Chapter Three

Mrs Ronald Weasley: We always feel sorry for House, in one way or another. It's part of his charm. prinnie: Thankya dear. Sawyer: Can I marry you? Seriously. No one else seems to get the importance of the voices. :D And if I may, can I offer a translation? 'Over the top' meaning slash, no? Thankyou terribly much for your comments. They do make the voices so very happy. tranquil-eyes: Oh boy did your review have me bouncing up and down in my seat and clapping my hands. I was unsure about Bloody Sunday, so thanks for the validation. Also, that image... yeah. Don't know what to say really. It was one of the core images as the story came together, and you picked it. Cookies! AilciA: Two reviews from you. Aren't I lucky :) Thankyou for your coherent praise ('creative,' 'perceptive'... wowie!), you made me blush. Now go get some sleep, I hear it's kinda important.

The next morning, House regretted it heartily; alcohol, combined with lack of sleep and time spent wallowing in self-pity and pain. He could hear his shower going, and knew very well that Wilson would be twice as bad. The heavy Vicodin usage gave him a general resistance to drugs of all sorts; pure practicality was half of the reason why he never got drunk.

Still… he catalogued his ills and did not find them wanting. He lay still for a bit, until he heard the shower stop, and the door open a few minutes later. Then, and only then did he make the unsteady trip down the hall to empty his already empty stomach into the toilet. It smelt like Wilson already had.

His friend kept a spare change of clothes at his place, which had come in handy more times than seemed reasonable. By the time House was out of the shower (hot water cured much), Wilson was looking like a doctor, with perfectly straight tie, ironed shirt and pants. He also looked like he was miserable, and had a headache, but there was the smell of toast wafting from the kitchen, some already consumed, some made for House in silent thanks.

House had popped a Vicodin, which worked for both head and leg, but Wilson stubbornly made do with some non-prescription analgesics. Then they both drove in to work, nothing more said between them. Sometimes it was like that.

oo00OO00oo

Wilson, Foreman, Chase and Cameron were all in the meeting room by the time House arrived, because he had taken his time to finish his toast, and fuelled his car on the way. Being early rarely reaped any benefits.

It was clear that Wilson was only in to take advantage of the rather good coffee that Cameron always made, and almost as clear that he wasn't feeling so good. This had apparently raised no comment, but when House entered, Foreman immediately began to look thoughtful. House left him to it.

'Any interesting offerings?' He asked them in general. Cameron looked up over her glasses at him, an unfolded letter in her hand and a pile in front of her.

'There's a few requests for consults among these.' She indicated the pile of letters. House blinked at her, Wilson's comments about 'picking her' floating back to him. He brushed them aside to retort normally.

'Nuh uh. You gotta do better than that. My time is precious. If you can't think of anything more interesting, I'm busy kicking turtle butt.' He referred lightly to his gameboy, despite the queasiness in his stomach barely settled by dry toast, and the general 'blerch' feeling of the hangover. His punch line thusly delivered, he made to retreat to his office, reaaally not feeling like dealing with anyone at that moment. No such luck though.

'Is that what they call it these days?' Foreman's tone was amused and triumphant, and House felt his insides harden with pure hate that the neurologist had picked this time to bring this up. He swivelled on his left heel to pin a dangerous glare on the man, although this only served to make the smug smile slightly wider as he used all evidence to feed his suspicions. Three pairs of eyes were watching the confrontation, although Wilson's were empty and dull over his coffee cup. House wished Wilson had taken a personal day, simply to keep his friend out of the rumour mill until he could handle it, but Wilson believed that keeping busy was the only way to keep together, and House refused to argue with him in his condition.

'I don't know, you tell me. You're the one so 'down' with the lingo.'

Foreman broke the staring contest, smiling into his coffee cup with a slight snort of amusement. Chase was starting to share his look, but Cameron was just frowning slightly in concern. She wasn't so lost in gleeful triumph that she couldn't see the very dangerous glint in House's eyes. If she'd have cared to look, Wilson's demeanour may also have answered some questions.

'Not so much. I honestly don't swing that way.'

'What way would that be Eric?' Foolishly, Foreman was still taking the tone for irritation at being found out.

'Oh come on House. You two both walk in here with hangovers, him smelling of your soap and walking stiffly… It hardly takes a master mind.'

Wilson took that moment to quietly leave, slightly putting Foreman off his stride, because of the sheer unexpectedness of it.

'Wow,' said House, eyes wide in mock awe. 'Normally only I can get that kind of reaction by opening my mouth.' He dropped the act, tone becoming scathing. 'Of course, there's a difference between necessary cruelty and the other kind.'

'The other kind…' repeated Foreman dubiously.

'Yeah, the one where you jump to nasty gossip-like conclusions based on circumstantial evidence and then use them to make other people feel like shit simply for the hell of proving a point that will earn you nothing.' Certainly, there was a very fine distinction between this and House's normal motis operandi, but it was an important one.

Foreman was caught half-way between gloat and cautiousness, not knowing where House was heading. Chase looked wary, only aware now that House was monumentally pissed off, despite the calm demeanour.

Instead of backing down though, Foreman threw it to the wind, having been riled up by his boss too many times to want to back down. 'You always say stick to your diagnosis. Mine makes sense. You were both clearly drinking last night…' House knew that it wasn't so clear, but Foreman wasn't past filling in a bit of evidence in his mind to make his point work. '…And alcohol just happens to be the perfect thing for inhibition removal-' He got no further, cut off by an icily calm House.

'Stop there, before you embarrass yourself further by attempting to get detailed. And don't look so interested Chase, I'm sure Foreman can share some of what he's talking about with you later.' House felt the need to wound at will, and Chase had only been thinking what Foreman had been saying, making him deserving of crossfire. 'Listen carefully to me now you pathetic imbecile, because I won't tell you twice, I'll just fire you and make very sure you won't be able to get hired again. Anywhere. The cafeteria ladies will be like royalty compared to the gutter shit you will become. Wilson and I- not sleeping together. Never have, never will. Maybe if you keep your thick ears open and actually use your dismal cranial space to its maximum capacity you crack-brained fuck wit, you may eventually learn why it was Wilson slept on my couch last night. Until then- Keep Your Mouth Shut About Things You Know Nothing About.'

House punctuated the end of his quietly vehement speech with a loud crack of his cane down on the table, his needle sharp stare unwavering for long moments on the three members of his team, before he stalked out in Wilson's path.

Blinking in silent shock, Foreman swallowed, not daring himself to look at either of his co-workers. He needn't have bothered. They were as much locked in writhing and personal shame as he was. None of them had seen House angry like that before, never seen him spit out venomous swearwords with such hate flashing in his eyes. It was more than scary, and terribly convincing. And something else- the reason behind that anger.

The reason behind that anger was Wilson, and that was something to think about. Foreman had been trying, however subconsciously, to get such a rise out of House ever since he'd found out that the man had snooped into his personal files. Nothing worked, and he realised now because it had probably been because he was attacking House. House had nothing to attack, well, nothing he left out in the open. Nothing he cared about enough to defend with hissing anger that would take several days to cool and would never be forgotten.

Nothing except Wilson.

To be continued…