EPILOGUE

House stayed on the couch for a while after Wilson had left. For lack of anything better to do, he watched that incredibly boring show Wilson seemed to like so much. But he was distracted. And it wasn't just that he kept chuckling about Wilson. Something bugged him, he just couldn't figure out what it was.

It took some servant or other carrying a soup tureen, and a familiar acrid smell, to remind him what it was that he had forgotten. He sat up, his amusement fading fast. Dinner.

The potatoes were well and truly ruined, and so was probably the dish they were in. It was hard to tell through all the smoke. For a long moment he considered closing the oven door on the black, sticky mess and leaving it for Wilson to clean up in the morning. But, enough was enough, there were limits to what Wilson could take. And House didn't want to push it too far. Not over this.

He ended up tossing the potatoes, dish and all, after they'd cooled off in the sink. No way was he going to spend the rest of his evening scrubbing bits of tar out of a casserole that looked even older than he was. He set the oven on self-clean, which took a little time because he'd never used that function before and didn't want to set the kitchen on fire. Then he poured another glass of Wilson's excellent wine and limped back into the living room.

While he sipped the pinot noir and surfed channels, House considered Wilson's day from the other man's point of view.

"Dies nefasti," he said softly. "Days of ill omen during which no business is conducted. You should have stayed home, Wilson."

Clearly much more had gone on behind the scenes, so to speak; he'd pry the rest of the story out of the other man over the weekend. And the speed with which Wilson got sloshed indicated little or no food in his system-usually he was good for half a dozen beers or most of a bottle of wine before he began to relax and started sniping at House. Of course House knew none of that was really his fault, aside from lunch, but if he wanted to soothe Wilson out of both a hangover and a sulk, breakfast would work nicely. The first course should probably be a glass of water, an aspirin and some B vitamins, but they could start there and move on to something more substantial. He took another sip and smiled. He had just thought of the perfect wake-up music to accompany that first course.

With a chuckle House headed for the computer to look up the chord changes for 'Walking On Sunshine', his mind already torn between using the Gibson six-string or the Flying V.

-The END-