Title: The Spaces Between

Rating: PG-13, for language

Disclaimer: House belongs to FOX, the song snippet belongs to Green Day

Summary: House gets drunk, and Wilson picks up the pieces

A/N: Feedback welcome, esp. about characterization

Are we demented?

Or am I disturbed?

The space that's in between insane and insecure

"She thinks I'm a bastard."

Wilson suppressed a long-suffering sigh, then took a closer look at his friend and let the gust of air out anyway. Greg was about three drinks beyond the point of taking notice of Wilson's actions.

"Everyone thinks you're a bastard."

"Even you?"

Shit. Wilson set down his tumbler, realizing too late that wasn't the wisest thing he could have said. Greg's tone warned that it would take only a slight nudge to move him from a mood of drunk-but-contemplative to one of drunk-and-belligerent. A belligerent Gregory House was not someone Wilson wanted to deal with tonight.

"I think you're smashed, and looking for a fight," Wilson told him, dodging the question with a prowess that normally belonged to his friend.

House knocked back the remainder of his drink, a stray drop trickling down the corner of his mouth to his chin until he swiped a hand across his face. Turning to glare at Wilson–though the effect was spoiled because his eyes wouldn't focus–he slurred, "So why're you 'ere?"

Because I'd rather you try to fight me than a bar full of thugs. I won't hit back. "Atoning for my sins." A misdirection, and one that wouldn't have worked, had House not been drinking.

"Yom Kippur already?"

"Nah. I've got a back-log a mile long–for which I have you to thank."

"Yay for me. Corrupting th' good an' innocent wherev'r I go." House's head lolled to the right, his antagonism draining away, and Wilson seized his chance–and House's glass.

"I'm going for a refill–you interested?"

"Sorry, you're not m' type. Don't like blondes," House mumbled. Wilson just rolled his eyes and went to the kitchen. After sticking the leftover pizza in the fridge he rinsed out the two glasses and put away the bottle of scotch.

When he returned to the living room, House's head was tipped back on the couch; his mouth was open and he was snoring. Loudly.

Wilson indulged in another sigh as he switched off the television. He shook Greg's left shoulder roughly and was rewarded by a truly bizarre-sounding snort and a mumbled (but forceful), "Fuck off."

"No. You need to get in bed." After thirty seconds of silence he tried again. "Never mind; I'm sure your leg can take seven hours of being crammed onto the couch. I bet you won't even notice the cramps tomorrow." He paused, waiting to see if elaboration was needed, but House was already heaving himself to his feet, drunkenly cursing his leg, Wilson, and the world in general the entire time. James ignored him, as always, and with easy familiarity maneuvered Greg to the bedroom.

Without loosening his grip on House's left arm, Wilson flipped the covers down to the foot of the bed. He sat Greg down, pried his fingers from the handle of the cane and propped it against the night stand, then carefully swung House's legs onto the mattress. Shoes off, covers pulled back up...Wilson realized he'd forgotten something and nipped back to the living room. When he returned with the bottle of Vicodin, Greg was asleep again.

Wilson stood beside the bed for a moment, absently rotating the medicine in his hand, the action mimicking the spinning of Greg's question in his mind. Round and round and round it goes...

Finally, the bottle stilled. Calmly, his quiet voice diminishing not at all the frustration and anger in his tone, "Yes, House. Even me."

He set the prescription bottle down with a quiet tic and walked softly from the room.