A/N: I know I said no more one-shots... Everybody lies.
Takes place during the Tritter arc. After House's shoulder trouble, before Finding Judas.
House is in the lounge playing gameboy when Wilson walks in. "Move in with me," he says without looking up.
Wilson just stares. "What?"
"Move in with me," House repeats, casually. "I know you're short on cash, and I'm cheaper than a hotel. You don't have to pay me anything - all you have to do is cook me dinner."
"You- you're unbelievable, House." Wilson's so angry his voice is cracking. "I can't even look at you without wanting to, to kill you, and you think I'll just-... No. No, we're not okay, no, I don't forgive you. No. I have no car. I have no food - I'm getting sick because I can't afford to eat right! Do you have any idea what it feels like to-"
"Oh no, I have no idea!" House shouts back. "Because this whole thing's been a picnic for me! Have you even noticed what I've been eating lately?"
"Well, considering Tritter hasn't touched your money, I presume you're eating exactly what you always do! While the rest of us-"
"Yes," House hisses, low and intense, "I've been eating exactly what I always do: half of your lunch. And I'm getting pretty damn sick of peanut butter and jelly myself." He glances down at his gameboy and snarls, "You just made me die. Congratulations."
In a moment he's lost in the game again, ignoring Wilson's openmouthed stare. He plays nearly half a level before the gameboy is suddenly ripped from his hands. "Hey!"
Wilson crosses his arms, ignoring the toy's plaintive beeping. "Tell me again why you've been eating sandwiches every day?"
"Because you have." House says it like it should be self-evident... like Wilson's confusion is in itself confusing. He looks hopefully at the gameboy, but it is not returned to him.
"So, if Tritter somehow took away the peanut butter and I was eating nothing for lunch... then you would... also be eating nothing?"
"Of course." House finds himself annoyed that Wilson would think otherwise. "Hence the screwing with us I keep complaining about." When he notices the look on his friend's face he winces - there's emotion there, and an openness that foretells very bad things. It'll be of those heart-to-hearty conversations, which always end badly: Wilson will start judging, House will mock him, Wilson will get hurt, and they'll both be left thinking House is a complete failure as a human being.
The friendship can't really handle that much strain right now, House knows, so he decides to head off the disaster by speaking up before Wilson can put words in his mouth. "You whine that I'm not helping you through this - whatever that means," he begins, rolling his eyes a little, then gets serious. "Maybe that's true, I don't know. But I'm in it with you, if that helps any. You're not in it alone." Satisfied that he's done his duty as a friend, he looks away and tries, tries to leave it there. But as usual, his mouth can't be stopped. "Would've been nice if you'd ever said the same thing to me," he mutters, under his breath.
"T-to you?" Wilson is shocked by the injustice of that remark. "When have I ever done anything but support you, and be there for you, and, and ruin my whole life to be on your side!"
"Yeah, you help me. But you also give me grief about my pills all the time when I'm in pain," House reminds quietly, for the millionth time. "Which is bad enough as my prescribing, but even worse when you take into account that you're supposed to be my friend."
"But I'm right," Wilson argues, also for the millionth time. "Most of the time your increased pain isn't even physical, we know that now. I mean, look at your shoulder. Notice how it miraculously got better after I explained the problem was just your conscience?"
House looks up and his jaw migrates sideways. Wilson recognizes this as the expression he wears when he's thinking hard about what to say next, and takes it as confirmation that he's right. He's already halfway across the room when House suggests, "Or, maybe it miraculously got better because I went to Princeton General to get it checked out."
A long silence. Wilson now knows enough to fill in the blanks all by himself. Continuing the conversation will only be pointless self-torture, but still he forces himself to turn and face the couch. "And it... wasn't nothing?"
"Not unless nothing is the new scientific way of saying adhesive capsulitis."
"Adhesive..." He swallows but his mouth still feels too sticky to speak. "Inflamed lining of the shoulder joint..."
"-causing intense pain and impaired movement," House finishes for him, ruthlessly. "Yeah, I know. Good news is, we caught it early enough that I'm not going to need surgery. Cortisone injections and a couple months of crappy PT, and I'll be fine. Probably even get full range of motion back."
"House..."
"Idiopathic in a lot of women," House continues, appearing more interested in the diagnosis than the conversation. "Idiot-pathic in me. Apparently I've hurt myself using my cane on the wrong side... I guess some of us just aren't lucky enough to be born lefty."
Wilson looks stricken but there's really nothing he can say to defend himself. "House, I didn't know..."
"That's funny." House cocks his head. "Because I could have sworn I told you." They lock eyes and eventually, when he feels Wilson has taken enough, House nods to the coat tree. "Get your jacket. I'm taking you out for food, before we both get scurvy and die."
Wilson gets his coat, thinking (not for the first time) that though people always wonder how he puts up with House, it would be almost as good a question to ask how House puts up with him.
The End.
Gah! Evil muses: stop sending me angst! Stopit, stopit, stopit!!
Human beings: leave me a review... and for god's sake please suggest something happier I can write!