The book warranted little attention when he brought them home. After an evening of jokes at his expense they returned to their true calling of space occupation and dust collection. The sports book provided new and disturbing (even for House) insult fodder. He'd threatened to withhold sex until the next time the Red Sox won the World Series after the third fraternal circle jerk joke.
Allergens must have clouded his judgement. The best cookbook of the lot barely qualified as decent. Not worth taking up the limited space in the kitchen. With surgical precision, he sliced out the interesting pages. Cutting up books seemed like something that would get him a special seat in hell. That corner of hell for book defacers didn't frighten him much. If he bothered to believe in hell, he had little doubt he'd earned himself a seat in the second level orchestra.
Close inspection of Fascinating Womanhood led him to agree with his mother. The book was evil. He'd been so good about that New Year's resolution to stop lecturing House about his myriad of faults. The polite acceptance technique was not emotionally satisfying. What he needed was a new and more devious means of House manipulation. He could feel himself tumbling ass over teakettle towards new personal depths. This experiment was ill advised and bound to fail miserably.
He turned the book over and looked at the author's photo on the back. "I'm sending you the hotel bill."
"If you overlook his weakness, you display a lack of character yourself."
"Do you have some sort of opposition to putting away your own clothes?"
"You're better at it."
"Your mother never taught you how to use a hanger?"
"In the House hacienda they weren't just for hanging up clothes. They also left fascinating patterns on my ass."
"Your mother is nothing like Joan Crawford."
"I didn't say she was. Put my dad in a wig, wax his eyebrows and the likeness is uncanny."
"Laundry does not bring back painful childhood memories."
"Our understanding of the human mind is but a grain of sand on the great beach inside our heads."
"Laundry room. Ten minutes. One word and you're in charge of sorting."
"Must I accept alcoholism in my husband?…The answer, you must accept this…Once a month fast for three days-going without food or beverage-nothing but water. You will soon get the picture of you are expecting when you ask him to give up his enslaving habit."
"That is probably the stupidest thing I've ever read," he slammed the book shut and tossed it onto his desk.
The familiar sound of House invading his office gave him barely enough time to slide the book into the top drawer. "I thought we agreed you'd knock before barging into my office."
"I'll knock if you're with a patient. When you have nothing better to do but read romance novels and deplete your secret chocolate stash I'm going to revert to my old barging ways. Speaking of your chocolate stash, you might want to switch to a healthier snack alternative, if you know what I mean." With a leer, House slid his cane under Wilson's sweater and poked him in the ribs.
He pushed the cane aside. "My weight is fine. Besides, inspiring me to stop cooking would have the direct effect of causing you to stop eating."
"I know your life began the day you loved me, but before you came along I spent years failing to die of starvation."
"Dinner isn't the only thing you won't be getting tonight."
"It's always about sex with you. Every time you try to manipulate me with sexual favors you kill a little bit of my soul." He fished a pill out of his jacket pocket and dry swallowed it before going on, "You hurt me, Wilson."
Wilson leaned back in his chair and watched the muscles in House's face relax as the mental effects of the Vicodin kicked in. He looked extremely relaxed. Wilson hated that look.
"Want to get a snack?"
"You go ahead. I've got an appointment in a few minutes."
As House left, he glanced at the clock. Monday morning, 11:21.
When he got home, House was in the living room watching the Daily Show. An open pizza box and two empty beer bottles cluttered the coffee table. "See? Dinner. Have a slice."
The pizza smelled so good. House pulled the piece of pizza away from his mouth. A long strand of cheese trailed from his teeth to the slice. This is a stupid game. He should stop. The voice of reason was silenced by his interest in the results of the experiment. "No thanks, I'm not really hungry. I'm just going to go read for awhile."
"Your loss."
By the time House got into bed that night Wilson's stomach was sounded like he had swallowed a banshee. Water did nothing to silence the rumbling. To top it off, he'd had to pee so many times that night House had threatened to give him a home prostate exam. And not the fun kind.
House sat on the edge of the bed and took the day's last Vicodin. He pulled the blankets down and slid between the sheets.
"You smell like a frat house. Take a shower."
"Cranky," House mumbled as he got out of bed and made his way to the bathroom.
Wilson feigned sleep upon his return. Not even House's soap slicked body pressed to his back or his warm Listerine scented breath against the nape of his neck would change his mind. Well, maybe a little. Not enough to be obvious.
Tuesday wouldn't have been that bad if House hadn't turned up every couple of hours with food and coffee. It would've been almost charming if he wasn't at so damned ill timed.
"I have bagels."
"I have work."
"You haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday."
"Did you install a web cam in my office?"
"Does this have something to do with the weight joke? If I wanted anorexic I'd sleep with Cameron."
"Fasting is a respected medical practice. Not that I should need to point this out to you. Studies have shown cell detoxification is helpful in treatment of autoimmune disorders and insulin regulation."
"As a doctor, I feel it's my duty to point out that you would be better off treating some of the myriad of things that are actually wrong with you. What's the deal?"
"I'm repenting."
"They're still hot." House waved the bagel in front of Wilson's nose.
"Go away," he said in the most level voice he could manage.
House dropped the wax paper wrapped bagel on the desk. "There are less annoying methods of atonement."
By Tuesday night hunger had made him forget the feeling of joy. House upped the ante by fixing dinner. Fried egg sandwiches and tater tots, not healthy by any standards, but it was an effort.
"My specialty. Perfect for hangovers and other fast breaking occasions." Wilson glared at the steaming mess of grease sat before him. "Mangi, mangi."
Yolk oozed out from under the grilled bread and bled into the pool of ketchup. Wilson poked at the buttery top of the sandwich much the way a child might poke at a dead animal.
"Stop trying to prove a point and eat." House pushed the plate so close to the edge of the table Wilson was surprised he wasn't wearing the sandwich. "Dammit," he added in a tone that dripped unconvincing anger.
7:52, it would seem he had about thirty hours worth of resolve. Food and Vicodin aren't fair comparisons, he told himself.
Defeat tasted delicious.
"Sit back and allow men to function in their masculine role."
"I hooked the satellite up to the TV in the bedroom."
"We don't have a satellite dish."
"The Spencers do. Don't give me that look."
"How did you--?"
"Paid the paper boy fifty bucks to climb a ladder and screw in a coax cable. Bought a receiver from a guy that just happened to be liquidating his electronics stock. Nonchalantly dragged seventy-five feet of wire around the building."
"Exactly how many laws are you breaking so you can watch SoapNet while I'm trying to sleep?"
"About twelve. Fifteen, tops."
"Next time you are angry...try some childlike mannerisms: Stomp your foot, lift your chin high...Turn on the drama."
"Do you have a death wish? Because if you do I can help the process along and save myself the trauma of trying to identify your mangled corpse."
"It's a bike. Just like the one I've had for years. Only newer, shinier and faster. I got you a helmet." House pulled a shiny black flip front helmet out of his backpack. "The lightest model yet. Guarantees the hardness and rigidity for ultimate in safety." He threw the helmet towards Wilson who was forced to dive forward to intercept the flying headgear. "At least that's what the sales guy said. I think he was hitting on me, but it applies to the helmet, too."
Wilson bit the inside of his cheek and inhaled. "How can you be so selfish?" he wailed. "You never think of anyone but yourself. What about how I feel? Do you ever even think," he slammed his fist down on the table, "about me?"
For a moment House was only capable of a confused look. He gathered his wits and threw back, "You knew about the first bike before I bought it."
"Yes, I did! How can you be even less considerate now?" His full lips jutted into a pout and folded his arms over his chest. He felt the competing sensations of idiocy and complete justification.
"Have you suffered brain damage? The fuck kind of argument is that?'
That was not an easy question to answer. In response, he kicked the leg of the coffee table and gritted his teeth at the shock of pain that ran through his body. "I put up with so much and you don't even ask me before doing something crazy."
House wrapped his fingers around Wilson's wrist and pulled the other man towards him. Pressing his mouth against Wilson's ear, he whispered, "You're acting like a child." His breath was hot. "It's not attractive."
Wilson swallowed hard. The very reasonable thought that now would be an excellent time to stop this stupid game crossed his mind. It was interesting, though. "Jealous?"
"You're being a brat. It's embarrassing."
Wilson fought against House's ever tightening grip. "Let me go," his voice sounded uncomfortably like a whine.
"No. If you're going to act like a child I'm going to treat you like one." Never letting go of Wilson's wrists, House turned and sat down on the piano bench. Wilson attempted to wriggle lose. With a fluid motion that indicated practice he tipped Wilson over his knee and proceeded to administer a series of sharp, hard slaps.
"House! Fuck! That hurts!" His squirming was far more attractive than the pouting had been. His protests were particularly amusing. House's original intention had been to end the argument in the most ridiculous way possible. But this--this was much too fascinating to pre-empt. His hand was hot and was growing sore from the repetitive application of palm to ass. It couldn't feel like a massage on the other end. Wilson's yelps alternated between indignation and begging.
"Are you going to stop acting like a spoiled little girl? Or should I take off my belt?" He rested his hand on Wilson's back as he spoke, barely touching him, yet neither of them moved.
"Bitch," Wilson mumbled.
"The person with his ass sticking up towards the heavens shouldn't call names."
"No," he winced as he pushed himself up. "The author. Of this book. A stupid book that I'm going to throw into the incinerator as soon as my gait stops screaming 'My dom boyfriend tanned my hide.'"
"You liked it. Your psyche is a ride on the Rotor, but your body is a wonderland. What book?"
"This one," Wilson pushed the copy of Fascinating Womanhod into House's hand. His eyes focused on the floor. The scruffy, limping bastard contingent of those present would have a blast with this conversation.
House's laughter cut through the tension. "You can't be serious."
Wilson shrugged.
"You are?"
Another shrug.
"My mom had a copy of this book. You were using 'Childish Anger' weren't you?"
The shrugging was getting old.
"A few weeks ago, the fasting, that was your attempt to understand my 'enslaving habit' wasn't it?"
"It got you to cook." That kind of weak argument almost warranted another spanking. Or maybe he just liked the idea.
"You never asked. I'm not completely helpless. And you make a lousy martyr. An egg sandwich? That's what melted your resolve? Ghandi weeps in his grave."
"It didn't feel right-letting you live your life without commenting and interfering in every aspect. If I'm not lecturing you on your faults, I just don't know what to do with myself."
House wrapped his arms around Wilson's waist and placed a series of quick, soft kisses along his neck. "Do you really need me to list all the ways you could spend your time that would occupy your mouth without straining your vocal chords?"
"I have some ideas."
"You got me without a book. Don't fuck it up with armchair Mormon psychology."
"How about Jungian?" Wilson traced his tongue along House's jaw.
"Shut up and show me what you're made of, you domestic goddess, you."