House used his cane for leverage, eventually standing to slowly hobble into the kitchen behind Wilson. He mentally cursed his leg for being sore and slowing him down, then automatically went to his pocket for his pills, bringing one to his mouth so he could dry-swallow it as soon as he arrived in the kitchen. "Interns wear shoes like that?" he asked as he watched Wilson drink his juice. He liked the way Wilson looked with his head tilted back and his eyes closed - it reminded him of the way Wilson often looked in bed, in the midst of pleasure. "I think I would have worn the puke proudly before I'd be caught dead in those." He shook his head. "Just another reason for Cuddy to let me out of clinic duty. A fashion faux pas like that could ruin my reputation."

Amazingly enough, this teasing and talking about vomit was House's way of showing Wilson that he cared, and that he was interested in how his day went. There was, of course, no possible way for Wilson to see that, and House knew that Wilson probably didn't know he gave a shit about him, but he still did, on his own terms in the strange silence of his own head. "So," he said after what he deemed as an appropriate pause in recognition of Wilson's hard day at work. "What's for dinner?"