A/N: So this story idea came to me.
It's an AU fic, taking place in late 19th century France. Now, I can really write romantic friendship and not have it be unrealistic for the time period -- so though your mind may wander to slash when you read this, it is not intended to be slash, nor would it have been thought of that by anyone in this time period.
I know I've gotta update Cotton Candy Baby like hell, so I don't know what my updating will be like with this story... Or hell, if anyone's actually going to read it. But we'll see.
Warning: There will be angst and some romance but not between males.
Personal Disclaimer: I'm sorry if at any point, my historical details aren't perfectly accurate. There is a massive amount of research to be done for this story, and it's not all easily found online. Also -- if any of you have particular information concerning this time period and would like to share, I'd appreciate that. You can email me or send me a private message.
Please read and review! Thanks.
Chapter One: An Introduction to Madness
Dr. Gregory House stepped out of his carriage and into the wet street with a dark look in his eyes. It would rain again soon. He could smell it in the air and see the storm gathering above him, as he handed a tip to the driver. He pulled his overcoat tighter around him, grimacing at his surroundings as the carriage drove away. The silver arch of his cane -- an eagle frozen in preparation for takeoff -- glinted under his hand, as he set out toward his left.
It was not his first time in Paris. He had spent a year here in his 20s, a personal time of light and unlimited possibility. He was a different man now, some twenty years later, and Paris had changed too, it seemed. He had never seen weather like this the last time he was here. Rain, yes. Storms, of course. But never this heaviness, this gloom that was seeping into the stones themselves.
Maybe it was just him.
No one stopped him as he hobbled along. No one tried to peer into his face. He kept his head down, the brim of his hat shading those eyes that still haunted a person or two in this world, and he did not mind the thunderous rumbling that seemed to protest his arrival. He glanced up at every intersection, waiting for the right street name to appear. He knew his destination was not far.
Four blocks from where he stopped the carriage, he arrived at L'Oeil Rouge, a hotel built almost forty years ago. It's red roof, turned drab with time, gleamed with old rain. It's name sign creaked as it swung high above the double door, a heavy wood. No light could be seen in the windows yet, though it was almost dark outside, and no one lingered outside the place at all. He sighed to himself from across the street, before stepping off the curb and approaching.
He frowned as he slipped into the lobby, which was dimly lit and heavy with smoke. Expensive rugs, lamp shades, sofas, and chairs all made it a true, French affair. The clerk smiled at him with an intoxicated glint in his eye, but House didn't return the gesture, as he limped toward the desk.
"I need a single room, third floor," he grumbled in French, after nodding his head at the clerk.
"Certainly, sir." The clerk turned to the wall of keys and picked one out without much deliberation. "And how will you be paying, sir? A single is 50 francs a night."
House dug into his coat pocket and pushed a wad of money toward him. The clerk smiled.
"Thank you. Here is your key; it will be room 53, right up those stairs." He pointed to House's left, where the shape of a staircase undoubtedly waited at the far end of the hall. House pursed his lips, key in hand.
"I'm expecting a trunk to arrive shortly," he said, without looking at the clerk.
"It will be held at the desk, until you inquire after it," he said coyly. House glanced at him.
"Thank you."
He swept away, toward the stairs, catching the eye of one of the resident whores. She was leaning against a wall in her black corset and thigh-high stockings, while a faceless man cooed to her some indistinguishable nonsense. She winked at him sensually, and he continued on his way.
The stairs creaked under his feet and cane, and he winced with each step, dragging his bad leg along. Every couple of stairs, he stopped to rest for a moment, panting with the pain. He would have to take his drugs once locked inside his room, which would have been on the first floor, if not for the unspoken fact that the farther up one was in this hotel, the less likely one would be disturbed or found out.
The whores lived on the fourth floor, where no one ventured except the drunken local men with money, who came only at night. If not told beforehand, first-time customers might not realize the existence of that fourth floor, despite the sightings of it's tempting occupants. Fourth floor room keys were not kept at the front desk, not even pegs for those keys. The whores alone kept them, coming and going when they pleased. During the day, they may dress themselves as ladies to go out, but once darkness fell, they became pleasure-bearers to anyone who came calling.
House, even in his younger days as a French doctor's apprentice, never liked these women who reeked of powders and perfumes. Their eyes were almost hidden behind their black rings of makeup, and their lips were too decadent as dark-colored pouts. Every smile and every look was a plead for money in exchange for their used bodies, which he always knew must be walking paradises for all the incurable diseases that had been rampaging through Paris even before Napoleon's time. He would rather keep his good health.
He leaned heavily against his room's door, once he reached it, his hand almost shaking where it gripped his cane. He panted, his blue eyes cracking open to shine at a woman who was dressed like a lady but regarded him with a whore's smile. She passed him by, descending the stairs with detestable ease. He would have banged at the door angrily, if he had been sure of solitude.
Instead, he pushed the key into it's hole and forced himself inside.
The bed was unmade, but he didn't care. He collapsed into it, heaving with the pain in his leg, sweat coating his face. An oil lamp burned on top of the wall shelf, and he almost laughed at the stupidity of leaving it unattended prior to his arrival.
The room smelled of the same cigarette smoke that had clouded the lobby. A brick red, Oriental rug covered most of the floor. The windowpane was water-stained and dirty, while a tapestry hung from the ceiling against the wall nearest the bed. As for the bed itself, it's mattress sat in an old, wood frame and was covered with a set of linen sheets and a heavy blanket. Below the wall shelf, which held a disorganized collection of French books and miscellaneous trinkets, was a dresser drawer. A wardrobe and mirror hovered in the corner next to the door and across from the bed, and a small table sat bare next to the bed.
House sighed, as the pain began to decline from a burning sensation to it's usual throbbing. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his bottle of laudanum. He carried more in his luggage but always had a canteen of it with him, in his coat. He unscrewed the cap quickly and tipped his head back to drink some. The instant relief flowed into him even before he was done swallowing.
"Dr. House?"
He recognized that voice which came after a lenient knock on his door.
"Are you there?"
He almost smiled. For that voice, he would suffer to get up again. He tucked his bottle back into his coat and pushed himself to his feet, wincing as pressure was put on his leg again.
When he opened the door, the most welcome sight in the Western Hemisphere greeted him -- the boyish smile and glittering eyes of Dr. James Wilson.
"James," House said, the first sign of warmth creeping into his voice since he departed from America.
"House," said James, with the same tone. He let down the trunk he had been pulling along and embraced the other doctor, with no regard for who might see them in the doorway. They held to each other for a long moment and parted reluctantly.
"Is that my trunk?" House asked, eyeing the luggage on the floor, next to Wilson's feet.
"I saw it being delivered just as I arrived in the lobby. I thought it only proper to bring it up. God knows you would hurt yourself trying it pull it up two flights of stairs. And the French can't be bothered to do it."
House smiled and stepped aside, letting Wilson pick up the trunk's handle again and pull it into the room.
"How did you know I was here? I never sent word," said House, closing the door.
Wilson shrugged. "I've been waiting impatiently for days. I decided to come down here and inquire after you. Glad I did."
He smiled, his hands on his hips and the trunk at his feet.
"Is this really all you brought with you?"
House glanced from the trunk to Wilson. "I never have need for a lot of excess things. I only brought my medical kit besides my clothing."
"And laudanum," Wilson said, knowingly. House only gave a discreet nod.
"How has your leg been?" Wilson asked in a suddenly urgent tone, sitting next to House on the bed.
"Oh, the same, really," he said, rubbing at it idly. Wilson's look of concern persisted, waiting for more information. "I manage it as I can, try to stay off it when I can."
"I haven't stopped looking for a solution, you know," said Wilson. House looked at him, and Wilson took his shoulder in one hand. "Never."
House offered a weak smile and a nod. "Thank you. It -- it's terribly wonderful to see you again."
Wilson's smile returned. "I can't begin to say how much I agree. I have missed you a great deal, these years in France. Your letters have kept me from being too lonely."
"Yours have been one of my few joys," House confessed.
"Oh, I hope not."
"Yes, it's true. I've been swamping myself in work, as usual. No company I enjoy nearly so much as yours."
"No ladies?" Wilson asked hopefully.
"None."
And Wilson knew not to take that subject any further. He had always hoped House would one day move on from privately grieving the loss of his youth's love -- Miss Warner -- but House had obviously not.
"If you're up to it, I would propose dinner in one of the restaurants nearby," he said next. House sighed.
"I don't know," he replied. "I'm tired, and my leg doesn't particularly like those stairs."
"Why on earth did you get a room on the third floor?"
"In this hotel? I would think you would know."
"Why this hotel?"
"For the same reason I chose the floor."
"The French aren't nearly as invading as Americans, you know."
"Annoyance is a universal quality, Wilson."
Wilson did not answer but looked at his friend instead. A few more wrinkles touched House's face from the last time Wilson had seen him five years ago. His friend was tired and worn, and Wilson felt a compelling urge to care for him now, though he knew not in what ways he possibly could. He wished with his whole heart that he could make House happy again, wished that he could change his dearest friend back into the man he was when Wilson had first met him.
He smiled sadly to himself, as House sat with his head in his hands and his eyes closed. Wilson remembered this feeling -- this helplessness. It was part of the reason why so many had abandoned House long ago. But despite the gnawing it left in his chest, Wilson couldn't even fathom leaving House. He had never loved anyone the way he did this man -- this aging, tired, miserable man. He had spent the last five years in a constant state of emotional hills: quiet bliss when he received a letter, impatience and loneliness while he waited for another one. And he had written his own letters to House with the utmost care and intimacy -- hundreds of "I always recall when we last were together" and "Paris is glum today, and I feel that her skies know how my heart feels in your absence."
He had saved every letter from his most beloved friend, kissing them tenderly in his solitude and keeping the newest one always in his inner breast pocket, so that he may read it over and over until a new arrived. Reading them always left him smiling with an emptiness inside him that no amount of words from across the sea could ever fill.
And now at last, when House was here again, the helplessness returned to Wilson, replacing the longing.
"I can send for food," he offered quietly.
"That would be good," House replied.
Wilson rose from the bed and strode to the door, hesitating for a moment and turning toward House again.
"I'll hurry back," he said.
"I'm not going anywhere," House answered. Wilson pursed his lips and opened the door, but House never lifted his head.
Wilson hurried down the stairs, as dusk swept over Paris, and a few of the prostitutes were already emerging. His carriage had waited outside the hotel, and he climbed back in with a brisk order to the driver. The carriage took him several streets away and stopped in front of a house with a light in every window. He was let in through the main doors and bolted up the stairs to top floor, where he knocked urgently on the door to the room on the right side of the house, in the front.
"Who is it? James?"
A woman opened up, her chestnut curls hanging wildly around her face and her breasts cupped in her corset. She spoke in her native French, and he answered her likewise.
"James, what is it? It's Wednesday --"
"I know. I came for food. My friend is here from America."
"The one you have been talking so much about?"
Wilson nodded, as she peered over her bare shoulder at him with her big eyes. She sashayed toward her fireplace, the ruffles of her skirts half dragging along the rug. The familiar apartment smelled of her exotic perfume and spices that he knew were still on her hands.
"I have some soup. It is not much, but you may take the pot, as long as you bring it back. Let me pour myself a bowl."
He stood anxiously, as she ladled some of the pea soup into a porcelain bowl on her table.
"I have some bread I bought in the market today, also," she said, wrapping the rolls in a kerchief and tucking it on top of the pot's lid.
"Thank you, Soleil," he said. "Thank you."
She smiled at him, as she handed him the meal. "I will have to meet this friend of yours."
He nodded, as her slid up his chest to his shoulder, and she kissed him with mounting fervor.
"Will you reward me for this?" she asked.
"Yes, I promise. Tomorrow night."
She smirked. "I will wait impatiently, Dr. Wilson."
He kissed her neck, as she guided him to the door. He almost wished he could stay with her but not quite. Not when House was here.
"I'll come to you tomorrow," he murmured, breaking away.
She lurked in the almost-shut door, watching him disappear around the corner, listening to his footsteps fade down the stairs. She smirked.
James sent the carriage away this time, as he made his way through the whore-filled lobby and up the stairs, coughing in the midst of the smoke that didn't dissipate until well into the second floor. He hoped the soup had not already grown cold, as he carefully crept up to the third floor.
He and House ate quietly, sharing the bare bedside table. The laudanum had made House sleepy, aside from the exhaustion had naturally felt because of the day's travel, and he ate impatiently, wanting to finish so that he may go to bed.
"Decent soup," he remarked, as he finished. "Where did you get it?"
"One of the restaurants nearby. I visit often, and they had the courtesy of sending me along with something."
House left the bowl and spoon and got up to shed his coat and vest.
"Will you stay?" he asked Wilson, as he took off his shoes. His friend smiled gently.
"Would you have me stay?"
"Do you need ask?"
"It's been a long time."
House pulled his leg up onto the bed and curled up, sighing into his pillow. He opened one bleary eye at Wilson, who decided to give in and took off his own coat and vest and shoes. He climbed into bed from the end, sliding next to House with his back nearly against the wall.
"Someone needs to put out the lamp," he whispered.
"Leave it. The French let them burn all the time."
Wilson pulled the sheets and blanket up to cover them both and flung his arm over House, pressing his face to his friend's back in his hunger for this old companionship.
"I have missed you, Dr. Wilson," House murmured with his eyes closed.
Wilson smiled against House's shirt.