House was actually smiling as he limped to his bike. Wilson had made him join him and Cuddy - and the drooling, tiny thing – oh, yeah, they called them babies – for a 'cup of New Year Coffee'.
He knew that Wilson would come over to his place. House reminded himself to make Wilson bring pizza. Scratching his forehead before putting the helmet on, House sped off.
"Hi, mom. I guess I'll say Happy New Year already." The phone was the first thing that House had interacted with when he had gotten inside. He also made a call about some kind of weird, Italian food. He popped a couple of pills and fell asleep in front of the TV.
It was dark outside when he woke. Knock, knock, knock. Here he was, saviour of the evening. House half-stumbled, half-walked to let Wilson in, and he had brought pizza.
"Pepperoni, cheddar and jalapeños." Wilson handed him the boxes, and through some really skillful limping, they were now on the table.
"How often do you use your dishwasher?" Wilson asked from the kitchen in a futile attempt to find clean cutlery - not really expecting a sensible answer – if any at all.
"You can use it? I thought it was just there to look pretty," came House's mock idiot-reply. "So that's what I've been doing wrong all these years."
The discussion ended with running water and Wilson seating himself in the living room couch, handing House a newly washed knife and fork.
They began eating in silence, which House quickly interrupted.
"Did I tell you about the guy I told that his girlfriend had a parthenogenesis? I mean, it would be rude to screw up their future marriage by telling the truth…"
"…You actually told a patient that? God does work in mysterious ways. Soon we'll have an army of people pretending to be Messiah."
House just stuffed his mouth full with a slice of pizza. Wilson, on the other hand, looked as though he was torn between being amused by the situation, and feeling sorry for the guy.
"You got anywhere to be tomorrow?" House suddenly asked.
"No, why?"
"You'll notice." House smirked mischievously.
"You're planning something. You're planning something, House."
"Would I do that?" the older man replied, feigning surprise.
"Of course not. You're an angel in a misanthrope disguise."
The evening ticked by, and the clock on the wall showed that it was 9.35 PM. The sound of glass clinking was heard as the doctors toasted. For the last hour, they had been toasting to all kinds of things.
House was glad that he had Wilson as he got up from the armchair and seated himself in front of his piano instead.
"What should I play?"
"You ever heard that song, er, Minnie the Moocher, I think?"
House nodded. "Why not."
It was definitely a statement. He didn't usually sing, but, heck, he was drunk.
"This is the story of Minnie the Moocher…" he began. He played quite softly, being halfway through the King of Sweden-verse when he turned to Wilson.
"Think Cuddy will make a good mom?"
"She sort of is, already. I don't think raising a kid can be worse than raising a man who's fourty-something."
"Chicks dig old guys."
"As long as you pay them to, yeah. I've got some nice hair color at home. Might want to try them for your temples."
House turned away, hiding a smile. Yep, he decided. This was what meant the most to him.
Hours later, when they were both sitting on the couch, House turned to Wilson.
"We're both going to have a headache tomorrow."