A/N: This is a fic I wrote for a challenge on houseflashfic on lj. The theme is "It's 5:00 Somewhere." Set shortly after "House vs. God". Either House/Wilson pre-slash or BFF, reader's choice. Concrit welcome.
Wilson loosened his tie (the light blue paisley) and threw his jacket across the back of the futon. Normally he was something of a neat freak, but his new apartment still felt empty with the bare walls, the little furniture he'd kept in the divorce, and the horrifically beige carpet. It was hardly Architects' Digest material. Hell, it wasn't even Pathetic Shut-In's Digest material. Maybe a little clutter would help.
No, apparently not. He sighed and picked up the jacket again, hanging it in the closet with the others. He looked at his watch and grimaced; he'd gotten home early and it was only five o'clock. At least five hours before he could legitimately go to bed. He did some mental calculation. Dinner could take upwards of two hours, longer if he picked an intensive recipe. Then a bit of work he'd brought home. TV could fill up whatever time was leftover. If he scheduled correctly, he could hopefully avoid thinking all together.
The kitchen was smaller than his last one, and the oven left something to be desired, but he figured it would suffice. He cranked up R.E.M. and got to work. Wilson had always enjoyed cooking. He liked the sense of accomplishment. It was vaguely akin to medicine. Gravy too thin? Add some flour. The chicken too bland? Two cc's of paprika, stat. Pie burnt around the edges? Well…scrape it off and hope that no one noticed. It was nice that no one ever died because of his cooking, though House would probably debate that.
After he'd sliced up the carrots and onion, minced the garlic and taken a judicious swallow of the Burgundy earmarked for the recipe, he laid out a place setting. The china was good, a light pink floral design with gold accent; it had been their wedding set. Julie already had her mother's and had oh so graciously let him keep this one. It looked incongruous placed on his table, which is an old leftover from his med student days. He could replace it, but the idea of furniture shopping was an overwhelmingly depressing. It was always something he did with his wives, tagalong and foot the bill for their impeccable taste. It didn't really matter anyway. It's not like he ever had guests.
Reaching out he straightened the fork so that it was perfectly aligned with the knife on the other side of the plate. He considered the effect and then, after a moment's hesitation, he picked up his cell.
It took House seven rings to pick up, and Wilson wondered if it was because he enjoyed making him wait or because it took him longer to get to the phone with the bum leg. "Yeah. Is this important? World's Wildest Police Chases VII comes on in fifteen."
"You are truly a man of discerning tastes," Wilson said dryly, then continued before House could riposte, "Hey, you want to come over? …I'm making beef bourguignon." He could practically see House pulling a disgusted face.
"Yeeeach. Is that even food? Because I'm pretty sure that I diagnosed a patient with that the other day. There was phlegm. Like that Toad guy in X-Men." He paused and Wilson waited for him to consider. "Alright. I'll be over in a bit."
"Bring beer."
"Duh." The phone went dead as House hung up. Wilson shut his own phone with a slight shake of his head, and then got out a second plate and arranged another setting. The niceties would be lost on House, but at least now the table didn't look quite so lonely.