Lists, Part 3 (Neurosis by Conflict)
Snapping comments, irritability, accusations, evenings with Cuddy, overnight stays in hotels, anxiety, tense quiet, distance, avoidance, channel changing, loud music, near shouting, cooking meals, too much Vicodin, cleaning, unappreciated, long walks, fitful sleep...
Despite all the brimming conflict, Wilson still didn't want to leave. After three months, he still hadn't said anything, which served as a fount of frustration that House had an innate ability to act as a catalyst too. He was beginning to think that he should move out just so that they could avoid killing each other. House still refused to do the simple domestic things which was to be expected, but would have been forgiven if there was something more there then simply living together. But every time he thought about leaving, something stopped him, persuaded him to stay, convinced him that this was better, and insisted that he was appreciated...
He was avoiding House right now, more or less hiding in the clinic, or with Cuddy, or tending to his patients more then they needed to be, whatever was convenient. This was getting ridiculous, the ways they were avoiding each other because they knew they'd see each other later, knowing that something wasn't being said, that there was plenty of time for quips, banter, rows; repetition that they both abhorred, conflicts that they knew how to stop, recognition of what stopping could disassemble...
His constant exasperation with those three problems and House was tiring.
Trilateral.
Trinitrotoluene.
Tri; three.
Three; conflict.
He couldn't stand to live like this much longer. House probably knew that too. This is what occupied House, he was another case study. He was measuring where the breaking points would be, observing behaviour, waiting for the breaking point to shatter with veiled behaviour. How he would react, how House would judge it, where it would leave them, all these factors that would bring an ending if he confronted him. When would confront him? Would he ever?
Take a chance, his own advice echoed back to him. He stood up from his desk, dropping the pen overtop a stack of forms and waivers. This had gone on to long, he decided. He was sick of it. Was House? Did he really care what House thought at this point? All this overanalyzing had burdened him unnecessarily.
House was going to react how he always did, the way he knew, the way he always would with the same mannerisms, idiosyncrasies...but this time he might feel different, maybe re-evaluate, mock him, consider him, reject or accept, acknowledge; Wilson was sure that he would be thankful even if all this did was put it out in the open.
Settle this, settle this.
House was in his office, occupying himself with a game of improvised lacrosse. How long had it been since he'd played? Stop procrastinating, Wilson demanded his attention. House didn't stop, the ball hitting against the wall in a steady rhythm.
"What?" House asked, still focusing on catching and tossing the ball. Wilson exhaled. House's apathy didn't bother him.
"Well?"
Wilson took several hesitant steps towards House, restricted only by reservations for the future, his steps gained strength, resolution solidifying, stopping just over House; all or nothing. This was rash, but what he'd wished for. This was impromptu, it wasn't planned. It was exhilarating to feel House's unshaven jaw with his hand, to lightly kiss his lips, feel him, and smother callous words...make his position known. He didn't need to say anything. He couldn't think of anything anyways.
He straightened and felt a crooked grin spread across his face. He'd done it, and it hadn't been nearly as fatalistic as he had imagined, nor as denounced, or explosive; House behaved just as he should, watching, evaluating, deciding; true to his character. Any trepidation he had died quickly. Once House decided, the pessimism was silenced.