A/N: Weird thing I wrote while I was supposed to be working on college applications, all done in one sitting, not proof-read and likely OOC. Also, I sincerely doubt that it makes any sense whatsoever. And I took the "Read less, more TV," line from an episode, as most everyone will probably know.

Pure Gospel

Late Saturday afternoon, and Wilson was in the passenger seat of House's illicit Corvette, leaning his head comfortably against the head-rest and grinning. Seriously grinning—not the kind of grin that came when he bust a gut laughing, which stretched his cheek muscles until his ears nearly wiggled, or the kind of grin he forced, showing all his molars, when Julie asked his opinion on a table setting and he couldn't tell the difference between Cream Paradise and Ivory Glory—oh, no, this was the real thing.

The radio was blaring, the top was down, the wind ruffled his hair, and he'd just had a very good lunch, topped off by a very good drink. He'd have to go back to his apartment in a little while, unfortunately. The place wasn't sterile; he'd filled it up with the proper things which belonged in a home (family photographs, television, refrigerator, two chairs, one table, one bed, one couch, other stuff that slipped his mind at the moment), but it just didn't feel like home yet. Maybe, Wilson thought, it never would. It wasn't his home, after all, and wasn't even as good as the other apartment, the one House had lost for him.

At the time, though, once he'd recovered from being more hair-tearing glass-shattering really-incredibly-pissed angry than he'd ever been in his life, he would have lost two more equally great apartments if he could've, because it was nice to know that House didn't mind having him around. Given, House didn't mind having him around only because he cooked and washed dishes, but if House had just desired those two qualities in a roommate he might have hired a maid years ago. But he hadn't wanted a maid, he'd wanted Wilson. That was nice—and so Wilson realized as House was sprawled on the floor, broken cane clattering across the tile, laughing like an idiot.

They'd gone to lunch that afternoon. It had been a day when Wilson could almost forget about House's infarction and pretty much everything bad in the world in general. For some reason, he was grinning. He moved his head slightly to the right and kept on. It had just been a damn good day.

Wilson was still looking out the window and listening to the radio when House glanced over at him and opened his mouth for what had to be the eighty-trillionth time in two hours.

"The song making you sleepy? Or was it the alcohol?"

"I had a beer, House," Wilson said. "You're the lightweight here, remember?" He smirked because House wasn't a lightweight at all.

"Just don't fall asleep in the car. Even if I wanted to lug your sack of dead weight into the house, my third leg might voice an opinion."

"I'm not going to fall asleep in your car. What am I, your date? Besides," Wilson said, smirking again, "what makes you think I'm drunk?"

"Well, judging from that grin," House said, "you're either drunk or high, and I've only seen you with alcohol."

"Dude. Coat pockets. Men's restroom."

"Dude. Breath check." House paused. "Also. Dude. It'd be obvious by now."

"You," Wilson said, grinning, "don't watch enough television. And I never thought I'd say those words."

"Read less, more TV. That's pure gospel. Who said it?" House screwed up his face and feigned thought. "Oh yeah. Me. Hence the phrase, 'pure gospel.'"

"If everything you said was pure gospel, Cuddy would be working for Hookers by now."

"And there's a problem with that?" House laughed. "What's with the grin? Annoying. Looks like Botox gone wrong."

"I don't know," Wilson said. "Maybe I'm happy."

"Because you're out of that apartment for once in your life?"

"Naw," Wilson said, "just happy." He looked at the road ahead and realized he was.

"Happy," House said. "With me? What are you, crazy?"

"Could be."

Wilson kept grinning and House kept running his mouth, and they both kept those things up all the way back home. And probably Wilson wouldn't be so happy tomorrow, but during the drive, with the seat, the radio, the wind, he'd wanted to freeze-frame the moment and keep it forever, for the times when life sucked again.

Eventually Wilson would realize that he didn't need to replicate the circumstances to replicate the feeling. Eventually he would realize that House made him happy, odd as that was, and he made House happy—because they were friends.