Title: Pseudo
Author: cryptictac
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG.
Words: 1, 851.
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, just playing.

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Gregory House is seated at his desk, half-facing the window, vertical drapes scissored partway closed. Specks of rain on the glass catch in the shimmering streetlights below, a myriad of crystals that faintly reflect on his tired, hard face. One hand clasped firmly around his cane, in his other is poised a rock glass of whiskey as he sits back in his seat with a thoughtful though typically calculating expression in his eyes as he studies his drink.

The night is getting old, and it would be yet another tired, lonely night for House if James Wilson wasn't there. Not that tired, lonely nights are anything new to House; they're not. The trawl of night time quietude typically invades his loneliness like a fever close to the bone, the silence amplifying his solitude the same way a finger can point accusingly and tauntingly at an innocent branded as guilty.

Over the years, Gregory has learned to shrug the unease loneliness brings, with his workaholicism or a stiff drink, both of which seem to shove the infection of loneliness into the darkest recesses of his mind. Problem is, the loneliness is still always there, and it irritates House because, infectious disease specialist though he is, it is one infection he can't seem to find a cure for. Work, Vicodin, whiskey -- all of these has proved to be more of a placebo than an antidote, much to House's chagrin. That or an antidote he has gradually built a resistance towards as the long, truthfully empty years have worn on.

His colleague, on the other hand; House isn't sure if Wilson is a placebo or an antidote. Or perhaps even a potential aphrodisiac. Whichever he is -- and Gregory doesn't really want to delve too deeply into that line of thought, for that would burrow into a level of emotive thought he doesn't like gouging into -- House hasn't built a resistance up towards him.

Not yet.

"The good thing about hard liquor," Gregory says abruptly, breaking the silence and swilling his whiskey in small circles, "is that it burns the taste buds as much as it eats away at the brain cells. Even better, it rots away feelings of inadequacy, inhibition and doubt, and replaces those nasty inner-mind games with a sense of pseudo-confidence."

Wilson, standing near Gregory with his hands in his pockets draws his hands out and crosses his arms over his chest. He raises his brows, a small, amused smile on his lips to accompany the equally amused look in his dark eyes. "Pseudo-confidence? Is that what you call being a callous prick these days?"

House glances at him, remarking quickly, "Please, save the quality endearment for one of your oncology patients."

He brings the glass to his lips and takes another sip, giving him enough time to take note of the scoff his colleague gives and the casual shake of his head, finding himself -- like he has done a lot recently -- grateful for Wilson's company.

These night visits after work whenever they chance to finish on the same schedule have been getting more and more frequent, House has noticed, and like his dependence on Vicodin, he's been unconsciously growing more and more dependent on Wilson's company. It chases away the loneliness, that empty spot in him that nothing seems to fill. A spot that only the compassion of another person could fill. And really, only Wilson has patience enough to willingly be in Gregory's presence, the greatest demonstration of compassion anyone has ever and will ever offer Gregory House.

"Quality endearment," Wilson muses, turning his gaze to the window and watching the flecks of rain slowly shivering down in delicate rivulets. "Clearly the aid of alcohol doesn't alter for the better your warped ideas on what an endearment should be."

"Alcohol doesn't alter anything for the better. Schmucks only think it does."

Wilson turns his head with a sharp snap of interest in his direction, just as Gregory expected him to. "Schmuck? Surely Dr. Gregory House doesn't place himself in the category of schmuck."

The whiskey burns Gregory's throat as he swallows and he flinches slightly at the sting, using the moment to steal himself. He's said too much. He hates it when he reveals something personal about himself, especially a personal thought about himself, cryptic though it always is.

"Kudos to you for being on the ball, Wilson," he says with voice of whiskey-burned tightness, "though you're the one who said 'alter for the better'. I was merely making a rude generalisation."

Wilson gives him that knowing look of scepticism that always irritates House, replying coolly, "Oh, right. Pseudo-confidence."

"That was another rude generalisation."

"Much like me calling you a callous prick is a rude generalisation?"

"It's good to see you catching on so fast, Jimmy," Gregory remarks condescendingly, the use of the nickname an attempt to make light of the situation. "And what about your pseudo-confidence? Do you seek to lose yourself in such a thing, Wilson?"

"Well, I'm not the one drinking like you do every night."

That remark cuts Gregory. Loneliness rears its ugly head from the corner of his mind, a sudden simmering of a fever beneath the skin. The infection of loneliness. For that moment of awkward silence that passes between him and Wilson, Gregory feels exposed, as obvious and naked as a beacon and the urge to retort with a hurtful comment to his colleague about one of his three failed marriages tickles the tip of Gregory's tongue. It's so easy to hide behind being cold and callous. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, none of this 'turn the other cheek' crap.

He's defeated, however. Can't bring himself to be that callous to Wilson. After all, Wilson is, really, House's only real friend. Even Gregory knows that such remarks should be kept at bay with people that are considered dear enough to be classed as 'friends'.

He holds Wilson's intense gaze for a moment before looking away, swigging back the drink for a deeper draught that leaves him breathless and fighting back a sharp cough as he swallows. He can feel Wilson staring at him, and in vain attempt to get Wilson to divert his attention Gregory throws back the last of the drink with a gulp and then slams the glass on his desk.

No such luck, however. Wilson knows Gregory too well to fall for his usually successful ploys of diversion. "This pseudo-confidence you speak of, it brings about the temporary measure of forgetting," Wilson says quietly. "Forgetting loneliness."

"Very analytical for an oncologist," House quickly remarks, trying to sound unscathed by the comment, though feeling anything but. "Do they pay you extra to sit by your patients' bedsides, analysing their psyche while pumping them with Campath-1H or Aminocamptothecin?"

If Wilson is abraded by that retort, he doesn't show it. He replies calmly, "You drink to forget."

"There's nothing to forget."

"Everyone has something they want to forget, House."

Gregory is beginning to feel highly defensive, attacked. "Which is why I don't have a life. No life, nothing to regret."

His colleague turns to face him front-on, dropping his arms to his side. "No life equals emptiness."

"No." The challenge posed to him from Wilson is making him on edge. He stands abruptly, leaning on his cane as he takes a step towards him. "No life equals no regrets."

A pause. "You wouldn't drink every night if you didn't have regrets."

From the intense look in his friend's eyes, House knows that he is speaking from experience. Gregory knows that he could keep fighting him but what truthfully would be the use in that? As much as House doesn't want to admit it, Wilson is right -- Gregory has a lot of regrets. A lot of misgivings that he drowns out with his obsession of work. Issues with the condition his accident left him in. Issues with his dependence on vicodin. Unresolved issues.

Gregory looks away, defeated once again -- the fever of loneliness bubbling in his veins -- and he confesses with a reluctant sigh, "Alcohol is company." Turning his head, he looks at the window and he sees the rain has started up again, a sheet falling diagonally from the black starless sky, the current of the wind pushing the rain in sporadic rhythms against the glass.

"Pseudo-company," Gregory adds in a mutter, slowly drawing his eyes from the window to meet Wilson's.

The intensity of the other's gaze has softened to an expression of complete understanding, and he replies to Gregory just as softly, "I know."

In that one response House can hear the pain of three failed marriages and the emptiness they brought Wilson, and for the first time he realises -- like a light suddenly clicking on -- that Wilson understands him in a way no one else would. Or could. Or ever will. An antidote.

House's lips curve upwards in a slight smile, a recognition of his colleague's words, and he says in as soft a voice as Gregory House ever would dare to utter, "I know you know."

The broad smile Wilson offers him makes Gregory catch his breath for a moment, and when he feels his friend's hand land on his shoulder, strong fingers squeezing in a reassuring manner, he tries to tell himself it's just the effect of the drink that is causing his heart to beat faster (though he knows that alcohol causes the heart to beat slower) and his hands to suddenly become slippery with a faint bathe of sweat. Not an antidote, rather an aphrodisiac.

"Go easy on the drink," Wilson murmurs to him. "It doesn't solve anything. You don't need that sort of pseudo-company."

House nods awkwardly and the feeling of awkwardness in him is obviously apparent, for Wilson lets him go after a moment and slips his hands into his pockets, stepping back. Gregory knows Wilson is going to take this chance to leave -- and he inwardly doesn't want him to, but he's too proud to admit such a thing -- and he steals himself, willing the fever of loneliness to ebb away into the dark corners where it belongs.

"One for the road," House says in a low voice, reaching for the whiskey bottle and dragging it towards him. Ignoring the fact that Wilson is looking at him with faint sadness, he pours himself another drink, glancing up only when he hears the other's footsteps heading towards the door.

"Wilson," he says as the man opens the door, one foot over the threshold ready to step out of the office. Don't go, Gregory wants to say. I don't want to be lonely. He can't say that. No, instead he offers a faint, short smile as he closes his hand around the glass, lifting it from the desk. "See you tomorrow, Jimmy."

Wilson nods with an expression of disappointment and defeat on his face and soundlessly turns away. He steps out into the corridor and the door clicks shut, closing House into the lonely, cold-feeling room. Suddenly realising how truly empty the room is. How empty he is.

Staring down at his drink, Gregory swills it a few times before setting it back on his desk with a clink, gripping his cane as he steps away from his chair. Gathering up his coat, he rounds his desk with a limped stride, lets himself out into the corridor and walks as quickly as he can to catch up with Wilson.

To be continued
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