The phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey, we're out of eggs."
Wilson froze; half-expecting ninja cripples to drop out of the sky. "Where are you? How could you possibly know I was at the grocery store?"
"I put a tracking dot in your shoe."
Wilson paused, considering this.
"Oh my god. I'm kidding." House said.
Wilson accepted a cart from an elderly attendant and started off down the first aisle.
"And bread. We're out of bread." House said.
"I'll get bread to tomorrow. From the bakery."
"I like the cheap bread. It makes better toast."
Wilson rolled his eyes but grabbed a bag of white bread off the shelf as he passed it.
"How did you know I was at the grocery store?" Wilson asked.
"Last night we got take-out. This morning you opened the fridge and sighed and then got a bagel on the way to work. You left work before I did; but I'm home and you're not. All signs point to…"
"Grocery store."
"Bingo. We're out of rat food too."
Wilson sighed and turned back to the animal products aisle he'd skipped. "Why don't you just make a list?"
"I'm not going grocery shopping. Why should I make a list?"
Scanning the shelves frantically, Wilson reached the end of the aisle and turned around. "They don't have rat food."
"Well, what are we gonna feed Steve?"
"How about that crappy bread?"
"Will you get off the bread?"
"Will you get off the couch and come help me shop?"
House grumbled. "My leg hurts."
"It does not!" Wilson shouted. A young mother pushed a cart already half-full of her plump and tired looking offspring. She stared at him. Wilson tried to smile reassuringly, but wasn't quite sure he got it down.
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I put a tracking dot in your Vicodin bottle."
"That's dumb. Tracking dot. I mean a weight sensor maybe…"
Wilson took on long slow deep breath and considered hurling his phone into the lobster tank.
"Why are you bugging me?" He asked finally.
"We're out of eggs."
"You don't even eat eggs." Wilson said.
"And bread…"Wilson sighed. "And rat food." Wilson heard the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing. "And Monster."
"What the hell is monster?"
"It's next to the Red Bull, black can. Pick up a few."
"You're just bored aren't you?" Wilson said, not expecting an answer. He caught sight of a can of tomato sauce and tipped it into the cart. It landed squarely on the bread, squashing it. Wilson smiled.
"No." House said.
Wilson's eyebrows drew together. "Huh?"
"I'm not bored. I just thought you might be."
Wilson smiled faintly. That was possibly true. He silently nudged the can off House's bread.
"How can you stand that?" House asked.
"What? Grocery shopping? I like to eat, you know, things that don't come congealed to boxes delivered by greasy seventeen year olds."
"Please. You have to be at least 18 to be a pizza guy. Besides, what's the point of these wonders of modern civilization if nobody takes part in them?"
"Pizza Hut is not a wonder of anything and besides I like to cook."
"It gives you a headache."
Wilson's eyebrows drew together. "What? It does not."
House sighed. "Grocery shopping. It gives you a headache. You come home and act all bitchy and go to bed early."
"I do not…" Wilson began in to loud of a tone. He suddenly noticed the small children in the cart behind him. He turned away, scanning his eyes over a wall of pasta and whispered. "I do not act bitchy. The jerk on the phone gives me a headache. Not buying food."
"So? Same result for me."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." Wilson said sarcastically. "So sorry that you might be inconvenienced by someone going to buy food with their own money that they will cook with their own hands, just to have you eat all of it. I'm so sorry that's a problem."
House laughed. "How many people are staring at you?"
Wilson flushed, glancing around. One young mother. Two kohl smeared teenagers. Two children.
"Five."
"They all think you have the worst wife in the entire world."
Wilson laughed, pushing his cart along. "If you really want to stop me from being bored." He said, after a while. "You could come down here and do this with me sometime."
"My leg hurts."
"You're lying."
"How can you tell?"
Wilson shrugged, rounding a corner and grabbing some potato chips. "I just can. Always."
"You can never tell when I'm lying."
"Yeah, but I can always tell when your leg hurts. Even if you don't say anything. Even if you're asleep."
"I don't believe you."
"So? Doesn't change it. I can always tell. You can be clear across the building and I'll look up from my desk and think 'House's leg hurts.'"
"Prove it."
"Okay. I'll tell you next time. I can't tell you now because your leg doesn't hurt."
"Fine. My leg doesn't hurt."
Wilson smiled. A small victory. The smile faded as his eyes fell into the cart, taking stock of the odd assortment of cans, bags and boxes he'd grabbed seemingly at random.
"Forget this. I'm coming home."
"But…"
Wilson took a step away from his cart, ready to desert it in the…what aisle was this? He glanced at the sign. Popcorn, crackers and chips. Why had he even come down here?
"But…" House repeated. "We don't have any food."
"Yeah, but I can't remember what I was going to cook anyway. And I have a headache. You're right, okay; the lights give me a headache."
"It's not the lights, it's your hyperopia."
"My what, now?" Wilson asked, moving quickly out of the aisle. The cart was officially abandoned. He headed toward the door.
"Your far sight."
"I don't need glasses."
"Nope, because you've figured out how to compensate for it. Unless, of course, you have to quickly switch between scanning distant shelves and reading labels up close, over and over again. Then you get a headache. It's also why you tilt your head back when you look at computer screens."
"As sweet as your obsessive detailing of my every flaw is…" Wilson trailed off, realizing he didn't quite know how to end that sentence. "I'm coming home." He said, lamely.
"At least get some Monster."
"I don't even know what that is."
"It's in a black can, next to the Red Bull."
Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson saw the impulse buy refrigerator set right before check out. Several black cans read Monster in bright letters. He grabbed a few of each kind, piling them awkwardly on one arm.
"They are not. They're between something called Ace and something called Vamp." Wilson said, dumping the cans on the motorized checkout counter. They rolled of there own volition to the bored looking kid manning the scanner. She gave him a funny look, but accepted his credit card and placed the cans in a plastic bag.
"Got it." He said, walking towards the exit. The doors whooshed open as he approached them. "I'm coming home now."
"See you soon."
Dial tone.