Chapter 3

Wilson was happily asleep when his doorbell rang, waking him up once again with a start. He stared grumpily up at the ceiling, scowling at the thought of someone being at his door, disturbing what had been the only source of peace for him; his sleep. He lay under the covers, in his work clothes from the day before, cringing slightly as the doorbell rang again, this time with a clear impatience as the bell rang over and over again: dingdong dingdong.

Despite his reflexes which tempted him to leap out of bed and open the door, Wilson remained in his brooding stew, stubbornly refusing to answer the door. There was only one person in the world who would want to visit him, and would show their impatience by ringing the doorbell until his head exploded. It was this individual that Wilson absolutely did not want to see, possibly ever again.

The doorbell had reaching a chiming chorus, with the dinging occurring non-stop. Wilson let out a small groan of irritated frustration, and rolled over onto his stomach, pulling his pillows over his head. Suddenly, Wilson heard the ringing cease, followed by a small click and the sound of his door creaking open. Wilson felt his heart begin to race, and his increased breathing rate made the cave under his pillow suddenly very warm. In spite of his noisy breathing and the pounding of his heart which echoed in his ear, Wilson listened intently to the slow, steady sound of footsteps followed by the thudding of a cane on the hardwood floor. Wilson had forgotten that House had been in Amber's apartment many times before, which explained why the footsteps sounded as though they were moving deliberately and with definite purpose towards this very bedroom in which Wilson was struggling to hide himself away.

At last, Wilson heard the footsteps enter his room, and the creaking of the floorboards became louder and louder, becoming more maddening with each step House took. Wilson could almost feel House's presence as the footsteps ceased right next to his bed, the cane making a final, defining thud on the floor as he arrived. Wilson continued to feign being asleep as he felt his best friend – or rather, former best friend – breathed with an air of calmness, although Wilson could almost feel the mounting tension in the room as he imagined House hesitating slightly at the side of the bed, planning the best method of approach. He heard a slight mumble escape House's lips, although the words were inaudible. He then heard a release of air in the form of a sight, followed by the sound of fabric moving as though House had raised his arm to his head and scratched it.

As what felt like minutes passed, Wilson felt awkwardness mount to an almost unbearable level. Why was is taking so long for House to make his attack? Was he trying to force him to go mad, yell in frustration and then give away his position as a cowardly, depressed wreck? It seemed like a typical move, and it was this thought that forced Wilson to maintain his position, pushing for House to finally break the silence.

"Y'know, most people are in the fourth stage of REM sleep by the time their head makes it to underneath the pillow. Your breathing tells me you're in... about zero."

Wilson sighed from underneath his pillow, attempting to ignore the introductory attack.

"Of course, there is no "zero" REM cycle, so stop pretending to be asleep, Wilson," he then leaned right on top of Wilson's head, his face inches from the protective pillow. Wilson felt the edge of his mattress sink slightly as House's hands sank into it to support himself. Wilson stubbornly refused to budge, stifling a moan of aggravation.

"You're pathetic," House dismissed, lowering his head so that his words were aimed directly at the pillow.

"Look who's talking," Wilson finally grumbled back, not moving from underneath the pillow.

"Oh, please," House rolled his eyes, turning round in order to take a seat on the edge of Wilson's mattress. Wilson felt the bedsprings groan as a dramatic shift in weight occurred; he deduced that House had made the first step in making himself at home for the upcoming conversation. "You're the one who's pushing people away," he paused, cocking his head to one side as he chuckled slightly.

"Funny," he then said, a bit more quietly than normal, his voice achieving a low growl, "usually you're the one saying this to me."

"Well, everyone has their high points," Wilson said sarcastically, beginning to slide out from his cavern. As he withdrew entirely, turning on his back so his head rested on his pillow and his eyes could fix on House's back, he spoke, "Go away, House."

"Absolutely devastating argument! I can't think of a way to reply! No. I'm not leaving," House replied with equal mockery and sarcasm.

"Why so resilient? What do you want, House?" Wilson demanded irritably. He had no time for House's feigned sympathies and comfort. He just wanted to be alone, and knew that nothing House could say would motivate him to go out into the open and forget Amber. After all, that's all House wanted, Wilson was sure of it; for him to forget Amber, not to mourn her. It was this immediate assumption that Wilson stuck to, and irritated him the most. Everything came down to House's poor character, and now that his poor qualities would strike home in a way that had never been done before, Wilson felt his anger rising.

"I want," House began, adopting a quiet, yet sharp and directive tone, "to apologize." He then rose from Wilson's bed, beginning to pace with his cane as Wilson slowly sat up, turning to place himself where House had sat moments before. He watched his friend with scrutinizing eyes.

"No you don't," Wilson said sharply. He had been prepared for this.

"You haven't even let me say what I want to apologize for," House insisited.

"I don't need to hear it. I know what you're going to say, and it won't change anything."

"Fine, if you're such a clairvoyant, what am I going to say?"

"'I'm sorry about Amber, but there will be other, less bitchy women out there for a man as disposable as his three wives.' Something of that insensitive, typical House sort." To Wilson's surprise, House stopped pacing and shot him a slightly surprised, dumbstruck and even wounded expression.

"As a matter of fact," he said quietly, his gaze moving from Wilson's face to the floor, "that wasn't what I was going to say." Wilson's eyebrows vanished into his hairline with slight confusion, his mind darting to one irrational possibility after the other. House wouldn't – couldn't – have something else to talk about? What would be worse, besides the fact that his haunting dreams from the night previous would come true, is that all of this would come to be in the middle of this hour of grief. No, not now – surely he wouldn't do that now... He couldn't, Wilson reminded himself, because everything that's tormenting you is nonexistent – ridiculous. Let it go.

"I, uh," House began, showing unusual clumsiness and disorganization with his words. Wilson's heart plummeted – it sounded as though House was about to begin a speech his ears were not ready to hear. Why was he so willing to expect this news from House? It wasn't as if it had always been obvious... well, perhaps it had, but Wilson had always refused to notice it. He wished, despite himself, that he could still be able to refuse what was in plain sight: a tangled mess.

"I..." House began again, "like you," he finished lamely.

"Oh, that makes me feel a lot better about everything. You like me. Great. Fantastic," Wilson was flippant. House gritted his teeth with annoyance and impatience as Wilson began to laugh with his maniacal edge – an action usually taken when Wilson's anger and disbelief reached a boiling point.

"What am I supposed to say to that, House?" Wilson demanded between his outraged laughter. House could only bite his lip and look away uncomfortably. "I mean," Wilson began, rising out of his seat, his hands behind his head as he began to pace the floor, "of all of the times you could've chosen to tell me, you figured now would be the best time?" he chuckled maniacally again, grinning and shaking his head in frustrated disbelief.

"You're not upset about what I said," House began to argue, slowly raising his gaze from the floor, "just that I said it?"

"No, what I'm upset about," Wilson replied sharply, "is that you thought this was the best time to tell me. You haven't changed at all, House. You're just as insensitive to my feelings as you've ever been. Get out," Wilson's voice was full of frustration – no matter how much rightful fury he possessed, there was a nagging feeling in his heart that wanted House to stay. It was terrifying to Wilson that his heart was trying to maintain a hold on House, while he was still outwardly and more importantly furious at House for Amber's sake.

"You care that I'm confessing this to you right after your girlfriend's death, but you don't care that I like you in the first place?" House ignored Wilson's attack, attempting to pry the truth from Wilson. Wilson shook his head with annoyance.

"No, because right now, my girlfriend's death means a lot more to me than your selfish insensitivity." Wilson felt his eyes slowly watering involuntarily. He bit his lip and turned away from House, as they now stood on separate ends of the room, as if worlds away.

"What were you planning on accomplishing with this, House? How on earth could this make anything better?" he asked, facing the opposite wall.

House felt stung, as it was his turn to shake his head sadly. He made no attempt to reply, as uncharacteristic shame swept over his body. Naturally, he had intended to cheer Wilson up somehow, and instead, he'd received a vicious blow to the gut.

"I'm just trying to help," he finally muttered, more to himself than to Wilson's back. "I can't really do anything else..." his voice began to rise with slight anger, "what do you want me to do? Bring Amber back?"

He'd touched a nerve. Wilson's shoulders began to shake uncontrollably as he sank into a small fit of dry sobs, still facing coldly away from House. House gazed at the utterly devastated figure of his best friend, and his heart sank even further – he knew he'd only made things worse. His mind told him to leave, but his heart and feet demanded that he stay.

As a small sort of compromise, his feet led him to Wilson's back, and House felt his left hand rise to Wilson's right shoulder, giving him a small pat of comfort. Wilson gave a small start at this unexpected touch, his heart fluttering despite himself, only increasing his anger. He felt his shoulder slide away from House in an attempt to tell him to leave. House's fingers slipped from their spot on Wilson's shoulder, and House remained behind Wilson, silent and staring.

"I am sorry, Wilson. I'm sorry for what happened... and for what I couldn't do; for what none of us could do," he began to back slowly away from his friend, who had fallen silent but still refused to face House. "I wish I could change things... but sometimes you just can't—"

"I don't need to hear your favorite philosophy, House," Wilson cut him off bitterly, his throat slightly hoarse. "Just go."

Recognizing temporary defeat, House bowed slightly at Wilson's back and then headed towards the front door of the apartment. Wilson winced as the door slammed shut, leaving him in an echoing silence. He let out a sigh as he sank onto his bed, hands at his forehead and began to let everything that had happened wash over him like waves of contradictory shock. What had he done?