Sometimes, when he had a bad dream and couldn’t get back to sleep, Wilson would come and lay down with him until he fell asleep again. It was a little embarrassing, but he liked it, too. He couldn’t forget where he was with someone warm and safe next to him. “Wilson!” he hissed. “Wilson! Wake up?”

“Wha?” He heard the sheets rustle as Wilson sat up in bed. “House? What do you need?”

He realized belatedly that he couldn’t actually say, “Come sleep with me.” “Um…nothing. Go back to sleep.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

“You need to go to the bathroom?”

“Nope. Go back to sleep.”

It wasn’t long before the rhythm of Wilson’s breathing suggested that he was asleep again. House waited a few more minutes to be sure that he was really asleep, then decisively rolled out off the air mattress.

He usually let Wilson and Clarence move him around like he was a pile of wet towels, but he had recovered some muscle tone, and he could move when he had to. As long as he didn’t care about dignity, he could even move pretty fast, crawling on his elbows and dragging his right leg.

He made his way over to the big bed where Wilson was sleeping. Getting there was the easy part. The next bit required some thought.

He straightened out his upper body and hooked his elbows over the edge of the bed. Phase One complete. He allowed himself to rest for a moment before moving into Phase Two.

Brining his legs directly under himself, he lunged upward. The waterbed sloshed alarmingly as he scrabbled for purchase, but he managed to hurl himself over the edge.

“Wha?” Wilson murmured. “Hector, ge’off. Tryin’ to sleep.”

“Shhh, Jimmy, it’s me.” He settled down against Wilson’s back. “Go back to sleep.”

“Huh? House, whaddya….”

“Go back to sleep,” he repeated, throwing one arm over Wilson’s side. Wilson--not really awake to begin with--fell back into sleep quickly, and House soon followed.

#

Wilson woke up to the unfamiliar sensation of another body pressed against his. For a moment he wondered if the last few years had been a dream, if he was still married to Julie, or Bonnie, even. Then he recognized the even-less-familiar sensation of stubble against the back of his neck, and the twisted hand on his belly. House.

What was he doing up here? Maybe he’d had a nightmare and Wilson hadn’t woken up enough to go to him? He had a vague recollection of half-waking a few times. But maybe House had just decided it was time to try the real bed. He’d have to ask--if House wanted to sleep in his own bed, Wilson could move back to his own room.

House was still fast asleep at the moment, but a glance at the clock suggested he wouldn’t be for long. He was about due for his morning pills--if the pain didn’t wake him soon, Wilson would have to get him up. He’d best get up and start breakfast, then, so House wouldn’t have to take them on an empty stomach.

As he stumbled to the bathroom, he thought about what to make. House sometimes had to make do with cereal on mornings that he worked, but he was off today, so he’d cook. House’s appetite was crap a lot of the time, but if Wilson fixed something he liked, he’d always manage at least a few bites. There was some cinnamon raisin bread that had to be used up. He’d make French toast with it--he could cut each slice into strips that House could eat with his fingers. And then they could have fruit to go with it. Cantaloupe and blueberries.

He’d taken a lightening-quick shower and had the coffee brewing and the first slices of French toast sizzling when House bellowed, “Wilson!”

Turning off the stove, he hurried back to the bedroom. He was in the doorway when House yelled again, “Wilson!” There was a panicky edge to his voice this time.

“I’m right here, buddy,” Wilson soothed him. “You’re okay.”

“Where did you go?” House was sitting up, with the blankets tangled around his legs and his hair sticking up at odd angles.

“Just the kitchen.” He sat next to House and put his arm around him.

House leaned in against him. “I thought you were gone.”

“Sorry. I was making you some breakfast. French toast.”

“Oh.”

“You okay now?”

“Yeah. ‘Cept now I have to pee.”

#

House picked up a strip of French toast and dragged it through a puddle of syrup. “I had a weird dream last night,” he remarked, trying to remember how it had gone. It had somehow ended up with him crawling into bed with Wilson, but it hadn’t been scary. Or not exactly scary.

“Another nightmare? I’m sorry I didn’t wake up.”

“No, it was…well, sort of. But it was kind of…good.” He remembered that he hadn’t been afraid, although he could no longer remember why not. “There was a dog,” he remembered.

“Do you want a dog? Like a Seeing Eye dog? They have them for people in wheelchairs.”

Trust Wilson to miss the point. “No. Well, maybe.” A dog might be fun, especially if it came trained to do stuff for him. Like bring him food. Or attack people who bugged him. “I’m trying to remember the dream. I think it was important.” He wasn’t sure how it was important, but he had a feeling it was. “I think I was at the hospital…I don’t remember anymore.” He shook his head. The dream felt like it was just out of reach.

After a while Wilson said, “Speaking of important, you ought to make a decision about the settlements pretty soon. I asked for a few months to find out what you wanted to do, but that’s coming up soon. I guess we could ask for another extension if you don’t want to think about it yet.”

He’d almost forgotten about the settlements that Thompson’s estate and the state of New Jersey had offered him. He’d known that he knew he didn’t have to worry about money, but had pushed it back as something to worry about later. “What do I have to do? Do we need to meet with a--” he steeled himself “--lawyer?” He’d never much like lawyers--with one notable exception--even before the torture.

“Stacy’s handling your end of things,” Wilson answered. “But if you don’t feel up to it, I can meet with her and then tell you what she said.”

He could handle Stacy. “That’s okay. Go ahead and set it up. Can she come here?”

“Yeah, I think so. Here, have some more blueberries. They’ve got antioxidants.”

“I’m still eating my French toast,” House protested. “And who’s the multimillionaire here? Not you, alimony boy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilson said. “Yet you’re planning on giving up the life of a gentleman of leisure and going back to work with us peons.”

They hadn’t really talked about House’s plan to resume his medical career since the day Wilson first found out about it, but he hadn’t been naïve enough to think the subject was closed. “Yup. You know me. I’m all about helping people.”

“Yeah, I know,” Wilson said distractedly. “Why do you want to go back to work? As you just reminded me, it’s not like you need the money.”

House had expected more protests, a fresh list of reasons why he couldn’t possibly practice medicine again. It was a strange question. He hadn’t really thought about not being a doctor again. He could do it, so he would.

Meditatively, he chewed another strip of French toast. “When I was about fifteen, we lived in Japan--”

“Are you going to tell the Buraku story again?” Wilson interrupted.

“I was going to,” he admitted. “It’s a good story.”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Wilson agreed. “But it doesn’t really explain why you want to go back to being a doctor again, after everything that’s happened.”

House shrugged. “It’s what I do. I’m not going to sit around and do nothing all day.”

“You could do something else,” Wilson suggested.

“Like what?” He shook his head. “I’m a doctor. I’ve been one my entire adult life. I don’t want to take up teaching or disability rights advocacy or writing my goddamn memoirs. I’m a doctor,” he repeated.

Wilson hesitated. “Okay.”

“Okay?” House repeated.

“Okay. I just wondered…I thought maybe you thought--maybe it was about proving they hadn’t beaten you.”

It was a very Wilson-like interpretation. A fragment of the dream drifted close again, but he still couldn’t quite catch it before it blew away again. “Oh but they did,” he pointed out, holding up one shattered hand. “A bunch of times. They just didn’t win.”