Games – Part Four.
House watched Wilson pushing the chicken stir fry around on his plate; his fork grated against the ceramic in a sharp, piercing sound and he set the plate down. He had been quiet every evening for the past week, and "unavailable" at every lunch time. Conversation had been stilted, the simple answering of questions usually with no more than a grunt of agreement or a short, obligatory laugh. House hated small talk, had no idea how to keep it up, but the silence was unbearable. He spent the evening commenting on TV, on the food, talking about patients and all the while it was like Wilson wasn't even there. He was simply delivering a dull, irrelevant monologue. Things had picked up with the poker game. Alcohol was flowing and people were around to act as buffers for any awkwardness. House fell back into his usual pattern of friendly mockery, and Wilson had responded as expected. Soon, Esther and cards had taken over, and House allowed the memory of Wilson's lips against his to slip from his mind.
Hell, he even started playing up to it like he used to before it actually was something. Waggling a cigar in Wilson's face in that exact manner could only be interpreted one way, even if its intention was to gain knowledge of his hand of cards. The next morning had come around and they were both exhausted, but elated in their own ways. House had saved the kid, solved Esther's case, seen Wilson smiling and punching the air in triumph at his poker win, and Wilson had won the poker tournament and seen House content at his own victory. 7am and half asleep, they had gone home together making juvenile jokes about penises (the best kind).
House had fallen against him as they went into the apartment, just for a second. His face was flushed and his mouth ever so slightly open. Wilson could feel his breath on his neck and the warmth radiating from his body. He held his gaze for a moment too long.
Now it was evening and mostly uneaten meals were on the coffee table, positioned so not to be knocked off by feet, the smell of vegetables, spice and meat cloyed the air. House slipped into a trance, focusing on the monotony of the television and jumped when Wilson's voice snapped.
"So we're just not gonna talk about it at all then?" It was the fifth time he had opened his mouth to speak in the past 25 minutes, and the only time that any sound had come out.
"Oh. I figured…I didn't think we needed to." He didn't need to ask what.
"Right. Of course not." Wilson turned up the TV and folded his arms.
"Hey, now." House found himself inexplicably brushing his hand against his friends arm. As soon as the uncharacteristic nature of the action struck him, it was too late to undo and he had no option but to feel uncomfortable, "Is there anything else you want to say?"
"Don't bullshit me, House. Like I don't feel stupid enough already."
Ah, right. That's why I don't bother being nice. "Fine then. If you aren't gonna talk, stop bringing it up." House pulled himself out of his seat, picked up his and Wilson's half eaten meal and took the dishes to the kitchen. He tipped the remains into the garbage and dropped the plates into the sink with a short burst of water. A crack appeared on the edge of one, but House ignored it and went back to his seat on the couch. Instead of sitting on the middle cushion, as was his custom, he positioned himself to the far left.
"I'll set up some more apartment viewings tomorrow."
"You don't have to."
"Well I don't want to stay here forever."
House blinked, hurt. He was hurt and more importantly, surprised at being hurt. He didn't want Wilson to move out, but he knew he would at some point. No, House realised what his problem here was; Wilson wasn't just moving out, House had driven him out. "Fair enough." He said, dejected.
Wilson sighed, shook his head and stood up, striding to the bathroom. "I'm gonna get ready for bed."
House snapped. "What the hell do you want from me?"
He thought he heard Wilson mutter as he left the room. "Perhaps some sign that you actually give a crap."
Wilson kicked out his legs in a lame attempt to untwist the duvet and cover his feet. His toes twitched. He wasn't tired – he had slept for several hours this morning then went to work in the afternoon, just to keep a few bits and pieces ticking over. Even if he was tired, he doubted sleep would come easily tonight. His mind raced in the circles that had become so familiar over the past few months. He replayed everything House had said to him, every possible interpretation of every sign and realised, with a sharp feeling rising in his stomach, that he hadn't been given a flat out rejection. Damn it, Wilson didn't want this. Back and forth, back and forth with feelings and thoughts and fantasies, and all he wanted was to curl up at home with his wife. Wilson rolled his eyes in the dark. His wife, whom he hadn't given as much thought to as one might expect considering the circumstance. His wife, whom he had barely cried over. His wife, who a part of him had been secretly relieved to find was cheating on him. It simplified things. It made everything hurt like hell, but it wasn't his responsibility to do the right thing, to try anymore. It wasn't his guilt.
House tensed his whole body then relaxed it, in a lame attempt to make his thigh stop aching to move. He pushed one hand down under the covers and slowly ran it up and down the offending leg, pressing as hard as he could take, feeling every inch of the scar through thin cotton. A part of him still shone with elation at solving Esther's case, it was a warmth that would radiate for many days to come, but it was tainted by Wilson. House couldn't understand the sudden change. Things had been awkward, then better and now suddenly so much worse again. House barely allowed himself to admit it inside his own head, but his mind had been flicking back to Wilson suggestion that they explore the possibility of a relationship between them and it was becoming less and less unpleasant with every passing moment. And now he was actually scared that Wilson might leave. House rolled over and sighed. Head-fuck city.
