"So," House asked over lunch one day, in that conversational tone he was as likely to use to tell someone they were dying as to inquire about the weather, "Why did you become an oncologist?"
What?" Wilson was used to his friend's non-sequiturs, but that didn't mean they didn't still surprise him.
"Well," House explained patiently (that is to say, in a 'talking to animals and small children' voice), "Oncologists tend to have good sob stories, and since we were having such scintillating conversation, I thought I'd ask yours."
Wilson shook his head in resigned disbelief at House's strangeness. "Sorry to disappoint you," he said. "I just thought it was interesting.
"You think people dying of horrible, wasting diseases is interesting?" House asked in mock horror, but he ruined the effect by snagging a couple of fries from Wilson's plate and shoving them into his mouth.
"Of course not," Wilson objected, deciding it wasn't worth the effort of chiding him. (It never was, with House.) "But cancer is an interesting disease. You don't think so?"
"Well, you know me. I don't find a disease interesting if it occurs in more than 1 of the world's population." He reached over to steal another fry, but Wilson smacked his hand with a fork and he withdrew, shooting a wounded look across the table. "But, come on, you have to have some kind of story. Some relative who tragically died of cancer, maybe?"
"No."
"An inspiring biography of some great oncologist that made you want to be just like him?"
"Also no."
"A touching tale of a girl dying of cancer that you read at a young, impressionable age and never forgot?"
"Still no."
"What, not even a neighbor's cousin's pet rat who died of a tumor?"
"My pet rat did, actually, but most of them do. Why do I have to have a story?"
"Otherwise you're boring," House explained as he took advantage of Wilson's distraction to snatch a few more fries. "And I might have to reconsider being friends with you."
Wilson gave an exasperated laugh. "Somehow I don't believe you. But really, all that happened is I did an oncology rotation and I thought it would be a good thing to do with my life."
"Ah, I see." House nodded thoughtfully. "Hmm, yes. That must be it."
"What?" Wilson finally asked, knowing that House wouldn't stop until he asked.
"You're a masochist," House declared, with that same smugness he used when proclaiming that he had figured out a complicated diagnosis.
"What!" Wilson repeated, confused.
"You've got a guilty conscience, either because of some dark past you haven't told me about or just from that Jewish guilt thing, so you went into the most depressing field you could find so that you would be as miserable as you think you deserve."
Wilson stared at House for a good ten seconds before he remembered that he should really expect this kind of insanity from House. "First of all, that's not really what it means to be a masochist. Second of all, it's a good thing you didn't become a psychologist. You'd tell everyone that either they enjoy wallowing in their own misery or they want to sleep with their mothers." House opened his mouth to make some sarcastic comment, but Wilson didn't give him a chance. "I'm no psychologist either, but I think that's what they call projecting."
"Hey!" House protested. "I don't want to sleep with my mother!"
Ignoring the strange looks that comment earned them, Wilson pushed the remainder of his lunch across the table and stood up. "I have an appointment with one of those patients I use to make myself miserable. I'll see you later."
"I'll try to survive without you," House said, already distracted by his newly-acquired fries. Wilson contemplated saying something else but, just like always, he let it go and walked away.