Stereophonic Silence

Reverberation: Part Two

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.




to be continued