A/N: House/Wilson- this chapter only mildly, but later chapters more so. Only sort of beta'ed. (I need a beta, see profile for more info).
January 1st, 2:47 am
One of the larger conference rooms had been transformed into a slightly kitschy silver and white wonderland. Ice sculptures decorated the buffet table and tinsel adorned every surface that would stand still long enough. But seeing the ordinary room transformed didn't even begin to rival the weirdness of seeing his coworkers decked out in their festive best, leaving behind the scrubs and lab coats for evening gowns and tuxes. Wilson had never much cared for office parties; there was always something vaguely unsettling about them. No one could quite forget that these people were their colleagues, that their boss was watching and that their reputation was still at stake. Well, almost no one…
"Wastin' away again in Margaritaville…searchin' for my lost shaker of salt!"
Wilson had to give House credit; what he lacked in singing ability he made up in volume. Though judging by the sidelong looks and outright stares, most of the PPTH staff disagreed. Wilson didn't know why they were surprised at the display; he would have thought they'd be used to House's antics. At least now he was away from patients and not on the clock. Everyone was allowed to misbehave at the New Year's party. Some more than others.
"Take it away, Jimmy!" House threw an arm around his shoulder and raised his cane as if to conduct. Wilson staggered under the unexpected weight, and then righted them both. He spared an apologetic smile for their audience. House didn't have any work relationships to maintain, but Wilson rather hoped to leave the soiree with most of his intact.
"Um, thanks but no thanks. There's no way I can match your dulcet tones."
House nodded seriously. "So true. Fine, then get us a drink!" He nearly clocked a passing obstetrician with an expansive wave of his cane.
"I think maybe we've had enough to drink." Wilson tried to maneuver them over to the nearest table, which was made a touch difficult since House was refusing to help in the slightest.
"Nonsense. This is New Year's. It's practically our duty to get absolutely plastered. Because nothing gets a year off to a good start like a roaring hangover." Wilson got House settled into one of the chairs with minimal leg-jostling, and sunk into the chair next to him, hoping that House would be content to sit for a while. A hope that was, as per usual, completely in vain. Three sexist comments and a sports-inspired rant later, House rose awkwardly, nearly tipping the chair over backward.
"Wilson, I'm ready to blow this joint." He fished his keys out of a pocket, brandishing them in what was probably supposed to be an onwards-type gesture.
Wilson made a grab for them, successfully snagging them from House's grasp. "Not a chance. You're in no condition to drive." He stashed the keys in his own pocket, twisting to avoid the recovery attempt; considering House's coordination right now, there was no telling where those grasping hands could end up. "I'm going to call you a cab. You will wait here." As if orders ever had any effect on House.
"Sure thing." House gave a mock salute. He was definitely wearing that mischievous expression that invariably meant trouble. Wilson considered; even if he called a cab and managed to manhandle House into it, there was no way he could prevent House from telling the driver to turn around once Wilson was out of sight. He knew from personal experience that even when drunker than a skunk House could almost always pass for sober if he put his mind to it. Wilson didn't want to know how he'd gotten the practice.
"Dammit." He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Fine, I'm going to take you home."
"Take me home?" House purred. "Shouldn't you at least buy me dinner first?" A couple of the ICU nurses looked at them sharply as House's voice carried and Wilson reddened, which probably just confirmed their suspicions.
"I buy you dinner all the time and haven't gotten any yet," he pointed out.
"Don't mind him," House told the nurses. "He's just sexually frustrated."
"Not just sexually," Wilson muttered under his breath.
Thankfully the long halls of the hospital were dim and empty and they made it Wilson's car without major incident, though Wilson was sure House was making an effort to be difficult, practically forcing Wilson to carry him. He helped House into the passenger seat, confiscating the cane and throwing it in the back seat after the third time House 'accidentally' jabbed him in the ribs with it.
Wilson kept a careful eye on House on the way to his apartment. House could hold a remarkable amount of alcohol, but Wilson wasn't willing to risk a vomit-drenched dashboard on that. But House seemed in remarkably good spirits, keeping a lively, if somewhat one-sided dialogue that may or may not have been about allegory in Gormenghast. Wilson wasn't sure, busy as he was avoiding other drivers who'd clearly had too good a time at whatever party they were leaving, but whatever it was, House definitely felt strongly about it.
At House's apartment, he left the cane in the car. He could run back for it later, and House was in no shape to use it now anyway. And though he'd never admit it, it gave him an excuse to hang onto House a little longer. Greg had never been affectionate kind of guy; he kept people as distant physically as he did emotionally. Punches on the arm were okay, but anything not masquerading as violence was off limits. Except for times like this, when alcohol was providing a comfortable buffer. Wilson lived for times like this.
He waited patiently, ignoring the bitter cold as House fumbled with his keys.
"Want to come in?" House said casually enough, perhaps he wasn't as far gone as Wilson had thought.
Wilson hesitated. "No, I should get back."
"What? Planning on going back to the party and picking up one of the interns?"
"No." Wilson checked his watch; it was almost six. "They've all left by now anyway." He said it just to annoy House.
"Then come in, have one last drink."
"That's okay, as much fun as watching you pass out is…"
"What, you're going to risk me choking on my own vomit?"
"House. It's fucking cold. At this point, I'm hoping you'll choke on your vomit. Wouldn't that be ironic, you choking by your own bile?"
"Mmm, very," House agreed. "But then who would you feel morally superior to? You have to keep me around; you look too good by comparison."
"Fine." Wilson grimaced, knowing that this argument would end like all of their arguments and he would cede, might as well cut the time he spent freezing his ass off short. "But only one drink."
But in the way it usually did, one drink rather quickly became two, then three and Wilson quickly caught up to House. They sprawled on House's couch, watching late night television until it became early morning television.
Happy New Year.