Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

C is for Cupcake

"Oh, there's my son David," Mrs. Wilson said, stopping herself and House in the kitchen where David had stopped Wilson's progress toward his father.

House kept his eye on Wilson's niece, who was busy monitoring both her father's conversation with Uncle James and the appearance of her bubbe with Uncle James' friend. He liked kids. To a point.

Mrs. Wilson sent House's Wilson to find Mr. Wilson again and introduced House to the other Wilson. House took him in quickly. Boring. Then the other Wilson introduced the girl. She shook his hand like her father had. Her eyes brimmed with questions, but again he saw her manners interfering with her curiosity. He would take care of that.

But not right now, because Mrs. Wilson was busy whisking him away toward Mr. Wilson, speaking in a constant stream of information, family critique, and questions. House was pleased; here was someone who thought and spoke almost as quickly as he did—no filtering, but not as blunt, because though she criticized, she didn't actively dislike as much as he did. Floating on the steady information feed, he kept pace with her as they moved through the house. He needed nothing else: he liked this woman.

When they finally reached Mr. Wilson's study, the only musty room in the whole place according to Mrs. Wilson, House watched his Wilson stand up from the squat he'd held next to his father's arm chair. An eight inch black and white television blared on a small table in front of the arm chair; House found himself taken aback by the antiquity of the television. Not so much by the antiquity of the man.

"James, cupcake, get David to help you with your things," Mrs. Wilson said.

Wilson obeyed instantly—suddenly, House understood so much more about dear Jimmy—and they communicated silently in the few seconds Wilson took to leave the room.

Cupcake? Really?

Don't start.

Cupcake!

Shut up!

Cupcake cupcake cupcake!

House grinned at the ancient arm of Mr. Wilson and the outline of his black and white TV.

"…would like to move to Boca Raton, but Saul refuses to retire."

Mrs. Wilson's chattering hadn't ceased despite the amazing revelation of his Wilson's nickname. Cupcake! Too delighted to stop himself from smiling, House shook hands with Mr. Wilson while he repeated the phrase My Closeted Cupcake to himself.

House suffered through another handshake—the other Wilson's wife, whom they'd somehow missed earlier—and more talk about moving to Florida before Mrs. Wilson showed him where he'd be sleeping—and, bingo, there was Wilson putting suitcases down and chatting with his brother.

Then House did something he rarely did: he played the cripple card.

Mrs. Wilson frowned and clucked and looked ready to stick a thermometer in his ear when he said he needed to lie down for a little while to rest his leg. House barely kept himself together between the startled, disapproving faces Wilson was making to his left and the hilarious similarities between Mrs. Wilson's clucking and his Wilson's clucking to his right.

"Come on, David," Mrs. Wilson said to her son. She looked to her other son with an expression that was half-reproachful and half-'you'd better take care of your friend'. "James."

House switched places with Wilson's brother, feigning pain and fatigue until Mrs. Wilson, with one final, pointed look at Cupcake, pulled the door to a crack.

Wilson positively scowled at House, who'd broken into soundless laughter.

House crept closer and closer to Wilson until he'd pinned Wilson against the nightstand. House stopped grinning just long enough to kiss Wilson, then sat down on the bed and started laughing again.

"It's not that funny," Wilson hissed.

Helpless, his stomach muscles burning from lack of oxygen, House simply nodded. Yes it is. Cupcake.

Wilson sighed, shook his head, and went back to hanging his and House's suit jackets in the closet.

Eventually, House calmed down enough to speak. "How long before she comes looking for you?" he whispered.

"Less than five minutes," Wilson answered from across the room. He narrowed his eyes at House, reading House's face, until he understood what House meant.

"No!" he hissed, screwing his face up with disgust. "Not here. Not with them here."

House smiled at the look of pure horror on Wilson's face. "I'm guessing you never brought a date home during high school," House commented, reaching down to untie his shoes.

Wilson gestured toward the door. "It's impossible to get past her," he said in a strained whisper.

"Yeah," House answered, rolling his eyes, "because you're afraid of her."

Wilson glared at him. "You would be too."

Kicking his shoes off, House lay back, hands behind his head. "No way. Your mom's totally cool."

"You're not her son," Wilson hissed.

House chuckled and let out a deep breath, closing his eyes. "Then we're going to have to sneak out of here. Take the car somewhere. Because I can't go three days with nothing."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Yes, you can. So can I."

House opened his eyes and turned his head toward Wilson, who was still standing—House laughed inwardly—in front of the closet. "Let me rephrase. I don't want to go three days with nothing."

"You think I do?" Wilson hissed back.

House grinned mischievously. "She can't be everywhere all the time. That's my job."

Wilson groaned. "This might actually kill my dad, if he finds out," he said.

House shrugged. "Better him than you."

Wilson groaned again. "Hou-se."

House grinned again. "Cup-cake."

Wilson huffed and fled the room, leaving a very amused House behind.