Title: Nothing Like The Blues To Get You Down
Author: Sy Dedalus
Rating: T for language and drinking
Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: Acceptance
Summary: Scene fill-in based on the original script sides. House goes home after drinking with Clarence. House/Cam and House/Wilson overtones. One-shot…but a chaptered one-shot.
Notes: This picks up right before a commercial break, so the few lines you recognize from the show belong to Fox, David Shore, all those people, etc.

A/N: I couldn’t resist. I’m thinking this will be three chapters – four at most. Should be done before the next ep airs. (My other fics have not been abandoned, I swear!)

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Bad Day's Journey Into Night

“Man, you are drunk,” Clarence said.

“Yes I am,” House said proudly. “I also just saved your life.” He laughed and drank the shot. “At least for now.”

House laughed again and Clarence joined him. Clarence stopped after a while, but House kept laughing.

“It’s not that funny,” Clarence said in annoyance.

House slowly stopped laughing, ending with a sigh. “I guess not,” he said, grin slipping off his face. He poured a shot into Clarence’s specimen jar.

“Another?” House asked lifting it toward him.

Clarence eyed him, jaw clenched. “I don’t like being tricked,” he said stonily.

“You already had more than enough,” House said drunkenly. “In fact, you don’t need any more. This one’s mine.” He downed the shot.

“You keep doing that and I will kill you,” Clarence said seriously.

House’s shoulders shook with muted laughter. “Did you threaten your woman like that or go straight to bashing her head in?” he asked as he poured another.

He fed the shot to Clarence.

Clarence swallowed. “You’re one messed up motherfucker,” he said. “Coming in here like this.” He paused. “You could’ve sent homeboy.”

“Never send a boy to do a man’s job,” House said. He poured himself another shot and tossed it back.

“You drinking cause you didn’t hit that fine piece of ass?” Clarence asked.

House shrugged. He was several shots over his usual limit but he felt good. Numb. Very, very drunk. Much too drunk to talk about Cameron with Death Row Guy. He shook his head slightly, not saying anything.

“I’ve been to doctors before,” Clarence continued. “None of ‘em ever drank with me.”

“You weren’t going to the right doctors,” House said blearily with a sloppy grin. He downed another shot.

He should have stopped drinking once he told Clarence why they’d been drinking together, but honestly, he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t think he could stop at this point. One third of the bottle was left and even if he’d had more to drink than Clarence, he hadn’t had enough yet. He wasn’t finished.

Clarence considered him for a moment. “I’ve seen uglier brothers than you hook up with something that fine,” he said.

“You come clean with me, I come clean with you?” House said tiredly. “That how it works on the inside?”

He poured another shot and fed it to Clarence.

“I’m just sayin’,” Clarence said, “Man like you drinks for a reason or you wouldn’t be where you are.” He turned his head and shook it a little. “Who’m I gonna tell anyway?”

House sighed and gave a drunk giggle that could’ve been happy or sad.

“Not everything is about sex,” he said. He offered Clarence another drink.

“Man, you don’t make any sense,” Clarence said after he swallowed. “I don’t want no more of that,” he said. “Hangover’s a bitch.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” House said. He drank another shot. “That bag hanging over your head,” he indicated drunkenly to it, “will take care of you.” He squeezed his eyes shut; the room was starting to sway dangerously. “Just…relax and enjoy it.”

He blinked heavily again. He hadn’t been this drunk in a long time. “One more for the road,” he said, more to himself than to Clarence, and poured two more shots.

He offered one to Clarence. Clarence glanced questioningly at him but took it.

“Cheers,” House said and drank the other one.

He screwed the cap on the bottle and placed his left hand on the rail of the bed, gripping his cane with his right hand. He stood up and swayed unsteadily before he had his feet under him.

“Oh man,” he said to himself and shook his head, trying to clear it. “This was a bad idea,” he said and laughed.

“You’re nuts,” Clarence mumbled, starting to go down after all the alcohol he’d had.

“Yeah,” House agreed and took a staggering step forward. He accidentally put weight on his leg before putting weight on the cane and collapsed with a grunt onto the floor.

“Ow,” he said laughing, “that really hurt.” He laughed again until he started coughing. He tried to pick his head up. He couldn’t make it: too wasted to move. Suddenly lying on the floor looking at the space under Clarence’s bed didn’t seem so bad.

“Sounded like it hurt,” he heard Clarence say from above. “Dude with a cane—maybe you shouldn’t drink. Might fall on your ass.”

There was a beat of silence before they both exploded into laughter.

“That’s not—” House said, trying to stop laughing, “that’s not very funny,” he finished, but he couldn’t stop laughing. “It really hurt.” He laughed again.

“I know,” Clarence said between guffaws, “it sounded like it.”

“I can’t believe,” House said, sides aching with laugher, “I can’t believe the guards haven’t come in.” He snickered.

“You shut the blinds,” Clarence said laughing, “they didn’t see you.”

“Oh yeah,” House said giggling, “I did.”

“Yeah,” Clarence laughed, “you’re screwed.”

“Nah,” House said, settling down. He coughed a laugh and sighed. “I’m comfortable here. I can see your pee, though. That’s weird.” He paused. “Guess you’ve got a roommate now.”

“I got a roommate,” Clarence said, affronted but still half-laughing. “I want little missy back if I got to have a roommate.”

“She’ll be back,” House said, starting to wallow. He sighed. “She always comes back.”

“You better get her when she does,” Clarence advised. “Let a fine piece like that go to waste, you’re no kind of man.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” House said sleepily.

Too much liquor. He was really drunk. Really, really drunk. Tomorrow was gonna suck…but…that was tomorrow. Right now, he felt good and numb and sleepy. This wasn’t so bad. A nap would be good. Or another drink. But he’d have to get up to get another drink. Nap it was, then.

“House!”

House made no attempt to get up. He didn’t even turn his head. He knew what Cuddy’s shoes looked like.

“I think that’s my boss,” House said from the floor to Clarence. “She look angry?”

“Yeah, man, she looks pissed,” Clarence said. “Wouldn’t want to be you right now.”

“House!” Cuddy barked again. “You got drunk?!”

“He’s very drunk, ma’am,” Clarence said to Cuddy. To House he said, “You’re in trouble.”

“I saved his life,” House said to Cuddy. He couldn’t help himself and started giggling stupidly. “He drank all this copier toner,” House said. “Ask him. He did.”

“I don’t know ‘bout no copier toner,” Clarence said to Cuddy with a straight face.

“Oh, not cool,” House said to Clarence. “Methanol level,” he told Cuddy from the floor. “Check it.”

Cuddy had knelt down by that point. “You’re an idiot,” she hissed.

“Say it, don’t spray it,” House mumbled with a laugh. He heard Cuddy sigh in exasperation and leave the room, then he heard her talking to the guards.

“You in bad trouble,” he heard Clarence say.

He tried to say something witty and it came out garbled and nonsensical instead. He groaned to himself, realizing he was on the verge of a blackout. Perfect.

“If I pass out, you got my back?” he tried to say to Clarence, pushing himself up feebly. It came out as a jumbled mess and he fell back to the floor. “Oww uhhhnnnn.”

He heard Clarence laugh and Cuddy’s footsteps; both sounded distant.

“House! If you pass out—”

House missed the rest of the threat.

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To be continued.

Oooo. I like. And done before Tuesday? Yay!

So, chapter 2? ;)

*pokes head out from under weeks of 12-16 hour workdays*

*reads fic*

*taps foot anxiously, checks watch, waiting for MORE, please, MORE*

Thanks guys. :)

I did this last night instead of grading papers. I consider it time well-spent. But now I have to grade papers. <_<

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Sick, Sad World

Blinding, piercing light stabbing his eyelids. Someone yelling in an obnoxious yet familiar voice.

“House! Get up!”

Ow, God, right in his ear. Cuddy was too evil for words.

Somehow the light got brighter.

“Wake him up now and he’ll spew.”

Sarcastic. He knew that tone and the voice that went with it. And she was totally wrong.

“Saves money on a gastric lavage,” Cuddy said in a disparaging tone. Then, loudly and in his ear again: “House! Wake. Up.”

Jesus, the woman was Satan. She really was Satan. Horns, forked tail, and all.

“I’m just telling you, be prepared,” Stacy said. “He can’t hold his liquor.”

For a moment, it was nice to wake up drunk and hear her talking, no matter what she was saying because for a moment, he forgot. This was very familiar. Good, too. He was trashed, she was saying something nettling to him: like old times. Then revulsion overcame him and he remembered why the sound of her voice made him feel sick, dead, and angry all at once. God. Why was she here?

He heard the slosh of liquid.

“Is this what he was drinking?” she asked.

More sloshing. Ugh. He had some sloshing going on himself. Cuddy was an evil, horrible Satan of a bitch. But he was still too drunk to be actually bothered by any of this. Numb. Drunk and sleepy and good.

Stacy let out a low whistle. “Bacardi 151? It’s rum and it’s double the regular proof. Oh yeah. Wake him up now and he will definitely spew.”

Liar.

“Will not,” he mumbled. As if she knew. She’d been gone for five years. He’d changed. Well… his drinking habits had, anyway.

“Will to,” Stacy said. “I went through four rugs with him,” she said to Cuddy.

“That’s why we don’t carpet hospital rooms,” Cuddy said in a weary, ‘I can’t believe he’s done it again’ tone. “House. I’m not going to tell you again. Wake. Up.”

“Or you’ll do what?” House asked sloppily, bringing up an arm to block out the light. “Spank me?”

Cuddy and Stacy responded at the same time: “You wish,” Cuddy said. “You’d like it too much,” Stacy said.

“Ooo,” House responded with a giggle. “Raow.”

He cracked his eyes open, shading them with a hand. Hospital room. One of the empty ones that had been cleared when Death Row Guy took over the floor. Stacy and Cuddy were two blurry shapes on his left. They’d left him fully clothed, but that could change. Alone in a room with two foxy ladies…

“Let’s have a threesome,” he suggested. “Start kissing each other. I need visual stimuli to get me going. I’ll just be a second.”

Stacy rolled her eyes. “That’s too easy,” she said. “You’ve gone soft.” But, unable to resist, she added, “Like you could participate anyway.” She turned to Cuddy. “He’s useless when he’s this drunk.”

“I know,” Cuddy said grimly.

“I can get it up faster than Boy Toy any day,” House protested drunkenly.

“You do everything faster than Mark,” Stacy said derisively.

“Except legally shack up with you,” House responded.

“Because that’s what really matters in a relationship,” Stacy said sarcastically.

“You would know,” House said.

“That’s not even a comeback,” Stacy said.

“Whatever,” House said with a dismissive wave that threw his balanced off despite the fact that he was lying down. He grunted and rubbed his face. He was way too drunk to be trading barbs with Stacy. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“I like to watch you suffer,” Stacy said with a look that managed to be both nasty and playful.

“Yeah, because watching is all you’re good at,” House said blearily.

“You would know about that,” Stacy retorted.

“Oh, good one,” House said sarcastically.

“Give it a rest,” Cuddy said, more to Stacy than to House. “Jeez.” She turned back to House. “Stacy is here to determine whether you violated the patient’s rights.”

“And that,” Stacy affirmed.

“Can’t get enough of me, can you,” House said with a stupid grin.

“House,” Cuddy said threateningly.

“She started it,” House said.

“Can we focus on the patient?” Cuddy said. House and Stacy both looked like they wanted to keep snipping at each other, but both held their tongues. “Thank you,” Cuddy said. “House. Did you force him to drink?”

“I saved his life,” House protested. “What the hell?”

“Answer the question,” Cuddy said.

“No,” House said. “He’s on death row. He’s not a teetotaler.”

“Okay,” Cuddy said, “but you didn’t inform him that you were treating him.”

“You asked him?” House said incredulously. “You believed him? The man’s drunk.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I can’t believe you’d take his word over—wait.” House paused, looking right at Cuddy, though she was blurry around the edges and wavering. “He complained that I brought him a drink? He actually complained? Yeah, I believe that.”

Cuddy looked at him doubtfully.

“I stopped a suicide attempt,” House said. “The patient would be dead now if I hadn’t got him drunk.” He tried to fix his eyes on Cuddy, but she was multiplying into twos and fours. He shifted his gaze to the wall, but it was multiplying too. “You woke me up for this?” he said, closing his eyes. Now the orange of his eyelids was rotating. Great.

“No,” Cuddy replied. “I woke you up because you ‘fell flat on your face’ according to your patient and as much as I’d like to believe your head is harder than the floor, it isn’t. Yet.”

House wanted to roll his eyes at her comment but something told him that would be a very bad idea.

“I didn’t force the guy to drink with me and I don’t have a head injury,” he declared, throwing an arm over his face again. “Kill the light. I’m going back to sleep.”

“House,” Cuddy threatened. “You managed to give yourself a black eye. I have to check you out.”

“Not if you make the lawyer go away and say you did,” House said from under his arm. “I won’t squeal.”

Cuddy rolled her eyes and held up three fingers. “How many fingers?”

“Twenty-five,” House said, face still covered by his arm.

Cuddy moved his arm and he reacted too slowly to counter it, getting off-balance again.

“Hey,” he said belatedly, “that’s assault.” He looked over at Stacy. “Did you see that?” he said. “Assault.”

“Making you drink with her is much closer to assault than moving your arm so she can see if you cracked your skull,” Stacy said.

“She grabbed me,” House complained. “You grabbed me,” he said to Cuddy.

“You liked it,” Cuddy countered. She held up her index finger. “Track,” she commanded.

“Too drunk for that,” House complained, closing his eyes and sinking dizzily against the mattress.

“No, you’re not,” Cuddy responded. “Come on.”

“Before you do that,” Stacy interrupted, handing Cuddy a bowl. “He really can’t hold his liquor.”

“I’m not going to throw up,” House said. “I’m fine.” His stomach was told him he was lying, but they didn’t need to know that.

Cuddy’s eyes narrowed—House’s face had a green tinge to it that had nothing to do with the lighting in the room—and she took the bowl from Stacy, nodded her thanks. She held up her finger again. “Follow it,” she said.

House opened his eyes and did his best to glare at her. He ended up looking stupidly drunk instead. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Not happening.”

“Track my finger or you’re getting a CT scan,” Cuddy threatened.

“You wouldn’t waste money on me like that,” House said, staring blankly ahead at her without realizing it.

“Try me,” Cuddy replied. “Finger. Now.” She slowly moved her finger back and forth in front of his face.

House made a noise and put a hand on his stomach. “I am so aiming for your shoes if you make me do this,” he muttered.

“You will so owe me $200 if you do,” Cuddy said and gave him the bowl. She held up her finger again. “While we’re young.”

House followed her finger back and forth once before he leaned to his right and started heaving.

“Don’t say it, Stacy,” he said, swallowing, “I can give Boy Toy a tummy virus any time I—”

His stomach cut him off and Stacy and Cuddy looked away in disgust.

“Four rugs?” Cuddy asked conversationally over the sounds House was making.

Stacy nodded, her nose scrunched and upper lip curled.

“I believe it,” Cuddy said dourly.

“I started putting plastic down after the fourth one,” Stacy said. “Puppies with bowel control problems are cleaner.”

“Cuter too,” Cuddy added. “And probably less smelly.”

“Are you two finished?” House panted.

They both turned to face him with the same skeptical look on their faces.

“Are you?” Cuddy asked.

House paused for a moment, panting. “No,” he groaned and leaned over the bowl again.

Cuddy and Stacy turned back toward each other.

“This is like a bad re-run,” Stacy said, completely grossed out, and turned toward the door. “Let me know if the patient complains, but if the lab results prove that Pukeface was right about a suicide attempt, the hospital isn’t liable. Neither is he.”

“Great,” Cuddy said. She shook her head at House. “Can you not be so loud?” she called.

“Shut up,” House got out between heaves.

“He’ll have a killer headache in the morning,” Stacy said over her shoulder as she walked toward the door. “That’s the best time to yell at him.”

Cuddy smiled wryly. “Thanks,” she said.

“You’re going to hell for that,” House called.

“I’ll see you there,” Stacy called back over the sound of more retching.

She turned to cross the threshold and nearly collided with Cameron.

“What’s going on?” Cameron asked, cringing as she looked past Stacy and saw House bent over.

“He’s being his lovable self,” Stacy said with a disgusted yet mildly amused face. “He’s all yours.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Cameron said, having put the noises together with House’s posture.

“Really?” Stacy said, cocking her head to the side. “I thought… well, maybe it’s for the best.”

“If I wasn’t over him before,” Cameron said, craning her neck to get a glimpse of House, then making a disgusted face, “I am now. Eww.”

Stacy shrugged. “If you ever change your mind, remember to keep him away from rum, gin, and tequila, and you should be fine.”

“And if not?” Cameron asked.

“Well…” Stacy said and indicated with her head to House. “Go with tile flooring.”

“O…kay,” Cameron said and moved to let Stacy by.

Cameron stepped tentatively toward Cuddy. “I have some test results I wanted to go over with him… but… maybe this isn’t the best time.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Cuddy said sarcastically.

Cameron stepped closer, concern filling her face. House was dry heaving violently. “Is he all right?” she asked.

“He’ll be fine,” Cuddy assured her, arms crossed over her chest.

House finally finished. “Have you told her yet?” he asked Cameron breathlessly.

“I still think it’s—”

“Go tell her,” House interrupted. He spat into the bowl and looked over at Cameron. “And never rat me out again. I could’ve slept this off.”

“I was worried about the patient—”

“The piece of dirt?” House said flippantly. “Wasn’t that how you put it?”

Cameron’s jaw clenched.

“If you’re so worried about him, go give him a kiss,” House said. “That’ll make him feel much better.”

Cameron’s jaw clenched tighter. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said briskly. She turned on her heel and left.

House set the bowl aside and leaned back on the bed, trying to catch his breath.

“You are such an idiot,” Cuddy said in a voice that was sympathetic, sad, and amused all at once.

“Why are you still here?” House griped.

“Hello,” Cuddy said. “Header to the floor.” She demonstrated his fall by raising one hand to 90 degrees and letting it hit the other with a splat.

“It was more of a tumble,” House muttered, closing his eyes and trying to settle in for a nap.

“Whatever,” Cuddy said. “Take your pants off.”

“You can’t take advantage of me just because I’m drunk,” House said, but he was already unbuttoning his jeans.

“Whoa there slick,” Cuddy said. “Don’t humiliate yourself any more than you already have. I just need to see if you did any damage.”

House’s fingers stopped working. “Oh,” he said, disappointedly. “No. I’m fine.”

Cuddy looked hard at him, weighing his words. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if anything—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” House said.

Cuddy’s expression softened. She held up her index finger again. “One more time.”

“Aw, no way,” House said, closing his eyes.

“You failed the first time,” Cuddy pointed out.

“I’m not doing it again,” House protested.

“I’ll schedule you for a CT scan then,” Cuddy said and started to leave.

House sighed wearily. “Fine,” he said. “But slowly.”

Cuddy conceded with a nod of her head and slowly moved a finger back and forth. House followed it twice before he closed his eyes with a groan.

“I need to stop,” he said, swallowing thickly. “I passed, though.”

“You did,” Cuddy confirmed.

He heard her pouring something and opened his eyes to a squint.

Cuddy showed him a cup of water and put it down within his reach. “Drink this,” she said. “Wilson will be here to take your sorry butt home when he’s done for the day.” She consulted her watch. “In about half an hour.”

House put on his best puppy dog expression. “You could take me home,” he suggested.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. “I don’t know how she put up with you,” she said.

“Who? Stacy?” House said. “You just—”

“No,” Cuddy interrupted. “Your mother.”

“Ha ha,” House said sarcastically. He looked at the table to his left. “Stacy didn’t take the—ah, there it is.” He reached for the bottle of rum.

“You’re not serious,” Cuddy said.

“I’m always serious,” House replied, unscrewing the top.

“I’ll tell Wilson to bring a plastic bag,” Cuddy said.

“You do that,” House said and took a swig from the bottle.

“Drink the water, House,” Cuddy advised.

“Turn the light off,” House said.

“Such an idiot,” Cuddy muttered, but she did as he asked and left quietly.

House took another drink and sighed to himself. He paused for a moment, feeling like he should reflect on what had just happened, but unable to pull the mental resources together to make that happen, then put the cap back on the bottle, flopped against the mattress, and was snoring in no time.

This is one to savour- 23/10 - fabulous stuff! Loved drunkHouse and SnarkThreesome- so great. And Wilson on the way too -

And Cameron too, however much she annoyed me in the ep she was well worth it for the "I coulda hit that". Great intervention into the circus. Loved Cuddy and the finger test. This is wonderful- cheers :D A pass with flying drunk colours!

Poor House, no one lets him just deal with his misery in his own way.

Love this bit even though it seems as painful as the hangover itself:

And hey, you forced me to go check my TiVo for a black eye.

Thanks. :)

So I'm not going to meet my deadline to have this finished by tonight, but I'm close, durnit. If I hadn't had to grade papers this weekend or go to the IU/Kentucky football game (Go Big Red! 3-0!) or do work for classes, it could've happened. But alas. You'll have to wait till Thursday. ;P

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What’s Eating Wilson?

Light on again.

Good God. Was there no end to their meddling?

House growled and flung an arm over his eyes to block the light.

“Sleeping here,” he muttered. “Turn it off.”

He caught a whiff of Wilson’s cologne above the general stink of alcohol. Oh, right. Didn’t Cuddy say something about Wilson?

House heard a tired, impatient sigh. Someone wasn’t in the best mood it seemed. Wilson must have his hands on his hips in self-righteous anger and annoyance. Sheesh. Sometimes he was worse than Cuddy and Cameron combined.

“So, what did you do to yourself this time?” Wilson asked in a weary, ‘nothing you can do will ever surprise me’ tone.

Oh yeah. He wasn’t happy.

“Go away,” House mumbled.

“Mom says I have to drive you home,” Wilson said shortly. “Move it. I need to get home myself tonight.”

“Why do I have to go home?” House whined, wishing he could turn onto his side away from Wilson and that annoying light. “It’s not like you need the room.”

“Cuddy wants to preserve some semblance of normalcy,” Wilson said. He clapped House’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“I’m fine here,” House said, not moving, arm still over his eyes. “Chuckles and her ace attorney lectured me on coercion today. The gist was to not do it. I’m sure it applies to nice oncologists too, so turn off the light and let me go back to sleep or I’ll get Stacy to do that thing she does.”

“You couldn’t get Stacy to do anything for you right now,” Wilson said.

“I could get her to leave me again,” House said, “which more than I can say about you right now.” He sighed. “I’m busy. Go away.”

“House,” Wilson said in a no-nonsense tone, “you’re going home. I’m taking you there. That’s the reality of the situation. Now come on.”

House said nothing, hoping Wilson would take the hint and leave.

Wilson sighed angrily. “Come on. Let’s go.”

House still said nothing.

“Now!” Wilson shouted.

House jumped, startled by the volume of Wilson’s voice. Wilson never yelled.

“Jeez, keep it down,” House mumbled. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

He heard Wilson sigh again. Yeah, Wilson wasn’t happy at all.

“Stacy, for one,” Wilson said, annoyed. “She gave me another one of those ‘talk some sense into him’ looks a few minutes ago despite my assertion that I’d already tried that and failed miserably, and I had to listen to two rants about you in the space of only one hour this morning. Then there’s Cameron and the patient you refuse to treat, so she comes to me wanting me to do your job because you can’t give her five minutes of your time. My wife still hates me and not only do I not have time to pick up flowers for her on the way home, but I’ll probably be late for my daily attempt to make up for years of coming home late. And you. You’re—you.”

“All in one ass?” House said. “That’s one cavernous ass.”

“House.”

“It is.”

“Come on.”

House groaned in annoyance. “I’ll pay for the room if that’s what Cuddy wants,” he mumbled.

“One night here is more than my monthly mortgage payment,” Wilson said. “Besides that, if you go home, it’s easier for the few of us who care about your welfare to delude ourselves into thinking you’ll eat and sleep like a normal person. Let us have our illusions while we still can.”

House groaned again. “I’m comfy. I promise to send a med student out for food when I get up. Go home and make nice with the wife.”

Wilson said nothing for a moment and House thought he had him convinced. He felt the sweet numbness of alcohol taking over and making him stupid and sleepy again. So nice…

Then he heard a familiar sloshing. Wilson could take the bottle. Whatever. As long as he left.

“You’re almost out of this,” Wilson said, no longer sounding angry. “Got more stashed in your office?”

House didn’t answer. Wilson’s changing tactics wasn’t going to lure him away from his bed.

He heard Wilson put the bottle down.

“Okay,” Wilson said calmly. Cold anger now. Burr. “It’s like this. Either I take you home where I’m sure you have enough booze to get the entire city drunk for a few weeks, or you stay here with nothing to drink and I sic Cuddy and Stacy on you. And Cameron too.”

“They’ve already paid their respects,” House muttered.

“Even so,” Wilson said, “Stacy practically lives here right now and I know she’d enjoy ripping into you all night. She actually tracked me down to yell at me about you. She’s angrier at you right now than Cuddy has been in a long time: she’s not going to forgive or forget that court order monkey business any time soon. Do you really want her to be here when the hangover begins?”

“I’ll deal with it when it happens,” House said.

“Fine,” Wilson said. “It’s happening now.”

House heard footsteps. Wow. Wilson was serious. And seriously pissed.

He sighed. “Okay, okay,” he said.

The footsteps stopped.

House moved his arm and felt around in his coat pocket, cracking his eyes open. He was not going to ride home with that at the wheel without a little… There. He pulled them out and thumbed the top off in one expert motion. He was about to shake one or two into his palm when Wilson snatched the bottle.

“No,” Wilson said.

House stared at him for a second. Did he just…? “My leg hurts,” he said lamely.

“You took one two hours ago,” Wilson said putting the pill bottle in his pocket. “It’s not time yet.”

“I changed my schedule yesterday,” House said defensively. “Six, ten, two. It’s around six. But more importantly, my leg is telling me it’s time right now.”

Wilson rolled his eyes and sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ate lunch with you yesterday,” he pointed out. “I know you’re still on eight, twelve, four because I was there for twelve.” He shook his head. “But this all incorrectly presupposes you actually stick to a schedule. I know you. You took one—maybe two—before you went to see the inmate. Add those to the alcohol and you can’t even feel it right now.”

“You’re not the one attached to the damn thing,” House grumbled. “I fell on it. It hurts.”

“You fell on it?” Wilson echoed skeptically. He stared at House for a moment, then shrugged. “All right,” he said lightly. “Drop your pants. If I find anything to substantiate that, you can have one.”

House mumbled an obscenity. Wilson was right. One of the blessings of alcohol was that if he had enough of it in him, he really couldn’t feel the leg. Add a Vicodin to that…or two Vicodin, since he’d taken two for courage before visiting Death Row Guy and… Damn Wilson. Damn him for being right.

“I thought so,” Wilson said.

“Stacy, Cuddy, and Cameron were in here all at once a while ago,” House argued. “I get to have something for sitting through that.”

“Cuddy told me you crawled back into the bottle,” Wilson said, “and I don’t find that very hard to believe. So you’re good.”

House made a face and mumbled something mean about Cuddy.

“Okay,” Wilson said decisively. “I’m going to get your briefcase and lock your office. You’re going to sit up and do any barfing you’ve got to do before we get to the car, and when I get back here, you’re going to be ready to go.”

“And if I don’t do any of that?” House asked.

Wilson shook the bottle of pills. “I’ll only give you three to take home.”

“You’re not that cruel,” House said.

“Not usually, no,” Wilson said, “but today…”

House grumbled something unintelligible.

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Wilson said. “Either you do this or I’ll get Cuddy and God only knows what Cuddy will do. After that, I’ll get Stacy and I have a very, very good idea of what she’ll do.”

“You’re a monster,” House muttered.

“I learned from the master,” Wilson said tiredly.

“Low,” House said. “Very low.”

“You set the bar that way,” Wilson said with a shrug. “It’s almost impossible to go any lower, but I’ll try.”

“Jeez,” House said. “I don’t want to be in an enclosed space with you any time soon.”

“Welcome to my life,” Wilson said. He picked up the bottle of rum. “I want you sitting up, ready to go when I get back.”

House groaned to himself. “Fine.”

“Good,” Wilson said. “Ten minutes.”

House grumbled as he watched Wilson go and started slowly working his way up. Stupid Wilson. His buzz was history. Stupid, stupid Wilson. He did not relish a ride home with an angry Wilson—ever—but especially not now. His buzz was gone and he knew what came after that. But Wilson had his pills and he’d taken the rum, too, so House was defenseless. He groaned to himself as he sat up. Stupid Wilson.

Ooh - drunkHouse and cheesedWilson - fabulous ingreiants for a snark fest. Too many awesome lines so I'll go for this one as my fave bit.

Pill counting is cool and the irony that although House appears to need looking after its really Wilson who could use booze and someone looking out for him is perfect. All round top stuff and on top of marking papers - you must be one of those insane people who does more the more they have to do. I know you don't have to do this but you make such a great job it should be mandatory :) .

Quoting this because I'm a sad sod and Wilson and 'God Only Knows' in the same line made me happy.

Cheers :)

Benj

Thanks B. I may be one of those insane types. Take this as evidence. ;)

-----------------------------

Sweet, Sweet Revenge

Wilson jiggled the key in the lock of House’s office door. There was a little trick to getting it open that seemed effortless when House did it, but Wilson rarely found himself locking or unlocking House’s office and the little trick was hard to do with a bottle of rum in one hand.

Dammit, House.

“Dr. Wilson?”

There. He pushed the door open.

“Yes, Cameron?” he said over his shoulder in a tight voice. He sensed that he was going to have the same conversation with her that he’d had earlier today and he was already annoyed enough as it was.

She followed him into House’s office and stood awkwardly in the semi-dark until Wilson turned the desk lamp on.

“I…uhh…have some test results and a few theories about Cindy Kramer I’d like to run past you if…”

“I can’t right now, I’m sorry,” Wilson said as he rounded House’s desk and put the bottle down.

Cameron shifted her weight but made no move to leave.

Wilson found House’s briefcase and started checking for keys, wallet, iPod—all of the essentials.

He gave her time and… damn, she wasn’t leaving.

“The x-rays were very conclusive,” he said as he dug around in the bag. “Have you done a biopsy?”

“Not yet,” Cameron said.

“Why not?” Wilson asked.

“I’d rather not put her through a painful procedure unless it’s necessary,” Cameron said.

Wilson stopped packing House’s stuff and stared at Cameron. His first impulse was to yell—he was very angry right now—but Cameron didn’t deserve to be yelled at for something House had done.

“You know, he’s not going to listen to you until you get a biopsy,” Wilson said sagely, with a hint of annoyance. “He may be capricious, but once a whim has him working in one direction, he doesn’t give up on it until the patient is either cured or dead, and until that happens, it’s impossible to get him to think about anything else. You work for him. You should know that better than I do.”

Cameron shifted her weight again but didn’t leave.

Wilson made one more cursory scan of the room to make sure he had everything and slung House’s bag over his shoulder.

“Get the biopsy,” he said, starting toward the door.

Cameron stepped out of the room and stood beside him while he locked up. It was like having a mosquito buzzing in his ear that he couldn’t swat at.

And she still wasn’t going away.

He sighed.

“Telling her is hard enough in itself,” he said. He slipped his keys into his pocket and turned to face Cameron. “Waiting to tell her only does one thing in a case like this: it makes you miserable. Get the biopsy.”

Cameron looked stricken. Wilson didn’t wait for her to protest. He turned toward the elevators.

“Dr. Wilson,” she said before he’d taken two steps.

He stopped and turned around. He’d always liked Cameron, but right now he could understand why House said some of the things he said about her. He really, really could. And he sympathized.

“Is Dr. House all right?”

Wilson stared at her for a moment. Still…? But House said that she said that…? And couldn’t she hear the jarring crash House made every time he tripped over himself trying to win Stacy back? And she was still…? Maybe someone in this hospital was crazier than House.

“Have you ever been drunk?” Wilson asked matter-of-factly.

Cameron pressed her lips together and said nothing.

“Then you know,” Wilson said with a shrug.

He turned around again and walked toward the elevators.

“Bug him about it tomorrow morning if you still haven’t done the biopsy,” he tossed over his shoulder. “He’ll be all ears. All ears.”

He heard the echo of Cameron’s footsteps as she walked the other way.

Wilson grinned wickedly to himself. Even if House threw up all over his car, he had his revenge. And it was sweet. Very sweet.

Mean, mean Wilson. Not that I don't blame him.

I think you've got a good vibe going here with Wilson being pissed off at House. It's normal for friends to be pissed with each other every once in a while (witness the "Go to hell" comment from last night's episode), especially with high stress individuals involved. The thing with House and Wilson's relationship, I think -- and which you touch on here -- is that it has a lot of elastisicty to it. It can be stretched and strained, yet bounces back.

Love Wilson's deadpan to Cameron's desire for drama and his exasperation with House and the needle is perfect. Great work, as always- insanity is so damn rewarding! :)

Cheers

Benj

Thanks guys. :) Well, this fic has come to an end. Yay! I hope you all like it and now I can get back to my other fics....eh, after I grade papers and do ten other things. ;)

--------------------------------

Muddy Waters Running Clear

To Wilson’s surprise, House actually was ready to go when he returned. Well, sort of. Wilson found him leaning into a corner next to the door, all of his weight on his left side with his shoulder and head mashed against the wall as though he’d tried to tackle it and had gotten stuck, cane gripped loosely in his right hand, half-asleep. A line of drool was inching its way down his chin and he was snoring softly.

Wilson couldn’t help himself: he smiled for a few seconds at the sight before he barked House’s name.

House started awake with a confused noise, slamming his head into the corner and falling half-way down the wall before he caught himself.

“Ow, dammit,” House cursed, rubbing his head.

“New trick?” Wilson said amusedly.

“I’m doing water into wine next,” House said, straightening up and wiping the drool off of his chin with a look of disgust. “Or water into whisky,” he mumbled.

He glanced up at Wilson, who was waiting with an expectant look on his face.

“Onward, fearless leader,” he said.

Wilson didn’t move, but his expression became amused, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

“Mush!” House commanded.

“After you,” Wilson said, smiling now and extending a hand as he bowed slightly.

“Whatever it is,” House said, “it’s not funny.”

Wilson nodded out the door, indicating that House should go first.

“What?” House said. Wilson was making him paranoid with that sly grin. House saw nothing funny about the room or the situation and deduced that Wilson was laughing at him. “You suck,” he said.

Wilson indicated to the door again, his grin broadening.

“Seriously, what is it?” House said.

“Nothing,” Wilson said.

House gave him a murderous look.

Wilson rolled his eyes. “I want to see if you can— Go.” He gestured toward the door again.

House glared at him and took a step forward. He lurched and had to grab the door frame to stop himself from falling. He blinked hard at the dizziness that threatened to overtake him and send him sprawling. Wilson tried hard to contain his laughter.

“Cripple fall down?” House said with annoyance. “That amuses you?”

Wilson’s sides were shaking. “I just wanted to see if— Never mind. Go ahead. I’ve got your back.”

House’s eyebrows knit together, making him look even more stupidly drunk. “I don’t trust you to walk behind me right now,” he said. “The circle of trust is closed off.”

He tried to illustrate the circle of trust, taking his hand off of the door frame, and lurched forward. He caught himself before he fell and glared at Wilson as though his inability to maintain balance was Wilson’s fault. He shifted his weight onto his left side and used his cane hand to illustrate:

“The circle of trust is here,” he said making a circle in the air, “and you are way over there” he thrust his cane toward the opposite wall.

Wilson just kept smiling in smug amusement.

House eventually acquiesced with a roll of his eyes that sent him sideways again. He caught himself, righted his balanced, and shifted his weight to stump out of the room.

“Probably have a dagger up your sleeve,” he muttered, lurching into the hall.

Wilson kept grinning as he followed House. Watching House try to walk while he was drunk wasn’t usually a source of entertainment unless Wilson was very drunk and falling down too, but right now it was funnier than he remembered it ever being.

No one who noticed House’s unsteady gait glanced more than once at him. Wilson sniffed to himself: House had the staff trained very well to either ignore him or treat him with some degree of contempt, so much so that while the story of House getting plastered with a patient he shut down an entire floor of the hospital for would surely make the rounds by morning, Wilson doubted it would surprise anyone. Nor did anyone take special notice of the way he was walking right now. House snapped at people who took notice. Right now it was a blessing—no one really needed to know that House was seesawing down the hall not because he’d pulled a muscle or his leg was being particularly troublesome today, but because he was too far gone to balance himself correctly—but there were times when it could be a curse. Usually those came when House’s years of crying wolf and pissing everyone off came around to bite him in the ass, almost always in the form of no one recognizing that something was wrong with him until whatever molehill it had been became a mountain. That happened rarely, though, Wilson mused, because he and Cuddy were around and they could tell when something wasn’t right. But House could do without so many enemies—or, he could do with more friends.

House made some disgustingly lewd comment to a nurse as they passed the front desk. Wilson didn’t even attempt to smooth things over with the ‘I’m sorry my friend is a jerk’ expression. His lip tugged upward instead and he shook his head slightly at her: ‘I know, he’s such a jerk’. No apology; only agreement.

Wilson thought about saying something as they entered the parking garage, but he knew that not only would it be as futile as it usually was, it would be more trouble than it was worth right now. He didn’t want to deal with any more of House’s bullshit than absolutely necessary or he would unload and House would be even less sympathetic than usual.

He unlocked his car and put House’s backpack in the back seat. House managed to squeeze himself into the front seat without doing any damage to himself or the car. He leaned forward and started rooting around under the seat.

“What are you doing?” Wilson asked as he started the car.

“Putting on some decent music,” House said. “Your taste could not be more boring.”

“You haven’t even heard what I have in there—” Wilson started to protest before the stereo sprang to life and “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music came belting out of the speakers.

House chuckled.

“Not mine,” Wilson said immediately, shaking his head in an attempt to disown the music. “Julie’s. Not mine.”

“Sure,” House said, still laughing, and flipped through Wilson’s CD case. He always kept a few discs in Wilson’s car for occasions such as this.

“I can’t believe CDs are still around,” he said, selecting a disc and holding it up to examine it. “So antiquated.” He fed the CD to the player.

“What have you got there?” Wilson asked curiously as the stereo ate the disc. “Muddy Waters?”

“I’ve got the blues, doc,” House said drunkenly. “The low-down, dirty, melancholy blues. The indigo blues. The slow end of the visible spectrum blues. The deep soul blues—”

“So you’re going to listen to a dead guy wail about his blues?” Wilson interrupted. “That makes you feel better?”

“Have you ever heard about a thing called empathy?” House said. “Or rhythm? Why do I even bother trying to explain it to you.” He tried to shake his head in disdain and ended up stopping and blinking dizzily. He got his composure back and put the disdain on his face. “Clarence would understand.”

“Clarence?” Wilson echoed, his right eyebrow shooting up. “Death Row Guy?”

House shrugged.

“You’re learning patient’s names now?” Wilson said incredulously.

House merely shrugged again.

“Better watch out,” Wilson teased, “or you’ll be holding their hands and crying with them next.”

“Hey,” House said pointing a finger at him, “don’t threaten me.”

Wilson glanced at House’s slack, silly face and sniffed. “Put it away, boozie.”

“Oh like you’re so great,” House said stupidly.

Wilson rolled his eyes and pulled out of the parking garage.

They rode in silence for a moment.

“So,” Wilson said after a while, feeling like the time was right to get down to what was bothering him, “is there some reason you couldn’t give the guy ethanol intravenously like the rest of us?”

House chuckled. “I can’t run with the pack,” he said, head lolling toward Wilson. “Literally.” He giggled at having made a joke.

“Yes, because pre-packaged syringes of ethanol are so hard to catch,” Wilson said dryly.

“C’mon,” House said. “The guy’s gonna be put to death. He deserved one last taste of ambrosia.”

“I’ll buy that,” Wilson said. “But what I’d like to know is why you had to join him.”

“Life isn’t guaranteed to anyone,” House said with a shrug. “I deserve a last drink too.”

“Uh uh,” Wilson said shaking his head. “Not an answer.”

“You don’t think he would’ve gotten suspicious if I went in there and started pouring alcohol down his throat without a few friendly toasts?” House said. “He killed four people—some for a lot less than giving him with liquor to save his life. It was an act of self-defense.” He paused, brows furrowed. “Pre-emptive self-defense,” he added. “Like the way certain countries in the Middle East whose names begin with ‘I’ have been treated recently. Pre-emptive self-defensive.”

“Yeah, I really believe that,” Wilson said with a harsh laugh.

House sneered at him but said nothing.

Wilson glanced at House, expecting more, but House didn’t offer any other explanation. Wilson sighed.

“You’re going to have to find a better way of dealing with Stacy,” he said seriously. “She’s going to be around for a while and Cuddy will only scrape you off the floor so many times before she does something about it.”

“I was thirsty,” House said defensively. “The patient had ingested a large quantity of methanol and—”

“And you just happened to have a whole bottle of double proof rum in your desk,” Wilson said, not a little accusatorially.

“It was a gift,” House explained, “from a liquor store owner. I removed a fishhook from his man parts with a straight face and he sent me something nice.”

“You mean you didn’t buy it to keep the vodka, scotch, and bourbon in your bottom left desk drawer company?” Wilson said.

“No,” House said. “Those are cold climate drinks. Rum is a warm climate drink. They’d have nothing to say to each other, no common ground, and everyone would be embarrassed. A horrible party—like the ones you throw. Totally wrong mix of people.”

“That only happens when I have a sudden fit of remorse and invite you,” Wilson snipped.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I,” House said stupidly. He giggled. “I am drunk.”

“Yes, you are,” Wilson agreed.

“Hey, turn right up here,” House said. “Let’s get some chow.”

Wilson gave him an ‘I don’t think so’ look but turned right anyway.

“Oh come on,” House said. “Wasn’t this carpool business about getting me to eat? I want some drunk food. See if the Latvian with the hot dog cart is out. What’s his name? Igor?”

“Igor?” Wilson echoed. “You’re way off. It starts with an M or something. But he’s not out yet. What about something from Subway? Something with vegetables that hasn’t been stewing in the same grease for weeks.”

“How do you know he’s not out yet?” House asked.

“It’s not even seven o’clock,” Wilson said. “Way too early for him.”

“Okay, how about that pizza place—the one across from the bar that sells $2 shots on Thursdays.”

“Rocket’s?” Wilson asked.

“That sounds right,” House said. “Check on it. It’s around here I think.”

“What’s wrong with a normal pizza chain?” Wilson said. “One that delivers? Like, to your home. Because I need to get to mine.”

“Hello,” House said. “Drunk pizza is only drunk pizza if it sells by the slice on location only.”

“You said ‘only’ twice,” Wilson pointed out.

“It’s a highly exclusive food group,” House said. “Two or three ‘only’s per sentence.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Wilson said.

House just staring at him dumbly.

Wilson sighed. “I don’t think they’re open either.”

“You’re just saying that,” House said. “C’mon,” he cajoled. “Drunk food. You love drunk food.”

“Yeah, when I’m drunk,” Wilson said.

House gave him the puppy dog eyes—the best puppy dog eyes he could do.

“I’m telling you, they’re not open,” Wilson said. “They don’t open until 8 or 9.”

“Spoil sport,” House said. He sat back moodily in the seat and crossed his arms, looking out the car window and generally making a point of avoiding Wilson. Shunning him. They stopped at a long red light. Then House had an idea.

“I know what we should do!” he said suddenly, sitting up.

“Oh no,” Wilson groaned to himself. “This can’t be good.”

“We should get a drink!” House exclaimed.

“No,” Wilson said shaking his head. “No, we shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” House whined.

“Because I need to go home tonight,” Wilson said. “I promised Julie I’d grill something for her and if I don’t get home soon, we’ll be eating very late and she’ll be more angry with me than she’d be if I didn’t come home at all.”

“She’s always been trouble,” House reproved.

“Such a threat to your demonical plan to monopolize my time, yes, she has always been trouble,” Wilson said sarcastically.

House grinned stupidly at him. “So,” he said, “she found out about Debbie?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Little Miss Thang from accounting?”

Wilson sighed shortly and looked away: the subtle ‘I’m not going to say you’re right, but…you’re right. And I hate you for it’ head movement. House smiled.

“You’re such a paradox,” House said. “Such a contradiction. So…perpendicular. One way vertically, a completely different way horizontally, and able to contain both without making anybody feel bad about themselves. Homo sapiens and homo erectus all at once.”

“What?” Wilson said. “I don’t know if I should be insulted or confused.”

“Both, of course,” House said. “Everybody gets everything with Jimmy Wilson. Everybody’s happy.”

“Everyone,” Wilson said, “all the time.” Agreeing with House when he was like this was the fastest way to get him to move on.

“Except your wife,” House pointed out.

“And that’s supposed to be my fault?” Wilson said. “No,” he added quickly, “don’t answer that. You’re too out of your mind right now—whatever you say might be more scarring than usual.”

But House wasn’t listening. “Here’s what I don’t get,” he said. “And I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, so my not getting it really says something. See if you can explain it to me.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Why do you still try?”

“Insensitive much?” Wilson said, affronted.

“Seriously,” House said. “I want to know.” He did his best to look sincere.

Wilson waited for a moment, considering how he should answer this question. Honestly? Bitterly? Comically? He wasn’t sure. Then he had it. Turn it back on House.

“Why did you down half a bottle of rum an hour and a half ago?” Wilson asked with more vitriol than he’d intended.

“Oh no, that’s a secret,” House said. “Only people with ‘R’s in their name get to know.”

“So I should ask Cameron, Foreman, and Robert?” Wilson said.

“Only people with two ‘R’s,” House clarified.

“Robert?” Wilson answered.

“Son of a bitch,” House cursed. “Only non-Australians.”

Wilson’s mouth quirked upward. Then he became serious.

“I know she yelled at you earlier,” he said quietly.

“That has nothing to do with it,” House answered quickly.

“I know you love the way she looks in blue blouses,” Wilson said.

“I’ve gone temporarily color blind,” House said. “Didn’t I tell you? That’s why Foreman hasn’t gotten a ton of crap from me this week. I can’t see him.”

“I know her legs look the same way they did five years ago,” Wilson continued. He was taunting House, he knew, but he’d been provoked, dammit. “I know you still get off on business suits and heels. I know you can’t stop undressing her with your eyes and—”

“Did you know I love the sound she makes when she comes, too?” House spat viciously.

He looked away in disgust, right hand instinctively diving into the left breast pocket of his jacket. “I can’t believe you,” he muttered

He had his hand on the bottle but Wilson was too fast for him again.


“No,” Wilson said snatching the pills. “You’re not avoiding this conversation.”

“I’m not trying to avoid the conversation,” House said trying to reach over Wilson to get the pills back. “My leg hurts. Give ‘em.”

“House, stop it,” Wilson said, trying to fight him off and steer at the same time. “Quit. I’m trying to drive.”

Wilson tried to fight him without actually being violent, hoping House would realize the idiocy of what he was doing and stop, but House wasn’t stopping.

“Stop!” Wilson said and pushed him.

House, his balance still off, nearly smacked his head against the passenger side window and cursed loudly. Wilson finagled the bottle open, thumbed out three pills, hit the power button for the window, and dumped the rest into the street.

“Oh what the hell?!” House yelled turning in his seat to see the pills fly away as Wilson rolled the window up. “You had no right to do that! That was totally out of line!”

Wilson held up his fist. “Three,” he said in a deadly calm voice. “Enough to get you through the night. I’ll be in early; come see me first thing and I’ll write for the ones I just threw out.”

“That is bullshit!” House yelled.

“What are you gonna do?” Wilson challenged. “Pick them up out of the gutter? Wipe ‘em off? Invoke the five second rule?”

House’s jaw muscles stood out against his sunken cheek as he ground his teeth. He didn’t answer.

Then Wilson realized…

“You would, wouldn’t you,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question. He pulled into a nearby parking lot and stopped the car, turning to face House. “Listen, this has got to—”

House wasn’t listening. “I can’t…believe…you did that,” he said stiffly through his teeth.

“You’re killing yourself,” Wilson said matter-of-factly.

“Everybody has to die,” House sneered. He was shaking with anger and incomprehension. “Everybody has a right to choose to—to have some control over—to—to—”

Wilson shook his head sadly. “You’re still the victim, aren’t you?” he said. “Still. After all this time.” He shook his head again with a bitter laugh. “And since you can’t hit back, you slowly poison yourself instead. Because the worst thing a narcissist can do to the world is deprive it of his presence.”

“Don’t—try to analyze me,” House ground out. His shaking intensified and he slid down in the seat, putting a hand over his eyes and tugging at the collar of his shirt with the other, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He started panting. Dizzy. His blood surging. Wilson? Wilson wouldn’t…? Not Wilson? No. His hand traveled down to his stomach and he groaned, swallowing thickly. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Wilson shook his head again, unfurled a plastic bag, and passed it to House. He rubbed his face and turned away, taking in the view of the parking lot. Cars. Lights. People. Movement. Half an hour till darkness. Gas stations and restaurants were turning their signs on. Construction barriers blinked in the distance. Traffic. He tuned back in to the moment. He’d been expecting to hear…but…House was panting…but not… Wilson looked over. House’s hands were shaking, one over his eyes, one still on his stomach.

Oh. Right.

Should’ve seen it coming, but House wasn’t prone to them and Wilson did know that House couldn’t hold his liquor past a certain point. But it made sense.

“House,” Wilson said softly, watching him hitch in breaths. “Panic attack.”

House nodded slightly. “Yeah,” he said shakily. “I know.” He wiped his trembling left hand on his shirt. “Sweaty palms.” He tried to smile.

Wilson half-smiled back and House turned his head away, still gasping like a fish. All this over his Vicodin going out the window? Over Stacy? Wilson stopped himself: he’d done enough damage. He turned the key in the ignition, saying nothing. He turned off the stereo—Muddy Waters no longer spoke to the situation—and pulled into traffic. Construction cones. Long lines of cars.

Two blocks of snail’s pace progression later, House had settled down considerably. Wilson heard him stop panting and start trying to control his breathing, head tipped back against the head rest, eyes closed. After a while, his breathing evened out, and a while after that, he took an authoritatively deep breath.

“What’s with the traffic?” he murmured, keeping his head tilted back and except for a peek at the road, his eyes closed too.

“Construction,” Wilson said. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that House had stopped shaking entirely. Good.

“Since when?” House asked.

“Yesterday,” Wilson answered. “It was on the news.”

“Oh,” House said. “I never come this way.”

“Neither do I,” Wilson said. He smiled. “Someone made me turn.”

“Well,” House said, sitting up straight and checking their location. “Since we’re down here. I know Taco Don’s is open.” A ghost of a smile appeared on his face.

“Yeah,” Wilson said, his smile becoming broader and more sincere. “Yeah, it is.”

END

Wow! You saved the best to last and I LOVE this last chapter *throws a 'congrats for finished fic' biscuit across the pond* :)

:D

That's awesome - 'circle of trust' line is majestic. Love the drunk/sober snark and the image of House drooling into the wall- I can really see that. Wilson's 'Hava Naglia' being the 'Sound of Music' is inspired too and Muddy Waters seems a nailed on choice.

The Vicodin/Stacy/Debbie floating beneath the surface for both of them works really well and their avoidance. The panic attack seems in character because House is always able to keep a lid but no one can exert much control after that volume/strength.

Drunkfood discussion is very nice too (hotdog carts are much more condusive to keeping it down than kebabs which we do here). The light banter giving way and Wilson pushing and then backing away- so well written and subtley handled.

Love the unresovled muddle ending- perfect and just a fabulous job. You were right that the drunk scene begged more and you've done it justice and some. :)

Cheers

Benj

Congrats! Another finished fic, and -- as always -- a good one.

It's interesting to see House trying to keep up with Wilson when impaired.

Also, poor House, realizing he's having a panic attack by sweaty palms, the same way he confirmed that Mark was having a panic attack. Like he needs another reminder at this point.

So do you sign on to the "downward spiral" theory for House's immediate future?

I was going to have another chapter originally where House gets to his apartment and breaks out his emergency bottle of Vicodin, thereby negating Wilson's triumphant pill toss. Probably there would be some more drinking, too. The man is a train wreck. So I guess that's a yeah on the downward spiral. I thought I'd end this one with a ray of hope, though, since I've got the other fics in which to do the downward spiral thing. :D