Over the years, Wilson had learned never to be surprised by anything House did -- except for the times when he was. He certainly wasn't surprised when House walked into his office unannounced. It would have been surprising if he'd bothered to knock. He was suspicious, however, when House just walked up to his desk without a word and dropped an envelope on his desk. Normally, House's entrances were accompanied by a soundtrack of the latest litany of idiocies he'd encountered or a demand for entertainment. Silence was unsettling.

"What is this?" Wilson asked, picking the envelope up.

"Open it," House replied, affecting indifference, which just made Wilson more nervous.

The last time he'd opened something at House's urging, Wilson had ended up with a face full of powdered sugar. "What have you put in there this time? Baby powder? Toner? Anthrax?"

"Please," House scoffed. "You think I'd repeat myself? I haven't even scratched the surface of ways to torment you."

That was true, if not very reassuring. Still, Wilson held the envelope at arm's length while he slit open the flap. No powder.

He extracted a sheet of paper from the envelope and unfolded it cautiously, holding it with his fingertips. "A plane ticket to New Orleans?" At least that's what it looked like. Sometimes Wilson missed the comforting tangibility of the paper ticket in its plastic jacket, each sheet torn away to mark the stages of a journey. He looked for the confirmation number to make sure it was an e-ticket, and not just the receipt, and wondered if it were some elaborate joke. House couldn't be bothered to do his own paperwork, but he was a painstaking and expert forger. "Leaving on Friday morning?"

"Before you start to hyperventilate, it's cleared with Cuddy. You can turn your pager off until Monday night."

Wilson wasn't overly concerned with the time off. It was the time of departure. "That's an early flight for you. Am I going to have to drag you out of bed to make sure you get to the airport?" He didn't want to think about how early he'd have to be at House's apartment if they wanted to make it to Newark by seven. He wondered if House would object if he just slept on the couch on Thursday night.

But House was looking at him like he was an idiot, or worse, one of his fellows. "Why would you do that? I'm not going anywhere."

Wilson looked at the ticket again. It was for one return flight, but he'd assumed House had booked his own ticket separately. "I don't understand."

"Do you need me to act it out?" House asked. "Me, sleeping." He closed his eyes and pillowed his head on his hands. "You, flying." He stretched out his arms and swooped towards the door. "You can make your own way to the airport. My part of the process is over."

Wilson still didn't understand. "You bought me a ticket to go to New Orleans by myself?"

"Well, I'm not about to subsidize your next ethically dubious affair. You can pay for your own dirty weekends." House wasn't smiling, but he was watching Wilson with the kind of playful intensity usually reserved for cats batting at a favourite toy. It was preferable -- or at least less fatal, Wilson supposed -- to being a mouse. "I'm sure you can find someone to keep you company when you get there. Mardi Gras is over, but there are still willing women wandering the French Quarter."

Wilson didn't doubt it, but that wasn't the point. House was being deliberately and provocatively obtuse. "Why aren't you coming?"

"Because it's not my birthday."

Wilson's birthday had already come and gone, but it was close enough not to quibble. Though considering that in all the years they'd known each other House had never before given him a birthday present, close enough was a relative concept. "You bought me a plane ticket to New Orleans for my birthday?"

"I'm glad you haven't lost your grasp of the obvious in your advanced age. Don't expect a present for another decade," House said, which was an explanation of sorts. House didn't mark milestones in conventional or obvious ways, but he did mark them. He tapped his cane on the floor and turned to leave.

"Wait," Wilson protested. "I haven't thanked you. I know it might cause an allergic reaction, but I've got an epi pen handy." That actually ranked as more gratitude than House was usually willing to accept -- when he wanted thanks he demanded it -- but Wilson wasn't going to let him walk away without getting his question answered. "I think they let you into the city even if it's not your birthday," he said casually, when House turned back.

"Really? I'll have to have a word with my travel agent. Misleading me like that. You'd almost think I was persona non grata." But there was more bravado than mocking in his tone, and Wilson finally understood.

For as long as they'd known each other, House had poked and prodded and pushed, testing the limits of their friendship. It had always driven Wilson crazy, even as he'd jumped through House's hoops and tried to avoid each trap. But now House had reason to doubt Wilson's constancy, and all he could do was try to pass each test again. Words wouldn't help. Actions were what House understood. Like walking away. Or coming back.

"Odd," he said, opening up an Internet browser. "I can't imagine anyone not welcoming your presence." He glanced again at the e-ticket and typed in the flight number. "You know, just because Louisiana didn't want to pay to extradite me from Kentucky doesn't mean there's still not an outstanding warrant for my arrest in the state. Are you trying to get me thrown in jail?"

"You were on the phone to your lawyer before we'd left the police station," House retorted. "Like you should have done the first time."

"I wasn't dealing very well with the concept of lawyers at the time," Wilson reminded him. "And you told me you'd taken care of it." He pulled out his credit card to pay for the ticket, knowing House was watching, and understanding.

"Trusting me was your first mistake," House said lightly.

"I think having an affair and telling my wife was my first mistake," Wilson replied. He refused to believe the marriage itself had been a mistake, though his ex-wife probably wouldn't agree. "Trusting you was the only thing I did right in that whole mess." It wasn't entirely true, but he had told enough hurtful lies to last a lifetime. He concentrated on finishing the booking, double- and triple-checking the details before he hit Submit. House would call him obsessive-compulsive, but he had a friend who'd tried to book a ticket to Sydney, Australia, and ended up flying to Nova Scotia.

Wilson sent the itinerary to the printer at his assistant's desk. He'd gotten rid of his own printer after he'd failed to notice that House had filled the paper tray with printouts from the online Daily Racing Form. He'd found, however, that his patients appreciated a moment to themselves while he retrieved their lab orders -- though not as much as Mr. Campbell had appreciated the Derby tip -- so House had actually done him a favour in his usual backhanded way.

In the time that it took him to retrieve the itinerary, House had made himself comfortable in Wilson's office chair and was busily rearranging his desk. It had taken Wilson days to find all his pens the last time House took it upon himself to redecorate, but he didn't mind.

"Don't expect anything in June," he warned, as he handed House the ticket. It was an empty threat and they both knew it. Wilson was already conspiring with House's mother to plan a 50th birthday celebration that wouldn't completely horrify House. But New Orleans was always a good start. "And get out of my chair." He made shooing motions with his hands, but House was already pushing himself up and heading for the balcony door.

"My place, Thursday night," he said. "Survivor and Hell's Kitchen. A double-header of backstabbing and incompetence. The perfect way to start a long weekend."