house, m.d.: house/wilson, domestic - cooking
title: kitchen counter
author: raz
theme: domestic - cooking (2/5)
rating: PG-13
notes: they're at wilson's place :)
"...do you ever get the feeling you should, you know, help out a little?" Wilson ventured, rolling his sleeves up to prepare for making dinner.
"Screw that. I'm crippled, remember?" House slapped his palm to his mouth, five, six, seven - what did it matter? - pills of heaven going straight down his throat. He frowned down at the bottle, shaking it once before tossing it into the wastebasket. Empty.
"So you keep reminding me." Wilson eyed his friend, chopping up the lettuce as quickly as he could. "House."
House sat there for a pause before he gestured for Wilson to go on. "...am I supposed to think that that was just for the sheer enjoyment of uttering my name?"
"What was that, your second bottle tonight?" Wilson pressed on, ignoring House. He cleanly swiped the vegetables into the boiling pot, focusing on the hissing water. House rolled his eyes. His good leg was jittering along to some tune Wilson couldn't and didn't want to hear.
"Nah. If you'd been paying attention, you would've noticed that it was my third. Wilson, I'm hurt. Have you been cheating on me?" House's right hand clutched at his heart sardonically, glaring at the other man.
"Thanks for the reassurement. ...I'm not even going to reply to that other one." Wilson eyed House's non-jittery leg. "Does that mean you're feeling more pain than usual? Anxiety? Stress?"
"No, but if I was, I'd say it was because of annoying friends who ask too many questions. I'm hungry. Let's eat." House hopped off the stool awkwardly, and Wilson saw the hand that grasped his kitchen counter, hard.
He watched House slowly lever himself into a chair, his muscles slowly relaxing, the frown lines smoothing out, but not completely. House looked up, suspicious.
"What?"
Wilson shrugged, looking away.
"Nothing. The food's ready."
author: raz
theme: domestic - cooking (2/5)
rating: PG-13
notes: they're at wilson's place :)
"...do you ever get the feeling you should, you know, help out a little?" Wilson ventured, rolling his sleeves up to prepare for making dinner.
"Screw that. I'm crippled, remember?" House slapped his palm to his mouth, five, six, seven - what did it matter? - pills of heaven going straight down his throat. He frowned down at the bottle, shaking it once before tossing it into the wastebasket. Empty.
"So you keep reminding me." Wilson eyed his friend, chopping up the lettuce as quickly as he could. "House."
House sat there for a pause before he gestured for Wilson to go on. "...am I supposed to think that that was just for the sheer enjoyment of uttering my name?"
"What was that, your second bottle tonight?" Wilson pressed on, ignoring House. He cleanly swiped the vegetables into the boiling pot, focusing on the hissing water. House rolled his eyes. His good leg was jittering along to some tune Wilson couldn't and didn't want to hear.
"Nah. If you'd been paying attention, you would've noticed that it was my third. Wilson, I'm hurt. Have you been cheating on me?" House's right hand clutched at his heart sardonically, glaring at the other man.
"Thanks for the reassurement. ...I'm not even going to reply to that other one." Wilson eyed House's non-jittery leg. "Does that mean you're feeling more pain than usual? Anxiety? Stress?"
"No, but if I was, I'd say it was because of annoying friends who ask too many questions. I'm hungry. Let's eat." House hopped off the stool awkwardly, and Wilson saw the hand that grasped his kitchen counter, hard.
He watched House slowly lever himself into a chair, his muscles slowly relaxing, the frown lines smoothing out, but not completely. House looked up, suspicious.
"What?"
Wilson shrugged, looking away.
"Nothing. The food's ready."