"You're making breakfast."
It wasn't a question; House sounded tired and, worse, out of sorts. Understandable, of course; it had been a long week full of patients with complications and families demanding the impossible, as well as Cuddy hounding him–well, everyone really–about attending some fundraiser or other. James sighed.
"Of course I am." He'd already brewed some coffee, so why not add food to the list. He heard House moving around in the living room, the piano being opened. He waited for the music to give him a further clue to House's mood. But instead, the tv came on a minute later. The other man was restless, he needed to come down from the high brought on by solving his latest case. Well, apparently he wasn't the only one who could do with a distraction. And a treat.
James decided to make pancakes and use some of the good dark chocolate he had found in that little organic-foods store. Dark chocolate, olive oil and sea salt . . . his mouth was watering just thinking about it.
This was an easy recipe, actually; it was made the same way as most from-scratch pancakes. Timing was everything in this case, though, along with precise measurements. A little too much oil, the chocolate added at the wrong moment . . . at least this was something he could make and not mess up. He hummed under his breath as he added the first ladle of batter to the pan.
"You're concocting something weird in there." House's voice held both suspicion and amusement.
"It's just breakfast." James flipped the pancake and took the heated plate from the oven. "You probably haven't eaten in a while, so anything cooked smells weird to you."
"Uh huh. Don't dump some experiment in a bowl and expect me to trial it." House sounded exasperated, but under the sharp edge was a familiar undertone of weariness. James snorted softly.
"I won't say trust me, but . . . well, just wait and see."
A short time later, House eyed the plate James had set on the coffee table. "You really are incapable of making pancakes like a normal person."
"Oh, like you, you mean? With controlled infusions of liquid nitrogen and that weird baking powder you invented?" James rolled his eyes. "Sure, I could. But where would be the fun in that?" He placed a cup of coffee next to the plate. "Try them before they get cold. Though they're pretty good that way too, probably."
"I'll be the judge of that." House picked up the fork and stabbed the short stack, tore a ragged chunk out of the pile and eyed it carefully. "I need to know what else is in this nightmare."
"Find out for yourself." James went into the kitchen. As he placed two pancakes on a plate, he listened for any reaction from the living room. None was forthcoming. Good sign, bad sign-hard to tell. With a sigh he drizzled a bit of olive oil over the stack, took his courage in his hands and returned to the living room, ready to dodge either questions or House's plate.
He found House exactly where he'd left him. The pancakes still had only one bite taken out of them. House sat with fork in hand, eyes closed. James stood there for a few moments, watching him.
"Well?" he said finally, goaded into saying something-anything-to break the silence. "Should I call 911?"
House opened his eyes for a moment. They were a little bloodshot, but the irises were a clear, vivid blue, full of annoyance and a trace of humor. "You're distracting me."
James let go a held breath. He moved to the other end of the sofa, sat down carefully, and said nothing, just took a bite of pancake. The piquant blend of olive oil, bittersweet chocolate, sea salt, buttermilk and fresh orange zest bloomed on his tongue, and he almost sighed with relief and pleasure. The flavors were exactly right; this wasn't the result of some mistake on his part, he hadn't fucked this up at least-
"Amazing." He could barely hear the other man. "Savory but still sweet at the same time."
Praise from House? Rare. Not unheard of, but rare. He stole a glance in House's direction. He had taken another bite now, but his eyes were still closed, and he was chewing slowly. James interpreted it as a hopeful sign and took another mouthful himself.
He'd nearly finished when House spoke again. "You've had this recipe for a while."
"A couple of years." James wiped the plate with the final bite of pancake, determined to get the last few drops of olive oil. "I found it when I was cleaning out my inbox-"
"You cleaned out your inbox." House sniggered softly.
"Some of us do that, you know. Anyway, it seemed like the right time for a treat." James sipped some coffee. "I don't know why you're interrogating me about this. You clearly liked the pancakes."
"They were okay." The offhand tone rankled. James slowly set his cup on the coffee table. House shot him a look. "Just some bizarre recipe you dug up, anyway."
A brief silence fell. "They're more than okay." James fought to keep the hurt out of his words, secretly astonished at the wealth of pain House's comment had caused. "You said they were amazing. A-MA-ZING."
"Wow, way to take things out of context."
James stared at him. "What-what-what do you mean, 'context'?! You are SO full of it!"
House belched and rubbed his belly. "Full of your adequate cooking, anyway."
"Adequate? Adequate?! You LIKED them until you realized that admitting it would-I don't know, put you in my debt or whatever goes on in that ridiculous brain of yours!"
"Why Jimmy, you're all het up." House actually sat back and folded his arms. "Do go off. I think that's the correct slang term of the moment."
"Fine." James got to his feet, reached out and grabbed House's plate, stacked it on his with a loud crack that boded ill for at least one piece of crockery, and headed into the kitchen. "Mock me, mock my cooking, but you still ate it and liked it whether you want to admit it or not!"
"Trust you to steal a great line from a porno."
On a growl, James dumped the plates in the sink and rubbed a hand over tired eyes. Too late he remembered his fingers had chocolate on them.
"Jesus," he snapped, and headed for the bathroom.
Not only chocolate but also olive oil. James took a flannel and cleaned his face. Another look in the mirror made him wonder who looked more tired, House or himself. He should have delegated those nights with critical patients a long time ago. Anyone would tell him that. He had thought about it more than once. Most department heads left the grunt work of patient care to lackeys-one of House's terms for them. But he couldn't do it. Sitting with patients, listening to their fears, answering questions, staying with them through their last moments-it was all part of the job, as far as he was concerned. It was why he did this, wasn't it? If that meant he had a few late nights, so be it. It was worth it . . . or at least so he'd always told himself.
Annoyed at this line of thought, he pushed it away. "Yeah it is, dammit," he muttered, and dried his face with a paper towel. House's bathroom hadn't been cleaned in some time; no doubt there was a double load of towels and sheets to be done, along with clothing left in piles by the hamper. Never in the hamper, of course. Well, it was Friday, and he'd rearranged his schedule to have the day off, as he needed some personal time. He'd just do his paperwork here at House's place and get some chores done at the same time.
"Hey, Wilson!" House's voice was faint but audible. "Cup's empty!"
He knew House enjoyed needling him, so he took a deep breath and went back into the living room, determined to ignore any further provocations.
"Refill," House said distractedly, his eyes on the tv. Without a word, James took the cup and went into the kitchen, to return a few minutes later. He set a steaming mug on the coffee table along with a small plate of cookies, and left quietly.
He was at the sink organizing dishes to wash when a bellow interrupted his thoughts.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!"
"It's hot cocoa," James said in a mild tone. There was an ominous silence.
"What. The. FUCK."
"Drinking dark roast isn't going to help you get any sleep. Anyway, cocoa is a great delivery system for warm milk. And the cookies are an apology. You know, for offending your taste buds earlier." James began sorting silverware while the sink filled with hot water. "Thought I'd do some laundry while I'm here."
A few moments later, House stood in the doorway. He glowered at James, who pretended not to see him. "You went from foaming at the mouth to self-sacrificing in about two nanoseconds. If you think you can guilt-trip me into saying those damn pancakes were delicious, think again."
"Breakfast was over half an hour ago." James picked up a dishcloth. "You really hang onto stuff, don't you?"
"Oh, aren't you just the cutest little thing," House said at last. "I'm not the one hanging onto this, and you know it."
"Hey, I'm just standing here doing your dishes. And you should be in bed." James shot him a glance. "You've been up for, what, three days straight? Take some Vicodin and get some sleep. I'll order in for us later."
House's eyes narrowed. After a moment he straightened, then limped down the hall. James wasn't surprised to hear the bedroom door slam. He smiled just a little, and got to work on the dishes.
He knew House desperately needed sleep now, as he had no time for real rest when he was working a case; he made do with only the bare minimum which didn't amount to much more than half an hour snatched here and there, usually in the recliner or even behind his desk. The same went for food: House grabbed whatever was easily accessible, just to keep going. Having been fed now, he would probably be able to sleep the whole day . . .
If James let him. The temptation was there, to keep the other man awake and irritable, just so he'd get some sort of twisted satisfaction out of making someone else as exhausted and miserable as he felt—James paused, startled. Was he actually miserable? Where had that thought come from? He shook his head and pushed the question away. It was something he could think about later, maybe.
He was no monster, though, he would let House sleep for a few hours. So he sorted out the kitchen counters first, then put in a curbside pickup order for groceries, before sitting down to deal with some items in his personal inbox. As always, he couldn't resist checking his work account either. He spent more time catching up with case notes than he had planned, and was a little surprised to find that two hours had passed by the time he closed his laptop.
Had he been home, he would have put his phone on silent and gone for a nap now. While he wasn't as bad as House, he could also do with some sleep.
With the state the apartment was in, though, bundling up on House's couch held little appeal right now. So he roused himself enough to gather towels from the bathroom and all the stray clothing he could find and started a wash. It wasn't hard; House tended to drop clothes anywhere he liked. Wadded-up shirts, jeans and socks were all over the living room and even in a corner of the kitchen, along with some dish towels that hadn't seen soap and water in some time. James sighed. House had never planned to pay anyone to clean for him, and that wouldn't change anytime soon.
It didn't take long to get things sorted. This was just the initial wash, after all; when House got up later, it would be possible to get the rest of the clothes as well as sheets and other items. In the meantime, he could work on other things. If he didn't keep busy he'd end up sleeping for hours, which would cause problems later on. Better to stick to some sort of schedule.
He ran into his first problem after starting the laundry. He couldn't run the dishwasher at the same time, and standing at the sink scrubbing crusty pans from some takeout reheating session House had several weeks ago wasn't exactly thrilling. A sudden suspicion sent him to the microwave. Sure enough, it was absolutely filthy and crammed with old containers-no doubt the reason why House had opted for the stovetop. James sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He risked his health cleaning up this biohazard, but the thought of just leaving it was impossible. With a silent sigh, he began to unload the microwave.
An hour later, the first batch of clothes was in the dryer, second batch chugging away in the battered old Maytag, and the microwave had the top layer of mold wiped off. James leaned against the counter and realized he was thirsty as well as tired. It was a little before noon-not too late for a cup of coffee and a sandwich, if he could find anything remotely resembling edible food in the fridge.
In the end, he resorted to picking up the grocery order and grabbing some food from a convenience store on the way back, a place both he and House used from time to time, mostly for quick meals. The sandwich wasn't spectacular but it was cheap and filling, and the coffee was good enough if it had some sugar and creamer dumped in it. On the way into the apartment, James noticed House's mailbox was full, with a couple of notes taped to the front. Time to collect the pile of stuff before the carrier stopped service.
After his improvised lunch and before he could slip into a dreadful post-food slump, he decided it was time to get out the vacuum cleaner. House must have had at least four hours of sleep - that was more than he himself got last night. Besides, picking up dirty laundry had revealed the sorry state of the carpet. James was fairly sure it wasn't grey, but a nice oriental pattern-he vaguely remembered helping House make a choice at some carpet outlet or other a few years back.
Finding the vacuum took some time. It was buried in the closet under winter gear and a dusty bag of golf clubs-testament to how long it had been since House had used it, more than likely. James extricated the thing and looked it over. The bag was clearly full, so he also had the joy of emptying it first.
"Either you swept up a cat full of hairballs or that explains your expanding bald spot," he muttered under his breath as he folded the contents into a newspaper. "Dear god, there's more . . ."
That chore dispensed with, he discovered House had been forced to retro-fit bags, probably because the company had long ago stopped making them for this model. He made a mental note to find a newer vacuum-a cordless Dyson maybe, if he could persuade House to part with the cash. A quick reconnaissance trip to find the closest outlet, and he was ready to work on the living room.