Closed RP for Wilson and House: Time Doesn't Heal Anything
It had been almost two weeks. Almost two weeks since their explosive fight out of nowhere, and House was beginning to get fed up. Well, that was a lie, he was a lot more than simply fed up. He was furious beyond belief, sinking between misery and numbness, halfway close to just up and leaving the goddamn castle. Wilson had made it quite clear that he wanted nothing more to do with House, and while House usually would have just shrugged him off and stolen his lunch the next day, this was bigger. Bigger than what House was used to.
He regretted saying that shit about Wilson's brother; he really did. It was a subject that Wilson never talked about, and he had entrusted the information to House, only to have it flung back in his face in the rudest, cruelest way possible. And House never would have brought it up, if Wilson hadn't made that comment about making him sleep in the yard.
That comment, much more so than their parting words, had been twisting around in his mind ever since. House had never told anybody about his father - well, not in detail, in any case. Wilson knew he wasn't Worlds Greatest Dad, but that had been more information than House would usually divulge anyway. And now he was faced with this puzzle of exactly how Wilson knew about the yard nights for discipline. House's issues with his father had been long buried ever since he'd moved away from them, but he obviously hadn't done as good a job of pushing them down as he'd originally thought. All it took was one eerily specific comment, and he was wallowing again.
But that wasn't the issue. The issue was that House missed his best friend. And he was furious at him.
His effort to reconcile these two emotions had ended with House spending a few hours by the lake-side, in the pouring rain, taking a few too many Vicodin. Drugs helped, for the meantime, and rain was relaxing in a way, even if it was fucking freezing. House was reminded of the stories of the old shamans, putting themselves through physical tests in order to think clearly. Standing in the rain for a few hours to think was hardly equivalent to burying yourself in the earth to achieve a spiritual epiphany, but the similarities were there.
House wondered why he kept gravitating back to this spot in front of the lake; it reminded him too much of things better left forgotten, but he always ended up here when he needed to think. He wondered if any of what he was feeling was actually emotion; he didn't have the best world record for recognizing emotions for what they were. He didn't want to speculate on his need to push people away, but he did anyway... for a little while, at least. Finally, he wondered if he should give that whole talking thing a try, because he really did miss Wilson being around in his life, and even if Wilson really was serious about giving up on him, at least he could maybe get an answer on how Wilson knew about the yard thing.
So, it was with a sense of determination (and maybe resignation, why the hell would Wilson ever want him around again), that House stormed back into Slytherin, completely uncaring of who he bumped into on the way. He had a mission. And Wilson's door was in sight.
He flung the door open so hard that it crashed against the wall, hinges making unhealthy squeaks of protest, and gave himself a moment to breathe, forgetting that he was dripping water all over Wilson's floor. Where was... oh, there he was. And although House gave himself a second of composure time, when he spoke, he still sounded desperate and hoarse and pretty much like he'd been locked in his room being miserable. Which he had.
"Did you really mean it?"
((Smut warning!))