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Wilson sat on House’s couch, tie loosened, rolling his glass of whiskey between his hands. The TV flickered, muted and ignored. House limped across the room to refill his drink, not bothering to ask if Wilson wanted more. He never did. It was their quiet agreement—Wilson would pour his own when he was ready.
“Julie called,” House said, settling into the armchair with a slight wince.
Wilson exhaled, not looking up. “You’re really keeping track?”
House gestured vaguely with his glass. “Predictable pattern. Every six months, she remembers you exist, and you let her get to the voicemail stage before deleting it. Some sick form of self-flagellation.”
Wilson scoffed. “Or maybe I just forget to block her number.”
House snorted. “Right. Just like you ‘forget’ to stop fixing people who don’t want to be fixed.”
Wilson took a slow sip of his drink. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. It always was.
House pressed the rim of his glass against his bad leg before speaking again, this time more carefully. “You should’ve picked up.”
Wilson frowned. “Since when do you encourage reconciliation?”
House shrugged. “It’s not about reconciliation. It’s about finishing things. You never finish things.”
Wilson set his glass down, not bothering to hide his irritation. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
House tilted his head. “I finish things all the time.”
Wilson let out a short, humorless laugh. “No, you don’t. You leave them dangling. Open-ended. Just in case.”
House held his gaze, fingers drumming against his glass. “So, what’s this?”
Wilson furrowed his brow. “What’s what?”
House gestured lazily between them. “This. Us. I leave things dangling, sure. But you—” He hesitated for just a second before continuing, too evenly. “You hold onto them.”
Wilson’s chest felt tight. He didn’t move. Didn’t look away.
House leaned back, studying him. “You ever gonna finish this?”
Wilson swallowed, the weight of the question pressing against him. “Do you ever wonder if we’d be having a different conversation, in a different place, if either of us could just—”
“Nope,” House cut in before Wilson could finish.
Wilson huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Liar.”
House smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Life is built on unsaid things, Wilson. If we start saying them, everything falls apart.”
Wilson stared at him for a long moment, then finished the rest of his drink in one go. He set the empty glass on the table, stood, and grabbed his coat.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
House didn’t reply. He just watched as Wilson walked out the door.