A/N: I wanted to change something about this, but now I can't remember what.
Oh well :(
Written with no draft and no real plot in mind.
House limped out of the kitchen, surveying his humble and messy abode with a piercing, critical eye. Clothes heaped neatly on almost every surface, flat or otherwise; the remains of Chinese takeout littered over floor and table; shiny leather couch with Wilson slouching into it, gazing at the unmentionable carnage on the TV. Yep, everything was as it should be. Including his bum leg. Suddenly, a thought struck him.
"I," he announced thoughtfully, rummaging in his pockets for a little orange pill bottle, "am perfect."
Wilson looked away from the monster truck decimating an innocent blue Prius and stared at House. First his eyes, which were too clear and too blue to be calm and soothing. Down to his mouth, which was currently in the process of ingesting another Vicodin, a testament to the doctor's addiction. Not to mention all the cruel words that spilled from those lips on a daily basis; House definitely wasn't the nicest of doctors. Next, his cheeks and chin, which were always dusted with stubble instead of clean-shaven. Come to think of it, Wilson couldn't remember the last time he saw a razor in House's bathroom.
Wilson's eyes strayed down to House's threadbare, ketchup-stained t-shirt; lingering over his "bitchin'" flame-patterned cane and his scarred thigh muscle, hidden behind worn and ragged blue jeans.
House said he was perfect; Wilson only saw flaws.
"Despite what you say about God not limping, you're growing dangerously close to committing blasphemy by saying that, House," commented Wilson, turning back to the television. He heard the disgruntled diagnostician's cane thump intermittenly on the floor before he felt the couch cushions sink slightly as House lowered himself onto the brown leather.
"Blasphemous or not, I am still perfect," he said stubbornly, tapping Wilson on the temple with his cane. "Perfect for you." Wilson turned his head slightly towards his friend, raising a full eyebrow in curiosity and barely concealed confusion.
"I am needy, and always will be. You practically feed off needy people," said House, leaning back contentedly. "Thus I am perfect...for you."
Wilson turned to stare at House, who stared back and smirked, raising an eyebrow in an almost suggestive way. The oncologist chuckled and shook his head, turning back to the carnage of monster trucks as House did the same.
House said he was perfect; Wilson only saw flaws.
He saw perfection.