoring console, a beer resting on his thigh. James Wilson stood beside the ball return, pondering the 4-10 split. The two pins rested on opposite sides of the lane, daring him to knock them down. “I mean, it can be done. I saw a guy do it on TV the other day.”

Wilson grabbed his ball, a jade Piranha, and laughed. “Yeah, and those guys do it for a living.”

“What's more difficult: the 4-10 or a nasty case of adrenal carcinoma?”

“You promised we wouldn't talk about work.” Wilson turned to face his friend, his eyes pleading. “Every time we end up talking medicine. It's Wednesday night. I do this to forget about the office.”

House hoisted his bottle. “A few of these would be more effective.”

“Yeah, but this won't give me a headache in the morning.” He looked at the ball, and then his friend. “I could give you a headache,” he began, moving toward House with the ball raised over his head.

“Okay, I get the point.” Greg took a sip of his beer. “This tastes better than a bowling ball, anyway.” James stepped up onto the approach and moved his feet around to several spots, finally settling on what he hoped was the best angle. “A hundred bucks.” House smiled as he watched the other man's chin drop to his chest. “Okay, ten. All right then, how about another beer?”

“That's the best thing you've said all night. Now would you just shut up for thirty seconds while I throw this ball in the gutter?”

Greg House smiled. If there was one thing he loved, it was getting Jimmy Wilson's goat. He watched as his friend moved deliberately down the lane, one foot after the other, swinging the ball like a pendulum alongside his body. A perfect delivery. The ball glided down the lane, glancing the four pin just on the left. It tipped over and slid slowly across the lane, coming to rest next to the ten pin. Wilson sunk to his knees, head in his hands. Out of pure pity House allowed him a moment to sulk, then swung his legs down to the floor as he placed his beer on the console, ready to take his turn.

“I can't believe that,” James exclaimed as he walked off the approach. “How close can you get?”

House reached for his ball, a black Zone, and began to buff it with a towel. “I need a strike to win.”

“Yeah. Rub it in.”

Greg tossed the towel at James and stepped up on the approach, carefully positioning his feet. His heels practically hung off the back edge. To Wilson, it looked very precarious, but House took five long steps as he swung the ball shoulder-high behind him, allowed gravity do its job, and let go.

The pins exploded with clatter of wood. When the last of the pins fell, the seven and ten pins remained, the ten wiggling back and forth. Slowly it fell forward, then snapped upright as if to mock Fate.

“I swear, those pins defy gravity.”

Wilson grinned. “A hundred bucks if you pick it up.”

“Another beer.”

“It's a deal.”

House picked up his ball and positioned himself on the far right side of the approach. The odds for him were better on the seven pin, and he decided that a trick shot was out of the question. He could take out one pin and save some face, even though he had already lost the game. Five more long steps, the ball swinging in a perfect arc alongside his body. The release was beautiful. Greg watched as the ball rolled toward the seven pin, hit a patch of oil, and moved right, missing the pin by less than an inch. “Oh, man!” He turned to face Wilson, who stood with is arms upraised like a football referee signaling a field goal, a wide grin plastered on his baby face. “Okay, so you beat me. Two out of three, right?”

Before the other man could answer the waitress approached with a tray laden with bottles of beer. She placed two on the table behind the lane. Perfect, thought House as Wilson moved to pay. She thanked him and moved on to another lane with the rest of her cache of brews.

“Next round's on me.”

“And pigs will fly?”

The two men clinked bottles. “So Caroline let you out of the house tonight?” Wilson flinched ever so slightly. “Trouble in paradise?”

“She's into quilting,” he responded, rolling his eyes upward. “It's her night to host the group. Six women, loads of fabric, and much squealing over the latest hot doc on ER.”

“Yeah, but she's got the real thing.”

“Not on quilting night.” James took a long, slow slip from his bottle. “And how about Stacy?”

“Burning the midnight oil. I promised her I'd get out for a while tonight. She's arguing a big case before the Court of Appeals tomorrow.” “Are you going to go watch?”

House shook his head. “There's only one place where she wants me as an audience.” One eyebrow went up, and a corner of his mouth flickered into a lopsided smile. “And I'm happy to oblige.” He took a swig from his beer, closing his eyes as the cold liquid slid down his throat. A sigh escaped his lips. “I went once. Never again.”

Now it was Wilson's turn to raise an eyebrow. “And?”

“I had hoped to sneak in the back. I didn't even tell her. But she found out. When the verdict came in against her client, she blamed me for making her nervous.”

“Spied you in the back of the courtroom, eh? I told you those Groucho glasses and mustache wouldn't work."

House let out a laugh. “No. She noticed that I wore a tie that morning.”

James let mouth drop open in mock surprise. “You didn't.” “You know there are only two reasons I'd wear a tie: A job interview or sucking up to the boss. And the latter never happens.”

“I can think of a third.”

“So did she. And she called the hospital to check up on me. A charming administrative assistant spilled the beans.”

“Ouch.”

“You can say that again. On second thought, don't.” House drew another long sip from his bottle. “So, it's two out of three, right?” Before Wilson could answer, he was punching buttons on the scoring console, setting up the next game.

James looked at his watch. “I've still got at least an hour to kill.”

“Okay, three out of five?”

“My arm will fall off.”

“As long as it's due to bowling, Caroline won't be upset.”

James felt his face flush. “I do have surgery tomorrow afternoon, you know.”

“Isn't that why you have an intern following you around this month, to do those little things for you?”

“Just because you've got yours answering your mail. . .”

House pointed at the pins. “Throw the damn ball.”

Wilson grabbed his ball from the rack, stalked down the lane, and flung it. The pins disappeared in a clatter of wood. He gave a little jump and turned around, pumping his fist in a gesture of victory.

House hoisted his bottle in the other man's direction. This was the life. Two guys drinking beer, throwing balls at sticks of wood, and pushing their troubles aside for the evening. If every night could be like this, he might even enjoy looking a patient in the eye once in a while. He shuddered, pushing that thought as far away as possible with another swig of beer. He clapped Wilson on the back to congratulate him and raised his bottle.

“Happy days.”

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