Sometimes James Wilson thought he could tell the story of his life through the places he'd slept. It would be a musical comedy, crammed with too many love songs that ended on a minor note and endless reprises on House's couch. That last would be a Sondheim song, dark and complicated, with dense, witty lyrics, unusual time signatures, and unexpected key changes.
In the week since Wilson had taken refuge from the wreckage of his third marriage, House had baited him, turned him into his own personal chef and manservant, and told him to leave every other day. Wilson had stopped listening once he'd realized House was sabotaging his attempts to do just that, and he'd slowly grown used to House's endlessly inventive tormenting. He hadn't gone to House expecting comfort, after all.
But some days he needed respite, especially days spent in long, boring, and ultimately disastrous budget meetings. Despite his strenuous objections, the funding for a project he'd been working on for nearly six months had been slashed and he'd spent the rest of the day scrambling to ensure that patient care wouldn't be affected.
Fortunately, House was consumed with the latest patient dying in interesting ways, so Wilson knew he'd have the apartment to himself for the evening. He could watch his favourite television shows, listen to music that he liked, or read a book without House interrupting every five minutes. He even considered hanging the stethoscope on the door handle, but he suspected House would actually welcome the opportunity to burst in on an intimate moment. Humiliating Wilson was the marquee sport in the House Olympics.
The first thing he did when he arrived was take a long, hot shower and groom to his heart's content. House might mock him for excessive primping, but at least he wouldn't look like a mess, no matter how untidy his life was at the moment. Lady had been by, so even the apartment maintained a facade of order and cleanliness. He pulled on a well-worn sweatshirt and jeans and wandered back into the living room, loose and relaxed for the first time in days.
Nothing on television interested him, but he found Billie Holiday's Lady in Satin tucked amongst House's records. He put it on, humming softly along to "I'm a Fool to Want You." There was something about Holiday's ravaged, beautiful voice that made his own troubles seem insignificant. He was glad House hadn't replaced the scratched album with a CD; digital recordings didn't resonate in quite the same painful way.
It was dinnertime, so he thought he'd fix something that could simmer on the stove or be reheated when House returned home. House might complain about the smell or the mess, but the empty dishes and balled-up plastic wrap discarded around the apartment were their own silent compliments. He hadn't had a chance to go shopping, but he knew there was tuna in the cupboards and half a package of macaroni. He could make up a quick casserole that House would call pedestrian and then inhale as if he hadn't eaten both their lunches earlier.
But when he opened the fridge to see whether there was any cheese that he could grate, he found the crispers overflowing with fresh fruit and vegetables and the shelves stocked with sauces and garnishes and milk that wasn't about to curdle. There was fresh chicken and ground beef and brown paper packages of wild salmon and jumbo shrimp. He had upgraded the spice rack the day after he'd moved in, but the cupboards were now filled with pastas and rice, canned beans and tomato sauce, and potatoes that weren't growing a tangled maze of sprouts.
He leaned against the counter, wondering if he were hallucinating. He hadn't left instructions or extra money for Lady to pick up groceries. And he was fairly certain he wasn't a sleep shopper. That left only one possible explanation. House, who existed happily on peanut butter and canned soup, had somehow found the time to go marketing while trying to save a life. He hoped the patient had at least been stable.
Wilson was cataloging the crispers and planning menus when the door banged open. The patient must have been more than stable.
"Two things," House said, as he stumped into the kitchen. "One: I didn't give you permission to put your sticky fingers on my vinyl. Two: you should be cooking the produce, not fondling it. Or does that cucumber remind you of your ex-wife?"
She wasn't ex, at least not yet, but there were more things wrong with that sentence than semantics. "Shouldn't you be saying that about the melons?"
"Please. Julie's breasts could at best be considered plums. No, I'm thinking long and thin and essentially tasteless."
Wilson knew he shouldn't be amused by that, but he couldn't keep from smirking. "Cucumbers are only tasteless when they bulge," he pointed out.
"I'm not going to touch that," House announced. "I suggest you just chop it up and be done with it."
"Why did you buy cucumbers if they're tasteless and almost-ex-wife-like?" Wilson asked. "More to the point, why did you buy any of this at all?"
House ignored the second question. "Because they go so well with Pimm's, and I felt like reliving last summer's Henley Royal Regatta."
"It is only three months until Wimbledon," Wilson conceded. "I'm sure the cucumbers will keep until then. Or," he considered, "I could make tzatziki and we could have souvlaki for dinner tomorrow." He'd have to strain the yoghurt overnight, and he hadn't seen any pita bread.
"With rice and Greek potatoes?"
"And Greek salad," Wilson said, remembering the fresh feta he'd seen on one of the shelves and the Grade A olive oil that had nearly made him weep with joy. Extra-virgin, his inner House supplied.
"That's why," House said, deigning to answer Wilson's other question. "There's no such thing as altruism. I expect you to create dishes that would rock Kitchen Stadium with these ingredients."
"Battle cucumber?" Wilson asked, tossing it to House.
"Only if you're challenging Cat Cora," House replied, leering. "I'd be her sous chef any day."
"You just want the ouzo," Wilson retorted, making a note to pick up a bottle. He leaned against the counter. "What do you want tonight? I could make jambalaya." He didn't want to let the shrimp sit too long in the fridge, and he could prep the chicken for souvlaki at the same time.
"Knock yourself out," House said, though his indifference was only convincing if one didn't see his tongue dart out to lick his lips free of saliva. He sauntered back into the living room before Wilson could ask him to chop vegetables.
Wilson smiled when the record was turned over. It wasn't necessary, though; he no longer needed Billie Holiday.