"Ditched work, I heard."

Wilson froze in the doorway. The traffic from outside joggled within the silence of the room, punctuated only by the succinct clacking sounds of House's cane as he got up from the couch and moved to the kitchen.

"Heard from who?"

"A less-than-happy Cuddy left about five messages. She was obviously having a bad day. Shirt too tight or something."

Wilson hesitantly closed the door and let himself into the apartment. The newspaper crinkled in his hand like a guilty thought.

"So…you stayed here all day?" Wilson prompted as House rummaged through the fridge. He was disappointed to find Wilson was no longer storing his food there. Everything he wanted to eat or drink, the oncologist made last minute—otherwise, House always managed to get at it first.

The fridge looked depressingly empty. Maybe he'd just order Chinese.

"Went out in the 'Vette. Cops sure like to pull those over."

"You got a ticket?"

"You'd know if you'd come along," House retorted. He closed the fridge and delved through a pile of papers on the counter until he found the phonebook. "What was so important that you had to lie about going to work to get it done?"

"I was going to work. Then… I got distracted."

"Debbie from accounting…?"

"House. Can we let that go already? There's nothing going on, for the last time…"

"Fine, fine. Suit yourself. But you're free to break as many hearts as you want to, now. Not that that ever stopped you before."

Wilson watched distantly as House punched in the Chinese takeout phone number on the cell. After a quick name and address—the place practically knew him—he rambled off the order.

It was all something he'd memorized from the menu in the past—Wilson didn't even have to listen to know what House was going to say. House had a habit of finding one thing and sticking with it. Wilson once ordered something different and House had stared at him as if he suggested dropping a nuclear bomb on the kitchen table.

"…Sweet and sour chicken…"

"Do you like the Beatles?"

House clapped a hand over the bottom half of the phone, glancing up. "I try not to eat anything that requires an exterminator."

"No, not for takeout." Wilson wanted to roll his eyes glibly, but his head was too preoccupied. "The British-Invasion Beatles."

"…and a side of shanghai noodles… yeah." He glanced up at Wilson while the person on the other end of the line was obviously talking. "Is this meant to date me?"

Wilson tilted his head, shrugging a shoulder.

"Well—no, that's fine, I think that's enough—uh, the post-India stuff was a bit strange."

The corners of Wilson's lips twitched, but his face couldn't break into a full-fledged smile. "I knew you'd say that."

With a click, the phone call was ended, and the food situation would be settled in a half hour or so. House shuffled towards the bedroom, Vicodin rattling in his pocket.

Wilson trailed after him, waiting for further questioning that never came. He caught the door before it closed in his face.

"Need something?" House asked. "If not, I'm kind of busy."

The younger man glanced around the room. After not having been at work, there was little to no medical records House had to consult, and once again only his favorite magazines were available for quick reference on his desk.

"Doing what?"

House scanned the space around him like it was painfully obvious, like he pitied Wilson for missing the point. "Can't you see there's a whole lot of nothing that's just waiting to be done? I need a constructive way to waste my time, you know."

"House." Wilson caught the door again, stopping House from closing it on him. "Aren't you—don't you want to—"

"Stop talking? Yes, Wilson, that's a great idea. You first."

"House!" Wilson squeezed through the door, ending the incessant battle of stopping it with his foot as the other man pushed against it. He stood, arms crossed, draining a persistent stare into his face. "Don't you care either way about anything?"

"That's a rather broad topic." He wandered away from Wilson, making his way toward the piano bench, philosophizing with typically snide, dramatic flair, "You might as well say, 'Do you care about global warming?' In that case, no. But, 'Do you care about sea level rising so high it floods your home, then, yes, I would care."

"Do you care if I move out or not?"

"Wilson, you're making me just as miserable as you claim you are by refusing to make a decision. I assume you found some apartment this afternoon."

The words repeated in his head like a skipping movie reel, drenched in illusory black and white. "How'd you know I was looking for an apartment?"

"Again, that little source I mentioned before. She apparently has a source of her own. Some overly philanthropic young lady who can't seem to keep her charity cases at the office."

A flush of red rushed up Wilson's neck, spreading to his face and ears. Thank God the lamp wasn't turned to its brightest setting. At least House wouldn't be able to catch his embarrassment in the half-lit room.

Of course, none of that mattered, depending on how big Cameron's mouth was. Did she tell House what she wrote? Or was she selfish enough—even just a little bit—to keep House in the dark about the whole situation?

Situation? What situation? Do I even have a situation?

"House." Wilson swallowed with some difficulty, but raised his chin and forced the other to meet his eyes as he repeated slowly, each word carefully weighted, "Do you care if I move out or not?"

House turned his gaze to the piano bench, but he didn't sit down. He tapped the spiraled, mahogany leg of the furniture with his cane as if appealing to it for an answer. "I think somebody else needs a hooker."

Wilson felt his composure crumbling. None of this was fair. Never had he known someone who continually persisted on evading every question imposed on him. There were people who relied on self-defense; and then there were the people who strung wire fencing over the cement walls they'd built to surround their trench-encircled bomb shelter.

The younger man gathered the remnants of his voice together, arms falling to gesture with pointed conviction at House.

"Yesterday, you gave me my diagnosis. Lies, lies, lies, and then a bit of truth. That was your brilliant theory. I didn't ask for it. I didn't even want it. But you gave it to me anyway."

"I see it's worked so well."

"So this is your diagnosis, House. This is how your wired."

"I take it not listening isn't an option."

Wilson pursed his lips, ignoring wisecracks, House's desperate attempts for detours. "Your entire life has become a Baby Albert experiment."

"I know not of what you speak," House replied flippantly, though Wilson had no doubt he could repeat the classical psychology story backwards if he wanted to. "Enlighten me."

He took a breath. If there was one thing House couldn't stand, it was personal position based solely on emotion. Emotions were impulsive; they lied. And while House's gut was also incredibly impulsive, he insisted that instinct was the very epicenter of truth. Wilson knew he had to appear together and logical for House to give him any credence, despite the fact that the younger man felt tremors coursing through his veins.

"Watson. He was a psychologist in the early 1900s. He taught a child to fear a white rat—one like Steve McQueen," he offered, hoping to keep House's attention by throwing in something more than just rehashed facts. "Every time the child was shown the rat, Watson rang a gong. The child associated that loud, fearful noise with the rat, and so came to fear the rat. But Watson realized the experiment had done something else, too. Not only was Baby Albert afraid of rats, but he was also terrified of anything white and fluffy: Rabbits, cotton balls, even Santa Claus, with the beard." Wilson looked him over. House reached for a pill. "What does that tell you?"

"Someone didn't have a very happy Christmas…"

"No," persisted Wilson as House downed the Vicodin. "The child generalized. And that's what you do. Every time a person comes into your life with relationship potential, you get scared because of one bad experience."

"I see their white fluffy beards and I run for the hills?"

"You are incorrigible."

"But that flabbergasted look on your face is so charming. Besides, your theory's completely wrong. I happen to be just as madly in love with Steve McQueen as I was when I first saw that beady-eyed beauty."

"That may be the weirdest metaphor you've ever used for Stacy."

House looked him over. "We were never talking about Stacy. We were talking about relationships. In general."

Wilson turned away, face burning. House hadn't moved from his spot beside the piano bench, and the pain of being so close to the brink of confession was unnerving. Torn, the younger man turned away into the hallway, retreating as far as he could away from House's room. He ended up at the hall's end, in front of the sink, staring at the wall, coming to his dead-end.

He gazed at his own reflection in the mirror as if he were studying someone else's portrait. Years were scrawled across his face; his brown eyes deep, riddled with copper flecks, veiled by commitments he couldn't make. He shut them, picturing himself folding up, like the blankets strewn on the couch— misplaced, temporarily used, then put away. Heavy, smothering in himself.

Something warm pressed up against him from behind. His eyes opened sharply, surprised, and his body automatically went to move out of the way, thinking House had walked into him while trying to get to the sink. Then he felt hands at his hips in a light embrace.

He watched in the mirror, confused, thoughts diluted, as House sighed into the hollow space where his shoulder met his neck. Instinctively, Wilson angled his face, allowing House to nuzzle against his ear, his hair, his temple.

"What…" Wilson struggled not to do anything more than sigh, conflicted in his need. He took a trembling breath. "What are you…?"

"Checking for mangos. Apples."

Wilson murmured a wordless reply, drifting off into House's proximity; falling into him. His eyes fluttered closed again—the mirror's reflection of them both confirmed nothing; it merely tossed the impossible image back at him. This would never be happening; House would never...

But with eyes closed, he could convince himself that senses didn't lie; there was something authentic and brilliantly true about the sensory explosion rippling through every inch of his body. He could feel House's slight scruff on his chin; the smell of cologne crisp as a linen shirt; that warm breath in his ear—

This is ridiculous, so close…the hologram again…I must still be asleep on Cameron's couch…

"Did you sleep with her?"

Wilson's eyes flew open, his fragile contentment shattering like a fallen mirror. "What?"

Not moving closer or further from Wilson, House considered for a moment, lips brushing against his skin. "No. A woman has to make you feel good. Cameron pulled a guilt trip on you instead, didn't she?"

"House, how could you say that?" He turned back to face him, insulted, but unable to disguise his flushed skin and heavy-lidded eyes. He took a step away, soaking in the vacant air as House's hands fell from his sides. "Cameron told you I stayed over?"

"Was there anything she left out?"

Wilson just stared at him. "That depends what she told you."