Basically another sequel/companion piece to go with all my other stories. It's House/Wilson slash, mostly fun, and with just a dash of seriousness thrown in.

"You say that we've got nothing in common
No common ground to start from
And we're falling apart
You'll say the world has come between us
Our lives have come between us
But I know you just don't care," Deep Blue Something

"So," I ask, just as we're leaving the hospital, "breakfast?" House shrugs but continues to follow me nonetheless. The whole ride to the diner he's uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn't shut off completely, and so I can tell that things aren't as bad as they have been, which is at least something. He talks about old cases, complains about patients, and tells me how everyone one the planet, besides him, is a moron; the usual stuff, but after a day like yesterday, I expect him to be willing to attempt a personal conversation.

I know I had to call him on the nerve thing, but that doesn't change how I feel. The place where we wind up starting for breakfast is one of those tacky '50s style diners, but House doesn't seem to mind. It's all decked out for Valentines Day, paper hearts everywhere. Even the waitresses are wearing heart-shaped buttons and either bright red or pink lipstick.

We get seated in a booth, modeled like an old T-bird. A woman dressed in yellow, with jet-black hair, and a nametag that reads 'Marie' approaches us. She's got a pad of paper in her hands and a pencil behind her ear. She couldn't be more stereotypical if she had some sugary, high-pitched voice. Luckily, she doesn't.

"So can I interest you in our Valentine's Day special?" she asks, and then continues without us answering. "It's a heart shaped Belgium waffle with strawberries and whipped cream. You get a choice of bacon, sausage or ham with that," the woman tells us.

"He can't have any of those," House informs Marie, and I'm fairly certain that my cheeks are now the same color as her lipstick. "You see, Wilson's a Jew."

"House! I'm sorry about that miss, he's—my 'friend,' here suffers from Tourette's. Basically, he says whatever pops into his head, regardless of how completely inappropriate it may be." The waitress nods, then smiles uncomfortably, and leaves, but not before getting our orders. Then she goes to the back of the restaurant and starts up a conversation with another waitress.

"What the Hell did you that for?" he asks me. "Now we're never going to be able to eat at this place again."

"Since when do you care what other people think about—anything? Besides, I just gave you a free pass. Although, if it was me, I wouldn't try to get us kicked out of the restaurant until after we get our food."

"I'll do my best, but like you said, I pretty much say whatever pops into my head." Then he winks at me, smiling.

"Yeah, well be careful what you let pop into your head. It would be great if I could just get an hour long reprise from your insanity," I all but beg. House smiles at me again, picking up his fork and inspecting it. Then he wraps his t-shirt around it, wiping the utensil clean.

"That is disgusting. I bet they don't even wash the silverware between uses," he says, looking it over again.

"You're not exactly Mr. Clean, what do you care?"

"The guy who used this fork before me could have had god knows what," he explains, dropping the fork back onto the table. "If he eats at a place like this, he probably doesn't even wash his hands after he poops."

"House!" I shout for what seems like the millionth time, looking around to make sure nobody heard that. He's doing it on purpose, humiliating me like this. The only thing I don't know for sure is whether he is mad at me about last nihgt, or just depressed because he didn't get his cure.

I watch him for a couple of minutes, not really listening to whatever it is he's whining about now. Frankly, I'm a little scared and worried that it was a mistake for me to try and stop him. Sometimes I wish I had all the answers. Come to think of it, one answer would probably do it.

"Oh for crying out loud. The way you are sometimes, I'm starting to wonder if you're the one who had a sex change," he exclaims.

"Could you say that just a little louder? Don't even think about it…Listen, about last night. I think I might have crossed some sort of a line," I start to explain, but as usual, he cuts me off before I get the chance to finish.

"You were right. Regardless of how I feel or the way I reacted at the time, I know that. You may have gone about it like a complete asshole, but you did what you thought you had to do. I'm pretty sure your heart was in the right place on this one."

"Well that's a good thing," I tell him, in a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood. "If my heart were, say, under my gallbladder, I'd be your patient and not—whatever this is…"

"Oh boy. I should have seen this coming. Now you're going to try and define this thing. Great," House mutters under his breath, and goes to work on self-cleaning his knife. Then the waitress comes with our food.