Centuries ago, William Shakespeare suggested that the world was a stage, with all people playing a part. One gets into character without knowing it. Actors simply learn additional roles. Screenwriters merely manufacture more adventures. Most often, life provides its own little dramas – and sometimes, they are the best of all.

The setting: Princeton-Plainsborough's Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, known as the PICU (pronounced "pick-you") to just about everyone who has ever remotely come in contact with it.

The scene: One Dr. James Evan Wilson slouches in the opulently plush memory foam chair donated by someone with a lot of money who apparently had a soft spot for sick kids. On his chest is a small human female, aged two months, using Dr. Wilson's shoulder for a pillow.

The audience: Dr. Gregory House, on his way to glance in another patient's room so he can say he saw them. He clinically notes the central venous line attached to the young patient with all manner of toxic but necessary chemicals filtering into her system and the fact that she has a fuzzy but noticeable crop of hair. This would indicate that she is fairly early into her treatment regiment and the fact that she is in the PICU and not the Oncology ward suggests there are other medical issues best addressed by her current environment. Either that, or the Oncology nurses were too chicken to handle weight-based chemotherapy dosages in a patient weighing less than four kilograms.

Act I

House frowned as he stepped forward, assessing the tiny creature nestled in the crook of Wilson's arm and supported by his chest. "Wilson, how many times do I tell you to use protection when taking Little Jimmy out to play? Children are the most commonly transmitted STD."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't let Cuddy hear you say that. And she's a patient, if the monitors and central line didn't clue you in."

House sighed. "That doesn't explain why you're here, playing Daddy instead of doctor. Yeah, sure, she's got a rare cancer. One in a million. Yeah, sure, it's genetic and she didn't do a damned thing to deserve it. It sucks. You gonna blame yourself because you diagnosed it in time to let her see her first birthday – and quite possibly a few decades more?"

"I don't blame myself," Wilson said. "And you were the one who suggested the diagnosis. I only confirmed it. So, really, I should blame you if that were the case. But it's not. Life sucks. Though, for this little beauty, not terminally so."

House scoffed. "So go find some terminal kid to snuggle and make that paper heart of yours feel like it's making a difference."

Wilson looked contemplative. "For the record, I'm watching her so her parents could go down to the cafeteria and grab some dinner. But as for my 'paper heart,' in a hundred years, making a difference to one child could change the world. You never know."

That earned Wilson a full-on House snort. "That was so beautiful. So...Hallmark. And so very gay, by the way."

Wilson wrinkled up his nose. "I don't really think that's an adjective people should use to describe something they don't like. It could be hurtful. Like using 'retarded' in place of 'stupid.'"

Ah, yes, House thought. Poor bleeding heart Wilson, the champion of all. "You are so retarded. I didn't mean it like that. I mean it like actually gay. Like...." For effect, he walked over to cover the sleeping infant's ears. "Like you want to have intimate relations with men."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "In case you've forgotten, I've been married three times."

"And divorced three times," House pointed out. "I'm just saying."

"What about Amber?" Wilson challenged.

"A female me?" House countered. "You're not helping your case, here."

Wilson snorted, then started blinking oddly, his eye reddening and tearing up.

House gave him a Significant Look. "Please tell me you're crying over your cancer cutie and not me calling you G-A-Y."

"I have an eyelash in my eye." Wilson kept blinking, shaking his head a little.

"Oh, sure, best excuse in the book." When House looked, though, only one of Wilson's eyes was irritated, so he probably really did have something in his eye.

Wilson nodded to the baby. "Can you take her so I can get it out?"

House stared at the child in question. He's joking, right? House wasn't what one would call "good with babies." Rachel Cuddy, he'd gotten used to, but he didn't know this kid. "Let me get some saline and rinse your eye out."

"You'll get it all over her," Wilson protested. "Just hold the baby."

House sighed. He really didn't have much of a choice, but fortunately, it also wouldn't take Wilson long to rinse his own eye out with saline. "All right, but if there are nuclear waste diapers involved, you get her back. I don't care how many loose eyelashes you have." He accepted the baby, supporting her head with his fingers as he held her at arm's length.

Wilson shook his head. "She's a baby, House, not a bomb."

House gave him another Significant Look. "Again, I refer you to the 'nuclear waste' clause."

Wilson turned away to rinse his eye with a three milliliter vial of saline otherwise intended for use in a nebulizer, but not in time to hide his smile. House noted the pink plastic of the vial Wilson was using. They all came in that color to distinguish them from the other, clear, vials of nebulizer medications but a simple thing like logic had never stopped House from harassing his best friend before. He handed the baby back as soon as Wilson stepped away from the sink, his eye significantly more wet but less red already. "Here, I believe this is your patient. I still have to see mine."

"For, what, thirty seconds?" Wilson asked.

Obviously, Wilson was ignoring the Significant Looks, so House shot him yet another. "Thirty-eight, thank you." Without further preamble – and mostly to avoid giving Wilson another chance for a snappy comeback, he walked out of the patient's room.

Act II

On his way out of the PICU, House slowed as he passed the baby's room to see if Wilson was still going ridiculously above and beyond what was expected of him. A nurse could have held the baby, and it wasn't as if she'd suffer unspeakable developmental delays from lying in a crib for a few minutes. But that was Wilson. Sure enough, he was still there, but there was a new sound – singing, and not the preverbal infant cooing that baby-lovers all seemed to label "singing." Wilson was singing.

"Gonna hold you in my arms and rock you through the night; gonna look into your eyes and tell you it's all right...."

House had never heard Wilson sing before, other than drunken karaoke, but that didn't exactly count. He was really good, actually. House frowned as he tried to recall the source of the tune, then it registered. He stuck his head into the room. "Geez, Wilson, you've really got to stop watching Disney. I don't care if it gives you something to talk to the bald kids about; it looks really gay." With that, he was off and down the hall, smiling to himself as he hummed the rest of the song.