Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

This one got all fluffy on me. I don't know how that happened…

41

December 2000

Someone was knocking on his door. It was around six p.m. Today, that could only be one person…

"It's open," House called from his position on the couch. He dunked a chip in a bowl of chunky salsa and watched the Eagles and Chargers line up as Wilson let himself in.

House heard Wilson taking off his winter wear.

"Beer's in the fridge," he said. "This game isn't too bad."

But he didn't hear footsteps headed for the kitchen. He glanced up. Wilson wasn't going for the fridge or sitting down to watch the game. He was in his 'you've done something wrong and I want to side with you but my conscience won't let me' pose. Great.

"You weren't at work today," Wilson said. "Cuddy said you called in sick."

"Yeah," House said, bringing a salsa-laden chip to his mouth. "Stomach flu."

Wilson appraised him. "You look fine to me."

House shrugged. "Went away." He prepared another chip.

That seemed to satisfy Wilson, who sat down.

"Just as well," he said. "Someone tied black balloons to your door. And there's this." He produced a tombstone made of poster board with 'Over the Hill' and 'R.I.P.' written on it in black marker, and passed it to House. "I think someone is in charge of doing this to everyone," he said. "Wonder if they get paid extra…"

House grunted and tossed the decoration aside in favor of another chip. "One more 'lordy, lordy, look who's forty' and I will puke," he said.

Wilson sniffed a laugh and went to the kitchen for a beer.

"Your mom call?" he asked a moment later, sitting down and reaching for a chip.

"Like clockwork," House said. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Wilson paused, the chip in midair. "She didn't…" he began, amused disbelief on his face. The salsa slithered off of his chip and broke the pause.

House sighed. "She did. Said she couldn't resist." He did his best imitation of his mother. "'I have to. You're only forty once, Greg.' —As if the next three hundred and sixty four days don't count." He nodded toward a slim box with its lid askew that Wilson had been stealing curious glances at. "Wanted to know if I liked the tie."

Wilson was very amused. "And did you, in fact, like the tie?" he asked.

"Loved it," House said, munching on another chip. "My new favorite. I'll wear it every day."

Wilson chuckled. He put his beer down and slapped his knees. "Well, come on, let's go get something to eat."

"Chips, salsa, and beer aren't good enough for you?" House said.

"Not for dinner," Wilson answered.

House grunted. "If I wanted to go out, I would have gone out already," he said, carefully avoiding Wilson.

Wilson knew what this meant: 'Don't take me out because you pity me.'

"I think they do something special for you at Hooters if you tell them it's your birthday," Wilson said. "And if you don't want it, I'll them it's my birthday."

"Julie approves of this?" House asked, eyebrow raised.

"Julie is having a girls' night," Wilson said. "It just happened to fall on your birthday and even if it hadn't, I intend to make the most of it."

"I dunno," House said rubbing his stomach and making a face. "I may be having a relapse."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House. Hooters. Now."

"All right, all right," House said, getting up. "You're awfully eager to ogle college girls tonight."

"And you aren't," Wilson said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. No desire to ogle college girls or eat buffalo wings. You might actually be sick."

"Just don't tell them how old I am," House said as he put his coat on. "That's what makes me ill."

"Twenty-nine never looked so good," Wilson said grinning.

"Shameless flirt," House said, shaking his head with disapproval as he opened the door.

Wilson's grin broadened and he followed House out.