Sometimes he liked to watch the rain.
Only sometimes. Only when it was quiet, except for the droning hum of thousands of drops bombarding the asphalt. Only when it was with a window open and the distinctive smell of wet drifting in towards him. Only when he was alone. Sometimes.
Sometimes Cuddy would find him. She would raise her eyebrows and lean back on her heels for a split second, then ask if he was alright. Of course he was alright. He just liked to laugh at the people who forgot their umbrellas. And on the sometimes that she found him and the sometimes he bit back that response, she would roll her eyes and click away. And on those sometimes, he would sigh, pry himself off of the windowsill, shut the window, and hobble to his desk again.
Sometimes Wilson would find him. He would smile and make an almost sarcastic remark that he didn't know House had a poet's soul. And on those sometimes House would give him the same line he sometimes gave Cuddy. Sometimes Wilson would shake his head, tell him he had dying patients, and disappear quietly. But sometimes – only sometimes – he would sit down on the other corner of the windowsill silently, lean his head against the window-frame, and watch the rain with him.
Sometimes.
Sometimes House would kick him out. Didn't Wilson get enough rain in Canada? Couldn't he see that a cripple needs more room on a windowsill? This patch of rain was his, so fuck off.
But sometimes – only sometimes – House would say nothing. And on those sometimes, in the silence, they sat, noses barely tickling with damp, ears full of rain-static, alone, and together.
Sometimes.