"Is that a dagger I see before me?" House asked, staring at the object in Wilson's hand.
"It's a dirk," Wilson replied, holding the knife up for House to admire.
It was definitely worth admiring: Damascus steel; an elaborately carved rosewood handle mounted in sterling silver; amethyst set in the pommel. "Where did you get that?" The more obvious question was, Why, but House never asked the obvious. Besides, in the time that it took to frame the question, he had catalogued the other items from Wilson's shopping trip and realized what day was approaching.
"I saw it in the window of an antique store next to the furniture store where I was trying to find a replacement for that eyesore." He gestured towards the double recliner with the knife, which would have been unnerving if House wasn't already alarmed by what was wrapped in butcher's paper on the kitchen counter.
He hoped that it was at least in an artifical casing, not an actual sheep's stomach, though he was surprised Wilson hadn't gone out and butchered the animal himself. The dirk must have satisfied his thirst for authenticity. Even better, it had also distracted him from furniture shopping. And now that Wilson was back to work full-time, he would be too busy catching up with his patients to think about interior decoration.
Satisfied that his comfort was assured for at least another week, House rummaged through the unpacked groceries. The bag of potatoes was to be expected -- the bin under the sink was nearly empty -- but he was disturbed by the number of turnips Wilson had bought. It looked as though he had enough root vegetables to feed a small clan.
"How many people have you invited to this pseudo-Scottish shindig?" he asked suspciously. If they were having company, Wilson would start nagging at him to unpack the rest of his boxes, and while he had no intention of complying, Wilson had many ways of making his life miserable, not the least of which was throwing a dinner party involving offal.
Wilson gave him his most innocent look. "Just a few friends," he said, setting off an air raid siren in House's head.
"Not the self-important jerk and his mid-life crisis?" he asked, though having easy access to a sharp blade in Tucker's presence was an unexpected boon.
"He's still recuperating in Katonah," Wilson replied, but from his tone of voice, House guessed there wouldn't be any more bizarre annual excursions. "I've invited Cuddy and Lucas. He's making Cock-a-Leekie soup."
"Isn't that appropriate," House muttered. "Why would you do that?"
"You like Cuddy, and you like Lucas," Wilson replied reasonably, even though there was absolutely nothing reasonable about the situation.
"I like chocolate cake and anchovies, but the thought of them together makes me want to throw up in my mouth." Just like haggis and bagpipes. Fearing the worst, he spied a small bag and pulled out a handful of CDs. The Essential Bagpipe Collection. Kenneth McKellar. Kill me now, he thought. "You know, if you wanted me to move out, you just had to ask."
"The bagpipes are only for piping in the haggis," Wilson protested. "And I needed a recording of 'The Star o' Rabbie Burns' to sing along with. It'll be fun."
House was beginning to think that Wilson had been deprived of oxygen during the transplant operation. Or maybe the surgeon had screwed up and cut out a lobe of his brain, instead of his liver. "Okay, first of all, no one under the age of eighty thinks Kenneth McKellar is fun. And second, if you wanted bagpipe music, you just had to ask." He pulled out his iPod and scrolled down to the Cs. He clicked onto a seemingly traditional rendition of "Scotland the Brave" that segued into a raucous punk cover. "Now that's fun."
Wilson nodded approvingly. "You can be in charge of the music, then." He sheathed the dirk in a leather scabbard and started putting away the groceries. "Make sure you're home by six tomorrow," he warned. "And don't make Chase stay late."
"You invited Chase?" He wondered what he'd done to piss Wilson off this time. It was hard to keep track, given Wilson's penchant for serving his revenge ice-cold. "Why would you do that?"
"He's lonely. You drove his wife away."
Of course. It was only a matter of time before Wilson initiated Chase into his club for pathetic divorcés. "I didn't drive Cameron away. She got on a plane all by herself and flew back to the Midwest with all her issues safely checked through." He was going to have to find a case first thing in the morning, preferably one that required round-the-clock monitoring. "Haven't we talked about inviting my minions into our home?"
"Nope," Wilson said, grabbing a measuring cup from the drawer. He poured a cup of brown sugar into a mixing bowl and cut in a package of butter. "I don't think it's ever come up."
"Because only a moron would think it's a good idea." Maybe he could bribe a med student into taking an experimental drug with bizarre, but relatively safe, side effects. Or better yet convince Cuddy to send him on a lecture out of state.
"I wonder if Nora will like him," Wilson mused.
"Nora, too? What are you trying to do, have the most uncomfortable dinner party ever? Why didn't you invite Stacy and Mark while you were at it?"
"They weren't available." Only years of experience enabled House to distinguish the twinkle in Wilson's eye. "Relax," he said, cracking a self-satisfied smile. "You don't have to deal with haggis or bagpipes, employees or former lovers. I'm having a Burns supper in the oncology lounge for my staff tomorrow night. Sort of a thank you for picking up the slack while I was on leave."
"You're feeding them haggis as a thank you?" House exclaimed. "I thought I was a crappy boss."
"Everybody else thinks you're a crappy boss," Wilson said, mixing flour into the creamed butter and sugar. "You bought yourself a 'World's Greatest Boss' mug and sent yourself flowers on Boss's Day. The haggis is just for tradition. I'm going to poach a salmon with carrots and leeks, maybe some celery root."
"So you're making all this for somebody else?" House watched Wilson knead the dough and then roll it out. "Even the shortbread?" Wilson was only supposed to cook for him.
"You're welcome to come," Wilson said, reading his mind, or at least his pout. "I'd like to thank you, too, for being there for me. It meant a lot." No one did sincere better than Wilson, even when he didn't mean a word he said. When he did mean it, not even House could withstand the assault.
The last thing he wanted, however, was to spend the evening with a bunch of oncologists. One was more than enough. In retrospect, Wilson's first guest list sounded much more appealing, or at least far more entertaining. "I'll pass," he said. "But I expect you to save me a plate. And don't forget the haggis."
It was tradition, after all.