Seduction in Five Spices (H/W fic)

[triedunture]

Title: Seduction in Five Spices
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG13
Words: 2,999
Summary: Set of five ficlets. Harmless food!fluff.

<><><>
1. Wasabi

“Delicious,” House said, though his nose was running and his watery eyes made it difficult to look superior.

Wilson continued to chew his shrimp tempura thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he drawled. “You’re really having some fun there.”

The two men were sprawled on the uncomfortable sofa in the ICU lounge after another long night of patients almost dying, recovering, and then almost dying again. Too tired to drag themselves to a diner for 24-hour heart attack food, Wilson had ordered them some takeout from the Japanese place down the block; they were always open late during finals week. Plastic containers of devoured miso soup and crunchy seaweed salad were already piled up on the battered coffee table, and the two of them were working through their main dishes.

“Wasabi isn’t about fun,” House said. He picked up another tight roll of sushi between his thumb and forefinger and dragged it through his half-and-half mixture of the green paste and soy sauce. Popping it into his mouth with a pleased smirk, his enunciated around his mouthful, “It’s about proving how much of a man you can be.”

“Of course.” Wilson glanced pointedly at the little unformed lump of wasabi on House’s plastic takeout container. “Are you up to Teddy Roosevelt yet? Or are you still stuck at Hoover?”

“Hey, besides the women’s clothing, Hoover was…” House shrugged. “No, you’re right. I got nothing.” He tossed back another wasabi-laced piece of sushi, chewing long and loud. “You know this isn’t even real wasabi,” he said. “In America, we’re fed little bits of ground-up horseradish dyed to look like green play-doh. Disgraceful.”

“And yet you’re eating it like it’s going extinct,” Wilson said before tossing him a cheap pair of throwaway chopsticks. “Use some utensils for god’s sake.”

“Again, not authentic.” House swallowed his bite and reached for one of Wilson’s shrimp. The poor sea creature got its own wasabi coating. “Sushi is supposed to be finger food. But some people,” he raised his eyebrows high and mighty, “like to think it’s something fancy to show off their multicultural skills.”

Wilson waggled his chopsticks, held in an awkward cramped position in his left hand. “That’s me,” he said, snagging a bite of House’s pickled ginger with them. “Always out to impress people with my obscure knowledge. No wait, that’s you.”

“Not trying to impress you,” House muttered with his eyes on the food he held in his lap. Wilson suppressed a smirk, chewing at the tangy ginger instead.

<><><>

2. Sweet Basil

Because his hands were full, House had to walk in the room backwards, using his shoulder to keep the door open before he slid inside. Wilson glanced up from his paperwork, a binder clip between his lips. He saw the leafy tops of House’s burden first, and he instantly dropped the clip into his hand so he could speak.

“Are those flowers?” he blurted out.

House snorted. “Can I eat flowers?” he said as if that explained everything.

Wilson opened his mouth to ask what the hell that meant when the scent hit him. Earthy and savory. “Basil,” he asked, drawing the word out for many seconds. “What’s it for?”

“Sauce,” House said simply. He plunked the little herb onto Wilson’s desk. A few specks of dirt flaked off from its plastic pot, decorating the pristine blotter.

Wilson raised his eyes back to House. “Sauce,” he repeated.

“Fresh homemade pasta sauce.” House scratched the back of his head absently. “You’re always bragging about that family recipe, right?”

“My family doesn’t have a recipe,” Wilson said slowly and deliberately. “My mom just opens a jar of Prego. You know this. She’s cooked for you.”

“Well, you don’t want the Wilson family line to continue without a decent sauce in their repertoire, now do you?” House nudged the three-stalked plant closer to Wilson’s hand.

“Of course this couldn’t just give a gift for friendship’s sake. You’ve got to get a meal out of it on top of everything,” he said. Wilson sighed and fingered a tough little leaf on the plant. “House, do you want me to cook dinner?” he asked wryly.

Hands clapped around the cane. “Would you?” House asked with fake surprise. “How does Italian sound? And look!” He indicated the basil plant. “Now you’ll have a year-round supply of the fresh stuff.”

“Thanks, House. It’s just what I always wanted,” Wilson said with dry humor. He shooed House of the room out on the pretense of needing to work, but he really just surfed the internet for tomato sauce recipes and took deep whiffs of his new plant.

<><><>

3. Juniper

“I don’t think I’ve ever been here,” Wilson said slowly, lowering himself onto the chipped yet sturdy cane-backed chair. “How did you find this place?” Across the small round table, House shrugged.

“Are you actually complaining about ditching IHOP for breakfast?” he asked. “Or are you still jonesing for some salmonella-and-onion hash browns?”

Wilson made a face and said, “Thanks for the reminder of food poisoning just before we eat. I still can’t believe that death trap is in business.” He glanced around the decidedly smaller and kitschier establishment: seven tables, one tiny counter with four high stools, and three pots of steaming coffee on the burners beyond that. From the steady stream of regulars running in and out, it looked like they did more takeaway orders than sit-down business. But it had a certain cramped charm, and if House wanted to eat something that wasn’t swimming in gravy, Wilson wasn’t about to argue.

He turned to the menu just as the teenage waitress bustled by. “Same as always?” she asked in House’s direction.

“Yeah, and double it for him,” House said with a nod towards Wilson.

“Great.” She plunked down two cups of dark coffee and snatched the menu out of Wilson’s fingers.

“Wait, could I get—” Wilson reached for her in vain; she had already disappeared behind a beaded curtain. “Water,” he sighed, finishing his request to thin air.

House sipped at his coffee. “Trust me, this stuff’s better than a glass of water.” He pushed the second mug closer to Wilson’s hand.

“So what’s your usual?” Wilson asked, already resigned to receiving House’s version of breakfast, whatever it may be.

“Eggs benedict. Best I’ve ever had, and only six bucks a pop,” House said, leaning back in his own chair (which didn’t match Wilson’s at all). “They make it with capers.”

“Capers?” Wilson said, disbelievingly. “You come to this little hole in the wall for…pickled juniper berries?”

House took another long draught from his cup. “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it. There’s a lot of things,” he fiddled with the plastic creamer cups, arranging them in an infinity symbol on the tabletop, “that you might like if you just gave it a shot.” He glanced up at Wilson, peering out from under his dark lashes.

Wilson crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who has a fear of change, not me.”

“Really?” House pushed the creamers back into their little bowl. “Because you’re the one afraid of eating pickled juniper berries.”

“I’m not afraid,” Wilson said. He groped for words, something to complete that thought without giving away too much. And damn House, his eyebrow was already quirked in a way that said, “So what’s the problem?” Suddenly Wilson realized this breakfast wasn’t about capers or eggs or coffee at all; it was a trap.

The waitress slid their identical plates of food in front of them and continued on without giving them a chance to ask for anything more. Not that Wilson could think of anything else he’d need. The portions were ridiculously large: big, fat poached eggs and Canadian bacon piled on thick browned English muffins, slathered in a creamy sauce the color of pale butter and sprinkled with wrinkled olive-drab capers. And then home fries and sliced melon and even pan-fried tomatoes.

Wilson looked up at House in bewilderment. This wasn’t a House breakfast (toast, coffee, maybe an egg, more coffee, Vicodin, and then just to be safe, yet more coffee). This was decadent and beautifully presented. Wilson thought about finding such good food in such a tiny, run-down place. Rough exterior, treasures inside. Was this House’s way of telling him something?

House stopped midway in another voracious bite. He’d already plowed through one half of the Benedict and was working on the other. With the tines of his fork, he pointed to Wilson’s untouched plate.

“Just try it.”

Snapped out of his reverie, Wilson took hold of his own mismatched silverware and cut off a neat square. And while the eggs were delicious, Wilson would always remember House’s hawk gaze studying his face more than the first bite.

<><><>

4. Mustard

It was quarter past noon when House stepped out of exam room three. He slapped his file in the nurses’ tray and quickly scanned the clinic for Wilson. They were supposed to finish up their allotted hours around the same time.

Finally, the familiar figure appeared from behind a family clutching their stomachs. Food poisoning for the whole lot, House figured. Wasn’t going to ruin his appetite, though.

“Wilson, ready to go to lunch?” he called. His friend turned, his professional exasperation slipping off his face. “Never mind.” House pointed to Wilson’s chest as he walked closer. “You’re already wearing some.”

Wilson looked down at the bright yellow mustard stain on the front of his shirt. “Crap,” he muttered, pawing at it experimentally. “That kid from this morning had one of those soft pretzels with him.”

“Well, with the white coat, I can see how he’d mistake you for a napkin.” House clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in thought. “Guess you’ll need to change.”

“I would, but I used my last clean shirt in my locker yesterday after surgery and I forgot to restock.” He gave up scratching at the mustard with a sigh.

House rolled his eyes. “With your thinking so firmly ensconced in that box of yours, it’s a wonder you’re still practicing medicine,” he said. “Come on, follow me.” And he limped off towards the first floor locker rooms.

“I told you, I don’t have any extra shirts in my locker,” Wilson said, jogging a few steps to catch up with House. “And besides, the tenured doctors’ lockers are on the third floor.”

“Ah, yes. But the fellows’ lockers, the ones who are about your size and, as sad as it is, have about the same amount of fashion sense,” House banged the door open, “are right here.”

Wilson looked at the locker they’d stopped in front of: Chase, R. was spelled out neatly on the little gray placard. He swiveled his head to stare at House wide-eyed. “I am not stealing Chase’s clothes,” he said firmly.

“Of course not.” House weighed the simple combination lock in his palm. “I am. You just sit back and enjoy.”

“You don’t have to—” But House was already turning the dial on the lock. “Don’t tell me Chase was naïve enough to give you his locker combination?” Wilson sighed.

“How else could I slip him notes in between classes?” House said with a wicked grin. At the sight of Wilson’s expression, not amused at all, he shrugged. “It’s written on the inside of his day planner. Not my fault he has such a lack of security.” The lock popped open, and House swung open the creaky metal door. “Now do you want gray stripes or solid blue?” He held up the two options on their hangers.

“I’ll take the blue,” Wilson said, “but I want to ask Chase if it’s okay first.”

“You outrank him,” House balked, grasping the sleeve of Wilson’s white coat and tugging it off one shoulder. “And I’m not walking around with you looking like a slob,” he said, indicating his own fashion sense with a wave of his cane.

Wilson glared at the wrinkled tee and jeans. “Of course.”

But House was too busy pulling at his clothes to register the sarcasm. He hooked Chase’s shirt hangers on the back of the locker door and completely divested Wilson of his lab coat with a deft pull at the other sleeve. “Going to give me a hand with the shirt, or are you practicing passive resistance?”

“I’m certainly not helping,” Wilson said, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is ridiculous.”

“Fine. I’ll just have to wrestle you into a non-mustardized shirt myself,” House drawled, slipping the knot of Wilson’s tie down his throat.

Wilson almost gave a smirk of triumph, thinking that House would never follow through on his threat. Touching others was not his strong suit, and Wilson was willing to bet that the man would never go through with the silly dress-up exercise, even to prove a point. He’d get bored, get hungry, throw Chase’s clean shirt at his head and stalk out with a barked order within minutes. Wilson was sure of that.

It didn’t happen. House pulled the red tie free from Wilson’s collar and draped it over his own neck to keep both hands free. His strong hands plied Wilson’s free from their defensive position, and his quick fingers undid the buttons on the cuffs. First the right, then the left, blue eyes darting up in between. Wilson caught the blank glance, not knowing what it meant. He could only stay still and be undressed like a lifeless doll.

House’s cane had long since been discarded against a nearby bench, so when he moved, he did so slowly, limping carefully one hundred and eighty degrees around Wilson’s frozen body. He stood behind him and reached past his flanks to pop open the buttons on the front of the shirt. He started, for some bizarre reason that Wilson couldn’t grasp, from the bottom and worked his way up to the top. When finished, he grabbed Wilson by the shoulders and pulled the shirt off like he was shucking corn.

Even though he stood there in the silent locker room in an undershirt, for all purposes fully clothed, Wilson felt inexplicably naked.

He grabbed Chase’s blue shirt, not even registering that it wouldn’t match his tie, and slipped it on hurriedly. Without bothering to button it up, he also stooped to retrieve his lab coat from the floor without turning to face House.

“I just remembered,” he stammered, “I have a lunch meeting.”

He was halfway to his office before he realized that House still had his tie.

<><><>

5. Cinnamon

“Mint?” House asked, holding aloft a foil-wrapped tube of Breathsavers from where he sat on the pristinely-made hotel bed.

Wilson jumped nearly a foot in the air at the voice in the dark room. He clicked on the light switch and glowered at his friend. “How did you get in here?” he asked. “No. Wait. I don’t want to know.” He dumped his soft leather briefcase on the carpet with a tired sigh. “Here’s a better question: why are you here?”

House twirled his cane between his fingers. His eyes focused on its movements and not Wilson’s as the man stomped around the hotel room, kicking off shoes, hanging up his suit coat, and pacing uncomfortably.

“Thought we could grab some dinner,” House said with a shrug. His grip on the cane faltered and it nearly fell from his fingers. He quit the twirling and looked up innocently.

Wilson put one hand on his hip, waving with the other one in expansive arcs. “It’s nearly eleven. I’m not hungry. I’m tired.”

House ran his thumb across his lower lip, a familiar gesture of thoughtfulness. “You’re horny,” he corrected. Before Wilson could sputter back a proper response, he continued, “I’ve been keeping track. Your responses are fairly predictable.”

Wilson thought about the way House ate sushi until tears stood in his eyes from all the wasabi. Horseradish. Whatever. He thought of the basil plant, now sitting on House’s windowsill, where its leaves could be plucked within feet of a proper kitchen. The cutesy little breakfast at the café. And the final mustard-smeared backwards striptease.

“You’ve been plying me with food?” Wilson cried, both hands on his hips now.

House crunched down on the mint in his mouth. “Guy’s got to eat,” he said by way of explanation.

“We eat together all the time. Why is it about sex now?” Wilson asked. He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“It wasn’t before?” House asked. At Wilson’s frustrated huff, he added, “You should watch yourself eat sometime. The way your eyes roll to the back of your head, you’d think you were dying a good death.”

“Oh please, like I’m the one with the food fetish! You’re the one that goes all When Harry Met Sally for anything covered in syrup,” Wilson growled.

House flipped another breath mint in his mouth, using his thumb to pop it from the roll. “You want to know something weird about cinnamon?” he asked around the white disk.

Wilson resisted the urge to bash his head against the wall. “Please, let’s not discuss the unimportant topic of irrevocably changing our friendship.”

Ignoring his tone once more, House chewed at his mint. “Like mint, cinnamon has some interesting properties. It can produce tingling sensations on sensitive skin.”

“What does this have to do with—”

“I’m just saying. We can go get a pizza,” House held out one palm flat as if weighing that decision, “or you can test drive hot, cinnamon-laced oral sex.” His other hand, representing option two, lifted higher in the air.

Wilson paused at that. House waggled the roll of red-flecked mints in the air.

“You move fast,” Wilson observed.

House snorted. “We’ve been having lunch dates for a decade. Dinner dates for more than half that. I think I’ve moved glacier slow.”

After a moment of consideration, Wilson smiled slowly. “I’m not really hungry for pizza, anyway.”



fin.


But you can download the podfic here.

Comments

[alemyrddin.livejournal.com]

I was organizing my memories, updating the links for your fics (every time I think about what happened to your journal, I want to throw something - so sorry about that) and I happened upon this.
I didn't remember it was so sexy. Well played, House. And of course, once Wilson finally puts the pieces together, the solution really was that simple.
Very well done. :)