AN: So, guys, who's ready for a little bit of a break from the angst? Well, me, for one. I therefore present to you a K+ rated chapter, set at PPTH, with no Tritter, no torture and very little in the way of angst. Beware the Cam-bashing, the blatant H/W (although I don't think that that's something that really needs a warning) and themes of drug abuse. With my mocks coming up, it's going to have to stay at about an update a week, I'm afraid. (Yeah, I know, you're all so disappointed).

I don't own House, MD. Come skip among the happy flowery bunny-filled meadows of Non-Angst Land!

Chapter 8

Wilson smiled slightly as four-year-old Jack Tracy and his mother left his office. So far, Jack had been in remission for three months, and his blood work was still looking good. Wilson had accepted death as part of his job, but even so, it was always a wonderful feeling when there was a patient that he could actually save, particularly when it was a young child with a whole life ahead of them. House, naturally, thought that this was bullshit. Anything that meant anything was bullshit to House.

House. The man that meant so much to him. The man who knew so much about the world and yet so little about emotions. Rehab hadn't really helped him – and Wilson had to admit that he had never really expected it to. House wasn't a drug addict. He was a man who happened to be addicted to drugs. There was a difference, but it wasn't one that a lot of people saw. Most people were either too blind to see, or too stubborn to try to look.

Whenever doctors prescribed narcotics to pain patients, the patients were told that once they had been taking the pills for a certain period of time, usually just over a week, that they shouldn't stop taking them immediately or they would experience withdrawal symptoms. But that didn't make them addicts – it made them addicted. And there really was all the difference in the world between the two.

But just because House wasn't a drug addict, it didn't mean that he didn't need help. The man had been falling apart. That had been proved on Christmas Eve, when House had ODed on a dead patient's Oxy. What did they mean by help? Well, rehab, originally. Looking back on it, Wilson really wasn't sure what he, Cuddy and Tritter had expected to achieve. House had only really begun to fall apart drastically when his Vicodin had been taken away. There had been problems before, but House off Vicodin was substantially more depressed than House on Vicodin.

Cuddy had been wrong. Most of the time, Wilson agreed with her decisions, but this time, he firmly believed that not managing House's pain was entirely the wrong decision. To be fair, she had tried – Neurontin, and a couple of other non-narcotic pain meds. They failed. Cuddy had given up, and told House just to keep trying the Neurontin. That wasn't right. No one should be expected to live in pain. No one should be expected to just suck it up. That was why he had been known to roll medical marijuana. That was why he had assisted the suicide of several of his terminal patients.

That was why he had given House the Vicodin.

24 hours. It had only been 24 hours since House had left on his vacation. It was hard to believe – it felt like much longer. Time always seemed to stretch out more when House wasn't around. Wilson was a little hurt that House hadn't called him yet, although he would never have said it out loud – it would have sounded incredibly petty. But House had promised that he would call as soon as his plane arrived, and that should have been hours ago. Wilson had tried calling him, but his phone, surprise surprise, had been switched off. Wilson couldn't help but worry. What if the plane had been diverted, and now House was stranded at some airport? His leg would be giving him hell. What if House had been in an accident of some kind? There were so many possibilities.

And they were all so unlikely, and so typical of him to think of. He was overreacting. As usual. He always seemed to overreact where House was concerned. Damn him for making Wilson care so much! How did he do it?

There was a knock on the door. He didn't have another patient due for another half hour or so, which meant that his visitor was either one of the oncology staff or, more likely, Dr. Cameron. Since House had been admitted to rehab, Cameron had been spending rather too much time around Wilson than he would have liked. He wasn't sure what the immunologist hoped to achieve – what was it that she wanted to know? He was pretty sure that it was to do with House. Or maybe he was reading too much into it – maybe Cameron liked him, or simply thought that he needed a friend.

"Come in," Wilson called. The door opened, revealing, as Wilson had expected, Allison Cameron. She smiled at him, shut the door and breezed over to his desk.

"Morning, Dr. Wilson!" she smiled. She offered him a bag. "Cookie?"

"Uh..."

"I picked them up from the bakery on the way to work. Chase was looking a bit down yesterday, and I figured that everyone here could use a bit of cheering up. So, do you want one?"

"I'll pass, thanks."

"Oh, okay. Suit yourself."

Wilson cleared his throat, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Cameron always managed to make him feel uncomfortable, somehow. It didn't matter whether she was being sweet, like now, or whether she was having a go at him, as she had done just after he had made the Deal (with a capital "D") with Tritter.

"Is there, um, something that you particularly wanted, Cameron?" To be honest, he didn't exactly like Cameron. She tended to spend more time bitching at him than offering him cookies, and as a result, he couldn't help but feel suspicious that she had an underlying motive.

"Oh, no, not really." A pause. "Only, I heard House was going on vacation today. Know anything about that?"

Wilson did his best not to sigh over-dramatically. Of course. It was always about House. "Yeah, he's on vacation. What about it?" he answered shortly.

"Nothing in particular. Do you know where he went?"

"Hawaii," Wilson snapped. Why was Cameron annoying him so much? It wasn't that he was jealous, was it? Jealous of what? He certainly didn't want Cameron fawning over him the way she did over House.

He just wanted Cameron to leave his boyfriend alone.

Boyfriend. How adolescent did that sound? He had never really referred to House as anything other than his best friend before. Boyfriend didn't sound right. "Partner" would probably work better, Wilson mused.

He realized that Cameron was still in the room, and looking slightly taken aback by his tone.

"I was only asking," she muttered. She made her way to the door. Wilson didn't try to stop her.

He comforted himself with the knowledge that House would prefer him to her any day. He had chosen Wilson, hadn't he? He had. Wilson needed to stop being so paranoid.

If only House would return his calls.