"I was thinking Italian, if that works for —" Wilson's voice trailed off as he realized House wasn't walking beside him anymore. House had, in fact, stopped walking several paces back, and was sniffing the air ostentatiously.
"House." This couldn't be good. Lobby traffic swirled by them: families carrying balloons, nurses in scrubs heading toward the A and D elevators.
"You smell that?"
"Dinner," Wilson reminded him, gesturing toward the door.
"Yeah, that's what stopped me. I could swear that's...Pakistani food."
Wilson gave a sniff. "Might be Indian."
"Too many lime leaves."
Wilson had no idea whether or not that was a legitimate distinction between the two cuisines. He figured House didn't know either. "Whatever it is, it's —"
"Downstairs," House said, triumphantly, starting toward the elevators.
"I was going to say, 'not ours'!" Wilson grabbed House's leather jacket, stopping him in his tracks.
"Oh, c'mon. How can you turn down free food?"
"That's just sad," Wilson said. "Here I am, ready to buy you dinner, and you'd rather mooch off someone else's party. You don't even know whose it is."
"Actually," House said, smirking, "I do."
Wilson waited.
"Singh sets it up every year. It's the break-fast for all the Muslims on staff."
Of course. He'd forgotten it was Ramadan. "Which means it's really not ours!"
"You never know," House argued. "I might have accepted Mohammed as my savior."
"That's not how it works."
"La illaha il'allah wa'Mohammedan rasul Allah," House rattled off, and made like he was going to the elevator.
There was absolutely no way House spoke Arabic; he had to have learned that as some kind of party trick. Anyway, it didn't matter; Wilson sidestepped and wound up in front of him again. "Impressive, but no. You can't go to the Ramadan break-fast."
"Why not?"
"Because if it's the first night of Ramadan, it's also Rosh Hashanah," Wilson said.
House considered that. "Not necessarily, though this year you happen to be right. So what?"
"So I'm taking you out for Rosh Hashanah dinner," Wilson pointed out. Of course, their dinner plan had nothing at all to do with Rosh Hashanah; Wilson hadn't even noticed the date until just now. But if it kept House from making a nuisance of himself --
"You want to ring in your New Year with me? I'm touched." House turned, and Wilson hastily concealed his relief. He really wasn't in the mood to make excuses for House tonight.
"I'm just glad we're not crashing somebody else's dinner," Wilson muttered.
"Iftar," House corrected him.
Wilson just shook his head and followed House out the door.
"So," House asked as they approached his motorcycle. "If you buy me dinner, are you going to expect me to put out, or what?" He said it louder than was necessary. The nurse walking a few paces ahead of them quickened her steps.
Great; now his nursing staff was going to act like he needed condolences again. Well—might as well run with it. "Was that ever in question?" He accepted the helmet House handed him, and watched House stow his cane and laboriously take his seat. Wilson climbed astride, and let himself rest snug against House.
"As long as you're planning to wine me and dine me in the style to which I've become accustomed," House said, and revved the engine.
What the hell, Wilson thought, and wrapped his arms around House as they zoomed away.
The End