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  Reverberation 
 by cryptictac	

 Suffering in silence is agony.

It's been weeks since the last time Wilson and House fucked. Feels like
months to Wilson. Years. A lifetime. They don't talk the way they used to,
don't meet each other's eyes when they pass each other in the hospital
corridors the way they used to, don't touch, barely acknowledge each other
outside of work. They only speak when they have to; when House wants
something for a case he's working on, or when they're in the men's
bathroom together because it's better to talk than to be burdened with
stifling silence, or when they have to talk. To everyone else, it probably
looks like nothing is any different, because Wilson makes retorts in all
the right places to House's comments and House makes fun of Wilson at all
the right cues. If anyone does suspect something's wrong or going on, they
certainly don't show it.

But between House and Wilson lingers this silence: oppressing,
suffocating, slowly hemming Wilson into a corner as far away from House as
possible. Wilson thinks it's such a cheesy clich to say this silence
between House and himself is killing him inside, but it is. Slowly,
painstakingly slowly. Wanting to speak to House, knowing he shouldn't
speak, knowing he shouldn't have spoken the last time they fucked, not
knowing what House is thinking or what he wants. Or needs. Not knowing if
House even needs him anymore -- that's what hurts the most.

He's found other ways to try and be close to House, to try and prove to
himself that House does still need him. He knows House doesn't like being
lectured, especially when Wilson's lecturing him again and again about the
same thing, over and over: about his Vicodin, his addiction, about the way
he treats people, how House thinks he's untouchable, sometimes going so
far as to make claims that House is depressed. Yes, he knows House hates
it, but if it gets a reaction from House -- something, anything -- then
Wilson knows House is still hearing him, even if he's not listening. Being
heard without being listened to is better than House not hearing him at
all -- something Wilson is afraid is going to happen one day. 

But it still hurts when House gives him that glare when he's had enough of
hearing Wilson's tirades. That same icy glare he gave Wilson the first
time Wilson broke the silence between them: cold and penetrating,
completely closed off. It makes Wilson's chest twist and knot up, though
he makes a good show of pretending he doesn't care. He always leaves House
be when House starts looking at him like that, walking off like he
couldn't care less. But then, when he gets to his office, he sits at his
desk and drops his face into his hands. 

Sometimes he thinks back over the last time they fucked. He thinks back to
where he made the mistake of wanting more than what House was willing to
give. He should've stayed happy with the kisses House gave, the way House
touched him, tenderly or aggressively. He should've been content with what
they had. He shouldn't have pushed. House might still want him, need him,
if Wilson hadn't pushed. Because though it was silent, though it wasn't
enough for Wilson, it was better than nothing. It was better than this. 

But now... 

Wilson focuses on busying himself when he finds himself becoming drowned
in thoughts of House and what he should've done and what could've been and
what would've happened had he kept his mouth shut. It's not healthy how
much he's obsessing over this and he can't help but wonder if House is
obsessing over this, too. He likes to think House is; he likes to think
House does care, that he does still want him and need him. 

He likes to think that maybe one day, maybe, House will break the silence
himself so that Wilson won't have to.

Maybe is such a false hope to hold on to.

+++ 

It's sad that Wilson's still living in a hotel room. 

He thinks that every time he arrives `home'. He switches the light on and
peers around at all the things in the room that aren't his, things that
aren't to his tastes; things that he has no choice but to rely on for
comfort. The peach-coloured walls, the floral bedspread, the fake mahogany
furniture -- all of it is sterile and impersonal, as much as Wilson tries
to make this room his. He's got books stacked neatly on his bedside table,
personal effects on the writing desk, things he took with him when he
moved out from his home that he shared with his third wife to make this
place belong to him, no matter how temporary it is. 

But little things like the Do Not Disturb sign that always hangs on the
inside door handle, the little useless bars of soap supplied by the hotel
that never soap up properly when he washes his hands, the room service
menu bound in faux leather on the writing desk -- all of those things
remind him that this place isn't his.

Wilson is a man of strict routine, however. Routine is what keeps him
going every day, from the moment he wakes up in the morning to the moment
he turns in for the night. The more unsettled and uncertain he feels in
his life, the more focused on routine he becomes. It's a way of shutting
out what he doesn't want to think about, giving himself purpose, giving
himself things to do to occupy himself. It's an almost effective way of
trying to shut out how much this rift between House and himself is hurting
him.

The first thing he does when he arrives at the hotel is toe his shoes off
and neatly place them at the foot of the bed. He takes off his jacket and
hangs it up, pulls his tie loose and unbuttons his collar and cuffs, and
rolls his sleeves up. He goes to the toilet, washes his hands and face,
comes back out into the room and places an order for room service --
usually a three-square meal, of red meat or chicken, and vegetables. While
he waits for his meal to arrive, he lies back on his bed and watches TV.

He eats, watches a little more TV, settles down at his desk to work if
there's any work to be done, and then showers once he's ready to go to bed
for the night. Even his showering has routine: hair first, then his body,
then an application of moisturiser to his skin once he's dried off. He
shaves, sometimes tends to his nails if they need doing and then goes to
bed, the part of the day he hates most.

The sheets are stiff and crisp as he slides his body between them, and he
stares up at the ceiling, trying not to focus on the silence. This always
makes him think back to the last time he and House fucked:

`Greg,', he foolishly said. `Greg--'

`Don't.'

`I--'

`James,' House had interrupted, and Wilson still can't work out if House
had being serious or if he'd been mocking him, `don't.'

Wilson swallows. The memory of what happened hurts. It's been weeks since
they fucked and it shouldn't still hurt, shouldn't hurt at all because
they'd just been fucking and how stupid was it of Wilson to think he could
ask for more than what it was. But it still hurts, and staring up at the
dark ceiling with these thoughts going around in his head, with the
silence all around him, the bed large and vacant, only serves to make him
feel so incredibly alone. And lonely. 

It's pitiable, he thinks to himself, that a man his age is as lonely as he
is. Three failed marriages to his name, not even his own place he can call
home, holding onto this thing between House and himself like it had been
some kind of lifeline. Like it's still a lifeline. Like it's supposed to
mean something, because Wilson desperately wants it to mean something.
Needs it to mean something, even though House doesn't seem to want to know
him anymore. 

He turns his head and looks towards the window before he closes his eyes
and tries to will himself to sleep. It's hard when thoughts of House start
to manifest into memories of how House used to touch him -- the way they
always started with kissing, sometimes hard and fierce, sometimes soft and
tender. The way House knew all the right places to touch and bite and
suck, and how good his hands felt down Wilson's chest, his legs, his arms
and his back. Around his cock. How good it felt to feel House inside him.
How good it felt to be inside House. The way everything was so damn
intense because they never said a word or made a sound.

He reaches his hand into the covers, down to his dick and gropes himself
through his boxers. The way it hurt whenever House pushed his cock inside
him, god it hurt, hurt so much sometimes. But that feeling of fullness, of
House surrounding him completely, inside him, on him, all around him, god
he misses that. He misses the way House was so possessive of him, the way
he made Wilson feel wanted and needed, the way he'd bite or scratch, or
kiss and soothe with his tongue, or quietly grunt in his ear while he
reached climax. 

Wilson squeezes his cock and then runs his fingers up and down it through
the material of his boxers, feeling his dick harden against his belly. He
misses the way House used to struggle with him when the sex was rough and
aggressive, how Wilson sometimes succeeded in getting House face down onto
the bed to enter him. 

Or those times when House was tender with him, almost loving. Wilson liked
those times best of all. It was a completely different side to House, a
side Wilson wanted greedily all to himself, a side he wanted to savour as
long as possible when they were together like that. He pushes his boxers
down over his cock, shoves them down his hips and grips his dick in his
hand. Yeah, how House would press soft kisses on his lips, or down his
neck, his chest, down Wilson's back if Wilson was on his front. Those were
the times Wilson felt needed the most, like House was silently trying to
communicate how much he needed him. It was those times that made Wilson
hungry, gluttonous for more, made him want more than just sex. 

He starts to stroke himself, an edge of desperation in the motion of his
hand. He reaches his other hand down to his balls and tugs on them
impatiently. The way House sometimes pinned Wilson's hands back against
the bed while sucking his nipples, pressing biting kisses down Wilson's
throat, chest, stomach... The way Wilson always bit back any sounds while
House did things to Wilson with his mouth that Wilson always wished could
go on and on forever... He lets his balls go and frantically shoves the
sheets back so his cock is exposed to air, to give him more freedom to
stroke himself, and he spreads his legs as he reaches his other hand back
down to his balls again.

God, yes, and the way House knew how to fuck him in ways that made Wilson
want to beg for more. Striking his dick against Wilson's prostate so that
when Wilson came, it felt like his spine was being sucked out through his
cock. The way House would push back against Wilson whenever Wilson was
inside him, how House's body would seize up when he came, how undone and
unguarded House looked during orgasm. Oh god, and how much Wilson wished
so much to hear House groan, and how amazing it was when he finally heard
him and--

Wilson bites back the want to gasp aloud; arching his back as he suddenly
comes. His hand is a blur on his dick, his other hand no longer tugging at
his balls but now grasping at the sheets for something to hold onto. The
orgasm is intense and sharp and leaves him feeling like he's had his
breath sucked from him, but as he relaxes back against the pillow he feels
strangely empty. 

He realises how pathetic this must look: lying there with his boxers
rucked down around his thighs, his semen wet and haphazard across his
belly and his softening cock in his hand while he recovers from an orgasm
that's left him unsatisfied. Having just masturbated like the lonely,
desperate guy he is, with thoughts of House to inspire this pointless
wank. Listening to the silence of the room and hating how it reminds him
of the distance between House and himself, the stereophonic silence that's
become a chasm between them.

He cleans himself up, feeling stupidly ashamed of himself, and then
burrows himself under covers while he lies curled up on is side, staring
across at the window. He has to stop this; he has to accept the fact that
this silence is never truly going to break no matter how much he wants it
to. He has to stop doing this to himself. As he closes his eyes and tries
in vain to will sleep to overcome him, he thinks to himself that he should
find himself a woman, someone who wants him and needs him, someone who
could give him what House can't. Or won't. End this cycle he's got himself
into, get on with his life, stop living his life according to what he
can't have. 

It's not a reassuring thought, but it'll do. Amazing how a man who's used
to getting everything he wants always ends up with second best, with
things that never fulfil or satisfy him. With people who never end up
wanting to stay, people who end up no longer needing him, people who grow
and move on while he remains stuck in this rut of giving way more than he
gets in the hope that people will continue to want and need him.

Yeah, he has to stop this. He rolls onto his other side to face the wall
and sighs quietly. Maybe one of these days he'll finally find the answer
to life, the universe and everything, and find himself a person who'll
complete him. Maybe he'll find his niche in life and learn to appreciate
that this is as good as it's going to get.

Maybe. 

+++

Routine definitely makes it easier to cope. Wilson's able to ignore the
downward spiral he's slowly slipping into. The tiredness in his face, the
bags under his eyes, how puffy he looks, how drained he feels -- he can
blame that on work. He doesn't like looking in the mirror to see how
unkempt he is and how old he's starting to appear -- but yes, it's just
work that's wearing him down, not House. Not his life. Not this lack of
direction he's got, or this emptiness he doesn't know how to fill. Work,
that's all it is. Work. 

He pretends he's not hurt when he discovers that House has left on an
overseas trip with Cuddy, without telling him. He's used to House not
talking to him anymore, so he dismisses it as nothing. He'd made a pact
with himself, after all, that he has to stop this thing he's doing to
himself: pining over House, wanting what he can't have. 

Being in charge of House's team helps him push those thoughts aside, too.
He feels important, worthwhile, necessary, as he tells Chase, Cameron and
Foreman what to do with Fran, even if he gets it wrong. At least they're
listening to him and including him, and not being overshadowed by House.
At least he's got something to focus on. He bustles from office to office,
from lab to lab, determined to find a cure for Fran in a race against
time. While he's doing that, he can't help but notice Robin -- and why
not? She's pretty; she comes across as strong while possessing an element
of vulnerability. 

Of course, Wilson notices much more when it occurs to him that Robin's a
callgirl. Without House around to interfere and occupy Wilson's thoughts,
he finds himself wondering how lonely Robin is, being she's a woman who
uses her body to service people. Not only that, but there's something
genuine about her, the way she sticks around for Fran's sake at Wilson's
suggestion, and he can't help being attracted to that, too -- that Robin
listens to him. It's probably stupid of him to allow his mind to focus on
Robin while House isn't around, but it's a nice change, to not be burdened
with how much hurt Wilson feels at what he's lost between House and
himself. 

It's definitely stupid of him when he sits at this desk at the end of the
day after giving Fran her diagnosis, with Robin's number in his hand. Even
more stupid when he picks the phone up and dials, and clumsily tells her
it's Dr. Wilson, Fran's doctor. James. There was a time when the idea of
being around women, of asking them out, phoning them, wooing them,
seducing them, came naturally to Wilson, came so easily to him that he
didn't need to even think about his moves or his word choices. He just
knew how women operated; the way they loved to be complimented on their
clothes and their jewellery, how touched they looked if he asked them
about their dreams and aspirations, and how dreamy-eyed they became if he
did gentlemanly things like open doors and pull out chairs for them. 

But that was before he retreated into himself, like he has recently. He
doesn't feel as confident as he used to feel around women, around people,
with himself. Marriage has always been a safety net for him because it
guaranteed Wilson companionship whether his marriage was good or not, and
perhaps it's sad that he's the type to always settle for second best just
for the sake of not being alone. But second best is better than nothing at
all.

Robin sounds pleased to hear from him, pleased that Fran's stable, and
Wilson finds himself smiling. He's not exactly sure what he wants from
Robin, especially when he starts persuading her to come back into the
hospital to visit Fran. He explains that Fran's had acute to chronic
exposure to methyl bromide, and due to the extensive toxicity she has to
stay under observation for an unknown amount of time and have supportive
care implemented for her. He doesn't tell Robin that there's no treatment
for those exposed to methyl bromide. It's probably somewhat underhanded of
him to get her to come back into the hospital for his own reasons rather
than for Fran's, but Robin eventually agrees and Wilson feels relief at
her saying she'll be in the next morning. 

When he hangs up, he drops his face into his hands and tries to push aside
the feeling of nervousness talking to Robin has conjured. He's not even
sure why he feels nervous -- because he doesn't feel confident, because
Robin's an escort, because... because there's a part of him that hopes,
deep down, that maybe House will get jealous. Of what, he doesn't know and
it shouldn't matter, seeing House barely speaks to him anymore. But if he
can't get House's attention by talking to him, if he can't break the
silence himself, then maybe... maybe he can get House to break it himself.

Maybe. Perhaps `maybe' isn't false hope after all.

Perhaps.

+++

Wilson greets Robin with a smile when he enters Fran's room, and he
notices the way Robin's holding Fran's hand and the way her other hand is
tenderly caressing Fran's shoulder. Strange how two people who barely know
each other can seem like they've known each other for years and it makes
something twist inside Wilson to see Robin be that way with Fran.
Especially with how glad Fran looks to see Robin with her, and he can't
help thinking to himself how nice it would be to have that with someone.
With House, maybe. 

He shakes thoughts of House from his mind, and focuses on asking how Fran
is as he checks her over, glancing at Robin every now and again with a
mildly charming smile which she returns as she strokes the back of Fran's
hand with her thumb.

Eventually, Fran looks too tired to keep her eyes open, so Wilson quietly
suggest to Robin that they leave her to rest for a while. When they step
outside her room, he asks if she'd like to grab a coffee. She says yes,
and as he guides her towards the elevator he glances into House's office
when they pass it. 

House is sitting at his desk, flipping through what looks like a magazine,
and Wilson sees him look up. They catch eyes; an exchanged look that
lingers longer than it should, and it's more calculated than Robin knows
when Wilson lightly touches the small of her back. He looks away, but he
can feel House's eyes on him, on where his hand is touching Robin, and it
takes every bit of willpower not to look back to House. 

He ushers her into the elevator and smiles down at her when the doors
close.

+++

Robin comes back to the hospital every day, sometimes in the morning,
sometimes in the afternoon, whenever she can get time off, and Wilson
always manages to find the time to cross paths with her. He notices, each
time he's in Fran's room, the way Fran and Robin keep touching, just a
supportive squeeze of hands, or a gentle touch to Fran's shoulder.
Sometimes Robin strokes the back of her fingers against Fran's cheek. 

Wilson always feels torn when he's watching this exchange of affection.
Torn between feeling awkward and feeling jealous. Awkward because he
doesn't always know where to look, jealous because he wants that, too. And
each time Fran says she needs a rest, Wilson always suggests for Robin to
come back to his office for a chat, or to grab some coffee, or sometimes
they sit on the benches in the waiting area, talking. Wherever it is they
go, Wilson makes sure to pass House, and makes sure to touch Robin
somewhere, lean in closer, walk closer to her like he's developing a
rapport with her. Which he is in a way -- she's a nice woman, strong and
confident with an edge of timidity to her that Wilson finds attractive,
not to mention the fact that she's stunning to look at.

He knows House always watches them. He can tell. Sometimes he chances a
casual glance in House's direction and sees House's gaze fixed soundly on
them both. It causes a rush of hope, or vindication, or something
triumphant inside Wilson when he sees House looking on like that, and he
wonders how much he can push before House snaps. If he snaps at all. Maybe
he won't; maybe he'll leave Wilson be in this spiral of destruction and
Wilson will find himself in some kind of relationship with Robin that he
never expected nor wants. But it doesn't hurt to try.

He knows he's pushing it a little too far when he asks Robin over coffee
one afternoon, to come back to his hotel. She watches him from across the
table with a sceptical look on her face, and then offers a smile as she
agrees. She reaches her hand across the table to clutch Wilson's, and
Wilson doesn't hold back with stroking the back of her hand with his thumb
even though he knows he doesn't really want her. She obviously thinks he
does, though, and that's okay. If she wants him, needs him, then at least
somebody does. Better than nobody.

Just as she gives his hand a squeeze, Wilson catches sight of House
wandering past slowly, and he sees the way House is peering at their
hands. He's not sure how to describe the look on House's face -- disgust,
jealousy, hatred. Whatever the look is, it's strong and fierce, and Wilson
wonders if House even realises how easy his face is to read. Wilson
squeezes Robin's hand again as he turns his attention back to her. The
next time to looks away, House is gone.

Wilson smiles at Robin again. For the first time in a long while, he feels
hopeful. Less worried about this silence between House and himself. Glad
that he's met Robin. Glad that she seems to genuinely like him.

Maybe things are finally going his way.

+++

Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, nervously twiddling his thumbs. 

Stupid that he's feeling anxious, when he'd felt so confident with Robin
earlier in the day. It's this transition from coffee to her coming to his
hotel room that has Wilson feeling uncertain, and more than that, he finds
himself wondering exactly what the hell he's doing. The more he thinks
about it, the more he's certain he doesn't actually want Robin, though
it's nice that she seems to want him. It's nice to feel wanted. Maybe even
needed. 

He can't help but feel a little addicted to that thought. Whether House
breaks the silence like Wilson so wants him to or not, at least he'll have
someone to fall back on. Second best, perhaps, but better than nothing.
Someone who's lonely like he is, someone who obviously likes giving
affection if how affectionate she is with Fran is any indication. 

A knock sounding on the door breaks Wilson from his thoughts. The first
thought that crosses his mind is that he hopes it's House, and then
realises how incredibly ridiculous that thought is. Like House would know
what Wilson's plans are, like House would even care, given how little they
talk these days. Still, the thought stubbornly lingers at the back of
Wilson's mind as he gets up from the bed and makes his way across the
door, and he's surprised to feel a stab of disappointment when he opens
the door and sees Robin standing there. It obviously shows on his face,
too, because the warm smile she greets him with falters. 

Wilson shakes the feeling off and quickly pulls his lips into a falsely
confident smile. "Hey," he greets as he pulls the door open wider.

Robin visibly relaxes. "Hey."

She steps inside and Wilson closes the door after her, and he watches her
survey the room, taking everything in as though out of habit more than
curiosity. Wilson stands behind her with his hands in his trouser pockets.
He wonders how many homes and hotel rooms she's been in, and looked around
in the exact same fashion, tallying up her client based solely upon what
they own. She's an escort and Wilson's always known that, but the
realisation doesn't really strike him until right now: she's an escort and
she's in his room because he invited her back, and he's never once been
interested in escorts, yet here he is. He's not sure if he likes that
idea. He pushes it from his mind.

Robin turns back towards him. "Nice."

Wilson smiles, attempting to look at ease, and gives a mild shrug. "It'll
do."

The story of my life, he thinks bitterly. Surprised by the sudden sour
thought, he clears his throat and broadens his smile. He gestures to the
loveseat. "Have a seat," he says, and as she sits down, he moves across to
the writing desk where he has a bottle of red waiting to be opened which
he purchased on the way home from work. 

"Do you like red wine?" he asks.

"I love red wine. Though, I'm more of a gin and tonic person, I'll admit."

He smiles. He picks up the bottle opener and starts to uncork the bottle,
and he asks her how she's been doing since they saw each other earlier
today.

"Good," she replies. "Tired. Busy."

"Work?" Wilson asks, and he instantly wishes he hadn't said that. It just
reminds him of that uncertain realisation he had earlier about her being
an escort.

"Yes."

He just smiles again, because he doesn't really know what to say to that.
He pours her a glass, then himself one, and takes the glasses over to the
loveseat.

"What about you?" she asks.

He offers her a glass, which she takes in her hands. "Busy," he replies
mildly. "Work. I'm sure you can relate."

She laughs and then sips her wine. "In my own way." Wilson sits down
beside her and stretches his arm across the back of the loveseat. "But I'm
sure you don't want to talk about work," she continues.

No. He doesn't want to talk about work. Thing is, it's the only thing he
has in his life now. Besides House. And he's not sure he even has House in
life anymore, either. "I'll talk about whatever you want to talk about,"
he offers.

Robin smiles. The conversation soon falls into an easy pattern of Robin
telling Wilson more about her life that she probably intends to, and
Wilson listening on with a practiced look of interest and concern. The
more wine that he imbibes, the more interested in her he becomes. Maybe
it's just the wine talking or maybe it's because she's experienced in
making nerves in people dissipate, but she seems to have a way of calming
him, relaxing him, making him feel more confident about himself than he's
felt in a long while. He smiles at her, genuinely smiles, as she talks,
and laughs at her jokes. He feels his muscles easing, his insides
unclenching, and he finds himself wishing the night would never end.

As the bottle gets drained, he notices Robin doing things like laying her
hand on his thigh, on his arm, sometimes his shoulder, and one point
brushes back his hair from his forehead. Her touches are soft, tender, and
when he feels her knuckles brushing against his cheek he closes his eyes
for a moment and relishes the contact. God... It's pathetic that he craves
contact that much. He feels turned on by it, too. After all, it's the
first bit of attention he's received in as long as he cares to remember.
Since the last time he and House had sex.

No... He pushes thoughts of House out of his mind.

He leans in and kisses Robin softly on the lips when the last of the wine
is drunk and he can't hold back on wanting more of that affection from
her. He feels her fingers knotting themselves in the front of his shirt,
sliding down his chest, up to his neck, into his hair as the kiss deepens.
Their breathing becomes quick and heavy, and Robin stands up and takes
Wilson by the hand to lead him to the bed. 

They keep kissing as they shed each other's clothes, Robin kissing his
chest as she peels back his shirt and Wilson palming her breasts in his
hands before sucking her nipples through the material of her bra. She's
all soft womanly curves and beautiful brown skin, and the way she touches
him, god... He loses himself in the way Robin's hands run down his arms
and how her mouth presses soft kisses down his chest, while he strokes her
hair and her back. He enters her from above after she rolls a condom onto
him, and they move together hard and fast, Robin scratching her nails down
his back while Wilson presses his face into her neck. She wraps her legs
around his waist and angles herself up, and Wilson muffles a groan against
her throat as he comes.

When he rolls off her, he stares up at the ceiling as he catches his
breath, and he feels Robin spoon up beside him with her hand on his chest
and her lips kissing his shoulder. He knows he should feel some kind of
contentment because of how she's displaying affection, because of how this
whole evening has turned out but now he feels strangely empty. Again. Like
there's something missing. Something big, important, something he can't
push out of his mind completely no matter how much he tries.

House. Greg.

Wilson turns his attention away from his thoughts by turning to Robin, and
he runs his hands up her thighs and over her belly, focusing on taking
care of her. She laps it up like a woman starved of attention and
affection, and that makes Wilson feel a little better. Now that he's had
sex with her, ideas of pursuing anything beyond sex have vanished from his
mind. He doesn't really want her. He'll go along with pretending he does,
though, in case it gets him what he wants. Or in case she's all he has to
fall back on.

When he wakes up in the morning, Robin's gone, but there's a note on the
pillow for him that reads, Maybe I'll catch you later today? Robin. xx. It
even has a small lipsticked kiss mark on it, which Wilson's not sure what
to make of.

He peers at the note for a while, wondering what the hell he's getting
himself into here, and scrunches it up before tossing it aside. He has
this uneasy feeling that this is all going to backfire on him somehow. He
can't seem to shake that feeling, either, and it hangs low on him as he
gets ready for work. He focuses on routine to keep himself structured and
together, though the tiredness on his face gives away that something is
wrong.

Maybe he should take a vacation. Do something for himself, by himself. Do
something where he can be away from House, and work, and all his
responsibilities, and work out what the hell he wants to do with his life.
He can't keep holding onto House and he doesn't know why he is holding
onto him. Other than the fact that he loves him.

That thought is like a slap to the face. He doesn't let that thought go
any further. He doesn't like how sudden it occurs to him, or how it hits
him in the gut like a punch, or how it won't go away no matter how much he
tries to shake it off.

Maybe that's what this silence is all about. Maybe that's why he can't let
House go. Maybe that's why he wants House to need him as much as Wilson
needs him, or wants him, or lo-- 

Maybe... Maybe...

He's getting sick and fucking tired of maybe.

+++

Robin is beaming when Wilson crosses paths with her in the hospital. In
truth, he'd hoped he wouldn't see her because he doesn't want to lead her
on into thinking this is something more than just sex. He gives her a
smile in return, a false smile, and stupidly touches her arm and rubs it
like she means something to him. She stands a little too close to him in
the corridor, and they exchange looks that are a little too revealing of
what they've been up to.

"Will I see you tonight?" she asks.

Wilson feels his heart sink. No, he wants to say. No, I don't think that's
a very good idea. "Sure," he finds himself replying. Like his mouth is on
autopilot.

She smiles at him again, and leans up on the balls of her feet to press a
kiss to his cheek. Wilson darts his eyes around him self-consciously, and
suddenly spots House standing at the end of the corridor, staring at them.


Wilson freezes, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, and he
stares right back at House. The look on House's face is unmistakable
jealousy. Or loathing. Or disgust. A look Wilson still can't seem to put a
name to, but he can feel the force of House's stare like it's a heavy
weight bearing down on him. It fills Wilson with hope and dread, and fear
and something else he doesn't want to acknowledge. Maybe he's finally got
House's attention. Maybe. He almost wants House to walk right up to him
and say something, do something, anything to prove that House is finally
listening to him. 

But instead, House turns and walks away and Wilson watches him with a
sinking feeling so heavy in his gut, it takes all the willpower in the
world to give Robin a warm smile when she pulls back.

"Tonight," she says, walking backwards into the elevator when it arrives,
and gives Wilson a wink.

He smiles and nods, pushing his hands into his labcoat pockets. And when
the doors shut Robin out of sight, the smile drops from Wilson's face. He
goes back to his office, sits at his desk, and buries his face into his
hands.

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't have a fucking clue. He needs to
stop this god damn bullshit, stop getting himself into situations he can't
get out of, stop getting himself into messes he creates without meaning
to. Or maybe he does mean to create them. Maybe. Christ, all he wanted was
for House to break the silence, pay attention to him, listen to Wilson for
once, and now he doesn't know where he stands with anything.

All he has left is routine. That's all. Routine to keep him focused and
structured, to give him purpose and direction. He drops his hands from his
face and digs around is desk for some files to work on, dictations,
something, anything.

Maybe he should phone up Robin, tell her not to come. Tell her a lie; tell
her something's come up. A patient's sick or dying, or... or...

He sighs and slams his pen onto the file open in front of him in
frustration, and looks across at the door that leads out to the balcony.
Lie, yeah. More lies. Like he needs more of those. Like he needs to dig
himself in deeper. He doesn't want to hurt Robin; he doesn't want to keep
this going, either. 

Fuck, he doesn't know what to do.

+++

Waiting for Robin to turn up is like waiting to receive the death penalty.
Wilson thinks that's over the top, overdramatic, stupid of him, because
Robin hasn't done anything here. This isn't Robin's fault. He should've
told her tonight was bad for him... that every night from now on is bad
for him. But instead he'd agreed to see her, so this isn't anybody else's
fault except his own.

Or House's. 

Wilson paces his hotel room, occasionally running his hand through his
hair, rubbing the back of his neck, tugging anxiously at his collar,
wringing his hands together. Not even routine is distracting him anymore
because he's so damn focused on this chaos he's got himself into, all
because of this silence he wants to break, this silence he could break on
his own if he'd just face House and tell him. Demand to have House listen
to him. Demand House to pay attention, break the god damn silence. The
thing is, going to him now would be useless, ineffective, because every
time he's gone to House to make him listen in the past, he's ended up
lecturing him. Lecturing and lecturing, to the point where House just
shuts him off completely. So, even if he tried to break the silence
himself, it wouldn't work. House would ignore him, like he's been ignoring
him in every other way.

Except when House has caught Wilson with Robin. Then he pays attention.
Wilson can see it in his eyes, in his face. And so he should pay
attention, because if it wasn't for House being so god damn adamant about
the rules of silence between them, Wilson wouldn't have to play games,
wouldn't have to resort to measures to get House to notice him, to listen,
so this is all House's fault. Yeah. House is the one to be blamed for
this, not Robin, not Wilson. House.

Wilson wishes that thought made him feel better. He wishes placing blame
would dissolve this whole situation and make everything back the way it
was when he and House were fucking, when Wilson had something rather than
this quicksand of confusion that Wilson's sinking fast into. Whatever
happened to stopping this bullshit and getting himself on track, working
out his life, doing something with himself beyond screwing up every
fucking time? 

He sits down with a slump on the loveseat and drops his face into his
hands. He has to make a decision here, get control of himself and of the
situation before it gets any worse. He has to stop lying to Robin. He has
to stop lying to himself, forget House, move on from him, stop pining over
something he can't have. He has to.

Just as he pushes himself up from the seat, he hears a knock at the door.
Loud and demanding, which makes Wilson frown. Why would Robin knock like
that? Maybe something's wrong. Maybe she's just eager to see him. Maybe...
maybe...

The knock sounds again, even louder and Wilson suddenly feels his stomach
knot up. He's not sure he wants to answer the door because that's not
Robin. She wouldn't be that demanding or loud, or insistent, he's certain
of that. And he's not sure he wants to face who's on the other side of the
door, not now that he's made a conscious decision to stop this. Maybe it's
cowardly of him, but he can't help feeling scared of the mess he's caused
for himself. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the door.

The pounding sounds again. "I know you're in there," House bellows.

Wilson reaches a hand up to his face and anxiously rubs his jaw before
running his fingers through his hair. He feels like shrinking into a
corner, hiding as far away from House as possible. He hasn't got anywhere
to hide in here, though, and he knows House will keep pounding, perhaps
pound the door right off its hinges, commanding to be let in until he gets
what he wants. 

Wilson hesitantly starts for the door, feeling his pulse increase with
each step he takes. This is ridiculous, this is so god damn stupid. A few
days ago, the idea of House being the one to make the first move filled
Wilson with hope, but now he feels nothing but dread. Cold, steel dread.
Just as he nears the door, he suddenly sees the doorknob being rattled,
hears House twisting and turning it impatiently. Then silence.

Wilson stops in his tracks. He listens hard, trying to hear what House is
doing to anticipate his next move and when he hears nothing, he holds his
breath. He's almost expecting House to suddenly bust the door down with
his cane or maybe his shoulder -- he certainly seems determined enough.
Why, Wilson doesn't know. He's not sure he wants to know. The silence is
worse, though; it makes him feel even more on edge.

Another three loud pounds abruptly sound on the door, and Wilson can't
tell if the sudden sharp breath he lets out is from fright or relief. He
debates letting House in for another moment before he closes the distance
between the door and himself, and braces his hand around the doorknob.
Slowly, he turns it and opens the door wide enough to peer out, and he's
taken aback by how close House is standing to the door. Wilson meets
House's eyes, which are piercing and dark, and his face is distorted by
shadows thrown down from the light hanging overhead. He looks angry and
menacing.

Wilson swallows thickly. He opens the door wide enough to let House in
because he knows House is going to demand to be let in, whether he wants
House to come in or not. He'd rather not speak, would rather avoid
speaking for as long as possible, avoid it altogether if possible. Ironic,
seeing he's the one who wanted to break the silence in the first place.

House enters the room, brushing past Wilson roughly. Wilson stares out
into the cold night, clutching onto the doorknob tightly like he doesn't
want to let go of it. But he does, after a moment; slowly closes the door
and then just as slowly turns to face House.

They stare at each other. It's like a never ending distance and a
suffocating nearness between them at the same time. Wilson presses his
lips together, determined not to be the one to speak first. He's just as
determined not to look away from House's gaze, too, because submission of
any kind would be breaking the silence. So, he continues to stare at
House, staring at him hard and by some miracle House is the first to
finally look away.

Wilson sighs a quiet breath of relief and looks down, setting his hands
onto his hips. He listens to the in-out of his breathing, the tap dripping
faintly plink plink into the bathroom sink in staccato rhythm, the
occasional car driving by outside in the wet evening, someone with the TV
on too loud down the corridor. All the noises seem loud, louder as the
silence stretches and it's not until Wilson looks up that he realises
House is staring at him again. 

Say something, Wilson begs in his mind as he watches House watching him.
Say something, anything. Please. It's on the tip of his tongue to say
something himself, to break the icy silence because, god it's painful.
Awkward. Uncomfortable. Stifling. A million and one things suddenly flood
into his mind to say: how are you, and why are you here, and what do you
want, and god damn it, talk, and the weather's shit, and get lost. Wilson
has to look away again to stop himself from saying anything.

He half-turns on the spot away from House, his hand now rubbing the back
of his neck anxiously. And just as he's about to head into the bathroom
because he doesn't know where else to go to escape the oppressive silence,
House says in a low voice, "She's coming here tonight, isn't she?"

Wilson snaps his head in House's direction, unsure if he's surprised at
what House said, or surprised that House spoke at all. He swallows again
and clenches his jaw, then nods once. What's the point in lying? There
isn't any. What does it matter, anyway?

"When?" House asks.

Wilson feels taken off guard. He probably looks it, too. He doesn't want
to talk, doesn't want to damn well talk, but he finds his mouth saying,
"Half an hour."

The look that crosses House's face, Wilson can't place it at all.
Somewhere between jealousy, and loathing, and disgust, those same
expressions he'd seen on House's face every time House saw Robin and
himself together. Except... Wilson can't tell, but maybe it's because he
wants House to feel hurt that he sees a flicker of hurt in House's face.

 "Call her," House says quietly, calmly.

Wilson feels taken off guard again. He gives House a questioning look.

"Call her," House repeats.

Wilson opens his mouth, wanting to ask why House want him to call Robin,
but he can't bring himself to say anything. He closes his mouth again.

It's like House understand exactly what Wilson is silently conveying.
"Tell her not to come over; you're cancelling."

Wilson stares at House for a moment and then nods once. He'd much rather
Robin to be here instead of House right now. At least Robin wouldn't glare
at him like that; at least Robin makes Wilson feel calm; at least Robin
doesn't demand he do things; at least Robin doesn't play this game of
silence. He moves towards the bedside table where his cell phone is lying,
and he picks it up, throwing a surreptitious glance over his shoulder at
House as he fishes Robin's number from his pocket. House is watching him,
watching every single move and it's making Wilson feel nervous. He finds
her number and quickly looks away so he can punch the number in,
frustrated by how much his hands are trembling. When he places the phone
to his ear and listens to the ring tone on the other end, he's acutely
aware of House's eyes still watching him. Wilson suddenly realises he
can't remember the last time he felt so scared of House.

"Hello, James," he hears Robin's voice say. She sounds pleased to hear
him, flirtatious.

"Oh," he stumbles. He pulls his lips into a tight smile. "Hey."

"I'm just on my way over now--"

"Actually," Wilson cuts in. Robin falls silent on the end of the line and
Wilson winces at how horrible and awkward this whole situation is. "I,
uh... something has, uh..." He uses his free hand to rub his face. It
really doesn't help that House is watching, listening to every single
fumbled word Wilson's saying. "Something's come up. I, uh..."

"Oh..." Robin replies faintly, sounding disappointed.

Wilson inwardly cringes. "Yeah, uh. Work, you know. One of my patients is
very sick and it's possible they may not see it through the night," he
lies. And what a lie it is, because Wilson's just an oncologist - he
delivers the news and offers treatment and monitors progress. He doesn't
do bedside vigils to any of his patients.

Robin doesn't know that, though. "Oh, I see," she replies, still sounding
disappointed but understanding. She pauses. "Another night, then?"

"Uh..." Wilson automatically glances over his shoulder at House, and the
dark look House is giving him makes Wilson wish he'd never bothered with
Robin at all. "Sure," he finds himself saying, though he doesn't mean it.

"Great," Robin says. She pauses again. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," Wilson quickly replies. He runs his hand through his hair and forces
out a laugh. "No, just a bit preoccupied."

"With work," Robin says. "I understand."

"Yeah," he agrees absently. "Look, I've got to go. I guess I'll..."

"Talk to you later," replies Robin. Wilson can almost hear the smile in
her voice, which doesn't make him feel any better.

"Yeah," he says again. "Talk to you later." He pulls the phone from his
ear and presses end call, and he sets the phone down onto the bedside
table.

"Did you just agree to see her again?"

House's breath is hot against the back of his neck, and Wilson almost
jumps out of his skin. He hadn't heard House approaching him from behind
and now that House has spoken, he's suddenly aware of how close House is.
So close, he can feel House's body heat radiating against his. 

Wilson's breath picks up a little, as well as his pulse. He feels trapped,
cornered. "No," he lies, his voice tight.

"No?" House asks disbelievingly.

Wilson shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. "No."

House falls silent; so does Wilson. He doesn't get what House wants here,
seeing House was the one who wanted everything to remain unspoken of. It
was House that was angry with him, House that demanded he didn't speak,
House who called him James most likely to mock him. He's not sure House
even needs him; maybe he's just here because House doesn't like sharing,
like a kid possessive of his toys whether he plays with them or not.
Wilson doesn't let himself think that maybe House is here because House
does need him. It would hurt too much to build his hopes up, only to have
them knocked down yet again - that would leave Wilson even more crushed
than he was the last time. It hurt when House told him, Don't, and then
turned away from him in the bed, like he was rejecting Wilson, rejecting
how close Wilson wanted to be with him.

How long does House plan on standing behind him like this? Wilson's
feeling more and more nervous by the second. He doesn't know whether to
stay facing away from House, or whether to face him. And if he faces him,
what will happen? What more has he got to lose if he does face him,
though? It feels like he's already completely lost House, anyway.

For that reason, Wilson slowly turns his head until he can see House in
his peripheral vision, and then just as slowly turns his whole body on the
spot until he's facing House. Staring at him right in the eyes. Watching
House watching him. 

"Why are you here?" Wilson finds himself asking after a long, stifling
pause.

House's gaze hardens. "Don't."

Wilson stares at House in disbelief, and then feels a flood of anger burst
through him. House has come over here, barged into his room, invaded his
space and his time after making out he doesn't want anything to do with
Wilson anymore, and then tells him don't? Again?

"Don't what, House?" Wilson snaps. 

"Wilson--"

"Don't what?" Wilson cuts him off sharply. "Don't speak? Is that it?
Because if you don't want me to speak, then why're you here? I'm sick of
playing this game."

"You started this game," House shoots back and Wilson has to stop himself
from shrinking back at the viciousness in House's voice. House gives him a
mocking leer. "You're sick of playing your own game now, are you?"

Wilson glares at him. "You're the one that made this into a game." 

House narrows his eyes. He takes a slow half-step closer to Wilson, their
bodies now so close they're almost pressed up against each other. "You
made this into a game just as much as I did. Don't blame me if you're the
one who wanted more out of this."

Wilson gapes at House, feeling like he's just been slapped across the
face. So, that's what it comes down to -- House never wanted more.
Wilson's been holding onto false hope this entire time. He swallows hard
and looks away. He feels crushed. House was just using him, and Wilson
should know this because he was using House just as much - except he
wanted more because he needed to know House needed him. Wanted him.
Because he loves House, he loves him. He didn't want to keep playing this
game, which was the whole reason he broke the silence in the first place.

He looks back to House. "Get out."

House squares his shoulders and stands taller. "No."

"Get out."

House gives him a challenging look, which just makes Wilson angrier. He
wants to shove House back, push him, punch him... kiss him. Kiss him out
of anger like those times where they were rough and brutal with each
other; those times when they struggled and fought to get the other to
submit until one of them succeeded. Kiss him because even if he's hurt and
crushed that House doesn't want more, he still wants House, god he wants
him. He wants House to want him. He wants... he wants House to need him
and love him. He so damn sick and tired of how unrequited this whole thing
is.

"God damn you," Wilson adds in frustration, and he lifts his hands to
House's chest to push him back from him so he can escape being cornered
between House's body and the bed. His palms press against House's wrinkled
shirt and just as he's about to shove him back, House's hand suddenly
dashes up and clutches the back of Wilson's neck. 

Wilson instantly jerks back in surprise, which makes House clutch his neck
tighter, and he pushes House once - and then starts to curl his fingers
into House's shirt. He bunches the material in his hands, fists it, twists
it, feels himself being tugged towards House. He tugs House in towards
him, too, like a magnetic pull, until their bodies are pressed up hard
against each other.

Suddenly House's mouth is on his, crushing and kissing, and Wilson lets
out a sound of anguish before submitting. He kisses back, hard and
angrily, feeling House's stubble grazing and burning against his chin and
upper lip, feels House's teeth clashing against his own, feels House's
tongue licking against his lips. Wilson opens his mouth wider and lashes
his tongue against House's, tasting it as he grips House's shirt even
tighter in his hands. His heart is pounding in his chest and his head is
rushing with white noise. 

He pulls back to gasp for air, only to be pulled straight back in again,
House's mouth back on his. The second kiss is even more brutal than the
first: savage, unrelenting, unmerciful, leaving Wilson's lips feeling
stung and bruised by the time they break away from each other to come up
for more air. 

Wilson's hands start to shakily claw at House's shirt, latching onto the
buttons to push them undone, and House is no less gentle as he yanks
Wilson's tie loose. Wilson is still caught between wanting to shove House
back as hard as he can, even more so now because he feels angry and upset
and bitter, and god how he'd love to slam his fist into House's face or
stomach, watch him double over in pain. But god, he wants him, too. It's
such a contradictory feeling, one that's making Wilson more and more
frustrated by the second. 

Wilson manages to get the first button undone, the second, the third,
finds himself being urged back with sharp shoves towards the bed by the
fourth, and then gives up unbuttoning it altogether and grabs a fistful of
House's shirt to yank it over his head. House fights against him, and
Wilson grits his teeth as he stares House in the eyes, wrestling with the
shirt fisted in his hands again. Come on, he's shouting in his head. Come
on, you bastard.

He lets out a gasp as House suddenly kisses him again, more teeth against
his lips than anything else. Wilson tries to bite back, determined not to
let House get his way here, except House is getting his way because
Wilson's hard in his pants, aching to feel House's hands grope and stroke
him as angrily as House is kissing him. House reaches between them to grab
at Wilson's belt at the same time that Wilson finally gets House's shirt
off. He throws the shirt aside, then slaps his hands onto House's back,
digs his nails in, hears House hissing as he scratches his nails down
House's back. Their mouths are back on each other, consuming and vicious,
House threading Wilson's belt free as Wilson starts snatching and
scrabbling at the front of House's jeans.

"Oh--" Wilson starts without meaning to when House's hand unexpectedly
grabs his dick through his trousers, and he bucks his hips up, also
without meaning to. Fuck you, Wilson hisses in his mind. Fuck you, you
asshole. With one hand snapping the button of House's jeans undone, Wilson
returns the move by groping House through his jeans. He pulls back from
the attack of House's mouth on his enough to see House's face, to watch
his reaction - and sees utter fury and lust written on House's face.
Wilson's not sure what excites him more - House's anger or desire - just
like he's not sure why House is doing this, or even what House really
wants. The last time they fucked, Wilson ruined it, he was certain he
ruined it, by speaking, by wanting more. The silence that followed from
House after all this time just confirmed to Wilson that he'd ruined it -
so why is House here now? 

Wilson feels another stab of frustration at House, at himself, at this
whole fucking situation, and angrily squeezes House's dick through his
jeans even harder. He hears House make an angry sound and Wilson barely
has time to draw in a breath when House's mouth claims his again in
another fierce kiss. Wilson braces his hands against House's chest with
the intention of pushing him back, again - but feels House's fingers
suddenly no longer yanking at his belt but pulling at his shirt,
impatiently fighting with the buttons and Wilson breaks away from the kiss
with a gasp of air to glare at House.

God, he wants to hate House for coming here and stirring things up between
them like this again. And god, he loves House. And hates that he loves
House and hates that he has no idea what House wants from him. And god, he
wants House. Wants him so much. Hates him for wanting him, loves him for
being here, hates him for making this so confusing, hates how slow House
is being with these god damn buttons. 

Wilson looks down and starts to shove House's hands away to take over,
furiously unbuttoning his shirt, aware of House's quick breathing and
aware that House's hands are back down on his trousers. Wilson looks back
up to House just as he gets the last button undone, his pants now undone,
too, and House doesn't waste time in roughly tugging the shirt from
Wilson's shoulders, kissing him hard again, their bare chests now pressed
up against each other and god, Wilson's missed the feel of House's skin
against his, missed it so much. He bites at House's mouth in frustration,
House biting back before House suddenly deepens the kiss, slows it down,
right down until the kiss is almost strangely tender. Hard, but tender,
the way his mouth moves over Wilson's lips in firm, focused motions,
sucking and nibbling, tasting with his tongue. It's almost needy,
something House has never done before.

The shift in House's attitude is so abrupt that Wilson has no idea what to
make of it -- in fact, he doesn't make anything of it at first, just
kisses back just as deeply and needily, losing himself in how much
expression House is putting into the kiss. It's not until he feels House's
hands start to tenderly touch his chest, with broad open palms over his
pectorals, that Wilson snaps out of the moment, and he finds himself not
liking how sudden House's change in attitude is, not liking how intimate
and unexpected it is. He reaches his hand down between House and himself
and gropes House's dick, squeezes hard, which makes House pull back in
surprise, startled, as though the feel of Wilson's hand is a dash of cold
water thrown on him and breaking him out of a trance.

House makes another angry sound and shoves Wilson backwards, causing him
to fall onto the bed, and suddenly House is on top of him, consuming
Wilson in another brutal kiss. The weight of House's body on him is
intoxicating. Heavy and possessive and utterly suffocating, and Wilson
swallows back a whimper at how much he's missed House, slapping his hands
onto House's back to grip him close. 

Wilson feels something twist in his chest, something fierce and burning
and tight, something that makes him feel like he can't breathe. Greg...,
he thinks desperately, his hands leaving House's back and snatching at
House's hair, at his head. He opens his mouth wide and sliding his tongue
against House's in another bizarrely frantic, needy kiss. Wilson squeezes
his eyes shut and feels House pressing down even heavier onto him, like
House is trying to get under his skin, kissing and kissing and, god, House
has never kissed him like this before. Never. Never kissed with so much
passion. Wilson has no idea where this is coming from or what's prompting
it, and he's not sure he likes it. He's not sure because this is
completely unfamiliar and revealing. Revealing of what, Wilson isn't sure.
But House certainly isn't holding back and how many times had Wilson
wished House would kiss him like this? And now he is, and Wilson doesn't
know what to make of it.

He turns his head away to grab a breath of air, his lungs feeling like
they're about to burst, and he feels House's mouth, wet and hot, drop to
his neck to keep kissing as passionately as he was just kissing his mouth.
Wilson grimaces at the sharp burn of House's bristles on his skin, his
chin and upper lip burning, too. He keeps twisting and clutching at
House's hair, arching his neck, biting back the want to moan or whimper
or, god forbid, speak. He can't work out if he wants more or if he wants
House to stop. He untangles his fingers from House's hair and drops his
hands to House's shoulders to push him away -- or maybe to draw him
closer, and House takes that as some kind of cue to pull back from
Wilson's neck to crush their mouths together again.

House breaks the kiss again a moment later and pulls back enough to look
down at Wilson. Wilson stares back up at him, still clutching House's
shoulders, and for a horrifying moment he sees House open his mouth. Like
he's about to speak. About to say something. Wilson suddenly seizes up in
fear because he doesn't want House to speak, not after the way House
kissed him. Not now. Not with how unfamiliar this feels. He watches House
run his tongue along his top lip slowly, watches House blink, watches
House's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows before he opens his
mouth again.

"Wil--"

Before Wilson can stop himself, he tugs House down hard and crushes their
mouths back together again, drowning out whatever it was House was about
to say. Maybe House is frustrated by this, because Wilson feels House
biting at his mouth again, fighting against him, which only makes Wilson
more determined to keep House quiet. Grabbing House's hips, Wilson
wrestles with him, struggles for a few moments, before he manages to get
House onto his back. This seems to anger House --- Wilson sees it in
House's eyes, and the kiss Wilson attacks against House's mouth is savage
and full of rage again. He feels House's hands scratching at his back,
feels House struggling underneath him - this is more familiar. This is the
way it was between them those times they fucked with anger, fought over
control, fought in silence. 

Wilson breaks the kiss and drops his mouth to House's chest, one hand
grabbing at House's wrist while the other digs in between their bodies to
start tugging House's jeans undone, and House grabs a tuft of Wilson's
hair and pulls. Hard enough to make Wilson snap his head back in pain,
gritting his teeth to stop a hiss from escaping and before he realises it,
he finds himself being shoved off, shoved hard, rolled onto his back with
House climbing back on top of him.

Bastard, Wilson thinks angrily. Fucking bastard. They exchange another
hard, violent kiss, arching and thrusting against each other, House
yanking at Wilson's pants, Wilson yanking at House's. Everything seems to
be the way it always was between them whenever they fucked roughly, as
House drags Wilson's pants and boxers off his body without any gentleness.
House impatiently pushes his jeans off, too, while he's standing up, and
then climbs back onto the bed. They resume kissing aggressively, with
House's body pressed heavy and naked and hard against Wilson's - oh, god,
Wilson thinks to himself as their cocks slide alongside each other and as
House's body consumes him once more, oh, god - when the shift in attitude
suddenly changes again.

House's kisses get harder, yet strangely tenderer, desperate, needy,
passionate, and Wilson finds himself being completely swept up in it. He
kisses back with much the same passion, kissing and kissing and kissing,
tangling his leg around House's good leg, thrusting up, feeling his chest
tighten again. This feeling of passion feels uncontrollable and foreign,
and when House pulls back once again to look down at Wilson, looking at
him like he wants to say something, Wilson is quick to kiss him again,
quick to shut off whatever it is House is insistently wanting to say.

Don't speak, Wilson thinks urgently about House. Don't speak, don't say a
word. So strange, seeing the last time he'd wanted House to speak so
badly. So badly. Wanted House to make a sound, wanted House to want more,
wanted House to want him for more than just sex. And now House is giving
it to him, or trying to give it to him, after all this time, for a reason
Wilson doesn't understand, and the more House tries to say whatever it is
he wants to say, the less Wilson likes what's happening between them. 

He rolls House onto his back without breaking away from House's mouth,
fighting against House's hands trying to push him back, and he shifts to
his knees before straddling House's hips. He grits his teeth and grabs at
House's hands as House tries to throw him off, watching the look of utter
frustration on House's face. Wilson entwines their fingers together and
manages to pin House's hands back against the pillow, holding him there as
he leans down to kiss House again - another angry kiss, trying to coax
House to fight with him rather than do anything unfamiliar. It works, for
a few minutes, until House is kissing him passionately again, and Wilson
finds himself drawn into it. Again. Because part of him does want House to
want more. He loves House, god damn it. 

He pulls away from the kiss with another gasp of air, suddenly desperate
for House to fuck him. Maybe if House fucks him, House will be too
distracted to say anything. Bracing a hand against House's chest, Wilson
lunges forward with his other hand for the bedside drawers and fumbles
with the handle, yanks the drawer open and clumsily grabs out the condoms
and the lube. He feels House's hands sliding over his chest, in slow
stroking motions which makes Wilson bite his lower lip because, god, it
feels good when House touches him. Especially like that - slow, sensually,
almost affectionately. Except House has never touched him like that
before. It's the kind of touch that seems to speak more than words ever
could. 

Wilson shrugs away from it, confused by what the hell House wants. He
peers down at House with a puzzled look on his face as he squeezes a
dollop of lube out onto his hand. House watches him and responds to the
look on Wilson's face by touching Wilson's thighs, his hips, his stomach,
licking his lips like he's about to say something again. Don't speak,
Wilson thinks desperately to himself and in a anxious bid to distract
House, Wilson moves his left hand behind himself, leaning over House with
his other hand braced on the mattress, and touches his anus. He quickly
smears the lube around it, strokes it, starts to push his finger into
himself with a fierce look of concentration down at House. House stares
back up at him, mesmerised.

He pushes his finger in deeper, squeezing his eyes shut to try and get
himself to relax. He focuses on memories of what it feels like to have
House deep inside him -- how much it burns, hurts, how good it feels when
House's dick hits that spot in him that makes his spine feel like it's
melting. He drops his head, controlling his breathing as he awkwardly
tries to reach deeper into himself -- and unexpectedly feels House's
fingers running through his hair. Almost tenderly. 

Wilson snaps his eyes open and nearly jerks back in surprise. He darts his
eyes up to House's face, and maybe the look he gives House is uninviting
because House drops his hands away with a look of perplexity on his face.
Perhaps frustration. Wilson closes his eyes again; he doesn't want to
focus on House's face or the way House is looking at him, doesn't want to
try and understand why House is looking at him like that, and he starts
thrusting his finger in and out. God damn it, this angle is awkward and
uncomfortable. He stills his finger, keeps it inside himself as he
carefully shifts back until he's sitting up a little more and resumes
thrusting his finger in and out -- except sitting like this makes his anal
muscles clench tighter and Wilson stops again with an impatient sigh. 

"Do you want me to h--"

Wilson jumps at hearing House's voice. He snaps his eyes open again and
looks sharply at House, so sharply that House falls silent and almost
appears to shrink back against the pillow. For a split second Wilson
thinks about climbing off House and forgetting about this whole thing.
Getting dressed, making House leave the hotel, making it clear he doesn't
want House to ever come back. Because Wilson really can't handle House's
sudden desire to talk and acknowledge what they're doing here. He has no
idea what's changed, but something has changed, something huge. Something
he wasn't prepared for.

House's hand wrapping slowly around his dick jolts Wilson out of his
thoughts. He looks down at House's hand and then back at House's face. Now
would be a good time to end this. Right now. Before this becomes something
Wilson's really not sure he wants. The thing is, he wanted House to break
the silence, didn't he? He wanted that. And now House is, and... and...

Wilson swallows hard as House's thumb starts to tease the slit of his
cock. He's desperately trying to keep focused on his train of thought,
trying to work out what the hell he wants, but the way House starts to
stroke him, slowly, firmly, Wilson wants... he doesn't know what he wants,
but his body starts to react: his hips begin to thrust, pushing his cock
through the tight circle of House's hand, his mind caught between god damn
you, stop that and more, please, more.

He slaps his hand onto House's chest in frustration and glares down at
him, House glaring right back up at him as Wilson grits his teeth and
starts to finger himself in time with the strokes of House's hand on his
cock. God damn you, he wants to hiss. God damn you for coming here, for
making this so fucking confusing. He draws in a sharp breath, pushing a
second finger into himself and, fuck, it hurts. Burns, stings as his anus
stretches, but he keeps twisting his fingers in, feeling anger fire up in
him as House starts to caress his chest, his neck, his face. Wilson closes
his eyes while House's fingers stroke his cheek, sliding his tongue out to
taste House's fingers as feels them trace over his lips. He coaxes House's
forefinger into his mouth and sucks on it, gasping quietly as House
squeezes his dick tighter. He thinks about biting down on House's finger
when he hears House moan quietly. 

Shut up, don't make a sound, Wilson commands in his mind. Please, don't
make a sound. He releases House's finger from his mouth with a sucking
sound and opens his eyes to peer down at him, and his chest twists at the
way House is looking back up at him. Such an intense stare, too intense;
an expression Wilson's never seen on House's face before. Wilson squeezes
his eyes shut once more and focuses on the physical, on the way House
keeps stroking his cock. He reaches deeper inside himself with his
fingers, his arm aching from being twisted behind himself like this. He
just wants House to fuck him, now, right now. Wants to fuck House out of
anger and frustration, wants to clamp down on all these confusing emotions
in himself.

He draws his fingers out and gropes frantically for the condoms on the
bedside table. House obviously takes this as a cue to start roaming his
hands over Wilson's body again, which just makes Wilson feel angry... and
needy... and... and god damn it, stop doing that. His hands are shaky as
he rips the condom packet open, even shakier when he scoots back and
roughly rolls the condom onto House's dick. He makes a grab for the lube
before House manages to get his hands on it. He squeezes a large amount
out and slicks House's cock up, shoving House's hands away from himself
when he feels them on his chest and shoulders. 

He hears House make a sound of frustration, feels him struggling again for
dominance, grabbing, clawing, trying to shove Wilson off and Wilson
snatches House's wrists to fight back against him once he tosses the lube
aside. Fighting is good, fighting is familiar; Wilson wants House to keep
on fighting with him instead of breaking the silence and as he scoots back
up over House's body he leans over to kiss House hard on the mouth.
Fiercely, aggressively, biting and sucking, wrestling with House to make
him stay on his back. He wants House inside him, wants House to fuck him
now and the moment he releases his grip on one of House's hands to reach
down behind him to feel around for House's cock, he feels House snatch a
tuft of his hair.

Bastard, Wilson hisses in his mind as House twists his hair. Bastard. He
kisses him again angrily as he closes his fingers around House's cock,
angles it up towards him and swallows back a harsh grunt of discomfort
when House thrusts sharply against his perineum. Wilson bites at House's
mouth and can't help but whimper when the head of House's dick engages
with his anus. He pushes back slowly, breaking the kiss with a pant and
presses his forehead against House's because, fuck, it hurts, it hurts. It
stings and burns as he eases back gingerly, as House's cock slowly
stretches him.

He swallows back another whimper, exhaling sharply and he feels House's
hands suddenly clutch at his head. Holding him close, almost tenderly, and
Wilson just can't help letting out a grunt of discomfort as House's cock
pushes deeper inside him. Oh, god, he's missed this. Doesn't matter how
much it hurts, he's missed this, missed this closeness with House and he
remembers for a moment why he wanted House to break the silence: because
he wanted more of this, wanted this to mean more than just fucking, wanted
House to want more. 

He presses his mouth against House's, a kiss that turns into an
open-mouthed grimace while House kisses and sucks at Wilson's lower lip,
and Wilson grunts quietly again the deeper he takes House inside him,
right inside until he can feel nothing but a deep sensation of fullness.
He lets House clutch him close while he waits a moment to adjust to having
House inside him, drawing in even, controlled breaths. Until he pushes
back gently - and gasps sharply at the sensation of House's dick rubbing
within him. He does it again, carefully, slowly, again and again, drawing
in a hitched breath when he feels House thrust back. And again when House
gives another small thrust, and another, and another.

Breaking away from the grip House has on his head, Wilson braces his hands
on House's chest and pushes himself up. He squeezes his eyes shut and
fights back he urge to groan as House's dick slides deeper inside him. He
rolls his hips in slow, tense motions, and it's not until House suddenly
groans that Wilson realises how this is exactly the same as last time -
fucking House on top, wishing, praying, trying his hardest to coax a sound
out of House to make him break the silence, just like the sound he made
now.

Except Wilson doesn't want House to make a sound, not this time. He wants
it to stay silent because at least that's familiar; at least he knows how
to handle the silence, even if it isn't enough. He would rather something
second best than something he doesn't know what to do with. Wilson opens
his eyes and looks down at House, willing him silently to stay quiet.
Don't make a sound, don't speak, Wilson pleads. He arches himself up and
sinks back down onto House's dick, wanting to clamp his hand over House's
mouth when he hears him groan again.

He shifts his weight on House and lets the pace pick up, his mouth
twisting open into an expression of helpless pleasure when House's cock
pushes and rubs right there, that very spot that makes Wilson's spine feel
like it's weakening. Oh god, yes, he thinks, keeping himself angled so
that House's dick keeps striking him there, right there. He leans forward
and slaps his hands either side of House's head on the pillow, grips the
pillow and fists it in his hands as the pace quickens, deepens, hardens. 

Greg, oh god, Greg. House grabs him by the hips and starts driving in with
sharp strokes, trying to control the rhythm, which Wilson tries to fight
against, except he can't because it feels so good and it's all he can do
to grab reflexively at his cock to start jerking himself off. 

"Oh, god," he hears House pant, a sound that seems as loud as an explosion
in the dead of night, and Wilson lifts his hand from the pillow to clamp
his hand down on House's mouth. Except the next thrust into him causes him
to over-balance and he makes a frantic grab at the headboard of the bed
instead, to steady himself. And, god, the moment he regains his balance,
he discovers this angle is better, so much better, and he arches his back
as he grinds himself down onto House's cock. 

Right there, he thinks desperately in his mind with the way House's cock
is honing right in on that spot, again and again, right... there. The pace
rapidly turns into a deep, grinding rhythm, turning Wilson's insides into
molten liquid as his orgasm suddenly erupts from within him, hard. He
grips the headboard until his knuckles turn white, barely able to keep
himself upright as House starts to climax a few moments later. He hears
House making sounds, quiet grunts, noises he'd never heard House make
before in his life and as much as he wants to shut them out, he's too
overridden with sensation to be able to do anything except cling to the
headboard.

House slows down, slows to a stop and Wilson sags, breathing heavily,
aware of his skin prickling with sweat - and suddenly aware of House's
hands on his back, his shoulders, around on his chest. Everywhere.
Touching with slow, weary strokes. 

Wilson finds himself tensing up again. He licks his lips and chances a
quick glance down at House's face, just as House murmurs in a slurred
voice, "Wilson..."

"Don't," Wilson abruptly commands.

He sees House swallow in between catching his breath, sees him frown
slightly and watches the light catch the beads of sweat on his forehead.
He feels House's hands sliding down his back. "Wils--"

"Don't."

Before House can say anything further, Wilson lifts himself off House,
feels House's cock sliding out of him, and quickly climbs off, tipping
over onto his back. God, what the hell is House doing? What the hell has
changed? When did it change? Wilson wipes his face with his hand and
silently wills House to say nothing more. He doesn't want to hear it. He
can't handle this sudden shift between them because he seriously didn't
expect House to be like this. He thought House had come here tonight to do
what they'd always done: fuck in silence, without saying a word to each
other, during or after.

"Wilson," he hears House say again, almost a pleading tone to House's
voice this time. Like House is confused, completely confused by Wilson's
reaction.

Wilson tries to ignore him. He rolls onto his side away from House and
stares across the room at the window. This is too much, way too much,
after House not speaking to him for ages, after Robin, after realising the
whole reason he wanted more from House is because he loves him. And
doesn't want to love him. Can't help but love him. Wanted House to love
him, too, but now... now, he's not so sure. It's so much easier to settle
for second best when he doesn't really know what he wants. He's never
known what he wants. Because he's never known what would make him happy -
because Wilson doesn't even truly know what happiness is, what it feels
like, how to get it and keep it.

House's hand suddenly touching his head snaps Wilson out of his thoughts.
He tenses up again as House starts to hesitantly stroke his hair. Much the
same way as House had done the last time, when Wilson was asleep, and
maybe if Wilson had been awake when that had happened, he'd realise where
House is coming from right now. In spite of how stiffly he's lying there,
though, Wilson closes his eyes and, for a moment, he allows himself to
indulge in the way House is touching him. God, yes... He almost, almost
starts to shift over onto his back to look at House because as much as he
has no clue how to handle House's behaviour, there's a part of him that
craves this. So much. 

House pulls his hand away before Wilson decides to give in, though. He
feels the bed shifting as House sits up and Wilson tries to ignore the
twisting in his chest as House stands and silently limps to the bathroom.
He hears the light flick on, the faint buzzing of the fluorescent light,
followed by the door closing. He lets out a slow, shaky breath and relaxes
slightly. God, he doesn't know what to do now. He doesn't know, he has no
clue. Whether to just keep ignoring House until House leaves, to maybe
silently try and get him to stay, or to just... let the silence be broken.
Because that's what he originally wanted, isn't it? He wanted the silence
to be broken, didn't he?

Jesus, he doesn't know, he just doesn't know. He jumps when he hears the
bathroom door suddenly open and, without meaning to, he lifts his head
from the pillow to look over his shoulder at House, and sees him standing
there, looking lost. Like he doesn't know what do with himself. House
meets his eyes, slowly, and they stare at each other for a long, silent
moment.

Wilson is the first to look away. He lays his head back down on the pillow
and part of him wants House to take that as a silent invitation to come
back to bed, and part of him wants House to take that as a silent command
to leave. It's a testament, really, to what Wilson instinctually wants
when he feels the other side of the bed dip under House's weight as he
sits on the edge of it, and his heart surges in hope that House is going
to stay.

But then House stands up again, and Wilson hears the rustle of jeans being
pulled up, followed by the zip. He hears House moving around the room and
knows House is pulling his shirt on, his socks and shoes, his coat, and
Wilson swallows back the sickening feeling of disappointment that House is
leaving.

House, he almost says when he hears the sound of House's footfalls moving
towards the door. House, stop. Wait. Please don't go. He grips the edge of
the bed and tries to work out what the hell he wants before it's too late,
before House is out the door. Because once he's gone... Wilson doesn't
know. He doesn't know anything. He just... maybe wants things the way they
were. Silent and unacknowledged. Because at least then he had much less of
a chance of losing House than he does now.

Except... except...

 "House," Wilson finds himself saying when he hears the handle being
turned. He lifts his head from the pillow to look at House and sees House
standing there with his back to him, the door open ajar. Wilson swallows
again. "House?"

For a terrifying moment, Wilson thinks House is just going to leave
without a word. But then he turns, slowly, and looks back at Wilson,
watching him, waiting expectantly, coldly, for whatever it is Wilson wants
to say.

Except Wilson isn't sure what he wants to say. And the look on House's
face is so cold, so cold that Wilson feels like shrinking back into the
bed covers, as far away from House as possible. Yet, watching House now,
watching how hurt he looks, Wilson decides he can't let House leave like
this. He can't just let House walk out the door without at least knowing
that they'll be okay. Somehow. He just can't. 

He swallows again and shifts himself on the bed so he's sitting up more.
"I... Don't leave."

House keeps watching him coldly for a moment, the hurt expression on his
face making Wilson's insides twist. He's certain House is just going to
leave. He's certain of it. But the cold look on House's face slowly drops
away and Wilson is struck by how weary House suddenly appears. Weary and
old. Like this has been weighing on House's mind just as much as Wilson's.
The lines on House's face look deeper, his eyes look tired. His whole
posture looks almost frail. 

Wilson, in spite of everything that's just happened, is swept up with this
sudden urge to somehow comfort House. Seeing House look like that...
"Please?" he tries gently.

House sighs and he slowly, very slowly closes the door again. Wilson
clutches the bed covers up around him as House limps back to the bed
without a sound and sits down on the edge, shoulders slumped, head hanging
low. Wilson doesn't know what to say. Perhaps it's best not to say
anything because House silently decided not to leave and that's better
than nothing. Except... Wilson has this sudden desire to touch House. To
reconnect with him somehow.

He wants to ask if House is okay, if he needs anything, but he bites his
tongue as he watches House just sit there. House finally stands up again
and shrugs out of his coat, tosses it on the floor and sits back down to
toe off his shoes. Wilson watches him strip silently and he can't begin to
describe the overwhelming sense of relief he feels when House wordlessly
climbs back into the bed.

He lies back down as House shifts onto his side, his back to Wilson, and
Wilson feels torn between desperately needing to know that House wants and
needs him, and gratefulness that this familiar silence has settled between
them again. He almost wants to shift up behind House, spoon up behind him
and touch him now that Wilson sees just how weary House is. 

Looking up towards the lamp on the bedside table, he switches it off so
the room plunges into darkness, save for the beams of moonlight streaming
through the window, and looks back towards House. It's pitch black to
Wilson at the moment because his eyes haven't adjusted to the darkness, so
he can't see House. But he listens to House's breathing, steady and even.
Just lying here, listening to House's breathing, realising how close he
came to House walking out of him, Wilson feels a swell of love for House
in his chest, for the fact that House is still here.

He rolls onto his side so his back is facing House, with a slight smile of
relief on his face. They might be right back where they started from,
right back at square one - with House on one side of the bed and Wilson on
the other side, both in stereophonic silence - but at least House is
there. At least House still needs him and wants him. That's all that
matters.

Wilson closes his eyes, not realising how tired he is until he feels sleep
tugging at him. His breathing evens out and his body eventually goes slack
as he falls asleep, and he's completely unaware of House now lying on his
back and watching him sadly through the darkness. He's completely unaware
of House shifting in closer until their bodies are just touching, and he's
completely unaware of the soft kiss House drops to the back of his
shoulder.

Maybe, when Wilson wakes up, he'll find House asleep on the other side of
the bed, no knowledge of House ever being close. Or maybe he'll wake up
and find House asleep up against him, with House's arm securely over his
body and House's face tucked in against the back of his neck.

Maybe the silence will have broken for good this time.

Maybe.

end.  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.