He feels the grin freeze on his face as the dark suit disappears into the cheering, swaying crowd. Warm, wet skin jostles his upraised arm, upsetting the almost empty bottle, but when he turns his head sharply, a brunette with a bleary smile hands him another beer. House throws his head back, taking a long pull, and wipes his mouth on his wrist.
Fuck Wilson, anyway. He's just experienced the most exhilarating eight seconds of his life and come up covered in curvaceous coeds, and all he can think about is the disgust and disappointment on his friend's face.
House tries to maintain his hard-earned high, but even absent, his externalized conscience cannot be silenced in spite of his best efforts. He turns down the enthusiastic offer of a third beer and makes for the edge of the pool.
His scar has stiffened in the cool water, the stretch from his movements making him wince, and his pruned fingers slip on the handrail. He grimaces as a solidly built boy ambles up, matter-of-factly pulls his arm over his shoulders, and lifts him bodily up the stairs. "Dude, that was awesome," the kid says once House has been deposited, safe but disgruntled, on shore. He holds up a hammy hand for the older man to give him a high-five.
Without acknowledgment or thanks, House turns and lurches away.
House drums his fingers impatiently on the wall of the elevator, dripping. When he gets up to the room, he sees immediately that Wilson isn't here, which means that he's gone home to sulk. Probably having his own private pity party, wondering why his only friend in the world is such an insensitive son of a bitch.
Getting out of wet jeans hasn't gotten any easier since the last time, and the friction makes his thigh feel like it's on fire. Half in and half out, a damp spot spreading on the mattress under his ass, he considers taking another Vicodin, but then decides he's tempted fate enough for one night. Too bad that he's the only one here to appreciate his self-restraint.
He finally manages to wriggle his way to freedom and celebrates with a warm shower, trying to rid himself of the chlorine clinging to his skin. In his bathrobe, he staggers back to the bed, fumbles for his cell phone on the nightstand. No calls.
Before he can overthink things, he presses the first number in his speed dial.
It goes to voicemail. House licks his lips, his brain too crowded with the things he wants to say for anything to make its way out of his mouth. I'm fine fights it out with Fuck you. And under that, much more quietly: I didn't see you standing down there. I swear.
In the end, he gets annoyed by the sounds of his own harsh breaths and hangs up.