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"House?"
When Wilson entered the bathroom, there really wasn't more than a faint flicker of surprise across his face. A cock of the eyebrow. A look.
House felt a drop of blood track a new path down his forearm. Which of the tens of cuts across his skin it was from, he couldn't say. "It was true all along, I admit it. I'm a suicidal teenage girl in disguise. I know, I look great for my age." The drop hesitated on the end of his index finger. He flicked it off with a wave of his hand.
Wilson hesitated before shaking his head in exasperation. "Those are going to scar, you know."
House gawked. "No! Really?! Lacerations... into the skin... leave scars? I didn't know. Not like I have any or anything."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "I meant—God, why do I bother?"
"I usually go by House, or Greg, or Daddy, but God works too."
Ignoring him; "How deep are they?"
"About as deep as I was in your mother Thursday night. She's one hell of a looker, you know."
"Did she change her mind last minute or is Gregory Jr just small? Unless you're about to tell me your arms are pocket dimensions and those cuts are deeper than should be physically possible."
"Touché," House conceded. "The blood loss is weakening my acerbic wit. Quick, bring Cuddy in here so I can mention her tits!"
Wilson's brow finally tightened in concern at the mention of blood loss. He stepped closer, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. "Are you dizzy? Do you need me to help you lie down?"
"No," House replied acidly. "I actually have an infinite supply of the red stuff in here. And as for the lying down, passing out will actually do that for you on its own if you wait long enough.
"You're an ass," Wilson spat. "Start taking this seriously now or I'll leave you here to sort this out on your own."
"You wouldn't."
"Why? You don't think I have the guts to let you bleed out in your bathroom after turning your arms into sashimi—which, I'd like to point out, is entirely your fault and no one else's?"
Sashimi. Nice. House would remember that one for later. "Because you like seeing me suffer too much."
Wilson gawked in disbelief before throwing his arms into the air. "Wow! You caught me! I'm actually a sadist with zero empathy for the people around me. Oh, oh, wait, no—that doesn't sound like me. Sounds like... ah, what's his name, that one guy, starts with Gregory..."
"Oh, so it wasn't the terminal diagnosis that made you interested in that cancer patient chick?" House bit. "It was just her deep, thoughtful personality and great looks."
Wilson's gaze became a dark glare. "Don't."
"You definitely didn't like being her shoulder to lean on; heroically buying her groceries and keeping her warm through the cold, harsh night. She just happened to be weak and reliant on you. Total coincidence."
Nothing.
"I know I don't have a pair of funbags or breeding hips, but cutting myself's got to count for something."
"So, what, you're trying to say I'm gay now? That I'm—into you and I'm not going to leave because I'm turned on by your self-harm? House, you're being completely and utterly absurd!"
"I'd argue that having a fetish for the mentally ill and cancerous is completely and utterly absurd."
A beat.
Another.
Wilson crossing the room to the medicine cabinet and retrieving the first aid kit.
"And for the record, no, I don't think you're gay. You just perv indiscriminately."