A/N: Set after "Birthmarks". House and Wilson find their way of officially apologizing. Dedicated to the maestro behind my muse tonight. R&R!
DISCLAIMER: I'm not David Shore. I'm really not.
The Modern Apology
The bourbon and Vicodin bottle befriended one another in the middle of the coffee table. Unusual though, that the liquor lay still at the rim of the glass, and the pills crowded at their handled capacity. Gregory House was ignoring his 'friends' tonight. Instead, his hands caressed the white and black of the piano keys. No particular hand position was set, and no music lay in front of him. He slowly danced his fingers across the keys, striking ones at random. It was as if he was attempting to find a certain note, a phantom key.
Which note, when pressed, resonated within the apartment? Which note was willingly going to volunteer to spring up and dance with the familiar feeling of loneliness?
A knock on the door (was this the note?).
House produced a dissonance as he banged several keys in frustration.
"Unless you're that hooker I paid for last Tuesday, I'm not opening my door," he called out in his ever-sarcastic tone.
"It's me," a voice lowly said. The same voice that dragged him to attend a funeral for a man he gave two shits about. The same voice that walked out of their friendship and through the exit doors of Princeton Plainsboro. House got up from the bench. He limped to the coffee table and snatched the liquor and Vicodin. Sitting back down with his guardians, he answered the voice.
"Use your key, I'm not getting up," he said.
Within a few moments, James Wilson walked through the threshold of apartment 221B. Boy wonder oncologist. He didn't look good. His once-eager brown eyes were now practically drained of life. And the hair. The once gelled back professional hair now looked like the hair of what House surmised a wandering extra from the Twister set would look like. Wilson finally looked like a real doctor.
He stood in the middle of the living room, between the couch and the piano, perching his hands on his hips as always.
"Thought maybe you wanted to go grab some Chinese," Wilson suggested.
House couldn't help but stare at Wilson for a few moments. Wilson was that needy dog that would always come back for more, no matter how many times you'd spray it with hose water.
"Thanks mom. But it's ten o clock on a school night," House replied. Wilson shuffled his feet and readjusted his hands on his hips. It was obvious that the invitation rejection, after mending the 'broken' friendship, seemed to hurt him.
"That's fine. We could just watch that John Corigliano live orchestra DVD you bought. I never got the chance to listen to his music," Wilson offered. House downed two Vicodin with the bourbon.
"Can't. The pills, they make me hazy. Don't want to fall asleep in your arms, do I Jimmy? I know that Brokeback Mountain deeply moved your outlook on what-"
"Hey!" Wilson suddenly interrupted, his eyebrows stitched together in a crease. His eyes were fixed on House, who hid behind the piano. House sighed, knowing his sarcasm could only go so far.
"What's going on? I thought we were okay?" Wilson said in a more annoyed tone.
"You thought we were okay," House muttered.
"We mutually apologized the modern way," Wilson said.
"The modern way of apologizing to someone is breaking a stain-glass window during a funeral?"
Wilson sighed, and sat down on the couch.
"I don't know what modern is anymore," he muttered. House blinked and listened more. Wilson chuckled and continued. "I've been hiding from this world for so long, that I've…lost my grip on what's truly right."
There was a silence in the air. Silences weren't necessarily bad when it came to House and Wilson. It simply meant a silent agreement between the two. Whatever agreement took place between this silence, it seemed to have worked. One might have called it the silent modern apology. No words needed to be said.
Somewhere between the silence and another sip of liquor, House laid his fingers on the keys once again. He had no trouble finding the right notes.
"So the hooker you paid for last Tuesday…" Wilson started. House tried to hide his chuckle as he began to explain how a high class New York hooker lost her way trying to get to his apartment, resulting in a two hour refund conversation over the phone.