Notes: Inspired by The Broccoli Test.
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When House invited himself along on a trip to the grocery store, Wilson had instantly become suspicious. He knew House hated the place. House regarded supermarkets as the eighth circle of hell; he'd once described it as "a collection of sheep so confounded by the prospect of choosing a type of bread that they become instantly incapable of getting out of my way." (Clinic duty, Wilson remembered, was the ninth circle – "because the sheep that make it as far as the hospital feel compelled to tell me whatever crap they read about their rash on the internet.") And since Wilson knew House, knew him, the way he knew the back of his own hand, he held himself ready. House was definitely up to something.
But so far House had behaved perfectly well. Sure, he'd insisted on pushing the cart (after Wilson had refused to let him ride in it) and occasionally pretending to aim it at old ladies blocking the aisle (complete with bowling references), but he hadn't followed through, which was the important part. And sure, he'd insisted on splitting up, which had made Wilson somewhat nervous, but every time he'd come back to deposit a basketful of groceries into the cart, he'd found House calmly consulting his half of the list, the cart slowly filling with what seemed to be the correct items.
So of course it was just when Wilson was beginning to relax that House's perverse streak decided to take hold. Wilson was standing at one end of the store looking at the cheese. If I make some sort of gratin, he thought, maybe I can slip some vegetables in and House won't complain too much. Maybe some broccoli.
Turning, he looked down the long aisle at the back of the store towards the produce section. He could see House there, standing next to the cart and looking at the meat case. I should just have him get the broccoli while he's down there, Wilson thought.
After a moment, House turned and Wilson waved to get his attention. House lifted his cane and sketched a sarcastic salute with it, barely missing the head of a passing shopper. Wilson laughed. Then he started to indicate what he wanted.
First he took his right hand and mimed holding the stalk, and then with his left hand indicated the tufted buds at the top. He repeated this for about thirty seconds. House made an exaggerated head scratching gesture. Wilson sighed. Then he decided to draw the shape of the broccoli in the air. With both hands together he started at the top of the broccoli, drawing the bumps of the buds and then angling down to make the square shape of the stalk. After two repetitions of this shape, he paused. Across the store, House hooked his cane onto the handle of the cart and drew his hands through the air, forming the very clear shape of a heart. Wilson sighed again, feeling exasperated. Giving up on the shape idea, he grabbed a hunk of cheese and held it up so that it was clearly visible. Then he mimed it melting over a plate and eating the contents. House lifted both hands in a clear "what the fuck?" gesture, and Wilson could see by the stifled shaking of his shoulders that House was laughing.
Throwing up his hands in irritation, he put the cheese into his basket and turned away, only to be confronted by the sight of the small crowd that had gathered behind him to watch, including two small, open-mouthed children.
"Mommy, that man is weird," said one of them, with the total self-assurance of a six year-old. The mother gave Wilson a disapproving look and hustled the child away. Wilson held back a laugh that he knew would have been tinged with hysteria and ran a hand through his hair. He gave the rest of the watchers a nervous smile.
"Um," he said, "excuse me." Pulling out his list, he edged past the crowd, which began to disperse, many of them casting smirks in Wilson's direction.
Typical of House, he thought. Not only does he drive me insane, but he manages to make me embarrass myself at the same time, all of it without even trying! Unbelievable. The worst part of it was, Wilson realized, that he'd been so sure House would know what he wanted, so sure that House would be able to puzzle out his meaning. We've always operated on the same sort of wavelength, like we could almost read each other's minds. Wilson snorted. I guess that only works when we're talking about Spongebob, he thought bitterly.
Putting those unpleasant thoughts aside, Wilson finished gathering the last of the items on his list. As he came around the corner to the front of the store, he saw House waiting in the middle of the store, impatiently tapping his cane against the handle of the cart.
"Finally," said House as Wilson came within earshot. Before Wilson could reply, House turned the cart into the nearest checkout lane. "I was afraid you'd decided to interrupt this expedition for a career on Broadway, Mr. Fosse."
"I'm sorry," Wilson shot back, inexplicably irritated, "I was under the impression that you were some sort of diagnostician. You know, the kind of person who figures things out instead of standing dumbly and sticking his finger up his nose."
House rolled his eyes. "Relax," he said, reaching into the cart. "I got your precious broccoli. But you better have bought the good cheese, because without it that shit is foul and bitter." He tossed a bag of fresh broccoli onto the belt. Wilson's mouth dropped open.
"You got it? But…" He sputtered in the face of House's smirk. "Then what was that performance all about?"
"I figured I'd better make you work for it," said House. "Otherwise you might get lazy and expect me to actually do things for you, and then where would we be?"
"In an equal friendship?" Wilson asked sarcastically, but he felt a smile start to grow on his face in spite of himself. House nodded with mock solemnity.
"Oh, yes," he said, "can't have that. My reputation, you know."
Wilson snorted but he felt his good humor return as they fell back into their familiar banter. House is an ass, but at least he's consistent. He started loading the rest of the groceries onto the belt, giving the clerk a conspiratorial roll of the eyes.
"Someone seeing you acting like a human being would be bizarre, but it's probably not one of the signs of the apocalypse." Then he looked at what he had just picked up. "House, why did you get… for Pete's sake, I'm just going to teach you how to make those freaking pancakes, okay?"
"But they're better when you make them," House whined. Then he smirked, dropping the whine. "Besides," he said, "yours have the magical ingredient of love!" He gave the clerk an ostentatious wink.
"House!" said Wilson, trying for an outraged tone but succeeding only in sounding faintly amused, as he finished bagging the groceries. He turned to the clerk, moving past House to slide his credit card. "We're not... uh…"
House fluttered his eyelashes. "Oh, honey, you don't have to hide. Princeton's such a progressive town." He pinched Wilson's ass, making him jump and create a strange scrawl in the middle of his signature on the credit card slip.
"Jesus," said Wilson, "would you quit giving me the bad touch? I'm trying to buy your groceries here." Then, flustered, he gave the clerk a pleading look as he handed the slip back. "We're really not…"
House gave him a shove. "Quit yammering, love muffin. I'm getting hungry for pancakes already." Wilson sighed and started pushing the cart towards the doors of the store. Behind him he heard House's stage whisper – "He's a tiger in bed, too" – and the clerk's muffled yelp of amusement.
Wilson slowed his walk until House had hobbled up beside him. "You're getting predictable," he said. "'A tiger in bed.' What a cliché."
House growled but when Wilson looked over he was as close to smiling as House ever got. "Just holding back to give you a fair chance to keep up," he said.
Twenty minutes ago, Wilson might have been depressed by such a statement. Instead, he smiled, feeling his instincts had been validated.
"I knew you were going to say that."