Like Wilson didn't know him better. House's scoffing automatically garnered him an eye roll. "Right. All those soap operas and video games, they get in the way." He'd known House long enough to know that a favorite hobby of his was people-watching - which, if someone had known him for more than five minutes, if they weren't mentally retarded, they could pretty much gather that it was one of House's most-used past times - but it was some kind of strange naivety in his mind that hadn't thought of the idea that House would be watching him so closely as he did with his ducklings. Or, you know, Cuddy. Trash baskets, anyone?
This was getting ridiculous. And... had already gone past mildly ugly. Wilson was rubbing at his temples again, frowning at the floor and folding his arms as he fixed House with a wide-eyed sort of look in return, another eye roll drawing his expression into one of pure mockery. "Woops, better get out the Remington, Charles, the University of Texas in Austin's waiting for you." And sighed, dropping his arms, uselessly, giving House The Look. "And if you seriously think we actually had sex, I'm checking you for early signs of Alzheimer's or something."
Lovely choice moment, then, of course, for the third of the mentioned parties to step in. Sylar, in his usual stubble, the long, black trench coat. Frowning. eying the two men in the room as if he hadn't heard the entire conversation, from all the way across the tent village. Wilson slipped into a halfway awkward sort of silence, eying past House's shoulder to the other, taller man, and opening and shutting his mouth, a few times, reeking nervousness. Sylar voice came out harsh, both eyebrows slowly raising northward. "What's going on?" Lover's quarrel, about a certain infidel James Wilson getting married to a Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray. "Who are you?" Dr. Gregory House, diagnostician with a degree in infectious disease.
House had just been about to open his mouth and deliver a fantastically witty reply to Wilson, when Sylar stepped in and cut off the remark completely. Raising his eyebrows sharply, clearly amused, House studied Sylar in fascination. "You must be the marriage du jour, Mr. Cartier," he smirked. Odd, though, that Wilson actually looked nervous when Sylar entered. Either he really didn't want House and Sylar to meet, or there was something else going on.
House's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He stepped closer to Wilson and grabbed his arms, pushing up his shirt sleeves to study his wrists, and then peering at his face. Nothing obvious to be seen, that was reassuring. The nervousness was probably just the situation then. Not that Sylar looked terribly threatening, but Wilson probably couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag.
"I'm a plumber," House answered finally, heavily mocking. "I'm here to check out your pipes." With an over exaggerated leer at Sylar, he leaned in closer to Wilson to speak quietly, directly into his ear. "You're off the hook. So not your type."
And with a light smack at Wilson's ass, House grinned to himself and wandered into the kitchen. Seconds later, he could be heard rattling around loudly and shoving things aside as he poked around.
Why Wilson was nervous, he probably couldn't have explained if he tried. Maybe because, when Sylar walked in, Wilson was half-expecting House to just launch himself forward right there, lay a punch right into Sylar's jaw. And Wilson had seen some of what Sylar could do. That wouldn't end well. Maybe it was just this situation in general, and he wasn't sure it was how this was going to go down. ...Maybe it was because, you know, his impromptu husband had showed up, riddled with forks, the other day, barely batting an eye about it. God only knew what else he was capable of.
And, ow, what the hell? Why was... House... Oh, hell no. Wilson's eyebrows automatically slanted downward, in a knowing sort of expression. Abusive spouses, when a person was acting nervous around their husband or wife, making up excuses, whatever, first place to sneak a check for bruises was usually wrists. Wilson knew perfectly well that Sylar definitely had, ah... some anger issues that he probably had to work through. But not that House could know that already.
Sylar, of course, had slipped almost as seamlessly into irritation as Wilson had, but for entirely different reasons. As if he didn't know every watch dig in the book. From middle school. Cartier was a fine brand of watch, he wasn't going to let himself get too ruffled. Which was totally evident by the bristle of his shoulders, in a straight line across his spine. And was this man... making a pass at him? About plumbing? Because he was Mohinder-sexual, der, get your kicks elsewhere, Housemost definitely not going to be standing for that very long.
As Wilson jumped at the ass smack, palm automatically to his face, wondering vaguely just what the hell his type was in men, then, exactly, he exchanged a halfway apologetic look to parry with Sylar's accusing one. Sylar kind of like Wilson, you know? In a world of a hell of a lot of people who couldn't give a damn about the one standing next to them... Wilson gave him a lick of attention, of interest, and not just on a scientific scale.
Didn't mean he had to like Wilson's boyfriend.
"We didn't call for a plumber," Sylar sniped after House, knowingly, a bit more sharply than he'd meant to, and maybe a little stupidly. Not that he'd admit the last bit. But he'd heard the last bit, and was this man really jealous enough to think that his significant other would get up and married on a whim? Sylar nearly quirked a smirk. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, coat having been shrugged off onto a nearby chair, and folded his arms across his black hoodie instead. "It's not as if I don't know who you are, and if you're going to..." His eyebrows furrowed, in a bit of distaste. "Go off somewhere with Dr. Wilson, it's not as if I'm going to stop you."
House had come to one conclusion; Sylar and Wilson had Very Strange Objects in their kitchen. He couldn't even fathom what some of them were supposed to do. And then there were the objects that House knew about, but never figured were actually real, like a garlic crusher. A tool specifically for crushing garlic.
Clearly this was a tent were anal people lived.
"That is so polite," House remarked to Sylar, not stopping in his quest to examine every object in the kitchen. "Wilson, isn't that polite? Got yourself a good one here!"
A pot abruptly went flying over House's shoulder after a disgusted look at the inside. "You two really need to clean better, I think I saw mold," he announced. "I'm guessing you were too busy. The question, is, too busy doing what?"
No, seriously. He wanted to know why Wilson hadn't contacted him.
Wilson was opening his mouth to respond in kind, all prepared for the wince towards the clang of metal connecting with linoleum flooring, when the offending thrown pot stopped in midair, Sylar's eyes narrowed in on the thing with a look of clear irritation. Right. Because he was going to let that fall and spend the rest of his night with a migraine.
The pot landed easily onto the counter as Sylar stepped into the kitchen (but not before a minute check for mold, almost pure paranoia), surveying House's actions with a critical eye. "Don't throw things around," he said in a tone all too harshly, peering past House's shoulder with irritation. "It's rude." ...Yes, because that was going to stop House.
Not that Wilson didn't miss the question, of course, he just... didn't have an answer. Not one that House would look. 'Too busy doing what?', meaning 'why the hell didn't you tell me about this earlier?' and... why? Because he didn't know how House was going to react? Because he was paranoid the guy was going to dump him over this without a bat of an eye? And maybe he didn't want to start heaving all of these insecurities at House, full-force, when their relationship was under more than enough strain to begin with.
"They barely let us leave this place," Wilson commented lightly. "Something about ducks and waffles. I have no idea." The Hat kept saying that it Had A Plan, and it was kind of terrifying.
Yeah, nice trick, stopping the pot in mid air. House wasn't at all impressed.
"Gee, really?" House faked a gormless expression, staring at Sylar over the eggbeater he was studying. "From where I come from it's a gesture of good will to throw pots around. You must be really uncivilized, Frank Muller." Of course anything that was seen as rude was automatically higher on House's list of things to do.
...Something about ducks and waffles. That was fairly disturbing. House cast a glance over his shoulder at Wilson, his expression heavily implying that he thought this whole marriage thing might have sent Wilson around the bend. And that a great cure for that might be 3 days spent in bed. House didn't care about other people being in the room when he was dealing about leers.
"Well," House yanked open a drawer, "As long as you're not permanently damaged from The Eyebrow Marvel over here..." House paused abruptly, and smirked heavily as realization dawned. "God, it's a good thing men can't have babies. You two would produce a child with the most enormous eyebrows."
More watches. No, really. Hilarious. Sylar resisted an urge to roll his eyes, as the cupboard shut behind House, with quite a bit of finality, as the man started moving on, to more parts of the kitchen. An eggbeater, even. Why was he doing this again? He had no business here. He could take his boyfriend and go. No, he was one of those types, wasn't he? Taking pleasure in pissing off everybody around him.
"Let me guess. Geneva. Then Rolex. Seiko, TAG, Movado, B&M, Corum." He raised his eyebrows back at House. "Bulova? Fossil?" The cupboard reopened and the pan and the eggbeater replaced themselves, without Sylar baring so much as a second glance at either of the two. "Just because you have a near unlimited amount of ammunition doesn't mean you should use it." Hidden translation here: Stop this before I have to snap your spinal column in more places than you knew you could have. Hint hint, wink wink.
The last bit, of course, about the eyebrows, as House started jerking open another drawer, only made Wilson smirk. More than a dozen years, he knew how to handle House. It wasn't all that difficult once you grew used to it. "Another priest of Browicles?" he added in kind, one of his own brows quirked in question. Wasn't the first comment about his eyebrows and certainly wouldn't be the last.
Sylar, however, didn't seem to bare the same amount of patience Wilson honed, and the cupboard was slammed shut telekinetically, the drawer jerking free of House's grip and following suit. Somebody, apparently, was not liking this little impromptu visit. "Funny," he replied, a bit more harshly. "Tell me, were you always this bitter? Or was it the cane that brought out the misanthrope?"
As Sylar started listing off all the names of watch brands, House threw him a disappointed look. "Way to spoil my fun, Bela Lugosi," he complained loudly, not deterred by the way that everything seemed to be shutting itself behind him.
Ooh, the cutlery drawer. You could tell a lot about a person by looking at their cutlery, House maintained.
At Wilson's question, House snickered to himself, and threw Wilson a look that might have almost been bordering on fond. Wilson tended to be forgiven pretty quickly for any error he committed in House's opinion, but it was more out of relief. Seriously, House honestly didn't know what he would have done if forced to confront life without Wilson as at least a friend. "Nah, worshiper," House smirked. "He doesn't quite have what it takes."
And hello, watch-boy was getting angry. Heaving a martyred sigh, House stopped what he was doing, and pushed himself up to sit on the counter top. "Aw, that is so cute," he remarked gleefully. "Look, Wilson, he's trying to diagnose me!"
This was getting ridiculous. And... had already gone past mildly ugly. Wilson was rubbing at his temples again, frowning at the floor and folding his arms as he fixed House with a wide-eyed sort of look in return, another eye roll drawing his expression into one of pure mockery. "Woops, better get out the Remington, Charles, the University of Texas in Austin's waiting for you." And sighed, dropping his arms, uselessly, giving House The Look. "And if you seriously think we actually had sex, I'm checking you for early signs of Alzheimer's or something."
Lovely choice moment, then, of course, for the third of the mentioned parties to step in. Sylar, in his usual stubble, the long, black trench coat. Frowning. eying the two men in the room as if he hadn't heard the entire conversation, from all the way across the tent village. Wilson slipped into a halfway awkward sort of silence, eying past House's shoulder to the other, taller man, and opening and shutting his mouth, a few times, reeking nervousness. Sylar voice came out harsh, both eyebrows slowly raising northward. "What's going on?" Lover's quarrel, about a certain infidel James Wilson getting married to a Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray. "Who are you?" Dr. Gregory House, diagnostician with a degree in infectious disease.
((Reposted cuz I rock at HTML, hurr.))
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House's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He stepped closer to Wilson and grabbed his arms, pushing up his shirt sleeves to study his wrists, and then peering at his face. Nothing obvious to be seen, that was reassuring. The nervousness was probably just the situation then. Not that Sylar looked terribly threatening, but Wilson probably couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag.
"I'm a plumber," House answered finally, heavily mocking. "I'm here to check out your pipes." With an over exaggerated leer at Sylar, he leaned in closer to Wilson to speak quietly, directly into his ear. "You're off the hook. So not your type."
And with a light smack at Wilson's ass, House grinned to himself and wandered into the kitchen. Seconds later, he could be heard rattling around loudly and shoving things aside as he poked around.
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And, ow, what the hell? Why was... House... Oh, hell no. Wilson's eyebrows automatically slanted downward, in a knowing sort of expression. Abusive spouses, when a person was acting nervous around their husband or wife, making up excuses, whatever, first place to sneak a check for bruises was usually wrists. Wilson knew perfectly well that Sylar definitely had, ah... some anger issues that he probably had to work through. But not that House could know that already.
Sylar, of course, had slipped almost as seamlessly into irritation as Wilson had, but for entirely different reasons. As if he didn't know every watch dig in the book. From middle school. Cartier was a fine brand of watch, he wasn't going to let himself get too ruffled. Which was totally evident by the bristle of his shoulders, in a straight line across his spine. And was this man... making a pass at him? About plumbing? Because he was Mohinder-sexual, der, get your kicks elsewhere, Housemost definitely not going to be standing for that very long.
As Wilson jumped at the ass smack, palm automatically to his face, wondering vaguely just what the hell his type was in men, then, exactly, he exchanged a halfway apologetic look to parry with Sylar's accusing one. Sylar kind of like Wilson, you know? In a world of a hell of a lot of people who couldn't give a damn about the one standing next to them... Wilson gave him a lick of attention, of interest, and not just on a scientific scale.
Didn't mean he had to like Wilson's boyfriend.
"We didn't call for a plumber," Sylar sniped after House, knowingly, a bit more sharply than he'd meant to, and maybe a little stupidly. Not that he'd admit the last bit. But he'd heard the last bit, and was this man really jealous enough to think that his significant other would get up and married on a whim? Sylar nearly quirked a smirk. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, coat having been shrugged off onto a nearby chair, and folded his arms across his black hoodie instead. "It's not as if I don't know who you are, and if you're going to..." His eyebrows furrowed, in a bit of distaste. "Go off somewhere with Dr. Wilson, it's not as if I'm going to stop you."
((THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM D:<))
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Clearly this was a tent were anal people lived.
"That is so polite," House remarked to Sylar, not stopping in his quest to examine every object in the kitchen. "Wilson, isn't that polite? Got yourself a good one here!"
A pot abruptly went flying over House's shoulder after a disgusted look at the inside. "You two really need to clean better, I think I saw mold," he announced. "I'm guessing you were too busy. The question, is, too busy doing what?"
No, seriously. He wanted to know why Wilson hadn't contacted him.
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The pot landed easily onto the counter as Sylar stepped into the kitchen (but not before a minute check for mold, almost pure paranoia), surveying House's actions with a critical eye. "Don't throw things around," he said in a tone all too harshly, peering past House's shoulder with irritation. "It's rude." ...Yes, because that was going to stop House.
Not that Wilson didn't miss the question, of course, he just... didn't have an answer. Not one that House would look. 'Too busy doing what?', meaning 'why the hell didn't you tell me about this earlier?' and... why? Because he didn't know how House was going to react? Because he was paranoid the guy was going to dump him over this without a bat of an eye? And maybe he didn't want to start heaving all of these insecurities at House, full-force, when their relationship was under more than enough strain to begin with.
"They barely let us leave this place," Wilson commented lightly. "Something about ducks and waffles. I have no idea." The Hat kept saying that it Had A Plan, and it was kind of terrifying.
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"Gee, really?" House faked a gormless expression, staring at Sylar over the eggbeater he was studying. "From where I come from it's a gesture of good will to throw pots around. You must be really uncivilized, Frank Muller." Of course anything that was seen as rude was automatically higher on House's list of things to do.
...Something about ducks and waffles. That was fairly disturbing. House cast a glance over his shoulder at Wilson, his expression heavily implying that he thought this whole marriage thing might have sent Wilson around the bend. And that a great cure for that might be 3 days spent in bed. House didn't care about other people being in the room when he was dealing about leers.
"Well," House yanked open a drawer, "As long as you're not permanently damaged from The Eyebrow Marvel over here..." House paused abruptly, and smirked heavily as realization dawned. "God, it's a good thing men can't have babies. You two would produce a child with the most enormous eyebrows."
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"Let me guess. Geneva. Then Rolex. Seiko, TAG, Movado, B&M, Corum." He raised his eyebrows back at House. "Bulova? Fossil?" The cupboard reopened and the pan and the eggbeater replaced themselves, without Sylar baring so much as a second glance at either of the two. "Just because you have a near unlimited amount of ammunition doesn't mean you should use it." Hidden translation here: Stop this before I have to snap your spinal column in more places than you knew you could have. Hint hint, wink wink.
The last bit, of course, about the eyebrows, as House started jerking open another drawer, only made Wilson smirk. More than a dozen years, he knew how to handle House. It wasn't all that difficult once you grew used to it. "Another priest of Browicles?" he added in kind, one of his own brows quirked in question. Wasn't the first comment about his eyebrows and certainly wouldn't be the last.
Sylar, however, didn't seem to bare the same amount of patience Wilson honed, and the cupboard was slammed shut telekinetically, the drawer jerking free of House's grip and following suit. Somebody, apparently, was not liking this little impromptu visit. "Funny," he replied, a bit more harshly. "Tell me, were you always this bitter? Or was it the cane that brought out the misanthrope?"
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Ooh, the cutlery drawer. You could tell a lot about a person by looking at their cutlery, House maintained.
At Wilson's question, House snickered to himself, and threw Wilson a look that might have almost been bordering on fond. Wilson tended to be forgiven pretty quickly for any error he committed in House's opinion, but it was more out of relief. Seriously, House honestly didn't know what he would have done if forced to confront life without Wilson as at least a friend. "Nah, worshiper," House smirked. "He doesn't quite have what it takes."
And hello, watch-boy was getting angry. Heaving a martyred sigh, House stopped what he was doing, and pushed himself up to sit on the counter top. "Aw, that is so cute," he remarked gleefully. "Look, Wilson, he's trying to diagnose me!"
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