House sighed, limping towards the knocking sound coming from his front door.
"What?!"
"Uh... beer?"
House blinked, then frowned.
"Oh. Wait, you don't have any."
"I thought we could get some."
"What, are you asking me on a date?"
"No, I'm asking you to a bar. To drink. You know, liquid. With alcohol in it. Because my wife found out about Sarah."
House paused.
"Fair enough. Bear in mind that I'm not doing any literal dragging if you get sloshed."
Wilson rolled his eyes.
"I'm not getting sloshed, I'm just..."
House raised an eyebrow.
"When you are upset about something, you sit in a bar, alone, and hope I don't happen to give up on going to sleep because the only bar you're not scared of risking getting too tipsy to drive at is around the corner from my apartment. I know that because you get upset a lot and I give up on sleeping a lot. On the other hand, that's for small stuff. Big stuff, you tend to get drunk at work the next day, cancel all your appointments, tell Cuddy you have the flu, and pass out on your couch. I know that because I've found you passed out on your couch with a half empty bottle of scotch about to fall out of your hand. Of course, since you got that pinched look around two, after someone called you, I'm guessing she told you she knew while you were at work. You hate staying where you got bad news. Which means, you want to get sloshed, but not at work."
Wilson sighed.
"Yeah, fine. No literal dragging expected."
House smirked and grabbed his coat.
Wilson blinked blurrily at his friend, swaying on the stool.
House handed him another shot, smirking at Wilson's drunken gaze.
"Thanksh..." slurred Wilson, taking the glass clumsily and knocking the amber liquid back.
House snorted.
Wilson slid off his chair.
House watched him, amused, for a moment, sighed, got off his stool, and slapped Wilson's cheek.
"Wilson. No dragging, remember?"
Wilson opened his eyes, sat up, and pulled himself up on the stool with more effort than he had ever found that action to require previously.
House coxed Wilson's wallet out of the extremely intoxicated oncologist's possession, paid for both their drinks–and his own hundred dollar tab–then pushed Wilson's swaying and stumbling form towards the door, nodding to the barkeeper, who asked if they could get home ok.
House had Wilson go in front of him down the stairs–the only thing House had against this particular bar, something the barkeeper had once told House was a precaution against drunk driving–as he slowly lowered himself down each individual step, his thigh sending bolts of searing pain though his leg with each drop.
He glanced forward to see how Wilson was doing–about to start the next flight–then raised his eyebrows, as Wilson tripped and tumbled forward, falling head over ass down the steps.
House paused for a moment, saw Wilson kind of twitch and groan, then smirked and proceeded down the steps at the same pace as before.
When he finally reached the unfortunate oncologist, he found that Wilson was not quite able to figure out where it hurt, and had started crying due to an overload of pain and confusion.
"Wilson." said House, poking Wilson's shoulder with his cane, "get up."
Wilson sniffed.
"It hurtsh!"
"I know. You're drunk, it can't hurt that bad. As long as you haven't broken your neck or cracked your head open, you're good to go."
Wilson stared up and him, sniffing, then started to clumsily pull his sprawled out form into something resembling order.
He gasped and yelled, as he moved his leg.
House stood impassively, slightly amused.
Wilson looked at him, hurt by his extreme lack of concern.
House shrugged.
"I said no dragging. Either you can stand up and I'll get you to the car, or you can't, and you're screwed."
Wilson whimpered, holding his ankle.
"Well?" asked House, impatiently.
"I dunnooo..." he mumbled, looking dubiously up for some kind of railing or edge to pull himself up on.
House sighed, extending a hand downwards. He wanted to get to bed.
Wilson took it, and pulled, but ended up dragging House down on top of him.
"Owwwwwwwwww!" shouted Wilson.
House sighed, climbing off his friend.
"Just get up already..." said House, 'accidentally' planting his cane on Wilson's shoe as he pushed himself back to his feet.
Wilson glared at him, tears filling his unfocused eyes once more.
House rolled his own eyes, giving Wilson a rather more gentle poke with the cane, and putting a hand under his friend's armpit.
Wilson blinked slowly, and, with House's rather limited help, got to his feet and out the door.
Wilson passed out on the way back to House's apartment.
House slapped him again, but he didn't wake.
He tried blasting music, more slapping, cane poking, and finally a sternal rub.
Wilson opened his eyes blearily.
"Get out."
Wilson nodded, groaned, and fell out the door as House opened it, causing Wilson to puke onto the concrete and asphalt instead of the inside of the car.
Wilson groaned again, sat up, and pulled himself unsteadily to his feet by the door, putting no weight on his ankle and favoring one wrist.
He fell on the stairs twice, but eventually managed to crawl up them, and into House's apartment, where he passed out on the rug and started throwing up again.
House snorted, rolled his eyes, and turned Wilson over onto his side, so he wouldn't choke.
He grimaced heavily, as the stairs and fall started to take their toll on his bad leg.
Tomorrow morning would not be fun for either of them.
Wilson ran into the footrest of House's recliner, grunting, and falling flat on his face.
He sat up, holding his ankle and gasping.
House was there, wrapped in a blanket, shot glass still held loosely in his hand, snoring. The tv was still on.
Wilson–from experience, since his logic skills were rather hazy at the moment–decided that House's bad leg had been worse than usual after the stairs last night, he hadn't been able to get to sleep in his bed, and that he had given up and downed more alcohol while watching buggs bunny, which had finally done the trick.
Wilson gently shook House's shoulder, wondering if House had anything but vicodin stored in his apartment for pain relief–Wilson was pretty sure he had sprained wrist, his ankle was swollen and extremely painful, and he had a killer hangover.
House groaned, opening his eyes.
Wilson sighed, wincing at the noise, as House groaned again, leaning over his bad leg.
"Dammit. Stupid, should have waited it out..." he muttered.
"House? Have you got anything other than vicodin around here?" asked Wilson softly.
House looked up at him.
"Got alcohol." he said, loudly.
Wilson put his left hand to his head, grimacing.
"I noticed."
House gestured towards the bathroom.
"Over the toilet. In the medicine cabinet, there should be some really old Tylenol or something."
Wilson nodded, staggering towards the indicated room, leaning heavily on tables and bookcases as he passed them.
An hour later, Wilson was just realizing that Tylenol would have been coated, as he watched House pace around and around the couch with blurred vision and a dry mouth–though no more headache.
"Y'r makin me dizzy." he mumbled, trying to force himself to remember if he had taken one or two. It had probably been two.
"No, that's the narcs. It's what that woozy eye symbol on the label means."
Wilson blinked slowly.
"There wasn' a woozy eye sym... symb... thingy... on the bottle."
"That's cus I switched them out a few hours ago, when I was trying to go to sleep."
Wilson stared at him hazily.
"Why'd'ya do that?"
House stopped pacing for a moment, sitting down next to Wilson's feet.
"Because you were going to be really annoying with a sprained wrist, a sprained and possibly broken ankle, a horrific hangover, and only otc pain relievers."
"Oh. That makes sense."
House snorted, gently poking Wilson's ankle in different spots.
"Oww... that hurts, House... stop..." whined Wilson.
"Oh shut up you big baby, I'm just checking if it's broken."
Wilson yelped, as House touched a particularly sensitive spot.
"Yeah, it's broken. We're gonna have to go in to the hospital."
Wilson looked at him, upset.
"But... I'm high." he said, sounding confused.
"I know."
"I can't go in if I'm high. You can't make me."
House stared at him.
"What makes you think I want to go to the trouble of driving your fat ass all the way to work on my day off?"
Wilson blinked.
"Oh."
"Get up. And the no dragging rule still applies."
Wilson nodded, still confused.
House handed him an old pair of crutches, but Wilson only put his arm over one, his wrist making it impossible to use the other.
When they got to the steps in front of House's apartment, Wilson's limbs went in about five different directions, and he ended up in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
House snorted.
Wilson gradually picked himself up, and slowly crawled up into the passenger seat of House's car.
House closed the door, and they drove to the hospital in silence, other than the occasional sniff from the unfortunate oncologist.
"Ok, we're here. Get out."
Wilson looked at him, upset.
"Spinnin'..."
House sighed, got out, and painfully limped off to get a nurse. As funny as it was to watch his very intoxicated friend's attempts to get up, if Wilson fell over here, he would probably get hit by a car, which would be even more annoying than a broken ankle and sprained wrist.
Wilson sniffed and whined and cried, as Evil Nurse Brenda tried to pull him out of the passenger seat.
"I dun wanna go! House...!"
House just watched, amused.
Wilson looked at him, hurt, tears filling his ridiculously large brown eyes. He looked like a overgrown puppy.
Brenda sighed, stepping back.
"I am not going to deal with that. Get him out yourself."
House rolled his eyes.
"If I do that, I'll drop him. Which, despite being funny, would also be kind of dangerous."
Brenda considered.
"I'll get Cuddy. He'll probably listen to her."
House nodded.
Brenda left.
Cuddy stared at her usually very mature, and currently crying, head of oncology.
"What did you do to him?" she asked House, accusingly.
House shrugged.
"The only think I actually did was switch out the tylenol with vicodin so he wouldn't be all whiny."
Cuddy glared at him.
"And how did he get the broken ankle, sprained wrist, and multiple contusions elsewhere?"
"Fell down a flight of steps drunk."
"And how did he get drunk?"
"By drinking alcohol."
"Where?"
"The bar on Lantern street."
"And you knew he was drunk?"
"Yep."
"Yet you let him walk down a flight of stairs."
House shrugged.
"What was I supposed to do? Give him a piggy-back ride?"
Cuddy considered, then sighed.
"Did you know he was going to get drunk?"
"No."
She nodded.
"Fine... well, ok. Wilson, look at me. It's time to get out of the car."
He sniffed and turned away.
Cuddy gently put a hand on his shoulder.
"Wilson, come on. Time to get out, ok?"
"Nuh-uh!"
Cuddy sighed again, put her hands under his armpits, and tried to drag him out.
He yelled and lashed out, hitting her in the neck and curling into a ball on the seat, shivering.
Cuddy watched him tremble for a while, then looked at House.
"He's not gonna listen to anyone else."
House shrugged unhappily.
Cuddy and nurse Brenda went back inside, leaving a wheelchair there for House to coax the unfortunate oncologist into occupying.
House sighed, placing a hand on Wilson's shoulder.
He turned, about to hit the hand away, but saw that it was House.
Wilson sniffed, still shivering and crying.
"Come on. Get out, Wilson."
Wilson nodded, slowly maneuvering himself out the door.
House glanced up, as a car honked a very polite sort of 'you're in my way, could you move if it's at all convenient?' honk at them–the door of the car was protruding into the driving lanes, but ignored it, and turned back to his friend, just in time to see Wilson tumble out, hear the car swerve around them, and see the proximity of the approaching tires to Wilson's head.
The next thing either of them knew, House was sitting on the ground behind the old blue dodge, Wilson curled up and trembling between his knees, House's arms around his shoulders, House's hand pressing his face into House's shoulder as he cried from the movement and fear.
The car stopped, someone got out and knelt, apologizing rapidly and looking absolutely horror-stuck.
House looked up, opened his mouth to yell, realized it was Cameron, and sighed, trying to remove his hands from the trembling oncologist.
Wilson cried out, clenching House's shirt in his good hand, refusing to let go.
House sighed, rolled his eyes at Cameron's continued babbling of apologies, and started to pull himself and Wilson up by the trunk of his car.
Wilson gripped him round the waist, but did allow himself to be lowered into a the wheelchair.
Cameron gently pried his injured hand off House's waist, then started working on the other one.
"Is he drunk?" she asked, frowning at Wilson's illogical stubbornness.
"He was last night. Now he's high. Switched the Tylenol out with my vicodin so he wouldn't be all whiny. Didn't count on it making him all clingy instead. Whiny's less annoying..."
Cameron rolled her eyes, but said nothing, and continued trying to coax Wilson off his friend.
House shifted painfully. His leg did not appreciate the position or the extra weight.
Wilson finally let go, on the condition that House would come with him to the emergency room, and that if House didn't, Wilson would start yelling that he had been kidnaped.
House found the temptation only slightly less amusing than would make the lecture he would receive from Cuddy worth it.
Wilson groaned, opening his eyes.
He seemed to be in a bed in one of the general wards, casts on his foot and wrist, ice-packs draped over his knee and elbow.
He blinked.
When had this all happened? He had been in House's car... on the pavement... wheelchair... umm... Cameron... something about kidnaping...
Someone slid the door to his room open, and he looked up.
Chase.
"Hi. House told me to make sure you weren't dead."
Wilson raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah right."
Chase sighed.
"Ok, yeah, he told me to get your wallet so he could eat lunch."
Wilson snorted.
"That's more like him. As long as you're here, could you hand me my chart? My wallet should be in with my other clothes and stuff."
Chase nodded, picking up the clipboard from the end of Wilson's bed and handing it to the unfortunate oncologist.
As Chase dug through Wilson's pants pockets, shirt pocket, and coat pockets, he frowned.
Wilson's wallet wasn't there.
Come to think of it, House had bought that coffee out of the vending machine with money out of what had looked like...
He smiled a little, to himself.
Wilson hadn't noticed any of this, having been busy reading his chart.
"Great... a broken ankle and a broken wrist. Just what I needed." muttered Wilson absently, then looked up at Chase, "thanks."
"No problem. Hope you feel better soon."
Wilson smiled, nodding.
"Thanks Chase."
Chase pretended to put something in the pocket of his labcoat, nodded to Wilson, and left.
Chase walked back to the differential room still smiling.
When he reached House's office, he found House curled in the recliner, rubbing his thigh and grimacing. Cameron and Foreman were nowhere to be seen.
"Funny thing. He didn't have his wallet. I hope nobody took it at the bar. He thought it was in his pants, but he doesn't seem to have any neurological or other problems. In fact, he seems perfectly alight, other than the broken bones and bruises."
House looked at him.
Then he smirked.
"Yeah, if it disappeared, I might starve to death."
Chase smirked, going back to sit in the differential room.
House might never let on, but there were certain people he would ask–completely indirectly without anyone knowing it was going on–if they were ok... and Wilson was definitely one of them.