Nutritional Values

by kementari

House didn't sleep much. He did eat, however. A lot. Constantly. He ate when he wasn't sleeping. He ate when he was working. He ate when he was thinking. So it was surprising that he never bought food. Well - that wasn't strictly true. He did buy food. Of a sort. Maybe some of his selections didn't exactly fit the traditionally accepted definition of 'food', but people were far too closed-minded these days. Peanut butter and Cheez-Whiz, for instance, covered at least three of the four major food groups: Possibly Dairy, Mainly Protein, and Mostly Sugar. Okay, so maybe that last one was a bit of a stretch, but after all, the body burns glucose for fuel. By consuming it in its raw form, he was simply helping it along a bit. He was a doctor. He knew these things. The fact that one of the two aforementioned sandwich spreads was only one molecule away from being an industrial plastic meant absolutely nothing. After all: a molecule is still a molecule on a molecular basis.

Pop tarts. They had fruit in them. And carbohydrates. Kind of. Ish. And icing. That had lots of useful triglycerides in it. And sprinkles. Anything that could be that particular shade of purple in its natural state had to be chock full of vitamins. Yeah - vitamins. And anyway, whatever his diet lacked in nutrients he made up for with Vicodin. And Whiskey.

Prepackaged, nutritionally void food-alternatives, prescription drugs and hard liquor: at forty-seven, Gregory House was still a firm believer in the powers of the First Year Medical Student's Diet.

Most people would describe House as an omnivore: Cameron and Chase had long since learned not to leave anything they wished to consume themselves anywhere plainly visible or easily stumbled across in the office, as it would be considered fair game, apprehended, and devoured. Foreman had never left food in the office, period. Not surprising, given that he instinctively seemed to know in advance most of the small things House was likely to do to annoy him. Wilson, too, seemed to finally have figured out the simple relationship between House and all food: If he found it, it was his. If it had belonged previously to someone he knew and enjoyed annoying, bonus.

There was still the occasional morning when he would find a wrapped sandwich lying conspicuously on the top middle shelf of the fridge, usually adorned with a post-it note that read something along the lines of 'Mine, don't touch'. This message was meant to be ignored, however, since the only person he knew who would put post-its on their lunch was Wilson, and if Wilson was leaving a sandwich in his fridge, it was because he meant for him to eat it. The understanding between them had long since deepened to include the presence of unsolicited sandwiches as a subtle, non-committal way of expressing concern. The message on the post-it could probably even have been understood to really be saying 'I'm here - I'm thinking about you,' by the sort of person who read into that sort of thing. Which House absolutely was not.

Today was one of those mornings: House limped into his office at precisely the right time: the Ducklings were off collecting blood, urine, spinal fluid, and any other bodily substances they could think of from their latest victim-he-meant-patient, meaning that the glass room, which he thought of as more of a functional aquarium, was his and his alone. He plopped his iPod into its speaker-dock, cranked the volume to the preferred level: loud enough to create an annoying buzz vibrating off the glass walls of his colleagues' offices, but not loud enough to pinpoint him as the source or to alert Cuddy, and hobbled over to the kitchenette to investigate the day's spoils.

The coffee pot was half full, (although naturally from his perspective it was half empty) and still hot. Good old Cameron. She could generally be counted upon to prevent Chase and Foreman from drinking the whole thing until he'd at least had a cup. Misguided infatuation could have its advantages, he decided. Cradling his red mug in one hand, he made his way to the fridge and was promptly faced with his usual problem: in order to gain access to the fridge he required a free hand, and at present both of his were occupied: one with his mug, and the other with his cane. Heaving a sigh he set the mug down on the countertop and wrenched open the fridge. There, lying innocently on the top shelf was a large, floury Kaiser wrapped in saran and stuffed with various somethings the combination of which was guaranteed to be delicious. Perched daintily atop it was the telltale cheerful yellow square that he had begun to think of as a flag indicating 'Wilson Was Here'.

Snatching up the sandwich he limped over to his desk and sat down, tearing off the wrapper and taking a huge bite before tugging off the post-it and examining it.

Dinner tonight. Your place. I'll cook. Have beer.

As a man of few words himself (actually, House knew this last was blatantly untrue, but he ran with it anyway for the sake of this particular train of thought) he could appreciate Wilson's contriteness. No 'I'm worried about you and therefore am going to feed you'; no half-assed attempt at expressing anything mushy or unnecessarily sincere, just the solid, undisputable promise of food and the company that inevitably went with it. Wilson was like his own particular brand of Meals on Wheels, but he came with the added bonuses of a generous amount of sarcasm, and a shared passion for muted episodes of The L Word. Allowing himself a subtle grin, he crumpled the note and shoved it into his pocket. He finished his sandwich to the sounds of the Who and his returning ducklings.

***

Wilson arrived around eight. He didn't bother to knock, mostly because he knew that House wouldn't bother to answer the door if he did. Instead he let himself in, balancing his key in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

'No, no, that's fine, don't get up,' he grumbled as he attempted, somewhat comically, to simultaneously pocket his keys, set down the groceries, and remove his coat.

'Wasn't gonna,' House replied cheerfully from his spot on the couch. He fired up the TiVo and began searching for a particularly racy L Word episode that he had taped earlier, finger poised expectantly over the mute button. He eyed the bag that Wilson had balanced on the back of the couch as he fumbled with his shoes.

'What'd you bring me?'

'Food.'

'Really? 'Cause here I thought that you'd brought me a huge grocery bag full of illegal drugs. Wait - did you?'

'Yes.'

'Really?'

'No.'

Wilson finished toeing his shoes off and made his way to the kitchen, taking the grocery bag with him. House heard the fridge door opening, followed by an exclamation of 'oh good, you remembered the beer,' from Wilson. House rolled his eyes.

'Of course I remembered the beer. What kind of self-respecting bachelor do you take me for?'

'Judging from the contents of this fridge, I'd say the kind who remembers to buy alcohol and drugs, and neglects to buy food.'

'That's not true. There's ketchup in there.'

'Oh, well, so long as there's ketchup, there's obviously nothing to worry about.'

House heard the sounds of cupboards being opened and rummaged through. This last didn't take very long, given that there was nothing in them to make rummaging possible. Wilson poked his head around the door and into the living room:

'Seriously, House. There's actually no food here. Don't you ever eat anything you don't steal from me or your team?'

'Yes. Beer and ketchup.'

'Okay. Other than coffee and that sandwich I left you, what have you had to eat today?'

'Beer. I'm saving the ketchup for a special occasion.'

'Such as?'

'If Angelina Jolie visits. I want to be sure to feed her something nice. And anyway, she has all those kids now. Kids like ketchup.'

'Okay, see, I'm pretty sure that's just the malnutrition talking.'

After this Wilson was silent. House breathed in the smell of various things he probably didn't know the names of being cooked - actually, this was Wilson. Knowing him, they were probably being braised or sauted or something. Eventually Wilson reemerged, and set a large plate of spinach cannelloni and a beer in front of him.

'Eat,' he commanded. House rolled his eyes.

'Yes, mommy.' He still made his way through three plates of pasta, however, while trying to ignore various knowing, worried looks from Wilson.

'You know, it's not good for you to never eat anything decent. I realize you're a doctor and you probably know that, but you seem to have forgotten.'

House gave no response, so Wilson continued:

'It's going to start affecting your work. You have no energy, which aggravates your leg, which makes you irritable - what are you going to tell Cuddy next time you kill a patient? That you were distracted because you were hungry?'

'Can you shut up? I'm trying to watch this.' House gestured at the TV with his spoon, where two gorgeous women were attempting to do something he knew for a fact was medically impossible.

'It's on mute.'

'So?'

Wilson sighed. It was obvious he wasn't getting anywhere with this particular subject. Collecting their plates, he heaved himself up off the couch, pausing to glance down at House,

'You want another beer?'

'Yeah.'

Opening the fridge again, he took note of its contents: a six-pack of beer, a bottle of ketchup, a carton of milk, a takeout box towards the back that looked as though it might be developing cognitive functions, half a loaf of bread, a jar of Cheez-Whiz, and one can of Coke summed up its entire contents. Returning to the living room he handed House a beer and settled back down beside him on the couch. He glanced over at his friend, who had a smudge of tomato sauce on his chin and who was apparently still engrossed by the lesbians on the screen. Rightly so, he decided, since what they were doing really was particularly interesting. Frowning slightly he turned back to the screen, thoughtfully chewing his lip.

***

House awoke the next morning from a particularly animated dream involving the girls from The L Word, Cuddy, and Debbie in nursing, each of whom were wearing one of Wilson's ties for reasons he thought better not to analyze at present, to the sound of his blinds being wrenched back, followed by a sudden intrusion of light. Opening an eye he glanced around the room for intruders and was only slightly surprised to see Wilson, fully dressed in a pair of jeans he'd forgotten when he moved out and one of House's T-shirts that he definitely hadn't asked to borrow. He started to say something witty, but all that wound up coming out was 'gzzngh', so he tried again.

'What time is it?' Not quite as edgy as he'd been hoping for, but it still had a certain something to it.

'Nearly nine. Time to get up.'

'Nine? Good lord.' House turned over, pulling the covers up under his chin and squeezing his eyes shut. 'Wake me up when it's actually a decent hour.'

'It is a decent hour, which is why I woke you up.'

'I'm never letting you crash here again. Next time you get drunk on my couch, you can sleep on the steps outside.'

'First of all I wasn't drunk, just a little buzzed, and second of all if you do that I'm stealing your paper and biting the mailman.'

'Fair enough. Now go away.'

'I made coffee,'

'That's very nice. I'm happy for you. Go away.'

'House, come on. You have to get up.'

'Why? Why, on a Saturday morning, a day on which I do not work, is there any reason for me to get up at nine AM?'

'Because, we're going grocery shopping.'

'We are?'

'Yes.'

'And when did you obtain this particular knowledge?'

'Yesterday, when I discovered that the most nutritionally sound item in your fridge is probably the beer.'

'And what exactly is it that makes you think I would be interested in such an excursion?'

'Because... if you're a good boy and behave yourself in the grocery store I'll get you the first season of The L Word.'

House sat up.

'You're using bribery to get me to get up and go grocery shopping with you?' He paused. 'I like it.' He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his cane, levering himself upward with all the grace of a pregnant orangutan.

Wilson smirked.

'Want some coffee?'

'I have coffee?'

'Incredibly enough.'

'Coffee, beer, ketchup - looks like I have all the basic necessities of life. We don't need to go grocery shopping after all. Sorry, Jimmy.'

'Ha ha. Come on - before the store is packed with all the other Saturday-morning shoppers.'

'Yet another reason we should avoid this excursion.' 'House, shut up.'

Half an hour later they were in Wilson's car motoring down the freeway. Wilson had bypassed the 7-11 where House purchased most of his immediate necessities in favour of one of the larger grocery chains in the area, reasoning that House was in need of more than just milk and erotic magazines. He pulled into the parking lot of a Safeway and turned the car into the handicapped spot. House glared at him, but Wilson had a point. The lot was filled with SUVs and minivans - the transportation of choice of early morning suburban shoppers - and the only available spot left was the equivalent of about three blocks away from the doors. Or at least that's how Wilson rationalized it.

Once inside, House wasn't sure whether his first instinct should be to bolt or explore. Of course he'd been in a grocery store before, but not for a long while. Probably not since before Stacy. He stopped for a minute to take it all in. There was the produce section, with piles of brightly coloured and probably genetically altered fruits and veggies piled attractively in bins. There was the cereal aisle, with its boxes of vapid, sugary goodness. If you considered yourself a Serious Adult, of course there was All Bran. House suspected with dismay that Wilson might be this sort of person. Speaking of whom, where was Wilson? Glancing about, House spotted him by the carts.

'Woah, woah, woah, we're gonna need a cart?'

'Well, yes, that is what people traditionally put their groceries in...'

'We're going to be here long enough to need a cart?'

'House, you've got ketchup and beer in your fridge. Yes, we are going to need a cart.'

'I like ketchup.'

'Yes. Apparently you also like getting Scurvy.'

'There's vitamin C in tomatoes. There are tomatoes in ketchup. I don't have Scurvy.'

'Oh. Well, I feel completely relieved.' Wilson rolled his eyes. 'Come on - let's at least get you some cereal.'

'I want Cocoa Puffs.'

'How about Corn Flakes?' Wilson steered the cart adamantly past the bright yellow boxes of Sugary Death, and picked up a sensible white one with a rooster on it instead. House made a face.

'Why don't I just eat the box? Probably tastes the same.'

'And has the same nutritional content as the Cocoa Puffs.'

'Oh, aren't we witty today,' House sneered.

'Come on, House, what are you going to do? Throw a tantrum?' Actually, the more Wilson thought about this, the more he realized House might. Rolling his eyes, he tossed the box of cornflakes in the cart, along with a box of All Bran that House could guarantee he was going to find in his shoes tomorrow, and moved on to frozen foods.

House, of course, made a beeline for the ice cream, stopping in front of the Fudge Ripple. He glanced over at Wilson with an expectant look on his face. Wilson immediately looked away.

'No.' He busied himself by instead picking out several frozen dinners - the kind that could easily be warmed up and consumed by any monkey with a microwave, or, in House's case, a lazy cripple with a fancy, expensive Personal Oven that always burned popcorn.

'You like fettuccini?'

'Only when you make it, mom.'

Wilson tossed the frozen meal into the cart. He also threw in a couple of frozen pizzas and other easily-prepared-bachelor-foods.

'How about soup? I know you like soup.'

'If I let you get soup, can we leave?'

'No.'

'Well then I don't like soup.'

They were standing in the canned goods aisle now, in front of the Campbell's tomato. Wilson tossed a couple of cans into the cart, making a mental note to pick up a box of Ritz crackers. He studied the other choices in front of him, throwing in a few tins of vegetable and chicken noodle for good measure. His gaze fell on something called Alligator Soup - chicken noodle with noodles shaped like alligators. He glanced over at House, who was currently engaged in trying to play 'Tubular Bells' on the cans with his cane. Somehow Wilson knew the appeal of Alligator Soup wouldn't be lost on him. It went into the cart.

They made their way through the bread aisle without any major calamities, other than House insisting on white bread rather than the more sensible, nutritionally sounder multigrain that Wilson picked out. They had a minor scuffle over sandwich spreads: House insisted on peanut butter and Cheez-Whiz.

'That stuff will kill you! It's all preservatives and dye.'

'Gotta go sometime,'

'House, I'm serious. Only one artery clogging sandwich spread.'

'But moooom!'

Wilson snorted. He tossed the jar of peanut butter into the cart, and set the Cheez-Whiz back on the shelf, reasoning that at least the peanut butter could actually be identified as having peanuts in it. Whereas he was fairly certain the Cheez-Whiz didn't contain even the barest traces of cheese. Or Cheez, for that matter.

'Doesn't it at least worry you that they store a dairy product unrefrigerated on the shelf beside products whose shelf life is about five hundred years?'

'Nope. Cheez-Whiz doesn't contain any actual dairy.'

'And that doesn't worry you?'

'Nope.'

Wilson rolled his eyes and moved on.

'How about fruit? You have actually eaten fruit, right?'

House scoffed,

'Well, duh.'

'Raspberry flavoured vodka doesn't count, House.'

'What about Grand Marnier? That's got oranges.'

'Oranges. Now, see, that's actually a good idea.'

Wilson located the bin with the bright orange, slightly waxy globes and began sorting through them, placing his selections into a plastic bag. 'How many d'you figure you'll eat before they go bad? Five? Six?'

'How about none?'

Wilson rolled his eyes and bagged four. He glanced back over at House, who had perched his cane on the side of the fruit bin and was currently juggling two oranges and a granny-smith apple. He bagged a couple of those too, reasoning that if House liked a fruit enough to toss it around, he might not be so averse to eating it. It only dismayed him slightly that with House, reasoning like that actually applied. He grabbed some bananas, knowing that House would at least find the shape amusing, and then wheeled the cart over to the vegetables. This was arguably the part of the excursion he'd been dreading most: House, like many small children, would only knowingly consume something green if it was an especially violent shade and came in brightly coloured packaging that had 'Hey Kids!' emblazoned across it. He steered straight past the broccoli, knowing better than to try, and went instead for the bagged salad. House immediately made a face.

'Oh, come on. All you have to do is add dressing and eat it! It's not hard!'

'Yes, but first I actually have to want to eat it.'

'Tell you what: I'll let you pick the dressing, okay?'

House appeared to consider this, prompting Wilson to quickly add 'and chocolate syrup doesn't count!'

House appeared slightly crestfallen, but he hid it well and still managed to pick out the most ridiculously fat-laden dressing he could find. Wilson let it go, and instead picked up some tomatoes, knowing that House liked them and that the argument over whether or not they were actually a fruit would sustain them for at least half of the drive home. A bag of pre-cut baby carrots and they moved on to the in-store bakery. Wilson's relief at the relative ease with which he had managed to get House through the produce aisle was proven short-lived when they turned the corner and were confronted with a four-year-old boy in the throes of a raging tantrum. The proximity of the sprinkled donuts and the look of exasperated determination on his mother's face were more than enough to complete a thorough diagnosis of the situation. Wilson flinched. There was simply no way House would be able to pass up an opportunity like this. Part of him would want to ignore the child and escape as quickly as possible, but the other part, the part with the lightning wit and slightly slower sense of self-preservation, would be forced to make some comment. Wilson tried to repress the vision of himself and House being chased out of the store by the irate mother, dragging the screaming child after her.

True to form, House took one look and Wilson could see the wheels start turning. He wondered briefly if he should take shelter behind the croissants. Limping over to the child, House stared down at him. He waited for a break in the screaming when the boy surfaced for air, and then loudly and menacingly said 'STOP.' The boy's caterwauling ceased, and he stared up at House with wide, startled eyes. In his periphery, Wilson could see the mother bristle and assume a protective stance. As the little boy opened his mouth, presumably to shriek for mommy, House cut in again:

'First of all, short of going up and licking the side of an oil refinery, those are probably the last things you should want to be putting in your mouth. That said, I realize they have coloured sprinkles, which changes things somewhat and completely explains why you'd want to shove them down your throat. But if you really want mommy here to buy you a donut, screaming like that isn't going to get you anywhere. See, if she could just immediately hand you the donut and shut you up it would, but that's not the way a grocery store works. In order for you to get to consume it, first she has to pay for it, and that involves going through the checkout, which doesn't really make sense to do until she's finished shopping. Judging from the way your cart's only half full; I'm willing to bet that's not the case. Just ask him;' House gestured to Wilson, 'he knows exactly at what point a cart has reached its capacity.

'Now,' House turned to the mother, 'sometimes when a kid throws a tantrum in a grocery store it can mean that he's hungry, but judging from the way Timmy here has been listening to me for the last two minutes without screaming, I'm guessing that's not the case. If his glucose levels were low, it would affect his attention span and he'd have started yelling again about a minute and a half ago. So really, the only problem here is that Timmy is spoiled, and knows from past experience that if he yells for long enough he'll get his way.' Here the mother's indignant glare turned hostile, and Wilson wondered whether she was preparing to take a swing at House with a baguette. House turned back to her son; 'if you're that desperate for a sugar fix, here's what you do: Sit quietly in the cart until you've made it through the grocery store and you're on your way home. Then, once she's strapped you into your car seat, start screaming for one of the cookies she's got in there. From the way mommy's mascara has started to flake, I'm guessing she's already been wearing it for a few hours, which means that you live far enough away from the grocery store that she won't want to listen to you screaming all the way home. And since you'll have the cookies right there in the car, and there are lots of gas stations between here and the nearest residential neighbourhood, it should be easy for her to pull over and give you one.'

House turned away from the child, whose little face was currently screwed up in an expression disconcertingly similar to the one he himself wore when he was scheming at something nefarious, and refocused his attention on the mother, whose own expression was someplace between bewildered and homicidal. 'And you. If you don't want a repeat of today every time you go shopping from now until he's twelve, stop saying "yes" to everything and teach Timmy about patience and saying "please".'

The woman gaped at him, opening and closing her mouth several times before finally coming out with a meek, defeated sounding reply.

'His name is Justin.'

'Whatever. Have a nice day.' He turned to Wilson 'Come on.'

'Well - that was completely unnecessary.' Wilson muttered as he steered the cart away from the bewildered-looking mother and her newly educated son.

'Oh come on. It got him to stop screaming, didn't it?'

'House - you just told a four-year-old that throwing a fit to get what you want is okay, as long as there's a chance it'll result in instant gratification!'

'Well - that's true, isn't it?'

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Unbelievable. You know, it's a good thing you never had children.'

'Oh, yeah. Because you're such a good role model.'

'I'm better than you!'

'Right. Because two divorces and a third in the works, plus a tendency to sleep with nurses, interns, and the occasional patient all while hating yourself and feeling guilty is something for every child to aspire to.'

Wilson was silent. Instead of responding, he turned his attention to the cartons of juice in front of him.

'You like cranberry cocktail?'

One of the occupational hazards of a friendship with House was that his razor tongue sometimes got away from him, and when that happened being cut was an inevitability. He paused for a moment before replying. It wasn't often he regretted something he'd said, but when he did it was almost always something he'd said to Wilson. He glanced at the carton Wilson was holding in his hand. 'Yeah,' he said quietly. Wilson nodded but made no move to put it in the cart. House silently cursed himself. He'd been having fun - not that he'd ever admit it to Wilson, but he could think of much worse things than spending a morning good-naturedly tormenting his best friend in the grocery store. But if ever there was an opportunity within a situation that was his shoe size, he could be counted on to put his foot in it. Trouble was, his feet seemed to be one-size-fits-all.

The remainder of the shopping trip was quiet and awkward. An apology was out of the question - House didn't apologize and Wilson knew that. They made their way through the cash and House handed the cashier his credit card before Wilson had a chance to, hoping that at least by paying himself he could ease the situation somewhat. But Wilson had wanted to pay - he should have known Wilson would want to pay. He always wanted to be the one to take care of things and of people. The car ride home was noticeably devoid of any tomato discussions. Or any other discussions, for that matter.

Wilson pulled his Volvo up in front of House's condo and immediately unbuckled his seatbelt and hopped out. By the time House had maneuvered his way out of his seat, strategically bracing his cane on the sidewalk and levering himself up, he was already halfway up the walk with the first armful of groceries. He stood expectantly on the top step until House limped past him and unlocked the door, then immediately brushed past him and disappeared inside.

'I'll get the rest of the bags. You can start putting those away.' Wilson said upon his return. He was already on his way back to the car for another load before House could reply. Going inside he saw that Wilson had left the grocery bags on the table. He peered inside the first one - canned soup, frozen dinners, and cheese. Well, the soup and dinners he could manage. They obviously went in the cupboards and freezer. The cheese, however, was something of a challenge. House could not remember having ever in his single adult life bought any kind of cheese that didn't come in a jar. He opened the fridge and looked inside it, hoping for some kind of clue. It was at that point that Wilson appeared behind him.

'It goes in the drawer marked "cheese".'

'Really? Gosh, and here I was going to put it in the crisper!'

'Do you even know what a crisper is?'

'I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that it's a device that keeps things crisp.'

'You have no idea where to put any of this stuff, do you?'

House rolled his eyes. 'I apologize if I haven't lead the sort of life that has ever made the knowledge of what a crisper is a necessity.'

Wilson sighed. 'Fruit and veggies go on the bottom, cheese and cold cuts go in that drawer there, eggs and sandwich spreads in the door, milk, juice, and overflow condiments on the top shelf, and anything else goes in the middle,' he said, pointing to the various drawers and compartments.

'Thanks.'

By the time Wilson brought in the last of the bags House had the fridge stocked. He stood to the side while Wilson inspected his efforts, feeling like a second grade student being graded on his shoebox diorama. After a few seconds, Wilson nodded and swung the door shut.

'Good job. Now we'll tackle the cupboards.'

They stood in the kitchen, Wilson handing items to House and telling him where they should go, House putting them away while simultaneously watching Wilson from the corner of his eye for signs that he was still upset about earlier. He'd gotten good at spotting them - he'd been through enough of Wilson's divorces and said enough stupid things to have a fairly good handle on interpreting his reactions. Outwardly Wilson appeared not even to remember, but it was there - at the corner of his mouth, that slight indentation - really more of a line - that always appeared when his dormant background worry had been thrown into focus. Usually by House.

As he shelved the last of the groceries, House's stomach growled. Looking around, he saw that Wilson had gone into the other room.

'Wanna stay for lunch?' he shouted. Wilson poked his head into the kitchen.

'I'm assuming that means, do I want to make lunch for you?' House shook his head.

'There's food now. Presumably I should be able to prepare some of it so that it can be eaten - I am a doctor, you know.'

Wilson held up his hands.

'You want to cook? Be my guest. I've got the fire department on speed-dial if things get ugly.'

'Well thanks, Dr. Wilson, but I think I'll be able to - oh, hey. That was a joke, wasn't it?'

'Only sort of,' Wilson muttered. House ignored him and opened the fridge. For a second he was slightly taken aback by how full it was. Pulling out bread, cheese, mustard, and cold cuts he set about putting sandwiches together. From where he was standing he could see Wilson in the living room, sitting on the couch and staring into space. Either that, or he was trying to turn the TV on with the power of his mind. Damn. He only did that when he was really bothered by something. House should have known better than to drag up his divorce. That had been a low blow, even for him. Picking up the mustard, he squirted some onto the first sandwich. After a pause, he drew a smiley face on the second one, leaving the bread open so he didn't squash it. Limping back through to the living room sans-cane and balancing the plates, he deposited himself on the couch and handed the grinning sandwich to Wilson. Wilson stared at it, then glanced up at House, who looked away.

'Is this your way of saying you're sorry?'

'Shut up and eat your damn sandwich.' House demonstrated by taking an impolitely large bite of his own, making further conversation on his part impossible. Wilson continued to stare at his lunch for a second, before eventually closing his sandwich with a chuckle and taking a bite out of it.

'If it is, I accept it,' he said around the mouthful.

'Don't talk with your mouth full. 'S rude,' House replied, spraying crumbs everywhere. Wilson chuckled again, and reached behind him for his coat, which he'd thrown over the back of the couch. Rummaging in one of the larger pockets, he produced a plastic bag with 'Virgin Megastore' stamped across it in bright red letters. House raised an eyebrow.

'I thought we'd agreed it was in poor taste for you to shop there anymore,' he said before he could stop himself. Wilson smirked.

'Yeah, well, I figured I could make an exception.' He handed House the bag, which turned out to contain a season one DVD boxed set of The L Word. House gaped.

'...When?'

'A couple of days ago. I was gonna give it to you anyway, but once I saw what was in your fridge yesterday I figured using it as a bribe was more convenient.'

'So you...?'

Wilson nodded. 'Yep.'

House shook his head, and then smirked.

'Nice.' 'I thought so,' Wilson replied with his mouth full again. 'This way we can not only watch it on mute, but also subtitled in Spanish if we want to.'

House was already firing up the DVD player. Wilson put the disc in, drawing the blinds while he was up to eliminate the afternoon glare on the TV set. Flicking off the lights he settled back down beside House on the sofa. House glanced over at his friend and smiled faintly. It wasn't in his nature to say 'thank-you' - even an apology couldn't be accomplished without the cryptic use of mustard, but he had found that with Wilson, there was usually some way of getting his feelings across without breaking his rule of No Verbal Acknowledgement. Spotting a smudge of mustard beside Wilson's mouth, he reached over with his thumb and wiped it off, popping the digit into his mouth. Wilson glanced over at him with an expression of disgust.

'Oh, thanks for that.'

'No problem,' House replied happily.

'Dork,' Wilson elbowed him gently in the ribs.

'Loser,' House countered, elbowing him back slightly harder.

'Cripple,'

'Freak,'

'Jerk,'

'Douchebag,'

'Sociopath,'

'Smellyhead,'

Wilson wound up staying for dinner as well.

-End-
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.

The House Fan Fiction Archive

Nutritional Values