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"Twenty-nine numbers," Chase says, staring at the sheaf of post-its in his hand.
"Were there even twenty-nine women there?" Wilson wonders aloud.
"The organizer and one of the bartenders threw their numbers in," Chase explains.
"Told you. People are idiots." House finishes his drink, makes eye contact with a waitress to order refills.
"I'm just a pretty face," Chase says, with the solemnity of a man discovering he has six months to live.
"Yes, what a burden," House snaps. "How do you get out of bed in the morning?"
"Clambers over a beautiful woman, probably," Wilson says.
House scowls. "You're one to talk. God. Why do I end up hanging out with such - pretty boys?"
"I'm not that pretty," Chase says, almost automatically.
"No, you are," Wilson insists. "I'm not."
"You're a good-looking bloke!" Chase says.
"You think? I mean, thanks." Wilson’s cheeks are flushed, though it may just be the booze.
The waitress places the round of drinks on the table. "Thank you for bringing us these beers," House says in her direction, but really addressing his tablemates. "Manly heterosexual beers."
She smiles vaguely and moves on.
"Stop tormenting the staff, House," Wilson says, almost like a reflex.
"Maybe I'm not heterosexual. Maybe that's why it didn't work with Cameron." Chase appears to have entered the point of the evening where everything he knows is open to questioning.
"Cameron's a mess," House opines. "Beautiful, but broken. Not your fault."
Like he hasn't even heard House, Chase continues. "Maybe I should talk to Thirteen. Although I kind of want to sleep with her. I could be projecting."
"Speaking of broken," Wilson says.
"He'll be fine in the morning," House replies dismissively. "You gonna call any of those women?"
Wilson sighs. "No."
House circles the rim of his beer bottle with his index finger. "It's okay to move on."
"It's not that. As soon as I mentioned what I do, all they wanted to talk about was cancer."
"Oh." House doesn't have an immediate response for this.
"I'm going to die alone," Wilson says mournfully.
"Everyone dies alone," House responds.
"You two would make a cute couple," Chase observes.
"I'm not cute enough for him," House immediately replies.
Wilson is too busy fighting the heat on the back of his neck to think up a clever response quickly. Finally he says, "Yeah, exactly", and then winces inwardly.
"House is kinda cute," Chase says.
"How dare you." House pretends to be outraged.
"He's not cute," Wilson says wearily. "He's -"
"Dreamy?" House suggests, ready to play.
"Exasperating," Wilson corrects. "No man should be allowed to be that smart and that good-looking."
Chase nods smugly. "So you do think he's cute."
"I didn't say cute! That makes him sound like a - a - a puppy, or something."
House thinks: he is not a puppy. He also wonders where his ability to speak has disappeared to.
Wilson thinks he's good-looking?
"You think I'm good-looking?" he finally spits out.
Wilson attempts nonchalance for two seconds. "Yes. Don't make a big deal out of it."
"Seriously," Chase says, "I can totally see the two of you together."
"Wilson doesn't do dick," House says, trying to sound cheerful and flippant about it.
"Well, that's not true," Chase says, quickly followed up with, "Ow! Sorry."
House observes the way Wilson’s elbow has just jabbed Chase in the ribs, and the way in which Wilson is inspecting the label on his beer bottle with intense interest. "Oh my god."
"It just happened once," Wilson says quickly. "I was drunk -"
"We were both drunk," Chase adds. "It was just one of those stupid holiday parties -"
"I can't believe this," House says. He points to them in succession. "The two of you -"
"It just sort of happened," Wilson mumbles, staring at the table.
"You slept with him!"
"House -"
"You sleep with men, but you think it's ridiculous that our neighbor mistakes me for your boyfriend, because you're too good for a cripple like me." House is smug now, if unhappy about why it is he's right. He's used to this feeling. Happens a lot in a world full of morons.
"That’s not even close - you're bringing up Nora now? - House!" Wilson’s at the babbling stage of tipsy and incoherent. "Do you want me to - I mean, would you ever consider -"
House contemplates tormenting him for another few minutes, before giving in. Those big doe eyes. They should be illegal. "I've been hitting on you since the day we met, but whatever." He indulges himself in making the W with his fingers the way Alicia Silverstone does in Clueless, which he totally rewatches just because she's hot and not at all because Jane Austen adaptations make him sometimes experience feelings.
Wilson blinks. "You like me."
"I'd go for it, mate," Chase advises.
"Not in front of you, you hussy," House says. "C'mon, Wilson. Let's go home."