Stereophonic Silence

Reverberation: Part One


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 cliché 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.




to be continued