A/N: Okay, received about three nice requests (thank you!) for a continuation of the story, so here I am again with chapter two. Just a side note, this is set during season four, when Kutner, Thirteen, and Taub are the "new" team, but Foreman, Cameron, and Chase will definitely be around. There will probably not be much mention of Amber, because in my House-world, her and Wilson never got together.
Please continue to review, I am always open to comments and criticism!
Disclaimer: I don't own House, M.D. or the song Scars. I wish I did, though.
The next morning, a familiar brown-haired, chocolate-eyed oncologist woke up with a hangover from the sixth circle of hell and a pounding headache to match. Groaning at his stupid alarm with the most irritating beep that he kept around anyway, James Wilson convinced himself to roll out of his warm bed and to slam his fist down on the offending clock. Giving his eyes thirty seconds to adjust to the light streaming into the window of his apartment, Wilson tried to figure out what on earth had happened the night before.
He swore it was a normal night out drinking with House that he regretted when arising in the morning, but there was something about last night Wilson couldn't wrap his pained head around yet. Thinking back, the doctor could recall leaving the hospital after a twelve-year-old patient who fought painstakingly hard finally lost his final battle in a five-year war with leukemia. After watching the boy struggle to keep his organs functioning during his last few days on this earth and finally sucumbing to his last painful breath as the family cried silent, grief-stricken tears over the child's bedside, Wilson couldn't take being inside the hospital anymore and left early, grabbing a half-asleep-with-boredom House on his way out. At that point, the two went to a particularly shady bar and Wilson drank away his day as the older diagnostician tried to set a new level of drunkenness for himself.
"House," the younger man started as he stumbled out the door of the bar and clinging to his older friend, "call me a cab. You come, too. Can't drive. Drunk."
"Yeah, I noticed. I'll call little brother a cab. I'll make it home myself," House stated, obviously able to hold his liquor better than his only friend.
"No, House. Don't leave," Wilson slurred, trying to convince House to come with him.
Even in his drunken state, he was trying to keep House safe from himself. Realizing this, House smirked down at the shorter oncologist and pulled out his phone, flipping it open and calling the nearest cab service. Within a matter of minutes, he was shoving Wilson in the backseat and told the driver his address and tipping him so he'd make sure Wilson got inside his apartment safely.
"Tell me you got home safely, okay House? Don't be stupid and hurt yourself," Wilson called finally as the door shut and the cabbie sped off.
Finally back in the present moment, Wilson bolted up and checked his phone, seeing that House hadn't texted or called. "Shit!" Wilson cursed, and quickly flipped open his phone and hit his speed dial, getting no answer from House.
It was still cold and the clothes of a specific blue-eyed diagnostician were still damp as Dr. House woke up that Sunday morning to honking horns, sirens, and talking people. Opening his eyes slowly, House's eyes were assaulted brutally with a sun shining much brighter than his personality. Taking a few minutes to make sure his not-thigh was still attached to his body and working through the previous, extensive-drinking-after-he-sent-Wilson-home night, the doctor opened his eyes and took a look at his surroundings.
Slumped up against the side of the bar and sore as all get-out, Dr. House rubbed his piercing blue eyes and spotted his cane just off the sidewalk that ran in front of the bar and faintly remembered lying on a patch of ice somewhere, vomiting, then crawling somewhere to die, only to wake up in the same, disappointing world again. He tried to hoist himself up and succeeded in making it halfway up before having to clutch the brick wall behind him before he fell. "Fuck," the brilliant diagnostician muttered under his breath, before pulling himself all the way up and refusing to fall, if only to keep his dignity in check. He wasn't dying, so he could keep it a while longer. Tripping all the way and pulling his uncooperative leg along the cracked and unforgiving sidewalk, House finally reached his cane and bent down to grab it quickly before leaning on it heavily and trying to breathe through the stabbing sensation in his right thigh. "Pathetic. He was right, he was always right," House snarled at himself before feeling through his pockets to find a couple Vicodin and nothing else. He swallowed them down quickly and leaned his head back to wait for them to take effect, contemplating how he'd get back to his apartment.
A/N: Alright, there was chapter two... suggestions? Comments? Criticism? Review and let me know what you thought, I'd love to hear your thoughts!