A/N: This story was inspired by the song The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows by Brand New. If you're interested, the video may be found at Youtube at /watchv=aMJIc9USE2U. While I have borrowed minimally from the lyrics, you do not need to watch the video to understand the story, but I think the two go better together. I do not own the song, nor do I own these wonderful characters.
Lowercases and Capitals
Friday afternoon:
House sidles into Wilson's office, the key jangling against the change in his pocket. He only has to pull it out and dangle it in front of Wilson's eyes as he pores over a file and those same studious eyes ignite, even though he doesn't know what or where.
"Car's in the shop, got a loaner" House explains, and though it's not really an explanation it's the only one Wilson needs. He really should stay, take a few consults, try to offer some vain hope to people that have none left but he's tired and heart-weary and wants some hope of his own. Before he knows he's left they're in the parking garage. Somehow the key is in his hand now, heavy and warm and he turns it over, grinning like a little boy on Hanukkah when he sees the mustang embossed on it. He doesn't need to be shown which car it belongs to.
Friday night:
House knows all the best bars, and Wilson can't believe a burger can taste so good or that a drive to nowhere can feel so perfect. He smells the honeysuckle and clover in the thick air and if he closes his eyes he almost feels like he's left his body behind. By the time they get to the hotel, Wilson wants to say he's drunk when House is all hypnotic stare and vampiric smile, but he's only had one beer. Neither ever has before and Wilson knows this just as well as he knows this wouldn't feel as natural as it does at any other moment. He melts into the bed and the course blankets and lets himself be taken. When the tears sting his eyes, they're not tears of pain – there is no pain - but of surrender and abandon and something else there has never been words for, something that can only be expressed this way.
The darkness allows them their tandem solitude until the draw of it is too much for House to ignore. He has always belonged to the night. He rises, a shadow healed in the moonlight and Wilson wishes House could always be as he appears right now; still himself, in perfect form. Wilson forces himself into his own clothes before he delves too deeply into matters of perfection.
The key glints in the half light as House snatches it from the nightstand as though it holds within it all the energy of this night.
Wilson doesn't ask where they're going, because he doesn't care. It's the time exactly halfway between yesterday and tomorrow, when neither of them will be held accountable for actions that don't belong to time.
Saturday morning, 3:01 AM
The last thing Wilson remembers clearly is House's too-rare smile before the world dissolves into chards of glass and rending metal. There's too much light, and he wishes he could remember what House was smiling about.
Saturday morning, ??? AM
The hallway bends away from him and mocks every step. One chair, then another, then another. Faceless people enter and leave. Surgical masks and mouths behind them speak words Wilson doesn't understand. You should get checked out. Fine. I'm fine. How is he? Of course they're doing all they can. Of course they are. Of course. My head hurts. He'd been thrown clear, they said. I think that's what they said. Why can't I remember what they said what I said why was he smiling I should be able to remember… The flame from the single candle he lights is blinding and liquid behind wet eyes. Wilson, you're Jewish. He cries until his hands ache and his throat burns. If he can just cry hard enough, everything will be fine. Just fine.
Saturday morning, 5:18 AM
Dr. Wilson? I'm….I'm sorry. What was your relationship to him? We'll need some help locating his family. Was. What was your relationship? Wilson finds his breath as House loses his. He was…was…he was my friend. He doesn't know if he's lying or not. They'd been so much more and so much less. He only knows he can still feel warmth and heat and strength pressed against him and that's why this can't be happening. He knows nothing else. He knows nothing for sure. He knows nothing.
Sunday night, 9:55 PM
The hotel room is eerily empty as he collects his things and their things. Wilson's body feels empty and used and he wonders if he'd still regret it if House were alive to resent. He waits for the car with one bag and more than he can carry. When the driver hands him the key to the rental, it feels cold and artificial.
Tuesday afternoon, 2:00 PM
The church isn't the right place for this, not that there is any right place. It's the same one House's father's funeral had been held at. It feels like blasphemy. They've repaired the window. Wilson is relieved. The sight of any more shattered glass would drive him insane. He looks out over the crowd (the crowd) and down at the jumbled mess of lowercases and capitals he's written and rewritten a thousand times and sees nothing in it that reminds him of House. His head swims and he feels like he's strangling as he prepares himself to speak and wonders if taking your last breath feels anything like this. No one makes a sound as they wait for Wilson to paint a picture of a man they believe no one but him knew. They have no idea. He adjusts his tie.
"Gregory House was my best friend…" He's never lied so well.
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