Notice Anything?

Tact, For Once


"Use your key!" House shouted. He was ensconced in the armchair with a quilt and his laptop and a Coke on the end table.

The door slowly opened as Wilson backed into the apartment, his arms full of shopping bags. He turned around awkwardly and pushed the door closed with his foot as he set the bags on the floor. "Don't bother to help," he huffed. "I've got it."

House craned his neck so he could eyeball the packages by the door. "I hope you made sure to get those crossed off the registry," he said. "I don't want a shitload of duplicate gifts."

Wilson shrugged out of his coat and hung it up before gathering the bags and heading to the kitchen. "Not for you," he replied. "Well, maybe I'll share what I make with you. But you don't get to keep the equipment."

"Ooooh, kitchen porn," House said, spotting the Williams-Sonoma bags among the bundles. "Little early to start dinner, don't you think?"

Wilson ducked his head around the kitchen door and gave House a Look. "Here I was under the impression that it's never too early to feed you."

House grinned and lifted his Coke in salute. "You're an excellent valet. Carry on, Jeeves."

Wilson chuckled and disappeared again. House returned to his surfing and listened to the puttering in the kitchen. This was how Saturday afternoons should be spent: starting a flame war in a Star Trek forum, arguing about bird flu with a research group in Malaysia (he just had to be careful not to toss a Trek-related insult at the Malaysians), and investigating next-generation sound systems (given that his old one was now being underappreciated by some punk-ass thief), while Wilson made dinner. That Wilson would take all afternoon at it was nothing new, especially since he didn't have a kitchen. Wait—

"Hey!" House called out. "What are you going to do with all that equipment?"

Wilson's snort reverberated in the kitchen. "I've got a place for it."

"I'm not storing your crap just because you can't resist a sale," House yelled.

Wilson just laughed at him and resumed his puttering, this time adding soft singing to the mix. Which wasn't tuneless, at least, and Wilson had a decent enough voice. House could have done without the Bon Jovi, though.

After another hour he was forced to abandon his nest for a visit to the bathroom. When he got back to the living room, Wilson was leaning against the doorframe, blocking his way to the kitchen. "What?" House snapped. He poked Wilson's hip with the end of his cane. "Outta the way."

"Can't do that."

House huffed. "Why not?"

Wilson smiled, his damnably charming crinkly-eyed dimple-forming smile. "It'll ruin the surprise."

"Now that's the worst thing you could have said to me," House replied and tried to see around Wilson into the kitchen.

Wilson held fast in the doorway and pointed at the armchair. "You just settle yourself back down, and I'll bring you dinner when it's ready."

"But I'm thirsty now," House whined.

"What do you want?" Wilson crossed his arms and stood more solidly in the doorway. "I'll bring it to you."

"Well." House turned and headed toward the piano, mollified and a bit intrigued. "Chocolate milk would hit the spot."

He was settled at the piano with the cover open when Wilson reappeared with a tall glass of the requested and a magazine. House frowned. "You couldn't find anything else?"

With a smirk, Wilson set the glass on the magazine on top of the piano. "Nope. Apparently you threw out last week's People, and you don't actually own any coasters, so your Musician's Friend is going to have to do." Wilson disappeared back into the kitchen before House could protest further.

A Chopin, three Scott Joplins and two Thelonius Monks later, Wilson appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Ready to eat?" At House's nod, Wilson waved him into the kitchen. "It'll be easier to eat in here," he explained.

Wilson had pulled the barstools from the corner of the kitchen and set them on either side of the butcher block island. The countertops were bare, the dishes clean and put away; the only clues about what they were eating were the place settings on the island. Which consisted of linen napkins folded in what was probably supposed to look like a crane, bamboo chopsticks resting on little soybean-shaped rests, and little green shallow dishes. Soy sauce dishes. And two bottles of Japanese beer. House gave in to his urge to groan as he sat down.

Wilson didn't miss it. From his spot by the refrigerator, he asked, "Leg being bothersome?"

"Just a twinge," he lied, indulging in a grimace since Wilson's head was still stuck in the fridge. He glanced over to the lower cabinet by the door, the cabinet he'd told Wilson held some antique dishes he was storing for his mother. He was silently thankful that Wilson had believed him and hadn't looked further, or he'd have found the red silk knife roll.

Wilson brought two wooden trays to the table and placed one in front of House. He settled on his own stool and looked expectantly at House.

House picked up the short, bare-wood chopsticks. Wilson looked so...hopeful, almost like a puppy at the animal shelter. He'd never seen Wilson so visibly insecure about his cooking and knew Wilson wanted him to ask. He looked back down at the tray. "So...sushi?"

Wilson picked up his own chopsticks. "You said you lived in Japan as a kid, and I remembered that sushi place in New York you liked so much—"

"—I never said I 'liked it so much,'" House grumbled.

"We didn't get kicked out, and you left a tip," Wilson pointed out. "Which means you liked it." He sighed and opened his beer, then reached over to open House's.  "Anyway, I've been wanting to try something new, so I took a class last week. I figured you wouldn't mind being my guinea pig for my first try at this." He used his chopsticks to stir some wasabi into his soy sauce dish and looked up, again with the hopeful expression.

"Well," House said as brightly as he could manage, "you've got points for presentation."

Wilson had made what looked like four different sushi rolls, and House was honest when he admitted they didn't look half-bad. One was rather small, and the proportions inside the rolls looked off, but the slices were sized well. He'd managed one roll with rice on the outside, even.

House looked up to see Wilson grinning like an idiot. He frowned in return. "Don't think that was a compliment. It looks okay, but it could still taste like camel sputum."

Wilson's grin didn't budge. Instead, he waved his chopsticks, picked up one of his own pieces in an awkward left-handed gaijin grip, dunked it in the soy sauce, and popped it in his mouth.

House continued scowling as he filled his own soy sauce dish and took his first piece, something that looked like it wanted to be a California roll. Of course they'd teach him how to make a California roll. The avocado pieces were huge compared to the rest of the roll, but that could just as easily be Wilson's idea of getting more calories into him. He chewed thoughtfully. The rice had a bit too much vinegar, but overall it wasn't bad. He was unnerved when he looked back up to see Wilson watching him. Again.

"What?" he asked around his mouthful.

"Nothing," Wilson replied too innocently.

The puppy-dog look was back, damn it, so House grabbed another piece and stuffed it in his mouth before he could say anything else. No rice on the outside of this one, just nori touching his tongue at first, then the rice and not enough wasabi and cucumber and—

"What the hell is this?" House mumbled around the food.

"It's—"

"CHICKEN?"

Wilson was rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand and his cheeks started to turn pink. "It was one of the first ones they showed us..."

House had finally swallowed the abomination and could no longer contain himself. "WHO PUTS COOKED CHICKEN IN MAKI-ZUSHI? Seriously, Wilson, I think you got ripped off." He punctuated his point by stabbing at the air with his chopsticks. "All they're doing is teaching yuppies how to bastardize a centuries-old culture; they taught you very little about sushi."

"And what do you know about making sushi?" Wilson challenged. "Care to teach me, sensei?"

House closed his jaw with a snap. He'd gone and done it; he'd said too much and now Wilson suspected something. He imagined all those Wilson-made breakfasts, lunches, and dinners evaporating from his future as he looked back down at his tray. Sure, he could try to bluff his way out of this, but he'd never been able to bluff Wilson. Not once Wilson had a whiff of the truth—he was almost as good as House when ferreting out information, once he knew there was information to look for. He might as well come clean; it would be less painful, like ripping the bandage off himself rather than waiting for the nurse to come peel it off.

House sighed, defeated. He pointed at the lower cabinet. "In there you'll find your answers, grasshopper."

Wilson did a double-take. "Caine was Chinese. Your mother's dishes?"

House waved impatiently. "Just look."

Wilson found the red silk roll and brought it back to the island. He regarded House with narrowed eyes as he sat back down on his stool.

House set aside his tray and chopsticks and unrolled the silk in front of him. Sets of lacquered chopsticks came into view first, short and long, then the well-worn wooden handles of five knives, their blades obscured by pockets in the silk. House pulled the smallest knife free and held it up.

Wilson whistled, a low wolf-whistle of appreciation. The blade was only six inches long, but with an elegant curve to it. The light glinted off a distinctive rippled pattern in the steel. Wilson reached over and pulled another knife free, so he could get a better look.

"You've had these—"

"Since I was fourteen," House answered. "They were a gift."

"They're beautiful," Wilson breathed.

"Damascus steel. Apparently they make these the same way they make samurai swords."

"And why have I never seen these before?" Wilson's question had an edge to it that House couldn't quite attribute to knife envy.

"Probably the same reason I didn't find out you could cook until last year," House snarled and pointed the knife he was holding at Wilson.

Wilson responded in kind with his knife. "Because you knew you'd never get a moment's rest again?"

"You seduced me into letting you stay!"

"You've been holding out on me!" Wilson shouted, rising from his stool and pacing a circuit around the room. "All this time I've been making do with the dull machetes you call knives in this kitchen and you have these stashed in your cupboard!"

"They're not for—"

"And then! Oh, then you let me make a complete idiot out of myself, trying to fix you sushi when you've been making it for—"

"Oh, please, you wouldn't tell me what you were doing!"

"You've probably been sitting over there snickering at me this whole ti—"

"WILSON!"

Wilson finally stopped pacing, his back to House. House pulled in a deep breath in the sudden silence of the kitchen. "I'm not laughing at you." He suddenly had a flash of a time when he had laughed at Wilson, when he'd been feeling no pain and laughed right in Wilson's face.

Wilson's back tensed. House felt like he'd been kicked in the gut; maybe Wilson was thinking the same thing.

"Seriously, this isn't bad, for a first time. You should have seen mine," he wheedled, trying to hit that plaintive note that Wilson often liked to use on him.

Cautiously, Wilson turned and sat back down on his stool. He still wouldn't meet House's eyes but busied himself with putting the knife back into its pocket in the roll and rearranging his place setting.

"Of course," House continued, "I was fourteen, so it's understandable why I'd want to put everything in a roll."

A smile played along Wilson's lips, in spite of his obvious effort to suppress it. "Everything?"

"It took them awhile to explain the concept of 'bite-sized,'" House said and grinned. He rolled up the silk and set it aside, trading it for his tray of food.

Wilson pointed his chopsticks. "You know what this means?"

House squinted and tilted his head. Might as well confront it head-on, he thought. "You're never feeding me again?"

"Pfft. Like that would ever happen," Wilson scoffed. "But you are going to start feeding me."

House felt a tension he hadn't realized he had begin to ease. "You'll ruin my reputation."

"About time somebody managed it, Dr. Teflon." They shared a chuckle and a swig of beer, then bent to their food to resume eating.

"Tell me about Japan," Wilson said quietly just before he took another bite.

House started eating, too, carefully avoiding the horror of the chicken. And he told Wilson the story of an awkward gaijin boy who learned Japanese so he would know when he was being insulted and the sushi chefs who taught him not to slice his fingers off.