House MD Fanfiction

Allowable Losses

Hilson, fluff?, 1730 words
By: nightdog_writes

On a quiet April weekend ...

Wilson stared at the battered Nike shoebox that House had just dumped unceremoniously in his lap.

"What's this?"

House sank a little deeper into the couch cushions and started flipping through the TV channels.

"Open it and find out," he suggested. Noting Wilson's hesitation, he rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, nothing in there's going to bite you."

Still, Wilson was cautious as he lifted the top off the cardboard box. He frowned. The box was filled to the brim with small pieces of paper. Crumpled paper. Torn paper. Some of the paper even looked like it had been set on fire and then hastily stomped out with a muddy boot.

"It's -- a box of confetti."

"Receipts."

"Receipts?"

"Is there an echo in here? Yes, receipts. I want you to go through those and tell me which ones you think I can legitimately claim."

Wilson stared at him. "House."

"Yes?"

"House, please tell me you've done your taxes."

House waved the hand that wasn't holding a beer in a dismissive motion. "I've done 'em," he said. Wilson continued to stare at him.

"Most of 'em," he amended.

Wilson put his head in his hands. 

"You haven't even started, have you?"

"Technically?" House considered the question. "No."

Wilson fell back into the couch. "Oh, God. House, they're due Tuesday. Today's Saturday. Do you know what that means?"

"You need to start looking at those receipts right now?"

Wilson gritted his teeth. "House, the I.R.S. is not a government agency that is easily amused."

"Will you relax? Christ, you're worse than Chicken Little. The sky is not falling -- we'll call your accountant Monday morning and get her to file for an extension. Or something." 

Problem solved, House thumbed one of the remote control's buttons. The volume level of the TV increased to that of a low-level earthquake.

Wilson sighed; sometimes even when House was only partially right he was right. Resigned to the task at hand he pulled out one of the slips at paper at random.

"Horny Sluts in Hot Leather," he read. "House, what the hell is this?"

"Magazine," House replied. "Use it for research."

"What possible research could you use a magazine like that for?"

House leered at him.

"Never mind," Wilson said hastily. He picked out another receipt. This one was crumpled. He smoothed it out and peered at the miniscule blue printing.

"Supreme Reggie Rat Diet. 3 @ 5.69. Bobby Ray's Weed, Feed & Fertilizer." He pawed through the box; there were at least a dozen more of these receipts.

"House. You can't claim Steve McQueen's food as a deduction."

House didn't look around. "Why not? I'm claiming him."

"No, see -- you can't do that. He's a pet, and besides, he'd need a Social Security --" Wilson stopped. A sudden, horrible thought had popped into his head. "You didn't," he groaned. "You got Steve McQueen ... a Social Security number?"