Title: ((Gah. I have no title. I suck at titles. Hopefully I'll find one soon. In he meantime, it's…uh, Untitled)) Part 2? ((I am considering "Vacant Life", suggested by a reviewer))
Author: Michelle (CelticFaerie2)
Rating: Mature. This chapter is gen. But still. Overall rating will be mature.
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, self destruction, adult situations, possibly language
Fandom: House

Spoilers: None really
Characters: Wilson, House, a few others along the way
Disclaimer: Genius to David Shore for creating such an addictive show, and of course Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard for playing House and Wilson so beautifully
Summary: Life goes on.
Notes: 1080 words.
Feedback: PLEASE!

Greg House let himself in with the key Wilson had given him years ago, a key he rarely used unless Wilson was out of town on a conference and House dropped by to water the plants. "James?" he called, checking in all the rooms downstairs before venturing to the stairs.

He looked up, hopeful Wilson would appear at the crest so he wouldn't have to trek up. Stairs were difficult for him to navigate with a leg that refused to cooperate, and his cane was essentially useless. "Wilson!" he hollered, right foot resting on the first step, muscles clenching in anticipation of the first step.

He rocked back on his left foot, and hooked his cane on the railing. The master bedroom, where he expected to find Wilson, was at the top of the stairs. He could do with out the cane once he got up there.

His right hand gripped the railing to counter his weight as he pulled himself up. Stabbing pain sliced through his right thigh. Not a pleasant feeling. He paused, looked up. If he wasn't worried Wilson had done something stupid up there, he wouldn't have forced himself to make the climb. But the fact Wilson hadn't answered him just wasn't a good sign.

"James!" he called again, sweat beading his forehead at the thought of another step.

"I'm here," James appeared at the bedroom door, then the top of the stairs. His hand looked to be wrapped in a towel. "I was in the bathroom."

House closed his eyes for a moment. Great. Turning around to go back down seemed almost more daunting than going back up. The steps didn't give him much room to navigate, and there was no way to do it without setting his weight on his right foot. A mere second was all it took, and he had to maintain a firm grip on the railing to keep himself upright.

He retrieved his cane, and allowed his shoulder to bear the brunt of his weight again now that he was on level ground. James waited until he cleared the stairs before charging down to the main floor.

"What happened to your hand?" House asked with a quick glance.

"You should see the wall," Wilson answered, and held his arm up.

House lifted the towel. "Pretty."

"I thought so too."

"Want me to wrap it for you?"

"Nah. Once I start drinking I won't even feel it."

The horrific stench of sweat and stale beer assaulted his nose before he was even out of the car. That wasn't good. "What is this place?" he muttered, not really expecting an answer.

Wilson was out of the car, and leaned against the door waiting for House to pull himself up to his feet. "Friend of a patient," he explained with a wave of his hand. "I wanted somewhere different."

"You just want to make sure you won't run into anyone from the hospital." House clarified, and Wilson's silence confirmed the suggestion.

A few minutes later, they sat facing each other across a table and a bottle of beer. House was pretty sure the tap would be watered down, better to stick with the bottle, even if it was more expensive.

The crowd was moderate, but it was still early. Wilson assured him the place would be packed within the hour. Great, just what House was looking for. Bonding with a bunch of thick necked drunks.

House listened to his friend ramble, accentuating the conversation with an occasional grunt or click of his tongue. Wilson swiftly avoided the real issue, which was fine with House. He'd lend Wilson all the support he could manage, but discussing the truth of his wife leaving wasn't within Greg House's comfort zone.

House had seen Wilson through two failed marriages, had seen the third going south much the same as the other two. He'd rarely tried to talk about it with James, though. Failed relationships were a touchy spot with him.

"I need a piss," Wilson announced suddenly and hitched his jeans for effect as he stood. He'd consumed three beers, House figured it to be enough to get a buzz going, but his eyes were still far too focused. He'd need a few more before he forgot why he was drinking.

House nodded. He'd just as soon stay in his chair until the need to urinate was too strong to ignore. Something about hobbling through a bar full of men thick as California Redwoods didn't exactly appeal to him.

He scanned the dimly lit room. A couple of pool tables lay nestled in a somewhat brighter corner, decorated with NASCAR and beer advertisements. House hadn't played pool for…ten years, at least. Not exactly easy to line up shots when one leg was compromised.

House glanced at his watch. 7:42. He sighed and took a drink from his beer.

House sighed. He'd finished his beer. His first, even though James had drank three. James had drank the one meant to be his second. House looked at the empty bottles, as if hoping one would have a little left in it, but Wilson wasn't that careless.

So. It was either sit on his ass and wait for Wilson, or get up and limp over to the bar. He wasn't thrilled with either option.

His watch displayed 7:47. Only five minutes since he'd last looked. Where the hell was James? House looked up toward the bathrooms. A neon sign hung on the wall, pointing the way, and underneath it, a man wiping his hands on his jeans.

The man in question peaked House's interest, though he couldn't say why. With a nod to the bartender, the guy sauntered out the door. Two thuggish looking guys followed. House caught a glimpse of red smeared on a shirt. Looked suspiciously like blood.

House watched them go out the door. Something didn't sit right. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

House glanced around the bar once more, this time to make sure no one was paying him any attention. He wasn't due for another Vicodin yet, but sitting on the hard chair made his hip hurt, and the leg ached from his attempt to climb the stairs at Wilson's place. He swallowed a pill without a drink to ease it down, felt it cling all the way down his throat.

With a grunt, House got to his feet, using the table for extra support. He grabbed his cane, and headed for the bathroom.