"Are egg yolks meant to be that color?"
Sat upon his haunches, rather like a grizzled old greyhound with little else to do, House cocked his head at the food he could see being heated slowly through the little window in the oven door. There was an inquisitive, yet completely fake, crease to his brow as he glanced from the turkey, up to the man who was trying to nudge him out of the way.
"I often wondered if you lived in a Dr. Seuss book. Look, can you just... move?" Wilson gave House's ass an encouraging shove with his toe, trying to reach an overhead cupboard. Usually such a task would be very simple. Then again, usually he didn't have Gregory House crouched in front of him. Again, he nudged House, a little firmer in the hopes that the message would be seen.
House straightened up, but limped a little to the left to stand directly in front of James, arms crossed in a very thoughtful position. He seemed not to notice his friend's mission to get the salt, and was quite happy to simply perch himself in the way. Wilson sighed, hands on his hips as he waited for the 'witty' comment that was undoubtedly about to be said.
"Why are you even in here?"
That didn't quite score as high on the Sarcasm Meter as Wilson had guessed. Looking slightly puzzled, he decided to give up on the salt front and skirted around the kitchen table, going back to a selection of pots and pans scattered haphazardly on the sideboard. Of course, the fact that it was an easy escape route out of the question was an added bonus.
"You never cook me food until I've bribed you."
House grabbed his cane from where it had rested, on the table, and ambled over to where James had relocated himself, looking incredibly smug as he persisted in his questioning. He'd known Wilson far too long, now; whenever the Oncologist didn't want to answer a particularly embarrassing question, he simply got as far away from the questioner as he could.
"Yeah, well..." Wilson let his voice trail away without any full answer being spoken, pretending to be absolutely engrossed in the potato peeler. Picking it up, he tried to ignore the gaze he could sense upon his back, getting back to the task at hand. Behind him, he could practically feel the smirk on House's lips grow wider.
"You're up to something. Did you spill something over Uncle Greg's best porno magazine again?" House gasped dramatically, although the expression that accompanied it soon turned into a frown as he realized Wilson was still ignoring him. With a pout, he lifted the end of the cane from the floor, jabbing James' left shoulder with it.
A strangled yelp followed, rather like House had just sat on a member of the feline family, and the potato peeler clattered to the floor. There was a flash of crimson blood upon the blade, which made even House do a double take before Wilson turned around, thumb stuck in his mouth and a look of utter incredulity on his face.
"'Oo Idiuh!" James cried from behind his bleeding thumb. What made it all the worse was that House, now leaning back on the kitchen table, had tilted his head, smiling quite pleasantly at all the commotion. Oh, that was so typically House. No accident ever gave him cause to at least look apologetic.
Dragging the thumb out of his mouth, a long slit being the open floodgate to faint trickles of blood, Wilson whipped around and grabbed the red-stained potato he had been working on. In a moment of blind emotion, mostly consisting of thoughts that told him to hurt Greg back, he threw the goddamn thing at House with all the strength he could summon. Not pausing to see if it even struck, he stormed from the room.
Every time, every goddamn time I try to do something nice for him, he goes and screws it up. Why the Hell do I even both--
Something incredibly gooey – not to mention hot - connecting with the back of his neck brought his movements, and his musing, to an absolute stop. With hunched shoulders, he raised a hand and gingerly touched whatever it was that had decided to drip down his shirt.
Turning slowly, he was a little startled to see House standing in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand raised and smeared with the pasta dish while the other massaged a spot on his neck. Presumably where the potato had struck. The pleasant enough smile had since disappeared, replaced by a grin and a dangerous flicker in his piercing blue eyes.
"Didn't your mom ever teach you not to play with food?" Greg asked, sounding too innocent to be believed. The grin grew more pronounced as he saw James' jaw drop open in belief. Yeah, right – like House could actually be above throwing pasta around. If Wilson had thought that, he was an idiot.
More of an idiot than he already was.
Wiping away the sauce from his neck, James managed to divert his gaze from House just long enough to stare at the 's' shaped pasta that was curled in his palm. Apart from the utter disbelief that Greg was as immature as all that, he felt a little upset. That dish had taken him hours...
"What, you're not gonna avenge your pasta?" House raised an eyebrow as he spoke, practically reading James' thoughts. His eyes dared – urged – James into doing something, trying to elicit some sort of reaction. He wanted to see Wilson retaliate, not just stand there like a gormless ass. In a very odd sort of way, it pleased him – just a little – when the other lashed back.
Not that he'd ever admit such a thing.
Before Greg could continue on down that line of thought, he felt several very warm objects connect with his chest before falling to his feet. He had got his wish, and James had flung them back at him. Upon realizing such a thing, House smiled devilishly and, with surprising speed for a cripple, darted back into the kitchen.
"Oh, no..." Wilson murmured, feeling a little bit nervous as House disappeared. When Greg wasn't in view, it was a lot more unnerving than when you could see what he was doing. He quickly decided on tailing the man, and jogged into the kitchen, completely forgetting the pasta which had fallen to the floor of the living room.
Shame. If he had remembered, perhaps he wouldn't have managed to skid over the slippery sauce and do an assplant on the kitchen floor. Another yelp of pain was produced from Wilson, the second in as many minutes, and he appeared quite startled to find himself not upon his feat but his rear.
Before Wilson's brain had even had the time to process that it was House speaking to him, a carton of something or other had been upturned and was pouring amazing quantities of semi-skimmed milk through his dark brown hair. With a splutter, he thrashed in the sudden downpour, and grabbed a hold of a set of legs to get to his own two feet.
"You idiot!" James yelled, although not quite as angrily as he had done before. Perhaps there was a little bit, just a small part of him that was actually enjoying this sudden display of utter immaturity. Indeed, that fact was proved to perfection as the Oncologist felt around the table wildly, still trying to escape the milky rain. Eventually, his fingers locked over three round-ish objects and they were soon flung in House's direction.
The milk stopped, and Wilson blinked.
One of his eggs had managed to catch Greg's chest, the other his shoulder, and the last – also the most satisfying – had cracked roughly about his ear. Egg whites trickled sloppily through House's grizzled stubble, just slipping below his collar and down over his bare skin. Not giving Wilson any more pleasure, Greg didn't shiver, even though it was amazingly uncomfortable.
An animal-like noise, almost a growl, passed House's closed lips, and both of them realized that this did indeed mean war. Snatching the first object he could from the sideboard, Greg's free hand flashed out and caught a hold of Wilson's belt buckle. The open bag of something or other was thrust downwards, into the gap created between James' stomach and his pants.
That 'something or other' just so happened to be flour, and a white plume of the stuff rose up as Wilson bit back his laughter, shaking his legs around to try and get the bag out. Oh, God, how old were they again? He hadn't stuck something down somebody's pants since the fifth grade.
Seeing House move back for the next Weapon of Mass Destruction (or Irritation, as Wilson's legs were becoming incredibly itchy), the Oncologist was forced to reel backwards, yanking open the refrigerator door as House limped rapidly back his way.
His fingers flitted from one object to the next, before finally grasping around an easy-squeeze bottle. James jerked back around, flipping the cap and squirting what looked very much like chocolate sauce in the direction he sensed House had been limping from. At that exact moment, though, House had returned with a large bowl resting on his hip.
It was an incredibly odd moment, as House was treated to a coating of chocolate sauce, and Wilson had mashed potato matted into his hair. Unable to hold it back anymore, James burst out laughing, dropping the easy-squeeze bottle and trying to escape the latest torture.
"No, okay, please! I'm sorry! Stop!" He pleaded desperately in between the bursts of childish giggling, the mirth only spilling from his lips louder as Greg wiped the mashed substance beneath his shirt, following the ridge of his spine. He attempted to pull away, but House was quick off the mark and dragged him backwards, pinning the other's stomach against the now closed refrigerator door.
"I'm sorr-- I'm sorry!"
"Not good enough." House spoke at last, sounding as though he was reprimanding a young schoolboy while he yanked down the back of Wilson's pants, splattering the exposed lower back with the foodstuff. Egg still dripped down from his shirt, and – as he happened to glance down – a pout appeared at the mess.
"That was my favorite shirt." He scowled, running his fingers through the egg white and then wiping them down against James' back. The other was a lot worse off than he; flour, mashed potato, pasta. Not to mention there seemed to have been a chocolate explosion between them, both covered in it.
Greg was, quite possibly, the most immature person at the Princeton-Planesboro Teaching Hospital. But even he hadn't stooped to the level of throwing food for a very long time. Although, to be fair, James had started it. And there was another excellent point – the boy wonder Oncologist was suddenly dipping into his inner child?
Wilson was always so... different when with Greg. When they were playing foosball, or just goofing around. It was odd; James simply seemed to slip into a whole new person, completely the opposite of who he was when behind a desk or with a patient.
House liked the different Wilson. And that was something else he'd never admit.
"I'm sorry," James' voice had become a lot more feeble, as had his attempts to try and escape the hands that were pinning him down. "Seriously. I'm sorry. Can you... get off me now? Our dinner's all over my neck."
House, for once in his life, decided to obey, party because his arms were becoming sore for pressing down so much on Wilson's back. Letting go, he did something rather odd and leaned a little closer to the other, his tongue running over the various sauces and products that were smeared over the nape of James' neck.
He felt Wilson's form stiffen a little beneath him, as if asking the silent 'what the Hell are you doing?'
"You seriously need to take Cookery Lessons." House grunted, limping back towards the living room, leaving a very bemused Wilson to wipe milk from his eyes.