Gregory House wonders what he’s doing, stepping into the dubious establishment almost disdainfully. There music’s far too loud for his tastes and there’s already a crowd gathering – he hates crowds. He finds the cause of his little misadventure slumped on the bar. He hasn’t seen James Wilson since the symposium they met in, thirteen months ago, but he’d recognize the man anywhere. He doesn’t know why, since House generally hates people on principle alone, but he and Wilson hit on something vaguely resembling camaraderie since the very start.

It might have something to do with the fact the man has actually functional brain cells between his ears, but House can’t be sure.

“Hey there, Jimmy,” House pats the broad back almost amicably, sliding into the stool next to Wilson’s easily, “you look like shit.”

“It’s nice to see you too,” and Wilson sneers lightly, reminding House why he likes the man; he’s refreshing, “thanks for coming.”

Wilson does look like shit, wearing two days old stubble that suits the nephrologist better than him, and slumping around in a crumpled suit. It’s unlike perfect, immaculate James Wilson to present himself in public in that fashion and House finds himself wondering and trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s an empty mug in front of the oncologist, not his first by the sight of things, causing a thousand possible scenarios to filter through House’s hyperactive mind.

“What, and miss a chance to get pissed with Canada’s greatest oncologist?” He grins, honestly amused as he waves over at the girl behind the counter, noticing the low cut of her blouse with a side glance, “So what’s up, should I have brought a shovel?”

“Nah,” Wilson shrugs, smiling a very fake smile that has House wondering, “Just wanted to talk with someone.”

“Hm.”

House has been living in Princeton for a while – next autumn it’ll be a whole two years since he started working at the teaching hospital – and he’s come to the conclusion nothing ever happens in this little town, if he doesn’t instigate it personally. Stacy’s been away for two weeks and will be gone for three more, taking a course in England that keeps her away from House’s life and the pathetic boredom that’s very slowly driving him insane. Having Wilson around is a pleasant surprise, an anomaly to his routine that adds a new edge to the situation.

Gregory House practically lives for anomalies.

They drink in silence for a time, Wilson staring impassively at the bar while House runs his critic eye over the crowd of loud, obscenely cheerful people moving around the small bar. He amuses himself by adding a little mental tag to each exaggerated grinning face, such as ‘cheater’, ‘cheated’ and ‘desperate’, but his entertainment is cut short when Wilson decides he actually meant to talk to House, rather than simply drink himself silly sitting next to him.

“House?” He looks up with wide, strangely sober eyes and House finds himself Hm-ing in reply; Wilson smiles wryly, “I think I left my wife.”

O-Kay, House blinks for a moment, raising his eyebrows curiously. Yet another anomaly to add to Wilson’s growing list. He’s certainly far more interesting than House had first thought, which means House will have to find a way to investigate more about this skillful con-artist that goes by the name of Jimmy Wilson.

“You think?”

“Yeah,” Wilson chuckles lightly, seemingly catching a joke House’s oblivious to, “Told her I wanted to go out for a drink and… well, here I am.”

House blinks again.

“Wilson, you live in Canada.”

“Yeah.”

Brow furrowed, House tips his glass back and looks thoughtfully at the miserable man at his right. People don’t usually come crying to House when shit his the fan, unless they’re dying and their own doctor is too damn stupid to figure it out on their own. Unknown illness from hell that’s slowly eating whatever remains of their brains? Sure, Greg House is just the man for the job. Abandoned wife in another country? Um, no, not so much. Well, this is an anomaly, of course, so House figures he can deal with it. If anything, it will be entertaining – more so than Cuddy demanding him to pick a case from the list of rejected absurdities she considers ‘medical enigmas’ but which a five year old should have been able to solve.

House grins and lets his mug on the bar, figuring this is as good as he’ll get until Stacy gets back from whatever little brainwashing program she’s undergoing.

“So, got somewhere to stay tonight?”

*~*~*

House’s apartment is messy, but it feels strangely welcoming as both men stumble inside, laughing at some inane, rather crude inside joke regarding blondes and colon cancer. Wilson knows he’s drunk beyond recognition when he can laugh about something so serious, but maybe it’s only because House makes irreverence so damn funny.

They drink some more, laugh some more and catch a really old rerun of Twilight Zone which they comment gleefully, tearing down each dialogue with snark and thinly veiled references to the stuck up asshole that had attempted to throw House out of the symposium little more than a year ago. The occasional e-mail between them comes up after a while, as does Wilson’s strange need to come to House, rather than his own family or someone else.

“’S ‘cause you’re my friend,” The oncologist informs him, leaning over to attempt to knock shoulders with him and only succeeding in landing his head on House’s lap.

House, for some reason, finds the whole thing hilarious and laughs, throwing his head back and patting Jimmy’s hiccupping chest as he does so.

“Don’t have much of those,” House replies between chuckles, shaking his head in amusement.

“Many,” Comes the correction from his lap, as Jimmy closes his eyes and breaths in the scent of House, “It’s many, not much.”

“Aw, fuck off,” House shoves him irritably, “I’m drunk, leave my tongue alone.”

Wilson laughs and turns around to face House, who’s also laughing, because hey, they’re drunk and everything’s funny by now.

“It’s a pretty tongue.”

And then they’re kissing, though Wilson doesn’t know why, since he’s supposed to be mourning the fact his marriage has gone to hell, and House doesn’t know either, since he’s supposed to be waiting for Stacy to come back and he’s not really the cheating type. But Wilson kisses just good enough to forget he’s a man, sloppy and drunk, and they both think ‘to hell with it’ at the same time.

When House’s fingers dig into his skin, Wilson takes an almost-sober moment to try and figure out how he ended up lying on that absurdly uncomfortable couch, staring up at the bluest eyes he’s ever seen and being fucked by a man he hasn’t seen in ages. Surely writing emails to each other every once in a while doesn’t amount to this much, but then House twists his hips just the right way and Wilson forgets about his wife, emails, friendship and just feels.

Afterwards, he's trembling, staring up at House with a mix of surprise, want and just the tiniest bit of fuzzy contentment. The remote is digging painfully between his shoulder blades, but then again, he's far too sated to move. Or care.

He’s still drunk off his ass, too.

*~*~*

 
He wakes up about four hours later, when the cold buries its clawy fingers deep between his bones. Still sleepy, he wakes up fully when he finds House's responsible for the weight trying his lungs' ability to breathe. He panics for a moment, no longer drunk and complacent, as he feels all those pleasant pains and aches settle back within him.

He's tempted to slid from under House and hightail out of the apartment and back into his own lonely bed before he catches sight of the peaceful, untroubled expression in his best friend's - they're friends, Wilson realizes, marveling the alien fact with a certain awed reverence, and no amount of fucking, literal or otherwise, is going to change that - face.

Wilson pauses, considers the situation briefly, then reaches around the floor until he finds his jacket and throws it up against House's back, snuggling closer to the source of warmth.

They'll figure out things in the morning... maybe then he won't be hoarse and sore, either.