Dining In
Who: Wilson, House (closed)
Where: Wilson's apartment
What: Wilson cooks dinner and House comes over.
When: Monday 22nd May, 7pm
( Read more... )
Where: Wilson's apartment
What: Wilson cooks dinner and House comes over.
When: Monday 22nd May, 7pm
( Read more... )
"Burning?" he echoed dramatically. "No idea, but whatever it is must be coming from next door. You can eat there if you like." Wilson turned his head to glance at House and flashed what remained of his smile at him.
Whatever anxiousness Wilson was feeling stilled at seeing House in the doorway, jacket unzipped and looking back at him. He wasn't sure if it intensified or shifted into something else, but Wilson set the fork beside the stove and turned, walking toward House. His hand moved to the back of House's neck and he pressed a firm kiss against House's mouth, lingering for a moment before drawing back. Wilson could smell the stale cigarette smoke lingering on House's clothes and taste the beer on his lips; the way both mingled with other foreign smells made Wilson want to kiss him again, for whatever reason. The scent of the steaks would soon overcome that, though.
"At least you didn't try for the Cuban accent," he teased in a light tone.
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He tugged the zip free where the joining teeth at the bottom of his jacket were still connected as Wilson approached him, and House kept his eyes open to watch Wilson's face as they kissed. The guilt bubbling in the pit of his stomach almost made him want to impulsively say to Wilson that he missed Wilson today - he bit it back, though, running his tongue over his top lip when Wilson pulled back from him. House never said things like that, and he knew that would sound suspicious if he did come out with something uncharacteristic.
"Can always do a take two," House offered mock seriously, sliding one hand onto Wilson's hip. "If by Cuban you mean Ricky Ricardo, got some bongos lying around the place for added effect? It's not Cuban unless there are bongos involved."
He smirked, sliding his other hand onto Wilson's hip, then leaned in to kiss Wilson again, slowly this time and with his eyes closed.
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Wilson was deepening the kiss, stroking the tip of his tongue against House's, when he remembered the steaks. He pulled back from the kiss slowly, though, his lips ghosting against House's for a second as his eyes opened. His hand was clasping a bit more firmly at House's nape and Wilson gave the back of his neck a gentle squeeze before nodding his head in the direction of the stove.
"Don't want my stuff to smell like the neighbors' stuff, not after I just came to its defense," Wilson joked in a somewhat quieter voice. He trailed his hand down from House's neck to the open flaps of his jacket and tugged on the material before backing up and turning to check their dinner. "And I've got a feeling the things you'd do to 'La Bamba' would make even Desi Arnez turn in his grave." Wilson felt a bit more at ease now, and what with not knowing why he'd felt a bit uneasy in the first place, he focused on the steaks again - which luckily hadn't burned.
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He headed towards the fridge and yanked the door open. He was greeted with the sight of a fridge full of food, all neatly packed away, some of it in labelled containers. Such a far cry from his own fridge, which was pretty much bare, save for a few things that may or may not have passed from edible to fossilising.
"Pickles?" House exclaimed in disgust, reaching for a square container on the bottom shelf. And sure enough, the contents were fresh pickles. "There's something wrong with someone who keeps this stuff willingly in their home."
He made a sound of disgust and tossed the container back into the fridge, not as neatly as he found it, and started to rummage around to see what else Wilson had in here. Celery that was crisp and green, carrots, something that looked like baby puke but was labelled 'creamed corn'.
"Do you actually have any junk food?" House asked from within the fridge; he was reaching to the very back for something that looked like it might be junk food - though upon retrieval, he discovered it wasn't. Just a small container of strawberries. "Oh, dude," he complained, tossing the strawberries back into the fridge.
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"Don't eat all the chocolate," Wilson said sternly, pointing to the drawer once he was back near the stove. Various bags of chips, mostly cheetos, and some hershey bars filled the top drawer. Wilson wasn't overly fond of sweets, but his kitchen wasn't necessarily lacking either. Plus, if he was giving House a key he was going to make sure there was some form of greasy snack food for him to devour rather than rummage about in his pantry. "Seriously. If for no other reason than my being incapable of eating both these steaks."
While he was administering his final touches to the steaks, it occured to Wilson that the tension he'd felt between them the previous evening wasn't stifling. A welcome change, sure, and House's mood dissuaded any further fear regarding the talk House had with Cuddy...but it was different and that set the cogs of Wilson's brain into motion. Agonizing for nothing was something he found himself sinking into even more in recent times and Wilson tried to let it be. For one thing it was nice. Very nice, to be able to breathe.
He busied himself getting plates from the cabinets before moving across the kitchen for another wine glass. Wilson set the plates down and fetched the wine back from the rack, pouring House a glass. Wilson set it on the counter near House and eyed the meat again. Something about cooking and being comfortable in set elements made the tightness that constantly resided in Wilson's shoulders lessen, and it showed. Being able to make a meal for the two of them to sit down to, House using his own key to get in, and Wilson breathing a bit easier were all good things.
"And," he lifted one of the cuts with the fork and nodded. "We're there. I hope you're hungry. Didn't fill up at the bar, did you?"
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"Wow, you've got a little stash happening here," he said, poking through the contents and picking up one of the bags of cheetos. "Like a magpie."
He was just about to debate opening a packet when Wilson announced that dinner was ready, and House looked over his shoulder in time to see the plate being set aside. He darted his eyes up to Wilson at the question about the bar and in one swift rush, he felt another stab of guilt all over again.
He faced back to the drawer and stuffed the cheetos back into it, trying to shake the guilt off. "Couple of beers," he replied. He shut the drawer. He decided he wasn't going to offer up anything about being at the bar if Wilson wasn't going to ask any specific questions. If Wilson ignored the whole bar thing, then House was going to go along with ignoring it.
He turned back to Wilson and limped across the kitchen to where the plate was, stopping behind Wilson at the stove. He leaned in and nuzzled his face in against the side of Wilson's neck, his hand briefly caressing Wilson's ass, before dropping his chin to rest on Wilson's shoulder and he peered down at Wilson hefting the other steak onto another plate. The food smelled fantastic. "I'm starving."
His hand continued to caress Wilson's ass as he turned his face back in against the side of Wilson's neck. "I hope you're hungry," he said in a suggestive tone.
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Wilson straightened at House's words, the satisfied look on his face from House saying he was starving turning into something a bit softer, and he leaned into House's touch. Once their steaks were safe on the plates, Wilson turned his head so that their faces touched.
"You already used starving," Wilson replied in a low tone, his hand moving back to grasp House's hip. "And famished sounds too desperate." He squeezed House's hip briefly before turning around to face him. "Yeah. I'm hungry."
At that he gave House another smile, half-smirking momentarily, before twisting back around to grab their plates. The temptation to simply remain standing there pressed up against House was a strong one, but Wilson really was starving. Still, to show House just which way he'd meant it, Wilson ducked in again and place a nipping kiss on House's ear lobe before making his way out of the kitchen.
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"So, how was your day?" he asked as he set the bottle and glasses down. He stood straight again and started to shrug out of his jacket. "Scale any walls or walk any tightropes like you usually do, or did you just treat some boring cancer and give people the same old boring news that their life is going to reach its historically inevitable dialectical conclusion sooner than you anticipated?"
He draped his jacket over the back of his chair before sitting down, and instantly reached for the wine. "See you've already had some; want more?"
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There was no way that things had gone amazingly well with Cuddy, was there? No. That made no sense. House had gone to the bar to settle his head, after all. Although he'd assured Wilson everything was fine. Nothing happened that warranted worry, in other words. Or so House said. So then what was the mood about, Wilson wondered. The only thing that came after Cuddy was the bar. Nothing in a bar that would turn House's head, though. And a few beers surely couldn't make him so--
Wilson had taken to staring at his glass of wine after House finished pouring and blinked abruptly. He'd placed his fingers on his chin, too, and quickly dropped his hand away in favor of picking up his fork and knife. As he cut into his steak he looked back up at House.
"Day went fine," he said with a slight shrug. "It's never fun to get familiar with cases again, not after a weekend like that. Certainly a significant case of the Mondays." He shook his head indifferently and sighed before looking down at his plate. "Over now, though. Now I'm sitting here with you. So boring and familiar work isn't anything to complain over." Wilson lifted his head to offer House a small smile. That was all a very laid back way of trying to say 'Yes, coming home is a drag, but here we are'. His day hadn't been bad, after all. Just normal, which served to jerk Wilson roughly in the direction of reality.
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He set the wine bottle down firmly, as if pretending those thoughts were on the table and he was squashing them with the bottle, and looked across to Wilson as he talked. He had another sudden impulse to crush these thoughts and feelings of guilt in him by reaching across to Wilson and kissing him, touching him, asking him to come to bed with him again. Wilson would probably know something was definitely up then, if House did that.
He inwardly sighed at himself, wondering why he'd chosen to lie to Wilson. This was going to keep eating at him, he knew it.
"Sounds boring as all hell," House offered when Wilson finished talking. He picked his drink up and held it towards Wilson in gesture of sharing cheers. "To boredom?" he suggested. "May it never cease to exist?"
He took a quick sip of his drink, then set it down and reached for his cutlery. "You know, the cure to boredom is curiosity. Which is why curiosity is something you can't cure." He began to cut into his steak. "History is nothing but the result of human fear of boredom. It's all, 'hey, I wonder what'll happen if I invade this country?' Curiosity, see? No wonder history repeats itself, because people will never stop being fearful of boredom, and will therefore never stop being curious."
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Wilson smiled and took up his glass to sip some more wine. It was possible that House was just glad to be eating dinner, glad to be with Wilson. But as much as Wilson tried to cling to that thought, it slipped away and was instantly replaced by the fact that after all these years, he knew House's moods. And this wasn't that.
"So," he began, slicing another bite of steak. "Spoke with Cuddy today? I didn't get out of the office to wish her a happy birthday, and when I finally did she'd gone." Wilson brought his fork to his mouth but kept his eyes on House, unable to shut out the concern.
He didn't like that House felt so tense a trip to the bar was needed to unwind. Of course it was silly of Wilson to think that, and he was just as curious about what may have happened with Cuddy that caused the tension, but the idea of House feeling the need to sit in a bar alone in order to gather his thoughts made Wilson uneasy.
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He started to unwind again now that he and Wilson were off the topic of how the day went, or the bar, or anything pertaining to any of that. Maybe they could just have a stupid conversation about nothing of any importance, like they used to when they were just friends. Things had been so confusing between Wilson and himself the last few months, so tense and fast-paced, that it was easy to forget the way things were between them before all of that.
Naturally... House should've known that wasn't going to happen. He faltered, fork poised mid-air to his mouth when Wilson mentioned Cuddy. He quickly corrected himself and mouthed the forkful and began chewing to stall for time. He set his fork down and reached for his glass.
"Yeah," he replied. "Saw Cuddy. I was running late for work and... you know how she is." He sipped his wine. "Found out she's definitely taking the guy to court. Not sure when. Soon, by what she was saying."
He took another sip of his wine and set it back down on the table. "She's uh." He cleared his throat. "Not in a very good way. She made out she's fine, but like I said, you know how she is. Stubborn as anything."
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A quiet fell then, Wilson wearing a considering look on his face as he ate. Perhaps that was it. Even after all the chaos and confusion, House had tried to set things right...in his way. And maybe seeing Cuddy still anguished by what happened between her and that stalker shook him up. Or maybe it was just Cuddy. Since, obviously, the issue there was no where near resolved. Just as Wilson decided to shut the lid on the whole matter of House going to a bar alone to de-stress, he noted the silence that had fallen and looked up at House.
"But, yeah, that's pretty ridiculous about boredom being the sole unchanging variable in the history of significant world events," Wilson said with a scoff. "Makes me wary of playing too many games of solitaire at work. Might turn into the next Hitler."
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Picking his knife up, House began to cut another piece of meat, really desperately wishing he could just slash all the tension out of the air with the knife. He almost timidly took a bite of the meat, bracing himself for Wilson to say something else firm, maybe demand to know the real reason why House had gone to the bar.
He threw another glance at Wilson again, a wary glance, when Wilson then reverted the conversation back to history again with a scoff. A pause settled over the table after Wilson's last words about being the next Hitler. House then suddenly snorted out loud and started chuckling to himself as he cut more steak, shaking his head.
"Now, wouldn't that be ironic?" House said, giving Wilson an amused look as he propped his elbow on the table. He popped the steak in his mouth and chewed, watching Wilson's face with a slight smirk. "Solitaire could bring the Hitler out in Jew."
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"It's those damn smiley faces that pop up when you lose," he argued good-naturedly. "That might inspire genocide whims in lesser men." Wilson smiled a bit and took another bite of his steak.
After another moment he squinted as if contemplating something and then shook his head. "No. I'm much taller than he was. Nothing to worry about, I don't think," he said, smirking slightly. Wilson finished his wine at that and looked across the table at House, setting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers.
"The steak is terrible, I'm guessing."
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House smiled to himself as he cut up the last part of his steak, glad that the tension had dissipated again. He really hoped the night wasn't going to fluctuate between tense and ease for the whole night. He was on tenterhooks enough as it already was.
"Disgusting," House replied to Wilson's question about the steak. "So disgusting, in fact, that I can't stop eating it." He glanced up at Wilson as he took in the last mouthful of meat, then began to lean towards Wilson as he chewed. He craned his neck and pressed a closed-mouthed kiss to Wilson's lips - and managed to knock over his glass of wine in the process.
"Shit," he exclaimed, pulling back abruptly when he heard the thunk of the glass hitting the table. He watched the red wine spill out across the table cloth like a gush of blood. "Now look what you made me do."
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