Clarence probably wasn’t fooled, but he just said affably, “Sure thing, Doc,” and pushed the wheelchair into the bedroom.

Unsurprisingly, Clarence turned toward the corner where the air mattress was. On a whim, House said, “No, put me on the bed this time.” He still felt safer curled up in the corner , but there was something humiliating about retreating there when there was a stranger in the house. It was all right when it was just Clarence or Wilson--they understood. But to an outsider, someone who didn’t know, it would look like he was barely even human.

Clarence lifted him onto the bed and helped him arrange himself on his side, the way he liked. “Do you want to get under the covers?”

“No, this is okay.”

“Do you want a tape, or anything?”

“No. No, I’m fine.” If he listened to a tape, he wouldn’t be able to hear if anything alarming was happening in the rest of the apartment. Maybe that was what Clarence had in mind--but he thought not knowing what was happening would just make him more anxious.

“Just holler if you need anything.” Clarence left him alone.

Clarence had put him on the side of the bed nearest the door--where Wilson usually slept. The pillow smelled like the fancy shampoo Wilson used--sort of piney and spicy. Good old Wilson. He’d better appreciate all the trouble House was putting himself through for this prank.

He would, House knew. That was the thing about Wilson.

#

It was with some trepidation that Wilson opened his bedroom door. Monday and Tuesday had elapsed without any sign of House’s next prank, but he knew something had to be coming--particularly since he’d finally gotten rid of the last of the balloons. But his room appeared exactly as it had when he’d gotten dressed that morning. No balloons, no popcorn, no aluminum foil covering every surface. He hung up his tie and suit jacket, kicked off his shoes, and returned to the living room. “Any excitement today?”

“Not really,” House answered.

“Nothing to report,” Clarence added, putting on his coat.

“See you tomorrow.”

He sat down next to House. He was a little later than usual getting home; the second Simpsons rerun was almost over. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” House answered.

Wilson glanced over at him. “Did you have lunch?”

“Uh-huh. I’m just really hungry. Make something quick, okay?”

“Sure. I think we’ve got a frozen pizza.”

“Um, that might take too long. You know, heating up the oven, all that.”

What was even faster than pizza. “I could make some eggs, I guess.”

“Sounds great.”

Wilson went into the kitchen and got out the things he’d need for a quick omelette: eggs, cheese, peppers, and tomatoes. Turning on the stove, he dropped a knob of butter into a skillet to melt while he prepped the rest of the ingredients.

He whipped the eggs and seasoned them with a shake of salt and a few twists of freshly ground pepper, then glanced at the butter to make sure it wasn’t starting to burn. It wasn’t, so he turned to chopping the veggies. He’d finish it off with some fresh thyme, maybe a little marjoram. They’d need some kind of toast, too--English muffins would be good, if they had any left. If House was really as hungry as he said, he should make some extra to eat with jam, as a sort of dessert.

Once the vegetables were prepped, he picked up the bowl with the eggs and turned to pour it into the skillet, only to stop short when he saw that the butter hadn’t even started to melt. A glance at the knobs confirmed that he’d turned on the element, so what was the problem?

Sometimes a really cold lump of butter would sit in a puddle of its own meltingness and look like nothing had even happened. Picking up the skillet, he rotated his wrist to tilt the pan. If the butter had melted at all, it would slide across the pan, but--nothing.

He held his hand over the burner, then touched it. It wasn’t hot, or even warm. “Damn it,” he muttered. That was all he needed, for the stove to stop working. Who knew how long it would be before he could get a repairman in? Maybe he’d just get a new stove. The electric stove had come with the apartment, and he preferred gas, anyway.

Maybe only one burner was broken. He swapped the pan over to the other front burner and turned that one on.

Immediately, the butter started to melt and froth. That was weird--electric burners took a time to heat up; that was why serious cooks preferred gas ones. Frowning, Wilson turned down the heat.

The butter still melted quickly, so he poured in the eggs and went to the breadbox to start the toast.

They had four English muffins left, so he split all four and popped them in the oven to heat. Back on top of the stove, the eggs didn’t seem to be cooking as quickly as they should. He turned the heat back up and gave the eggs an experimental stir. They didn’t seem to have cooked much at all--maybe thickened a bit. He turned the dial up a little more.

Since he had nothing better to do, he diced the peppers up smaller. Maybe he’d make some cocoa. All that milk and sugar--tons of calories. Getting out a saucepan, he sat it on the back burner, behind the broken one.

Except when he reached over the burner, he felt heat radiating off of it. The broken burner was definitely working now. “What the fuck?”

“Something wrong with the stove?” House called from the living room.

“Yeah,” Wilson called back. Taking the skillet off the second burner, he felt that one. Before, it had been hot enough to melt the butter almost instantly, but now it was barely warm.

A moment later, he stormed into the living room. Hands on hips, he demanded, “How did you know there was something wrong with the stove?”

“You were swearing.” Along with the left-hand front burner of the stove, House’s mouth was another place butter would not melt.

“I could have dropped a dish, or burned myself, or realized we were out of marjoram, or twenty other things. You knew it was the stove,” Wilson accused.

“Maybe I’m developing the ability to read minds,” House suggested.

“Allow me to rephrase. What, exactly, did you do to the stove?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything to the stove. Cripple, remember?”

“What did you cause to be done to the stove? And remember, if you don’t tell me, I can’t cook for you. Ever again.” He was starting to suspect that House wasn’t, in fact, particularly hungry, but he just couldn’t wait for Wilson to discover the tampering on his own.

Suitably motivated, House ‘fessed up. “Had it rewired. Each knob controls one burner, but you’ll have to use the exciting process of trial and error to figure out which.”

“I’m surprised you talked an electrician into doing that. It‘s a fire hazard,” he pointed out. “What if I had something sitting on a burner I didn’t expect to heat up?”

House shrugged. “I told him he had to switch the controls so I could use the stove without reaching over a hot burner to turn the knob.”

“So the dials on the left control the burners on the right, and vice versa,” Wilson checked.

“Now you ruined the surprise,” House whined.

Wilson started to go back to the kitchen, then paused. “Did you do all that just to mess with me, or do you actually want to start using the kitchen?” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, or if it was even realistic. Clumsy as he was now, House could hurt himself even doing something as simple as boiling water.

“And put you out of a job? Not a chance.”

#