Title: Nothing Like The Blues To Get You Down
Author: Sy Dedalus
Rating: T for language and drinking
Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: Acceptance
Summary: Scene fill-in based on the original script sides. House goes home after drinking with Clarence. House/Cam and House/Wilson overtones. One-shot…but a chaptered one-shot.
Notes: This picks up right before a commercial break, so the few lines you recognize from the show belong to Fox, David Shore, all those people, etc.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, everyone. I had planned another chapter, but I think it ends really well here, so consider it the end. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed—your support made me get this one as quickly as I could and I really appreciate it. If you've enjoyed this fic, I'd like to take this opportunity to pimp my other three fics, all of which are much longer and much less complete right now, but all deal with similar subjects this fic dealt with. I hope this was as fun to read for you as it was for me to write. Cheers:)

Edit: I've been told that one of the lines in this chapter pushes the T rating, so if references to sex bother you, eh, skip this chapter or at least the part where Wilson taunts House about Stacy. There's also some naughty language. Apologies for offending anyone's sensibilities, though if ever a character invited a writer to write offensive lines, it's House. ;)

To Wilson's surprise, House actually was ready to go when he returned. Well, sort of.

Wilson found him leaning into a corner next to the door, all of his weight on his left side with his shoulder and head mashed against the wall as though he'd tried to tackle it and had gotten stuck, cane gripped loosely in his right hand, half-asleep. A line of drool was inching its way down his chin and he was snoring softly.

Wilson couldn't help himself: he smiled for a few seconds at the sight before he barked House's name.

House started awake with a confused noise, slamming his head into the corner and falling half-way down the wall before he caught himself.

"Ow, dammit," House cursed, rubbing his head.

"New trick?" Wilson said amusedly.

"I'm doing water into wine next," House said, straightening up and wiping the drool off of his chin with a look of disgust. "Or water into whisky," he mumbled.

He glanced up at Wilson, who was waiting with an expectant look on his face.

"Onward, fearless leader," he said.

Wilson didn't move, but his expression became amused, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

"Mush!" House commanded.

"After you," Wilson said, smiling now and extending a hand as he bowed slightly.

"Whatever it is," House said, "it's not funny."

Wilson nodded out the door, indicating that House should go first.

"What?" House said. Wilson was making him paranoid with that sly grin. House saw nothing funny about the room or the situation and deduced that Wilson was laughing at him. "You suck," he said.

Wilson indicated to the door again, his grin broadening.

"Seriously, what is it?" House said.

"Nothing," Wilson said.

House gave him a murderous look.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I want to see if you can— Go." He gestured toward the door again.

House glared at him and took a step forward. He lurched and had to grab the door frame to stop himself from falling. He blinked hard at the dizziness that threatened to overtake him and send him sprawling. Wilson tried hard to contain his laughter.

"Cripple fall down?" House said with annoyance. "That amuses you?"

Wilson's sides were shaking. "I just wanted to see if— Never mind. Go ahead. I've got your back."

House's eyebrows knit together, making him look even more stupidly drunk. "I don't trust you to walk behind me right now," he said. "The circle of trust is closed off."

He tried to illustrate the circle of trust, taking his hand off of the door frame, and lurched forward. He caught himself before he fell and glared at Wilson as though his inability to maintain balance was Wilson's fault. He shifted his weight onto his left side and used his cane hand to illustrate:

"The circle of trust is here," he said making a circle in the air, "and you are way over there" he thrust his cane toward the opposite wall.

Wilson just kept smiling in smug amusement.

House eventually acquiesced with a roll of his eyes that sent him sideways again. He caught himself, righted his balanced, and shifted his weight to stump out of the room.

"Probably have a dagger up your sleeve," he muttered, lurching into the hall.

Wilson kept grinning as he followed House. Watching House try to walk while he was drunk wasn't usually a source of entertainment unless Wilson was very drunk and falling down too, but right now it was funnier than he remembered it ever being.

No one who noticed House's unsteady gait glanced more than once at him. Wilson sniffed to himself: House had the staff trained very well to either ignore him or treat him with some degree of contempt, so much so that while the story of House getting plastered with a patient he shut down an entire floor of the hospital for would surely make the rounds by morning, Wilson doubted it would surprise anyone. Nor did anyone take special notice of the way he was walking right now. House snapped at people who took notice. Right now it was a blessing—no one really needed to know that House was seesawing down the hall not because he'd pulled a muscle or his leg was being particularly troublesome today, but because he was too far gone to balance himself correctly—but there were times when it could be a curse. Usually those came when House's years of crying wolf and pissing everyone off came around to bite him in the ass, almost always in the form of no one recognizing that something was wrong with him until whatever molehill it had been became a mountain. That happened rarely, though, Wilson mused, because he and Cuddy were around and they could tell when something wasn't right. But House could do without so many enemies—or, he could do with more friends.

House made some disgustingly lewd comment to a nurse as they passed the front desk. Wilson didn't even attempt to smooth things over with the 'I'm sorry my friend is a jerk' expression. His lip tugged upward instead and he shook his head slightly at her: 'I know, he's such a jerk'. No apology; only agreement.

Wilson thought about saying something as they entered the parking garage, but he knew that not only would it be as futile as it usually was, it would be more trouble than it was worth right now. He didn't want to deal with any more of House's bullshit than absolutely necessary or he would unload and House would be even less sympathetic than usual.

He unlocked his car and put House's backpack in the back seat. House managed to squeeze himself into the front seat without doing any damage to himself or the car. He leaned forward and started rooting around under the seat.

"What are you doing?" Wilson asked as he started the car.

"Putting on some decent music," House said. "Your taste could not be more boring."

"You haven't even heard what I have in there—" Wilson started to protest before the stereo sprang to life and "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music came belting out of the speakers.

House chuckled.

"Not mine," Wilson said immediately, shaking his head in an attempt to disown the music. "Julie's. Not mine."

"Sure," House said, still laughing, and flipped through Wilson's CD case. He always kept a few discs in Wilson's car for occasions such as this.

"I can't believe CDs are still around," he said, selecting a disc and holding it up to examine it. "So antiquated." He fed the CD to the player.

"What have you got there?" Wilson asked curiously as the stereo ate the disc. "Muddy Waters?"

"I've got the blues, doc," House said drunkenly. "The low-down, dirty, melancholy blues. The indigo blues. The slow end of the visible spectrum blues. The deep soul blues—"

"So you're going to listen to a dead guy wail about his blues?" Wilson interrupted. "That makes you feel better?"

"Have you ever heard about a thing called empathy?" House said. "Or rhythm? Why do I even bother trying to explain it to you." He tried to shake his head in disdain and ended up stopping and blinking dizzily. He got his composure back and put the disdain on his face. "Clarence would understand."

"Clarence?" Wilson echoed, his right eyebrow shooting up. "Death Row Guy?"

House shrugged.

"You're learning patient's names now?" Wilson said incredulously.

House merely shrugged again.

"Better watch out," Wilson teased, "or you'll be holding their hands and crying with them next."

"Hey," House said pointing a finger at him, "don't threaten me."

Wilson glanced at House's slack, silly face and sniffed. "Put it away, boozie."

"Oh like you're so great," House said stupidly.

Wilson rolled his eyes and pulled out of the parking garage.

They rode in silence for a moment.

"So," Wilson said after a while, feeling like the time was right to get down to what was bothering him, "is there some reason you couldn't give the guy ethanol intravenously like the rest of us?"

House chuckled. "I can't run with the pack," he said, head lolling toward Wilson. "Literally." He giggled at having made a joke.

"Yes, because pre-packaged syringes of ethanol are so hard to catch," Wilson said dryly.

"C'mon," House said. "The guy's gonna be put to death. He deserved one last taste of ambrosia."

"I'll buy that," Wilson said. "But what I'd like to know is why you had to join him."

"Life isn't guaranteed to anyone," House said with a shrug. "I deserve a last drink too."

"Uh uh," Wilson said shaking his head. "Not an answer."

"You don't think he would've gotten suspicious if I went in there and started pouring alcohol down his throat without a few friendly toasts?" House said. "He killed four people—some for a lot less than giving him with liquor to save his life. It was an act of self-defense." He paused, brows furrowed. "Pre-emptive self-defense," he added. "Like the way certain countries in the Middle East whose names begin with 'I' have been treated recently. Pre-emptive self-defensive."

"Yeah, I really believe that," Wilson said with a harsh laugh.

House sneered at him but said nothing.

Wilson glanced at House, expecting more, but House didn't offer any other explanation. Wilson sighed.

"You're going to have to find a better way of dealing with Stacy," he said seriously. "She's going to be around for a while and Cuddy will only scrape you off the floor so many times before she does something about it."

"I was thirsty," House said defensively. "The patient had ingested a large quantity of methanol and—"

"And you just happened to have a whole bottle of double proof rum in your desk," Wilson said, not a little accusatorially.

"It was a gift," House explained, "from a liquor store owner. I removed a fishhook from his man parts with a straight face and he sent me something nice."

"You mean you didn't buy it to keep the vodka, scotch, and bourbon in your bottom left desk drawer company?" Wilson said.

"No," House said. "Those are cold climate drinks. Rum is a warm climate drink. They'd have nothing to say to each other, no common ground, and everyone would be embarrassed. A horrible party—like the ones you throw. Totally wrong mix of people."

"That only happens when I have a sudden fit of remorse and invite you," Wilson snipped.

"I walked right into that one, didn't I," House said stupidly. He giggled. "I am drunk."

"Yes, you are," Wilson agreed.

"Hey, turn right up here," House said. "Let's get some chow."

Wilson gave him an 'I don't think so' look but turned right anyway.

"Oh come on," House said. "Wasn't this carpool business about getting me to eat? I want some drunk food. See if the Latvian with the hot dog cart is out. What's his name? Igor?"

"Igor?" Wilson echoed. "You're way off. It starts with an M or something. But he's not out yet. What about something from Subway? Something with vegetables that hasn't been stewing in the same grease for weeks."

"How do you know he's not out yet?" House asked.

"It's not even seven o'clock," Wilson said. "Way too early for him."

"Okay, how about that pizza place—the one across from the bar that sells $2 shots on Thursdays."

"Rocket's?" Wilson asked.

"That sounds right," House said. "Check on it. It's around here I think."

"What's wrong with a normal pizza chain?" Wilson said. "One that delivers? Like, to your home. Because I need to get to mine."

"Hello," House said. "Drunk pizza is only drunk pizza if it sells by the slice on location only."

"You said 'only' twice," Wilson pointed out.

"It's a highly exclusive food group," House said. "Two or three 'only's per sentence."

"That doesn't make sense," Wilson said.

House just staring at him dumbly.

Wilson sighed. "I don't think they're open either."

"You're just saying that," House said. "C'mon," he cajoled. "Drunk food. You love drunk food."

"Yeah, when I'm drunk," Wilson said.

House gave him the puppy dog eyes—the best puppy dog eyes he could do.

"I'm telling you, they're not open," Wilson said. "They don't open until 8 or 9."

"Spoil sport," House said. He sat back moodily in the seat and crossed his arms, looking out the car window and generally making a point of avoiding Wilson. Shunning him. They stopped at a long red light. Then House had an idea.

"I know what we should do!" he said suddenly, sitting up.

"Oh no," Wilson groaned to himself. "This can't be good."

"We should get a drink!" House exclaimed.

"No," Wilson said shaking his head. "No, we shouldn't."

"Why not?" House whined.

"Because I need to go home tonight," Wilson said. "I promised Julie I'd grill something for her and if I don't get home soon, we'll be eating very late and she'll be more angry with me than she'd be if I didn't come home at all."

"She's always been trouble," House reproved.

"Such a threat to your demonical plan to monopolize my time, yes, she has always been trouble," Wilson said sarcastically.

House grinned stupidly at him. "So," he said, "she found out about Debbie?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Little Miss Thang from accounting?"

Wilson sighed shortly and looked away: the subtle 'I'm not going to say you're right, but…you're right. And I hate you for it' head movement. House smiled.

"You're such a paradox," House said. "Such a contradiction. So…perpendicular. One way vertically, a completely different way horizontally, and able to contain both without making anybody feel bad about themselves. Homo sapiens and homo erectus all at once."

"What?" Wilson said. "I don't know if I should be insulted or confused."

"Both, of course," House said. "Everybody gets everything with Jimmy Wilson. Everybody's happy."

"Everyone," Wilson said, "all the time." Agreeing with House when he was like this was the fastest way to get him to move on.

"Except your wife," House pointed out.

"And that's supposed to be my fault?" Wilson said. "No," he added quickly, "don't answer that. You're too out of your mind right now—whatever you say might be more scarring than usual."

But House wasn't listening. "Here's what I don't get," he said. "And I've been thinking about this for a long time, so my not getting it really says something. See if you can explain it to me." He paused for dramatic effect. "Why do you still try?"

"Insensitive much?" Wilson said, affronted.

"Seriously," House said. "I want to know." He did his best to look sincere.

Wilson waited for a moment, considering how he should answer this question. Honestly? Bitterly? Comically? He wasn't sure. Then he had it. Turn it back on House.

"Why did you down half a bottle of rum an hour and a half ago?" Wilson asked with more vitriol than he'd intended.

"Oh no, that's a secret," House said. "Only people with 'R's in their name get to know."

"So I should ask Cameron, Foreman, and Robert?" Wilson said.

"Only people with two 'R's," House clarified.

"Robert?" Wilson answered.

"Son of a bitch," House cursed. "Only non-Australians."

Wilson's mouth quirked upward. Then he became serious.

"I know she yelled at you earlier," he said quietly.

"That has nothing to do with it," House answered quickly.

"I know you love the way she looks in blue blouses," Wilson said.

"I've gone temporarily color blind," House said. "Didn't I tell you? That's why Foreman hasn't gotten a ton of crap from me this week. I can't see him."

"I know her legs look the same way they did five years ago," Wilson continued. He was taunting House, he knew, but he'd been provoked, dammit. "I know you still get off on business suits and heels. I know you can't stop undressing her with your eyes and—"

"Did you know I love the sound she makes when she comes, too?" House spat viciously.

He looked away in disgust, right hand instinctively diving into the left breast pocket of his jacket. "I can't believe you," he muttered

He had his hand on the bottle but Wilson was too fast for him again.

"No," Wilson said snatching the pills. "You're not avoiding this conversation."

"I'm not trying to avoid the conversation," House said trying to reach over Wilson to get the pills back. "My leg hurts. Give 'em."

"House, stop it," Wilson said, trying to fight him off and steer at the same time. "Quit. I'm trying to drive."

Wilson tried to fight him without actually being violent, hoping House would realize the idiocy of what he was doing and stop, but House wasn't stopping.

"Stop!" Wilson said and pushed him.

House, his balance still off, nearly smacked his head against the passenger side window and cursed loudly. Wilson finagled the bottle open, thumbed out three pills, hit the power button for the window, and dumped the rest into the street.

"Oh what the hell!" House yelled turning in his seat to see the pills fly away as Wilson rolled the window up. "You had no right to do that! That was totally out of line!"

Wilson held up his fist. "Three," he said in a deadly calm voice. "Enough to get you through the night. I'll be in early; come see me first thing and I'll write for the ones I just threw out."

"That is bullshit!" House yelled.

"What are you gonna do?" Wilson challenged. "Pick them up out of the gutter? Wipe 'em off? Invoke the five second rule?"

House's jaw muscles stood out against his sunken cheek as he ground his teeth. He didn't answer.

Then Wilson realized…

"You would, wouldn't you," he said quietly. It wasn't a question. He pulled into a nearby parking lot and stopped the car, turning to face House. "Listen, this has got to—"

House wasn't listening. "I can't…believe…you did that," he said stiffly through his teeth.

"You're killing yourself," Wilson said matter-of-factly.

"Everybody has to die," House sneered. He was shaking with anger and incomprehension. "Everybody has a right to choose to—to have some control over—to—to—"

Wilson shook his head sadly. "You're still the victim, aren't you?" he said. "Still. After all this time." He shook his head again with a bitter laugh. "And since you can't hit back, you slowly poison yourself instead. Because the worst thing a narcissist can do to the world is deprive it of his presence."

"Don't—try to analyze me," House ground out. His shaking intensified and he slid down in the seat, putting a hand over his eyes and tugging at the collar of his shirt with the other, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He started panting. Dizzy. His blood surging. Wilson? Wilson wouldn't…? Not Wilson? No. His hand traveled down to his stomach and he groaned, swallowing thickly. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Wilson shook his head again, unfurled a plastic bag, and passed it to House. He rubbed his face and turned away, taking in the view of the parking lot. Cars. Lights. People. Movement. Half an hour till darkness. Gas stations and restaurants were turning their signs on. Construction barriers blinked in the distance. Traffic. He tuned back in to the moment. He'd been expecting to hear…but…House was panting…but not… Wilson looked over. House's hands were shaking, one over his eyes, one still on his stomach.

Oh. Right.

Should've seen it coming, but House wasn't prone to them and Wilson did know that House couldn't hold his liquor past a certain point. But it made sense.

"House," Wilson said softly, watching him hitch in breaths. "Panic attack."

House nodded slightly. "Yeah," he said shakily. "I know." He wiped his trembling left hand on his shirt. "Sweaty palms." He tried to smile.

Wilson half-smiled back and House turned his head away, still gasping like a fish. All this over his Vicodin going out the window? Over Stacy? Wilson stopped himself: he'd done enough damage. He turned the key in the ignition, saying nothing. He turned off the stereo—Muddy Waters no longer spoke to the situation—and pulled into traffic. Construction cones. Long lines of cars.

Two blocks of snail's pace progression later, House had settled down considerably. Wilson heard him stop panting and start trying to control his breathing, head tipped back against the head rest, eyes closed. After a while, his breathing evened out, and a while after that, he took an authoritatively deep breath.

"What's with the traffic?" he murmured, keeping his head tilted back and except for a peek at the road, his eyes closed too.

"Construction," Wilson said. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that House had stopped shaking entirely. Good.

"Since when?" House asked.

"Yesterday," Wilson answered. "It was on the news."

"Oh," House said. "I never come this way."

"Neither do I," Wilson said. He smiled. "Someone made me turn."

"Well," House said, sitting up straight and checking their location. "Since we're down here. I know Taco Don's is open." A ghost of a smile appeared on his face.

"Yeah," Wilson said, his smile becoming broader and more sincere. "Yeah, it is."

END