Disclaimer: Not mine. David Shore, Bad Hat Harry, and Fox own House and Wilson. Bad Influence (1990) was written by David Koepp and directed by Curtis Hanson.

Author's Note: Thanks so much to my enthusiastic beta jezziejay and to my f-list for encouragement, especially blackmare-9. Also to hwshipper for her invaluable canon timeline.

New Orleans, LA. 1990.

His first talk at a medical conference finally over, all James Wilson wanted to do was to find a bar where no one knew him and get totally trashed. He'd been carrying the envelope with his divorce papers around with him all day in a daze, his head only clearing out of sheer terror for about forty-five minutes before, during, and after his presentation. Now he was finally free to leave his peers behind and find a quiet corner to lick his metaphorical wounds.

He settled on the somewhat seedy Blue Parrot as an unlikely destination for his well-heeled colleagues. James sank down on the nearest barstool, ordered a Scotch, and asked the bartender to keep 'em coming. The other man, balding and grizzled, brought the bottle to him and set it down with a bang, as if he couldn't be bothered to keep coming over to refill his glass. James didn't take offense. Besides, this way there would be no waiting.

James was about three-quarters of the way to truly tipsy and Billy Joel was crooning, "Leave a Tender Moment Alone" from the jukebox when a tired-looking woman with bottled blonde hair flounced in and slapped her purse down on the bar.

"Long Island Iced Tea," she snapped at the bartender, and hitched herself up onto the stool next to James' but one.

A long, slow sip later, she shut her eyes briefly in relief, then began rummaging through her handbag.

"I can't fucking believe this," she groaned, emptying the contents of her purse onto the counter and rooting irritably through the mess of cheap cosmetics and crumpled tissues. "I'm so sorry, I'm sure I had it when I left the house."

Without really thinking about it, James peeled a couple of bills from the wad in his wallet and caught the bartender's eye as he tossed them in front of his new neighbor. She gave him a grateful glance before picking up her drink and gulping down another generous measure.

"You look like you've had the same kind of day I've had," James ventured as she set her glass down with a sigh.

"Oh, honey," the woman returned ruefully, stuffing her compact and Kleenex back into her purse, "for your sake, I hope your day is nothing like mine."

"I'm James," he offered, scooting his stool a little closer to hers.

She started to smile, opened her mouth to respond before her eyes widened in warning. James' arm was jogged as a big, beefy man with conspicuous tattoos brushed by him and plunked himself down between them. "You think you can just walk away from me?"

"Please, Billy," she hissed, "not here."

Billy glanced over and caught James staring. "What's he looking at?"

"Um, nothing," James said hastily just as the woman cut in,

"He's just some jerk. Back off, he just bought me a drink."

The man stood, pushing his stool away, and forced James to crane his neck in order to maintain eye contact. "Get out of here."

On any other day, James would have caved immediately, probably even apologized for being so inconsiderate as to occupy the same bar as he dashed out the door. But today he had already had all that he could stand. All he'd wanted was to drown his sorrows in private, and by God, no musclebound moron in a tight tank top was going to push him around. He stared back, reached for the Scotch to pour himself another drink, and said stubbornly, keeping his voice as even as he could, "Last time I checked, this was a public bar."

He'd probably never know whether Billy had been offended by his smartass remark or completely misinterpreted the grip of his fingers on the bottle. In between one breath and the next, James found his face slammed down on the bar, its surface cold and sticky under his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut in terror, whimpered and tried to wriggle away, but his hair was only tugged more painfully for his troubles.

Suddenly, over the roar of blood in his ears, James heard the sound of shattering glass. His eyes popped open. There was a tall, athletic man leaning against the bar, brandishing a broken beer bottle and a feral grin. His curly brown hair was uncombed, his jaw sported several days' worth of stubble, and his eyes were a dangerous shade of blue. "Let him go."

"Yeah?" Billy blustered. "What are you gonna do?"

The other man's grin got wider if anything. "Let's find out."

Abruptly, incredibly, the pressure was relieved, and James slowly pulled himself back into a sitting position, rubbing shakily at the sore spots on his scalp. He was just in time to catch a glimpse of Billy and his girlfriend disappearing through the rear exit.

When he turned back around to thank his savior, James discovered that he was alone.

He got off the stool, wobbling a little in the aftermath of adrenaline, and stuck his head outside to scan the street, but the mysterious stranger was gone. James blinked, bemused, then shrugged, sat back down, and retrieved the bottle of Scotch, still miraculously intact.

It was only several hours and many drinks later when he was trying, nauseous and bleary-eyed, to settle his bill, that he realized his wallet was gone.

Courtesy of the local sheriff, James spent the last night of the conference in a free room with no view.

Boston, MA. Three months later.

James Wilson was having a terrible day.

It had started when he discovered that he no longer had the file containing the notes he'd taken on a particularly complex case. He had ransacked the Oncology lounge, pulling out sofa cushions, emptying drawers. He'd also collared each of his fellow residents as they arrived, but none of them would admit to having any idea where the file might be. In fact, one of them, Richard Patterson, who was one year his senior and currently the favored candidate for the coveted Chief Resident position, denied his complicity with such a smug look that James had realized instantly that he had to be the culprit.

His stomach already churning, James hurried down to the clinic for his morning appointments, cursing his luck. He had no proof whatsoever of Patterson's guilt, of course, and there was little chance of his notes making a reappearance before Grand Rounds the next morning. He'd have to skip lunch, try to recreate them from memory.

He was so distracted that he mixed up his files and suggested a prostate exam to poor old bewhiskered Mrs. Bernstein, who was terribly offended. And he didn't even notice the name on his last case file until he had closed the door and a familiar feminine voice said, "Aren't you going to ask me to take off my clothes, Doctor?"

"Bonnie!" he yelped, having nearly started out of his skin.

"You don't seem very happy to see me," she mock-pouted.

"No, no, I was just… surprised," he said lamely. "A very happy surprise," he added, although he sounded unconvincing even to himself.

She smiled and came over to kiss him. "Are you ready to go to lunch?"

"Oh, Bonnie. I'm sorry, I can't. I just have too much work to catch up on today." The constant dull pain twisted with sudden virulence in his gut, and he bent over, gasping.

"James, are you all right?"

Feebly he tried to wave her away. "I'm fine. Really. You should go ahead without me."

"All right," she said. "You will be able to make dinner with my parents tomorrow though, won't you?"

"Of course," James reassured her through gritted teeth. "Wouldn't miss it."

"They've been after me to hurry up and set the date," she said, idly running a fingertip along his jaw. "Is November good for you?"

"November? Uh… sure."

"Great," she sighed happily. "I really want to get married this year. And I want to have a baby next year."

"Great," James repeated dejectedly, staring after her as she strode away. He leaned his forehead against the cool wall of the exam room for a moment. "Just great."

He was out for a run near his apartment that night when he passed a couple arguing under a streetlamp. The man was tall, lanky, and vaguely familiar with his unruly brown hair and intensely blue eyes. It was only when he raised his voice, saying something about needing a little more time, that James finally recognized him from that night in New Orleans and turned back.

The woman had just walked off in a huff, James' anonymous Samaritan watching her go from beneath heavy lids. "Hey." The older man turned, startled, his features bunching in suspicion, then smoothing over.

"Do I know you?"

"Um. You're the guy from the Blue Parrot, right? In New Orleans?"

James could see the exact instant when the incident clicked into place in the other man's head. "Oh. Right."

"I never had the chance to thank you," he said warmly. "You might have saved my life. You definitely saved me from getting my ass kicked." He held out his hand. "James Wilson."

The other man hesitated for a split second, then took it. His grip was firm but cool, his fingertips calloused. "Greg House."

"Do you live around here?"

Greg started to smile, then shook his head. "No."

"Okay. Well… see you around."

He was turning to resume his run when Greg's voice rang out in a challenge. "Why didn't you back down?"

James stopped, spun on his heel. "Excuse me?"

"In the bar. You could have walked away. Why didn't you?" The other man's gaze was curious, intent.

He shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't really know. Normally I would have. I guess there was just… this little voice, inside me, telling me to take a stand, and that day… I chose to listen to it."

Greg smiled. "I have that voice, too. And I always listen to it." He looked James up and down, then appeared to come to a decision. "Wanna grab a beer?"

They had a beer, and then another, at a bar around the corner from James' apartment. It turned out that Greg House didn't like being called Greg, and he insisted on calling James "Wilson" as well, although he didn't give the impression that he was trying to distance himself by doing it. On the contrary, James found himself confiding his most private professional problems to the older doctor, who turned out to be an infectious diseases specialist at Mass Gen.

"This guy Patterson is definitely fucking with you," House agreed with a frank belch. "He stole the file just to show you that he could. Today your case notes, tomorrow your job, maybe next year your wife." He smirked and tapped the side of his forehead. "I understand how guys like him think."

"What an asshole," James said, already a little tipsy. He had always worked too hard to be much of a drinker.

"To Patterson," House said suddenly, raising his bottle.

"Wait… what?"

"To Patterson," the other man insisted. James stared at him for a second, then shrugged and clinked his glass.

In a flash, House had lunged forward and grabbed him painfully by the forearms. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded. "You would drink to your worst enemy?"

Startled, and embarrassed at the attention they were getting from the other patrons, James shoved him away. "Get off me!"

House sat back, satisfied, crossing his arms behind his head. "There," he said. "Show Patterson that face."