Title: Intervention
By: Sy Dedalus
Rating: Somewhere between TV-14 and TV-MA. Contains naughty language, adult situations, adult themes, graphic grossness; no sex.
Paring: Gen (House/Wilson strong friendship)
Spoilers: Season One.
Summary: The missing scenes from "Detox" plus some. Wilson helps House as House faces himself and his addiction. Mostly hurt/comfort and angst.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to FOX and the producers of the show, etc. I'm not making any profit from this. Please don't sue me, etc. The quote from Lermontov comes from the Modern Library edition released last year. Quotes from Modest Mouse, John Berryman, Martin Heideggar, R.E.M., Johnny Cash, Albert Camus, Robert Lowell, Nick Flynn, Radiohead, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hunter S. Thompson, Joe Wenderoth, Hugh Laurie, Theodore Roethke, Queens of the Stone Age, Coldplay, etc. belong to their respective owners and not to me. Please don't sue over that either.

A/N: Thanks for all the wonderful reviews, guys. You sure know how to make an author feel appreciated. :) This long freakin chapter is finally done. Re: canon. Yep, this fic will conform to canon.

Odd-numbered chapters still Wilson's, even-numbered ones still House's, except for the long bit in the middle where they merge.

The Hours pt. 2

Fear Factor's probably fixed like everything else, House mused as he swallowed a Vicodin with some water.

His leg had stiffened in the nearly forty-five minutes he'd sat unmoving on his couch, slumped in front of the television, mind elsewhere. The female contestants were usually easy on the eye, though, and he felt he could participate in a show with a predetermined outcome without fearing for his soul if that was one of the conditions. He broke a Benadryl in half and swallowed it too for insurance purposes.

He jumped a little at a knock on his door. What? He hadn't ordered anything in his semi-conscious state, had he? Surely not. He had no idea where his phone was and he hadn't gotten so good at telepathy yet that he could summon delivery boys through brain power alone. Couldn't be a package he had to sign off on either: it was too late for packages to be arriving at his door. All of his neighbors knew to leave him alone. So who…?

The knock came again and he slowly got up, mindful of his leg, and limped to the door, glancing through the peephole.

Oh.

Duh.

The usual suspect.

He looked again. The usual suspect was nervous and had a few things with him. Hmm. Could be interesting. Why not?

His hand went from his cane to the locks before he could stop himself.

"Hey," Wilson said meekly, testing the waters out, relieved that House had opened the door. House didn't look angry. He didn't look like anything. A little tired maybe and pale but that was nothing new.

"What's up?" House asked glancing at the plastic bags Wilson had with him.

"Sister-in-law's coming in tomorrow," Wilson said. "I forgot all about it. Need a guy night if I'm going to survive." He held up a DVD. "I brought Major League."

House appraised him for a long moment. "And beer," he said noticing the six pack in Wilson's hand.

"And beer," Wilson repeated. It was the awkward moment at the door. God, he hated it so much. The moment before he was accepted or rejected. Took him back to picking up his prom date in high school. He tried not to squirm under House's intense gaze.

House scanned him again intently as though Wilson were a case file open before him. His eyes lit on Wilson's lip.

"Cute," he said, "we match."

Wilson's tongue flicked out to graze his own lip. He'd forgotten about that.

"I made sure he hit me in just the right spot," he said.

"Call me next Sunday—we'll wear matching shirts and ties to work," House said. "Everyone'll be so freaked out."

"Anything to start the gay rumors again," Wilson responded, not yet smiling, not yet sure.

"Oh, how I've missed that," House said without missing a beat. "Everyone thinks I'm boffing Chase. I like being the pretty one."

"Bet you like being on top too," Wilson said, knowing he was in the clear now. He hefted the six pack. "Beer's getting warm."

House appraised him again quickly and nodded him in.

Wilson gathered up the plastic bag containing the popcorn, candy, and other DVDs and stepped in. He closed the door behind him wordlessly and took off his overcoat and scarf, offering House the beer.

House just looked at him.

Wilson looked back at House, wondering what was up. Cane in one hand and…oh. Whoops. He dropped the plastic bag and fished a bottle out of the pack to hand to House instead of the whole six pack.

He was relieved when House took it without a word or another intense gaze and turned toward the couch. Wilson went to the kitchen to put the rest in the fridge.

"So," he said coming back into the living room and tossing the snacks on the coffee table in the dim light of the television, "Major League, Groundhog Day, or Ray?"

"Groundhog Day?" House said from the couch, feet back on the coffee table as he picked a box of Milk Duds out of the bag. "You trying to mock me?"

"No," Wilson said settling into a chair near the couch. "Ray is mocking you. Groundhog Day just says 'hey, look at me, I'm Bill Murray.'"

"Don't knock pianists," House said as he opened the box, "we know scales and we're not afraid to use them."

"Ray it is then," Wilson said. "Pizza?"

"You're buying," House said with a shrug.

Wilson shrugged back. "The works?"

"Tell them I'm sending it back if they don't include the kitchen sink," House said popping Milk Duds into his mouth without bothering to chew. Stomach be damned, he was hungry and he liked Milk Duds.

Wilson glanced at him. "Save some of those for the popcorn," he said as House shoveled more into his mouth.

"Spoil sport," House said and put the box down.

Wilson glared at him and called in the order on his cell phone—no telling where House's phone was—then got up to put the movie in the DVD player. He grabbed a beer for himself from the refrigerator, slipped his shoes off and sank into a chair.

"So," House said from the couch as he tore into a bag of cotton candy, "the dreaded Camille."

"The very one," Wilson confirmed, pressing play on the DVD remote.

"No one's ever been that desperate to hook up with me before or since," House said reflectively through a wisp of cotton candy.

Wilson shrugged. "It's tradition. I think some hotels offer discounts now to the Best Man once the groom books the bridal suite."

House snorted. "I always considered the post-wedding encounter a thing of the hourly motel or the non-descript utility closet. Whichever's closest. Heat of the moment, you know." He popped a fluffy ball of purple sugar into his mouth. "Especially at your first wedding. I could've done so much better."

"Yeah, so could I," Wilson said with a snort. He paused to suck on his beer. Sister-in-law. Ugh. "Camille still holds it against me that you denied her her due."

"Tell her she can drop in any time," House said suavely, licking his fingers. "The doctor is in."

"Dude," Wilson said in disgust, "this is Camille we're talking about. Worse than Maid of Honor number one. What was her name? Susan? Sally? Whatever. Woof woof, what a dog."

House's hand paused in the cotton candy bag and he glanced at Wilson, brows furrowing bewilderedly.

Wilson saw his look. "You remember Camille, right?" he said. "Loud? Big hair? Bad dye job? Really obnoxious?" He snorted to himself. "Time hasn't smoothed any of that out. If anything, she's gotten worse. An absolute pest who'll be staying in my house until Thursday. What did I do to deserve this?"

House sat forward, dropping the bag. "That's Camille! What about the hot one? The blonde. Tall. Cindy Crawford but without the mole. You know?"

"Cousin, I think," Wilson said. "You danced with Camille twice. How could you not remember her?"

"Shit," House said. "I must've gotten them confused. Which one kept hitting on me?"

"That was Camille," Wilson confirmed.

"What about the blonde?" House asked.

"I don't remember," Wilson said. "But Camille asks about you every time she's in town. It's disgusting."

"Oh my God," House said and shuddered.

"What?" Wilson said. "You weren't actually considering it, were you? I mean, desperation is one thing, but even a desperate man has standards."

"Well…no, of course I wasn't," House said. "Because—" Stacy would've killed me "because I wasn't."

"You were!" Wilson accused. "You dog."

"It's tradition, like you said," House said with a shrug. "But—damn—I could've sworn the blonde was making eyes at me all night."

"I don't think so," Wilson said.

"Ugh," House said with a shiver. "Revolting." He picked up the bag cotton candy. "I need more sugar or I'll have nightmares."

"Good thing you didn't," Wilson said, "or I'd have to hear about that every time she comes to town."

"I'm sure she'd have very positive things to say," House said smugly.

Wilson snorted. "Yeah and Julie would just love it."

House snorted back and tore into the other bag of cotton candy.

They watched the movie for a moment. Then, bored with the progression, House asked suddenly, "Was she hot?"

"Who?" Wilson asked, eyes on the screen as he drained his beer.

"Last night," House said. "Whoever it was. Hot?"

"Hot enough," Wilson said. "'Willing' gets more points than 'hot' after a while."

"She bust your lip for you too?" House asked, scooping the last of the cotton candy out of the bag.

"No," Wilson said. "Ex. Showed up when I was talking to her."

"And you did the chivalric thing," House said as he licked his fingers again.

Wilson shrugged a shoulder. "Got me laid."

"It's a lot to take a punch for a one-night stand," House said and let the second empty bag fall next to the coffee table.

"Maybe I had other reasons," Wilson said mysteriously and got up for a second beer.

House glanced at his. He'd drunk about a third of it. And not just because of his stomach. Tonight's pace was relaxed, he thought, not frantic. But a sister-in-law…well, he could understand wanting to try to drown that thought. He wasn't interested in scraping Wilson off of his floor tomorrow morning, though.

"Gonna sleep over?" House asked when Wilson returned. "I've got new footie pajamas I'm dying to show off."

"Why?" Wilson asked. "Someone coming over later?"

House shrugged. "Maybe."

Wilson glanced sideways at him. "If it's all the same."

House shrugged again. "Just wondering if I'll be on puke patrol tomorrow morning."

"Nah," Wilson said. "I have to be home by mid-morning or she fits me with a shock collar."

"I am so glad I'm not married," House mumbled into his beer bottle, just loud enough for Wilson to hear.

"Watch it," Wilson said, "or I'll make sure the next Maid of Honor is a transsexual."

"Low," House said, "very low." He gestured toward the television with the beer bottle. "When does this thing start to pick up?"

"Give it ten minutes," Wilson said. "If Ray Charles isn't mutated into a half-human, half-cyborg bent on destroying all of Manhattan by then, we'll call Hollywood and ask for our money back."

"Ruin the ending why don't ya," House snipped.

The doorbell rang and Wilson got up to answer it.

"Tip him well," House called after Wilson. "I have them conditioned—don't spoil it."

Wilson snorted, paid the kid, and came back with the pizza after he detoured to the kitchen for a third beer.

"Is that why he got here so fast?" Wilson said as he put the pizza on the coffee table a little closer to House's bare feet than he wanted any food he was going to eat to be and grabbed two slices. "I thought—you know, after your feud with Domino's—"

"They know that if they get here in under twenty minutes, they get a big tip," House said taking a slice out of the box. "And no, I haven't pranked them in a long time. Not since I changed my number."

Wilson shrugged. "They make better pizza anyway," he said around a mouthful.

"Mind your manners," House said, his own mouth full.

"Hey House," Wilson said after a moment, "do you like seafood?"

"No, but I bet you do," House said and stuck his tongue out, beating Wilson to it.

Wilson's pizza crust sailed through the air to hit House square in the chest.

"No fighting in front of the Oscar nominee," House said as he threw the crust back.

"You started it," Wilson said sulkily as he took another slice out of the box.

"And I finished it," House said, unable to resist another slice himself. So what if his stomach was burning? He could always sneak away and take another Benadryl. Probably shouldn't have gone through both bags of cotton candy so quickly, but it was so gooood.

He ate the second slice slowly. Wilson was on his fifth or sixth slice by the time House finished his second, but the Vicodin he'd taken was tangoing nicely with the half a beer he'd ingested and he was starting not to care if his stomach hurt or not.

Half an hour later, they both realized that the other was being curiously quiet.

Wilson, half-asleep after three beers and hours of running on the treadmill and with the dog, attributed it to the underlying surliness caused by House's unwillingness to forgive and forget. House, trying to hide the fact that his stomach was becoming more and more of a problem, attributed it to the fact that Wilson looked half-asleep.

Wilson stirred first, shaking himself as he sat up, and collected the remains of the pizza, just buzzed enough not to notice that it felt a little heavy for a pizza split with House. House palmed the bottle of Benadryl once Wilson was on his way to the kitchen and carefully got up.

Wilson returned with another beer and looked at him questioningly.

"Sometimes big boys need to go potty after they eat," House said patronizingly. "Fire up a tub of popcorn."

"How can you still be eating?" Wilson asked.

"Are you calling me fat?" House said vainly.

"Yes, Twig Boy, I'm calling you fat," Wilson said as he rolled his eyes and swigged his beer.

"Words hurt," House said with a mock snivel.

Wilson flipped him off.

House picked up a bag of uncooked popcorn and threw it at Wilson. "It's not a movie without popcorn," he said.

The bag hit Wilson, who was in mid-glug, and made him spill beer on his shirt. "Hey!" he said.

"You're the worst date ever!" House said dramatically. "I'm going to powder my nose!" He threw over his shoulder as he went, "There better be popcorn when I get back or I'm not putting out for you."

He heard Wilson grumble something.

"You men are all alike!" he called and slammed the bathroom door. As diversions went, he thought he'd done a good job.

Now he had a problem. Take a Benadryl and chance falling asleep on the sofa or wait it out and chance puking in front of Wilson again? Neither option was great. But the way Wilson was putting beer away, he might just get away with one or the other. He had to do something, though: his stomach was burning like mad.

He thought it over. He didn't feel too pukish. The Benadryl half he'd taken earlier must be working. The acid was killing him, though, so he dug around in his poor excuse for a medicine cabinet and came up with a bottle of expired Maalox. He shrugged to himself—probably couldn't hurt—and swallowed a healthy portion.

He sat on the toilet for a while, bowels aching now that they were forced to process food again, and waited as long as he could before he risked Wilson getting suspicious and coming after him. Feeling a little better, he drank some more Maalox and put the it and the Benadryl away, then flushed the toilet to make it seem like he'd been doing what he said he was doing, washed his hands, and left.

He wasn't too surprised at the sight that greeted him upon return: a bowl of freshly-popped popcorn on the coffee table where the pizza had been and Wilson snoring lightly in his favorite chair.

He smiled to himself and sat down to watch the end of the movie, carelessly munching on popcorn.

Midnight.

Expired Maalox wasn't a great idea after all. Probably a worse idea than popcorn on top of pizza. It certainly wasn't helping his upper-GI bleed. However, he felt confident that it would stop once he stopped blowing chunks. He found the anti-chunk blowing medicine in the cabinet and shook two out, pausing before he took them.

They meant sleep, too.

Wilson would drag his ass to the E.R. before he could even begin to argue if he found out.

But he probably wouldn't find out.

On the other hand…

No, screw it. He was tired and Wilson was comatose in his living room, so he could stand a few hours' sleep.

He brushed his teeth, swallowed the two Benadryl and another Vicodin, and limped off to bed.

One.

Wilson snorted in his sleep, shifted around in the chair, and started snoring again, utterly oblivious.