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 the reviews! I love 'em! Sorry the month of not updating this story. Time really got away from me. This isn't the end yet. I do have an ending, I promise, as much as it seems like this is going nowhere. This fic will not be abandoned. :) Thanks again for the support, and to the people who asked about this story being updated, you're the reason why I'm updating it now. You pushed me to it! I would have taken longer otherwise (and produced roughly the same thing). Cheers for lighting the fire under my ass!

Chapter 26: Little Red Camaro

True to his word, Wilson was gone by the time House crawled out of his bedroom toward food and water.

It had become abundantly clear to him some time around three a.m. that the best thing by far to do was down two Benadryl the second something woke him and hope they kicked in before he was forced to leave his bed. On the whole, it had worked out well—no messes to clean up and enough Vicodin that his leg didn't bother him much—but by eleven-thirty he was hungry, feeling pretty good, and down to his last three Benadryl.

The problem of provisions remained. Except for Captain Crunch and a few odd canned items, the cupboard was bare.

A glance out the window confirmed that it had snowed a few inches overnight, and while the sun was out and patches of slushy mud broke up the monotony of melting snow, his building faced the side of the street that was shady in the morning: no dry sidewalks unless he wanted to cross the street. And he didn't want to cross the street.

Soup sounded great to him—soup with some warm bread and hot chocolate to follow—but the idea of leaving his snug apartment and relative peace for a taxi (he was too lightheaded to drive) was repulsive. The miracle of online grocery shopping with same-day delivery hadn't reached the Princeton area yet and Warren, his inside line at the local Superfoods who'd happily taken sizable payments to fill orders and deliver them in the two years after the infarction when Stacy was gone and he was too sick of having Wilson around to ask him to do the shopping, had graduated from high school and left his bagboy job for bigger and better things. Since then, House become savvy enough to buy in bulk and hadn't needed to replace Warren. Now, though, with nothing but stale cereal and artichoke hearts, he was annoyed at his lack of options.

Couldn't call Wilson. No—wouldn't call Wilson. This was one of those times when a kid like Warren came in handy because he would not accept any more charity from Wilson for at least two weeks. He recognized that that probably meant one week, but in his mind, it was two weeks and that was that. He wasn't going to call Wilson. Period.

Cuddy would do it—she would bitch and moan but she would do it—but then he'd have to deal with her sanctimonious grin or (worse than that) her concern for his well-being. Either way, she would never let him forget it, so she was out too. Not that she had ever really been an option. No way.

The idea of calling one of his staff to do his shopping for him was worse than calling Wilson. They didn't need to know what brand of toilet paper he preferred much less where he lived, and they certainly didn't need to know he was too ill to do his own shopping. That could only end badly.

Cameron would insist on putting him to bed and feeding him herself. She would have that look with her and he would feel totally emasculated in addition to angry and embarrassed. The very thought of her spooning chicken soup for him made him nauseous. Hell no.

Chase wasn't any better. He would stand awkwardly at the door going over receipts and apologizing if the store was out of something or didn't have the right brand, then he'd probably drop everything he tried to put away (because he would insist on putting everything away for House and glance sideways for a glimmer of parental approval), and after that, he'd stand awkwardly in the door again, not sure if he should stay or go. Not happening.

Foreman would leave the sacks in the hall, knock, and probably be in his car by the time House could get to the door. That made Foreman the best choice by far. Except for the fact that he'd have to put up with knowing that Foreman knew more about him than he ever wanted Foreman to know, as well as the knowledge that Foreman might do anything with that information. It wasn't the most incriminating evidence out there, but in the wrong hands untold destruction to House's rep could be wrought. At least Cameron and Chase would be up front with their thoughts—that is, their actions would betray their thoughts and feelings, and therefore their potential actions. Foreman had perfected stony silence and he'd proven by plopping that bottle of Vicodin under House's nose on Wednesday that he could act independently and without fear of reprimand from Big, Bad Papa House. Foreman was dangerous because he had the capacity to be dangerous.

So his staff was out. Especially Foreman.

That was everyone who would be willing to help.

He snorted to himself.

The angry, bitter, vitriolic cripple thing was working well: that was a short list.

It was always possible to ring up an escort service, but the idea of paying a hooker to do his shopping was too big a blow to his manhood in addition to being a real waste of money. Besides, he doubted most hookers—most of the really good ones anyway—could read or navigate a supermarket successfully. They were out.

There was always his cleaning lady, too, but he doubted that he could entice her to shop for him on a chilly Sunday. She wasn't his biggest fan and he had the sense that she was on the brink of giving her notice: he'd been rude to her on one too many occasions. He wasn't in any position to ask for a favor and he knew it. Money would make no difference. Like him, she had her pride.

None of the good delis in town delivered and most of the restaurants that did deliver didn't deliver before six p.m. Out.

That left the usual suspects: pizza and Chinese. Oh yummy. The too-recent memory of regurgitating egg drop soup didn't incline him to the latter, but that one memory was outweighed by many even more recent memories of upchucking the former.

Food was never supposed to make him dislike food, especially not the two classes of food that were his staple diet. It was a sick kind of hell he'd been thrust into.

Stupid Cuddy and her stupid bet. Meals on Wheels was beginning to look attractive.

He sighed and picked up the phone. Steamed white rice never hurt anyone.

"Where's your friend?"

Wilson tried to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. He cursed Julie for going to the bathroom and leaving him with her leech of a sister, but more than that, he cursed Camille for not going with Julie. Didn't women always go to the bathroom in packs? Why should he be stuck with the one exception to the rule?

He sighed inwardly, wishing the waiter hadn't already taken their order. "Which friend?" he asked, feeling obliged to say something.

"Greg," Camille said, smiling coyly and leaning in closer to him. "Is he still single?"

He's gay. He's dead. He left town. I don't talk to him any more. I haven't seen him in months. He's got a girlfriend. He's married. He has a two-month-old daughter. He went to Uzbekistan to find himself. The idea of you sickens him. The idea of you sickens me. Please get the hell out of here before I strangle you.

"He's taking a break from dating right now," Wilson said, knowing that whatever lie he told would get back to Julie eventually and even though they were already well beyond repair, he didn't want to heap on any more lies if he could help it. He wasn't that kind of guy.

"That's what you said the last time I saw you and that was over two years ago," Camille answered teasingly. "What are you hiding from me?"

"I'm not hiding anything," Wilson said. "He's having a hard time, that's all."

"I don't believe you for a second, James Wilson," she said and batted him playfully on the arm. "You just want him all to yourself."

He was taken aback at this: she was flirting with him? Her sister's husband? Flirting? With him? No, this wasn't right. This wasn't right at all. Why had he agreed to this? He owed Julie two meals' worth of respectable behavior. Okay. He could accept that. But with her sister! It was inhumane to ask that of him.

He sighed and bit listlessly into a breadstick. "Seriously," he said, mouth full, trying to make himself as unattractive as possible. "He's been having a rough time lately." He shrugged and picked up his water glass. "The guy is married to his work anyway. Stays late all the time, never goes out with anyone, not even me. He's not a fun person. He's not good at having fun. Doesn't like it. Trust me, you'd hate him if you really knew him."

"Gee," she said with a roll of her eyes, "sounds like someone I know." She hit him again playfully on the arm. "Julie says you practically live at work. I know you think your work is important, but your wife is too. More important than your work. Much more."

She was teasing awfully close to him. He was beginning to feel it. Nature couldn't be put off in some cases, even when he was repulsed in all kinds of ways.

"See, you'd never get along with House," he said taking another sip of water. "He doesn't think that way."

"We're not talking about Greg," she purred. "We're talking about you. You don't treat her right."

Wilson recoiled. She was flirting with him, but she wanted to talk about Julie? Huh?

His first wife had had two brothers and they'd each come to him in turn and threatened him bodily when their relationship had begun to go bad and the 'd' word was in the air. His second wife had been an only child. He was new at this sister-in-law business, but he'd never in his worst nightmares imagined this happening. Maybe Julie had gone to the bathroom alone and was taking longer than usual for a reason. She'd wanted Camille to corner him. Talk some confession out of him. Maybe she'd make one up if he didn't provide one.

Better go with admitting the semi-true one.

"I know," he admitted, head down for effect, dropping his breadstick.

"She's a good woman," Camille said, backing off a little. "She deserves better than you're giving her."

"I know," he agreed. "She's wonderful. I love her. I know I'm not as good at being a husband as I was when we were first married, but I'm trying."

"You're not trying very hard from what I hear," Camille said with a sniff.

Wilson hung his head. Sisters-in-law. Bad idea. Really bad idea.

"Well, what you hear is bound to be one-sided," he mumbled.

"The fact that you're not defending yourself very well tells me all I need to know," she pointed out, tapping her garishly long lime green fingernails against her water glass, tick tick tick tick.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said sincerely. "I've had a really hard week."

"What was so hard about it?" she asked, starting to purr again and move closer as if to say, tell me and I'll make your troubles disappear. Five bucks for a quickie; twenty for the hour.

"It was just…hard," Wilson sputtered, unnerved by his wife's sister coming on to him in a public place. "I lost a patient," he lied.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said. "Is that it? Julie said you'd been staying all night."

Wilson shook his head. "House was having some trouble, too," he admitted. "Under the weather. He lets himself get really ill before he does anything."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed, throwing her head back.

"Knew what?" Wilson said defensively, recoiling.

She sat back on her haunches and twirled a straw between her luscious purple lips. Those lime green fingernails to top it off. Even Wilson knew that that was a serious fashion error.

"So listen," she said. "Are you sleeping with him?" She paused briefly, studying him. "I won't tell Julie, but I need to know."

Wilson was taken aback. "What?" he said. "Sleeping with him?" He expected this kind of thing from the gossips at work, but Julie's sister? What?

"You said he spends all his time at work," she pointed out, "well, so do you. 'He's taking a break from women.'" She sniffed. "That is such a lie. So are you sleeping with him or what?"

"Oh," Wilson said, realizing where she'd gotten the impression, "I can see how you might think that."

She nodded, something akin to anger flashing in her eyes. He hoped it was anger anyway. It might have been desire. No!

"No," he said in answer to her question, "I'm not."

"So you just don't love her?" she pressed.

"I do love her," Wilson protested. "I just… look, she knew how busy I was before we got married."

"Yeah," Camille said, "and you told her you'd change. You haven't changed. You don't love her."

"No, no, I do, I do," Wilson said sincerely. "And I did change, I tried to change. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"'This'?" she said angrily, "what 'this'?"

"This," Wilson said, gesturing to the conversation they were having. "Whatever she's told you. This distance between us. That's what we're talking about, right?"

"No, you lying son of a bitch, we're talking about you cheating on her," Camille snapped.

"I— What?" he fumbled. "That was a long time ago. We worked through it."

"We're not talking about that," she hissed. "We're talking about you cheating on her now. With him."

"What? Is that what you think?" he said incredulously. He could almost laugh. This was so inane.

"It's not what I think," she said pointedly.

Wilson realized what she meant. "He's my friend," Wilson said. "I don't have sex with him."

"Then where are you getting it?" she growled. "You must be getting it somewhere."

"Oh, just because she doesn't want to, that means I'm cheating on her?" he said bitterly. "Just because she's frigid— that makes me unfaithful?"

"Like you have a great track record," Camille scoffed. "She says you're the one who's frigid. She got you that damn mutt hoping you'd lighten up," she added loudly.

"We're in public," Wilson hissed, "people are starting to stare."

"Don't want to ruin your reputation, do you?" she snapped.

"Listen, I don't know what she's been telling you, but I've been trying my best to make us work," he said in a low tone. "It isn't easy."

They both spotted Julie coming toward the table. Wilson tried to clear his face.

"You're obviously not trying very hard," Camille spat at him in a low tone when Julie wasn't looking, then she straightened her face too.

Julie was within earshot now.

"So are you going to give me Greg's number or do I have to snatch your cell phone to get it?" Camille asked in a syrupy, smitten voice.

Wilson stared at her in bewilderment.

"Greg?" Julie said sitting down. "Greg House?"

Camille nodded with a huge false smile.

"You don't want anything to do with that loser," Julie said.

She shot him a look that meant he was in trouble and changed the subject. He sat back in his chair and took a drink of water. What a day this was going to be.

Wilson considered that he probably had been happier to see his wife leave before, but he'd never been as relieved as he was now. Thank God for shopping centers.

Julie had taken him aside and told him he was free until 5:30, at which time he was expected to be parked in front of the mall's main entrance waiting for them with a dinner reservation. And the cuisine couldn't be the same kind they'd had for lunch. He'd made nice and backed away slowly when they seemed to be well on their way to the mall's entrance, dialing a local restaurant Julie loved and met the requirements she'd set out, and ordering a table for three.

He had a two beer limit tonight. Two glasses of wine if he preferred, which he didn't. She liked him to have wine when he was at a hospital function, but beer would be okay tonight. Not her first choice for him, but it would be acceptable.

He needed to add to that total before dinner if he was going to get through another round of Camille accusing him of committing adultery with his best friend. And maybe it was, he thought as he got into his car and turned toward House's apartment. Maybe spending all of his time with House instead of his wife was a kind of adultery. And maybe it didn't matter. What else was he supposed to do? He married, like he dated, with his dick. He was domesticated enough to go along on china pattern reconnaissance missions or to pick out drapes. Once or twice. But come on. It wasn't like he made her watch football with him. He knew she preferred to spend her time doing something else and he did her the courtesy of not putting her in a position where she'd have to choose between doing something symbolic and superficial for him that she didn't really want to do and doing something else that she liked. He felt like that was the kind thing to do.

And then there were days when she clearly won and football had no chance whatsoever. They had fewer of those days each year, but when they happened, he loved them. He loved her. He liked to bring her flowers. He liked to see her smile and hear her laugh. He liked to love her. She made him better than he was.

But then there were days like this one when he could do with several hours away from her. Today he could blame her sister for driving a wedge between them and he might sleep better tonight. He promised himself he wouldn't think too much about it.

Right now he needed time to himself…but he didn't like himself very much right now. This thing with House, this bet. What good had it done? Nothing. It had done nothing. Well, no, that wasn't exactly true. It had forced a real conversation out of House. His anger and bitterness boiled over for a moment, just a moment, but it was there and now that it was out, he could never really deny its existence again. It would always be there between them, like some of their really vicious fights from the early days of House's recovery still were. They wouldn't bring these issues up. Not really. It wouldn't be right.

But now House was messed up physically and angry at having his emotional issues brought out—justifiably so, Wilson thought—so what good had it really done? He could have picked a fight with House over how he still hadn't moved on from his last relationship and how he was destroying himself with drugs on any day when House arrived at work in a bad mood. He didn't have to use Cuddy to make him stop taking a drug that he obviously needed physically. He didn't have to cause him that much physical agony. To break your own finger for pain relief…

Rotten was quickly becoming his default mood. And yet, where else could he go? There was no where else he really wanted to be on a Sunday afternoon. It was either this or he'd go home alone and take the dog on a run and watch basketball. House would cheer him up just by being himself. That was better than the dog. He didn't feel like running with the dog anyway.

Wilson parked outside House's building and sat in his car for a while, engine off. The cold got in quickly and drove him up the steps and through the door and then he was knocking again. How many times had he done this in the last seven days? Far too many.

"Lunch didn't go well," House said.

Wilson's head snapped up. Had he knocked on the door? House had obviously answered. Wilson noticed he was wearing the same thing he'd been wearing yesterday. Was this a sulk? House didn't look like he was sulking. He hadn't shaved his stubble in a while either. Probably just lazy today. Well, if anyone had earned it, it was House.

"Lunch did not go well, no," Wilson echoed as he entered the apartment. "Next time I tell you I'm engaged, hit me on the head with something heavy…or hard...or sharp…whatever, as long as it's debilitating." He went directly to the refrigerator.

"You say that every time," House said going to the couch and taking his place next to a half-empty carton of white rice with a plastic fork sticking out of it.

"You never do it," Wilson called from the kitchen. He looked up from the refrigerator at House. "Do you have anything other than beer?"

"To drink?" House said. "No."

Wilson shrugged and picked up a bottle of imported, going to the chair next to the couch.

"I never do it because every time you always manage to convince me at the last minute that it would be a bad idea," House said.

"Which is why I tell you in advance," Wilson pointed out.

"But I'm not to be trusted," House said, "everyone knows that." He gestured toward the television. "Pick a game," he said. "Anything. As long as it's racing."

Wilson got up and dug through House's pile of video games. "I'm out of the loop," he said, picking one out and inserting the cartridge. He started the game, untangled the controllers, and handed the Player One controller to House.

"You look like hell," he said matter-of-factly, going back to his chair and scrolling through the characters until he found his usual guy.

"What did you expect?" House said, picking the reptilian thing with spikes that he always played. "I'm not going to get all dolled up for you."

They moved on to picking and calibrating their cars.

"Camille asked about you," Wilson said. He'd play the supercharged Camaro that he always played.

"Did you tell her where she could go?" House said. He picked his usual Corvette, also supercharged.

"No," Wilson said as they cued up to the starting line. "It morphed into this really weird conversation about how I'm a bad husband."

"Did she tell you where you could go?" House asked, eyes on the screen and the light clicked down to green.

"She accused me of sleeping with you," Wilson said.

House's car moved over the line: false start. The game reset itself. Wilson smirked, glad House couldn't see him in the dim apartment.

The light turned green and their cars leapt onto the track.

"Trying to live vicariously, was she?" House said, concentration in his voice.

"Which means Julie thinks I'm sleeping with you," Wilson said, ignoring House's barb. He took the first series of turns smoothly, a few milliseconds behind House in time. Wilson always let him have the lead early.

"So?" House said, steering his car around a flaming tire and narrowly avoiding a spin out. "They all think that at some point. If you're the one with the problem, then it means they didn't screw it up. They're flattering themselves." He paused to jump a ramp on the course. "But it wouldn't hurt you to prove her wrong," he said. "You know… maybe sleep with her once in a while."

"You think I don't try?" Wilson said, hitting the controls harder than he should have in exasperation. His car lost a second to House's. "Why are you suddenly giving out marriage advice?" he asked defensively.

"You caught me on the one day of the month I'm not an asshole," House said. "There's Chinese," he added.

Wilson understood that House meant the food was on the table without House having to gesture to the table: neither of them was taking his eyes off of the game. But then again, he had just put his nose in House's fridge.

The ran the rest of the race in silence. Wilson skidded against a flaming cactus and House hit a coyote, so they finished up almost even, House winning by a twentieth of a second. Wilson read his stats half-heartedly and pressed start to begin another game. When House didn't press start immediately too, Wilson glanced over at him.

House had put down his controller and was shaking his left hand in the air. "Gimme a second," he said, massaging the palm with his right forefinger and thumb. The frantic movement of the video game was catching up with him and he felt dizzy for a moment. He let out a long, deep sigh, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back.

"Don't give me that look," he said tiredly. "I'm allowed to feel like shit right now."

Wilson couldn't help himself—you glanced over at someone when they made that kind of noise out of general human decency.

"You were fine yesterday," Wilson said quietly. House knew exactly what he was thinking.

"I'm still fine," House said without opening his eyes. "You know as well as I do that it's going to be a few days before I'm back to a hundred percent or you wouldn't have asked Cuddy to give me time off."

Wilson started to protest.

"Oh come on," House said without moving or opening his eyes. "She'd never do it of her own volition. Not right after losing a bet to me."

"You underestimate her," Wilson said. "She came to me and asked me what I thought."

"And you told her," House said. "Thanks."

"Do you really want to go to work tomorrow?" Wilson said with an edge to his voice; Camille's behavior earlier had really bothered him and his kid gloves were starting to slip off, "because I'm sure that can be arranged."

"No," House said tiredly. "I just don't want anyone's pity." He opened his eyes and looked over. "That includes you."

He saw Wilson formulating a protest again.

"Don't give me any crap," House said. "I get to crash every so often. Now is one of those times. If you can't handle that, leave now."

"I thought you said you weren't an asshole today," Wilson said.

"I was wrong," House deadpanned. He rubbed his forehead.

On one hand, he didn't want Wilson anywhere near him, for the same reason he hadn't called Wilson about doing his grocery shopping earlier. No more handouts. On the other hand, he knew he was sick and part of him was afraid he might pass out and aspirate or that the bleeding (which he was sure had stopped by now) might worsen and he might not be able to wake up. So while he didn't welcome Wilson, he didn't want to send the man away either.

"When are you due back at the Big House?" House asked, flexing his left hand again.

"Few hours," Wilson answered, drinking his beer.

House was moody today. When was House not moody? Wilson could tell today was an extra-moody day. Oh well. He couldn't exactly blame the guy. He was right: he did have the right to feel like crap while his body got used to the Vicodin again. Wilson remembered when he started taking it. The side effects were rough on him for a few days. This was no different. Add to that the poor physical shape he was in right now and Wilson couldn't blame him at all for being grouchy. For once, he was truly beyond reproach.

"We never finished watching Ray last night," Wilson pointed out.

"You mean you didn't finish watching Ray," House said with a smirk.

Wilson rolled his eyes.

In truth, House hadn't finished the movie either. As soon as the heroin detox scene started, his stomach had done a back flip. He'd dropped the popcorn and quickly turned the movie off, breathing fast. He couldn't watch someone detox cold turkey right now. It was too fresh: the shaking, the pain, the sickness. The feeling of death stealing upon him. Much too fresh. He never wanted to feel that way again and he sure as hell didn't want to watch it acted out. Not ever. He hoped Wilson wouldn't ask to finish it. That was not going to happen.

"Whatever," Wilson said. He glanced at the screen: House's stats were still on the top half of the screen with 'press start' flashing in red over them. He held up the game controller.

"You're not going to play me because your hand hurts, or you're not going to play me because you think you might actually lose a game for once—which is it?" he asked with a grin.

"Oh you are goin' down, little red Camaro," House said. He slammed the start button and initiated a complex series of commands to make the engine rev and his car bounce at the starting line. "You are goin' down."

"Show off," Wilson muttered, but his grin widened as the countdown began. This was exactly what he'd needed.