Every night he dreams of Julie.
She's warm under his touch, so real that he smiles as the scent of vanilla body lotion tickles his nostrils. She's gorgeous. Irresistible. Every time he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close his heart misses a beat.
He can't get enough of it; that sudden flip flop of his stomach, the absolutely certainty that he loves this woman.
It's an addiction; he knows that. But it's one that he doesn't want to kick.
Every morning he wakes up disorientated, his brain floundering as it struggles to understand.
The bedroom he's in is furnished in dark colors – not the light floral prints in his dreams. Through the door he can hear movement. There's the wafting scent of freshly brewed coffee, the steady thud, thud, thud of a cane against wooden floorboards.
The truth comes flooding back and he curls up in defense against it.
He's not married to Julie any longer. Somehow he screwed up again.
And another day of living in limbo is about to begin.
He takes his time getting ready in the mornings. The part of his brain that is working logically tells him that he doesn't smell of vanilla body lotion but he scrubs at his body anyway. Despite the fact he's not working today, he dries his hair carefully.
Once he's sure he looks perfect he heads for the kitchen.
House is looking scruffy – a perfect counterbalance to the smart casual clothes he's chosen. They drink coffee and eat pancakes. House mocks his attempts at the morning crossword. He hits back by pretending to hate the coffee.
This is something he can remember. The banter: the thrill of sparring and trying to keep up. But it's not right. His mind feels disjointed.
It is disjointed.
Suddenly he realizes House has stopped talking. Blinking, he forces himself to concentrate. House is staring back at him, a thoughtful look on his face. He dare not look too closely: he knows he'll see sadness in the expressive blue eyes.
They do this a lot, circling like two reluctant prize fighters, too scared to approach each other because they know what'll come next. The tension just keeps on building; there's no safe place for it to go. Every word he speaks is chosen carefully although he doesn't actually know what to measure his behavior against; the House he remembers from five years ago wasn't this…transparent.
He runs that thought around in his mind, like he does every day. Everywhere he looks there's evidence of his new life; the one he's always been too scared to try for. In his mind, friendship has always been better than nothing. Somehow in the past he's overcome his fear. But right now the scent of vanilla still lingers in his mind and House is surreptitiously studying him again, looking for a sign.
Just tell me, he feels like yelling. Just tell me what I did last time, but he knows that won't be enough. He wishes he could reach out and touch and put this right. Part of him wants to, is screaming at him to do just that. The other part is cowering in a corner, terrified of making the wrong move.
"I going to make some decent coffee," he offers, getting up so that House can stop looking and occupy himself with correcting all his crossword answers instead.
"Dr Cuddy? Your five o'clock meeting just cancelled."
She murmurs her thanks to her assistant and leans back in her chair, allowing herself a small sigh. It's been a hectic day – despite the fact that House hasn't been within a hundred feet of the hospital.
Not for the first time that day she wonders if she should call him. Wilson's four week appointment with his doctor had been today. House had been typically dismissively when she'd asked him about it. But over the years she's become very good at reading his body language.
She imagines House's curt response and dismisses the idea.
Hovering won't be appreciated.
It's not until she's back at home that evening, with the bath running and a bottle of wine freshly opened that House – and Wilson – enter her thoughts again.
It's the evenings she hates the most. It hits her then – the loneliness. And she wonders wistfully what it would be like to share her life with someone else.
She remembers the change in House's attitude when he'd first started his relationship with Wilson; gradual hints that the real Gregory House was still alive and kicking inside that hostile exterior. She remembers the panicked aftermath of Wilson's accident; the relief in the blue eyes when she'd taken Wilson home.
She's replays that moment in her mind sometimes. It makes her smile. She'd been so terrified it would backfire. That Wilson would freeze, just wouldn't connect…
He had though, at some level. She looks at the phone again, itching to pick it up. It's the doctor in her that's dying to know the prognosis she tells herself, and then shakes her head. She's last seen Wilson two days ago; he'd looked pristine. He'd looked happy. Until she'd looked into his eyes.
Five years loss of memory is something that she can't begin to comprehend. But it's reality for Wilson. Slithers of his memory are returning: 'flutters' he'd called them, waving vaguely in front of his face. But his frustration was obvious.
They're not the right memories. They're not the ones he wants.
It's that thought that's still running through her mind when there's a knock at the door. Still deep in thought, she pulls back a drape to peer outside. It's dark and she's tired so it takes her a few seconds to register that it's Wilson standing outside on her porch.
Her stomach twists as he shifts and the porch light illuminates his face. "Damn."
Tugging on her bathrobe, she opens the door. "Where's House?" are the first words that slip out of her mouth.
Apparently oblivious to her tactlessness, Wilson gestures back at a pair of rear car lights that are heading into the darkness. "Took a cab."
His voice hitches on the last word, kicking her brain into gear. She guides him indoors, gently nudging him towards the couch when he stops in the middle of the room. He sits, his hands curled in his lap.
"You're shaking."
He looks down, cupping his hands one over the other before drawing them closer. "I'm fine. It's just…" His chin dips and he brings up one hand to scrub his face.
Sitting down beside him, she covers his nearest hand with hers. It's cold and she shivers. His head is down, hiding his expression. But she's rubbing his hand gently and he hasn't told her to stop. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
He takes a deep, heaving breath. When he looks up his eyes aren't red-rimmed, as she expected. They're dark with anger instead. "We had an argument."
You're always having arguments, is her first thought. Love hadn't turned either man into a hopeless romantic. But her memories are different to Wilson's. "What about?"
"I kissed him." He jerks his hands skywards, his lips pursed into a thin, straight line. He's not angry with House she suddenly realizes: he's furious with himself.
"Um…" she starts, feeling like she's tiptoeing on thin ice, "isn't kissing a good thing?"
With a shrug, Wilson exhales slowly. "I thought so."
"But?"
"Apparently House disagrees."
The words are dry, brutal and very reminiscent of House. Years of sparring with the older man have taught her to jab back. But Wilson's leaning back into the couch, angrily scraping his fingers through his hair. "I thought that's what he wanted."
So did I, she thinks. He falls silent, his head slumping back as his eyes close. This is between House and Wilson she reminds herself, trying to ignore her overwhelming need to reach out. Maybe, though, if she were to call House…
The high-pitched ring of her cell phone jolts her out of her thoughts. Grabbing it out of her briefcase she checks the caller ID and flashes Wilson an apologetic smile as she heads for the kitchen. He blinks in acknowledgment before his eyes slide shut again.
Closing the kitchen door she picks up the call. "What the hell did you say to him?"
There's a tired, shuddering sigh at the other end. "He's there then."
"Of course he's -" Her brain catches up; really listens to House's voice. "Yes, he's here," she starts again, taking the sting out of her tone. "Are you coming over? You two need to talk to –"
"No."
"House." It's gone quiet at the other end of the line and she repeats his name. "He said he kissed you." No interfering, she's reminds herself, but her frustration has already got the better of her. "I thought that's what you wanted."
"No wonder you've resorted to internet dating."
The words sting. She jabs. "Okay, Dr Phil. Explain it to me."
There's another long sigh. She can hear a tapping noise in the background; he's pacing. "He didn't mean it."
"What?"
"I know the difference. I'm not some cheap date he's picked up in a bar."
Waving her free hand in frustration she begins pacing as well. House can be so incredibly useless at communicating. "You're upset about the quality of the kissing? What, do you have a scoring system or something?"
"You'll need at least an 8.5 to get into the top ten."
"House." She grits her teeth and takes another deep breath. He's upset which means he's deflecting. "Again. Explain it to me."
There's silence. When he speaks his voice is softer. "They don't think he'll regain all his memories."
The appointment with Wilson's doctor. She clutches the phone closer, checking the door is still closed. "But Wilson said…the flutters…"
House snorts at her choice of words; she can imagine the way his eyes are rolling. "He's regaining some memories. But it's random. And it's not happening as fast as they'd like."
She closes her eyes against the defeat in his voice. "So, what? This is it?"
"Therapy." The word is spat out. "They'll set him up with some 'coping mechanisms'."
That still won't solve the problem she thinks, instantly understanding what he's reluctant to say. Resting her head against the cool surface of one of the cabinets, she begins to rock back and forth. "So what happened?"
There's another snort but it's not a humorous one. "I didn't take the news very well. I may have been…upset."
Upset. She doubts that word even begin to covers it. "He was worried about you."
"Yeah. And Wilson being Wilson…"
"…tried to fix it." She loves both of these men in a weird, twisted way but they drive her to distraction. "You're idiots, both of you," she breathes softly into the phone.
"Can he stay with you for a few days?"
She stands up straight. "That might not be a good idea –"
"It is."
His voice is low, determined. "Okay." But she's entitled to know why. There's silence as he digests her question; it seems to drag on forever.
"There's…people he needs to talk to." His voice is so low she's straining to hear him. "And he's not going to do it while he's living here."
TBC
