James Wilson was snoring. He could hear it and feel it. He rolled over on his side and snuggled deeper into the soft, rumpled sheets, feeling sunlight wash warm across his face as he drowsed idly, wondering if he should hit the snooze alert on his phone once or twice. Twice, judging from the pounding in his head. He snorted and buried his face deeper into his pillow.

"I'm thirsty." The voice was dry, cranky, hideously familiar. "I'm thirsty and the girl is gone. I suspect the $500 in my wallet has gone with her."

Maybe if he ignored it, the voice would go away.

"My mouth tastes like an animal died in it. And I have a headache. That's your fault. If you were just a cheaper date I wouldn't have a hangover. And you snore. But I already knew that."

There were theories that House was living proof of demonic entities' existence on earth. When he smiled Wilson was inclined to believe those theories. And House WAS smiling. He could hear it in that rasping voice.

"Your bed is too wide."

Wilson groaned and tried to huddle into his pillow and hide. "House, why are you talking to me?"

"Because you suck at mind reading." The rubber tip of House's cane jabbed him. He knew it was the tip of the cane because he'd felt that jab before but it was a real toss up as to whether it was the cane or the words that put that nasty little thrill of nausea through his gut. Or maybe it was just the hangover that was also making his head pound but if it was that then he was afflicted by a hangover AND House. And it would mean that House was in his bed. Which would mean there was no god and he had to become an atheist because God could never be that cruel or else it meant that fate was real and out to get him, or maybe that reincarnation was real and he'd been a total asshole in his last life.

House's cane jabbed him again. "I'm still thirsty. Why are you just lying there?"

Denying that House was there was useless. He turned his head and cracked one eyelid open, trying to take it slowly, trying not to suffer the shock all at once. Several blinks didn't clarify what he saw, never mind what he felt. Wilson continued to blink, pulling the thoughts into his muddled head, knowing that when they finally made sense...they still wouldn't really make sense. He could settle for panic, but one blink later (time saver) he decided to leave the opening completely in House's arena. House was going to end up on top anyway. He always did.

On the other side of the bed the scratchy-bearded, red-eyed, but self-satisfied entity from hell poked a cane again. "I'm thirsty. And crippled. Get me water. Or better yet, a Bloody Mary."

"Get it yourself." It was a start. He had to try to assert at least. He owed it to the memory of his dead girl friend, not to mention his live self that really didn't want to think about what it meant that House was lying there, naked, in Wilson's bed, scratching himself in lewd regions and asking for a drink. "What do you think I am, House? A chamber maid?"

"No. I think you're able bodied. And on the side of the bed by the door. Now go get me a drink."

There was no way he was budging. On top of which, "And why ARE you in my bed, House? On top of that you stink! My BED stinks like . . . " His eyes slowly widened as he shifted. And considered exactly what his bed DID stink like. Oh, hell no. This was not happening.

House smirked evilly. As if he had any OTHER kind of expression. "That's right. You got laid and you're going to be buying me groceries for the next week because that hooker had enough experience to have cleaned out every penny. Of course, you buy all my food anyway so it'll be just like usual and you won't even notice the difference. Now go get me a drink."

Hooker. Right. Of course. Wilson tried to exhale, but something wasn't letting him. Perhaps it was the hopeless fight he'd just decided to throw. "Sure. Wanna reach over there and hand me my pants?" He tried to stay calm.

The red eyed demon hooked a pair of pants with the cane and dangled them over the bed. "Reach. It'll make it easier to get the rest of the way up. Besides, why do you think you NEED them? Has the neighbor been using that telescope again? We should send her a bill. It's not like I haven't seen what you've got. You put on a hell of a show last night. Several times. It has been a while for you, hasn't it? You can thank me after you get me my drink. And while you're up, maybe something to eat."

He was up. Lots of things were up. Wilson clasped the blanket around his waist and sat forward, quickly snatching at the pants. They fell into his lap heavily. He fumbled for the wallet, and found it was as fat as when he'd left it. "I'm not your bitch. There's a phone, call out for pizza or something."

The tall, gangly demon snorted noisily. "You have amnesia if you think you're not my bitch. And if this were a hotel and they had room service I would call out. But we're in your house, and in your house, you're the closest thing to room service I have. Quit stalling, I won't insult your manhood. Morning shrinkage is normal. Besides, it's pretty clear you've got a grow-er, not a show-er. Nothing to be ashamed of, though I can set you up with a good cosmetic surgeon if it bothers you that much. I bet Taub would even give you a break on the price."

"Screw you." Events were slowly tumbling into his head. A brunette. Leggy. Lots of drink...too much drink. His head pounded. "Get your own damn drink, and take a shower, for god's sake. And let me figure out what the hell just happened. "And get out of my bed!"

"Not what you said last night." House sat up with a smooth flex of flat, hairy abdominals and shoved his bad leg out of bed, following with the good one. "Come on Wilson. You know you have a soft spot for cripples. I'm thirsty and hungry and I paid for the hooker."

Brunette....leggy....and pissed. What the heck? What had happened to piss her off?

"House...I don't think I was even here last night. I think I had some sort of delusional episode. A fugue state...my god, were you singing?"

"If I knew you'd be this cranky in the morning I wouldn't have hired Mandy for the night. Some people just don't appreciate a truly gifted performance artist. If you weren't here in spirit I can guarantee you were in body." House leered suggestively. "She charged me triple rate for that."

Wilson raised his hands slowly. "Okay...in the spirit of SANITY, please tell me what just happened. And while you're at it...check your wallet."

"...said double dates were triple rates."

"You drugged me, didn't you? This is a con. You set me up!"

House limped over, flipped open the wallet with a single finger then theatrically held it up, open and empty. "I didn't HAVE to drug you, Wilson. You were two sheets to the wind. I just invited a friend and you put up the last sail all on your own."

Shit. Shit shit shit. Wilson dragged his hand through his hair. "There's no way. Tell me...just tell me you walked in on it. Tell me you weren't here the whole time."

"Don't blame me if you have no self control. Personally, though, if I'd been through a dry spell that long . . ." House whistled and looked impressed. "Five times. I usually don't see that in a man your age unless they're seeing blue."

"Oh god. You were. You were here the whole time."

House's lips stretched into a wide, amused smirk. "It's a little late for performance anxiety. Your horse stormed a couple barn doors last night. In fact Mandy said she thought only sailors did that."

Wilson swallowed hard. "Do -- I even want to know what you were doing while I was -- doing that?"

"I was playing doctor, of course! And then you were and then I was and then I lost count. But . . ." House stretched luxuriously and licked his lips with a gesture he usually save for Thirteen.

"Oh god." Wilson buried his face in his hands. "I need to have a stroke. Or maybe a nice aortic dissection. Right now."

"Wilson, I brought home that very talented and gifted young woman and her two friends . . ." House put his hands suggestively in front of his chest, waving his cane. "What makes you think I would NOT want to get value for my $500 dollars? The question now is do you want to get me breakfast so you can shower in peace or do you want me to call Cuddy and tell her you need a hangover day to recover from strippers and fun?"

Wilson pointed at House, words stuck on his tongue. "We were in bed together. You and me. In the same bed. We shared a bed."

"And a HOOKER!" House smiled brightly. "Does this mean you're going to give me $250?"

"NO!" Wilson gaped. "I AGREED to this?"

House deftly cane-hooked a pair of jeans and a shirt, waggled his brows and hobbled out, leaning heavily on his cane and singing "Up the Slimy Slew" in an enthusiastic and tuneful voice. Then peeked back around the door jamb. "So does this mean we're going steady now?" He ducked back, chortling evilly, shuffling away down the hall.

Wilson shook his head. "Well I assume I'm not the only one that got my rocks off. Unless you enjoyed being a voyeur," he yelled out. House was a dead man.

Wilson eyed the sheets and trembled. His sheets. No doubt filled with...oh god. Wilson jolted backwards. "Oh...god! Aw, that just. . ." he raised his fists over his head, then quickly ran his hands over his torso. "Aw. . .House spunk. . .that's just. . ." he needed a shower. Disinfectant. Decontamination. He could go to work and not tell anyone. . .he could get some phenol. . .

A tube of lube slapped against the door frame, clearly lobbed down the hall. House caroled out, "Will you wash my back in the shower, Wilson? After all, you're the who put the scratches on it. And is that a bite on my ass?"

That was it. A godless world could not explain such evil. Satan was real. Wilson flopped miserably back onto his House-stinky bed and accepted it.

The Devil was in the House.