Notes: Insomnia sucks, but one conversation doesn't really make a fic so I started writing other scenes to put with it. Some dialog is lifted from "Of a Thursday" by sydedalus. I'm pretty sure Wilson wasn't married to Julie yet when the infarction happened; it seems more likely that him paying too much attention to House's recovery contributed to his breakup with his second wife. I'm pretty sure there's going to be more to this, but here's what I've got for now.

Her accent was always stronger when she was sleepy.

"It's after midnight, you should be asleep," she said.

"Yup," he said, most of his attention still on the screen. He could hear her stirring in the blankets behind him.

"You need to rest even if you can't sleep," she said.

"Don't want to waste time staring at the ceiling in the dark," he said, and heard her sigh.

"It's not wasting time to rest."

"They teach you that in law school?" he asked, a little more sharply than he'd intended. She was silent for a few seconds, then, "Greg. You haven't slept right since the first night I was here. Come to bed."

He sighed in his turn and swivled his chair to face her. The light from the screen illuminated her enough that he could see the frown. "This is how to kill it for another few months," he said. "Trust me. I've been dealing with this since I was a teenager. I'll feel like crap all day tomorrow, but then I'll be able to sleep." He watched her watching him, and something about the newness of having her in his bed made him feel he should add something. "I warned you about the insomnia. I told you it wasn't you," he said.

"You did," she acknowledged.

"It's not a big thing, Stace." It really wasn't--a few days of bad sleep every few months didn't bother him, and he knew how to make it stop.

"You could try pills."

He shook his head. "Over-the-counter's useless and all the prescription stuff's too easy to get addicted to."

She watched him for a few more moments and then shook her head as she clambered out of bed. She was wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, but she looked just as sexy as she had in the little silk thing she'd worn her first night in his apartment.

"You don't have to get up," he protested, as she walked over to him and planted a kiss on top of his head.

"Not for you, but I need to see a man about a dog," she said. He could hear that she was smiling.

"Good to know where I rate," he grumbled for show. She laughed softly at him as she made her way out of the bedroom.

The phone shrilled and James rolled over, groping for it. He was less than half awake but years of medical training had taught him how to act when he wasn't fully aware. "Hello?" he mumbled into the handset.

"James, thank God," the caller said. It was Stacy, and she sounded frantic. James felt himself waking up, fast. "Something's really wrong with Greg."

"What—" he began, but she cut him off.

"I don't know!" she said. James wasn't sure he'd ever heard her near tears before. "He gave me a list to read to you. I don't know if I have these right, but they're...myoglobinuria, ARF, rhabdomyolysis, alkaline diuresis, hyperkalemia."

"Oh my God," James said, sitting upright to swing his legs out of bed.

"What does it mean?" she asked. He would have sworn her voice couldn't get any more tense, but it managed somehow.

"Are you with him right now?" James asked. He needed to get a baseline, at least.

"Yes," she said.

"Okay, go put your fingers on his neck," he said. "I need you to tell me how fast his heart's beating. You there?"

"Yeah," Stacy said, and there was a pause. "It's slow." She sounded a tiny bit calmer; like House, she functioned better when she was doing something. It was probably one of the reasons they got along so well.

"Is his breathing slow too?"

"I think so," she replied, after another pause. "What's wrong with him? He looks horrible. Tell me what those words mean. Is he dying? He looks like he's dying. Oh my God."

"It's okay," James said to cut off her flow, keeping his voice in the soothing tone he used for giving patients bad news. If he let her know he was worried too, she'd break down completely--Stacy was a hell of a person and tough as nails, but she wasn't a doctor and she loved House so deeply, and James could picture what his friend had to look like with the list of conditions she'd read him. "Don't panic." He wanted to say, 'he's not dying,' but he honestly didn't know if that was true. "Is he awake?"

"Greg," she said, her voice a little muffled and away from the receiver. "Greg, wake up...wake up! Greg!" She came back and said, "No, he's not. Oh my God. What's wrong with him?"

"He'll be all right," James said, still calm. "Listen, I need you to call an ambulance and make sure they take him to our hospital. Read them the list you read me. Don't panic—he needs you to stay calm. Stay calm and dial 911. I'm going to hang up now so you can do that, okay?"

"James, what's wrong with him?" she demanded. James was pretty sure she hadn't really been listening; she needed some information or she wasn't going to be able to focus.

"His kidneys aren't working—but he'll be okay," he said. "Call 911 now. I'm going to hang up, okay?" He waited for what seemed like too long.

Finally Stacy said, "Okay," and he could hear that she meant it. Only after he'd hung up did he realized he hadn't said goodbye.

James's eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling, wondering what had woken him. He had almost drifted back to sleep when he heard it again--a strangled cry from the direction of House's room. He was on his feet and moving before he had time to think about it.

They'd fallen into a pattern of leaving a nightlight on--House made snide comments about monsters in the closet, but actually it was so neither of them was blinded when James had to come in in the middle of the night. Well, House made snide comments when he could be bothered to talk at all; since Stacy's departure, the prickly shell he'd retreated into after the infarction had grown poison spines, and possibly laser-guided missiles and a portable minefield. James seemed to be the only one who could chivvy him out, and even that was rare. Not that House had been sweetness and light before, but "abrasive bastard" seemed to have become his default rather than something he put on when someone irritated him.

James was spending most nights at House's apartment, and though Bonnie had been understanding at first her patience was starting to wear thin. But that wasn't relevant right now; right now James had a patient in pain. He pushed House's bedroom door open to find what he'd expected to see: House was lying on his side, clutching his bad thigh and rubbing at it with a motion James was all too familiar with. Painfully familiar, even, though it was more painful for House. He was trying not to moan, but he was failing, which was what had woken James up.

James sat on the bed and took over the massage, murmuring the comforting nonsense he used with suffering patients. It was a long time before House's breathing eased, though James resolutely did not look at the alarm clock on the bedside table; he had a theory that not knowing the real time kept him from feeling as tired in the morning.

When House finally uncurled, James offered him half a smile. "Maybe it's time to admit that the neurotonin isn't working," he said.

"You think?" House asked roughly.

"In the morning I'm writing you another Vicodin scrip," James said. House groaned and screwed his eyes shut.

"I'm not one of your bald-headed pets," he said.

"Good thing, too--they don't need any more nausea." James paused, considering how to phrase this. "House--the Vicodin was working for you. It let you move around, get things done. It's not a long-term solution, but it'll get you back on your feet till we can find something that is."

"Yeah," House said, sounding defeated, and James raised an eyebrow at him. House glared back, though the effort was not one of his best; he was far too wrung out from the muscle spasm. "I'm not an idiot, Wilson," House said.

James raised his hands in mock defensiveness. "Heaven forbid I say you were." For a few moments neither spoke. "Do you need something to help you get back to sleep?" James asked at last.

"You could hit me over the head," House said. "Short of that, I think I'm up for the duration." He sighed and shifted restlessly, wincing as the movement jarred his leg. "At least with the Vicodin I'll be able to sleep. Insomnia sucks."

"I wouldn't know," James said dryly. He'd never had any trouble sleeping, even keyed up or anxious or guilt-ridden.

"Help me up," House said abruptly, and started wiggling closer to the edge of the bed. "I wanna play."

James rolled his eyes and said, "Your neighbors aren't going to appreciate that at this hour."

"My neighbors can bite me. They have no culture anyway," House said. "Help me up." Resigned, James did as he was told and they began the laborious process of getting House off the bed, out of the bedroom and into the living room to install him on the piano bench. They were both breathing hard by the time it was done.

House lifted the cover from the keys and put his hands on them. "You can sleep in the bedroom if this is too much," he said, staring at his fingers.

"I can sleep through a brass band," James said. House glanced slyly up at him and played four notes: da-da-da-dum, the opening to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, a piece of music not known for its restraint or restful qualities. James gave him the blandest smile he could muster and went back to the couch. "Night, House," he said as he rearranged his blankets.

James fell asleep to the delicate notes of Clair de Lune.

It was after dark and long after business hours when House let himself into his office. His new office. Had his name on the door and everything, that was how you could tell it was his.

He stood in the middle of the room, just looking at it. It was way too bare, though unlike Wilson he wasn't going to be terrifying his patients (if any of his patients were ever in the office, which a kind and just God would keep from happening) with posters for, of all things, Hitchcock movies. But he had a lamp at home that would look good in the corner, and maybe he could get a couch or a comfy chair or something.

Immersed in planning, he didn't hear her heels ticking their way down the hall until the door swung open behind him. Even when he realized she was there, he didn't turn around; turning was awkward and he didn't feel like craning his neck.

"Dr. House, you're here early."

"Dr. Cuddy, you're here late," he replied.

"Your first day isn't till Monday," she said softly, coming to stand next to him. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"I wanted to take a look," he said. "It's nice. No TV, but I can fix that."

"You're a department head now," she said, a note of exasperation creeping into her voice. House was happy to hear it, because before she'd sounded far too close to understanding. "You have better things to do with your time than watch soaps."

"I'm not technically a department head till Monday. For now I can watch all the soaps I want." She shot him a look, but said nothing. After a second he asked, "How'd you get the Board to sign off on this anyway?"

"Gave them a song and dance about the prestige the hospital would get from having the first Diagnostics department in the U.S.," Cuddy said, sounding very offhand about it. House did not actually snort, but he figured she knew what he meant from his body language because she continued, "And then I mentioned that you had to diagnose yourself, and that you did it with a potassium level so high you shouldn't even have been conscious, much less thinking. They got the point."

"The point being...?"

"That we were damn lucky you didn't sue us into oblivion," Cuddy said. "And that you're a genius, and an asset to this hospital." She paused. "Now have I stroked your ego enough?"

"I can think of a few other things you could stroke if you wanted," House said, waggling his eyebrows at her. She rolled her eyes.

"In your dreams," she said. "Go home. Come back on Monday. You can start looking at C.V.s for your staff."

House shrugged and said, "Think I'm gonna stay here a while. Break the place in, if you know what I mean." He hobbled towards his desk and settled into his chair, giving her enough of a leer to make his meaning plain, and she rolled her eyes again.

"Whatever," Cuddy said. "As long as you're here Monday morning, you can sleep on the floor for all I care."

"Did I say anything about sleeping?" House asked innocently. "I didn't think I did." She was fighting down a smile, he could see it.

"Don't wanna know," she said, and turned on her heel. At the door she paused and glanced over her shoulder at him. "House, you do own a lab coat?"

"I think so," he said. "One of those white things, right?"

"Yeah. Bring it with you. You might even consider wearing it."

"I promise I will consider it," House said solemnly.

"Don't make me regret this," Cuddy said. House just looked at her. She'd known what he was like when she went to bat for him; it wasn't his job to make her life easier. "Right," Cuddy said, and sighed. "See you Monday, House."