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Slapped
by multicgypsy
Slapped
It was darker than skin and lighter than a bruise. The red almost-hand shaped splotch on Wilson's left cheek was impossible to miss, and impossible for House to ignore.
"Get in a fight?" he said, sliding into the seat across from Wilson, who was sulking over his equally sad looking pasta dish.
Wilson raised his head and his eyebrows, stupidly uttering, "What?"
It looked like he had been slapped. Hard.
"Don't tell me you haven't looked in the mirror today. I thought that was, like, more important than oxygen, or something," he said mockingly.
"Oh, yeah," Wilson shrugged. "It's nothing."
"It's a hand," House said, staring at it. "On your face. Who'd you piss off?"
Wilson sighed and unconsciously rubbed the side of his face as House reached across the table and drank his soda. He already knew House was already working out every possible idea with which to explain the mark on his face, so he just shook his head. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
"Who says I'm worried?" House said, pushing the soda back towards Wilson.
"Right, you never worry about anyone."
"I'm curious," House said innocently, resting his elbows on the table and leaning in closer.
"Well I'm not in the mood to feed your addiction," Wilson said despondently, oblivious to the slip he had made in word choice until he saw that look that had just washed over House's face, like he was planning a really great way to call him out. Because he did feed House's addiction, just not his addiction for puzzles. He did exactly that; he fed House's addiction.
He only hoped his friend would ignore the slip, get past the impasse and just let him finish eating. He didn't want this kind of prodding today.
"That's funny," House said, sadistically unrelenting to the very end. "Because I was just thinking-"
"Alright! Fine! Great!" Wilson shouted awkwardly loud, succeeding in catching House off guard and shutting him up for just enough time to slide out of the booth. "I don't want to hear what you think."
Inwardly wincing at how immature he was acting, Wilson marched purposefully out of the cafeteria.
"Is it PMS?" House called after him, already picking up Wilson's fork and pulling the pasta towards him. "Was CVS out of tampons?"
---
It was the end of the day when House saw Wilson again, in the parking garage, and Wilson ignored him. So House said nothing, and just followed him home, grinning smugly whenever Wilson tried futilely to avoid him on the highway, zigzagging between lanes.
"I know where you live, moron," he said to himself.
House surveyed the block as he made his way up to Wilson's front door, and was pleasantly surprised when his friend actually opened it; he looked defeated and miserable. The red mark still showed on his cheek, but had faded enough so that is looked less like a hand and more like a seasonal cold.
"Her car's not here," House pointed out.
"It's in the garage," Wilson said, not even missing a beat.
House shook his head. "No it isn't."
So much of their conversations went unspoken; they knew each other that well. When they talked, the usual "What's the matter?" or even "What happened" were usually discarded. House always knew when something was wrong, and he always figured out what had happened, eventually. Those extra words just seemed to waste time.
At Wilson's silence, House said, "Aren't you even going to try to prove me wrong?"
Resigning in defeat, Wilson backed away from the door, giving House room to enter. "If I did, you would just check the garage."
"So why waste your time?"
Wilson glared at him incredulously; "You followed me home."
"So," House said as he surveyed the living room he had just stepped into. All around, there were obvious signs of a battle; an upturned corner of a rug, picture frames tipped over, shattered dishes on the floor.
But Wilson was not even paying attention to him. He, too, was looking around his home, his fingers unconsciously worrying at his belt buckle.
"So," House said again, "she left you."
Very softly, as if afraid to utter the word, Wilson says, "Yes."
"Wife number two, then," House said briskly, and dismissed the concept of the wife within seconds. "Do you think you're going to get another?"
"That is so dehumanizing," Wilson objected with disgust. "Don't even-"
His words were cut off abruptly by a choked sob that he didn't even try to retain. House turned away from surveying the mess to see his friend bent over the counter, leaning heavily on his right arm. His left hand came up and covered his eyes, while his face screwed up with pain.
"Shit..." A minor detail that House had overlooked was that Wilson was still wearing his wedding ring.
"This morning," Wilson beat his fist against the counter. His shoulders and voice both trembled. "She was here... this morning."
House listened, and waited. After a moment, Wilson let his hand fall from his face, which was now all red.
"We had a fight. We had a fight and... I didn't think she was going to..."
"You mean you didn't even know?" It was House's turn to be thrown off guard, as much as he allowed of himself.
Wilson shook his head, eyes downcast. "I just came home. Just now."
So that whole day, Wilson had gone through that whole day thinking he and his wife had but disagreed, not actually separated. From the state that he was presently in, House could tell that he was not faking the shock of coming home to another ruined marriage.
Shit...
"Can I come to your place?" Wilson asked weakly, just as House had lowered himself onto the nearest couch. House sighed, but checked himself.
"We're both here. That would be a little stupid."
Wilson tried making himself laugh, but failed both miserably and awkwardly. "I just don't want to be here, you know?"
"I just sat down."
"Then stay. I have your key."
House looked up at his friend, whose red-rimmed eyes were trying desperately to blink back tears that were still trying to slide down his face.
So he planted his cane and hoisted himself up. "I'll drive. And then you can ice your face."
Wilson tried to smile; Instead, he only could thank him verbally, which was worth less, but House understood.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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