Summary, disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Mmmm, classic House/Wilson. Hope you like it! Thanks to you awesome reviewers for reviewing!

Despair

April 2001

House entered the bar, dodged a few patrons, and scanned the crowd.

There. In the corner. Of course.

The scene was the same every time Wilson called to say he was already at a bar. House limped toward him.

A beer and two empty shot glasses decorated the table in front of his decidedly morose-looking colleague. Tie hanging loosely around his neck, top two buttons of his shirt undone, collar wrinkled, face pale and haggard, grizzled despite a lack of stubble, he was the picture of misery.

House slid down in the booth with a grunt. It had been a year and he still wasn't used to being on his feet all day. He gently rubbed his mangled thigh through his jeans, suddenly glad Wilson had called him. He could use some alcohol right now.

The waitress took House's order and asked Wilson if he wanted any refills. Wilson shook his head unsteadily and she left.

House waited until his beer arrived to say anything.

"Almost three years," he said. "Must be a record."

"The record's four years eight months," Wilson said without looking up.

"Ah," House said. "Tough one to beat." He sipped his beer slowly, knowing he was going to be driving tonight.

"Have you told her yet?" he asked.

"No," Wilson answered.

"She's going to suspect if you don't come home," House said.

"I called her earlier," Wilson said. "Said I'd be working late."

"Just tell her I fell on my ass again and you had to hold my hand all night," House mumbled into his beer. "She'll believe it."

"Yeah," Wilson said absently.

They both sat quietly for a moment, drinking and not making eye contact.

"Why don't you go ahead and do it?" House asked after a moment, examining the mixed drinks selection as though his life depended on it. "Like ripping a band aid off."

"It doesn't work that way," Wilson said.

House put the drink list down. "Well," he said with a shrug, "you would know."

He caught the waitress as she went by and ordered two glasses of water and a basket of fries.

"So," he said, watching Wilson now as he contemplated his beer bottle, "how many days have you been 'working late' this week?"

"Just last night," Wilson mumbled.

"She pretty?"

"Gorgeous."

"She have a sister?"

Wilson snorted. House caught a faint smile on his lips that vanished as quickly as it had come.

"Cousin?" House continued. "Friend? Not one of those 'I'm using my looks to find my unattractive friend a date' friends but a friend you know she's made out with at a party at least once."

Wilson smiled sadly but still refused to meet House's gaze. "I don't know that much about her," he said into his beer.

"Of course not," House teased. "Always thinking with the wrong head. Never remember your buddy is in need."

This got Wilson's attention. He squinted at the bar. "There's someone," he said nodding his head. "The brunette with the martini."

House leaned out of the booth and glanced quickly at the bar.

"Her?" he asked incredulously when he turned around again. "The devil in the red dress? There is not enough alcohol in this entire place to get me drunk enough to talk to her."

Now Wilson looked at him for the first time.

"You can get her with the puppy eyes," he said, beginning to forget his own situation.

House grinned inwardly as Wilson continued. He still had it.

"Go over there," Wilson advised, "trip and spill her drink—on her if you can—be your bumbling self while you apologize profusely, pay for it as quickly as possible, and limp away." He waved his hands as if parting the Red Sea. "That's all you have to do. Guaranteed hand job—maybe a blow job if you play it right."

House grunted, keeping up the 'my situation is infinitely worse than yours' façade…which wasn't as much of a façade as he would like it to be.

"Pity sex," he said, taking a healthy swig from his beer. "Not my thing."

"Is there any other kind?" Wilson asked rhetorically, sinking back into his own misery.

Drunken despair again. Well. House knew he did drunken despair much better than Wilson ever would.

"Some wingman you are," he muttered.

Wilson glowered at his beer. "I'm doing a good job under the circumstances," he said tightly.

House let that go and began fiddling with a coaster. "You gonna see her again?" he asked.

Wilson sighed. "I don't know," he said. "I really like her—the sex was great—but I hate feeling like this."

"Well," House said, taking up his beer. "There's a cure for that." He took a drink. "Several actually."

"I really didn't want to screw up this time," Wilson said. "Julie is great. She's all I need."

"But not all you want," House finished.

This talk. He'd had this talk before, as giver and recipient. In fact, if he remembered correctly, he'd had this talk before in this particular booth.

"Look at it this way," he said. "At least we know you're human. Wouldn't it be hard to find out this late in life you're actually a zombie?" He waited a split second for Wilson to react. There. That upturning of the corner of his mouth. "I mean," he continued, "granted, you do work at a place where you can satisfy your cravings for human flesh easily, but when it comes time to—ooo, fries are here!"

House grinned at the waitress as she set the basket of fries, two plates, and a bottle of ketchup on the table in front of them.

"You just saved him from a long lecture on the virtues of not being a zombie," he said to her.

She smiled awkwardly and asked if they wanted more drinks.

Wilson ordered a beer and another whiskey shot despite the fact that he could barely keep his head off of the table. House declined, eying Wilson warily.

"You're going to make me put plastic on the furniture tonight, aren't you?" he said, grabbing a handful of fries from the basket and hissing as the hot oil burned his hand. "I can see it now."

He waited. Wilson wasn't taking the fries. Damn.

"You better eat some of these," House said around a mouthful, "you're paying for them."

"You don't have to do this, Greg," Wilson said, eyes on his beer again. "Go home. I'm fine here."

"If I leave you here now, you're going to score with that hot number in red and I'm going to have to do this again tomorrow night when your guilt overwhelms you," House said. "American Idol is on tomorrow night. Can't Miss television."

"Lay it on thick, why don't you," Wilson mumbled.

He glanced up when the waitress put his new round under his nose and gratefully did the shot before he began drinking the beer in earnest.

House's eyebrows went up as he stuffed more fries into his mouth. Wilson's guilt level was higher tonight than he'd thought.

"Give me your credit card now so I don't have to dig for it later," House said.

Wilson finished chugging the beer, folded his arms, and rested his head on them. House heard a muffled 'shut up.'

House sighed dramatically and pulled out his wallet, waving the waitress over.

"You're lucky I'm feeing generous tonight," he said while he waited for the check, "or I'd drop your drunk ass off and let Julie scream at you. As it is…I think lunch for a month would even us out."

"House," Wilson muttered into the table, "go away."

"Playing hard to get, eh?" he said as he finished the fries. He smiled. "That never works on me. I'm like an intestinal parasite."

Wilson didn't say anything. Far gone tonight, House reflected. He took the check when it came and left cash on the table, then stood carefully and rounded to Wilson's side.

"Come on," he said shaking Wilson's shoulder, "I can't exactly pick you up anymore."

"Go away," Wilson said again into the table.

"Hey, you called me," House said. "You asked for it."

He yanked Wilson's elbow and Wilson, too drunk to keep his balance, knocked his head against the table and nearly fell out of the booth.

"All right," Wilson said angrily, picking himself up. "Jesus, you're stubborn."

"And that's what you love about me," House said winningly as he offered Wilson his left hand.

Wilson took it grudgingly and the pair of them limped and swayed toward House's car.