House pushed open the door with his cane. Wilson looked up from his magazine, vaguely confused.
"Hello," he said politely. House grunted and dumped his bag onto Wilson's bag.
"James Wilson, welcome to your life! We have beer, porn, junk food, Playstation games, records and more beer."
"Is that it?" asked Wilson, smiling slightly. House frowned.
"What were you expecting? A Nobel Prize?"
"Well, no. I'm very grateful-"
"Enough already. I'm drowning in your sweetness," said House, slipping a DVD into the player on the wall which turned out to be old re-runs of General Hospital. The two men watched the complicated lives of the soap stars unfold in companionable silence.
"Greg-"
"House."
"House," amended Wilson contritely. "Can you - can you tell me? About myself, I mean?" House rolled his eyes.
"Now why do you always have to ruin a perfectly good moment?"
"I-" Wilson stopped, not sure how far he could push this strange man. House popped open a beer and took a long gulp.
"You are an oncologist who chases anything that moves in a skirt. You have a bad taste in music. You are a terrible driver. You have mastered the art of manipulation. You melt the heart of every woman with your puppy-dog eyes and 'I'm listening' expression. You have a wandering eye and a problem with commitment." House paused dramatically. "And you also can't hold your drink." Wilson stared at House, unsure as to how to react. Finally, he coughed and took a wary sip of beer, the bubbles going up his nose. House raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Not the most flattering description, was it?"
"If you wanted a fairytale, you should have asked Cameron," said House. "She's all sugar and spice and happy endings." Wilson laughed, and at that moment, realised why they had been friends.