The white circle glares at him accusingly from the corner of his desk. The curves of the figure eight vaguely resemble eyes if he squints and stares hard enough. And he is staring plenty, his feet propped up on his desk, fingers toying with the smooth, curved top of his cane. His lip tastes vaguely of coffee, and it's kind of disgusting as hours-old coffee aftertaste tends to be, but he doesn't stop chewing at it because it's something to do, after all.
Because he certainly isn't doing anything, sitting in his darkened office an hour after his trio of trainees have gone home for the night, eyes boring a hole into his throwback to the 80s sitting on his desk. He isn't having a staring contest with an inanimate object. Isn't chewing a hole in his lip. Isn't thinking about the patient that isn't warming a spot in the morgue downstairs because he doesn't have any body heat to warm anything anymore.
So he isn't doing anything at all when Wilson comes in, clears his throat, waits for House to acknowledge him. Which he doesn't do, of course, because he isn't doing anything, including acknowledging the presence of his best friend.
"House, are you going to sit there all night?"
The voice cuts through the silence, and the sudden noise is abrasive to House who was enjoying the brooding silence. Not that he was brooding. When House doesn't answer him, Wilson lets out a quiet little sigh, the sort where he's trying to sound exasperated with House but secretly he's not all that upset at all. House has gotten good at that through the years, picking out Wilson's different sighs. In fact, his ability to discern Wilson's mood from the tone of his exhalation increased proportionally with his ability to elicit those sounds from this man who has been a semi-permanent presence in his life.
Sounds of movement in the room, the soft sounds of shoes sliding slightly over carpet, and the muffled ruffling noise of a chair being pulled up to his desk. Still, he doesn't turn to look at Wilson because that damned ball is still staring at him, and his eyes are fixed, and his head is quite comfortable where it is, and he's isn't afraid at all that if he looks, he'd get that odd feeling somewhere between his groin and his stomach that he got when Wilson showed up at his door that night.
"Well, are you?" he finally asks again, elbows leaning on House's desk now. His eyes haven't moved, but the elbows of the other man's suit are in his peripheral vision now.
"Quiet," House finally mutters into the darkness. It felt strange to push his words out into the air of the room, strange only because he hadn't said anything since he muttered something vaguely witty to his team after his patient bit the dust. That was at least two hours ago. At least two hours and maybe his back is getting a little sore from not moving. But right now he isn't do anything at all. "Don't distract me. I've got that eight—any minute now, it'll blink."
The sound of a back hitting a chair, and House can just picture Wilson, his eyes slightly rolled back and a quirk to his mouth, and any second now—yes, there it is, that scoffing sound from somewhere in his throat. So predictable. So Wilson. Because he's had plenty of time to study Wilson, to watch him and learn his movements. Because Wilson is there and always will be.
"Are you high?" The question is light and incredulous, but House isn't entirely sure that there isn't some genuine sentiment of curiosity lurking behind it.
There are Vicodin pills in his pocket. He can feel the weight of the bottle pulling gently at his frame as the jacket hangs in the air under the arm of the chair. His fingers that rest lightly atop the desk twitch gently. The smooth, cool plastic in his fingers, the long, hard white pills. His mind turns the thought over and over. Dammit, he wasn't doing anything.
He sits up now, swinging his legs from the desk, dragging his cane over to rest it against the desk. Swiveling his eyes to Wilson, he glares at him, his hand dipping into his pocket and curling around the bottle. "And I was winning too."
Wilson rolls his eyes and House turns his eyes away, pulling the bottle from his pocket, pushing with his thumb until the top pops off and clatters onto his desk. He knocks out a pill into his hand and tosses it into the air, not thinking about how Wilson's eyes glimmer when he laughs or how his voice lilts in that certain way. Not thinking about anything at all as he catches the pill in his mouth and dry swallows.
"It wasn't your fault."
It's a serious statement, sudden and unwelcome in the friendly atmosphere. The room weighs the words carefully on the air for a few moments before it lets House have them to turn over in his mind. But he doesn't because he isn't thinking about the patient, just like he isn't bothered by the fact that the guy's two kids are under the age of ten. It's amazing how much House is capable of not doing, really, as he finds the top of the pill bottle and rolls it between his fingers, riding the rough edges.
Wilson's eyes follow House's fingers. He doesn't feel it, not really, more like he knows that he's doing it because there's nothing else in the room for Wilson to be doing. And why can't he be okay with that? House isn't doing anything. Nothing at all.
And then Wilson isn't doing anything, just sitting back and watching House, and that's okay because that's familiar. Wilson does that, when House isn't doing anything, and Wilson is there. It's comfortable, normal. Calming, but House doesn't need to be calmed. First of all, he isn't worked up. Second of all, he has several white capsules that serve to do that quite beautifully. And House doesn't like to think about how nice it is that Wilson really is doing it because that, that's a new thing. That isn't so familiar. Just like that odd tingling feeling isn't familiar.
He shifts in his chair, leans back, relaxes his arm on the desk, uncomfortable but his posture is relaxed because House is never uncomfortable. Stealing a glance at Wilson, he finds that his eyes are still on House's hand, fingers toying with the white top, and he's watching intently as his long fingers slide over the plastic, follow the curves, turn it in his grasp. He doesn't think about what that implies because that's just wrong. That's not right to have those thoughts about your best friend. Even if Wilson is always there. Even if Wilson fills the loneliness better than others. Even if those pancakes he makes seem to be straight from Heaven. Not that thinking is ever really involved when that stirring happens in his pants.
Shit.
He has to move again, and he thinks of anything and everything that is most certainly not Wilson because why should he think of Wilson? As he turns in his chair, their eyes catch.
There aren't unspoken words in Wilson's eyes, just like there aren't unspoken ones in his. There isn't an almost palpable charge in the air, a twist in the chemistry of the room. His breath doesn't catch in his chest, nor does his heart beat a little faster. Wilson's hand isn't reaching across the desk, and his fingers aren't sliding into his. House is absolutely certain of that. This all isn't happening because it's some sort of dream that he'll say he didn't have later.
Abruptly he stands up, his hand tearing itself away from Wilson's. House doesn't see Wilson as much as hear it as his head falls and he again slumps against his chair. His hand tightens around his cane as he walks across the room, sliding his jacket over his arm. He stops, still on his feet, the cool, smooth cane in his hand and the cool, smooth leather against his arm. That's one smell he's never been able to get enough off, the scent of leather as it rolls into his nose, warm and sharp. His teeth work his lip again. There'll be a piece missing in the morning, he's sure, but his teeth gnaw anyway.
He didn't tell his mouth to move, he really didn't, but it does anyway.
"You coming over tonight?"
The question comes from nowhere. It bounces into the room, awkward and sudden and strange and full of that strange charge. Wilson's reply is hesitant, their words unsure of what to do when they meet in the air between them.
"Sure. Order a pizza?"
The question is light. House isn't hungry.
"Sure."
There isn't any of the usual conversation as they walk down the hallway, House's staggered gait keeping up with Wilson's steady walk, the walk of doctors, self-important and hurried because their job is important. Their job is to save lives. House isn't thinking about what the hell it is he's doing there if he isn't saving lives as they walk onto the elevator and stand, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling.
House isn't thinking as he walks up to his bike automatically when the elevator comes to a stop in the parking garage.
"What about my car?" Wilson asks suddenly. House stops and turns to find Wilson standing, unsure, by the elevator. One gust of wind might knock him over. House is tempted to try it, to lean over and blow gently and see if he can manage to make Wilson fall, make his knees buckle. House is sure he could do it, but he doesn't want to see what Wilson's face would look like as he falls.
House gestures to the bike nonchalantly, waving his hand over it. "You would pick that boring suburbanite car over this sexy piece of machinery?" he asks, and it's a normal sentence for House, and it tastes good in his mouth, feels good in the air. It relaxes Wilson, not that he should be worked up, not that there are silent questions being asked as Wilson walks over, a smile on his face, and takes the helmet House is pushing into his hands.
Sliding his cane into place, he slings a leg over the bike, starts it up, the sudden hum filling and echoing and sliding around the walls of the garage, and waits for Wilson to get on behind him. His hands rest comfortably on the handlebars as he feels stomach brush against his back, and then Wilson's chest is pressing lightly against his back as he settles onto the bike, and his breath halts in its usual pattern as Wilson's hands come to rest on House's hips, squeezing gently.
"You'll fall off," House points out plainly, loudly over the hum of the bike, blunt like he always is and not at all curious, anxious, confused. Wilson scoots closer, and suddenly they're front to back and there's no space between them as Wilson's arms wrap around his waist.
But House isn't thinking about that he leans forward and drives away, the wind pushing at him and running over him. The cool air would be enough to smooth away any troubles, but he drives on, not worrying about it, only following the road to his apartment, ignoring the fact that he's rock hard against his bike and there's a warmth shoved against his back that isn't a cell phone or a pager. Bikes vibrate. Ask any teenage boy and he'll tell you that'll make that happen. Not worth thinking about.
Neither is the fact that once they stop in front of his apartment, and Wilson pulls his helmet off, there is hot breath against his neck, ghosting his ear. But then Wilson is getting up and House is too, favoring his leg until he can retrieve his cane. They don't look at each other as they go into the building. They don't have to because they know each other, have known each other for a long time, and when you've known someone for that long, you don't have to look at them to know what they're thinking.
Especially when you can feel it in the way the air is thick around you, so tight that you can't breathe and your blood feels alive in your veins.
House shoves the key in the lock and turns, pulling the door open, stepping inside. Wilson is behind him and he isn't thinking as he waits for the sound of the door to shut, isn't thinking as he turns and backs Wilson up against it, his eyes boring into the other man's, asking, waiting, telling.
There is no sound outside of their breathing, and Wilson's breath is warm and he can feel it against his neck as they stare at each other, chests close enough that he can feel Wilson's heat rolling off him and through his shirt. They don't touch, and House isn't thinking about touching him, about taking his fingers and tracing the edge of the collar bone outlined against Wilson's shirt. He isn't thinking about it but his fingers are doing it, and Wilson's hand slides up his other arm, and they're staring at each other but House's stomach isn't jittering.
And then Wilson's breath hitches, and something stirs in House's mind, and he thinks about it, shifting on his feet. He leans onto his cane, eyes digging into Wilson's, questioning, waiting. He waits until Wilson's eyes tell him.
Then he's leaning in and he isn't thinking about how Wilson's lips kind of taste like his do, like stale coffee, and he isn't thinking about his sore leg as he drops his cane and shifts his weight again, hands sliding onto Wilson's hips. He isn't thinking about anything as their lips slide against each other, tentative, quiet, slow, and then as their bodies edge closer and suddenly their hips are shoved against each other and he's grinding against Wilson, their lips get insistent and possessive and hungry.
They don't move from that position, Wilson sprawled against the door, House keeping him there with his hips and hands, until their kiss naturally dies off, both of them breathing raggedly. Wilson's breath is heavy and erratic, and his eyes are dark and House is wondering just how dark he can make those eyes when he realizes he isn't listening to what Wilson is saying.
"What are you doing, House?"
He shouldn't find it amusing, but his mouth turns up at the corners and he leans in to dust a kiss against Wilson's lips, mouth, neck, his stubble grating gently against the other man's skin and he can hear Wilson's breath hitch deliciously as he leans up to his ear. He thinks that maybe he hasn't dissected all of Wilson's sighs as he whispers into his ear, "I'm not doing anything, Jimmy."
It isn't until an hour later when they are tangled up on the bed, sheets sticking to them and the sweat that coats their bodies, and their hearts start to calm down that House really isn't doing anything except watching Jimmy sleep, and even then he isn't thinking. Because he doesn't need to think because this is familiar. And even if it's not really, not yet, that's okay, House thinks, because he has plenty of time to make it familiar. Wilson is always there, after all. Always has been.