A/N: Pure and total fluff—so damned fluffy, in fact, that if you don't read it you'll miss absolutely nothing, plotwise. And fluff is so not my strong suit :( But hey, the way things have been going around here lately, I feel lucky to be able to give you kids anything at all! Next chapter won't be up 'til Monday, probably early evening. mjf

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Nerves

On Friday morning, Wilson awakens already on edge. It doesn't take him long to figure out the cause of his uneasiness; tonight's the poker game, and there's no way he can prepare for what House might do or say.

He's worried about House's condition, too; he's anticipating that, sometime today, there's gonna be a terrible spasm in the left thigh. House is only now showing strong signs of recovery from the pneumonia, and his general recovery is going well. Wilson's afraid, though, that a few more severe attacks might steal the strength House has fought so hard to gain.

Wilson has seen his theory about the psychosomatic pain confirmed; things that cause House to feel insecure or unsettled do, indeed, bring on the spasms—and what could make House any more disquieted than knowing he'll be going toe-to-toe with a very perceptive psychologist tonight?

Wilson heads into the kitchen to get the coffee on. As he works, his worry about Dick's visit grows. Finally, he decides to postpone the game for a week, give House more time to get over the pneumonia, more time to adjust to the idea of the new diagnosis. He pours his coffee and decides to call Dickinson's office now, leave a message on his voice mail.

Before he can place the call, House comes into the kitchen. He's walking confidently; he's gotten quite adept with the cane-and-IV pole combination, and he's got a big smile on his face. "Lookin' forward to tonight; not often I get to psych out a psychologist!"

As Wilson grabs another mug and pours a cup of coffee for House, he wonders if House is referring to the poker game—or to the diagnosis of psychosomatic illness. "Yeah, well, about the game. I was thinking of putting it off for a few days, give you a chance to really get over the pneumonia."

"Uh-uh! I'm ready. Don't need healthy lungs to play poker; just luck and brain cells. What I'm lacking in the luck department, I more than make up for in brains. Matter of fact, got so many brains, I might be able to loan you a few extra cells tonight; wouldn't want you to say I don't share the wealth!" House smirks at Wilson.

Abandoning his plans to put off the game, Wilson eyes House appraisingly. His high spirits seem to be genuine, and maybe it'll do him some good to have a little distraction, to do something where not everything's focused on his 'patient' status. And to that end….

"Hey, I'll make a deal with you. Eat well at breakfast and lunch, I'll let you ditch the pump for the evening. And if you'll throw in a nap this afternoon, might even let you stay up past your bedtime. Of course, that'll depend on how badly you're beating me." Wilson grins at House as he speaks, but he's still feeling uneasy.

"Deal," House says. "But only if you'll agree to keep the doctoring stuff down to a minimum. Hard to maintain my 'poker face' with a thermometer hangin' outta my mouth; kinda ruins the look I'm going for."

Wilson smiles and takes the bait. "And what look would that be?" he asks.

"Tough guy. Intimidating. Kinda crazy. Jack Nicholson in Cuckoo's Nest."

"Ahh, type-casting, got it."

"Hmmph." House settles himself at the table. "What's for breakfast? And if I have to eat all of it, it'd better not involve past pigs, future chickens, and the secretions of contented bovines."

"House, if you don't want bacon and eggs, just say so. If you don't want milk, just pour it down the sink when you think I'm not looking, like you usually do."

"It's just that that's so yesterday. And the day before. And--"

"Hold up there," Wilson interrupts the whining litany. "As I recall, you made what passed for breakfast yesterday, no nutrition involved. No actual work involved, either.

"Okay then, it's so the day before yesterday. And the day--"

Wilson sighs loudly. "Macadamia nut pancakes it is."

An hour later, Wilson hears the two words that never fail to make his blood run cold.

"I'm bored." House shuts off the TV and tosses the remote onto the coffee table.

Insert appropriate danger music here, Wilson thinks. "Why don't you play your new video game? Or brush up on your poker skills?"

"Beat level fifty eight—seen the naked girls; the thrill is gone. And I already have an unfair advantage over the rest of you unfortunates in tonight's game, just by virtue of being me. 'Cuz I'm just that good." House grins and waggles his eyebrows at Wilson. Then he leans his head back and addresses the ceiling. "I'm bored!" he repeats loudly.

"Some day, I'm going to figure out just exactly how you manage to make those two small words sound like such a big threat. In the meantime, in the interests of world peace and domestic safety, I guess it's time to bring out the big guns." Wilson goes to the coat closet and returns with a flat package, which he hands to House. "Here. This should keep you busy for, oh, about a hundred and seventy four minutes. Not that I know exactly."

"SpongeBob SquarePants' Absorbing Favorites!" House's grin threatens to take over his face. "Wilson, you've been holding out on me! How long have you had this?"

"Got it just after the last time you uttered those two dreaded words, and I came home to find you'd dismantled the microwave to find out why the food gets hot but the plates stay cool."

"Hey, check out this bonus feature! Ripped Pants Karaoke! This is just too awesome! Can ya bring me that old scrub brush—gotta have my microphone!"

Wilson conducts the rest of his day to the soundtrack of SpongeBob, Patrick, and Gary the meowing snail. Every once in a while, he has to quell the overpowering urge to strangle Gary—or maybe House, but that might involve jail time. Then he reminds himself that this is better than having to rescue his blow dryer from the freezer, where House claimed to have left it (plugged in, turned on, go figure) "to defrost a TV dinner in a real big hurry."

So, as House begins his seventeenth rendition of "I Ripped My Pants," (but who's counting?), Wilson swallows his fourth ibuprofen of the day (but who's counting?), gazes longingly at the bottle of Ativan, fixes a cheery smile on his face, and goes into the living room to toss the DVD player—or House—out the window.