"I say, you do have a heart!"

"Sometimes," he replied, "when I have the time." ―Jules Verne

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"What symptom would indicate kidney failure?" House waited expectantly, hand poised over the chalkboard.

"Swollen feet," Taub said.

"Yes, but boring. Try again." He tapped the side of his nose. "The nose knows."

"Uh… Ammonia breath." Taub beamed.

"Better! Always lead with your strengths." House noted gleefully that Taub's newly minted smile had tarnished around the edges. "Anyone else?" He deliberately swung his attention toward his other new recruit.

"Itching feet," Amber said with a hint of a smirk.

The upturned corners of Taub's mouth flatlined.

"Bingo! You win the immunity card." Not only was the symptom solid but the sibling rivalry invigorating. This was exactly what he wanted from his dream team.

"And you." House looked at Wilson, who had slipped into the conference room and taken a seat across from Cutthroat Bitch. Was it his imagination, or had he spied furtive glances between them? "Did you run out of crotches to examine?"

Wilson wrinkled his brow in mock dismay and looked at his wristwatch. "That line never gets old… for you. It's lunchtime."

"Well then..." House passed the chalk to Chase who looked like he was burning the candle at both ends since Cameron left. "Carry on without me."

xxx

"Did you see the new neighbors?" Wilson said, sliding into their corner booth and sweeping the DOCTORS ONLY sign to the side. The table took full advantage of the outside view as well as the dining room.

House shoved a handful of Wilson's fries into his mouth, speaking around them. "No. Spill."

Wilson's grimace was priceless. "Must you? We're in your cafeteria."

House swallowed, snagged another, and pointed it at Wilson. "What is the meaning of life?" He watched with guarded amusement as Wilson's mouth worked, but nothing came out. "What? We're not discussing imponderables?"

"Forget I asked." Wilson leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, "Coeds."

"Any groupies from your old classes?"

"Be serious."

"I was. How many?"

"Four."

"Score!" House stuck out an open hand. "Pay up." Two twenties fluttered into it. "So, what do they look like? Girls Gone Wild or Charlotte Vale's ugly sisters?"

"Um…" The passive-aggressive bastard chomped into his burger and chewed thoroughly, not answering until he swallowed. "Promising."

House wanted to groan or beg or both. "Talk dirty to me." Although in a public place, albeit his, Wilson never would.

"Hiiiigh cheeekbones, if you know what I mean," Wilson's palm lightly skimmed a circle over his chest.

House did, and found the gesture somewhat arousing. "Go on."

"Four significant sets."

"Significant, as in robust?"

Wilson ducked his head as a busboy walked by. "I firmly concur with you, doctor."

"And…?" House encouraged, "Care to share more redacted images?"

Wilson shook his head while munching on a fry. "You'll see for yourself when you get home."

"We need a bigger 'scope." House wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Buy one after work."

Wilson looked up from his food. "About work, what was going on in the conference room? That wasn't a standard differential."

"Nope. The team also defines diseases for my automata by suggesting rare symptoms. You walked in as we were building one literally from the ground up."

"You're still designing patients?" Wilson's voice ratcheted up a notch. "Have you forgotten the Snitch's prediction about Vogler suing you? My contacts at the hospital say attorneys are constantly parading through his office. He's interviewing law firms."

"It takes time to retool. I'm strapped for cash."

"Money. That's your justification for unleashing monsters on medical centers?"

House slowly wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Calm down, Igor. Let me explain. What you saw was the beginning of my 2.0 series. I swear, if there was an army of them, collectively they couldn't kill a fly.

"What you witnessed upstairs was locked-in syndrome. Next up is vegetative-state man. Not a difficult diagnosis, but he poses an interesting moral dilemma. Universities with pre-med and philosophy departments will be forming lines out to the street to order one. Then, here's one you'll appreciate, a little girl dying of cancer... "

Wilson raised a hand. "Enough. I get the picture. So, this temporary measure… how long will it take to extricate yourself from the automata industry?"

House cut his steak and watched the juices pool under the meat. Wilson, who worked tirelessly at the clinic. Wilson, who fretted about Vogler more than he did, deserved an answer.

"Give me three months."

xxx

Six months later

House's eyelids were at half-mast when the elevator dinged. Like a prizefighter hearing a boxing bell, he moved into action. He scratched the purring kitten under its ear, located the switch, and shut it off. The body stiffened into a statue as he placed it in a box under his desk.

"I'm moving out," Wilson said, walking through the open door.

"Moving in with Amber." A statement, not a question. "Don't look surprised. You've been sneaking out of the apartment every night for a month. Has she accepted your proposal to be the fifth Mrs. Wilson?"

Wilson looked down at the floor, hands in his pant's pockets. "No. I mean, I haven't asked. We're taking it slow."

"So, next month, then. Engaged by Thanksgiving, married Christmas Eve, in labor Labor Day." House grinned to cover up any trace of bitterness that might show. Inwardly, his heart sank as he watched Wilson seriously doing the math.

"Wait. If we married in December…"

"You couldn't possibly have sex to celebrate your engagement, or moving in together, or having a meaningful conversation about half-caf lattes at the corner coffee house?"

"Okay, I get it." Wilson's rubbed the back of his neck. "You don't like surprises. I should have told you sooner."

Actually, there was nothing surprising about the match, but House thought Wilson deserved to hear the disclaimer. "You do know the team dislikes her? She schemes, deceives, and openly gloats. And like the demon she is, feasts on the turmoil."

"I know, I know, but she's different around me."

"Yeah, you say that now. Wait until she eats your first born child."

He knew he was acting like a jealous child. If he didn't put his feelings aside he'd lose Wilson entirely. House pushed up from his desk, and put out his hand. "Congratulations."

"Th-thanks, House."

Limping into the conference room, he waved to Wilson to follow. At the table he hooked his cane to the back of a chair and snapped on surgical gloves before reaching for a fancy metal pill box, the type old ladies carry in their handbags. With infinite care, he plucked a tiny, lumpy thing from the container, held it up to the light, and blew on it. Legs shot out and wriggled. "Meet phase three, Arthropoda Mechanica, a breakthrough in microrobotics. Arthur's gonna topple Vogler's empire. Now, open your shirt."

Almost to the point of hyperventilation, Wilson brushed at his arm as if Artie were scrambling up it. "I don't care what cute name you gave it. Keep it away. I won't be your guinea pig."

House stepped back, giving Wilson some space, and received a glare for his kindness.

"Is this your way of getting back at me because I'm moving in with Amber? Am I gonna wake up bald tomorrow?"

"You're overreacting, girlfriend. Would you like this bitsy ugly better if it had rainbows or baby chicks painted on its back? Nobody else whined when I inoculated them."

"You did Amber?" Wilson looked stunned.

"Yes, but strictly in the medical sense."

"Why didn't she tell me?"

"You'll have to ask her." House shifted to a more comfortable position. "Can we get on with it? Cripple here."

Wilson eyed the thing warily. "How does it work?"

House felt a trickle of nervous perspiration run down the back of his neck. While words hardly ever failed him, he lacked the silvery tongue of a salesman. "This mini robot is like a tick, but in reverse. It's programmed to find your jugular and deliver its payload, microrobots, into the bloodstream. The mics are so small that they can penetrate every kind of human tissue, searching out markers for the top ten deadly diseases. Imagine, discovering cancer before stage one."

"Impressive," Wilson said softly. He thumbed the fabric of his collar for a few seconds, clearly undecided. "How does it report results? Will it cause your trademark projectile vomiting?"

"The team suggested that, but I exercised my veto power. Mimics too many diseases. Went with unusual mole."

"How unusual?"

"Two inch bluish discoloration near the affected area."

Wilson's mouth was slightly ajar before he found his voice. "Testicular cancer just got more interesting."

"Unbutton the shirt."

Wilson did what he was told, and flapped his hand as if to say, Get on with it.

House lavishly swabbed Wilson's neck with antiseptic and placed the "bug" near the vein. Without hesitation the robot inched its way over and stopped. The only signs that it had pierced the skin was a tiny droplet of blood trickling from the wound and a slight wince from Wilson. Within sixty seconds the cargo was circulating through the blood system. The "bug", reduced to an empty husk, floated nearly weightless onto the carpet.

"That's it. Now for your lollipop." House went back to his office. Far enough away not to be heard, he said under his breath. "You're safe."

He returned with a white bundle of fluff, and turned it on before thrusting it at Wilson. It mewed sweetly as it came to life. "Surprise! Your first housewarming gift. Meet Sarah."

Wilson looked enchanted but hesitant. "I don't know. What will Amber say?"

"Come, pussy?" The unmistakable innuendo in House's lilt made Wilson blush. "Sarah might be a copycat, but who could resist her? I guarantee she'll melt girlfriend's ice cube of a heart."

Wilson left the conference room with the kitten in his arms and a sloppy grin on his face. House had a hunch if it were up to Wilson the automaton would be on 24/7 but not if Amber had her say. He had firsthand knowledge that she was not a pet person. Wait until she discovered Sarah did everything real cats do. Piss, crap, spit up hairballs, and scratch furniture.

House smiled to himself. If the happy couple didn't break up by next year, their anniversary gift was taken care of. Sarah was programmed to develop diabetes in twelve months.