There were times when James Wilson honestly regretted being the only friend to one Doctor Gregory House. Surprisingly, it was not when he was doing something horribly reckless and irresponsible that could threaten a life in the course of saving it, or when he was being a complete and utterly asshole during withdrawls. That, he could handle.

What Wilson hated, hated about House was when he was, in fact, just bored.

A light tap against his head.

Wilson sighed, closing his eyes, and tried counting backwards from ten, fingers drumming a beat against the table.






And another.




Maybe House finally got tired of-

Another tap... this one decidedly wet.

"Was that a spitball?" Wilson asked, incredulous, turning around so quickly that it nearly defied the physical limits of the human body, hand running through his hair in an attempt to get the projectile out. "Are you five years old?"

"Are you kidding?" House replied, sounding equally incredulous. "What kind of five year old has that kind of accuracy?"

For a moment, Wilson found himself unable to talk, struggling for words. Naturally, House used that as an opening for some more jabs.

"Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch," he muttered, waving his hand dismissively and turning away, "Your poofy hair is fine."

"My hair's not poofy," Wilson protested, sounding mildly offended.

House turned back around, pointing directly at Wilson's hair. "That is poofy. That is the definition of poofy."

"Poofy isn't a word!"

"It is in my book," House responded, that light, mocking smirk dancing on his lips as he turned away once again, seemingly satisfied by his victory-

When a thick paper projectile hit the back of his head.

House spun around, to stare at a poker-faced Wilson, who said sardonically, "At least I still have enough hair to be poofy."