-scene-

It was, admittedly, quite a thrill to have won Wilson back, at least for however long he'd be staying. House limped gingerly to the door, unlocking it and ushering the man inside and out of the cold.

Wilson hesitated at the entryway, poking his head in, waiting to be assailed by the animatronic ghost of Christmas past.

"Relax." House told him, giving him a nudge. "The batteries died. Looks like the fish is out of commission until I find some more of the right size."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "You won't replace the batteries in your smoke alarm, but you'll go out of your way for that stupid fish?"

House grinned. "Just thinking about how much you love it makes me go that extra mile."

Wilson would have said more, but at that moment, he noticed something really peculiar about the sofa… like the fact that it wasn't there. "House…" he began in a tentative voice, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer. "What happened to the couch?"

"Oh, nothing serious." The man replied, tossing his coat over the back of an armchair and heading for the kitchen. "It caught fire."

This gave the oncologist pause, for as far as he had been lead to believe, sofas did not spontaneously combust that often. "It caught fire?"

House turned around to face him, seeming a bit distracted. "Yah." He replied.

"And how did it catch fire?" Wilson wanted to know.

House hesitated. "A match fell on it."

"…A match?"
"Do you notice that habit of yours?" House pointed out. "You know, the one where you repeat everything I say with a rising voice inflection?"

Wilson chose to ignore him. "Why did you drop a match on the sofa?"

"Who says I dropped it?" a pause- a raised eyebrow- House turned back towards the kitchen. "Okay. I dropped a match on it." He pulled open the refrigerator door. "I was angry."

"You were drunk."

He rummaged for a can of beer in the fridge. "You say potato, I say potahtoe" he returned.

"What were you angry about?" the younger doctor pressed.

"Did you want anything?" House asked, ignoring the question.

"An answer." Wilson replied.

House sighed, returning to the living room, popping the tab to his beer.

"You really shouldn't drink with Vicodin." Wilson reminded.

"Yah, I know," House agreed. "But all the cool kids are doing it." He took a swig.

"Why were you angry?"

House sighed. Why not? It would be fun to watch the man squirm. "You left." He said flatly, then turned away, plunking himself down at the piano bench.

Wilson stared. That hadn't at all been the answer he'd expected. "Be- because I left?"

"See? There you go again with that repetition thing." He set the can of beer on the top of the piano, spreading his fingers out on the keys.

"But that doesn't make any sense…" Wilson continued to himself, feeling a slight blush rise in his cheeks, but as House began to play, he realized he wasn't going to get the man to say more on the matter, so he chose a different line of questioning instead. "Where am I going to sleep?"

The older man's fingers stopped. He spun around on the piano bench. "It's always worry, worry, worry with you, isn't it?" he accused. "It's a big bed." He replied. "And I don't snore."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking me to sleep with you?"

"If by with you mean beside, then yes, or there's also this lovely section of hardwood floor where a couch used to be." He offered with a sweeping hand gesture.

The oncologist exhaled. This was going to be an interesting arrangement.

-scene-

"I get the outside."

"And why's that?" Wilson wanted to know.

House raised an eyebrow before tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis. "I can't crawl over you if I have to get up for anything in the night."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "What would you have to get up for."

House grinned. That wasn't a good sign. That meant he'd just been given an opening. "Big boys get up to go to the potty at night." He replied, giving the oncologist a pointed look.

"It was one time!" the man exclaimed, his cheeks reddening under the furious blush.

House chuckled, easing himself onto the edge of the bed and tugging the sock off his right foot with the toe of the other. "Well?" he asked.

"What?" Wilson returned.

"Are you going to get in bed so I can turn the light off, or did you want a bedtime story first?"

House watched as Wilson hesitated, obviously ignoring his jab. "Oh… er… yah." The man paused a moment before divesting himself of everything but his boxers and an undershirt. He'd meant to have a shower, but they'd gotten out late, and House had yet to wash the towels. The younger man climbed over to his side of the bed, finally lying down, but not quite relaxing, House observed.

The older man studied him for a moment before shutting off the light and swinging his legs into bed, grunting with the effort.

"Does it hurt?" Wilson wanted to know, and his voice, House thought, seemed a little anxious. "A lot… I mean…" Wilson amended in an embarrassed voice. Of course it hurt, that's why it was called a chronic pain disorder.

"No more than usual." House replied. "Why? Think you can kiss it better?"

"Shut-up!" Wilson replied, rolling over quickly, and House wondered if he might be blushing.

He sighed. Probably wishful thinking, he decided, and shut his eyes.

-scene-

Wilson watched boredly as House spread a thick layer of butter over his toast, and then in horror as a thick layer of cream cheese followed. He lunged forward, grabbing the knife from House's hands. "Are you trying to kill yourself?!" he exclaimed.

House quirked an eyebrow at him. "I take it you're not gong to let me fry it now?"

Wilson stared at him in shock. "Do you always eat like this?"

"What? Of course not!" House replied in an offended tone. "I usually use bagels."

"That is the worst breakfast I have ever seen!" the oncologist practically shouted. "Consider the cholesterol intake alone! And then there're the transgenic fats and the carcinogens to worry about-!"

House rolled his eyes, dropping the toast back onto the plate with a sigh. "Fine, if you're going to be a doctor about it. Then what do you suggest I eat for breakfast?"

Wilson pushed past him, rifling through the cabinets. "Don't you have any oatmeal or bran or something?"

"That's old people food." House shot.

Wilson gave him a look.

"I am not old." House defended.

"Yah, and going through a midlife crisis doesn't make you a teenager again either. You need something for energy and health."

"I can think of a certain activity with just that pedigree." House replied with a lecherous grin.

"Yah, but I don't think prostitutes do breakfast." Wilson replied.

House assessed the younger man's bottom as he bent to check the lower cabinets. "I wasn't thinking that at all." He defended.

"No?" Wilson raised an eyebrow, giving him a wry grin.

"No indeed." The older man replied seriously.

Wilson paused, seeming to lose his caregiver's edge all of a sudden. He turned his back on the older man, flustered. "You… really don't have anything edible. We should just catch something on the way in." he decided.

-scene-

"Boy, you're crankier than usual." Chase accused as House pushed the younger man's feet from their positon atop the table.

"Wilson condemned me to eat oatmeal for breakfast." House cringed in reply, strolling to the white board.

"And you let him?" Foreman asked in a disbelieving voice.

House grinned; never a good sign. "Lose the battle, win the war." He replied.

The three exchanged confused glances as the marker squeaked across the white board.

"Okay, differential diagnosis?"

The three glanced up to the list of symptoms scrawled across the board: bad taste in clothing, worse taste in women, values sentimental crap, favors classical jazz music, healthy living, strong work ethic… The list went on in a similarly insulting manner.

"Brain tumor?" Chase raised an eyebrow hopefully as he grimaced at the list of distasteful symptoms.

"No," House rolled his eyes. "I got Wilson."

"What?" Chase asked, confused.

"You're not supposed to tell your secret Santa!" Cameron protested, almost scandalized.

"Oh…" Chase flushed a little, having initially missed the point.

"Yah, yah," House waved her off. "I'm a terrible person, we've established that. Now what should I get Wilson for Christmas?"

"You could get him a jazz CD," Chase suggested.

"No!" House shot him down. "I'm trying to break that habit!"

"Okay," Chase folded his arms, insulted. "Get 'im a tie then."

"Ties have no sentimental meaning!" Cameron defended.

"Well it's not like House is trying to get a date out of it." Foreman pointed out.

House narrowed his eyes in thought for a moment. "Yah. Sure." He replied. "But if I was how would that be different?"

The three stared.

"For curiousity's sake!" the older doctor defended in an exasperated tone.

"Well…" Cameron began a bit hesitantly, yet a little shook up by the mere thought. "When you're buying something just for a friend, what the gift is specifically doesn't matter so much, just that it's something you think they'd like, but when it's someone you love, you have to get them something they really want; the thing they want most of all, because it shows you've been listening."

He paused a minute. "The thing they want most of all…" he nodded. "Okay." Then began wiping the white board. "Gold Stars all round." With that, he exited the room, leaving the three in a general fugue of confusion.

"That was… odd…" Chase decided.

"So what are you getting for House to show you've been listening?" Foreman teased.

Cameron flushed. "Who says I even got his name?"

Chase grinned. "It's cute that you're pretending that matters."

"So… so what if I get him something?" Cameron stood, flustered. "I get everyone something, you know that!" She scrounged her papers together quickly, making a hastey exit.

The two stared after her for a moment.

"Fifty bucks says she's got House." Foreman decided.

"You're on!"