Chapter Text
It wasn’t the first time that Wilson wished House would just shut the hell up and let him get drunk, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He swallowed his cheap beer and tried not to think about going back to a lonely hotel room as House went on and on about monster trucks. The other doctor had to know that Wilson wasn’t listening, but that had never stopped him before. Finally though, something broke through the pleasant haze Wilson was trying to sink into.
"What?" he asked, turning his bleary gaze to his companion. For a second there were two surly diagnosticians sitting in the booth across from him. But then he blinked and there was only one House again. Thank God.
"I said: you need to get laid," House said, sliding the olive from his martini off of its little plastic sword with his teeth.
Wilson watched in drunken fascination. "And how have you come to that conclusion?" he asked. "Let me guess, the stain on my lapel tells you that I haven’t had sex in three months?"
House smirked, his eyes cast down at the scared table between them. "The stain on your lapel tells me you had a Reuben for lunch. You just told me you haven’t had sex in three months."
Wilson huffed out a laugh. "Yeah well, I don’t think another night is going to kill me."
"Why take the chance?" House asked, his attention already wandering to the TV across from the bar. Wilson squinted up at it. Some sort of sport was playing, but he couldn’t tell what. He only knew House to be interested in golf and volleyball though, and it wasn’t the type of venue to play either one. "The pretty blonde at the bar has been eyeing you for 20 minutes now. Either she’s interested in you, or she's also trying to figure out if your Reuben had pickles."
"You hate pickles," Wilson said, picking his head up long enough to glance over at the blonde. Oh wow. She was gorgeous. She was sitting at the bar, like House had said, talking to another woman. Her hair was clearly bleached - even in his intoxicated state Wilson could see the roots were coming in brown - but it fell in soft waves around her shoulders and he could almost picture himself running his fingers through it. His eyes trailed downward, ogling her perfect (and probably fake) breasts.
House snickered. "See something you like? She’s probably not a nurse but…" He trailed off.
With some effort, Wilson brought his attention back to his friend, taking another big gulp of his beer in the process. "She is beautiful," he conceded with a sigh.
House thwacked his hand down onto the table, hard enough to make Wilson jump a little. "So go woo her. Sweep her off her feet with that old Boy Wonder charm of yours."
Wilson laughed at that. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" he asked, tipping back the last of his beer. He wasn’t quite falling-over drunk, not yet anyway, but he also wasn’t all that confident in his abilities to pick up a beautiful stranger in his current state.
House apparently was. "Go over there and tell her your wife cheated on you. Chicks love to pity a guy."
Wilson huffed. "Has it really come to pity?" he asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.
House glared at him, his long fingers playing with the rim of his martini glass. "You’re 38 and just finalized your third divorce," House said. "I think you passed pity a few wives ago."
Wilson let his head fall into his arms. "I’m only 37," he mumbled. God, House was right. He was pathetic. He really thought he had it all figured out with Julie. He’d been trying so hard to be a good husband. Sure, he had cheated on Sam and Bonnie, but he’d been faithful to Julie. The third time was supposed to be the charm, right?
"That’s even worse," House said, downing the last of his drink. He tried to signal to the bartender to send another over, but the man just shook his head. House picked his cane up and waved it around. Wilson had to duck back to avoid being hit. "You wouldn’t make a cripple get up for his beer, would you?" he asked. Wilson couldn’t quite make out what the bartender said in return, but he was sure it wasn’t complimentary.
"I’ll get it,” Wilson said, working his way out of the booth. The maneuver wasn’t exactly smooth, but he ended upright, and that was what counted. The bar was only a few steps away, but it seemed longer as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He blinked up at the bright lights behind the bartop. Had he really had that much to drink? Or maybe House had slipped something in his beer… again. Wilson tried not to think about what it meant that he still regularly went out drinking with the man after having been dosed on more than one occasion.
Either way, Wilson couldn’t remember how he ended up sitting next to the pretty blonde. There was some kind of dark drink in his hand, and about half of it was gone. He smiled up at the woman. What was her name? Had she said? She was saying something…
"Oh you poor thing." Her fingers sent shivers up Wilson’s arm as they caressed the back of his hand. "How could anyone cheat on you?" she asked with a soft pout to her lips that Wilson wanted desperately to kiss. Instead he just shrugged. Even drunk he was self aware enough to know that this was nowhere near his usual level of charm. But still, something seemed to be working. The woman was clearly interested in him. House had been right, as usual.
"I’m…" Wilson took another swig of his drink. "I’m a doctor," he said, nodding confidently. As far as pick-up lines went, it wasn’t much, but more often than not it did the trick.
The woman laughed, but not unkindly. "Oh are you? That’s certainly interesting." Her fingers trailed their way up his arm. Wilson couldn’t decide if he’d rather watch their journey up his sleeve, or look at her kissable lips. What was her name?
"I’m James," he said, hoping she would return the introduction.
"I know," the blonde said instead, her teeth biting into her plump bottom lip.
Wilson could feel a hot flush creeping up the back of his neck. Had House dosed him? It was possible. Her teeth looked… off, somehow. He blinked.
"I like you James," she said, her fingernails scratching over the back of his hand in a way he didn’t know he liked until just then.
"I like you too," Wilson heard himself saying. He tried to wet his lips, but suddenly the woman was kissing him. He instinctively brought his arms up to wrap around her, doing his best to kiss back. "We should…" He pulled back a bit, his head reeling. He reached for the bartop to steady himself but only found soft white sheets. "Where…?" Wilson looked around. He was in a bed. It wasn’t his bed. His head swam. He certainly felt drugged.
"Oh James."
He looked up to see the hot blonde sitting up on his lap. The way the light caught in her hair made her look… otherworldly. He had to be dreaming, right? The lovely black dress she’d been wearing at the bar was nowhere to be seen. Wilson wanted to pinch himself.
"I’m so lonely James. Are you lonely too?" she asked, draping herself over him.
"Yes. So lonely,” Wilson said, running his hands over her smooth, pale back. He would have said anything just then. She kissed him again as her own hands found his belt, working to pull it out of the loops that held it prisoner. "Wait… I need…" Wilson shook his head, not knowing what he needed. Everything was happening so fast.
Luckily, the beautiful woman in his lap knew just what he wanted. She smiled, a green condom packet held between two pale, slender fingers. "I found this in your wallet," she said, biting at her lip again. "Shall I?"
Wilson nodded eagerly. He was ready, so ready for her. She slid the condom down his hard cock. Where had his pants gone? He held her as she sat up, kissing and nibbling at her neck. It was a move that all of his wives had appreciated and it seemed to be working on this beautiful stranger too. She moved onto him, sliding down with a soft sigh. Wilson held on tight and tried to think of the unsexiest thing he could. Insurance codes, eye exams, cafeteria food… If this was a dream, he wasn’t ready for it to end.
She was moving now, and Wilson did his best to move with her. He might have been an adulterer and a lech, but he was a generous lover, and all of his exes agreed he was great in bed. There was a reason he had convinced three different women to marry him, after all. Now, he did what he could to make sure that it was good for his partner as well. And when she started pulling his own moves on him, nibbling at his neck, he felt a swell of pride wash over him. Yeah, that’s what it was, pride.
Things were coming to a fast conclusion and Wilson tried to hold on to the blonde’s hips as she hung on to his shoulders. The nibbles on his neck were starting to feel more like love bites, but each one just seemed to wind him up more. He was babbling, he could hear himself, but couldn’t make out the words. Probably saying something soft and pathetic. God he hoped he wasn’t using the L-word. He didn’t even know this woman’s name!
Suddenly there was a sharp pain where she had been biting at him. Wilson swore loudly. Had she broken the skin? A condom wouldn’t do much to protect him against rabies. His worries were quickly overshadowed by a wave of pleasure unlike anything he had ever felt. He clung to her as he filled the condom, only dimly aware of her tightening around him. It seemed to last forever, and Wilson thought he could feel tears on his cheeks as they continued to rock, locked together in ecstasy. Some time later she cupped his face in her hands and brought his mouth to her own throat. Wilson could taste something warm and delicious against his lips. She told him to drink, and lost in pleasure, Wilson could only obey.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The first thing Wilson became aware of was a pounding sensation in his skull. It felt a little like someone was knocking to see if he was home. He hoped that he wasn’t. He made a concentrated effort to roll over onto his side, but his only reward was the heaving of his stomach. He managed to reach for the trash can just in time to not be sick all over the floor. Small miracle. Once he was sure he wasn’t going to retch again, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat up.
Wilson looked around. Cheap sheets, flimsy curtains, carpet with mysterious stains. He was in his old familiar hotel room. He’d been staying there since Julie had told him about her affair, minus a few uncomfortable nights on House’s couch. It was as close to home as he got these days. But how had he gotten there? He’d been… he’d been at the bar with House. Something about monster trucks? Wilson winced as the early morning sun spilled over him through the shitty curtains.
His eyes began to sting and water, and he had to squeeze them shut as he stumbled out of bed. That was okay though; the room spun less if he couldn't see it. He felt his way to the little en-suite without too much trouble because, let’s be honest, this wasn’t exactly the first time he’d had to do that. Once in the bathroom, he gambled on opening his eyes again. They felt much better in the cool darkness.
Wilson ran some water from the tap and splashed his face a few times. He didn’t like how pale his reflection looked. How much exactly had he had to drink the previous night? He washed his face and contemplated a shower. He was probably already late to work, if it was a workday. Had yesterday been a Friday or a Tuesday? He shook his head. Mistake. He clung to the countertop and waited for the bathroom to stop spinning. He hadn’t been quite this hungover since… Probably since that conference in New Orleans.
That made him think of House, and the thought of his friend made him smile. Hopefully the bastard was suffering as much as he was right now. After all, they’d been drinking together most of the night. Hadn’t they? Wilson remembered going to the bar to get more beers. He’d gotten himself a lager… but had he gotten a drink for House? He couldn’t remember. He glanced at himself in the mirror again, and that’s when he got a good look at his neck.
"Jesus," he croaked out, tilting his head away from his shoulder, trying to get a better look at himself in the streaky mirror. The whole side of his neck was purpled with tiny bruises, a large red one placed prominently in the center. He gingerly touched it, wincing at the small stab of pain it produced. There were two small nicks, almost like he’d cut himself shaving. He touched them, expecting to see blood on his fingers, but they came away dry. What had happened to him last night… What had… Who… Oh! The blonde stranger at the bar.
Images came rushing back to him. Bits and pieces of the night. He stood up a little straighter, a smile forming on his lips. Oh right... He’d gone home with a beautiful woman. She’d been nibbling on his neck, his trick. She must have bit down when she came. Wilson grinned at his reflection.
"You dog you," he said, more than a little smugly. He grabbed one of the mostly clean hotel towels from the rack and turned his attention over to that much needed shower.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Twenty-three year old female presenting with yellow skin, nausea and vomiting…"
"It’s jaundice," House said, not even looking over at Cameron as he cut her off. His whole attention was focused on the small tennis ball he was tossing from hand to hand.
"She had blood work and it came back negative for Hepatitis," Chase said, twirling a pen.
Cameron sat down, closing the patient’s folder and setting it down on the glass conference table.
Foreman just shook his head when she looked over at him for back-up.
"She doesn’t have Hepatitis, she has jaundice," House said, tossing the ball higher this time.
"You haven’t even looked at her file, how can you possibly know that?" Foreman asked, finally taking the bait.
"She’s twenty-three and nauseous. She’s not an alcoholic - Cameron wouldn’t be so eager for me to take her case. So she’s pregnant. But she doesn’t want to be. She probably read online somewhere that doubling up on your birth control pills works like Plan B. She took too many too late and overdosed. Give her activated charcoal and draw blood in an hour to check her bilirubin levels. And get her an appointment with Mason in...." House trailed off, his attention caught by an unusual sight in the hallway: Wilson passing by on his way to his own office, dark sunglasses perched on his nose and an unmistakable hickey peeking up over the collar of his white coat.
The ducklings looked at each other for a minute before getting up to do House’s bidding.
Cameron lingered for a moment at the open door, staring at House. "Mason in Immunology?" she asked.
House finally turned his attention to her. He grabbed his cane and stood up. "Mason in OB. The patient’s still pregnant," he said, pushing past her and limping his way after Wilson.
"Wilson!" he called out, only smirking a little bit as the other doctor visibly winced at the loud sound. "I can’t exactly run, you know," House said, hoping Wilson would slow down so that he could catch up.
Wilson sighed and did exactly that, stopping entirely to give House time to meet him. "Can you scream a little more quietly? Someone put nails in my coffee this morning," he said, hoping against all reason that House would take pity on him and not torture him over his hangover.
"Is that what put the extra pep in your step this morning?" House asked, finally matching stride with Wilson, who was moving surprisingly quickly for someone with his level of hangover.
"That was more of a who," Wilson replied with a grin, holding open the door to his office.
House made his way in and sat down, immediately putting his feet up on Wilson’s desk.
The oncologist found that he was too hungover to care as he crossed the small room to shut the blinds.
"So how was Ms. Nora?" House asked, picking up one of the magnetic tchotchkes on Wilson’s desk and fidgeting with it.
"Was that her name?" Wilson asked, dropping his briefcase on the floor and sliding into his office chair with a heavy sigh. Suddenly a realization dawned on him. He took his glasses off to better glare at House. "Did you hire her for me?" Wilson demanded. He didn't know whether he should be appalled or flattered.
House just rolled his eyes. "Do you think I'd waste my precious hooker money on your pathetic ass? I didn't pay her. I just talked you up when I got our first round of drinks. Why do you think she was staring at you all night?" House grinned at him. "I told you, I'm a great wingman. I picked the most beautiful woman in the bar for you."
Wilson scrubbed at his eyes, trying to rub the headache away. "Well, that explains how she knew my name," he said with a defeated sigh. At least now he knew hers as well. Nora. Maybe House had her contact information. Wilson looked up to ask and noticed that House was staring at him. Or more precisely, at his neck. "It's a hickey," he said, trying not to sound too defensive.
"Some hickey. Did you go to bed with Dracula?" House asked, looking up at Wilson's eyes.
The oncologist thought he felt himself blushing. "So she got a little carried away. Doesn't that speak to my skill as a lover?"
House scoffed. "More like your ability to bruise like a peach. When was the last time you had blood work done?"
Either Wilson was significantly more hung over than he thought, or House actually sounded worried. "That’s a weird way of asking me how I’m feeling. I'm not anemic, if that’s what you’re getting at," he said, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. "I'm just hungover."
"You're not anemic," House agreed. "If you were, your eyes wouldn't be so bloodshot."
Wilson rubbed at them again.
"That's only going to make it worse," House pointed out.
"Yeah, well, they hurt. Stupid light’s too bright in here."
House glanced up. The overhead light was off. And Wilson had drawn the curtains before he’d even sat down.
The oncologist reached for his sunglasses again and sighed as he slid them onto his face.
"Photosensitivity," House said.
"Yeah, I’m hungover," Wilson agreed. "How much did we drink, anyway? I don’t remember getting home."
House looked at his friend. "You don’t remember taking Nora home?" he asked, tilting his head just a bit to the side.
"No. I mean, yes. I mean, no." Wilson shook his head, this time only producing a slight wave of dizziness. "I remember Nora. I just… don’t remember how I got home afterwards. Or how I got to her place, come to think of it."
House smirked. "Jimmy, what will your mother think?"
Wilson laughed. "After three wives, I don’t know that she cares who I go home with anymore."
House dropped his feet to the floor and levered himself up. "Come on, I’m starving. You weren’t here to buy me breakfast."
Wilson groaned, just the thought of food enough to make his stomach turn. "You make almost as much money as I do, can’t you buy your own breakfast?" he asked, but he was getting up. As much as he didn’t like the idea of it, a little food would probably be good for him.
"Where’s the fun in that?" House asked, holding the door open for Wilson. He sighed and the two friends slowly made their way down to the cafeteria.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Together or separate?" the lady behind the counter asked as House pushed his tray in front of her. He’d loaded up on carbs and grease to counteract his own slight hangover; a burger with all the toppings (except for pickles), fries and two cookies.
"Together," Wilson mumbled, sliding along his own tray.
House noticed that he’d only grabbed one cookie and a cup of coffee. "You know the best way to fix a hangover…"
"Hair of the dog?" Wilson asked, handing over a few bills to the cafeteria lady and taking his and House’s trays. It really was difficult for the other man to carry a tray and a cane.
"I was gonna say carbs," House began, following Wilson over to their usual table, "but you know I’m always up for drinking on the job."
Wilson huffed out a laugh as he set their trays down. He was still feeling a bit dizzy, but he managed to get everything on the table without spilling. Even his coffee made it intact; a fact he appreciated greatly as he took his seat and started to sip. Normally he took his coffee with cream and sugar, but this morning he couldn’t be bothered. He wanted caffeine, and he wanted it now.
"Seriously, you should have more than coffee."
"I can’t eat right now," Wilson finally said, watching House tear into his burger with a pang of nausea.
House looked up at him, taking in the sunglasses and the pale skin. "You don’t look like you’re going to puke."
Wilson paused, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. "Thank you. I think?" Coming from House, that was practically a compliment.
"When you’re hungover you’re usually a little green. That indicates nausea. You’re not green, you’re just pale."
Wilson rolled his eyes and took another sip of coffee. The beverage usually worked wonders to wake him up, but today it just felt like hot lead sinking into his stomach. "I promise you, I’m hungover," Wilson said.
"But you’re not nauseous," House countered, taking a big bite of his burger.
The sight of the juices dripping down his lips twisted Wilson’s stomach. "Yes, I am," he said. "Why are we arguing about this?"
"Why are you lying about your symptoms?" House asked, wiping the burger juice off his face with Wilson’s napkin.
"They’re not symptoms… House, I had a lot to drink yesterday and I’m hungover now. What do you want from me?" Wilson put his coffee down, he couldn’t drink any more of it. He tipped the cookie off of his plate and onto House’s. "I’m too nauseous to eat anything. Have my cookie." He got up, taking his empty tray to bus.
House watched him leave the cafeteria. The diagnostician turned his attention back to his burger, but his mind was already ticking through a new puzzle.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"I thought you were sure that it was jaundice," Foreman said, as he took his usual seat in the conference room.
"I am. Didn’t the patient’s new labs confirm it?" House asked, only mildly interested. Jaundice wasn’t exactly the kind of problem that was likely to keep him up at night.
"They did," Chase said, making himself a cup of coffee.
Cameron scribbled notes in the patient’s chart. It was technically House’s job to chart, but it was also House’s job to open his own mail. Cameron was used to picking up the slack to make sure things actually got done in their department.
"So why are her symptoms still on the whiteboard?" Foreman asked.
Chase looked over at the board in question. ‘Nausea’ and ‘Pale skin’ were written across the top. "Those aren’t Steffanie’s symptoms," he said, taking his seat. "She’s not pale, she’s yellow."
"Now we know which one of you passed Kindergarten," House said sardonically. "This is clearly another patient."
Cameron looked up from the file she was working on and scanned the table. There weren’t any other folders. "We have a new patient?" she asked. True, she’d been expecting one since Steffanie’s case turned out to be such a quick one to solve, but usually Cuddy brought the file to one of them. The Dean of Medicine knew better than to give cases directly to House. He would just ignore them, or light them on fire. The files, not the patients. Probably.
"Not a new patient, more of a teaching exercise," House said, twirling his cane.
Foreman scoffed. "Cuddy got you lecturing again?"
"Nope," House said. The three fellows waited for him to elaborate, but only an awkward silence filled the conference room.
"Are you teaching us?" Cameron asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.
"Sure, let’s go with that," House said, tapping the tip of his cane against the whiteboard. "What could nausea and pale skin be indicative of?" he asked.
The three other doctors spit out diagnosis after diagnosis, each one shot down by House.
"Well without any labs or tests, we just don’t have enough information to make a diagnosis," Foreman finally said, giving up. He hated playing House’s little mind games.
"You’re right," House said, getting up. He was out of the room before Foreman could even process what he’d said.
"Wait, where are you going?" Chase asked.
"To get more information," House said without turning around.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Wilson had tried to see patients, he really had, but after his third chemo patient of the day had pointed out that he looked worse than her, he’d given up. He put his head down on his desk and resolved to pass the remainder of the time until five o’clock in exactly the same position. If he could sleep, all the better. He was just dozing off when the door to his office flew open.
"I was just on my way…" he began, but stopped when he saw that it was House, not Cuddy, who had barged in. "Oh, it’s you," he said, and put his head back down on his desk. It wasn’t the most comfortable place he’d ever taken a nap, but it also wasn’t the worst.
"Hello to you too," House said, taking a seat and making himself comfortable. He tried to put his feet up on the desk, but there wasn’t enough room with Wilson’s head taking up most of the blotter, so he settled for the other chair instead.
"I thought you were Cuddy," Wilson mumbled.
"Wrong cup size," House said, tapping his cane against the floor.
Wilson groaned. "Knock that off." He batted a hand in the general direction of the noise. "I’ve got a splitting headache and ibuprofen isn’t cutting it."
"Want a Vicodin?" House offered. He knew Wilson wouldn’t join him on the dark side, but the act of offering made him feel marginally better about himself as a person.
The head on the desk wobbled back and forth in approximation of a shake. "I took one an hour ago," Wilson said.
House stopped tapping his cane. "And you still have a headache?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
"This is the mother of all hangovers," Wilson agreed.
House resumed tapping his cane, but at a slightly slower pace in deference to Wilson's head. "It makes sense that the Vicodin wouldn't help. You've been taking it so long you've built up a tolerance. Oh wait, that's me."
Wilson groaned. "I'm really not in the mood, House."
"Because you're hungover," the other doctor drew the words out slowly.
"Yes. Don't you have patients to torture? Why are you bothering me?" Wilson asked without looking up.
"I'm not hungover," House pointed out, bringing his cane up to his lap and inspecting the tip.
"Good for you," Wilson grumbled. If a hole could just open up in the floor and swallow House, that would be great. Or him. Either way.
"We were drinking together," House pointed out.
"You're an addict. You just said it yourself, you have a higher tolerance than me."
"Vicodin works on a completely different…"
Wilson cut him off, "I must have had more to drink at Nora's place, then. I don't remember. Why does it matter? If you want to gloat can you at least do it quietly?" House loved to play mind games, and normally Wilson was a good sport about it, but today he just wanted to crawl into a nice quiet grave and sleep for an eternity.
"You're sick," House said evenly.
"No, I’m hungover. What, do you think I have an STD or something? It wouldn't work that quickly. Besides, I used protection."
"Yeah, good thing someone put a condom in your wallet."
That was enough to make Wilson pick his head up and glare at his erstwhile friend. "Seriously?"
House just smirked.
Wilson glanced at the clock. Five. Thank God. "I’m going home. I’m gonna take another hot shower and then I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know if your jaundice patient turns any other interesting colors."
"Yeah…" House said, letting his feet fall to the floor as Wilson got up. He pushed himself out of the chair and hobbled down the hall to his own office. His fellows were gone for the day, but House wasn’t ready to leave. Not just yet. He set his cane down against the table and limped over to the whiteboard, picking up a marker. He added ‘Headache’ to the list of symptoms he was pondering. He let the marker drop and sunk into a chair, picking up his cane and beginning to tap it against the floor again.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Wilson shut the hotel room door behind him and heaved a sigh of relief. He still felt like crap, but at least the day was over. No more patients, no more House needling him about his hangover. He figured the man would be gloating about getting Wilson laid, not pestering him about how nauseated he was. He dropped his keycard onto the dresser and toed off his shoes.
He shrugged out of his white coat and crossed the room to the small bed, sitting down on the edge with a loud "oof". He brought a hand up to loosen his tie. As he did, he glanced down at his wrist. The skin there was paler than usual. His veins looked more prominent. He wasn’t anemic, but…
"Maybe House was right, maybe I am coming down with something," he mused out loud. He tossed his tie on the floor and let himself fall back onto the bed, closing his eyes against the still bright rays of the setting sun. He really needed to find some thicker curtains. Or even better, an apartment. He couldn’t stay in the hotel forever, as tempting as that was at the moment.
He put his arm over his eyes to block out the light and let his mind wander for a while. Soon he’d get up and take that shower, and maybe even try to get some food into his stomach before bed. He really should eat something… He drifted… and finally, he slept…
Wilson woke up feeling marginally better. The headache was still there, brooding just behind his eyes, but it was tolerable at least. The nausea was a little better too. Even if the thought of breakfast still made his stomach turn, Wilson thought he could probably get some coffee down. He groaned as he got out of bed, feeling rumpled and gross from having slept in his clothing. He stood up and stretched.
It was still dark out, which was good. It meant that he hadn’t slept through his alarm. He’d be at work on time today. He undressed and went to the bathroom to take a shower. Feeling squeaky clean about twenty minutes later, Wilson dressed himself and toweled off his hair. He probably had time to blow dry it. House had teased him mercilessly about that habit when he’d stayed over for a few days, but taking the time to make himself presentable was worth it.
He grabbed his watch from the dresser and put it on. He’d forgotten all about it the previous day. As he fastened the clasp he glanced at the face. Wilson frowned. That couldn’t be right. He looked out the window. Still dark. He looked back at his watch. It read 3:25am. He looked back at the window. Pitch black. He felt wide awake.
"Huh…"