His phone was ringing. He pouted and buried his head under his pillow. It didn't work; his phone was still ringing. With a muffled grunt, House leaned over Wilson – no, Wilson wasn't there. It was after seven, then.

House took a blind guess at who it was – it was too early for caller ID – and mumbled incoherently into the receiver.

"How'd you know it was me?" Wilson's bright morning voice, House decided, was… an acceptable thing to wake up to. He hummed low in his throat, sleepily content and knowing Wilson would get the point. He could practically hear the Indulgent Wilson Smile oozing through the phone with its cuteness.

"I figured I should wake you up," Wilson continued.

"Wottimezit?" House slurred, burrowing deeper into the covers as if to escape from the prospect of getting out of them.

"Uh… eight fifteen."

"S'too early, Jimmy," House whined. It was a quiet groggy whine, though, so it wasn't as Bad News as most of House's other whines.

"You have a patient," Wilson bribed, sing-song, 'ha-ha' style.

"S'too early for those, too." Now it was the Indulgent Wilson Chuckle's turn to come out and play. House didn't smile at that. He didn't.

"Sickness never sleeps," Wilson said, in a deep, jokingly foreboding voice. Then he sighed. "Please come in to work, House. Your team is whining loudly enough for me to hear them through the walls, and Cuddy's getting agitated."

"Oh, let her be, Jimmy," House replied. "She deserves a little stress in her life. What with a baby at home, she's bound to get so little outside of work. I'm doing her a favor."

"Yes, and she appreciates it so much, she's begging me to start bringing you to work with me in the mornings, so you're here early." House groaned in agony at the thought.

"Tell her I said, 'yeah, fuck you, too,'" he grumbled, pulling himself into a sitting position and reaching for his pills. "I'll be there in a few minutes." They hung up in sync.

"Symptoms," House demanded as he limped impressively (as impressively as you can limp, anyway) into the conference room. Foreman immediately listed them.

"Rash, fever, enlarged lymphs, headache, fatigue." House nodded.

"Differential."

"Lupus," said Thirteen, just as quick on the uptake as Foreman. What a perfect match they were.

"Or erysipelas," Taub added. House nodded again.

"Test for 'em, figure out which it is." The three shuffled one after the other out the door past House. "And while you're at it," he called after them. "Figure out why you needed me for that."

House was glad when Wilson picked him up from his office for lunch. He'd been bored since nine o'clock, and he felt too lazy to go pester his best friend (lover) and his cancer patients.

"How's your patient?" Wilson asked as they meandered toward the elevator. House snorted.

"It was lupus."

"Oh." The elevator ride was quieter than usual, as the two of them thought over the anomaly that was one of House's patients actually having lupus. In the lunch room they sat along the wall and flirted. House snatched a fry.

"House! Why don't you ever get your own?" Wilson slapped House's hand away playfully, with a hidden indulgent Wilson smile. Two giggling female doctors passed them, whispering.

"Do you think they'll ever notice all that sexual tension between them?" one asked the other, thinking she was being discreet when really she wasn't. The other giggled.

"No." House snatched another fry. He smirked over at his friend (lover).

"Do you think they'll ever notice we've already noticed?" he murmured, using his Sexy Voice even thought he wasn't supposed to at work. It wasn't as if he'd never done it before, usually he used it every time he called Wilson a name for screwing with him.

"House!" Wilson scolded, with a small blush and a small smile. But then he smirked, too. "No," he answered, also using his Sexy Voice. House snatched another fry.

Sometimes House wished he was as selfish as most people thought he was. He was so bored, waiting for Wilson until five. Five! Actually, he only waited until four, but still. It was an accomplishment. He didn't directly bother his friend (lover) all day!

So at four when he barged into Wilson's office to find him slaving over paperwork and without any patients to speak of, House suggested they go home early and have massive amounts of hot sweaty sex. A bubble of disappointment sparked when Wilson sighed, dropped his pen, and rubbed his eyes.

"Not tonight, House," the tired oncologist muttered. "My back is killing me." House pouted pathetically, widening his bright blue eyes and forcing them to tear up for extra measure. "Killing me," Wilson repeated deadpan. Well, that put an end to that. If the puppy-dog eyes didn't work, nothing would.

"Okay." House shuffled his good leg a little and dug his cane into the floor. "Well, I'm gonna go home early, 'kay?" Wilson nodded and picked his pen back up, turning back to his papers. "Maybe better posture would help," House said by way of farewell. Wilson rolled his eyes like usual, but the Indulgent Wilson Smile failed to make an appearance. His back really was hurting.

His phone was ringing. He pouted and buried his head under his pillow. It didn't work; his phone was still ringing. With a muffled grunt, House leaned over Wilson and grabbed the offending devise off the night table.

"Huh?" he grunted at it.

"Hey, House. Is Wilson with you?" It was Foreman. House groggily sat up halfway.

"Why?" Question not answer, not a confirmation, not a denial. The perfect sidestep.

"A patient's asking after him. Apparently they had a consult meeting half an hour ago."

"Half an hour ago?" House's eyes widened. Wilson was never that late. "I'll call you back." He snapped the phone shut and turned to his bed mate. "J –"

"I know," Wilson groaned. "I'm not going in." House just stared at his lover (friend), shocked beyond words, for once, momentarily.

"Why?" The only reply House got was a whimper and a snuggle. He rolled his eyes. "Your back?" Wilson nodded, and then burrowed his head into House's undershirt-clad stomach. House sighed, running his phone-less hand through Wilson's fluffy bed-hair. "You realize I can't stay here with you, right?"

"Since when do you care about going to work? Call in sick." House chuckled (he never admitted it to anyone else, and Wilson never told, so it was okay to do every once in a while), and wriggled his way – somewhat painfully because of his leg – out from under his lover (friend) and popped a pill. Limping his way into the bathroom, House redialed Foreman.

"Hello?"

"He's not coming in."

"What, on such short notice?" A suspicious and dramatic pause. "What'd you do to him?"

"What makes you think I did it?" House demanded with faux affront. "I'm not evil if that's what you're thinking, Dr. Foreman."

"Uh-huh." Foreman sounded doubtful. "Are you coming in?"

"Of course!" Again with the over-acted indignation. "Why ever would I not?"

"Right. How long?" House popped another pill before maneuvering into his jeans.

"'Bout half an hour."

"That early? House, what are you up to?" House hung up with a loud snap.

"Mid-thirties male, debilitating lower back pain. Go." House demanded as he limped less impressively than yesterday into the conference room.

"Herniated disc," Foreman popped out. "Sciatica, degenerative disc disease. It could be anything."

"Viral or bacterial prostatitis." Thirteen continued the list. "Chlamydia –" ("Better not be," House growled under his breath.) "– Copper toxicity. What other symptoms are there?"

"Could be kidney cancer," Taub put in.

"That would be ironic," House muttered, and limped out again.

=

On Our Next Episode:

"You're the only person I've slept with in almost three years."

"Honored, I'm sure."

"You have a fever!" House proclaimed triumphantly. "Which means you're sick."

"It could just mean I'm too hot," Wilson argued with half a heart, self-consciously scratching his thigh and pouting.

"Back pain, side pain, fever," Foreman read. "Could be a kidney problem."

"It could still be prostatitis or Chlamydia, too. Or maybe a bladder infection. Has the patient been excessively sexually active recently?" Taub wondered.

=