"Do you know," House began slowly, "what Stalin's reaction was to Truman's announcement of the atomic bomb?"

"He obviously didn't put in a good word in for Japan."

House grinned, taking another lengthy sip of whiskey. "Obviously."

Another run scored for Boston, bumping the score up to 3-1 in the bottom of the eighth. New York still hadn't managed to get any outs in the inning.

There'd yet to be any bench-clearing brawls and outward shows of bad blood. Overall, the game had been depressingly boring, as witnessed by House, Wilson, and a fair share of whiskey and beer bottles that now adorned the coffee table in a rather convoluted maze.

Wilson's tie had long been loosened and discarded; House, shirt rumpled, had ditched his suit and changed into a more comfortable pair of jeans. Both men had their feet propped up between the auburn-gold and green bottles. An empty pizza box was strewn across the floor somewhere. Wilson had, by habit, risen to throw it out, but House had caught him by the sleeve and convinced him to be sloppy once in his life. The younger man relented, easing himself back down on the familiar couch beside House. He'd forgotten how much he missed it.

On TV, the crowd griped as a homerun ball was called back.

"Stalin said, 'I hope you use it wisely.'"

Wilson nodded slowly. The alcohol was sweeping his mind into blurred, orderly, simple lines. "Words of wisdom."

"No. Cowardly words." House sat down a half-filled whiskey glass. "If he were smart, he would've goaded Truman on. Stalin should've dared the US to drop one on them."

"Oh, yeah, brilliant move." Wilson rolled his eyes in amusement. "How is it that you haven't tried your hand at politics yet, House? Nothing like some more nuclear warfare to solve a problem. Way to heat up the Cold War."

"No, think about it. The more blatantly a person suggests something, the less likely it'll be that the other will actually follow through."

"No way. Goading only encourages."

"It intimidates. I'll prove it."

"Fine. Go."

"Kiss me."

"What?" Wilson pulled back abruptly.

"See?" House broke into a self-righteous smirk. "If Stalin had done what any respectable dictator would do, that would've been Truman's reaction: too shocked to follow through with the actual, irreversible act."

"So you…you don't think I'd kiss you?" Wilson fumbled.

"Definitely not."

"You're wrong. I'll prove it."

"Fine. Go."

Wilson watched him for what seemed like an hour, as if he were trying to pinpoint House's lips on his face. The broadcaster on TV was making some horrifically humorless joke that was, on some level existence, meant to be funny. The crowd cheered. Another run for Boston.

Wilson leaned back on the couch, smugly, and resisted the urge to watch the stunned look fall in waves across House's face, like an unexpected undertow.

"No."

"What?"

"No. Goading doesn't always work. And neither does reverse psychology."

"You're too drunk to start talking about psychology."

"Yeah, well, I'm too drunk to kiss you, too."

House weighed the silence between them, verging on a moping quiet. "You're too drunk to drive home," he pointed out, for lack of anything better to say.

"I'll call a cab. Take a bus. Or something."

"Or you can just crash here."

"Fine." The crowd on TV gave a subtle sigh as the fans took their seats. Fielders came in to be batters; batters ditched their helmets and grabbed their gloves. "Oh, look, the inning's over."