Silence
By: Emmy
Spoilers: None really, it's set somewhere in the second series.
Disclaimer: I don't own House, M.D. or any of its characters.
Summary: Sometimes you're scared by how well he reads your silences…
A/N: It's been a while. Hope it isn't too terrible. I had a little trouble getting into the spirit of things again. Anyway, review if you're nice.
O50. it doesn't mean much;
it doesn't mean anything at all
It's funny how many layers of sound there are involved in this silence. The murmuring from the corridor. The sound of a pigeon cooing somewhere nearby. Traffic going along the main road. An airplane gliding from nowhere to nowhere. His cane tapping a twisted rhythm on the floor. (It's funny how hard you're finding it to escape him.)
You pull your coat a little tighter around you and stare even harder at the whiteboard in front of you. He'd given you a job. You can't remember how long ago or what it was (but you remember the way he said your name). You think he's wrong and you know he thinks he is too. So the both of you are just sitting and staring (it's always most peaceful between you both when you don't acknowledge each other).
You think that maybe you're getting a headache and your tummy is reminding you that an apple last night just isn't adequate to keep you functional (you're functioning anyway). You would have eaten earlier, except you've been busy and the top you're wearing makes you feel fat. A rational part of you knows that you aren't, but it's far outweighed by your irrational side (it always is).
You hear him stand and pace behind you. It's just another noise (just another layer). You wonder absently when the last time you were surrounded by absolute silence was. It's then that you remember lying on his chest staring at a million beautiful stars with a ring on your finger and a smile on your face. It's enough to renew the familiar ache in your chest that's been haunting you on and off since you realized (in a tired sort of bewilderment) you were a widow. So you lock the memory safely away in the part of your mind labeled 'open at own risk.'
It takes a while for you to realize he's spoken. You'd ask him to repeat himself but decide that it doesn't really matter (he'd be more smug if he'd figured it out) and return your attention to the words before you. You trace every twist and loop of the letters with your eyes and try and put them together. Just like a puzzle. You're doomed from the first attempt, you decide (you decided long ago that this was true about nearly every aspect of your life). Because this is an illness, not a jigsaw. And those are symptoms, not pieces.
"The rash doesn't fit."
This time you follow his voice, track the words and ponder them. You would laugh because he's repeated himself without you asking him to (sometimes you're scared by how well he reads your silences). You would laugh because he's voiced the exact same thing that's been annoying you, too. You'd laugh about a lot of things that aren't funny, actually.
Instead you simply nod. Because agreeing with him has always been easiest. You don't pin it on his knack for being right most of the time. Nor his charm, or lack thereof. You blame it on the everything the both of you aren't. You blame it on the could-have-beens and the almost-theres (you know they exist because you can see them in the way he looks at you a second too long to be passed off as a glance). You blame it on the way he says your name. You blame it on the curve of his lips when you say something that amuses him. It's easiest that way.
He drags a seat next to yours, directly in front of the whiteboard (he's always loved being the center of attention). When he sits he drops his cane half on your lap and half on his. It's careless and coincidental. He barely acknowledges it.
It still sends shivers down your spine.
You don't think he notices. You don't think you care. There's too much between the both of you now for it to matter. He's seen far too much to think you above such a reaction. He knows you well enough to read your every move (he can't predict them, you've realized, which puts you one above everyone else he's ever met). He's had enough chances now to prove just how little he cares.
The part of you that still believes in happy endings insists that the relationship (and the both of you) is messed up enough for rejection to mean anything. You think that it's depressing that it's the most positive thought you've had in far too long.
You close your eyes and decide that it isn't simply to savor the feel of his shoulder next to yours. It is, you inform yourself, another attempt at coming up with an illness. You cast your mind back to all the books you've ever read and every class you've ever attended. You go over every moment you've spent with the patient (you know their name, you've just discovered that sometimes professional distance helps) looking for one more clue.
You focus on him again when he slouches halfway down the chair and drags a frustrated hand through his hair and over his face. He catches you watching him (with a soft smile tugging at the corners of your mouth) and pulls a face. You roll your eyes and pretend that you don't want to stick your tongue out in return. The ease of the moment is lost when he glances back at the whiteboard with a grimace.
"Coffee would be nice."
He's never bothered being discreet and adds a backward glance and a raised eyebrow for maximum effect. You mentally toss up between going and getting it for him or just staying still (you know you will, though, because you've wanted a coffee since you came in this morning) and finally stand and shuffle over.
You smile at the sounds you make as you work and decide that it doesn't qualify as silence. You think that maybe that's okay anyway, because silence always leaves too much room for possibilities. And you're so tired of them (you hope he is, too).
When you pass him his mug he doesn't thank you. It doesn't upset you as much as it might have (you've gotten used to reading everything he doesn't say in his actions) so you just sit down and take a sip from your own.
He thanks you when he tugs on a lock of hair that escaped your ponytail and informs you:
"I like it curly."
You'd tell him it's wavy but he's already moved on (and you've always loved to pretend that you aren't one to dwell on the past) so you just smile to yourself and glance back at the board. The silence returns and (just for a moment) you think about the could-have-beens and the almost-theres and decide to classify it as an almost-there.
When Eric and Robert come in with all their noise, a new symptom and several I-told-you-sos they steal the almost-there and everything drags back into the familiar work environment. For a moment you almost mourn the loss, but you move on (you try extra hard not to dwell on it, too).