Wilson sometimes regretted admitting to House that the after sex soreness and occasional burn excited him in the days following some of their more energetic nights. He regretted answering some of House's more raunchy demands in the heat of the moment. Right now, more than either of those things, Wilson regretted going to that conference in New Orleans.
"Wilson," House's voice rang out through the clinic, "can you pick that up for me?" House pointed to the pen skidding across the floor towards the exam rooms. Wilson had a strong suspicion House had thrown the pen intentionally.
"Get it yourself, House," was Wilson's terse reply.
"But I'm a cripple! I can't believe you would seriously say something that insensitive to me." House paused to survey his captive audience cloistered around him in the waiting area.
Wilson sighed and looked Heavenward, as though finally resigning himself to the fact that House was right about that, too; there couldn't be a God if there was a House.
House continued, "Especially because I happen to know exactly how sensitive you really are." House pointedly leered at Wilson's ass. "And just last night you admitted you're my bitch," he finished with a waggle of the eyebrows.