IF WE DON'T TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE...

I'M NOT CALLING FOR A SECOND CHANCE I'M SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE

I'M NOT CALLING FOR A SECOND CHANCE I'M SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE

I'M NOT CALLING FOR A SECOND CHANCE I'M SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE

I'M NOT CALLING FOR A SECOND CHANCE I'M SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE

I'M NOT CALLING FOR A SECOND CHANCE I'M SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE

I'M NOT CALLING FOR A SECOND CHANCE I'M SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE

I'M NOT CALLING FOR A SECOND CHANCE I'M SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE

I'M NOT CALLING FOR A SECOND CHANCE I'M SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE

                            CASTIEL RAISES A BROW (not that House can see that). "I go 100 miles per second minimum," he says. Is there a hint of arrogance? Why, yes. An angel is always proud of their wings and the speed they allow them to travel with. Castiel could be in Namibia in less than a minute if he wanted to. These little motorized vehicles are nothing compared to that, although he has to admit that they're better than horses.

House knows gloating when he hears it; he just wasn't expecting it from the "holier-than-thou" angel behind him. However, it makes him smirk, and he almost forgets why he was annoyed.

"Whatever, wing boy."

With that, he starts the bike and drives them to the nearest ice cream shop, staying within the speed limit because it's broad daylight, and he's not sure if Castiel will fall off—it's his first time, after all.

Parking next to the sidewalk, House kills the engine and turns to face Castiel.

Rust can feel the weight of Marty's eyes on him, a dull pressure that cuts through the rhythmic scratch of his Sharpie against the paper, but he doesn't look up yet. It's not that he hadn't heard the question, but finishing his thought on the page before addressing it was easier.

The ledger, an extension of himself at this point, sits on his lap, its pages an intricate mix of notes, sketches, and what others might dismiss as meaningless scrawls. But to Rust, it all serves a purpose: tracing the outline of something that seems just out of reach.

"Cataloguing."

"I'm hardly going to let someone like you chase me out of my own club," They are sprawled comfortably in their seat, a glass of something expensive cradled in their grasp, lording over the club like they once did over Hell. It's not a bad life after all.

"You're right--I approached you. Not because I thought you'd be a good conversation partner, but because… well, I've heard you're the kind of person who can make things happen."

Rob takes a sip of the whiskey on the rocks he has been nursing, his eyes narrowing slightly. This could be a mistake, or it could be the best decision he has ever made.

The room feels quieter now; the distant chatter blends into a static buzz. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and watches the other carefully.

                             "I DON'T EAT BREAKFAST," comes the prompt answer, "or any other meal." But he knows that breakfast is the most important meal of the day (according to Dean, who also says this about any other meal), so he should let House have some food before he gets cranky(-er). 

"Of course you don't--but you can pay for it, so you're buying mine."

House smirks with pride, tapping his cane on the floor once before rising to his feet and heading over to the door to the elevators, expecting Castiel to follow.

"Behind every great doctor, there are… three little minions who do his dirty work for his approval and a paycheck at the end of the month."

Pressing the elevator button, he frowns when Castiel questions his methods.