This is a little ficlet from a picture prompt at house_memories
for the House Community Fest.
House slid onto the stool on the outside of the kitchen island. Wilson’s hair was mussed, a cloth thrown over his shoulder. He was wearing an apron that said GO AWAY I’M COOKING in big black letters. He bustled between the island and the stove. Baking sheets on the kitchen side of the island held perfectly placed little beige disks.
“Nice looking cookies,” House said, reaching out toward a baking sheet. To his amazement, Wilson slapped his hand away.
Wilson’s voice went up an octave. “Ah-ah
! It takes over two hours to make macarons. And don’t touch that jar. It’s French artisanal marmalade.”
“Artisanal marmalade? Just how gay are you, Wilson?” House again reached toward the baking sheet, again got his hand slapped.
“Gay enough for you,” Wilson muttered. “House, these macarons are for the oncology department office party tomorrow.”
“—with artisanal marmalade? Why don’t you do what everyone else does and get a cake at the supermarket?” House leaned forward and peered at the little round discs. “Can I lick the bowl?”
“I washed it.” Wilson stepped back from the counter, hands on his hips.
“Of course you did. Jesus, you’re no fun at all.” His hand darted out and grabbed one of the discs. Wilson cried out as House popped it into his mouth. He chewed, then made a face.
“It’s not a cookie,” he said, mouth full.
“I told you, House, it’s a macaron! They’re French and you make them with whipped egg whites. Like meringue, but a cookie—“
“Ah-HA! You called it a cookie!”
“Dammit!” Wilson buried his face in his hands.
House snatched another one. “For a cookie, it’s not bad.”“Macaron!”