Silence – Chapter 9

Wilson stared at his reflection, the dimly lit bathroom glowing softly around him.

What the hell did I just do?

He'd expect House to stare. But he didn't expect him to stare. The kind of stare where Wilson started having serious doubts about his previous reservations of House's intentions. Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe he wanted it so badly he'd misinterpreted all of it: the motorcycle, the strange looks, the lack of ability to breathe (that was pretty hard to misinterpret). He wondered what House was doing…if he was still sitting there, staring dumbly ahead. Maybe he'd left. Maybe Wilson would walk out there and the check would be sitting on the table, the waiter would give him a sympathetic look, and he'd go home and cry himself to sleep. Okay, wow. He was not that much of a girl.

He reached for the faucet knob. Cold water poured out of the silver tap and he cupped his hands beneath it. He bowed his head and threw a bout of cold water in his face, shocking himself back to reality. The reality that he had to get out of the bathroom sometime, because, if House hadn't left, he probably thought Wilson had climbed out the bathroom window and was now heading for Mexico. He ran a cursory hand through his hair, screwing its usual perfectness. Right now he had more important things in his agenda: like making sure House didn't want to send him to the funny farm.

He took an uneasy step away from the mirror, running his eyes down his reflection one more time and prepared himself for whatever lay beyond the tasteless steel bathroom door. He closed his eyes and curled his fingers tightly around the handle. He was sure his heart stopped as he pushed his eyelids open to find himself face to face with—two empty seats. House's Alfredo was still there, his fork still laying upside down, the napkin still draped over the edge of the table.

He squeezed his eyes shut but the image remained burned his lids, taunting him. He should have known it was too good to be true. He'd gotten so close to House letting down his walls and now he'd practically rebuilt them for him. God, he was so selfish. He didn't even see the lines, the lines that he'd not only crossed but probably obliterated.

"Fuck." He whispered to himself. "Fuck." A little louder this time. "Fuck." A strangled sob escaped his throat. "FUCK." This time he got looks.

He flung himself around, away from the sweet aroma of bread and wine, and yanked the bathroom door open. He felt sick. He stumbled over to the porcelain sink and fumbled desperately with the faucets. Another strangled sob. Music started to drift slowly under the door, floating gently along the tile floor and up to Wilson's ears. But he couldn't hear it. He wouldn't. And he didn't notice it getting louder, he didn't notice the intricacy of the melancholic rhythm. He didn't think it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard in his life because beauty didn't exist. Not in this moment. And suddenly he hated that piano player, hated him more than anything in his life.

He tore away from the sink and flung himself through the bathroom door, his hair in a rampage of mangled twists and turns, his cheeks flushed to a raw crimson. He started to open his mouth but when he turned to the piano he found that everything was suddenly blue. Electric blue. No haze. And as he watched his friends fingers glide gently along the ivory keys, he felt like running across the restaurant, taking the man in his arms, and never letting go. But Wilson was never one for spectacles. So he simply stared. And House stared back. He simply smiled. And House smiled back. He simply cried. And House—is not that melodramatic. But he continued to stare. And he continued to smile. And he continued to play. And suddenly Wilson realised that the intricate notes being pushed out of the piano were the same intricate notes that had been pushed out the last time he'd set foot in the restaurant. Twelve years ago. He still remembered the song. He had absolutely no idea what it was called, but he remembered it. And House remembered it. And House—never remembered things like that. Wilson smiled softly to himself as another tear slid down his face. This time he let it fall. He didn't stop this one, didn't reach to wipe it away. And then he let another fall. And another. He let out a breathless laugh. He let the salty juices run down his throat and no matter how much he wanted to gag he just kept laughing. And he had absolutely no idea why. Nothing was funny. Nothing was sad. But for some reason it just felt like the thing to do. He figured when someone gets filled with the extreme of every emotion possible in less than five minuites they don't really care which emotions mean what anymore.

He let out another choked laugh.

"Are you okay?" A high pitched voice cut sharply into his momentary scape from reality.

Wilson, snapping out of his reverie, and ingoring the high piched voice, realised that the song was ending. He made a beeline for the table, wiping his eyes one last time in a hopeless effort to make himself seem manly, and sat himself in what he hoped didn't look like a 'can we get out of here so we can go back to your place and make out on the couch for five hours?' stance. But it probably did. At this point he didn't really care any more. He was staring into a pair of electric blue eyes ambling (faster than usual) towards him and therefore didn't really give a shit what his stance was saying, only that it was saying it well.

He cleared his throat awkwardly as House's polished black shoes halted a few feet from him. He looked up expectantly at the farmiliarly looming figure next to him and felt himself smile, his face softening into an affectionate arrangement of feature.

House gave him an entirely different look. "Let's get outta here." He said huskily, eyes darkening to a shade of turbulent blue.

Under other circumstances, House probably would have laughed at how quckly Wilson leaped out of his seat.

Okay. Maybe he was that much of a girl.