A/N:Oh my gah! Are you kidding me? I stop watching House because it had gotten super depressing and then they finally explain how House and Wilson met, thus making Dynamic an alternate universe? Oh HELL no. And so my OCD wins out again and thus begins the rewrite compete with new chapters. Because there's nothing else like Hilson.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not House, Wilson, or even the name "Sammy's" for a bar. (It's the name of a local bar where I'm from.)

Dynamic

House: You value our friendship more than your ethical responsibilities.
Wilson: Our friendship is an ethical responsibility.

Gregory House is bored. This doesn't seem possible, as this particular medical conference is being held in New Orleans, one of his favorite cities in the world, but there it is. He's bored. And he's thinking that if he has to endure one more lecture on the medical advancements of the pharmaceutical companies then he's going to hold his breath until he passes out. He brightens at the thought.

But he still has over an hour before he needs to return to the conference room so he heads downstairs to the hotel bar in search of something interesting to entertain him.

There's Dr. Krober at a table to his right, but House is pretty sure he would have gotten the test for tuberculosis by now. But that last conference had been fun.

He sighs and turns his attention to the jukebox in the corner of the room, playing the end of 'Leave a Tender Moment Alone.' The man he noticed earlier carrying around those divorce papers, Dr. Wilson, is glaring bravely at the guilty party. "If you insist on controlling the music selection," he tells the other guy, clearly having to make an effort to keep his temper under control, "please play something else. Eight times is plenty."

House smiles a little more cheerfully and takes a front row seat.

The larger, more muscular man stares back at Dr. Wilson, undeterred by the younger doctor's demands, and inserts more change into the jukebox.

"This isn't happening," House overhears Wilson mutter. He watches as he strides across the room, and slams his hand down on the counter. Then, with one final look at his Budweiser, he hurls the bottle at the large, ornate mirror hanging above the bar. The glass splinters and cracks from side to side.

House can't remember the last time he was so surprised. He slowly leans forward in his chair to examine the damage more closely, then emits a low whistle. Wilson is probably going to have bad luck for, like, the rest of his life.

A bustling sound emerges from the doorway as four security guards enter the room. They glance at the mirror, exchange a look, and approach Dr. Wilson.

"You're going to have to come with us, sir," says the oldest. He turns the young doctor around and handcuffs his wrists.

An enthusiastic cheer erupts from House's left and an apparently drunk middle-aged man throws his shot glass at the mirror as well. House sighs, gets to his feet, and follows the parade out the door.

Bailing someone out of jail, as it turns out, is a long and annoying process. You have to wait for them to get booked, call a lawyer, pay the fine, and get all their stuff together. House glances impatiently at his watch and then practically leaps up when the sound of footsteps reaches his ears.

Once standing in front of the older man, Wilson stares at him, groping for words. "I don't understand," he says, mystified. "They said I would have to stay at least 30 days."

House shrugs. "I took care of it." He gestures to the exit and the pair begins slowly walking to House's car.

"I don't know how to thank-" Wilson begins, but House cuts him off quickly.

"A drink should suffice. I saw a bar on the way to the Big House."

Wilson smiles a little sardonically. "Well, it IS New Orleans."

Ten minutes later they're sitting at a table in a place called "Sammy's" while waitresses in silver bathing suits deliver drinks.

"So, why did you bail me out," Wilson eventually asks, nursing a Michelob.

House rolls his eyes and pushes his own Long Island Iced Tea to the man. "You need this more than I do," he explains. He takes a swig of the beer and watches Wilson stare at him quietly. He wonders what the doctor will think, predicts he'll get up and leave.

But all Wilson says is, "You're Dr. House?"

He smiles. "My reputation precedes me. It's always nice to meet a fan."

"I read an article you wrote about pheochromocytoma a couple of years back. It was good- a little over-analytical, maybe-"

"Woah, excuse me?" House interrupts. "Over-analytical?"

Wilson shrugs. "Just my opinion. I mean, you obviously knew what you were talking about. I just thought you overdid it a little with the norepinephrine."

"It's the key."

"I got that."

House frowns a little darkly. "So, anyway, specialty?"

"Oncology."

"God, depressing much?"

"I know, the dying can be so aggravating."

"Married?" Not that he's ever wrong but it's better safe than sorry.

"No," Wilson responds with a nervous look in his eyes.

There's another lull until House asks, "Do you know Dr. Krober?"

Wilson nods. "The single most arrogant doctor I have ever met."

"I convinced him at the last conference that he had tuberculosis."

"You did not!" Wilson exclaims.

"I most certainly did." House is proud, and a little buoyed that the oncologist doesn't seem to think it was unjustified. Just impossible.

Wilson regards him with narrow eyes and answers, "Prove it. I'll bet you $50 you can't do it again."

"Ha! What are the conditions?"

"You have to convince three doctors at the next convention that they have life threatening diseases."

House feels excitement build in him. A game. And he freaking loves games. "You're on."