It was upsetting sure, but House couldn't say he was surprised. Really, he'd been expecting it from the beginning. If House had learnt one thing from his friendship with Wilson, it was that he had trouble staying faithful. House tried to convince himself that it didn't matter. It was just sex. It wasn't Wilson's subtle way of telling him it was over; it wasn't Wilson's subtle way of telling him he was mad (after all, Wilson had been mad at him countless times and he had never done this before - at least not that House was aware of). It was just sex. And yet he still felt bitter about it.
House's initial plan of action had been to not take action at all. He had planed to act like it never happened. Wilson had assured him it was a one time occurrence, it wouldn't happen again, and it was just sex anyway. He still cared about House. He hadn't apologised, but House forgave him anyway. Or at least he had thought he did
More and more House found himself avoiding Wilson. The feelings of resentment just wouldn't go away, and the more time he spent in Wilson's presence the more uncomfortable he felt. Instead of confronting the problem, he just avoided it. He no longer ate lunch with Wilson, in fact he no longer ate lunch at all; if he didn't eat lunch, then Wilson couldn't ask why he didn't eat it with him. The less questions Wilson asked the better, because House just didn't know the answers. He didn't feel like his feelings had changed, but clearly something had. If things hadn't changed, then, well, things wouldn't have changed. But, however unintentionally, things had changed.
House was doing almost anything to avoid Wilson; he was taking more cases to give him an excuse to work late; when he was done working for the day, he would find a run down, out of the way bar, where he would eat dinner (at the risk of contracting salmonellae, but he figured the sacrifice was worth it), then he would stay and drink half the night away, in the hope that Wilson would be asleep when he got back. If he suspected a patient had cancer, he would send one of his fellows, or find another oncologist. He was even working more clinic hours. Wilson knew something was going on, there was no way he could be dense enough not to see it, but he didn't question it; and that only served to make House feel more paranoid.
He was being ridiculous, House told himself on an almost hourly basis. If Wilson had found someone else, he couldn't be jealous. He was the one pushing Wilson away, not the other way around. He should tell Wilson what the problem was, confront him. That was a good idea, or at least it would be if he knew what the problem was.
So he sat, and he stewed, and he thought; all the while still ignoring Wilson. After several long days of overworking, under sleeping, drinking like a trooper, and asking elaborately disguised questions of his fellows, House came to the conclusion that he was upset. He was really, very upset. And, apparently, rightly so. He decide to tackle Wilson that afternoon… just as soon as he finished his clinic hours.
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It was well past nine o'clock, and House was feeling exhausted, and frustrated. He had been working pretty much none stop for the last thirty-six hours trying to cure his patient, and between working, thinking and avoiding Wilson, he'd barely slept a wink all week. Despite solving the case, there had been nothing the team could do, and he had just been informed of the death of his patient; and regardless of his earlier plans, House had never gotten around to speaking to Wilson. All in all, House was in a miserable mood, and so he decided to put of talking to Wilson, as it would only make him feel that much worse.
Ultimately House decided he would go to the usual joint and eat his dinner there as normal, but he would skip out on the drinks tonight, and hope Wilson's day had been as bad as his, and that he was already asleep when he got back. He would leave for work early the next day, and work throughout the day to elude Wilson, he planed to leave for home at a fairly decent time, and speak to Wilson as soon as he got back. That was the idea at least.
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House stretched and yawned. He grabbed his cane and backpack from the side of his desk, and levered himself to his unsteady feet. He wobbled slightly, he grogginess affecting his already impaired ability to stay upright (that's what he got for working too hard), he managed to right himself with his cane before he face planted into the carpet, but the affect of twisting his leg was still felt. He grunted in pain and tossed his belongings into the backpack. Leaving the room, he ignored his fellows as they bade him goodnight, and made his painfully slow trip to the elevator.
It was late, and the usual hustle and bustle of the hospital had calmed down a lot, there were nurses around here and there, but it was oddly quiet really, and House found he actually rather liked it that way. Cuddy had already gone home, the lights in her office were off; and the nurse's station was manned by a single drowsy looking nurse sipping on coffee and going through files, due for a shift change any minute soon, no doubt.
Outside of the hospital the air was chilly, and House had to use his free arm to hold his coat closer. The bitter wind made his leg ache, but it wasn't far to his car, and once he was inside he could turn the heater up to high and relax in the warmth.
He slipped a few times in the puddles of water from the rain earlier that day, but he managed to make it to the car without falling. He got in, switched the radio on, turned the heater up to max, and let out a sigh of relief. He sat quietly for a moment, just listening to the jazzy notes coming from the radio and gently massaging his aching thigh. Eventually he placed his cane to the side, and turned the radio up a notch so he could still hear it as he drove.
He was driving too fast, and he knew he was driving too fast. But the roads were deserted, he knew where he was going, and he knew there were no speed cameras, so he didn't really see the harm in it. If he got pulled over, he'd just tell them it was a medical emergency, or some other load of crap.
He arrived at the bar not ten minutes later, and went to order. He ordered a steak (well done - not how he liked it, but the more germs killed off in the cooking process, the less chance of getting food poisoning, the better), fries and a Pepsi (he was sticking by the no drinks for tonight; if he had one, it wouldn't be just one). He relaxed and enjoyed his meal (as much as one could when eating an over cooked steak, alone, at a ramshackle bar, and paying themselves). After finishing his meal, he paid for it, left quietly and drove home, going slowly this time. He even circled the block a few times, and sat in the car for five minutes before going in. It was only quarter past eleven, and he wasn't sure if Wilson would be asleep or not, so he was feeling fairly apprehensive.
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Unfortunately for House, Wilson wasn't asleep. House plonked himself on the couch next to Wilson, and greeted him with a grunted 'hi Wilson'. Wilson just completely ignored him and continued staring at the TV (how interesting could a documentary about exotic birds really be?). After several minutes of awkward silence, filled only with bizarre chirping and the monotones, dreary voice of the presenter, the show finally ended and Wilson turned the TV off.
Wilson turned to look at House. "Are you cheating on me?" he asked.
House snorted. "You're one to ask, aren't you, Wilson."
"Don't play games with me, House. I asked, are you cheating on me?"
"Are you cheating on me?"
"I said, don't play games with me House!" shouted Wilson, slamming his fist down on the arm of the couch.
"I'm not cheating on you Wilson." House sighed and shook his head.
"Then why the hell are you avoiding me?"
"Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, you're not the one who should be upset and suspicious right now?"
Wilson stood up, anger coming off him in waves. "That's what this is about? God dammit House, what the hell is your problem?"
House grabbed his cane and stood up to look Wilson in the face, "My problem, Wilson," the name came off his tongue like poison, "is, how the hell am I supposed to trust you not to have an affair," he took a step closer to Wilson, getting into his personal space, "when you cheat on me with the first pretty woman to come into your line of sight?"
Wilson slapped him. House wobbled and took a step back, he grabbed the arm of the couch and managed to right himself. He looked at Wilson and scowled. His cheek was burning, and raw, he imagined there must be an imprint of Wilson's hand there too. "Fuck you Wilson. Get out of here."
Wilson closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. "I shouldn't have done that. But if you're cheating on me, I'd rather you not lie about it and blame my mistake." He tried to take a step closer to House, but House pushed him back with his cane.
"I said, get out!" House shouted this time. He hoisted his cane up in a threatening manner and glared at Wilson.
Wilson took a step back, his arms up in a gesture of surrender, "Okay, okay," he said. Wilson picked up his jacket, and briefcase and turned to the front door, he opened the door, but paused and looked over his shoulder at House. "I'm…" he bit his lip, "I…I shouldn't have hit you." He walked out and slammed the door behind him.
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Originally for the prompt: House/Wilson, Betrayal, Any rating, for the dark Wilson prompt-a-thon.