Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm just a girl who writes things to try to alleviate her boredom while also hoping to entertain other people.

A/N: This story is sort of inspired by the song 'One Week' by Barenaked Ladies. House/Wilson slash but nothing explicit. I hope you enjoy. Please review.

Sunday:

It was something small. I can't remember exactly what I did, that's how tiny and insignificant this event was. Whatever happened. It has Wilson furious. He's pacing in and out of rooms, randomly yelling about something.

I stand up to find out what's going on. I feel slightly woozy and I put down the beer bottle I just notice I'm still grasping. Okay, so I'm drunk. I could have said anything to piss Wilson off. I don't exactly filter my thoughts when I'm drunk... or, like ever.

I step into the kitchen and see Wilson with his hands pressed against the counter, head down.

"Go away, House. I don't want to talk to you." He sounds upset.

"What's wrong?" I ask, stumbling a little closer.

Wilson spins around. "You're kidding, right?" He asks with a tone of disbelief.

"You seem upset."

Wilson lets out a humorless laugh and brushes past me. I follow.

"You seem angry." I offer.

"I am angry!" Wilson says.

"Are you angry at me?"

Another laugh from Wilson. He turns and faces me. "Yes, House. I'm angry at you."

"But what did I do?"

Wilson shakes his head. There's the faintest twitch of a smile before he turns around. "I'm going to bed. You can sleep on the couch."

The couch? He can't be serious. I wander back to the livingroom. The couch looks small, and depressing, and cold, and lonely. There's a faint pain in my leg. I sit down and pop a pill. I might as well, Wilson's mad at me anyway. I finish my beer and feel sad. Wilson can't expect me to sleep out here.

No, Wilson loves me. I'm drunk, maybe I heard him wrong.

I wander down to my room. Wilson is sprawled across the bed diagonally, leaving no room for me. Maybe he was serious.

Wilson ignores me as I change into my pajamas. I stare down at him feeling annoyed. What gives him the right to get mad about something I can't even remember saying... or doing... or whatever? I sit on the edge of the bed and roughly push Wilson's legs until they are on his side of the bed.

Wilson groans and I'm angry now, too. I try to push him over a little more, but he's not budging. "Maybe you should go on a diet, you're getting a little pudgy." I say.

Wilson makes a growling noise that would have made me laugh if we weren't so angry. Wilson rolls on his side, facing away from me. He's taking most of the blankets with him.

I lay down and try to get comfortable. I wrestle some of the blankets out of his grip. We both sigh angrily.

I calm down as I'm trying to sleep. I can't believe he's mad at me. What a baby!

"Goodnight." I say softly. I frown when I get no response. Wilson's really mad at me. He's the one who always says goodnight.