Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1

This chapter and the next chapter are both dedicated to the folks at the housewilson LJ who provided me with some excellent critical feedback regarding the story. Thank you!


Sin

Wilson locked his office door and took a moment to stretch and roll his neck and shoulders. The days when he lost a patient were the hardest. Today was worse. Not only had Dwight Lee Grier passed early in the afternoon, but an eight month old Leukemia patient, Latisha Donovan, had followed him less than an hour later. Nothing he could have done would have changed their outcomes, and he'd learned not to internalize patients' deaths, but these two still stung.

Because of House, he knew, as he summoned the elevator.

Because it was easier to fool himself into believing he felt a little sick over the patients' deaths than it was to acknowledge just how much House worried him right now.

House shouldn't worry him. He knew that, too.

But—he sighed as he crossed the parking garage—he couldn't stop worrying any more than he could stop breathing.

He called himself all sorts of juvenile names. Worrywart. Antsy pants. Nervous Nancy. He ran out of names quickly. Getting into his car, the corner of his mouth pulled upward of its own accord: House would know many more names.

House, House, House.

Wilson buckled his seatbelt and started the engine. Mixed as his feelings were, he knew he was going home. He didn't want to go anywhere else. No bars. No strip clubs. Just to House. To dinner and television and bed. To relaxation, he hoped.

Maybe they would relax together tonight. Maybe tonight would be better than most of the last weeks' nights. After all, House had been good today. Remarkably well-behaved for a recovering addict who had to attend painful physical therapy on very little sleep.

Foot pressing the brake behind four cars at a red light, Wilson let his mind wander again.

House had burst through the door as though the office belonged to him—nothing unusual there—and promptly stretched out on the couch with a video game. Wilson noticed all the signs of pain and fatigue, and knew House was just waiting for the Vicodin to kick in and let him relax before his counseling session. Predictably, House snored through most of the hour and a half interval between PT and rehab.

Wilson had watched him sleep for a full ten minutes before he realized he wasn't getting any work done.

Then he'd had patients to see. Procedures scheduled. News to deliver. Meetings to attend.

He returned to his office a few minutes before House's rehab session ended. By the time Wilson had signed off on a few odds and ends and readied himself to join House in the cafeteria, the door burst open again, House barked out an order for a Reuben and disappeared through the balcony door.

Sitting in traffic, Wilson shook his head, this time at himself. He always did his job.

So he'd gone downstairs, waited in line, made sure House's sandwich was dry and pickle-free, and returned. House was sunning himself in the mid-May daylight, legs stretched out in the light, his head shadowed. Listening to something.

Wilson tossed the sandwich to him, hitting his stomach and eliciting a grunt Wilson found very satisfying, and plopped down in the deck chair next to House.

They ate quietly. Voices drifted up from the entryway—staff returning from lunch or smoke breaks; the grumble of patients—but the brick wall kept everything except the blue sky out of sight.

House finished his sandwich before he spoke.

"Hofstadter mentioned methadone."

Wilson chewed thoughtfully, only halfway through his own lunch. "In conjunction with you and your late night activity, or just generally?"

House refused to favor him with a sarcastic eye roll, preferring some distant speck no one but him could make out.

"Seems sudden," Wilson said, seriously this time as he bit into his own sandwich again.

House stared at the sky. "It is sudden." He spoke quietly. Thoughtfully. "He doesn't know what else to do."

"Then you should see someone else," Wilson said around a mouthful of sandwich.

House looked at him. "Who'll do what? Make me play patty cake with the other addicts until I'm all better?"

Wilson chewed, swallowed, and held House's gaze for a moment. "What do you think you should do?"

House turned his attention back to the sky. "Methadone isn't a good enough answer." He paused, then sat up and started getting to his feet. "Rehab isn't a good enough answer."

Wilson squinted up at him from the deck chair. "So what is?"

House started for the door before he answered, as he always did.

"Work," he called over his shoulder.

The door swished shut behind him.

Later, predictably, Cuddy found him and asked whether he thought House was really ready.

He thought House needed the distraction. In the past, whenever House had been given time to wallow in his various faults, the leg always got worse. Now that the leg was so much better, something else had to get worse.

And House was bored. Wilson understood that. He'd caught his first cold in years a few months ago and practically begged House to bring as much paperwork home as he could by the end of his second day of confinement.

If House thought he was ready to go back to work, then he was ready.

He hadn't seen House since lunch, but he imagined House was very pleased. He expected as much. Hoped as much.

Nearing the apartment, Wilson began to feel better. He tapped a beat on the steering wheel with his left thumb. Maybe they'd go out for dinner tonight. House would enjoy bothering the restaurant staff. Maybe some place with good steaks.

Wilson parked and jogged up the three steps to the apartment, whistling aimlessly. Steak would be just right.

Key in the lock, swinging his briefcase off of his shoulder already, and—the tune died on his lips.

The unmistakable acerbic scent of liquor permeated the room. Bourbon. Marker's Mark. He didn't have to see the bottle or to know the smell that well; he knew House: that was enough.

"…wasted and I'm still kicking your ass."

Wilson recognized the sloshed voice emanating from the couch and matched it with the scaly lizard-like space creature on the television screen. House was playing one of his video games against a pack of twelve year olds online.

"Yeah, go cry to your mama," House said loudly. "Bet you were a mistake."

Wilson slumped forward in the doorway, the life leaving him. The way the room smelled, the bottle would be empty. He let his briefcase slip out of his hand and his suit jacket slide off of his shoulders. Not even six p.m. yet and House was completely tanked.

A tousled head connected to an earpiece and microphone popped up. Glazed eyes registered recognition and the head thumped back against the arm of the couch.

"Gotta go, girls," Wilson heard him say. "Time for the big man to get laid."

The television winked off. Wilson shook his head and walked toward the bedroom.

"Hey," House called from the couch.

Wilson ignored him, sitting on the bed to take his shoes off. House was drunk. When House got drunk, House wanted sex. Normally, this was fine with Wilson because he was usually drunk and horny as well. But House would want sex right now and after the day Wilson had had, he didn't see how this situation could end without a fight and House passing out on the bed. Then he'd be alone until he was tired enough to sleep and faced with two poor choices: a cold leather couch or whisky fumes and snoring too loud to block out.

But worse than the situation was the cause of the situation—particularly, that Wilson didn't know why House had bought a bottle of liquor and drunk the whole thing in one afternoon. He'd be going back to work on Monday. Why had he drunk himself stupid?

Angry, confused, and somewhat hurt, Wilson took his time with his tie, his shoes, his clothing, making sure everything went where it was supposed to go. He could hear House calling him from the living room, but he didn't care to respond. Instead, he went over the reasons House might have to binge bourbon.

House was bored. If so, he would drink but he wouldn't drink this much. No.

His leg hurt. He had Vicodin for that. He preferred Vicodin for that. He wouldn't still be conscious if he'd mixed extra Vicodin with a full bottle of liquor. No.

He was upset. Yes. If anything drove him to hard liquor, it was emotional upset.

Upset about what?

Down to an undershirt and briefs, Wilson wandered toward the kitchen. Clearly they wouldn't be going out and since his day had just gotten much worse, he needed a beer immediately. House squawked something inappropriate from the couch which Wilson ignored. Upset about what?

Wilson let his body drop into the chair next to the couch and watched television while he drank. When half of the beer was gone, he turned to House.

"What's going on?" he asked as evenly as he could.

House leered drunkenly at him. He had pushed jeans and underwear out of the way and was casually fondling himself.

"I'm warming up," House replied. Slowly, deliberately, he raked his eyes over Wilson. "Nice outfit."

Wilson steeled himself against the surge of animal attraction. "I'm not doing this, House," he said tightly.

House laughed hoarsely. "Someone disagrees."

Jaw tight, Wilson stared House down. "He doesn't get a vote," he growled, shifting in the chair.

"He thinks he does."

"He doesn't think anything."

"I think he's thinking about something."

Wilson dropped his head into a waiting palm. "House—I—" he began, so frustrated he didn't know what to say or do. "Just—sleep it off."

"Can't," House replied. "Already took a nap. Not sleepy."

House blew a breath out through his nose and closed his eyes, concentrating on the flesh in his right hand. He knew Wilson couldn't resist the sight of him playing with himself.

Wilson glanced at House and picked up his beer, shifting in the chair again.

"Yeah, well, I really don't feel like it right now," Wilson muttered into his bottle.

House just watched him, a mischievous smile slowly spreading onto his face. "You always feel like it," he slurred.

Aware that House had an excellent view of his lap, Wilson placed the bottle between his legs and turned his head away. "No, I don't," he mumbled.

House smiled stupidly and sighed, sinking further into the couch. His eyelids fell to half-mast. He felt irredeemably sexy, and in his mind, sex radiated from him as though he were a porn star.

"Come on," House cajoled, "I'm sexy. You're—incredibly—sexy." House's smile jerked upward. He wished he was that beer bottle. "Come over here and be sexy with me."

Wilson sat up and folded himself until his eyes met the floor. Now that he wasn't looking at House or thinking about what House was doing, he felt more in control of himself.

"Look," he said seriously to the floorboards, "I've had a long day. I'm tired. You're—drunk—out of your mind—I don't have the slightest clue why—and I just don't feel like it." His eyes flicked to House's form. "Please—just—go to sleep."

"Already told you I'm not sleepy," House answered, completely unfazed by Wilson's speech. He lifted his head to look at his body and snorted at what he saw. "I am really drunk, though," he said. He brought his right hand up to join his left behind his head and smirked at Wilson. "You're going to have to do it."

Wilson stood and stepped toward the kitchen for another beer.

"I'm not doing anything, House," he replied. "Not right now." He stuck his head in the fridge and emerged with two beers. He cracked one open, tossed the cap on the coffee table, and flopped back down. "So sleep it off," he finished.

House observed him, still smirking. "Or you could catch up with me," he suggested.

"Thanks, I don't want to feel like crap in the morning," Wilson retorted, attention on the television.

"You've not even going to celebrate a little?" House asked with drunken sincerity. He produced an unsteady hand and held his thumb and forefinger slightly apart, squinting through them at Wilson. "Not even a little?"

Wilson swallowed a copious amount of beer and stared dully at the television. "That's what you're doing?"

House rolled his eyes. "Duh."

Wilson simmered, working his bottom lip back and forth against his teeth. At length, he turned to House and snapped, "A whole bottle?"

House made a wheezing sound meant to be a laugh. Then, upon looking more closely at Wilson, he said defensively, "What?"

Wilson sighed with exasperation. "Celebrating is waiting until I get home and having a few drinks. Or going out." He paused, working his bottom lip again. "It's not getting hammered before five."

House put on his best condescending appraisal face. "You've known me how long? I don't wait."

Wilson stared at House with disbelief, then clenched his jaw and turned away.

"Sometimes you should," he mumbled, holding the beer bottle to his lips. He drank the last of it and opened his third bottle.

"Hey. What's going on with you?" House asked, not a little aggressively. "I have a little fun and you get your panties in a wad."

"A whole bottle is more than a little fun," Wilson retorted angrily. "It's more than a celebration. But you're not going to tell me what it's really about, so I won't even ask."

"Buzzkill," House sniffed.

Wilson grunted into his beer, well aware that he was rapidly losing his high moral ground but not caring at all. He took another drink and put the bottle down, pressing his full stomach to force a belch. Too much liquid in too little time. He stared at the television, pleasantly buzzed, and let his mind loop the events of the past month until he felt himself stop caring completely.

After a while, he finished the third beer and went to pee. When he returned, House had already started snoring.

Smiling stupidly, he retrieved another beer.