House glared at Wilson over the expanse of blue melamine between them. Wilson stared resolutely back, determined not to be put off by House's cheap tactics. He fought the urge to brush the stray crumbs from House's sandwich off the tabletop. But no – he'd never hear the end of it if House was lead to believe that he was in any way superior. His eyes were watering, but that didn't matter now. There was a lot riding on this; he couldn't afford to let his concentration slip for an instant. He was dimly aware of some shape moving on the periphery of his vision, but whoever they were, they could wait…
No. The woman bustled into view, clearing the table behind House, and momentarily distracted, Wilson glanced away. House slammed his hand down triumphantly on the table.
"Ha! Jimmy Wilson, you owe me five dollars." He thrust his hand unashamedly across the table at Wilson. "Come on: pay up." Wilson obliged. It would be easier to dispute the finer points of the game once House was at least vaguely plastered.
The woman switched on her vacuum cleaner, glowering at them, and Wilson realised that they were the only two left in the cafeteria. Nodding pointedly at House, he donned his overcoat, and tossed over the trilby that House had found festering at the back of the wardrobe a week ago (but which Wilson would have sworn he'd seen him wearing recently) and had refused to part with ever since. As they passed the cleaner, he removed it for the purpose of an extravagant bow.
"I tip my hat to you, good lady"
The effect was dulled slightly by his lopsided posture as he leant heavily on his cane. Wilson dragged him off before he could earn them any more filthy looks.
Wilson had assumed that House would be making his own way home, despite the fact that they'd travelled together that morning, but those hopes were crushed as House followed him down to the car park and established himself in the passenger seat as soon as the car doors were unlocked. Sighing, Wilson climbed in beside him.
"Where to tonight then, boss?" House asked, looking at him in the rear-view mirror with those infuriatingly plausible eyes.
"Well… I heard Purgatory was a good vacation spot. Plenty of sun…"
"But tragically lacking in sea and sand. Well, then. Home, Wilson dearest?"
"Fine." Wilson pursed his lips and pulled away.
"Come on, Jimmy, you don't hate me really…" Wilson refused to react. How many times did those 'How to Handle Your Kids' shows state calmly and matter-of-factly that letting a toddler see that their behaviour is provoking a reaction only encourages them? True to form, after several minutes of fidgeting and sideways glances to see if he was eliciting a response, House settled, appearing suitably subdued. The reprieve was, of course, temporary – it always was, and so it came as no surprise when he spoke again, in the sort of impish tone that most people have outgrown by the age of twelve.
"Can you pretty please call your mummy and daddy and ask them if you can come over and play?"
"I've got a tonne of files to look through tonight."
"Stuff files. What can be more exciting than the unnegotiated terrain of my flat?"
"I really-"
"-The files are an excuse. And it's not as if you're going back to a fulfilling home environment…"
"OK, fine. What will it be? Chinese and a movie?"
"Chinese is boring. We always have Chinese. What about Italian? And alcohol? And pay-per-view porn?"
"Sounds like a good call. Though, watching porn with you, I'd fear for my sanity."
"Mi casa es su casa. Whatever floats your boat." House turned back to watch the road from out of the side window, snaffling a couple of fruit pastels from the bag he knew Wilson had stashed in the glove box. His flat was a mile or so closer than Wilson's, who almost had to be reminded to take the earlier turning.
When they got into the flat, House's first action was to collapse on the sofa, simultaneously reaching for the strategically-placed whiskey bottle in one smooth motion that seemed to Wilson to be of almost outstanding elegance, but which he suspected was a move perfected by years of the same comfortable routine. Clattering into the kitchen next door and depositing his bag on the table, he called through.
"I'll sort out the food, shall I?" House's reply was indistinct, so he reached for the drawer in which the takeaway leaflets were kept. "Hey, where's the Chinese menu?"
"God knows. The pizza one's still there, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. Order it yourself: the phone's closer to you."
Sighing, House reached over his head for the phone.
"You're having Mexican." It wasn't a question: in matters of pizza, Wilson had learned to bow to House's evidently-superior judgement. Besides, there was nothing wrong with Mexican. At least it would be an improvement on anything that came from the interior of House's kitchen.