Yeah, well, that wasn't an invitation for Wilson to toss about how well he knew his new friend. Not that it realistically was, but House was feeling prickly enough to take anything Wilson said about the Doctor as a deliberate snub of some kind, didn't matter of Wilson was here of his own volition.
He shot Wilson a dark look. "Well, it's good that you know what his kind of thing is," House couldn't help retorting, knowing full well that he was being deliberately antagonising. "I'm sure he appreciates that."
God, he hated the Doctor. He really, really hated him. Regardless as to how much tension there'd been between Wilson and himself, House really, really hated the fact that Wilson had someone else as a friend. Back home, it wouldn't have mattered so much. Life would've been normal and Wilson would've always been there and that would've been all House needed. But in here, it was a completely different situation. Wilson and Cuddy were all House had, and he was pretty sure he was on the road to losing Cuddy and he'd more or less lost most of his friendship with Wilson.
He thumped his pill bottle down onto the bedside table. "Is that a question or an observation? Because if it's an observation, shall I congratulate you on your astute observation skills? Or shall I just look at you like you're a moron and say, 'Duh'?"
"You know what? I'm just going to go. Leave you to it," Wilson snapped. "Slip a note under my door when it's actually safe for me to speak to you, because I've lost the ability to figure it out, myself."
Dammit he was angry. Angry at House for being House and for not having pain relief and for looking like shit. Angry at him for being incapable of treating Wilson any other way than this. But he couldn't do this again. He wasn't going to do this again, either. So he stood from his seat and crossed the room, hand outstretched for the doorknob.
"I don't know what your fucking problem is," he snarled as he walked, not looking back at House. "I no longer care. Enjoy the freedom." Wilson didn't usually talk that way, but he this was different. He felt forced and pissed off and confused. Mostly pissed off. So much so that he was aching to rip the door off its hinges the second he grasped the handle.
So used to Wilson usually tolerating his moods, House wasn't expecting Wilson to snap like that. He knew he was antagonising Wilson, but he didn't actually expect Wilson to react. He looked a little startled at the way Wilson reacted, too - watching him angrily move to the door, talking just as angrily.
House's first instinct was to snap back at Wilson, tell him to fuck off to his new buddy. But he bit it back, remembering how Cuddy had slapped him the night before. This was kind of the same thing, the way Wilson was walking off like this. And god damn it, as much as he pushed people away when he was moody, he really didn't want to lose his relationship with either of them.
"Don't leave," he said in a voice equal parts awkward and resentful. He glanced up at Wilson, waiting a beat before he added impatiently, "Don't leave."
He stared hard at Wilson's back, then relented and dropped his eyes to a spot on the floor. "I don't want you to leave," he mumbled.
After another pause he tentatively glanced up at Wilson with his eyes, almost like a scolded child, hoping Wilson wouldn't actually leave.
He'd smack him. Wilson would smack him and feel better. Or smack the door. Right now he was gripping the doorknob so hard it hurt.
"What makes you think I give a damn about what you want?" asked Wilson lowly. "Half the time you're walking out. Half the time you're... "
Oh, why couldn't he just leave? Why? Wilson refused to let go of the door's handle. If he let go it meant turning around and he was angry, dammit.
"Most of the time you act like you can't stand me."
Wilson braced himself against the doorframe and kept holding, but didn't walk out yet. Mostly because hearing House say what he'd said was sinking in and he wasn't sure House had ever asked him not to leave like that. Might've been shock.
He watched Wilson lean against the doorway, positive Wilson was going to leave. What Wilson said, though, jerked House out of his moment of cowering enough to rile him into an outburst.
"I can't stand this place!" House exploded. "It's got nothing to do with you!"
The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think, and the moment he'd said them he stopped as if a realisation had just struck him. He knew somewhere in the rational part of his mind that this place was the reason he was so angry all the time. The fact that he'd lost his life back in New Jersey, the fact that he couldn't escape, the fact that he had no control over anything in his life anymore. Not even his own medication. It was so easy to place all his anger onto other people, however, that it was just as easy to lose sight of why and what he was actually angry at.
That, of course, didn't dismiss all the things that had happened between Wilson and himself. But hearing his own words blurted out just then slapped House with a moment of clarity: this place was why he was so uptight and angry all the time.
He dropped his gaze to the floor and then lifted his hand to rub his face fretfully. "If you didn't give a damn, you'd have left by now," House said in a quieter tone. He braced both hands either side of him on the mattress and turned his head to the side with his shoulders hunched, peering at the bedside table.
After a moment he turned his head just enough so that he could look at Wilson with his eyes. "Stay," he murmured earnestly. "Please."
The image flashed across his head like an unwanted reel of film zipping by the screen. Frayed around the edges but clearer than the real thing. House's apartment. Wilson by the front door and House on the couch. Gripping his thigh in white hot pain that showed on his face. Asking Wilson not to leave even though he'd been anything but welcoming to Wilson before that.
It's got nothing to do with you. It didn't then, either. And yet Wilson was right back at the door, aching to leave. Not to leave so much as teach House a lesson. But he was holding the handle loosely now, if that, and after another second his arm fell to his side. Wilson turned his head enough to look at House over his shoulder and caught House's gaze, surprisingly.
Without saying anything, Wilson slowly turned around toward House and then took a few steps into the room again. His jaw was still set and he didn't feel like sitting down yet. Why? he wanted to ask House. It was very possible, Wilson thought, that this wasn't something either of them could better. It was more likely a matter of circumstance than neither of them could do a thing about.
House kept guarded watch on Wilson, still convinced Wilson was actually going to leave. Just from Wilson's hesitation, he could tell Wilson was obviously having some internal debate, which made House feel both impatient and remorseful at the same time. He kept his eyes fixed on Wilson as he ventured away from the door, only dropping his gaze away when he saw the tense, strained look on Wilson's face.
Hunching his shoulders more, House looked back to the bedside table and waited for Wilson to say something. As the seconds ticked by, though, and as the silence stretched, House realised Wilson probably wasn't going to say anything, especially seeing he was still standing there.
House glanced at Wilson again, almost guiltily, before looking away. God damn it, he wanted Wilson to say something because the longer the silence stretched, the more compelled House felt to apologise. Like a weight gradually pressing heavier and heavier down on him.
"Thanks," he muttered lamely. Thanking Wilson for not leaving was about as close as he could get to offering an apology.
Why was Wilson even here? It didn't make much sense now that he'd come to see House in the first place. Either House wasn't ever going to get over the fact that Wilson had screwed up or the Hotel had just changed both of them too much for this to work. Whatever 'this' was.
And yet, even as the mountains of logic got higher and higher, Wilson stood there with his hands on his hips defying them. He didn't want to leave. That pissed him off the most. All of this could be traced back to the sex. That thought made him even more uncomfortable.
House saying 'Thanks' made Wilson scoff and open his mouth with the intention of shooting back a nasty remark but none came. He shook his head and then chanced a look at House. He'd been looking at the wall and the floor up to that point. House looked exhausted and hunched on the bed, like he was being crushed by things Wilson couldn't see. In that moment, Wilson was overcome by piercing regret. For everything that had happened. Everything that had turned them into this.
He dropped his hands to his sides and nodded once, then forced his feet to carry him closer to the bed. After hesitating for a moment, Wilson sat down on the corner of the mattress instead of the chair he'd been sitting in before. It wasn't the couch, but it was the only thing Wilson could do to try and close the distance.
Continuing to stare at House seemed stupid, so Wilson let his eyes land on the floor. There was something at the foot of the bed he hadn't seen until now, and he leaned over to tug what looked like a pair of slacks up from the carpet. He looked back at House with a slightly amused, slightly curious expression.
"Why is there a suit on your floor? Or, better yet, you own a suit?"
House rubbed his face and resumed staring moodily at the floor as Wilson reluctantly approached the bed. He only threw Wilson a quick look when Wilson began to sit down, and he felt a strange sense of relief that Wilson had chosen to stay. House didn't even mind that Wilson had joined sitting with him on the bed, even if there was a sizable distance between them.
He wasn't sure what inspired it - the fact that Wilson hadn't left, or the fact that House was so acutely aware of the gaping chasm between them - but House felt a sudden yearning for the friendship he and Wilson used to have. To be able to sit with him in unassuming silence, or argue with him about things that didn't really matter and know that Wilson didn't care if they were arguing, or share really unfunny jokes over a bottle of beer.
Snapped out of his thoughts when Wilson mentioned the suit on the floor, House dropped his eyes down to the trousers Wilson was holding and then looked away.
"Not until last night," he replied sullenly to Wilson's question about owning a suit. "Got dragged out for dinner."
Oh, that made sense, Wilson thought. He probably should've put it together - and might have if he wasn't so distracted by the current chaotic tension between them being so prominent once again. A suit, dinner, and the phrase 'dragged out for' all explained why House had locked himself in his room to sleep for the day. Might've explained some of the bad mood, too.
"Gotcha," Wilson replied, raising his eyebrows and letting the slacks drop back to the floor. He shot House a faint smile. "Guess you want them to stay where they are, then. Just in case you get the chance to walk on them."
It was forced, obviously. There was no denying that. And Wilson still felt pissed off but it was simmering to a steady temperature at this point. Maybe it was because House had actually tried. Really tried. To the point of insisting Wilson stay.
Or maybe it was that swell of regret again. Regret that he didn't have his best friend, but wanted to.
"I'll also chance a guess that she won't be dragging you out for dinner again any time soon?" Wilson was curious, sure, but he was putting more effort into just talking with House than he was investigating House for a change. "I mean it wasn't that the food was lousy, was it?"
House snorted flatly at Wilson's comments. "Dunno," he replied to the question about the food, unable to hide the derisive tone from his voice. "Never stayed to eat it."
Yeah, he'd positively screwed up with Cuddy. Certainly didn't help in the slightest that Stacy had shown up. So, it was technically Stacy's fault - except for the part where hindsight was starting to niggle at House, pointing towards the fact that maybe he'd been the main reason the whole night had gone as bad as it had.
House looked across at Wilson. In his lifetime of friendship with Wilson, he hadn't dated that many women, other than Stacy. There'd been Cameron, which wasn't even really a date, seeing it didn't mean anything to House. There'd been a few women before Stacy ever happened. Point was, he'd managed to screw up every single time in the end. Wilson had been there every time House managed to screw up, too. Just like he was now.
"She slapped me across the face," House said in a flat tone.
Wilson's mouth formed a silent 'Oh' but he didn't say anything. There was no glib remark to make this time. He let his eyes drop to the mattress and bit his lower lip in silence for a moment.
Funny part was, even after everything, Wilson didn't like hearing that. As much as he might've liked to see the slapping... he didn't like knowing things weren't going well. Despite the weird, upset feelings he couldn't place when he'd discovered Cuddy and House were 'together' there was still a very large part of him that wanted it to work. It was the same part of him that had gotten angry when House had sent Stacy back to Short Hills.
That stupid part of him that wanted House to find something. It sounded even more idiotic in his head, really. But he preferred focusing his attention on wanting House and Cuddy to work as opposed to dwelling on the extremely uncomfortable sex he and House'd had.
His eyes darted back up to House's face then and he let out a long sigh. Seemed pointless to ask what House had done. But here he was sitting next to House on the bed, House still in pyjamas and looking like crap, Wilson not knowing how to be a friend like he was supposed to. That bothered him the most.
"Want to tell me what happened?" Wilson offered carefully. "Or do you want pizza and beer?" He brought his hand up to slide over his face. "Or do you want to tell me what happened after I order the pizza and beer?"
He didn't want to talk about it. Except for the part where he kind of did, only because Wilson had always been his sounding board and he needed a sounding board now. It was just that he and Wilson were... well. Not exactly close anymore.
He ran his hand over his face and then looked about restlessly before he reached for his cane. "How about neither?" he added as he pushed himself up from the bed. He started towards the bathroom. "I'm going to have a shower."
Just as he entered the bathroom, he asked over his shoulder, "Maybe I'll tell you over a game of foosball."
He was just about to start rubbing the back of his neck, not knowing what else to say or do (or what else he was good for beyond that) if House didn't want to talk to him about Cuddy, when House mentioned foosball. Wilson's eyebrows shot up and he leaned sideways in an attempt to peer into the bathroom after House. He blinked a few times, surprised by House's offer for some reason he couldn't exactly explain.
"Or... that. That works too," he jointedly replied. Wilson wasn't aware of any foosball table. Not that that meant anything, seeing as this was the Hotel and he expected anything would pop up if someone wanted it badly enough. He momentarily wondered if he could get a small pony to appear in someone's room if he focused on it really hard.
Best not try.
He really just hadn't expected that. House hadn't really spent much time with him unless it was in one of their rooms - yelling or sharing their various problems with each other. It wasn't that Wilson didn't want to play foosball. He... did. It was more the fact that such an activity was a throw back to the way they'd been. It'd just been a while, he supposed. Thing about it was, even now, he really wanted to spend time with House. It was pathetic, but he'd come over here in the first place for the same reason. Everything was so very different between them; maybe doing something from before would go okay.
"Sounds pretty good, actually," Wilson added, talking more to himself than he was to House. "Take your time. I'll, uh, watch something."
House was shutting the door when Wilson made his reply, so House didn't really hear anything Wilson said. He stripped his clothes off once he'd started the shower, adjusted the water temperature to just above comfortable heat, and stepped under the spray.
The water was just hot enough that it felt a bit like hot needles hammering down on his skin, which invigorated him as he scrubbed himself down quickly. He deliberately didn't think of anything to do with Cuddy or Stacy, or Wilson's new friend, just the shower and by the time he shut the water off again, his skin was pink and he felt a little better.
He gave himself a hasty rub down with the towel and brushed his teeth, and then wrapped his towel around his waist before heading for the door. Gripping the towel firmly around his waist with one hand, he peered at Wilson, then looked the other way to the dresser.
"Or if not foosball, something else," he said, continuing the conversation from where he'd left off. "Whack-a-mole. Air hockey. House of the Dead." He started towards the dresser. "There's a bowling alley downstairs, too."
Wilson looked to his left as House stepped from the bathroom and looked away a moment later toward the television. Some Jimmy Stewart movie was on but he hadn't exactly been paying attetion to it. Still, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington was better than staring at House in a towel.
"I could do with some zombie shooting, I think," Wilson replied. Bowling was fine, but it might require a bit more concentration. He didn't feel like concentrating. Not on the activity at hand, at least. The Doctor often kept his brain busy with stories or meaningful conversation... Wilson felt like taking a break for a bit. Just being Wilson. With House, if possible.
He chanced another look in House's direction and trained a gaze on his back for a moment as he stood at the dresser. "That and it's been ages since I kicked your ass at air hockey. Remember that little arcade on the boardwalk we used to go to?" He smiled faintly and turned his face back toward the television again. "It was the only thing I could ever beat you at."
He shot Wilson a dark look. "Well, it's good that you know what his kind of thing is," House couldn't help retorting, knowing full well that he was being deliberately antagonising. "I'm sure he appreciates that."
God, he hated the Doctor. He really, really hated him. Regardless as to how much tension there'd been between Wilson and himself, House really, really hated the fact that Wilson had someone else as a friend. Back home, it wouldn't have mattered so much. Life would've been normal and Wilson would've always been there and that would've been all House needed. But in here, it was a completely different situation. Wilson and Cuddy were all House had, and he was pretty sure he was on the road to losing Cuddy and he'd more or less lost most of his friendship with Wilson.
He thumped his pill bottle down onto the bedside table. "Is that a question or an observation? Because if it's an observation, shall I congratulate you on your astute observation skills? Or shall I just look at you like you're a moron and say, 'Duh'?"
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"You know what? I'm just going to go. Leave you to it," Wilson snapped. "Slip a note under my door when it's actually safe for me to speak to you, because I've lost the ability to figure it out, myself."
Dammit he was angry. Angry at House for being House and for not having pain relief and for looking like shit. Angry at him for being incapable of treating Wilson any other way than this. But he couldn't do this again. He wasn't going to do this again, either. So he stood from his seat and crossed the room, hand outstretched for the doorknob.
"I don't know what your fucking problem is," he snarled as he walked, not looking back at House. "I no longer care. Enjoy the freedom." Wilson didn't usually talk that way, but he this was different. He felt forced and pissed off and confused. Mostly pissed off. So much so that he was aching to rip the door off its hinges the second he grasped the handle.
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House's first instinct was to snap back at Wilson, tell him to fuck off to his new buddy. But he bit it back, remembering how Cuddy had slapped him the night before. This was kind of the same thing, the way Wilson was walking off like this. And god damn it, as much as he pushed people away when he was moody, he really didn't want to lose his relationship with either of them.
"Don't leave," he said in a voice equal parts awkward and resentful. He glanced up at Wilson, waiting a beat before he added impatiently, "Don't leave."
He stared hard at Wilson's back, then relented and dropped his eyes to a spot on the floor. "I don't want you to leave," he mumbled.
After another pause he tentatively glanced up at Wilson with his eyes, almost like a scolded child, hoping Wilson wouldn't actually leave.
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"What makes you think I give a damn about what you want?" asked Wilson lowly. "Half the time you're walking out. Half the time you're... "
Oh, why couldn't he just leave? Why? Wilson refused to let go of the door's handle. If he let go it meant turning around and he was angry, dammit.
"Most of the time you act like you can't stand me."
Wilson braced himself against the doorframe and kept holding, but didn't walk out yet. Mostly because hearing House say what he'd said was sinking in and he wasn't sure House had ever asked him not to leave like that. Might've been shock.
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"I can't stand this place!" House exploded. "It's got nothing to do with you!"
The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think, and the moment he'd said them he stopped as if a realisation had just struck him. He knew somewhere in the rational part of his mind that this place was the reason he was so angry all the time. The fact that he'd lost his life back in New Jersey, the fact that he couldn't escape, the fact that he had no control over anything in his life anymore. Not even his own medication. It was so easy to place all his anger onto other people, however, that it was just as easy to lose sight of why and what he was actually angry at.
That, of course, didn't dismiss all the things that had happened between Wilson and himself. But hearing his own words blurted out just then slapped House with a moment of clarity: this place was why he was so uptight and angry all the time.
He dropped his gaze to the floor and then lifted his hand to rub his face fretfully. "If you didn't give a damn, you'd have left by now," House said in a quieter tone. He braced both hands either side of him on the mattress and turned his head to the side with his shoulders hunched, peering at the bedside table.
After a moment he turned his head just enough so that he could look at Wilson with his eyes. "Stay," he murmured earnestly. "Please."
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The image flashed across his head like an unwanted reel of film zipping by the screen. Frayed around the edges but clearer than the real thing. House's apartment. Wilson by the front door and House on the couch. Gripping his thigh in white hot pain that showed on his face. Asking Wilson not to leave even though he'd been anything but welcoming to Wilson before that.
It's got nothing to do with you. It didn't then, either. And yet Wilson was right back at the door, aching to leave. Not to leave so much as teach House a lesson. But he was holding the handle loosely now, if that, and after another second his arm fell to his side. Wilson turned his head enough to look at House over his shoulder and caught House's gaze, surprisingly.
Without saying anything, Wilson slowly turned around toward House and then took a few steps into the room again. His jaw was still set and he didn't feel like sitting down yet. Why? he wanted to ask House. It was very possible, Wilson thought, that this wasn't something either of them could better. It was more likely a matter of circumstance than neither of them could do a thing about.
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Hunching his shoulders more, House looked back to the bedside table and waited for Wilson to say something. As the seconds ticked by, though, and as the silence stretched, House realised Wilson probably wasn't going to say anything, especially seeing he was still standing there.
House glanced at Wilson again, almost guiltily, before looking away. God damn it, he wanted Wilson to say something because the longer the silence stretched, the more compelled House felt to apologise. Like a weight gradually pressing heavier and heavier down on him.
"Thanks," he muttered lamely. Thanking Wilson for not leaving was about as close as he could get to offering an apology.
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And yet, even as the mountains of logic got higher and higher, Wilson stood there with his hands on his hips defying them. He didn't want to leave. That pissed him off the most. All of this could be traced back to the sex. That thought made him even more uncomfortable.
House saying 'Thanks' made Wilson scoff and open his mouth with the intention of shooting back a nasty remark but none came. He shook his head and then chanced a look at House. He'd been looking at the wall and the floor up to that point. House looked exhausted and hunched on the bed, like he was being crushed by things Wilson couldn't see. In that moment, Wilson was overcome by piercing regret. For everything that had happened. Everything that had turned them into this.
He dropped his hands to his sides and nodded once, then forced his feet to carry him closer to the bed. After hesitating for a moment, Wilson sat down on the corner of the mattress instead of the chair he'd been sitting in before. It wasn't the couch, but it was the only thing Wilson could do to try and close the distance.
Continuing to stare at House seemed stupid, so Wilson let his eyes land on the floor. There was something at the foot of the bed he hadn't seen until now, and he leaned over to tug what looked like a pair of slacks up from the carpet. He looked back at House with a slightly amused, slightly curious expression.
"Why is there a suit on your floor? Or, better yet, you own a suit?"
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He wasn't sure what inspired it - the fact that Wilson hadn't left, or the fact that House was so acutely aware of the gaping chasm between them - but House felt a sudden yearning for the friendship he and Wilson used to have. To be able to sit with him in unassuming silence, or argue with him about things that didn't really matter and know that Wilson didn't care if they were arguing, or share really unfunny jokes over a bottle of beer.
Snapped out of his thoughts when Wilson mentioned the suit on the floor, House dropped his eyes down to the trousers Wilson was holding and then looked away.
"Not until last night," he replied sullenly to Wilson's question about owning a suit. "Got dragged out for dinner."
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"Gotcha," Wilson replied, raising his eyebrows and letting the slacks drop back to the floor. He shot House a faint smile. "Guess you want them to stay where they are, then. Just in case you get the chance to walk on them."
It was forced, obviously. There was no denying that. And Wilson still felt pissed off but it was simmering to a steady temperature at this point. Maybe it was because House had actually tried. Really tried. To the point of insisting Wilson stay.
Or maybe it was that swell of regret again. Regret that he didn't have his best friend, but wanted to.
"I'll also chance a guess that she won't be dragging you out for dinner again any time soon?" Wilson was curious, sure, but he was putting more effort into just talking with House than he was investigating House for a change. "I mean it wasn't that the food was lousy, was it?"
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Yeah, he'd positively screwed up with Cuddy. Certainly didn't help in the slightest that Stacy had shown up. So, it was technically Stacy's fault - except for the part where hindsight was starting to niggle at House, pointing towards the fact that maybe he'd been the main reason the whole night had gone as bad as it had.
House looked across at Wilson. In his lifetime of friendship with Wilson, he hadn't dated that many women, other than Stacy. There'd been Cameron, which wasn't even really a date, seeing it didn't mean anything to House. There'd been a few women before Stacy ever happened. Point was, he'd managed to screw up every single time in the end. Wilson had been there every time House managed to screw up, too. Just like he was now.
"She slapped me across the face," House said in a flat tone.
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Funny part was, even after everything, Wilson didn't like hearing that. As much as he might've liked to see the slapping... he didn't like knowing things weren't going well. Despite the weird, upset feelings he couldn't place when he'd discovered Cuddy and House were 'together' there was still a very large part of him that wanted it to work. It was the same part of him that had gotten angry when House had sent Stacy back to Short Hills.
That stupid part of him that wanted House to find something. It sounded even more idiotic in his head, really. But he preferred focusing his attention on wanting House and Cuddy to work as opposed to dwelling on the extremely uncomfortable sex he and House'd had.
His eyes darted back up to House's face then and he let out a long sigh. Seemed pointless to ask what House had done. But here he was sitting next to House on the bed, House still in pyjamas and looking like crap, Wilson not knowing how to be a friend like he was supposed to. That bothered him the most.
"Want to tell me what happened?" Wilson offered carefully. "Or do you want pizza and beer?" He brought his hand up to slide over his face. "Or do you want to tell me what happened after I order the pizza and beer?"
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He didn't want to talk about it. Except for the part where he kind of did, only because Wilson had always been his sounding board and he needed a sounding board now. It was just that he and Wilson were... well. Not exactly close anymore.
He ran his hand over his face and then looked about restlessly before he reached for his cane. "How about neither?" he added as he pushed himself up from the bed. He started towards the bathroom. "I'm going to have a shower."
Just as he entered the bathroom, he asked over his shoulder, "Maybe I'll tell you over a game of foosball."
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"Or... that. That works too," he jointedly replied. Wilson wasn't aware of any foosball table. Not that that meant anything, seeing as this was the Hotel and he expected anything would pop up if someone wanted it badly enough. He momentarily wondered if he could get a small pony to appear in someone's room if he focused on it really hard.
Best not try.
He really just hadn't expected that. House hadn't really spent much time with him unless it was in one of their rooms - yelling or sharing their various problems with each other. It wasn't that Wilson didn't want to play foosball. He... did. It was more the fact that such an activity was a throw back to the way they'd been. It'd just been a while, he supposed. Thing about it was, even now, he really wanted to spend time with House. It was pathetic, but he'd come over here in the first place for the same reason. Everything was so very different between them; maybe doing something from before would go okay.
"Sounds pretty good, actually," Wilson added, talking more to himself than he was to House. "Take your time. I'll, uh, watch something."
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The water was just hot enough that it felt a bit like hot needles hammering down on his skin, which invigorated him as he scrubbed himself down quickly. He deliberately didn't think of anything to do with Cuddy or Stacy, or Wilson's new friend, just the shower and by the time he shut the water off again, his skin was pink and he felt a little better.
He gave himself a hasty rub down with the towel and brushed his teeth, and then wrapped his towel around his waist before heading for the door. Gripping the towel firmly around his waist with one hand, he peered at Wilson, then looked the other way to the dresser.
"Or if not foosball, something else," he said, continuing the conversation from where he'd left off. "Whack-a-mole. Air hockey. House of the Dead." He started towards the dresser. "There's a bowling alley downstairs, too."
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"I could do with some zombie shooting, I think," Wilson replied. Bowling was fine, but it might require a bit more concentration. He didn't feel like concentrating. Not on the activity at hand, at least. The Doctor often kept his brain busy with stories or meaningful conversation... Wilson felt like taking a break for a bit. Just being Wilson. With House, if possible.
He chanced another look in House's direction and trained a gaze on his back for a moment as he stood at the dresser. "That and it's been ages since I kicked your ass at air hockey. Remember that little arcade on the boardwalk we used to go to?" He smiled faintly and turned his face back toward the television again. "It was the only thing I could ever beat you at."
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