In House's screwed-up worldview, there wasn't much room for emotion. He could admit, of course, that having sex with Wilson was an enjoyable part of his routine, and that he preferred having sex with him to not having sex with him. He could also, after a couple of drinks and a Vicodin, admit to himself that he didn't mind having Wilson in his apartment - and not just because he could cook and clean, but also because he was pretty to look at, like designer furniture or an expensive painting. But to admit anything else would be to break through the bubble that was Greg House's belief system, a framework so carefully constructed that House didn't know if he could function without it. He certainly wasn't willing to find out.

On this particular evening, House was home early because he had solved his case just after lunch and had then made an elaborately constructed trade with Cuddy to get himself out of clinic duty. He was pretty bored, though - there were only so many episodes of Judge Judy and various soap operas he could watch before his highly developed brain shut itself down due to lack of stimulation. When he heard Wilson come in, therefore, he looked up expectantly at him, trying not to smile, but still managing a smirk in spite of himself. His entertainment for the evening had arrived.

"Nice shoes, Grandma," he said by way of a greeting, picking up on the odd footwear immediately. "Don't tell me," he said holding up a hand as though Wilson was on the verge of responding right then and there. "One of your little bald kids wanted your shoes, so you handed them over and then borrowed some from that fugly nurse with the boils on her face." He shook his head, reaching for his cane in case Wilson tried to wander away and he needed to follow quickly. "I would have let you borrow sneakers, Jimmy, Jesus. All you had to do was ask."