A/N: Yay, a longer chapter! Actually, I really like this chapter (conceited much, eh?) so I hope you enjoy it. Sorry there's not much plot in this one…I don't believe in plot really. I just believe in me (hoho). All your comments are really appreciated, and totally cheering. OK, shutting up now.
By midday Wilson senses that the jig is up. It's been a long, tiring work week, empty of human company besides that of his colleagues and patients, which doesn't lend itself to light conversation. For this week, the interminable five days which seem, each progressing slower and slower, leaking color as they go, Wilson has not spoken to a woman, young or old, buxom or slim, outgoing or reserved, with any intent other than a purely professional interest (and not a professional interest in her breasts, although Wilson is sure he is qualified).
The nurses, who do not understand him, think he is pausing to 'mourn' so to speak, the untimely demise of his marital relationship. House would say he is taking a break between divorces. House understands Wilson but this time he would be wrong; this is not a break, it is cessation. Complete and utter.
Wilson figures he has found no happiness in women that has ever lasted. Not that he believes in ever-lasting happiness- he's an oncologist, for heaven's sake, he knows better than that, but truly he doesn't believe he deserves to be miserable and alone.
Well, you're miserably alone, a voice in his head informs him irritably, but House interrupts by bursting through his office door and fixing him with a gaze that could drive a stake through a vampire's heart.
Wilson's heart is up to something funny as well, it's sending too much blood to his face than is really warranted by the appearance of his best friend, but as a doctor Wilson is well aware that the body is wont to do what it pleases.
'Do you have ED?' House blurts rudely, narrowing his blue gaze to a fine point, fixed just above Wilson's nose, burning straight into his own brown eyes, hedged so embarrassingly with those thick lashes the women seemed to love. House doesn't seem to be affected.
'W-what?' Wilson stutters, taken aback by the intensity of his friend's tone. House didn't worry, not about others, only about himself, so what was that strange depth in his voice that made him sound almost as if he wanted to cry?
'Is your toothpick working?' he asks crassly.
'Yes!' Wilson is redder than a tomato now. He wants to crawl into a hole (preferably in a vegetable garden) and die. He knew he would have to tell House eventually.
'Then what's the matter? Women lose their appeal?' He sneers a bit unkindly. 'I guess Julie ruined another thing for you, huh?'
Wilson wants to make that sound go away. He doesn't know why House is so angry, so…upset.
'Quiet Greg,' he jokes lightly. 'You're just jealous you're not getting any.'
When House doesn't respond, Wilson examines his face while studiously attempting to appear to be studying the carpet. There are hollows under House's eyes that a man could drown himself in. The texture of his skin is bluish as it approaches his chin, where stubble stands out, a paradox of rough tips and smooth sensations. His eyes are yellow with exhaustion.
He doesn't seem to be answering, or in the joking mood, for that matter, and he certainly isn't kidding around with the sharp point of is cane, so Wilson decides to shoot for the truth. If neither of them are sleeping…he wonders if they dream about the same thing. That would make it easier; it would be as if they were together, a set, two men who think they have nothing.
'I'm thinking about giving up on women for a while.' It's impossible to lie to House, so he'll recognize this for the truth. House's sharp bite of laughter is a bit of a surprise. It is a lancing flash of light in the dim office.
Too bad he's making fun of me, Wilson thinks sarcastically.
'Do you believe in miracles, James Wilson?' House's voice is incredulous. 'I didn't take you for a religious man. Are you going to take me to see Jesus?'
Wilson glares. 'Just because you prefer hookers to emotional attachment doesn't make me a joke!' He hisses. 'I'm serious!'
'Me too.' The blue note is back in his baritone. 'Have you seen Him around anywhere?' He peers over Wilson's shoulder in a weak attempt at humor. As if God were hiding, unnoticed, beneath Wilson's scrupulous desk, bony knees folded at an uncomfortable angle, cheeks flushed from the close air and subsequent eavesdropping. 'He's the miracle man, after all,' the words are laced bitterly with self-derision; 'I thought he could teach me how to make you happy.'
Wilson's eyes are glued to the carpet as House executes an ungainly, rushed exit. Spurred into motion by the tap of his friend's cane on the tiled floors he races to the doorway and leans out, feeling his chest's contractions press against the immobility of the wooden wall, and shouts 'I'm not unhappy!' But the words ring hollow and untrue.
Later, on his way back to the hotel, he pulls his car over and sobs into his shirtsleeve until he can see again. Every rev of a motorcycle makes his heart turn over in its cage.
