| |
Whining and Dining
by Mer
On Friday, Wilson refuses to cook dinner, claiming he's had a long, hard day at work and he doesn't want to slave over a hot stove for someone who doesn't appreciate the effort he puts into creating a well-balanced meal.
What he actually says is, "Let's go to Vera's," but House's imagination fills in the rest.
Vera's is an authentic '50s diner, complete with chrome and red leather decor. It's known for its hand-cut wedge fries, juicy burgers made with just the right amount of grease, and milkshakes so thick they come with a spoon.
Whenever he walks through the door, House expects to be transformed into a teenager with a ducktail and leather jacket. He has the leather jacket, but he doesn't think there's enough Brylcreem in the universe to create a convincing ducktail with his hair. What's left of it, adds a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Wilson. House doesn't actually require Wilson to be present to have conversations with him.
The waitress waves them towards their favourite booth, halfway between the entrance and the restrooms. They're not regulars - unless you consider three or four visits a month regular - but women always remember Wilson and try, unsuccessfully, to forget House. "Thank you, Sarah," Wilson says when she comes by to fill their coffee cups, and House is slightly alarmed.
"How do you know her name?" he hisses when she's out of earshot. She's not wearing a nametag - she has good breasts, but not good enough to distract him from an ugly piece of plastic.
"She leaves her name on the bill."
House never bothers to look at the bill, but he can imagine it now - her name combined with a perky "Have a nice day" and a happy face. He'll have to look today, just to make sure "Sarah" isn't including her phone number as well.
Wilson picks up the laminated menu and begins studying it as if he were deciphering the Rosetta Stone.
"I'm starving," House complains. "I only had bread and water for lunch."
Wilson glances up long enough to shoot House a disbelieving look. "Funny. That's not what I paid for."
"Okay, so it was a Reuben and coffee, but there's bread and water involved. And I didn't have fries."
"My God, your self-restraint is extraordinary," Wilson replies dryly and resumes his scrutiny of the menu.
"True, but the unfortunate side effect is that I'm now hungry." House signals the waitress - who seems a little too eager to come back to their table - to take their order.
"You're always hungry," Wilson mutters. He looks so lost over his dinner decision that House is worried that the waitress will take him in hand and try to show him her special.
"I have a healthy appetite," he says, trying to draw Wilson's attention back to him.
"You're rapacious," Wilson parries, baring his teeth slightly in a smile.
"That doesn't sound very nice," the waitress says, smiling back at Wilson.
House needs to put a stop to this right away. Wilson is liable to fall in love, move out, and then who would cook him pancakes in the morning? "It's not. He's not a very nice man at all. Restraining orders in five counties."
The waitress's smile dims just enough to reassure him. More importantly, Wilson doesn't bother to contradict him, which means he's not deliberately trying to impress her. "Would you hurry up and decide," House snaps. Now he really is getting hungry.
But Wilson is in no hurry. "I'm assessing my options."
"Well, while you're assessing your options, I'm starving to death."
"If you keep interrupting me, I'm just going to take longer," Wilson warns.
House has never been one to heed a warning. "What's there to decide? You have the same thing every time we come here."
"Maybe I want to try something new."
"This is a diner. There hasn't been anything new on the menu since Eisenhower was President."
"I'm trying to read."
"How much concentration does it take to decipher a one-page menu?"
"Again with the interruptions."
"Do you want me to tell you what you're going to have? A cheeseburger and green salad with ranch dressing." House thinks it's heresy to order a salad at a diner, but Wilson has always had questionable tastes. "It's what you had the last time. It's what you had the time before, and the time before.
"Are you implying that I'm predictable? That I'm boring?"
"Did I say that?" He turns to the waitress, who is still waiting, pencil poised. There are only a handful of customers in the restaurant and this is probably the most entertainment she's had all night. "He'll have a cheeseburger and green salad with ranch dressing. And I'll have a bacon mushroom cheeseburger with fries." This time she smiles at him, which is really disturbing. In fact, he's so surprised he almost forgets the rest of the order. "And two chocolate shakes," he shouts across the restaurant. Wilson palms his face in embarrassment, which makes the oversight worthwhile.
"What if I didn't want chocolate?" Wilson protests. House notices that he isn't complaining about the meal choice. "What if I wanted vanilla or strawberry?"
House waits until he takes a sip of coffee. "I've seen how you look at Foreman. I know you like the chocolate."
Wilson splutters and chokes. "That's just wrong on so many levels," he says when he can speak and breathe again. But his expression has that unique mix of annoyance and amusement that seems to be his default position with House.
"Hey, don't let me stand in your way," House proclaims, wondering how far Wilson can be pushed tonight. "I give you permission to play doctor with any of the children."
"Mmmm. Neapolitan," Wilson murmurs and House is so delighted that he actually smiles back at the waitress when she delivers the milkshakes. "Careful," Wilson warns once she's out of earshot. "She has a thing for older, unshaven men."
"Does she write that on the bill as well?" He really needs to start vetting these things. God knows what information women are feeding Wilson.
"No, she introduced me to her boyfriend the last time I was in."
House stares at him. "You came here without me? You better not have brought that weepy Radiology nurse I saw you talking to last week. This is our restaurant."
"Really? I thought that was Hooters."
"Don't be stupid, Hooters is only for special occasions."
"Oh, right. My mistake." Wilson grins and draws large-breasted stick figures in the condensation on his glass.
House admires his artwork, but isn't deterred from his mission. "Who did you bring here?"
Wilson shakes his head. "You never let things go, do you?"
House assumes the question is rhetorical. "It better not have been She-Who-Can-Only-Be-Named-On-A-Divorce-Writ."
"Now why would I bring my nearly ex-wife to our restaurant?" The tone is sardonic, but the expression is still safely tilting on the amused side of the scale. House has a lot of room to push tonight.
"Debbie in Accounting? That new Oncology nurse? Or was it Cuddy's latest assistant?"
"Has anyone seen Cuddy's assistant lately?" Wilson counters. "Rumour has it she applied for stress leave after only a week. I think it's a new record." He frowns at House. "You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?"
"Not this time." The burgers arrive and House takes time to fully appreciate the first bite, slurping back an escaping mushroom before resuming his interrogation. "So who was it? Please tell me it wasn't Cameron. I know she gets all verklempt and irresistible when her faith in humanity is shattered, but when I said you could play with the children, I didn't actually mean unsupervised."
"You're more than welcome to watch," Wilson replies around a mouthful of burger. He swallows and caves. "I came here last Tuesday - alone - because you were working late and I didn't feel like cooking for just myself. Happy?"
House affects a sympathetic expression. "After that heart-wrenching tale of loneliness?"
Wilson leans forward, mimicking House's expression. "Is your meal all right?" he asks, his voice sprinkled with saccharine. "Because you look a little queasy."
Wilson does sympathetic much better - he has, after all, actual recent experience with the emotion - but House knows it's about as genuine as the Manolo knock-offs Cuddy was wearing the other day. "Do you know what your problem is?"
Wilson sighs and puts down his fork. "No, but I'm sure you'll tell me in great detail."
"Well, if you're going to take it personally..."
"You're about to add to your extensive list of criticisms about me and you don't expect me to take it personally?"
House is beginning to rethink this conversation. Wilson has that look in his eye that means he's prepared to play hardball, and while House will never admit it, when Wilson is at the top of his game he's perfectly capable of hitting anything he throws at him. "Forget I said anything."
But it's too late. Wilson is at the plate, ready to swing away. "I don't think you know what my problem is at all. You're just trying to wriggle out of having to make something up. Go ahead - tell me."
House decides baseball is a stupid game and a worse metaphor. He can almost understand why Cameron hates sports analogies. "I think I'm ready for dessert."
"You've got nothing..."
Wilson is circling now, a predatory gleam in his eye. House needs a diversion. A nice, bright shiny object or a chunk of flesh. "I wonder if they have apple pie today," House muses, twisting his neck to look at the pastry display on the counter.
"I can tell you what your problem is..."
The wildlife metaphor isn't working any better for House. Wilson is as focused a hunter as he is a batter. "And ice cream. Gotta have ice cream with apple pie."
"...You can't bear not to have the upper hand in a conversation. The second you lose control, change of subject."
Food isn't working, so House pulls out the big guns. Two of his favourites. "Did you see that blouse Cuddy was wearing today?"
Wilson smirks and sketches a single slash in the air. House decides to let him think he's won this round. A self-satisfied Wilson is also a magnanimous Wilson, which means he won't put up a fight over the remote control when they get home. Besides, now that he's thought about it, apple pie really does sound good. Wilson has already signalled the waitress, anticipating his request.
They spend the rest of the meal in the comfortable silence that marks the best moments of their friendship. Wilson is the only person with whom House can simply be. When the bill arrives, House snatches it away before Wilson has a chance to look at it.
"Are you paying?" Wilson asks, and House slots a picture of his face next to a slang dictionary definition of "gobsmacked."
"Don't be ridiculous," he replies, but wonders if he actually should pay for a meal now and then, just to keep Wilson off-balance. Hopes have to exist in order to be dashed. "I'm just checking the math. I wouldn't want your generosity to be taken advantage of."
"No, of course not." Wilson does sarcastic almost as well as he does sympathetic, but the affection beneath the words tends to undercut the overall effect. House feels like Sisyphus. He can push all he wants, but Wilson just keeps rolling back.
He glances at the cheque and frowns. There is no smiley face, no "Have a nice day," not even an abbreviated "Thanx." There definitely isn't a name, "Sarah" or otherwise. He looks up at Wilson, who gazes back at him with wide-eyed innocence. "Is her name even Sarah?" he asks, conceding game, set and match.
Wilson shrugs, struggling to maintain a serious expression, but the corners of his mouth keep twitching, and he finally lets the grin break free. It's wide and bright enough to dim streetlights and House remembers why he doesn't mind losing to Wilson.
Wilson pays the bill, leaving a generous tip, and House suspects that the waitress wouldn't object if Wilson called her Satan.
"Good night, Dr. Wilson," she calls after them, and House frantically tries to remember if Wilson ever paid with his credit card, as he follows the sound of Wilson's laughter to the car.
Please post a comment on this story.
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.
|
|
|