"Cooking class?" House raised an eyebrow at Wilson. "Do I look like Wolfgang Puck to you?"
Cuddy piped in with, "You're more like Emeril Lagasse without the 'Bam!'"
"I have more bam for the buck than a hundred Emerils," House declared. "What other classes do you take? Sewing? Scrapbooking? Fascinating Womanhood?"
"It'll be fun," Wilson offered, ignoring his friend's sarcasm. "How do you think I learned to cook? I took classes. Besides, you might learn a recipe or two and be able to put that to good use."
They were relaxing in the living room, House and Cuddy curled up on the sofa while Wilson lounged in the easy chair. The oncologist refilled his wine glass, then Cuddy's. House nursed a glass of brandy that still sat half-full on the table.
He was in a good mood at the moment, but both Wilson and Cuddy knew that if they didn't find something to keep him occupied for the next month, they'd all be screaming at each other and hurling small appliances across the room by the end of the week. Boredom was House's worst enemy, an enemy that didn't need to cross the gate into his mind and set up shop there.
House waved his hand in the general direction of the kitchen and said, "Does it look like I ever put any kind of cooking skills to use in there? That's what she's here for."
"Hey!" Cuddy elbowed her lover in the ribs, maybe a little harder than necessary. "I'm sitting right here, you know."
"I know now," House grumbled, making an over-dramatic show of rubbing the spot she had elbowed, pretending to be hurt.
She said, "You sure as hell don't seem to mind shoveling the food I make down that bottomless gullet of yours."
"Never said I didn't," House smirked. "You do the cooking, I do the shoveling. Works out pretty good for both of us."
"Does it? Then how come you never help with the dishes?"
"You never ask."
"You're doing the dishes tonight, Mister," she declared.
"That's Doctor, thank you very much," House said. "And what if I don't?"
"Then make yourself comfy on this here sofa, because you'll be sleeping on it."
His brow furrowed in confusion, he said, "You'd kick me out of my own bed?"
"Whether you sleep on the sofa or whether I do doesn't matter. The point is that either way you'll be sleeping alone," she explained, her eyes narrowed.
After pretending to think it over for a few moments, House said, "Consider them done."
Wilson decided it was time to get the subject of their conversation back on track before Cuddy had House scrubbing the bathtub and mending her clothes. "You said you wanted a hobby and I'm offering you a hobby," he reminded his friend, setting his glass of wine on the table. "You can be out of your apartment a couple nights a week, learn a new skill that can be put to good use in your everyday life, and keep your overactive mind occupied for a while."
Still, House seemed reluctant. "I'm not sure if cooking is my thing…"
"You'll never know until you find out."
"But I don't cook. At all. I reheat your leftovers. I nuke frozen dinners. I make peanut butter sandwiches and order take-out food from people who know exactly what I want the second I call them because I call them so often. They're on a first-name basis with me."
"Exactly!" Wilson exclaimed, reaching for his glass of wine. "Don't you get sick of peanut butter sandwiches and take-out food all the time? It's only been a few days since you left Mayfield and their so-called food. And as much as you've enjoyed Cuddy and I cooking for you the past couple of days, we can't cook for you every day. Doesn't some spaghetti you made yourself sound more appetizing than some slop from a can or some peanut butter slapped on two pieces of stale bread?"
"I guess…"
"So what's stopping you?"
"Nothing, I suppose. But with my luck I'll end up burning the damn place down."
Wilson took a gulp of his drink before he said, "So we find out if the cooking school has insurance. Come to one class with me. Just one. If you don't like, we'll find something else."
House sighed, not in frustration but with the resignation that he knew he had to do something with himself until he got his license back. "All right. When is this class of yours?"
"Friday. Six o'clock." Wilson smiled, pleased that his friend had agreed to come along. Getting House out and about the best thing he could do for his friend. House needed to do something new, get his hands dirty, learn a new skill and perhaps one or two new things about himself. Maybe he could keep House from going ballistic from boredom after all.
"You sure they won't mind me crashing the place?"
"Not at all. Just stick with me, wear the apron, don't throw food at your neighbor and it will all be good. I'll pick you up here at five-thirty."
House muttered "Fine with me" before reaching for his brandy and finishing it off in two gulps.
"House," Cuddy spoke up, "remember that it's not a competition. It's a class. That's all. Just keep that in mind and I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself."
"I'll keep that in mind," the diagnostician echoed.
"Please do. Maybe you could cook dinner for me sometime."
"Really?" House grinned at her and asked, "What would you like? Would it get me out of doing the dishes?"