Many thanks to both maineac and Brighid45 for their support.

"(…) when we are heavy with emotion, it can be excruciating to speak. We don't want to let the words out, because then they will also belong to other people, and that is a danger we can't risk."

- Siri Hustvedt, The Sorrows of an American

1-Silence

Wilson had paid for the window at the funeral home and then apologized profusely to Blythe House. He had tried to smooth things over as best as he could while House had been waiting in the car. He hadn't said goodbye to his mother.

House was quiet. He had left his cell phone on silent after the service. There was the occasional hum from a text message or a call, but he made no move to answer. It was unusual for him to ignore calls from his team when they had a case, unheard of even.

They had been on the road for several hours now and not a word out of him. House could sulk better than a five-year-old at times, but this was different.

With each mile they traveled, the silence had grown and by now it was threatening to take up all the remaining space in the car. Wilson felt he had to do something or he would suffocate.

"House, you can't blame your mother. Most people would agree that it was your responsibility to give a eulogy for your father."

House didn't reply. Wilson cast a look across. House sat stiffly, his silence folded around himself like a cloak.

"I'm only saying, House, it's not unusual. Many people go through –"

"Do not talk to me about responsibility!" House all but roared. In the tight confines of the car it was like an explosion, and Wilson reflexively ducked his head.

After a moment, House continued a little more calmly, "Don't talk to me about responsibility. He was my father. For all intents and purposes he was my father." He took a few deep breaths. "There's a certain responsibility that comes with that, wouldn't you say."

Wilson waited for more to follow, but nothing did. House turned to look out of the window. His hands were clasped on top of his cane. No, not clasped. They held on to his cane, the knuckles white.

"What do mean?"

House didn't reply. He reached across without looking and turned on the radio.

"What do you mean, House?"

Instead of a reply, Wilson heard the seal of the Vicodin bottle open. Wilson checked his own pocket. He had taken the pills off House before they started out on this trip. That man could have had a successful career as a pickpocket.

"House, you just took-"

House cut him off. "Don't go there. Just don't."

For once, Wilson heeded the warning in House's voice.

He listened to Bryan Adams sing about love and forgiveness. Normally House would have either turned to a different station or made scathing remarks about the quality of commercial radio. Today, he did neither.

Maybe he needed this sticky sweetness to drown out whatever darkness lurked beyond.

Wilson had no idea where that thought had come from. But it was there. And it was real.

This situation, the two of them cooped up together in such close quarters, reminded him of past road trips. But the atmosphere was all wrong this time.

"Wilson? What is the job of a parent?"

He wasn't sure where this was going, but he went along with it. Anything was better than silence.

"Um, not sure. Raise your child to be a good human being, make sure they're fed and loved, keep them safe from harm…"

"Exactly."

Wilson couldn't figure out what was going on with House. This wasn't grief. He knew grief. This was more and yet somehow less than that.

"House, whether you believe he was your father or not, grieving is normal."

"I'm not grieving. And I don't believe that he wasn't my father, I know he wasn't." House had made that perfectly clear earlier today.

"So why the sample then? That was a bit tasteless, in full view of everyone. Don't you think your mother noticed?"

"My mother notices nothing she doesn't want to notice."

And just like that, House shut down again. Wilson knew they had touched on something important here, something that hadn't been touched in a long time. Perhaps never. He wasn't sure what exactly it was. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to know.

They hadn't seen each other in months. Wilson had only taken on the job of getting House to his father's funeral because Cuddy had guilt-tripped him. She had played up the fact that House had given him the space he needed to grieve. But now he needs you, James. He is still your friend. Wilson wanted to protest but couldn't get a word in edgeways. Before he knew it, Cuddy had told him when and where to pick up House. Don't worry, he'll probably sleep most of the way. He hadn't even bothered to ask why.

House had seemed happy to see him, once he had woken up from whatever Cuddy had given him. Especially after he realized that Wilson wasn't doing this voluntarily. Wilson, on the other hand, wasn't sure how he felt about seeing House again. There had been a time, not all that long ago, when he had thought their friendship was a thing of the past. And yet, the teasing and pranking on the way to Lexington, while annoying, had also been kind of fun. It reminded him of better times. Times when the world was still in order and his girlfriend and House's Dad were still alive.

Sitting here in the car, looking at the man next to him, Wilson suddenly didn't know anymore why he hadn't wanted to see House.

Something had been bothering him for the last several hours, though. What had House said? If there were something to be done, I would have done it in the year he spent dying. A whole year.

"House, why didn't you tell me your father was dying?

House broke his silence.

"No point. He took a year to die. It took my mother more than half that to tell me he was sick. At that point, even she couldn't ignore the facts any longer. Maybe she thought the cancer would go away. She likes to pretend things don't exist as long as she doesn't openly acknowledge them."

"You knew for that long that your father was dying? And you never went to see him?"

House didn't reply.

Five, maybe six months ago House had found out that his father was ill, probably dying. Amber had died five months ago. Five months and seventeen days ago.

Filled with dread, he still had to ask. "House, when exactly did you find out that your father was sick? When did your mother tell you?"

"Doesn't matter." House turned up the radio.

But it did. It mattered to Wilson. And the fact that House pretended it didn't spoke volumes.

One year. More than six months. Almost six months. Wilson did the math. And the result nearly took his breath away.

"You found out the night of the bus crash."

It wasn't a question. He didn't expect an answer because he didn't need one.

House had been in that bar to get drunk because he had just found out that his father, or the man supposedly his father, was terminally ill. House hadn't told Wilson because Wilson had been busy lately. Busy with Amber.

Wilson started to feel sick, so he pulled over at the next rest stop. He had been driving for too long anyway. Once they had stopped, he asked, "Who else did you call before you called our apartment?"

House didn't move. He kept staring out of the window, as if there was still scenery flying by.

"House!"

"Doesn't matter. Nobody picked up anyway."

Nobody had answered the call. Everyone had been busy or asleep. Calling Wilson was the last resort after the barkeeper had taken House's keys. His brain had been too pickled to call a cab. Or maybe he had run out of cash. He must have had a lot to drink. They had recorded House's blood alcohol concentration at the hospital that night, but Wilson couldn't remember it. He couldn't remember any stats except Amber's. They were etched into his memory forever. But House's? No, not House's.

House had learned he was going to lose the only father he knew, had gotten drunk, had been injured in a bus crash, had tried to save Wilson's girlfriend by putting his own health at risk, and Wilson couldn't even remember something simple as his blood alcohol level. Nor had he known that his best friend's father had been ill.

And House hadn't said a word.

Wilson didn't know what to say.

"I didn't know, House…"

House turned around for the first time in a while, but he didn't reply.

Wilson felt like screaming.

How did you expect me to know? Friends are supposed to tell each other those things. How did you expect me to find out?

House's eyes were asking him to figure it out.

Just like now, House had expected him to pay attention, just like House always paid attention to what was going on in Wilson's life. But Wilson had been too busy.

He wasn't busy now. There was nothing and nobody here but him and House.

Wilson turned off the radio.

"What happened, House?"

House's gaze reluctantly came up to meet Wilson's. "You know what happened. I killed your girlfriend."

Oh God, not this. The flat tone of his voice spoke volumes. Wilson couldn't handle this right now. In the last few months he had discovered that grief was unpredictable and by no means linear. It would come in random waves and swamp him until he could no longer breathe. He pushed down one of those waves now before he would choke on it. It took a moment until he was able to speak again.

"No, with your father. What happened?"

House flinched. Wilson hadn't been specific, but House knew what Wilson was asking. And yet he thought he could still get out of this.

Earlier he had told Wilson about the summer his father hadn't spoken to him. But Wilson knew this wasn't the whole picture. There were gaping holes, pieces missing.

"He got sick. He died. That's what happened."

Wilson let go of the steering wheel he hadn't realized he had been holding onto all this time. He didn't know what to do with his hands.

"You know that's not what I mean."

It hadn't seemed possible, but House's hands gripped his cane even harder. Wilson wished he had a cane he could cling to like House. He put his hands back on the steering wheel instead.

Wilson waited for House to speak. Without the A/C on, the air in the car felt stale, too hot. Wilson loosened his tie and opened his collar. He felt a little nauseous.

House sat there like a statue, silent, not moving except for his chest rising and falling. Wilson counted, even though he didn't need to. Too fast.

"House…?"

When Wilson touched his arm House pulled away as if he had been burned.

He didn't want to do this. He wasn't sure if he could do this. Nor if he should. But he had seen that look in House's eyes, the look that had asked him to work it out.

I want you to know, but I don't want to tell you.

And he had worked it out. All the signs were there, now that he had finally cared to look.

He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. Did he really need to ask? What would it accomplish? He remembered something House had said once. We drag out her story. Tell each other that it'll help her heal. Feel real good about ourselves. But all we've done is make a girl cry. He remembered House's patient, the rape victim who refused to speak to anyone but him. Why? Had House talked to her?

But all we've done is make a girl cry. House never cried. But he had never seen House like this. Shut down and at the same time asking – begging – Wilson to find the key.

"Did you talk to her?"

"Who?"

"Your patient a couple of years ago. The girl who only wanted you as her attending. The rape victim."

House shook his head almost imperceptibly and turned to look out of the window again.

"Eve."

Eve. Yes. Had she recognized something in House that made her connect? Something that made her want to talk to him, and only him? Something familiar?

Wilson stared at the back of House's head and noticed how his friend had lost more hair. When had that happened? And why hadn't he noticed?

Because he hadn't been there. He had left after he had asked his friend to put his life at risk to save his girlfriend. And as thank you he had kidnapped that same friend to drag him to his father's funeral. A funeral he didn't want to attend. A funeral, it appeared, he had good reason not to want to attend.

"Yes. Eve. Did you talk to her? She knew, didn't she? That's why she wanted nobody else but you on her case."

House slowly shook his head.

"No. Yes, I did. But not… not about…"

Not about everything. No, he wouldn't have. He had probably given her just enough so she would reciprocate and open up to him. House always so carefully guarded his privacy. At times it seemed like a complicated game he had invented. But it wasn't. Looking at his friend now, Wilson understood that it had never been a game, not to House.

He took a deep breath.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

House didn't move for a long time. Wilson swore he didn't even breathe. And then he slowly shook his head.

He felt ashamed at the relief this small movement made him feel.

But all we've done is make a girl cry.

And all I've done is force my best friend to attend his supposed father's funeral – for no other reason than etiquette and my own righteousness.

Wilson nodded. "Okay."

He was in no state to continue the drive home, so he stopped at the next motel and booked them in for the night. Standing in the office, waiting for the girl to figure out which rooms were available, he looked out at the car.

In profile and against the low light House no longer looked his usual imposing self.

He just looks sad. The thought hit Wilson with force.

He felt his own grief bubble up, still as fresh now as it had been five months ago. At the time he hadn't wanted to see his friend. And his friend had stayed away. His friend who had inadvertently set in motion the events leading to Amber's death. His friend who had risked his life to try and save her. His friend who had given him the space he had thought he needed.

Wilson turned around to the girl still trying to figure out the booking system. "Actually, make that two adjoining rooms, please."

(t.b.c.)