It's such a pleasant afternoon that Wilson decides to drag his desk chair out on the balcony, prop his feet up on the low wall that separates him from House, and work on a stack of evaluations for his underlings while enjoying the warm sun and the twittering birds.

He heard the distinct thump of a cane against the carpet in his office, and House's voice shouted through the half open door, "Oh no! Kidnappers have taken Wilson and his chair."

"Hope they don't ask you for the ransom," Wilson muttered just loud enough for House's ears. He checked off yet another "Excellent" box. His couldn't smother the puff of pride in his chest; his team really was good.

House ambled his way out on the balcony as well, pushing the door open with a snort. "You underestimate me," he told Wilson. "I really admire that chair."

"It's good to have priorities." Wilson paused in the middle of the form, tapping his pen against his lips. Was Jensen good at working with others, or was he very good?

House leaned his cane against the wall by Wilson's feet and waved his right hand towards himself. "Give me your hands," he said.

Wilson didn't even look up, so inured to House's demands, apropos of nothing. "I'm using them right now," he replied, mumbling around the pen cap.

"Employee evaluations are not something anyone should be using opposable thumbs for," House said, wrinkling his nose at the stack of papers in Wilson's lap. He flapped his hand open and closed impatiently. "Now let me see."

Wilson considered his options for a moment and, when he realized that House would sooner dump a tube of toner all over these forms rather than give up his quest, he put down his pen and held out his hands with a sigh.

"My life line is okay," he drawled, "but how many children will I have, Madam Isis?"

"I'm guessing none, unless you adopt some cute foreign kid." House grabbed both of his palms and studied his fingertips intently. He moved Wilson's hands this way and that, a grin spreading over his face. "Yep. Looks like you're a member of the pink brigade, Jimmy."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Really? Am I wearing a pinky ring I don't know about?"

"Not breast cancer pink," House scoffed, "but honest to God, rainbow-flavored, window treatment-choosing gay." With a flourish, House pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket and dropped them on top of the forms in Wilson's lap. "Read it and weep, Mary."

Wilson dropped his feet back on the ground and scanned the article in front of him. "House," he sighed, "this is from New York magazine. The samples cited here are small at best and—"

"What's that?" House cupped a hand to his ear. "I can't hear you over all those rights I have but you don't."

"Just because my fingers are weird lengths doesn't make me gay." Wilson shoved the paper back at House, who caught it against his chest. "Sorry to burst your pseudo-science bubble."

"I liked that bubble." House smiled. "It's such wonderful entertainment." He limped behind Wilson without his cane, and Wilson tracked him with his wary eyes. "Don't worry, I'm not going to lynch you," House snorted. "Just face forward."

"What are you…?" But Wilson was cut off as House's hands cupped the back of his skull and tilted his head forward.

"Your hair grows in a counter-clockwise direction in the back," he remarked. "Another symptom of The Gay."

"House!" Wilson jerked his head out of House's grasp and turned around in his seat to glare at him. "Are you trying to get thrown off a balcony?" He shuffled the papers on his knees with angry, jerky motions. "You're just jealous I have hair on the back of my head, unlike some people I know."

Wilson picked up his pen, rolling it between his left thumb and forefinger, determined to ignore his friend and get some work done.

"You know what else the article mentions?" House said, leaning over Wilson's shoulder. "Gay men are fifty percent more likely to be left-handed."

Wilson slammed his pen down again, his face growing red. " New. York. Magazine," he repeated slowly. "Not the NEJM, not the AMA, not the CDC. You can't possibly be taking this seriously."

"There is one trait the article doesn't explore," House said.

Wilson's head swiveled around to look up at House. "What?" he asked testily.

House leaned down, gripping the back of the office chair with one hand for balance. The other hand passed over Wilson's face, fingertips dragging slowly across his parted lips, before House kissed the skin there. Lightly, methodically, without force.

Wilson opened his eyes, not aware they had drifted shut. House was still bent over the back of his chair, looking at him without any of the expected smugness.

"Wanting to kiss other guys," House explained quietly. "It's kind of a clue." He shrugged and held up one hand, letting Wilson see the long, tapered fingers that included an abnormally long ringfinger, longer than his index finger.

Wilson just stared, still clutching his paperwork in his lap. "Wow," he finally breathed. "Way to go, science."