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Chapter Four - Makot Mitzrayim- All Hail House

"You've taken up cooking?" Wilson enquired as he wiped his hand over his sweaty forehead again and went back to his notes. He frowned suddenly as a thought struck him and cast about for his bag. That foil looked very familiar.

"No...I've found another cafeteria. They serve better sandwiches anyway." House emphasised his point by putting both sandwiches together and biting into the soft bread.

Long suffering, exasperated, annoyed. All of these things at once made Wilson put his hand up to his forehead and rub. "Is that my lunch." He demanded.

House didn't answer merely chewed. "Is it just me....or is the true art of sandwich making restricted only to those of your faith? How do you Jews do it?" he asked as he bit into the bread again.

Wilson sighed, deeply, again at the joke and put his pen firmly down.So many potential avenues to take in response but rather than get outright angry, which never irked the caustic diagnostician anyway, Wilson went with..."Sorry Pharaoh house....the secrets of my people's sandwich making is denied to you." He remarked sarcastically. "Now return the sandwich to ye old sacred lunch box lest the wrath of Egypt and the ten plagues of Princeton reign down upon on you." He held his hand out in a firm 'give that to me now' gesture.

House watched him and chewed his last mouthful. Carefully calculating the boundaries of which he could push in this instance. His blue eyes roved across his friends face a second before he gave a sniff and threw the half-eaten sandwich back into the foil, wrapped it haphazardly and placed the Tupperware box it resided in firmly back on the desk. Using his cane to knock it back into place as well as knocking over Wilson's lamp.

"I knew I never should have let your people go!" he exclaimed as he sat back in the chair. "But...the parting of the red sea was cool I suppose. Hard to ignore that."

Wilson scowled for the first time, his face etched with a mingle of annoyance and sweat."Let's see, if we continue your rather stereotypical assessment we have two choices either doomed to walk forty years in the desert or doomed to a rule of tyranny. Tough call." He began but the running joke between them came to a grinding halt as the oncologist was silenced by House's intensive, inquisitive gaze.

The unkempt looking doctor tilted his head slightly. His eyes flickering between the open windows and the air vent.

"What?" Wilson demanded as he followed his friends gaze around the room.

"It's a cool 68 degrees in here" House stated and flashed a piercing look back to Wilson's face. " Air conditioning is on and all of the windows are open...but you're sweating and still flushed. Are you sick?"

House rose slightly and leaning over the desk put the back of his hand on the unsuspecting Wilson's forehead. Wilson blinked then threw the hand off with a shrug and backed out of reach. He glared at House.

"It's not anything you'd be interested in." He told House whose expression stated very much the opposite. " I have a summer cold if you must know..." he deflected. " Why are you still in here anyway? You've gotten most of my lunch why aren't you in your own office? "

"You're air conditioning is working. Mines broken." He said in a bored way. "Summer cold hu? What are the symptoms? Low-grade fever? What 99.9-100.2?"

Wilson stretched and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if to alleviate the headache. He closed his eyes . " What has your hand gone digital now? That's impressive even for you."

The rumpled looking man in white band shirt and jeans didn't respond. Wilson opened his eyes to find the chair empty then jumped slightly when he noted movement to his left. House was now sitting on the edge of the desk closest to him. How the hell had he gotten there. The guy could be stealthy despite what his gait suggested.