Wilson is in his car, gripping the wheel tightly so the skin of his hands blanches, pales to the milky color of paper. He whispers something, maybe 'fuck it,' and gets out of the car.
House doesn't know what Wilson has said, because he's been waiting outside the door to his apartment for about ten minutes, waiting for him. He'd watched Wilson crouch over the wheel, his head resting lightly on the wheel like he was asleep. But he knows better; he knows that the wheel, in the protective cage of the car is the only thing holding Wilson down. It's an anchor, one he's afraid to move from for fear of being washed away in the current, unable to come back.
Analysis done, House had moved from the car, opened the door and wondered why Wilson couldn't see that objects around him had begun to move on their own. The metal of the door was solid under his fingertips, but when he looked at the door, it was shut. His hand was by his side, grasping a belt loop.
"Interesting," he said, and Wilson looked up sharply at him—no, toward him. Eyes that were a bit too bright, a bit too shiny searched for something that just wasn't there; when they couldn't find their target, they shut, leaving the light that bent around House pressing against resolute eyelids.
He decided to leave Wilson there, to wait at the door. This was private, a moment that he didn't need to see. It wasn't his to own. So he walked up the few stairs into a drafty hallway and sat down near his door. He whispered to himself about the physics of his situation, about the space-time continuum he had to be screwing with, but gave up eventually. This was an experience he won't ever understand.
"Wilson!" He shouts now, bored of sitting in his hall. The next door neighbor's dog runs to the door, scrabbling at the thick wood. House watches the small paws slide under the door, trying to lift it, trying to get free.
"You can hear me too," He slides forward, sticks his fingers under the door. "Come here Malakai. Come here, boy." A pink tongue lolls out onto his fingers, covering him with sticky saliva. Then the dog is licking him, actively touching him.
"Good boy," he says, removing his hand, wiping the spit onto his pants robotically. He's tangible. He can be touched. Just by animals? Why can't people see him? Why can Wilson hear him?
But Wilson walks in then, looking at the floor. He hears the dog whining next door and looks around quickly, looking again for something that can't be there. And so he takes out a key; House watches as it slides smoothly in, the pins aligning to grant access. Wilson stands there for a moment, suspended between worlds. But he breaks the crystalline moment, shattering it as he moves into the apartment and shuts the door behind him. House enters close behind, almost touching. He smells Wilson, the mix of soap and deodorant and that shampoo he can't pronounce. His senses are heightened, as if he'd lost a sense and the others were making up for it.
But what has he lost?
"Life," Maybe it's because he's in his apartment, his place, where he can talk aloud, theorize about everything and anything that his words aren't internal. Maybe it's the secure feeling of home that pushes air through his larynx, lengthens and shortens his vocal cords and sends waves through the apartment, carrying his voice.
"Life," Wilson repeats, his back to House. "Life."
"I know you can hear me, Wilson." House doesn't move, lest Wilson gets spooked at a change in direction of his voice. "And just to let you know, if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one around, it does make a sound."
"Because there are people around?" Wilson shifts slowly, turning toward the location of the voice.
"You catch on quick," House says, his heart beating faster. If Wilson can handle the situation, maybe he can get back somehow. He keeps his voice gruff, though. Getting sentimental would probably scare the other man off.
"Sorry if my being haunted by the spirit of my friend freaks me out a little." Wilson's voice has that whine to it, like he's speaking out of his nose. House can feel an eye-roll coming.
"So you won't freak out again?"
"I'll try not to." Wilson's eyes jump, roaming around the room. "Where are you?"
House moves directly in front of him. "I'm right here."
Wilson jumps a little, but doesn't move. Instead, his hand reaches out, grasping at what looks like nothing but is in fact House's shoulder. He watches as the air in front of him shimmers, bending and refracting singular beams of light. His hand loses its warmth as he strokes the invisible leather of House's jacket.
"Can you feel that?" He asks, looking slightly upward out of memory. He looks through House's eyes.
"I'm not sure." It's as if House's body is numb; he can feel the pressure, the presence, but no the touch itself. Then—something--the ghost of fingers, maybe? House moves his hand, grasps Wilson's wrist and watches the man shudder.
"What about that?" Wilson closes his eyes, pauses for a moment and says that he thinks he can feel House's grip. House watches as Wilson's lips turn blue, sees the hair on his arms stand up and lets go. He pushes the hand on his collar away and watches as color returns to the other man.
Wilson backs into the couch and sits heavily. He leans into the leather, pushes his shoulders back until an audible popping sound is heard.
House walks around the other side of the couch, sits as far away as he can and props his legs up. Wilson hears this, looks toward him but his gaze is glassy, the focus off. He mutters that it's cold, very cold and his voice is slow, thick like he's just woken up from a deep sleep.
After a few minutes Wilson seems to gain lucidity; House wants to check his pulse but won't risk touching him. So he tells him to talk, asks his about his day, who he saw. Anything to keep him awake.
But Wilson interrupts his questions, cocks his head to the side and speaks slowly, as if trying to find the words to fit what he means to say.
"What happened when you got into the accident?"