Author's Note: Hopefully this is something you (my infinite and unknown audience) will enjoy. I derived all of this from a line in a movie: "Please say hello." Brownie points if you know the movie. ConCrit is muchly welcomed, as I am looking to improve. Unfortunately, not beta'd, so any mistakes/errors are entirely mine.
Warnings: Some mild cursing. I try to keep it approp.
Disclaimer: (I hear these things are standard, although suing me would be an exercise in futility and disappointment). I do not own, in any way, shape, or form House, M.D. or any of its characters, plot bunnies, or ridiculously amazing snark. I have only my imagination and the loose morals to so blatantly play off of the show's creative team's genius.
House wasn't sure how it happened. Hell, he wasn't even sure what "it" was. However, he knew something was… for lack of a better, more specific word, wrong. He felt it deep in his… damn; he couldn't even form the right words to explain it in his own mind.
He had always prided himself on his mastery of languages, boastfully showing off his knowledge of strange and eccentric words. Chase's oh-so-difficult crosswords were child's play. But now, when he needed most to try and figure out this disquiet he felt, even his vocabulary was failing him.
Trying to shake off his uneasiness, he went in search of Wilson to pester. It was a habit of his, a ritual that was almost guaranteed to relieve his worries and give him a small respite from the ever-present pain.
Almost.
Lately, even his relationship with Wilson had become strained. The fact that he had mentally started calling him Wilson instead of Jimmy was proof in and of itself, he thought dryly.No doubt this tension had burgeoned from a sarcastic barb, a small joke about his friend's infidelities, a careless or selfish whim that had put their friendship in jeopardy. But whatever had caused it, the fact remained that Wilson had not eaten lunch with him in a week, or even exchanged pleasantries.
The more House thought about it, the more he realized that Wilson (Jimmy!) had made himself scarce all week. There! There was that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach again. Another clue for a diagnosis that seemed much more difficult that the case of Hashimoto's thyroiditis from last week.
Maybe today, bygones could be bygones and he could resume his chip-stealing spree.
He casually strolled into the office of one Dr. James Wilson, happy to see that no dying, emotional patient occupied the chair across the desk from his friend.
"So, are we going to go to the strip club this weekend?" he asked, trying to pull Wilson (Jimmy!) back from whatever spat had caused this in the first place. Maybe not in the best of taste, seeing the glare he had just received.
He decided to try again, with, if not an apology, then at least a more direct route. "Okay, not the best joke, I admit. Can we just pretend that instead of the strip club, I meant my house, for alcohol, and pizza, and boring movies? You know like the good old days, back before the Sherman started his great march to the sea, or when—wait! Where are you going?"
Wilson continued to glare at him, even as he brushed past him out of the office. Even as House called after him, he didn't look backwards.
I must have really screwed up this time. Wilson's never given me the silent treatment before. Nagging, begging, and yelling, yes. But the silence was a new one.
Suddenly, House felt suffocated by the quiet in Wilson's office. It ate at him, forcing him to feel the true weight of whatever burden he was carrying. Sadly, he allowed himself a few minutes to mourn that he may have finally pushed Wilson too far, breaking the only relationship he had that was worth anything. He didn't even know what he had done.
His chin pressed against his chest, he remembered some of the past, those moments he cherished, spent with Wilson. He fervently hoped that he'd be able to repair whatever he had done this time, because he finally, truly appreciated what Wilson had meant—means—to him.
Shaking his head, he decided to give Wilson more time. After all, he did have a case to work on, which would keep him busy while he gave Wilson his space. Afterwards, he'd make it up to Wil—Jimmy as best as he knew how. Scheming just how he would do that, he limped out the door and down the hall to his own office, eager to find his fellows and immerse himself in a case.
"Do we have anything yet?" he asked loudly, trying to sound like his usual self.
No one spoke.
Finally, after giving House an appraising, and perhaps reproving, look, Taub shook his head slightly before turning away from House to continue reading his book.
"What? Cat got your tongues?" House yelled again, trying to get a raise out of them. "I guess the honeymoon's over, huh? You got your blushing bride, then found out he was a 47 year old gimp with a snarky attitude and a boring caseload." He watched to see their reactions but again found the room still and quiet.
As he walked out of the "Diagnostics Department" and into his office, he yelled over his shoulder, "At least go do some clinic duty or something. Paperwork. Emails. Rub hot oil up and down my body, or at least pick up the hooker for me. Something productive!"
Silence.
He looked back through the glass window at his new team patently ignoring him and the pieces to his own little miserable puzzle clicked together. He knew what was bothering him, upping the pain in his leg and shattering his concentration: the silence.
Wilson hadn't spoken to him, and his team hadn't reacted to him. Even the cashier at the Starbucks he always stopped at in the morning had merely rang up his order and frowned at him without saying a word.
He couldn't remember the last conversation he had had, and it hurt him to understand that, with all of his pushing, he may have dug his grave too deep.
No, there had to be someone who would talk to himHe headed towards the nurses' station, hoping to at least exchange some verbal punches with Nurse Brenda. Or to torment the new nurse, Rory. Or maybe just to steal a lollipop and say "Good morning." However, seeing him on his way towards them, all of the nurses scrambled away or stuck their heads deep into the mounds of paperwork. He then hobbled towards Cuddy, who was talking to the head of the cardiovascular department, but she ushered Dr. Martin into a nearby conference room, obviously wishing House to leave them alone.
Looking around at his sound proofed little world, he realized just how desperately he wanted to speak to anyone. About anything. Hell, he'd settle for a clinic patient or a consult with Dr. Purvis, the disgustingly simple man from Neurology, if it meant someone was speaking to him. It half crossed his mind to find Foreman, Chase, or Cameron, just to bullshit about the good old days and the could-have-been's.
But it would do for him to look needy, not in control. So he limped back to his office, aware of the oppressive quiet. And with every person that passed his office, as he sat there staring bleakly out into the hallway, he silently willed them to stop and speak.
Just say hello. I don't know how anymore. Please say hello.
Author's Footnote: I hope to continue this series, if possible, but it will depend on if there is any interest in it. So, again, please take a couple seconds to leave a review. Or as Buck says: "Rate it even if you hate it!")