It's not that Wilson is complaining about his compromise with Julie, or about how their place is filled with Christmas decorations and his Hanukkiah in the background, almost blending in with the gold-and-red of the other holiday. He's happy his wife can celebrate Christmas, he's happy he can celebrate Hanukkah with her. It's not an issue; but coming to House's apartment and seeing the same disaster of always is oddly comforting.

 

It is Christmas Eve, about an hour and a half until midnight, and right now he should be cuddling with his wife, preparing to exchange gifts, something or the other. Instead, he's standing on the shadow of House's door, in an odd staring contest neither of them want to lose.

 

House is the first one to speak. "Abandoning the wife for Christmas?" he asks, pulling up his bottle of scotch to his lips and taking a long sip.

 

Wilson scoffs as he makes his way to sit next to him. "She won't mind," he says, as unsure as he is of that.

 

"It's *Christmas*," House repeats. "We goyim care a lot about the bearded old man with the gifts, you know this."

 

He sighs and rolls his eyes. "Julie doesn't mind I spend time with you," he says, acutely aware that he's not sure, and that one of his wives already left him over the fact. But it isn't at a time of need for House now. Everything is fine, and it's not like House depends on him anymore. He's not his sole axis of support. At least he hopes so. "I could get us some Chinese?" 

 

House looks at him, looks through him, and he tries not to shrink in on himself. House has been on a campaign of being more Jewish than him (not in an ethnic or religious sense, but simply by knowing more than him) for too many years to not be aware of how this means he'd prefer to hang out lazily with him than with his wife.

 

He used to eat Chinese with his parents this date, years ago. It's doing nothing for Christmas, and House accepts it (it's good that he's friends with a human version of the Grinch), and House can probably tell why he's escaping to him instead of *simply having a wonderful Christmastime* with his wife.

 

He gives him a little smile, the kind that tugs at his lips, and God, he's so doomed.

 

"That'd be great. I have the numbers written down, uh, somewhere."

 

He shakes his head. "I have one memorized. Let me make the call."

 

About half an hour later, there's a slew of plastic forks and paper boxes all over House's coffee table, as they make their way through the buffet of Chinese food they both had ordered (mainly because Wilson couldn't make his mind up about what to have, so House ordered all that sounded good to the both of them, which ended up being a lot). They both take sips of scotch and beer throughout the feast, smiling and joking around as a re-run of some old show plays on TV.

 

"Merry Christmas, House," he says.

 

House grins at him. "Happy Hanukkah to you, Wilson, and a not-so-merry Christmas to your wife."

 

He rolls his eyes. "She doesn't mind, House, really." 

 

They both know he's lying, but neither of them dare say anything about it.