Silence: Chapter 1

The door clicked. House looked up to see a familiar raincot-clad figure entering the room. He cleared his throat.

"My next condolence call is arriving."

He said it with a kind of melancholic air, though, in truth, this was the moment he'd been waiting for the entire day. Not that he'd ever admit it. He'd never admit that the approaching figure was the reason he'd let him self be subjected to this: the fancy ward others liked to call "the rehab center". He simply liked to call it "hell". It was easier to say. Though he doubted Wilson would be visiting him as much if he actually was in hell.

He watched his team leave and looked up cautiously at Wilson, trying to put on his best stonefaced expression. He searched Wilson's eyes for something, anything: anxiety, anger, pity, fear…But the deep brown eyes remained expressionless. He looked tired, flops of hair carelessly tousled across his forehead. House watched Wilson move closer, a vague, almost exasperated amusement creeping into the soft lines of his face. He noticed a tattered shopping bag extending from one Oxfor-shirt-clad arm.Wilson dropped it into House's calloused hands.

"I got you something"

House reached into the bag and felt the unmistakable smooth fabric of a tie.

Typical Wilson, he thought to himself. He pulled out said predicted garment and his eyes fell on a red, silk tie with small round flecks (he refused to say-er,think-the words 'polka dots') of colour. The appreciation threatened to show in his face as he put on the most casual expresion he could.

"Nice."

Wilson smirked slightly. "I thought maybe it could help make a good impression on the judge."

House searched for a bitter comeback.

"It's not that nice." It came out rather half-heartedly.

A silence fell between the two men. An awkward silenceHouse had always wondered how silences could be awkward. At least, as far as he knew, inanimate objects, or, in this case, states of being, did not possess the ability for coherent (or incoherent) thought or action. Because, well, if silences can be awkward, who knows what else they can do? Hey, he should start a religion…Silencism. That had nice ring to it.

He was snapped from his ridiculous two-second reverie by Wilson very non-discreetly attempting to extricate his coat from the confines of the space between him and the chair. Or at least that's what House assumed he was doing, because all it really turned out to be was a hip-thrust. House stared at the floor, suddenly feeling rather parched. He thought speaking might be a smart thing to do, considering that's most often what people do to end awkward silences, but the words seemed to fail him. He swallowed and looked up into a pair of deep brown eyes. And not just any old pair of deep brown eyes. They were Wilson's pair, boring into his skull. He felt a dull ache spread through his body, and the words just tumbled out of his mouth.

"I had no right to blame you for any of this…" He focused on a spot on the floor. "I know you were just trying to help me. Protect me." He paused to look up at Wilson. "That's what friends do."

He inwardly cringed at the clichéness (was that even a word?) of his apology. Wilson hadn't seemed to notice, or care. He was staring at House with his best 'Am-I-hearing-this-correctly' face, ofted exhibited after a particularly half-witted comment by House, or before manipulating one of his particularly thickheaded patients.

"Is this-" He said in his best 'I-can't-believe-I'm-hearing-this' voice. "-An apology?"

House became interested in the floor again.

"Part of the program" He muttered. "If you don't like it I can stop."

"No." Wilson responded, a bit too suddenly. "No. It's just so…" Now he'd switched to his 'how-do-I-phrase-this-without-risking-being-hit-by-a-cane-shaped-object' voice. He sucked a breath in before continuing. "Unfamiliar."

House's lips curled into a smile and a silence fell between them.

House sat in the silence for a few moments, smiling lightly at Wilson, before realizing he'd been asked to continue.

Shit.

He frantically searched for words, something to say, something to do, anything. But he couldn't come up with anything that didn'tinvolve moving in ways his leg really didn't want to, and possibly resulting in losing him his best--and only--friend, and he just wasn't ready for that. The pain he could handle, but the wanting-to-nail-his-head-to-the-floor awkwardness he'd have to deal with every time cancer was on the table was something he was sure he could live without. But, then again, maybe it was worth it to ask, or to tell, or to do, if it came to that. Maybe he was wrong. Theoretically. What if the three wives were just self-denial? Or maybe they were a distraction so he could traffic his lust for House at nice, young, non-crippled women who just couldn't get enough of the oncologist (until they divorced him). It had always puzzled House as to why men who dealt with bald, puking, tumor-ridden people all day were so sexy…

After many more musings, House figured that going insane from unrequited love was probably more tolerable than eternal loneliness. His chest ached. He looked up to see Wilson staring at him, a half amused, half expectant expression set on his boyish face. House's eyes travelled slowly from an immaculately-tied tie, past slightly parted lips, behind which stood 32 slightly crooked teeth, and came, once again, to lock with a pair of deep brown eyes. House felt as though he might loose it then and there. He closed his eyes tightly in a hopeless attempt to get ahold of himself. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears so loudly he almost checked to see if there was a Conch to his ear. Wilson was staring at him with increasing curiosity, but House noticed something else within his eyes that he couldn't quite place.

"Greg."

That one word encompassed so many emotions it almost made House physically shiver: sympathy, confusion, fear, endearment, and--though he must have been imagining it--need. Wilson never used his first name. House's breath hitched as he inhaled.

"James, I--" But his mouth went dry. He stared at the floor but he could still feel the deep brown eyes boring into his skull. House had never been good at that whole fight or flight thing. He gripped his cane deperately. "Nevermind." He muttered and stood up as quickly as his leg would allow. Pain wracked his body, mind flooded with thoughts he couldn't push away. It was as though his amygdala had stopped working. He shot one last glance down at Wilson, his eyes burning with words he would never speak, and leaned heavily on his cane. One step seemed to take ages, the stony silence hanging in the air, filling his lungs, constricting his throat. Even if he wanted to speak he couldn't. He took a second step, brushing past the chair and a hand shot out to grasp his wrist. A shock went through his body as his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and turned his head to find that Wilson had somehow silently stood up and was now inches from his face. His eyes were unreadable; his breathing was labored, warm puffs of air gently floating across House's face.

"You what?"

House's entire body was on fire, he couldn't escape the eyes, the lips, the hand on his wrist. He felt drunk, and not the good kind, He was drunk in desire he could only supress. He was drowning and his lifeguard had unknowingly pushed him in. But he couldn't surface to tell him, to ask him to pull him out. So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He walked away: he walked away from the door he'd always wanted to open. He walked away from the house he'd always wanted to live in. Perhaps someday he'd walk back. He might even knock on the door. In the meantime, well, Wilson was right. He was a coward.