Title: Blind, Deaf, and Running Away
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairing: Eventual House/Wilson
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Warnings: Homosexual themes (eventually), cursing, serious issues discussed
Disclaimer: House, M.D. and it's characters do not belong to me.

A/N: This is going to be a long story. I wanted to write a fic about how House and Wilson would realistically realize that they have feelings for each other, and how they would tackle the idea of a relationship. As much as I love the "Hey, I like you! I like you too! Let's get together! POOF!" fics, I wanted to go for a more logical approach. I guessed that it would happen over time and need a catalyst. I tried to keep them in character throughout the whole story, but there will be some pretty serious themes to this story. Won't go into them here, but get ready to stress out in later chapters!

Chapter One

Wilson sighed and knocked his beer bottle against House's, slumping into the couch cushions. "Here's to the end of another marriage." He fished through a container of lo mein with his chopsticks and extracted a piece of broccoli desolately.

House raised an eyebrow. Taking a swig of beer, he surveyed Wilson intently before speaking. "Julie filed," he guessed.

"Yeah. I got the papers last week. Should have seen it coming, considering how long I'd been sleeping in the guest bedroom before it happened." Wilson shrugged. He looked bone-weary.

For a few seconds there was silence broken only by the sound of Chinese food cartons being shuffled as they ate. "Why didn't you tell me?" House said eventually through a mouthful of noodles.

"It doesn't matter. I didn't want to talk about it." Wilson rubbed his eyes. "I still don't."

"Jimmy—"

Wilson held up a hand. "Drop it, House. Seriously, drop it," he repeated. "It's late. I should go." He stood up. The chopsticks clattered onto the coffee table.

House heaved himself to his feet; he nodded in thanks when Wilson passed over his cane. They stared at the floor quietly for what felt like ages but was only several minutes. Wilson's body language told House he was tense. Hands in pockets, hunched over, avoiding eye contact. Classic signs of unwillingness to communicate.

Wilson moved first out of the two of them, leaning over to snag his jacket from the armchair. House followed him to the door and watched him pull it open wordlessly.

"You could sleep here, you know," he offered finally, when Wilson had reached the bottom step of the staircase. Wilson turned to look up at him and smiled wryly.

"Maybe another time," he replied softly, holding House's gaze. "When I need it more. Things at home aren't as bad as they'll get yet. I'll call you when she starts negotiating with the lawyers and my bed moves out to the garage." He paused, swallowed. That nervous set returned to his shoulders and the smile slipped off his face. "Okay?"

House took in Wilson's rumpled clothing, the traces of dark circles under his eyes, the slightly disheveled hair. Worry tugged at the back of his mind, but House hid it with a faint answering smile.

"Okay," he conceded, waiting until Wilson had left before going back into his apartment. As House poured himself a glass of scotch and sat down in front of the television, he wondered what had seemed off about Wilson's behavior that night. Wilson had been far more quiet than usual, laughing less. He'd appeared more uncomfortable in House's presence than he ever had throughout all the years of their friendship. Downing the scotch and a Vicodin with one toss of his head, House credited these oddities to the divorce. He decided that this kind of apathy could be expected in Wilson's circumstances.

He would rather give up his entire stash of Vicodin than actually admit he was concerned. Concern, compassion—those weren't emotions House handled well, either when directed towards himself or when he actually experienced them. So he put this Wilson matter aside grudgingly and sank into a blurry, drug-induced haze.

There was a reason why House got along better with pills than with people. Pills asked no questions, demanded no explanations. They gave up the control to House without doubting his authority. House despised people—as a general rule—because they got in his way, and he respected very few individuals. He cared about even fewer, choosing instead to live in solitude.

Wilson was the one exception to that solitude, the one person House unwaveringly trusted and respected. Not that he'd ever tell Wilson that. At the moment not even Wilson won over the need to be free of the agony in his leg.

Vicodin was just easier to talk to, his mind lied.