The blanket was tangled around his legs, the pillow was on the floor, and Wilson was lounging in the easy chair reading The Da Vinci Code.
"Oh no," House grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "I've died and gone to hell."
"Nice to see you, too," Wilson said. He was more than used to House's idiosyncrasies, major and minor. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been run over by a truck. Then the driver threw it in reverse and ran over me again. Christ, my head fucking hurts." After rescuing his legs from the blanket, he slowly sat up. His head felt like it was filled with wet cement. "What time is it?"
"Almost noon."
"What day is it?"
"Thursday."
"What are you doing here?"
"Cuddy ordered me to take an extra long and early lunch to check on you. No offense, but you look like shit."
"Thank you, Dr. Wilson. You always know just what to fucking say."
"You're welcome," Wilson said dryly, putting his book on the table. Steve McQueen was running endless circles on his squeaky wheel. "You hungry? When was the last time you had something in your stomach besides booze and Vicodin?"
Glaring at Wilson, House grabbed the bottle of Vicodin from the table. The throbbing in his leg was catching up with the throbbing in his head.
"Fine," Wilson sighed, getting up and heading towards the kitchen. "Just wait here. I'll see what I can scrounge up."
"I am perfectly capable of walking from here to the kitchen. Where's my fucking cane?"
After finding the cane leaning against the piano, Wilson handed it to cranky friend and stalked off to the kitchen. House sat and listened to him clang around the cabinets for a few minutes. He dry-swallowed a Vicodin then slowly but surely staggered his way towards lunch.
Wilson stirred something at the stove, watching as House, very shaky and white as salt, made it to the table. He was genuinely surprised that House didn't pass out in the doorway.
At the table, House was trying to remember the last time he actually ate something and couldn't. Soon the smell of chicken noodle soup filled the kitchen. A few seconds later he started salivating like a Pavlovian dog. He put his head down and wished the soup would hurry the fuck up.
"Your head still hurt?" Wilson asked from far away.
"My head hurts," House spoke into the table. He didn't care if Wilson heard him or not. "My leg hurts. The truth hurts. Love hurts. Everything hurts."
A nudge brought him back around. He sat up and a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup and a glass of water magically appeared. The first spoonful hit his mouth and he relished the salty taste.
For a few minutes Wilson simply sat and watched his friend enjoy the soup, pleased to see a bit of color return to his face.
"That was quite a bender you went on," Wilson said.
Without looking up, House nodded in agreement. "That it was. I threw a pity party and forgot to mail out the invitations."
"Yes, this insomnia and scotch fueled blitz had all the earmarks of a Stacy Left Me anniversary party. But something was different this time."
More spoonfuls of soup. "Is that so?"
"Yes, it is so. There was something more...what's the word I'm looking for, emotional about this one. If I didn't know any better I'd say this time it wasn't just about Stacy."
Frowning, House reached for his glass. "I'm sure the fucking point to all this will come along sometime today."
"Why is Cuddy suddenly so interested in you?" Wilson asked flatly.
House choked on his water.
Leaning forward with a diminutive smile, Wilson continued. "You two have fought like cats and dogs about every little thing for years. You two scream, argue, throw things, drive each other completely insane. The animosity between you and Cuddy is the stuff of legends. But now...well, you still drive each other completely insane, but now the two of you are almost cordial about it. She actually smiles at you when she sees you in the hallway and you smile back. Then today she shows up in my office, asking me to check on you, wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday. I've seen the way you look at her, House, and I can't say that I blame you."
For a few stunned seconds House stared into his endless glass of water. Sighing, he put it back on the table and pushed the soup aside. "You've got quite an imagination, Wilson."
"The truth hurts and love hurts. Yeah, well, maybe I was just seeing things." Wilson folded his arms and waited, half expecting House to dump the remains of the soup into his lap.
But House just slowly rose from the table. "I'm tired. I need to go lay down." He limped out of the kitchen without looking back.
Wilson washed up the dishes. Out in the living room he saw that House skipped the sofa and had gone to his bedroom, leaving behind the pillow and blanket. Pausing to refill Steve McQueen's water bottle, he gathered up the pillow and blanket and went into the bedroom. Rumpled clothes were strewn all over the floor. House had his long body stretched out on the bed, stripped down to his boxer shorts, his back to the door. Wilson made sure the pillow regained its spot and the blanket covered up its owner.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine," came a muffled response.
"Good. I'm sure Cuddy will be glad to hear that." Wilson left without another word.
Gregory House slept. He woke up to the sound of the front door shutting. Car keys jangled. Listened as footsteps approached his bedroom, then the hinge faintly squeak as the door was pushed open. He could smell the cold outdoors on her as Lisa Cuddy climbed into his bed.