Games – Part Three

Click. Click. House groaned and rolled over, pulling his blankets up around his chin. How fast did that man's toenails grow? He'd been keeping count; Wilson clipped them every other morning. Perhaps it was indicative of OCD. House smirked to himself as a clinic patient from the previous day floated into his mind – a young woman who was convinced she had OCD because she washed her hands every time she went to the bathroom. Some people should not be allowed to mix in society. House opened his eyes and, feeling a huge weight on his eyelids, closed them again. If this was a good day, he could get another 12 minutes sleep before the persistent wurr of the blow dryer drew him fully into the waking world.

House settled back to enjoy the remaining peace, soaking up the warmth of his body that trapped by the sheets and making the most of the simple, fuzzy world before his mind had kicked in and letting his leg wake up. His eyes shot open. The fuzzy world disappeared with a sharp intake of breath. Last night. Last night with Wilson. He groped within his mind for a second to assure himself it had been real and not part of a deeply disturbing concoction cooked up by his subconscious mind. The feel of Wilson's lips on his own, the taste, the warmth, it all lingered at the back of his mind and destroyed any protests House might have made as to the reality of the situation.

He stared at the ceiling. It wasn't even – little flakes of paint, or was it plaster, were only just defying gravity and the colour had faded to not-quite-white. The blow dryer started for a moment, and then stopped. There was a knock at his door and Wilson's head poked around without waiting for a response, damp hair sticking to his forehead.

"Gonna be late if you don't get up soon."

House groaned again, but Wilson had already left, gone back to making himself pretty for the day.

As had become the norm, House took the halt of the blow dryer, the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut and Wilson scuffling around in the kitchen as his cue to haul himself out of bed. Discarding his t-shirt and pyjama pants, House pulled fresh clothes for the day (ironed by Wilson, he was sure, though his room-mate refused to admit to this fact) from his cupboard and dumped them on his bed. He paused to dry-swallow his first Vicodin of the day. Dressing was a slow process. House pulled one pant leg on, his right, while balancing putting his weight onto his undamaged leg. He then sat on the edge of the bed the pull other one on. This was his morning ritual, every morning, always the same. The late night before made this morning easier; there was still at least a small amount of Vicodin in his system. He could smell pancakes.

Wilson passed the maple syrup across the table to House after he served the pancakes. Apart from muttered "good mornings" nothing had been said, and though that wasn't unusual – after all, House was hardly a morning person – it felt awkward. The silence had an expectant presence. Wilson slowly ran his finger around the ring that had been left of the table from a beer bottle. The air still smelt faintly of pizza, underneath the scent of pancakes. House was attacking his breakfast with aplomb, after thoroughly dousing them with syrup (which he had informed Wilson one morning was the only real way to eat them), and Wilson followed suit though without the poise, confidence or attacking. So really, Wilson just ate his breakfast staring at the table to avoid eye contact.

House took his plate to the sink and it clattered in, hitting cutlery and other china. He went to leave the kitchen when Wilson's spoke, his voice seeming loud, though unsure, breaking into the silence.

"It's your day for the washing up."

House turned. "You lie."

"It's Wednesday. Wednesday is your day."

"I think you'll find, after the recent incident when I may or may not have skipped my day, that Wednesday has become your day." House stated as a matter of fact.

"I can't cook unless the cooking implements are clean." Wilson stared at House, calmly looking up at him from his seat at the table, unmoving.

"Are you threatening to withhold food?"

Wilson nodded.

House laughed. "Bastard. I taught you too well." His smile was genuine. Things were still as close to normal as they ever were.