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Dream A Little Dream Of Me
by gena
Dream A Little Dream Of Me
Two days. He had made it through 48 hours of blowhard idiots trying their damnedest to bore him to death without getting drunk, into a fight, or tossed out of the conference. A personal best, House decided, especially when he factored in the complete absence of his resident conscience - James Wilson. House drew in a deep breath and concentrated on pushing himself to his feet. He could feel the remaining muscles in his damaged thigh protesting; trembling with the strain of supporting his weight, and in a show of solidarity his back and shoulder muscles took that opportunity to add their grievances to the list. He fumbled in his pocket for the comforting shape of his Vicodin bottle and swallowed a pill before following the crowd out into the lobby. House found it annoying that sitting through endless hours of speeches had a more wearing effect on him that pacing the halls of PPTH. If these yahoos had had anything of interest to impart it might have gone better, but their lack of innovation had sapped his strength, leaving him as lethargic as a well fed cat. His back ached, his shoulders were knotted and the pain in his thigh had blossomed from dull throb to jackhammer pounding. All he wanted to do was go back to his room and the Queen sized bed it held and fall flat on his back.
House pressed the call button for the elevator and waited. Leaning on his cane he watched his fellow conference goers chat easily among themselves, exchanging their cockeyed views on the proceedings. Several of the women and a couple of the guys eyed him speculatively but House ignored the looks. He and Wilson had done their share of trolling back before his infarction, he knew most of these doctors used the meetings as an excuse to have fun and blow off steam - and other things. Despite his reputation as a sarcastic son-of-a-bitch, his medical status insured he could have had his pick of a dozen willing bodies if he'd wanted but at the moment the prospect of lying down held more allure than sex. The fact that resting often held more attraction than sex troubled him slightly but not enough to change his ways. If Wilson had been with him House knew the oncologist would have been rating the assets of their prospects but when it came down to it, he would have gone off on any strange adventure House came up with instead of bedding the best looking babe he could find. Wilson wasn't just a good friend, he was a companion, an accomplice that would back him when he needed support, get him drunk when he was hurting, and leave him giggling when he wanted to cry. The ding of the elevator shook him from his thoughts and House stepped onto it as quickly as he could, stabbing the close doors button before anyone else could intrude. His room was on the twentieth floor and by the fourth his phone was ringing. A peek at caller ID made him smile despite his fatigue.
"Relax," he answered, "I'm not lying in the gutter nor am I incarcerated."
"Always good to know," Wilson said, "I won't have to wait by the phone for a call to identify your remains or bail you out."
"I'm touched by your concern."
"I'm a good friend," Wilson said. House could hear echoing sounds in the background, but nothing he could place.
"Where are you and what are you doing?" He demanded. He could almost hear the embarrassment in Wilson's silence.
"I'm at home - packing," Wilson said softly. The noises had stopped but somewhere further away from Wilson's phone, House could hear a voice. He realized it must be Julie and she would have to be yelling for him to hear it if Wilson was upstairs.
"Oh."
"Don't," Wilson swallowed and House could imagine the sheen of hurt in his eyes, "don't say anything, please." House bit his tongue; they both knew how he felt about Wilson's tendency to cheat on his wives and the resulting self flagellation penchant to give them everything they demanded. The elevator reached his floor, stopping with a slight jerk that caught House off guard. He let out a soft gasp. "What's wrong?" Wilson asked.
"Nothing," House said but knew that he hadn't fooled Wilson. "Leg hurts."
"Told you those hookers would only get you in trouble."
House laughed, limping towards his suite. "No you didn't. You told me not to use my credit card, I should always pay in cash. You jealous?"
"Of the hooker? Yes, being paid cash is a perk I could do with," Wilson scoffed. House heard the unmistakable snap of a suitcase and the thump of Wilson's feet on the stairs.
"Where you going?"
Wilson's footsteps echoed, telling House he'd made it to the garage without another confrontation with Julie. "I - there's a hotel on Mulberry. It's close to the hospital."
House could imagine Wilson with his good leather suitcase and that defeated look he got when things had gone wrong with one of his marriages. He knew Wilson would go to the hotel, forcing a smile for the night clerk and pretending everything was fine, then he would sit and watch CNN until he fell asleep. Suddenly House wished they were together - he would never go so far as to offer Wilson comfort in the face of another failed marriage but somehow when they were together nothing seemed as bad as it could be. House figured it was just two masters of denial feeding off each other, but it worked for them. They could drink beer, watch bad movies and say outrageous things and while they did the world outside ceased to exist. He didn't want Wilson to have to face strangers at the moment. "Go to my place," he said quietly.
There was a second of silence then a soft breath drawn and held. "You d-don't mind?" He knew Wilson's slight stammer only occurred when the younger man felt vulnerable.
House frowned, struggling with the keycard to his room while holding the phone with his chin and working to open the door without dropping his cane. "Yes, I mind. I plan on holding it over you for the next month." He sighed as the door finally closed behind him, and he could lower himself to the bed. Wilson's voice, when it came, soothed in just the same way Vicodin and lying down did.
"T-thank you, House."
He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut against the relief he could hear and the shame that it took so little from him to make Wilson grateful. He'd never been capable of much in the way of friendship, it didn't come natural to him, but for Wilson he liked to make an effort. "Just don't drink all my beer." On the other end of the line, hearing Wilson's shaky breaths, he imagined, not for the first time, what it would be like to feel them against his cheek. He and Wilson rarely touched, the occasional manly punch in the arm or when House was tired, Wilson might put a hand under his elbow to take some of the strain off his leg, but they had never hugged. House regretted that now with a sadness so deep it ached.
"I'll be good," Wilson said and the strain of flippancy colored his tone. House could hear him getting into his car, the garage door going up and the engine starting.
Suddenly afraid that whatever it was he felt might dissipate and be lost like a weak cell phone signal, House said "Wilson!"
Over the small speaker he heard the squeal of tires sliding to a stop and knew the fear in his voice had caused Wilson to slam on his brakes, "House? What is it?"
"I -," House paused, rubbing a hand over his eyes, blotting out the room, the conference, the years already passed in loneliness. "When you get there - sleep in my bed." He hung up without giving Wilson a chance to reply. For a long time afterward he lay with the phone on his chest, watching shadows lengthening on the ceiling and wondering what Wilson was thinking. He didn't know what had made him say it, but just the thought of Wilson sleeping in his bed brought with it a thrill of daring, it seemed an act of such intimacy that having seen each naked over the years paled in comparison. He didn't fall asleep that night, just drifted in the pleasant haze Vicodin provided on rare occasion, plagued by visions too effervescing to be called dreams.
He pictured Wilson lying curled on his bed, smooth, creamy skin drenched in moonlight spilling in from his large windows, a pale and flawless form in sweet contrast to the dark sheets. He could see it so clearly that when he woke in the morning House knew he couldn't make it through the final day of the conference, not because of his leg but because of his heart. He missed Wilson. His entire adult life had revolved around his consuming drive to solve the riddles, to unlock the secrets of disease but the riddle of Wilson drew him with just as much force. Nothing else in his life had kept his interest as firmly as the seemingly shy oncologist. Wilson was the ultimate puzzle and right now House knew he had to find the reason he needed the other man so much. He changed his flight, packed his bag and hobbled down to hail a cab. He told himself he could learn nothing from the morons prancing around the hotel, and he'd fulfilled his obligations for another year by presenting his own astounding lecture - that should be enough. House did not let himself imagine Wilson at all, focusing instead on the mechanics of getting himself home but though he stubbornly refused to think about what he wanted he could not reign in the wild pounding of a hopeful heart.
The flight proved an agony. Confined, even in a first class seat, his muscles rebelled and by the time his taxi deposited him outside his front door, House knew he needed to lie down for a few hours or he wouldn't be able to move the next day. He'd popped a Vicodin on the plane and another in the cab and they were beginning to work when he unlocked the condo and hobbled inside. It was just after four in the afternoon and Cuddy knew better than to expect him into his office before 9AM, the day after next. House headed straight for his bedroom, pushing open the door slowly, half expecting Wilson to still be there but the room was empty. He could sense the other man's presence as if he were a haunting spirit; a water glass sat on the nightstand, and a book on sailboats peeked out from beneath the bedside. House knew if he looked in the bathroom he would find Wilson's shaving kit and in the closet suits and dress shirts would mingle with his vintage tees like tourists straying into a questionable neighborhood. Not bothering to do more than pull off his shirts and shoes before climbing gratefully between the sheets, House sighed in pleasure. He'd paid nearly two hundred dollars for 800 thread count Egyptian sheets and the feel of them against his back reminded him of cool hands massaging his aching muscles but it was something else entirely that brought with it complete relaxation. He flipped the top sheet up, letting it settle like a forest green cloud around his chin. An elusive scent rose up around him, tickling his nose, teasing through the fatigue and making House smile to himself. A mixture of aftershave, shampoo and something uniquely Wilson lingered on his linen. House turned his head deeper into the pillow, rubbing his cheek slowly back and forth on the spot where Wilson's head had lain. He could almost fool himself into believing he felt a residual warmth where his friend's body had been and that along with his smell gathered House in like an embrace. With another sigh, House sank into a deep, pleasant sleep.
When he woke the gray shadows of afternoon had become inky with nightfall. House glanced at the alarm clock, surprised to find it was after eight, four hours sleep was a treat to him. The sound of footsteps in the hall, however, didn't surprise him, and a sleepy smile spread across his face. He closed his eyes, still groggy and unwilling to let go the dreams which had wrapped his exhausted mind in luxurious comfort. He kept his eyes closed as a wedge of light from the hall spilled over the carpet.
"Hey," Wilson greeted softly, using a hip to shove the door wide. House blinked slowly, still caught in the tangle of sleep, dreams and drugs. In the light spilling from the hall he saw that Wilson stood there in sock feet, his dress shirt and tie gone, white undershirt making him look comfortable and much younger than he should. He carried a tray and House's nose told him Wilson had been there long enough to cook one of his famous dinners. "Hope you're hungry," Wilson said. House sat up, scrubbing at his eyes and trying hard not to fidget. He still didn't know what had possessed him to ask Wilson to sleep in his bed, let alone why Wilson had done it. They weren't touchy-feely with each other, they never opened up with their feelings, not about things that mattered, how the hell were they suppose to handle this. "I made lasagna." Okay, they were handling it with Italian food.
"Good, I'm starving," House said. Wilson waited for him to flip on the beside lamp then crossed the carpet and set the tray down on the nightstand. He shifted from foot to foot, gaze flicking over the rumpled sheets as he studiously avoided House's eyes. "You eating, too?" There were two plates on the tray, a bottle of wine and House's good glasses but not a single flower in sight - not a seduction thing, then.
"Uh, yeah," Wilson's gaze darted away again. "I stopped at the store then came straight here, didn't have time to eat." House nodded and pushed himself back against the headboard, taking the tray Wilson set over his lap. Wilson hesitated a second, almost as if he thought about settling himself next to House in the bed but then moved to the chair beside it. They ate in silence for a while. It wasn't until they had eaten, sitting aside their dishes and House reached to refill his wine glass that Wilson spoke. "I slept here." He said it softly, like a secret he hadn't meant to share had become too powerful, too big to ignore.
"I know," House said just as softly. He glanced at Wilson out of the corner of his eye, "I'm glad." He saw Wilson nod, a jerky motion that made dark strands of his hair fall over his forehead.
"Why?"
"Why am I glad?" House asked, choosing to misunderstand the need behind the question. "Because I didn't want you sleeping in some hotel for the next six months until you fell in love with someone and started planning another wedding." Again, Wilson gave that ungainly nod, and it was at that moment that House realized if he didn't say something honest - something that took this from dream to reality - that Wilson would get up and walk out of his apartment never knowing that someone loved him right now and he didn't have to look around for them. "Because - the thought of you here, in this bed, lying on my sheets, made me believe that I wasn't really alone. Even in Chicago, it was like you were with me - and I need that, Wilson. I need to not be alone all the time." He didn't look at Wilson this time, but kept his gaze fixed on the glass in his hand searching it for strength.
"You're not alone, House," Wilson said, "and neither am I." Wilson rose, his shadow moving across the floor. House heard the rustle of sheets being thrown back, the bed dipped and Wilson slid in beside him. It could have been part of the dream, the culmination of long unsuspected desire and desperation finally coming together, but the warmth he had, until now, only imagined encircling him and the scent which had lulled him to sleep enveloped him and Wilson became a reality. He dared to look up, blinking at the man now lying beside him. "I like it here and I want to stay - if you want me to."
House nodded, words failing him for the first time in his life. He carefully set his wine glass aside and turned to lie facing Wilson. They stared at each other in the muted light, eyes roaming where hands had never strayed, hearts somehow beating in unison. It still seemed like a dream but one from which he hoped he never woke. "I want you to stay for as long as you can," he said. Wilson opened his mouth, dark eyes troubled but then he nodded, and House saw that he understood. The odds were against them, their personalities and hearts had never before been destined for love and devotion, it would be foolish to think this would work for them. But House closed his eyes, moving to lay his head on Wilson's chest and Wilson wrapped him in his arms. Maybe it was an illusion, the dreams of two foolish men, but it felt real and House would cherish it for as long as he could.
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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 Fox Television, 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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