Chapter Two

Did I mention that this is going to be a House/Wilson strong friendship fic?Because, well, yeah... one of them.

Sally: Nothing will make me drool more than someone praising me with the word intellectual. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Sawyer: Yay! I'm happy that you expect randomness, because... OK, don't tell anyone, but I hear voices... :D But that's beside the point. The next few fics I've got lined up to post venture fairly far into the random. We got a House/Cuddy, another House/Cameron, and one that's... I'm not even sure what on earth it is... eh. Think not of them. Hope you enjoy this one. dontuwanakno: Beautiful ay? How kind. Like your name btw.

House was only tinkling lightly on the keys when the soft knock on his door came that Monday night, otherwise he wouldn't have heard it. He stopped, cocking his head on one side for a moment, then sighing. He didn't need to look at his watch. It was late, which could mean only one person, and one thing really. His stomach dropped slightly in empathetic pain. He was too cynical by now to want to pretend that he hadn't seen it coming, yet it was human nature to hope, however falsely.

Leaving his glass, with it's few remaining drops of amber liquid, resting on the piano, he stood stiffly, gathering his cane and limping to the door. The person on his door step was patient, confirming his guess.

Twisting the latch, he opened the door without a word, turning and heading back into the room. Wilson let himself in, shutting the door behind himself and slowly following House back into the living room. House didn't need to look at his face to know the misery that would be plastered across it, and that, perhaps was why he didn't.

James collapsed on the couch without invitation, and House continued through to the kitchen, to the fridge, to pull out two beers. He liked to talk, but there were times when drink and drink alone was needed. He opened both bottles and hobbled back into the lounge room with the necks clasped in one hand. Collapsing next to his friend, he silently handed him a beer, then reached for the remote, searching on the television for some mindless sport, anything really.

Wilson got the next two beers, although House knew he wanted to go for the stronger spirits, and still didn't speak. It wasn't until their third bottle each that the silence was broken, and even then it was done by House.

'It always comes as a surprise to you doesn't it?'

'It… shouldn't, by now. After…' He stopped, choking off. House didn't look at him; let him have his time. He knew when to push, and when simply to be silent and let people fill in the gaps.

'God,' Said Wilson, running his free hand through his hair, the other clutching the neck of his beer. House glanced at him, and then studied him properly for the first time since he had come in, disregarding the TV now they were finally up to the talking. He was still wearing his clothes from work, minus the usual immaculate tie. Minus the usual immaculate anything actually. His hair was messy, the shirt rumpled, somewhat in House's own style.

'It's happening again isn't it? I thought maybe, just a bad patch, but she got the papers…'

House didn't reply. There wasn't a terrible lot he could say that would be comforting, or for that matter, anything he could say that wouldn'tmake Wilson break down completely at that moment. He glanced around the room, once again waiting for his friend to collect himself and continue, noting that the remnants of whiskey in the glass on the piano had almost evaporated.

Feeling suddenly uneasy on the couch, he pulled himself awkwardly to his feet, using his cane for the short space to the piano, sitting down at the bench. Running his fingers lightly over the ivory keys, he paused for a moment, and then just allowed his hands to find a pattern. A low, soothing rhythm wove into the room, mixing with the quiet commentary from the television.

'Did you know?' asked Wilson, his voice flat. House didn't even consider lying.

'Yes.' But he didn't embellish. Cruelty was not in his nature, despite what some would say. Wilson seemed to be in the mood for pain at that moment however, and House could not blame him; could very well understand even.

'Since when?'

'Since two weeks after your honeymoon when she rang you at work to tell you to pick up some shopping on the way home. That's far too short a time for a successful marriage to sink into mundanity. But specifically, recently? When you came out with me on a weeknight, with the direct intention of getting drunk. So, two Thursdays ago.'

'Two Thursdays ago,' echoed Wilson hollowly.

'Any requests?' Asked House after a few long moments had trickled past. Certainly, there was a lot that had not been said, but there was little else that could be said right now, not with Wilson's raw state. So… that left diversion. Take the conscious mind off the pain as much as possible, whilst it began to heal, or numb, as best it could.

'Bloody Sunday by U2,' replied Wilson after a moment. House obliged, and otherwise the room was silent. The TV in the background was somehow a comforting counterpoint. Wilson leaned his head back on the couch and sighed.

Half-way through, the oncologist heaved himself heavily to his feet, moving like a man twice his years. Crippling pain could do that to a person. Pain of either sort.

He disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with the whiskey bottle House had started earlier, along with another glass. They'd already finished all the beer in the fridge. House let him, and for the first time, joined him, until his fingers were too clumsy to elicit anything more than basic nursery songs. They got steadily drunk together. Because pain spread. Seeing Wilson fresh in the knowledge that another divorce would not be far in coming caused House's many scars to flare up, reminding him of all he'd lost. So he sank them in alcohol, until the world was three steps removed, and he almost couldn't feel the pain that radiated off his best friend's slumped figure.

When he glanced at the clock, and it informed him that he'd be more than sorry in the morning, he very carefully stood from where he had relocated back to the couch. Rescuing the remote from the coffee table, he finally turned off the TV, signalling to Wilson that it was time to seek sleep.

Slowly, weavingly, he moved to a cupboard and pulled out a couple of blankets and a pillow, carrying them back to the couch like an old dog still trying to play fetch. Wilson had already lain out, with the closed eyes of one who was trying to rationalise the spinning.

'Shoes,' said House thickly. Wilson obligingly toed them off without opening his eyes, letting them drop to the floor and lay where they fell. House tossed the blankets and pillow on top of him and left him to sort it out, retreating to his own bedroom.

To be continued…