Wilson shifted on the bed; sleep's thin veil was beginning to dissipate. A finger prodded his shoulder a few times, hard, in the same spot.
That's going to bruise. Wilson's now sober mind noted. He sat up and paused for a moment, perched on the side of the bed. When the room remained static and the urge to throw up wasn't to be found, he turned toward the direction of the pokes.
"House," he began, his tone undercut with the low grown of a warning. "Stop poking me."
"Sober yet Jimmy? Or are you still worthless?" James received one last poke before House broke contact, bringing the hand to his own face, where he scrubbed at it roughly, as if he wanted to rid his skin of some contamination.
"Worthless?" James squinted, trying to make sense of the comment. It wasn't directed at him as an insult; more of a question. i What does he mean by—Oh, God, my head. /i Wilson's attempt to piece together House's enigmatic question was interrupted by the swift introduction of pain. A pounding, dull pain that was punishment for his night of overindulgence.
"Headache?" House's voice was sickly sweet; it carried the concern of a mother hen checking on her children. He was enjoying Wilson's pain, that much was obvious.
"I'm fine," Wilson replied, not willing to give House the satisfaction of admitting he was in pain. "What do you mean, worthless?"
"You. Last night. I said you were pathetic; you agreed, then raised me a 'worthless.'" House's eyes were bright, shining with laughter and malicious intentions.
Wilson prayed he hadn't spilled anything more embarrassing than his deficit of self-esteem.
House turned away, reaching for his cane. He stood up slowly, and Wilson realized how much pain he must have been in, presumably sleeping either on the floor or in a chair not conducive to chronic leg pain.
"House, are you al—"
"Shut up, Jimmy. Get your stuff together. We're getting out of here."
"I can stay at your apartment?" James got up quickly—too quickly. Spots blocked his vision, while a roaring sound obstructed his hearing. House watched as Jimmy's eyes rolled back, and for the second time in as many days dove for his friend.
This catch was luckier. House managed to grab Wilson and push him toward the bed. He landed on top of the younger man, legs and arms tangled.
"Think—Think I got up too fast." James said softly, vibrating House's head, which lay on Wilson's chest.
"Wow, someone gets a gold star." As sharp pain ran through House's leg as he tried to extricate himself from Wilson.
"You've got to help me here," House finally spat. "I don't know about you, but my torso has no interest in staying between your legs."
"What, not interested in some bonding time?" Wilson smirked, but then arched his back to free House's hands. House fell away, but used to wall to stand up. Wilson leaned over and retrieved his friend's fallen cane, which was snatched away so fast, he wondered if he'd actually been holding it.
"Now, get up. Slowly. I don't want a repeat performance." House emphasized his words by walking to the door. If Wilson fell now, he'd do so alone. He stood up, slightly shaky, but able to walk. The only things he'd brought to the hotel were a briefcase and coat, which were on a chair by the door. He gathered these and followed his friend into the elevator across the hall.
The music inside the enclosed space was too loud; it pounded in time with Wilson's throbbing head while he fought to keep his expression serene. Neutral. The elevator chimed brightly as it hit the ground floor. Wilson stepped out quickly, grateful that the lobby played soft music that didn't make his head feel like a drum kit.
He paid his bill and took his keys out of his jacket pocket. House grabbed his wrist.
"You're not driving." Wilson recognized the stubborn look of his friend. His jaw was set; his eyes moved back and forth quickly, matching Wilson's gaze.
"House, I'm fine. Just let me drive."
"If you don't give me the keys in five seconds, I will announce to the lobby that you took advantage of me last night—in the biblical sense."
"But, House—I didn't do any—"
House tapped his cane on the floor a few times.
"Cripple, remember? House's eyes lost their smirk and went round with innocence. "I couldn't defend myself; he took my cane. And then—and then he force me to go—"
The keys fell into House's outstretched palm with a clatter. It was the ring of Wilson's defeat.
"You're an ass."
The hotel was forty minutes from House's apartment. The ride was silent, punctuated only by music—House's preference, of course. As The Who began their tale of Baba O'Rielly, Wilson tried to recover the events of the night before.
He'd called in sick to work, then found a hotel. He laid in bed until about six, when he decided it was high time to get wrecked. He'd gone out and gottn the vodka, putting him back in his hotel room at around 6:35. By 7, he was probably completely drunk. So when had House shown up?
Wilson concentrated, and bits of the night began to return to him. He remembered….getting up to go the bathroom, which proved more difficult than he'd anticipated. He had made it, but started to fall after he flushed. Wilson's brow furrowed as he ran a hand through his hair. He felt no bumps or bruises, no pain—except self-induced.
i Did someone catch me/i Then, slowly, the events of the night began to unfurl in his mind. House's voice outside the door—then House in the hotel room. Asking him if he needed help. Where was House? His eyes wouldn't—couldn't focus; only his friend's voice made his presence known. And then—he fell. But, it must have been on House. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson watched House's almost imperceptive wince. The older man's fingers rubbed a spot on his arm, concealed by his long shirt.
Wilson went back to his thoughts. He had to know what else had happened—what else he might have done. He was on the bathroom floor after House caught him—he remembered feeling sick, beginning to gag. Then, hands lifted him up. The nausea was quelled for awhile, and he embraced House.
He EMBRACED House?!
Memories that had been sought after were now things to run away from; unfortunately, Wilson could no longer forget the perfect balance, the equilibrium that was his and Greg's mouth moving around each other, exploring uncharted territory. Wilson flushes as the memory triggered latent arousal; he moved his jacket to his lap. He flushed a deep raspberry— Am I gay?
Straight men didn't have reactions like this to their best friend. They wouldn't want a drunken mistake to move any further—but he did.
Wilson was too wrapped up in his own crumbling psyche to notice the car had moved to the shoulder of the road and come to a stop.
House's voice pulled him from his reveries.
"We need to talk. Now."