Chapter Text
Nightmares were fascinating if you were on the right side of them – sometimes, in the light of day, when logic could be imposed upon the dream that seemed so terrifying before, they could almost be amusing. But on the wrong side?
He hadn’t slept well in over a week. He’d left milk out to spoil and missed an appointment. Three AM Tuesday saw him startling awake, face wet with tears, shirt sticking to his chest with sweat. He’d gotten up and taken a long shower, made coffee, and read a book until it was an acceptable hour to go to work.
“Good morning, Dr. Wilson.” Cameron greeted him in passing. She looked tired, but good – pleased.
“I guess he figured it out, then?”
“Aquagenic urticaria.”
Wilson squinted. “A... water allergy?”
“House joked about it to begin with, but...” Cameron shrugged. Wilson shook his head.
“Right again.”
Chase called for Cameron down the hall. She nodded at Wilson and took her leave. Wilson made his way into his office, setting down his briefcase and stretching his back out, reveling in the sunlight streaming through the window. It promised to be a beautiful day – the kind of day runners loved. Briefly he considered an evening run, but scoffed at the thought. Right. As it was, at the end of the day he hardly had the energy to put up a façade for House.
That was another issue. He knew his housemate knew something was up, but between House’s patient and the cancer patient Wilson had been with every day, they hadn’t seen much of each other – that is, Wilson saw the evidence of House in every infuriating prank he’d been subjected to, but besides that, he’d managed to avoid the diagnostician. It wasn’t that he particularly cared if House knew about the nightmares, but at the same time, James Wilson knew Gregory House. He could just see the direction the prank war would take if House knew he was having recurring nightmares. The mental image of House buying clown masks and fake blood entered Wilson’s mind briefly and he grimaced, shaking the thought away. No indeed, that wasn’t a can of worms he wanted to open.
A few hours of paperwork later, his door opened.
“You didn’t eat breakfast.”
Wilson frowned, not looking up. “Are you worrying about me?”
“No. I was just hungry. You usually leave some.” House clicked his tongue. “Then again, maybe you ate when you woke yourself up last night.” There was more to that comment than just a statement, and Wilson glanced up at his friend. He had hoped he hadn’t disturbed House when he’d gotten up that morning, doing everything at mouse volume in an effort to appease the Noise Police asleep in the next room. Apparently it hadn’t mattered. House leaned on his cane with his leg cocked out, eyebrows up questioningly.
“What do you need, House?”
House furrowed his brow, cocking his head to the side. “Well, a long legged babe with dark eyes and a daddy complex would be a good start.”
“Sorry, fresh out of those,” Wilson said. He set his pen down, rubbing at his eyes. Conscious of the studying look House was giving him, he straightened up and swallowed the urge to yawn.
“That’s not surprising. You don’t have great luck with the good-looking ones.” House sighed. “I guess I could settle for breakfast with a colleague.” He gave Wilson the up-down. “You’ve got the dark eyes, but...” he leaned down and placed his elbows on Wilson’s desk, inserting himself into the oncologist’s space. Wilson leaned back in his seat, retreating from the invasion. “How do you feel about your father?”
Wilson threw his hands up. “Fine. Let’s go.”
House straightened up, pumping his fist triumphantly. He opened the office door, holding it for Wilson. They made their way out into the hallway, heading for the elevator and then the cafeteria, where he would no doubt pay for both of their breakfasts and still end up sharing his food with House.
The elevator opened, and they stepped on with the group going down. The doors shut and they started moving. House glanced at Wilson, smirking. He leaned in, intoning in a whisper loud enough for everyone to hear:
“I knew there was a reason you keep bringing your dad’s name up while we’re having sex.”
----
Seven office visits, one surgery assist, and two skipped meals later, (where was House when Wilson actually wanted someone to badger him about food?) Wilson strode down the hall to the patient rooms to see the girl he’d dubbed Little Bear. He spent the rest of his evening with Lyric and her older sister, waiting. That’s all they could do at this point, and he figured nobody should have to be alone while waiting on their sibling to die. Wilson trudged in the door of House’s apartment that night with the last bit of energy he had, dropping his things on the floor and settling onto the couch.
House glanced up from the piano where he sat, fingers dancing calmly across the keys in a practiced, easy manner. “I made dinner.”
Wilson studied him. “You did?”
House nodded, transitioning into a piece that Wilson thought was vaguely familiar. He waited for the punch line.
“Well... What is it?”
House looked up at him, smiled. “What was it, you mean. A tv dinner. There isn’t any left.”
Wilson made a noise somewhere between a huff and a laugh, and turned vertical, propping his head on the pillow he’d spent so little time actually sleeping on.
“Is that... Arctic Monkeys?”
“Yep. Mad Sounds.”
Wilson sank into the couch, the piano notes rose into the air, and he felt himself drifting off. Willing to take whatever he could in the rest department, he closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling of sleep coming after him. Just so long as House kept playing, he’d be fine. There was a momentary break, the bench shifting. Wilson kept his eyes closed, clinging to sleep. Ice clinked in a cup before it was set back down. The pause was short lived – the piano bench creaked, and House resumed playing.
Wilson wasn’t aware of anything after the third time through “The Girl from Ipanema.”
----
Wilson woke the next morning from a sleep so deep he wasn’t sure what day it was or, momentarily, where he was. Once he got his bearings, he took stock of himself. His shoes were off, and... when had he grabbed a blanket?
Wilson glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock.
He’d slept through the night.
----
That evening, he returned home after House, unsure what to expect. He hadn’t seen the diagnostician all day. Wilson had called him as he left the hospital to see if House had eaten anything yet. When Wilson entered the apartment, House was exactly where he had been the night before. The only difference was the blanket was already on the couch, and House’s drink was within reach of the piano.
“Hey,” Wilson said. House glanced up at him. Wilson held out a take out box. “I.. made dinner.”
House took the box, popping the lid. “You sprang for the good stuff,” he said. Wilson shrugged, making his way into the kitchen to grab forks. They ate at the counter. Wilson finished first, putting his leftover food in the fridge. As he brushed his teeth, a quiet tune started up. The piano again. Wilson changed, plugged his phone in by the couch, and crawled into his makeshift bed.
“My Foolish Heart. Bill Evans. In case you want to make me a mixtape as a romantic gesture later.”
Wilson grinned from the couch. “Goodnight, House.”
----
For the next few nights, their evenings looked the exact same. The only thing that changed were the songs. Wilson started glancing at the sheet music before lying down, and if there wasn’t any, he asked. Moon River. One Summer’s Day, which House informed him was from an anime that had been playing in the children’s room in the oncology wing one day. Ray’s Blues, Georgia on my Mind and something Wilson couldn’t pronounce by Erik Satie. Carolina in my Mind on the same night as Clair De Lune. Canon In D followed by jazz improvisation.
Then, Lyric passed. Wilson was late – one AM late – getting in. When he opened the apartment door, the lights were shut off, living room dark. He sighed. He’d known better than to expect House to wait up for him. He’d texted that he’d be late and not to stay up. They hadn’t discussed the piano playing or the nightmares, or the lack thereof. He knew House knew. House knew he knew. Why say anything when the unprompted piano playing and the takeout dinners said it for them?
Wilson flicked the lamp on by the couch and almost jumped. House blinked awake, making eye contact with Wilson. He sighed, patted the couch and closed his eyes again. Wilson sat down next to him, untied his shoes and kicked them off. He expected a joke about stinky feet or something more lewd.
“Do you want me to play?”
House’s voice was heavy with sleep. The diagnostician cocked his head toward Wilson. The oncologist felt his stomach clench. He wanted a lot of things. He wanted to not care so much. Wanted to see better things happen to good kids. Wanted to not be so readable, the ability to be colder, more stoic. That being said, in that moment, he knew the difference between what he wanted and what he needed. He met House’s eyes, hoping he’d see the answer.
House stood. The waistband of his striped pajama pants clung to narrow hips. His bare feet were noiseless as he padded across the room and took his seat at the piano. A familiar, sad tune. As Tears Go By. Fitting.
“If I have to tell you who this one is, I’ll have to take your charm off my friendship bracelet.”
The oncologist smirked and swiped at the tears on his cheeks, settling down and pulling his feet up onto the couch. The spot where House had been sitting was still warm. Wilson rested his chin on the back of the couch and watched House’s shoulder muscles moving under his tee shirt as his hands moved across the keys. In that moment, Wilson made a decision. Sleep could wait. He had music to watch.