The first clue that Wilson was still intoxicated upon waking came in the form of vertigo. Sleep withdrew its smoky tendrils from his mind slowly, in stages. When finally his surroundings had disappeared, along with his dream companions, Wilson was left with the realization that he was in a hotel room that was still spinning. His senses played tricks on him; his prone body told his brain it was falling, sinking into the bed. Open your eyes. Wilson realized that sight would help correct the alcohol's lasting effect on his balance.

His eyes refused to acknowledge his brain's request at first; stuck shut from dried moisture, they gave only after being rubbed gently—and when that didn't work, peeled open. Light hit the russet irises; before his pupils had a chance to contract the lids fell down again, like a window hit by a gust of wind. The sensual liquid feeling from the night before had abandoned him, leaving every synapse throbbing. The pain, tinged with nausea rippled through his body like a stone hitting water; he counteracted this by curling into a ball and praying that the spinning would eventually stop—and that he wouldn't need to go the bathroom any time soon.

Wilson's mind drifted; eventually he found himself focusing on his own breathing. The even breaths were loud and deep; they reminded him of late nights, when he couldn't sleep. His wife's breathing, so similar to his, would comfort him, relax him; let him slip into a state to match hers where his breathing would unconsciously mimic her rhythm, leaving them entwined—the only way they could be anymore.

Ex-wife; his mind chastised. Someone else listens to her sleep now.

Reality began to slide away from Wilson's still drunken mind; muscles wound tight to keep from vomiting began to relax into the coarse fabric of the bed. The disinfectant of the sheets filled Wilson's nose and mouth as he buried his face in a pillow, soft from overuse.

"Wilson." The voice that called his name made no effort to speak softy; instead it was loud and firm. Commanding. Wilson cautiously raised the eyelid of one bloodshot eye, looking for the source of the noise that bore into his scull.

"House. What're you doing here?" With his eyes closed once more, Wilson instinctively reached for House. In his pathetic state, he had reverted to an infant's grasping reflex.

House's voice was the hand of a parent; impossibly large and safe—comforting in a way that couldn't be explained in words. The fingers that reached out, grappling against empty air hit something they didn't expect—something cylindrical and cool where warmth and softness should have been. His hand followed the object as it was guided toward his own mouth.

"Drink this, Wilson." The tip of the object—the glass—was pressed against Wilson's lips. Fingers burrowed against the side of his head, pulling his hair slightly until they made their way to the base of his neck. They pulled, quickly but gently and he was lifted. The glass tipped as he was moved forward and the water made its way past his lips. The sandpaper that was his tongue was released from the roof of his mouth as the cool liquid

made its way down his throat; Wilson needed more—had to have more. His body ached for the water, demonstrated by his noisy swallows. The glass was all too quickly emptied and removed from Wilson's lips, who cried out wordlessly at its absence. His head was lowered back down to its sterile pillow. On impact, Wilson's eyes opened and met the judgmental gaze of his best friend.

"God, you're pathetic." House's face was animated with his opinion of Wilson. His mouth was twisted in a sneer, baring straight white teeth in a sort of snarl. Eyes that once held laughter were murky, shut off, and refused to meet Wilson's glazed stare. The body language of the older man screamed repulsion; communicated the desire to leave and forget about his alcohol-poisoned friend.

"I know." Wilson's breathing quickened and caught in his throat. "I'm worthless."

Wilson's gazed moved away from House's face; he didn't want to know how disappointed his friend was.

House looked on as a pained expression flashed through Wilson's eyes, then moved to his mouth. The younger man's lips became a thin line, a gash of pink against a stark face.

"Oh, God. Think I'm gonna—" Before the words could cross the threshold of his mouth into the space between himself and House, Wilson turned on his side and vomited. As the remnants of yesterday's intake—mostly liquid—made their way out of him, strong hands gripped his back and arm, rubbing softly as the muscles of his stomach contracted. Wilson looked at the floor to see the mess he'd made, but instead saw a large bucket, into which most of his waste had gone.

"Always a thinker,"

House smiled at that. "Well, you know me, James. Thinking of ingenious ways to keep my friend from getting sick everywhere tops my 'to do' list." His reply was gruff, sarcastic, as he meant for it to be. Pitying Wilson was not to be done. Any compassion shown, any comfort given could dredge up veiled memories from the night before. And that could not happen. House didn't know quite what had happened—or how.

When Wilson's voice broke at work—trying to talk to House about his wife, of course, he had just ignored him. He'd get over it. Get married again. That's what Wilson did --so why did he need House to tell him that?

House had laughed at him when he showed up at the apartment asking to stay. "You really think I'm that kind of friend? Go cry yourself to sleep at a hotel." Wilson had winced at the words, and House did too, remembering his harsh tone; his unfeeling gaze.

At the time, House's actions hadn't warranted a second thought. It wasn't until the next day, when Wilson didn't show up for work, that he began to think he may have been a bit harsh.

Pulling Wilson's credit card account was easy; convincing the desk clerk at the hotel was as well. He was Wilson's doctor, he explained. He needed to see his patient. It was urgent.

House wasn't prepared for the state in which he had found Wilson. Once knocking proved futile, he entered the room to find his friend in the bathroom, swaying slightly. His trousers were half-unzipped. Sluggish fingers moved to correct this, but the task was apparently too difficult. Wilson's eyes were red-rimmed and glazed. They ran over him, but didn't stop. Looked right through him as a tremble sent the younger man hurtling towards the unforgiving floor.

Before he could think logically, House was under Wilson, cushioning his impact. James' weight landed squarely on him and then they were both falling. The breath was forced from his he cushioned his friend's impact. He shoved the man off, trying to force air into his paralyzed lungs. When breathing was no longer out of the question, he focused on the task at hand. Wilson was on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Laughing at nothing in particular.

God, you're going to owe me.

House's grimace deepened as he slid over to James, lifting him up into a sitting position. Not a moment too soon—Wilson's skin had become a pale sea-foam green; while the color may be soothing on walls, it was not meant for human skin. Wilson's unfocused eyes opened and met his. Wilson smiled slightly, and an instant later his mouth met House's. Surprise formed a perfect 'O' on House's lips, which Wilson took as an invitation. A foreign, warm tongue moved confidently in his mouth, taking the time to massage every crevice of the warm cavern.

House's hands moved to push Wilson away, to get out of the embrace, the hotel, the town, but James' arms encircled him, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. Hands slid up his back and began to caress his neck. The tiny hairs their stood up and waves of pleasure went through him; the sudden strain of his jeans only endorsed the fact that he was extremely turned on. But—he couldn't. He shouldn't. Wilson was drunk—and straight. So was he. Right?

He extricated his mouth from Wilson's, who looked at him once more before sighing slightly, then passing out cold.

Something tells me he may not remember this.