Disclaimer in chapter 1.

This chapter is set one night and one day after the preceding chapter.

Rage

When Wilson startled awake to light flooding the cracked bedroom door the next night, he reminded himself that he'd expected this to happen. House slept poorly. He knew that, he told himself as he reluctantly pushed the covers back and sat up. Consequently, House often woke up and since he was incapable of sitting still, he snuck out to read or watch television or play a video game. Or to pace. Wilson could hear House pacing rapidly. House probably didn't need any help right now. He knew that too, he said to the part of his brain that reminded him of these things as he got to his feet.

Squinting in the lamp light coming down the hall, Wilson watched House do two laps before House noticed him.

Just as quickly as House glanced up to confirm Wilson's presence, he glanced down again. "Go back to sleep," he barked.

Edgy. Jittery. Wilson had expected that, too.

He leaned against the hallway wall. "Anything I can do?"

House's lip curled as he rounded the couch. "Didn't you get that from 'go back to sleep'?" he sneered, baring down on Wilson.

House turned and Wilson sighed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Wilson tried to come up with something to say. House continued to pace at an alarming rate around the sofa, ignoring Wilson.

After a few minutes of watching House wear down the wood floor, Wilson spoke.

"Do you think rehab would help?"

"So not the time to ask," House snarled, "seeing as I really want to hit someone right now." He emphasized his point with a stomp combination of his cane and bad leg.

Wilson's eyes tracked him pensively. "Their night support staff can do a better job than I can," he pointed out.

House barked a humorless laugh. "That's right, keep trying me." Raw anger flashed in his eyes as he rounded the couch again.

Wilson merely watched him pace, hands shoved into his pajama pants pockets. From House's stride, he could tell that the leg wasn't bothering him. Of course, he'd known as soon as he'd become fully awake why House was doing laps at a NASCAR pace. No one got away from morphine that easily.

"Did you smoke?" Wilson asked casually.

"Didn't work," House answered, this time not as aggressively. His eyes flickered to Wilson's for a half second. "Chain-smoking might but I don't want to be sick anymore."

Wilson noticed the jitter in his left hand as he turned the couch again. This craving had him by the bones.

"So you're going to out-run it?" Wilson asked.

House stopped, swaying as his motion caught up to him after the abrupt halt.

"You got a better idea?" he shouted.

Wilson could see him shaking, his chest and face turning red.

House stepped forward aggressively. "Why are you pushing me?"

Wilson held House's outraged gaze steadily. "Because rehab might be better for you this time," he said in a soft tone.

House ground his teeth, ready to lunge at Wilson, then resumed his pacing.

"Trying to get rid of me?" he asked—traces of paranoia, self-effacing humor, and anger. His normal tone, more or less.

"Yeah, that's it," Wilson snorted.

House's mouth worked back and forth, opening and shutting before he spoke.

"I've gone through all the steps," he growled. "Talking isn't going to help me. I already know I need to work through the damned craving." His eyes flashed at Wilson again. "That's what I'm doing." He looked down. "I don't need an audience," he added.

Wilson stared at the roving form. The scarecrow still fifteen pounds underweight. The addict.

"I find it difficult to sleep when you're like this," he said calmly. He wasn't putting his feelings into these words. He wasn't trying to threaten House, not in any way.

"You must never sleep," House fired back

Wilson sniffed a laugh. Such a typical reply from House. If House could be himself, he'd be able to get through this one.

Wilson turned back toward the bedroom. He knew he couldn't do anything to help. Even being present wasn't helpful.

"You know where I'll be," he called over his shoulder.

The only response he received was the rapid step-thump of House's pacing.

In the morning, Wilson found him asleep on the couch. He slept through Wilson's entire morning routine—even through Wilson's macadamia nut pancake breakfast.

Believing that House might actually know the best way to heal himself for once, Wilson locked the door quietly and headed for work.