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  Lab Work 
 by Sketchy Artist  

 Greg House is an observant man. He noticed, five years ago, when Wilson
stopped getting drunk with him. Sure, James will still go to a bar with
him, probably more out of fear of leaving House on his own then out of a
desire for Miller, and he'll have a few beers, but that's it. He knows the
last time Wilson allowed himself to get drunk was at the hospital
Christmas party three years ago, right after marriage number two had
finally bitten the dust. House even knows why Wilson suddenly became an
advocate of temperance and moderation, and it has nothing to do with
maturing into a responsible adult, as Wilson claims, and everything to do
with the nasty interaction between Vicodin and alcohol. Greg thinks James
is an idiot, but in the nicest way.

That's why the scene that greets House when he walks into the lab is such
an unfamiliar one. Wilson is sitting on a stool, barely, leaning heavily
against a workbench covered by glass lab equipment. His face is buried in
his hands, and there's a near-empty bottle of Bombay Sapphire nearby,
looking amazingly at home in the sea of glassware littering the table.
House raises one eyebrow, and then the other, for good measure, but Wilson
clearly doesn't appreciate the gesture, so he decides to try verbal
communication instead.

"Ah, yes. There's nothing like a cold drink after a hard day's work. Of
course, it's ten in the morning, so I assume that's not what this is."

Wilson lifts his head off of the table and drops his hands from his face,
revealing red eyes and a mouth twisted in agony.

His first thought is to ask who died, but considering the very real fact
of Wilson's occupation, he decides the joke won't be as funny if it's
true. "First Cameron, now you. Is there something about this lab that
lends itself to angst?"

Wilson's mouth twists, but it's not a smile. "Go away," he groans. Greg
doesn't. "Go away," Wilson repeats, after a deep breath. "You're not the
comforting type. Crying scares you. Go away."

"Well then, it's a good thing you're too manly to cry." Greg heaves a
long-suffering sigh, and then hauls himself onto a stool next to Wilson,
who has dropped his head back onto the table. Wilson had been fine when
he'd left that morning for work, far too early for House to want to
accompany him. Now what could've happened in the three hours since then?
Honestly, he couldn't take that man anywhere. Not even work, apparently.
"You're not usually so prone to fatalism and heavy drinking. So what
happened?"

"I totaled my car."

House ignores the sharp spike of panic he feels at the thought of Wilson
in a car accident, and it shows only in the slight widening of his eyes.
"Your Volvo? Good. Probably a mercy killing. Now you can go buy a Porsche
like a normal doctor."

Wilson snorts. "And what exactly would you know about normal doctors?" He
continues before House can voice an indignant response. "I made martinis.
Do you want one?"

That explained the gin. And the smell of alcohol that seems to be seeping
from Wilson's pores. House examines a half-full 300 mL container. "You
don't have any lemon. Or ice. Or apparently, a desire to keep your job."

He watches Wilson consider this. "Cuddy can't fire me. I help her keep
you," here James pauses to jab Greg heavily in the chest with one finger,
"in line." He grins when Greg declines to reply in favor of taking a sip
of his 'martini'. His smile only widens as he watches the other man make a
face that clearly stated just how hard it was not to spit the drink out.
Wilson shook his head. "Doing it wrong," he says and clumsily takes the
beaker, fingers scraping against Greg's hand. He downs the remaining 100
mL like a pro.

"Hmm. Let me see your eyes." House reaches out and grasps Wilson's chin
firmly, tilting his head so the dim light catches his brown eyes. "Your
pupils are even. Now, do you feel-"

Wilson jerks his head away. "I do not have a concussion!"

"I know that loss of taste isn't one of the traditional symptoms, but
given your odd behavior...any ringing in your ears? Dizziness? Nausea?" He
knows his concern is showing through his joke, but he can't help it. The
paramedics must've checked Wilson out at the crash site, he tells himself.
Of course, those guys frequently have trouble finding their ass with both
hands.

"I'm a little dizzy...but that's probably because I'm drunk." Greg reaches
for him again, but Wilson bats his hands away, jerking his head. "Get away
from me! I don't have a concussion." He stands unsteadily. "See? I'm fine.
Your duty is done." He wobbles. "Don't you have patients to abuse?"

"Abusing you is much more entertaining," House informs him. "Now, just
hold still. I'm going to check your scalp for contusions." He grabs Wilson
by the chin again and tilts his head down. This time his coworker submits
to an examination.

He doesn't find any signs of head trauma, so he reluctantly releases
Wilson and allows him to tip his head back to a comfortable position. As
their eyes meet, Greg becomes suddenly aware of how close they're
standing. In fact, if he just leaned down a little-

"You know, your eyes and Cuddy's are the exact same color."

House rolls his eyes. "Way to ruin the moment by comparing me to the other
woman. And they are not! Mine are bluer. Much nicer. Hers have that green
tinge. And since when do you waste time looking at Cuddy's eyes anyway?"

Wilson's eyes dart to the ground, abashed, then back up to meet Greg's.
"Since when do I waste time looking at yours, either?"

And Greg thinks that doesn't entirely make sense, since he doesn't have
anything as interesting as Cuddy's breasts to distract from his eyes. He
puts it down to Wilson being very drunk. But he doesn't really mind.

Wilson drops his head down to rest on House's shoulder and mumbles, "I'm
going to hell," into his shirt.

"You're Jewish. You don't believe in Hell," House informs him.

"If there's no hell, then where are you going?" Wilson asks. His head is
still not supporting its own weight. His words vibrate into Greg's
shoulder and his breath is very warm.

"Ouch. This coming from the man to who wouldn't recognize the seventh
commandment even if it was part of his hokey religion."

"Did you just call Judaism 'hokey'? And we do so have the Ten
Commandments. They're in the Old Testament. That joke didn't make any
sense."

"Now whose ecclesiastical knowledge are we going to trust, the drunk Jew
or the handsome doctor who went to Catholic high school? I'll give you a
hint: it's not you."

"You're a real asshole, you know that?" is Wilson's only reply as he picks
his head up and starts back to his drink. 'Starts' being the key word,
because after one step, Wilson's legs seem to bend out from under him and
he drops to the ground in a graceless heap.

House reaches for him, but he's too slow. God damned leg. He covers his
frustration with scorn. "Well, that was an excellent impersonation of me.
Now, I know I'm missing a chunk of muscle from my right thigh. What's your
excuse?"

Wilson motions to the table. "That," he pauses to burp, "would be the
gin."

Greg is standing further back now, and it occurs to him that James looks
like a model, sprawled out on the linoleum. A GQ cover, or maybe Playgirl,
the way he's gazing up House with those half-lidded eyes. His tie is
absent, the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and his sleeves are
rolled up. Even his hair is messy. He looks like he went for a quickie in
the lab, and Greg says as much. James flushes and looks away, making House
wonder if he hasn't done just that a couple times.

He puts the thought aside temporarily to offer his friend a hand up.
"Careful," he says, as he feels Wilson's warm grasp tighten around his
wrist. "If you pull me down there, too, we're not going to be able to get
up until Foreman finds us."

"I'm sure we could think of something to do," Wilson leers and House helps
him up, courtesy a good grip on the workbench and a very delicate
balancing act.

As Wilson steadies himself, using a stool and House's arm, Greg pauses, an
expression he'd like to think of as 'surprised, yet interested' on his
face. "Why Jimmy, I didn't think you had it in you."

"I don't, that's the point," 'Jimmy' says as he collapses onto the stool.

"Now remember, the rest of us are a few drinks behind. You'll have to make
a little more sense than that."

James pulls on Greg's arm. "Give me a backrub?" he asks. At House's
skeptical look he continues. "Please? Come on, you know you want to. I had
a shitty day. Doesn't that entitle me to a backrub?" Greg sighs,
succumbing to Wilson's wheedling.

"All right. I'd better do it just to make sure you didn't hurt your back
in that crash. But," he says, at Wilson's look of glee, "you're also going
to tell me what happened this morning that made you attempt to drink
yourself into oblivion." House is betting that the crash isn't the whole
reason for Wilson's inebriation, and if the look on Wilson's face as he
contemplates that request is any indication, he's right. Greg moves around
to face his back and lays his cane down on the workbench.

"I'd rather not," Wilson says, the end of the sentence sliding into a
groan as House digs his fingers into his shoulders. "Mmmm."

 "That's kind of the point, actually. It's like a bribe. Or I could
stop..." House offers. He pauses his hands, leaving them resting lightly
on Wilson's neck.

Wilson wiggles in his seat, unhappy. House stokes his fingers lightly
across a thrumming carotid artery. Wilson shivers, despite the sweat on
his forehead, and shifts again. "Fine!" he bursts at last. "Fine, I'm
giving in to your sadistic torture techniques." House grins, out of sight,
and drags his hands down Wilson's back, moving closer to get better
leverage.

"Now, you were saying?" he encourages.

"Mmmm" Wilson reiterates, leaning back into the massage. He leans back so
far that his back and Greg's chest are touching.

House stops his massage again. "You know, I can't rub your back if I can't
touch your back," he informs his friend.

"Do you want to know about why I was drinking or not?" is Wilson's reply.
And House shuts up, even as he feels Wilson's hands close around his and
bring them to clasp over Wilson's stomach, under the other man's warm
hands. This brings them even closer together, and Greg has to shift, press
his chest against James' back.

He wants to ask what Wilson is doing, but he reminds himself that's he's
not supposed to talk. It's hard. And he snorts at that, true on so many
levels. Wilson twitches, because House's nose is right next to his ear.
"Stop being distracting," he instructs.

"Stop being distracted."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says, and turns to look at House.
There's a split second where suddenly House knows everything, where he can
see the world in his friend's eyes, and for once, it all makes sense. Then
Wilson has pushed himself up and against Greg and they are kissing.

It's not perfect. Wilson is trying to stand up, and they're both off
balance. Their mouths are on different rhythms, trying to move smoothly
but mostly the kiss is tongues and lips all stumbling against each other,
just like their owners.

It's not perfect but it's very, very close.

Wilson's mouth tastes like gin, and feels like gin, too, strong and
smooth. And very alcoholic. The kiss feels good, but Greg's always been a
champion at self-denial, so he manages to push James away.

"Well that was a clever diversionary tactic," House all but moans because
pushing James away seems to have only given him an additional inch of
personal space. "Unfortunately, your Jedi mind tricks won't work on me."

"No trick," Wilson sighs, at the exact moment House realizes his arms are
still around Wilson and drops them. Wilson appears fascinated by something
behind and slightly to the right of House's face, and the fact that Wilson
won't meet his eyes actually gives his statement some credibility. "I
just...this morning, I realized-"

"That you're horny, and the only person you know who you haven't fucked
yet is me? I suppose a cripple is the next best thing to a buxom blonde
when you're desperate." He knows it's cruel, but he's decided he doesn't
really want to hear about Wilson's epiphany. He pauses only to grab his
cane, then heads for the door. Out of sight, out of mind.

Wilson clearly doesn't agree, coming up from behind to place a hand on his
shoulder. Wilson can't see his expression, so for that one second he
allows all his pain, all his yearning, to come to the surface. One second.
Then he shuts it all away and turns around.

"Don't you have a nurse to molest or something?" House says, his face hard
and blank.

"Don't do this, Greg!" Wilson pleads. "Don't shut me out! Please, I know-"

"You don't know me!" And Greg is shouting now.

"Liar!" Wilson is shouting, too, right up until he grabs House and kisses
him. Hard.

They're both panting heavily when the kiss breaks, because Greg couldn't
really help but respond to that kiss. Their faces are close together
still, sharing each other's air.

Greg is just thinking that they might kiss again, when Cuddy decides to
enter the lab. House watches her eyes move from the gin bottle to two of
her department heads in an awkward embrace then back to the gin. "This is
your fault somehow," is her conclusion, which she directs at House, along
with a lethal glare. He can only hold his hands up in mock-surrender and
protest, 

"He was like this when I got here!"

She rolls her eyes, which gives him a pretty good indication of exactly
how accurate she thinks that statement is. 

"Hey, I'm still here, you know," Wilson says, an attempts to untangle
himself from Greg, who just hangs on tighter and smirks. He then
'accidentally' drops his cane, so Wilson is the only thing holding him up.

"Oopsie." Knowing Wilson won't risk him falling, he leaves him no choice
but to remain in Greg's clutches.

Of course, he hadn't counted on Wilson being quite so obviously drunk.
Wilson leans to one side and they both sway, struggling to maintain some
sort of balance with only one good leg between them. "Okay, the cripple
should not be carrying your weight," he informs Wilson. Somehow they
manage to right themselves.

Cuddy sighs. "I should just fire you both."

"Tenure!" Greg cries with some urgency as Wilson begins to tip again.
Recognizing this for the cry for help it is, Cuddy rushes forward and
helps House ease Wilson onto a stool. She then retrieves House's cane, and
he makes a point of looking down her shirt in thanks.

"So, besides spoiling all my fun, what're you doing here?" he asks.

"Your welcome. I'm so glad I could be here to keep you from falling and
breaking your neck." She shakes her head. "Since you'll probably ferret it
out of someone, I might as well tell you. I was here to get Wilson for an
emergency board meeting. Not that he's in any condition to go." Here she
stops and glares at him again, as if to remind him whose fault that is.

His curiosity keeps him from trying to make her see reason. "Emergency
board meeting? About what?"

"The immediate dismissal of nosy doctors," she says offhand as she leans
down to inspect Wilson. She straightens up. "Put him in your office and
get him a banana bag. I want to see him in my office when he's sober. And
do it quietly. Your reputation is bad enough for the both of you, I don't
think he's needs his own." She turns to go.

"In the interest of time, shouldn't you tell me about that board meeting?
That way I'll be able to let him know as soon as he's in a condition to
understand." House endeavors to look serious.

Cuddy seems to consider it, looking at the ceiling as if weighing her
options. "No," she decides, "if that little scene I interrupted is any
indication, you'll have more fun making him tell you."

After Cuddy's gone, House turns to Wilson. "Hmm. Do you think she'd go in
for a threesome?"

"I like that you assume I would," Wilson replies.

"Wouldn't you?"

There's a pause. "That's not the point."

House allows himself a long-suffering sigh. "Come on, you floozy." He
reaches down and helps Wilson to his feet. "The things I do for you. Why
can't you hold your liquor?"

Wilson gets to his feet with a grunt and House helps him loop an arm
around his shoulders. For balance purposes only.

Except Wilson doesn't seem to know this, and he draws Greg's face close to
his own.

House balks at the intimacy. "This won't work," he says.

"Why not?" Wilson sounds frustrated.

"We're not even in a relationship yet and I've already driven you to
drink."

"When your best friend is a drug addict, these things tend to happen."
Wilson sighs, and there's a look in his eyes like House just killed his
puppy. "Please Greg? I'm not Cameron, you know. I don't have any
unrealistic expectations of saving you. Or even convincing you to shave.
Can't we just try? No commitments. Just...just give it a week."

House looks down, not sure he can look at those eyes and say no. Ironic,
he thinks to himself, that he was supposed to be the manipulative one. He
studies his sneakers, then Wilson's, then the space between them. He's
trying to think deep thoughts about the space between people when
something starts niggling at the back of his mind. There's something not
quite right about this...

"What's with those shoes?"

Wilson looks down at his shoes, then back up at House. "What's wrong with
my shoes?"

"They're sneakers! They're," he pauses to observe them more closely, "New
Balance Men's 715's." 

Wilson looks, too. "Yes. Yes they are. And you're very good at changing
the subject."

"You're wearing sneakers to work!" House reiterated. "My world is
collapsing around me and you want to talk about our relationship?"

"We..." Wilson waved his hand around vaguely. "After eight years of
friendship, we ended up making out in a laboratory. And you're talking
about my shoes?"

"'Making out?' What are you, fifteen?" House asks derisively.

James reaches out, clumsily grasping the back of Greg's neck and pulling
him closer. "You'd better hope not," he mumbles before crushing their
mouths together again.

And as he feels James' tongue trace his lips, Greg feels very thankful
that he's such an observant man. Because James Wilson is kissing him, and
he's going to savor every second of it.  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.