In which Wilson makes his lunch.
On this day, as he did almost every other day, Wilson made himself a wonderful lunch. He occasionally ate in the cafeteria, but he figured he was a much better cook than the hospital lunch ladies. Also, by bringing his lunch, there was less chance that House would be able to steal it. Wilson didn't mind sharing, especially with House, but the thing was, when he shared with House, he usually didn't end up with any lunch at all.
In which Wilson loses his lunch
On this day, as he did almost every other day, Wilson opened the container that contained his lunch. It was empty. Wilson swore quietly. He looked out of his office door, across the balcony, and into the adjacent office. House was eating a delicious chicken salad sandwich. It looked familiar. Wilson sighed and headed for the cafeteria. There, he ate a sandwich that may have only been a few weeks past the point where the meat went rotten and the bread went stale.
In which Wilson gets fed up
House entered. Wilson took a bigger bite of his sandwich. He gagged and spit it out into his napkin as House sat down.
"Gross," House said. He coughed, and spit flew on to Wilson's food. Wilson didn't mind. There was no way he was willing to take another bite of the sandwich anyway.
"Well, when someone eats my lunch, I don't have much choice."
"There's a simple solution for that, you know," House commented.
"Yes. You could leave my lunch alone."
"Obviously that's not going to happen. I was going to suggest that you could make two sandwiches."
"You'd eat both of them."
"No I... yes," House admitted.
Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Do you even know how to cook?" House shrugged. "You don't! I don't believe it; you don't know how to cook."
"You don't know how to keep from getting divorced."
"When you use an argument like that, it's supposed to be something that you have achieved that the other person has not."
"Shut up, I'm sick."
"Bad excuse. I'm going to teach you how to cook."
"What? No, I can't. I'm sick," House sneezed.
"Bad excuse," Wilson repeated.
In which Wilson gives cooking lessons
When someone knocked at House's door at promptly 6:30PM that evening, House didn't open it. He pretended not to hear, hoping that the caller would go away. Luckily Wilson had a key. He let himself in, arms laden with cooking utensils and grocery bags full of food.
"Are we cooking for the rest of my life?" House grumbled.
"No, just for dinner. Chicken. Easy," Wilson replied. House grumbled more. Wilson went into the kitchen and began trying to clear a space among the dirty plates and forks covering the counter. The trash can was full of various takeout boxes and microwaveable meals.
When that mission was accomplished, Wilson handed House a frying pan, and when he turned away, House mimed braining him with it. Still facing away, Wilson rolled his eyes. He turned on the stove and instructed House to place the frying pan on the stove, speaking slowly as if House was rather addlebrained. Wilson thought maybe he was. Not many people are capable, he thought, of reaching middle age without learning how to cook. House was stubborn, however, and Wilson thought once that perhaps losing his lunch to House ever afternoon was a small price to pay for having to teach him how to cook.
In which there is significant failure.
Approximately 20 minutes later, things finally seemed to be going alright. The chicken was in the oven and the sauce was boiling on the stove. Wilson went to use the bathroom. As he was re-zipping his pants, there was a crashing sound and a loud "OH SHIT" from the kitchen. Wilson inhaled a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. He walked back into the kitchen. The pan full of sauce was on the floor, House's cane in the middle of it. House was leaning against the wall, his hand in the sink, trying to wipe off the scalding hot sauce. Wilson couldn't help but laugh at the look on House's face.
'This," House said, grimacing, "Is why I don't cook." Suddenly Wilson was laughing uncontrollably. House grinned. "Does this mean I can keep eating your lunch?"