Chapter 2
House found himself thinking about Hamburglar guy as he limped toward his bike, trying to work out the stiffness without reawakening the pain that had managed to stay at bay so far. He wondered if Hamburglar guy ever got any. Well, he was wearing a wedding ring but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Unless he was like Wilson, that is. He didn't want to think about how the guy probably got way more than he did. It was hard enough to acknowledge that Wilson did.
Wilson. That guy, just another mother. Another person telling him what to do. His leg told him to call a cab and go home to relax and watch TV. But instead House climbed onto his bike and zipped away toward Murphy's. He smirked, the closest thing to a smile he could muster after a day like today, when he wondered if he'd see Hamburglar there trying to score with the ladies. At least the guy had less destructive stress-relief methods than he himself did.
The parking lot was kind of empty. House parked in a normal spot next to another bike. No faceless blue guy in a wheelchair was telling him where to park tonight. The warm smoky bar whiff practically clobbered him as he struggled through the heavy door. No one he knew would be there. Cameron definitely never came to dirty places like this. Chase, who knew? And Foreman was the fancy restaurant, night at home type of guy. Wilson came here with House a few times a month, but Wilson was currently otherwise engaged…
Call brand Scotch on the rocks, maybe to move on to Guinness a little later. He could never remember – was it don't drink liquor, then beer, or was it don't drink beer, then liquor? Parked next to a stupid looking plumber or whatever he was, House surveyed the crowd for possible scuffle-mates and popped another pill. "Poor liver," he thought aloud grimly. "Not you," he snarled to the plumber. "Although you're not looking too hot yourself," as the plumber struggled to focus his gaze on House.
Recent studies have shown that people who drink a lot of alcohol but also drink a lot of coffee have far less liver damage than those who drink the same amount of alcohol but not much coffee. House had examined the study, which was about as credible as most popular medical studies on a limited control group usually are, but he liked them odds. The only person who drank as much coffee as he did in the morning was Chase. House needed to break through the early-morning narcotics buzz and sleepiness. He wondered what Chase's reason was.
A youngish man with brown hair entered the bar, struggling to push aside the heavy door, head down. Wilson? House looked up with a mixture of hope and disgust. Nope, not him, too much facial hair and not enough boyish good looks.
Suddenly House wanted to leave. He hadn't had so much that he couldn't safely ride his bike the short distance home. Maybe he should cut his losses. "Being you," being himself, did it have to mean being alone? He used to think so. It had always been that way, even when he was in a relationship. And as much as he denied it, he knew the pills made it worse. Well, not worse, but easier. But Wilson was the only one he didn't want to push away.
Why start now?
Because Wilson didn't want to believe him when he said the pain was getting worse. Because Wilson was a trainwreck waiting to happen. Because Wilson was too pushy, too preachy.
But at the end of the day, it was Wilson who knew him, who cut through the crap.
9:47. House downed a glass of ice water, paid his tab, said goodbye to the plumber after nearly successfully convincing him that he owed House ten dollars, and made his way back home. Wilson's silver car was still parked right next to the door. His mind told him to keep driving around the block. His leg told him to give it a rest. But House wanted to go in and hang out with his friend, and so he did.