O.K. So here it is, Cap. 3. a little longer, as advised, and a little meatier, (I hope) As before, I own none of the characters, settings or cocept, just borrowing. Enjoy, and review, please.

"This sucks." It had been a while since House had meant anything quite so emphatically. He stared at himself in his bathroom mirror. He was more than a little soused. The bar and the wiskey with Wilson had seemed like a good idea at the time, before he'd thought about getting up in the morning for work. Wilson was already sound asleep on the couch. House was a long way from rest. The water ran down the sink and the bottle of vicodin sat open on the counter beside him. His relationship with that bottle was more real than any other relationship in his life. People thought he did not know this. People thought he was unaware of this relationship. Oh, he knew, all right. He knew, and he despised the whole thing.

He snatched it up and dumped three of the pills into his hand. For a long time, he stared at them. Usually, he popped them in his mouth without looking. If he stopped to look at them, they mocked him. Gregory House, too strong to admit dependency, too weak to stand on his own. Something like a growl escaped his throat. He dropped one of the pills back into the bottle, the other two in his mouth, replaced the lid on the bottle, turned off the water and bathroom light and limped to bed.

There. Instead of three pills, he'd taken two. Instead of a dull ache, the pain was a grating throb. The sheets were cool against his bare chest and legs, and he remembered they had never really been warm since Stacy left. Five years was a long time to sleep in a cold bed. Instead of feeling groggily detached, he was sharply aware that he was not alone in the house.

He could go out there and poke Wilson awake, make him sit up and watch tv with him. It was his couch, well within his rights to demand company. But he would have to climb back out of bed for that, find his pants. It hurt too much to put them back on. Wilson would be uncomfortable if he didn't.

"Well, we wouldn't want to upset Wilson." He couldn't muster up any conviction in that statement. He wondered if he would mean it more if Wilson were in the room to hear it. Probably not. He used to say things like that to bait the oncologist, but lately, James just shook his head and said nothing.

Lately, House felt a little like Wilson's vicodin. That thing he needed, that he couldn't quit, but that was slowly numbing him, killing him. Caustic, wasn't that what Wilson had called him? So he was Wilson's caustic drug of choice.

"So how do I make him quit?"

"Quit what?"

House actually jumped. "Been there long?" He shoved himself up and reached for the lamp beside the bed.

"Don't turn it on."

"Since when do you like to sit in the dark and spy on people?"

"Since people started talking to themselves in the dead of night."

"How do you know I haven't always talked to myself?"

"Because I know you."

"You think?"

"Yeah, I do." House heard more than saw Wilson shuffle across the floor, and the bed sank a little near his feet. The covers pulled back, baring him to the ankles, making him shiver and Wilson's legs brushed his as he slid them under the covers.

"Cold out there?" Wilson did not say anything. House tossed him the extra pillow. At least he didn't think of it as Stacy's anymore.

"Yeah, its cold out here," Wilson muttered.

House's response was slower than normal as he passed over snark and went straight for brutal honesty. "I'd let you in but it would probably kill us both."

"Be better than slow death by caustic wit."

"So you know you're addicted then."

"Course I do." Wilson settled down onto his pillow and House somehow knew he curled on his side facing away from him. After a minute, his sleepy voice floated up from the other end of the bed. "Surprised?"

"Frankly, yes." House shifted back down under the covers. The sheets were not quite a cold as usual. He shifted again, gently, until his leg lay along James' back. It wasn't much, but he'd never had much warmth to spare anyway. He fell asleep thinking his leg ached only dully.

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Wilson smiled into the dark. Addicted to Greg House. What a concept. He'd rather be addicted to vicodin. At least there was a twelve step program for that.

When he woke, the first thing that struck Wilson was the dim light comming in the window. The drapes were wide open. The incongruity of House, who never opened up himself but seemed contenet to live and work in a fish bowl always struck Wilson. He could not even remeber the last time he had opened his own bedroom drapes. The grey light comming in off the horizon told him he woke earlier than usual. House's side of the bed was an empty hollow. Still warm, though, and the sudden rushing of water from the next room meant House just stepped into the shower.

If he got up and left now, he had time to get home and change before work. There would be no awkward posing, and he could keep Greg's offer of comfort from last night what it was. Just a friend showing he cared under the cover of darkness. It was good enough. He had no need to make it into anything more. Content, he slipped out of bed, into his clothes, and out the front door.

There was only one sly comment, days later, about people who snuck out of bed without saying good-bye. Foreman laughed, Cameron frowned, and only Wilson smiled knowingly. So it was ok then. They were where they had always been. But then he felt the blue eyes piercing him, and he looked up from where he was leaning on the conference table reading a journal. There was that nameless thing again. It stared at him from inside House's eyes, and Wilson was not sure if House even knew it was there.

"Run the tests, Foreman." House shot over his shoulder as he stumped out of the room. Wilson remained for a few minutes, staring at his back, the tight line between his brows etching deeper. Cameron was watching him, though. He left before the silence became too telling.

"What was that all about?" He asked a few minutes later in the releative safety of House's office.

"What?" The eyes were all dog-eared innocence now.

"You know what. I did not sneak out."

"You were gone when I came out of the shower. You didn't say goodbye."

"I had to get home to change. I was not sneaking out. There was nothing to sneak out on."

"Who said there was? Or is this your guilty concience speaking?"

"You sai - Augh. Forget it. I have patients."

He did not wait around for House to respond. It was all carefully calculated to keep him off balance. House had almost shown his soft side. Now he was making up for it. Think I'd be used to it by now, he mused. He did not know why he was surprised.

In his office, he was greeted by the red flashing light on his phone. Messages. Who was dying now? It was not as dire as that, as it turned out. There was one message. He answered it immediatly, in the affirmative, scribbling on the top page of his perscription pad as he spoke to the person on the other end. He ripped the page off and stuffed it in his pocket, headed for the door in search of House.

He was easy to find. Wilson approached House's office from the conference room. All three ducklings were sitting around the table in typical holding patterns. Cameron did paperwork, Chase a crossword, and Foreman was reading something. None of them, however, were very convincing in their casual poses. Their tension drew Wilson's eyes to House's office. Through the glass, he saw Greg standing, leaning on his desk his back to the door and his watching collegues. Wilson opened the door and went in, stood, waiting for the older man to say something, but he did not move or speak. Wilson could sense, even from behind, that there was something not quite right. When he finally shuffled his feet, House's head moved, but the rest of his body tensed, including his fingers, curled around the edge of the desk.

"Greg?"

"Go away."

"The children are waiting."

"Daddy doesn't feel like playing anymore today."

Wilson did not like the dull tone in House's voice, or the way his shoulders strained against his sports coat. He stepped into the office, letting the door swing closed behind him and shoving one hand into his pocket. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"O.K." He took a few steps forward. "Clearly a lie."

"Clearly."

"You're in pain."

"You must be a doctor." Wilson closed his eyes, afraid to ask the next question, or rather, afraid of what the answer might be.

"How many did you take?"

"Two."

Wilson's eyes flew open. "Just two?"

"Surprised?" House wheezed. Wilson smiled. That was beginning to be a favourite exchange between them.

"Pleasantly, yes." He walked to the desk and stood beside House, his left hand still in his pocket, his right hovering in the air just above the taught jacket between his shoulder blades.

"Nothing pleasant about it."

Aware that House did not like to be touched at the best of times, James rested his hand on his back anyway. Either he did not notice, or he was in too much pain to care. Minutes ticked by on Wilson's watch. Neither of them spoke. Finally, House straightened and Wilson's hand slipped down into his pocket. He watched Greg pick up his cane from where it hooked on the edge of the desk, lever himself up straight, shove his shoulders back and turn to face him. The blue eyes were bright, clear, not angry, then they flicked down, away, and back up. Wilson's smile came crookedly to his face.

"You're welcome."

"Wouldn't want to ruin my tough guy image." He jerked his head toward the conference room, and in a flurry of white coats it was empty.

"I thought I was the wonder doctor."

"Well, Wonder Doctor, how long do you think it will take to wean me off vicodin?"

A long breath floated out of James. Too much to hope for. "Hard to say."

"But you can do it."

Wilson nodded. "I can help." He grinned. "Bet you twenty bucks you'll thank me for it too."

"You're on."

"It's going to get worse before it gets better, you know that." Worse for who? This friendship was difficult at the best of times. Wilson suspected he had not even begun to feel real pain yet.

House raised an eyebrow. "Think you can take it?"

Wilson shook his head. How did House get inside his head like that? "I can if you can." An invitation for abuse, daring House to do his worst.

"I think I might need reduced clinic hours."

Wilson laughed. "I'll see what I can do. Don't get your hopes up." He was moving for the door, ready to open it. He stopped and turned a little. "You're really going to do this."

"You've inspired me." Wilson raised one dark eyebrow. Inspired? How? But he did not ask, just in case the answer was too frightening. He opened the heavy glass door and stepped out into the hallway.

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Well, this might get bloody enough to cure you of me, Greg thought. Cure you, or kill you, one or the other. It only very vaguely occurred to him there might be another alternative.