The Art of Sacrifice
House's fingers flew over the piano keys as he started one of the complex sonatas that he learned a long time ago, thinking of everything that had happened so far.
"You stole my prescription pad and you forged my name!"
That had been the beginning of the tension between him and Wilson, all because of a stupid mistake on his part. Getting on Tritter's radar wasn't the best of moves, and it had almost cost him the most important thing he had.
"I lied! To the cops!"
However, this wasn't entirely his fault. Half of this was because of Wilson and his "sacrificial incentive" to protect him. If it hadn't been for his lying, this would have ended a lot sooner—and I wouldn't be here right now…
His fingers carried the music into the opening of another relatively moody piece; already getting bored with the previous song.
"Maybe I don't want to push this 'till it breaks."
He had meant that. It was one of the only times he let slip his true feelings on the matter, but he did mean what he said.
"You committed a crime!"
Wilson hadn't exactly been the best at hiding his feelings either, but who could blame him? It was one of the only times House had seen him lose his calm and complacent demeanor in the break of anger.
House's fingers followed his mood as they slowly slipped into the lower register. The sounds resonated through the room, growing darker as he recalled what had happened over the following weeks.
"Detective Tritter and I… We worked out a deal."
House nearly faltered as he remembered this. This had been betrayal at its finest. However, he knew that it would've either been him or Cuddy to talk to Tritter. His fellows were too afraid of what he would do to them.
(Knock, knock, knock) House took a glance to the door before continuing his brooding. If he ignored them long enough, they'd go away; and if it was important, well, they'd know how to get his attention.
"I hope I'm wrong about you."
Tritter could go to hell as far as he was concerned. He did owe a lot to Cuddy though, for getting him out of that mess. Would he admit it outside of his own thoughts? I don't think so…
It was a seamless transition from one piece into the next. Getting tired, and not finding the mood he wanted, House shifted songs again, starting from the beginning of one of Mozart's pieces.
"Nothing's changed?"
"Nothing's changed."
The only thing that had changed was House's perception of things, and not by much. He knew what it took for Wilson to break down, knew where the line was finally crossed, when Wilson would finally get angry without holding back. He kept staring at that spot, weary of it, and hoping that he wouldn't go near it again. Part of him wanted to go in other directions, see how far the line extended in certain circumstances, but another part of him didn't want to test it again. He wanted to stay in that one spot, safe, with no risk of losing the friendship he had fought so long for.
"Good night, House."
"Good night, Wilson."
House's head shot up as he heard his front door open. Stilling his hands, he looked to the open door and saw the object of his brooding standing there, a knapsack thrown over his shoulder.
"I, uh… I got tired of the hotel room," he said. House stood up. Walking over, he saw that the travel suitcase was partially hidden behind Wilson's back.
"I thought that anything was better than my couch," House replied, reaching the door.
"Not when the people above you seem to party at 3 AM and those in the room next door seem to be having sex against the wall constantly," Wilson explained, chuckling softly.
House got a sense of déjà vu as he held the door open and stood to the side as Wilson walked through.
Closing the door, he turned to Wilson. "Want a beer?"