SUMMARY: Some Wilsonian cooking is just what he needs.
RATING: R for language and themes (gen fic).
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
Wilson had mentioned earlier that he had been feeling like cooking something, and the fellows did their jobs and indulged him, with the end result being a vat of undoubtedly excellent beef stew. House is eager to get home. Clinic duty had been a pain in a lot of people's asses—he hadn't exactly been gentle with the crotch-rot swabs. With the frustration added to his sleeplessness since the park, House feels like the walking dead; he's barely able to keep the bike upright. Some Wilsonian cooking is just what he needs.
As he sits at the stoplight with his mouth watering at the thought of what's happening in his kitchen, a long, sleek silver hood pulls smoothly into his peripheral vision. A slim black cigarette lands alongside his front tire and drags his attention to the driver sitting next to him.
House is glad he's wearing sunglasses; the only place he's never been able to hide his reaction is his eyes. He can feel his exhaustion disappear as his palms go slick inside their gloves.
The fucking viper is sitting there, not an arm's length away, watching the traffic with a serene expression on his face. He glances over, an unholy sparkle in his grey eyes, and smiles.
Then the light turns and the Jaguar purrs as it glides away.
House ignores the honks behind him and guns the bike. He makes it home even faster than usual, curses when he forgets to unlock the deadbolt in addition to the regular lock, and pants a sigh of relief when he gets the door open to the rich smell of potatoes and beef. He forces his breathing to slow as he watches Wilson listen to his audio book, his quilt pulled up to his chin and a little smile on his lips as a voice with a pretentious English accent floats from the laptop speakers.