Stereophonic Silence

Reverberation: Part Three

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."


to be continued