House eventually went back to sleep, mainly to see if Wilson would appear to him again. This reunion was not to be; instead, House was left with his own fragmented subconscious that seemed all too ready to supply nightmares.

House woke in his bed. His first instinct was to reach for Vicodin, but today the ache in his leg was only extremely uncomfortable rather than the usual unbearable, searing pain that obscured clarity and judgment. House sat up slowly until the sunlight that streamed through the window shone directly into his eyes, illuminating the swirling shades of blue. He ran his hands through his hair, but pulled away when he felt an odd sensation.

Why is my hand sticky?

House brought the hand in question into the light. His long palm and slender fingers were covered in blood. How-- House found his answer when he saw the large vertical cut that traced the main artery in his wrist. Blood still flowed weakly, but the wounds seemed to have clotted. He lifted his other hand, and saw the same damage. House staggered out of bed and tried to stand. His apartment spun around him; he leaned against a wall while slowly, the black and white spots that clouded his vision cleared. He turned back to look at the bed, and saw its blue was now a stained purple. Using the wall as a guide, House limped to the bathroom. On the sink, next to a glass of water, was a small razor. The blade was discolored, slightly rusted. House picked it up and examined the 'rust.'

Not rust. Blood. His blood.

He didn't remember doing any of this, and yet, for a moment, House felt happy. If he was dying, he would see Wilson soon. As soon as the thought had crossed his mind, the wounds on his wrists opened up like floodgates. His blood poured onto his hospital gown before seeping down to the floor. Hospital gown? House's strength left him and he collapsed onto the brown floor. He stared at the brown walls and ceiling, waiting for it to be over. Brown, brown, brown. The color was all he saw--Exact color of Wilson's eyes. House realized he couldn't feel the floor under his back anymore. He felt light, weightless. The blood continued to seep out of him. It surrounded his body, soaking him. In the brown room, the blood was almost invisible. Before he lost consciousness, House thought it was rather lovely to be suspended in the exact color of his dead lover's eyes

House awoke covered in sweat. His hand automatically moved to his head to rub the sleep from his eyes, but House stopped halfway to examine the veins in his wrist. The pale skin of his arms were whole and undisturbed—no marks, cuts or bruises. Just a dream, his inner voice chastised. Just like Jimmy. House made his way to the bathroom, where his hypothesis of Wilson's presence was immediately negated. The hickey was still there, and was blooming in magical Technicolor shades of yellow, purple and blue.

I may need a longer sabbatical.

Wilson sat in the cushioned chair by House's bed. His former bed. Its current inhabitant thrashed and moaned in his sleep, occasionally calling out a single name: James. Tears ran down Wilson's face; he was powerless to help his lover, and the reality of his scant influence on the living was hard to bear. Wilson didn't understand how he had appeared in House's dream before, but he surmised that it could only be done once a night—if it could be done more than once at all.

Wilson had refrained from touching his lover until he fell asleep. After the funeral, he had followed House to his own car. Wilson moved to open the passenger side door, but instead slid through the metal and landed on the seat. So I can go through metal, but leather supports me. Huh. There should be a guidebook for this. Wilson watched House drive, noting the unusual amount of care the older man put into the trip home. House must have realized this himself, as he whispered to no one, "I'm keeping your car safe." Indeed, the car looked just as it had before the accident, if not better.

They arrived at a spotless apartment, much to Wilson's surprise. He expected, in his absence, that the apartment would be reduced to various takeout containers stacked precariously on top of one another, enhanced by a fine layer of dust. Instead, their quarters—now, solely House's home, looked just as it had prior to the accident. House immediately went to his piano. For a few moments, he merely sat on the bench, twirling his cane. He placed the wooden reminder of his inadequacy against the loveseat facing him—the same loveseat where he and Wilson had sat, kissed, and made love on. House's fingers flew over the ivory keys, pounding out fast, angry music.

Wilson watched as House tried to pour every ounce of energy into his music. This was not the sound he was used to hearing; the music he recognized as House's was patient, even slow—as if his lover took the time to coax beauty from every note and chord. Wilson went to the piano-the side opposite House, and trailed a finger over the onyx body. It felt as it always had; smooth, cold, and completely out of his reach. Wilson knew he would never play as well as House, so he never tried. The finger kept gliding across the piano, guiding Wilson closer to House. Finally, the younger man stood in front of his lover. Wilson sat carefully next to House, keeping his eyes glued to the man's face. House's expression of concentration had not changed, though a faint sheen of perspiration had taken its place on his forehead.

Before he knew what he was doing, Wilson's hand had begun to stretch towards House's face. The digits quavered slightly before making contact with the rough cheek he had missed far too much. The skin under his hand was just as he remembered—a walking contradiction. Rough on the surface, then smooth and warm underneath. Wilson peered into House's eyes, willing himself to be seen or felt, but the gaze of his love remained on the piano's black-and-white keys. House finished his song. The absence of music was louder than the playing itself. Bracing himself on the piano, House stood up, only to collapse a few feet away, onto the couch. Wilson stayed at the piano for a few moments, unable to move. Despair began to move in him, climbing toward his heart. He sat on the piano bench until he heard a faint sniffing sound behind him, and saw House wipe tears impatiently away from his electric eyes. Wilson realized that this was the most he'd ever seen House cry—and it was all for him.

House fell asleep on the couch. Wilson moved to be near him. At least I can be near him. Wilson crouched next to House's sleeping form. Wilson took House's hand and stroked the calloused skin beneath his fingers. A few moments had passed when Wilson's hand began to tingle. The feeling moved through his body, and Wilson realized he was glowing. Yes, glowing. The hand that held House's began to love definition and color, losing consistency until the digits were completely transparent. Wilson heard a roar in his ears, and a gust of warm wind. Then, as quickly as events began, they stopped. Wilson was now in a nondescript, white place. A glow emanated from all around; the light seemed to have no real source.

Wilson turned to better examine his surroundings.

"Oh," he gasped. House sat not more than two feet away, gazing straight at him. When the older man made no move towards him, Wilson inferred that, even in dreams, he was but a spirit. Not to be seen. Wilson almost cried out over the hopelessness of the situation, until House said, almost too softly to hear,

"Your eyes."

Wilson closed the gap between himself and his lover, and asked quickly,

"You can see me?"

And then they were in an embrace. Each tried to press tighter against the other, to deepen the kiss, to be fully connected. Through tears and his lover's mouth, Wilson assured House that he was real, that this was happening. He knew he had to leave proof. Wilson's mouth seemed to think for him, and it left its mark on House, in the very spot that could prove Wilson's existence.

"I love you," Wilson said, before he realized the words had crossed the threshold of his lips and leapt out into reality. He kissed house again, noting the older man still tasted like cinnamon and whiskey. House broke away from the kiss and looked into Wilson's eyes.

"I love you too."

And then House was gone. Wilson was on the cold floor again. His tongue and mouth pulsed with shared heat, and he cried out, wordlessly, for the loss of his lover's mouth.

House woke up, startled by the clatter of his cane. His gaze stopped right on Wilson, and the younger man's heart leapt hopefully, then dropped in the realization that a whiskey bottle sat directly in front of him.

House got up and went to the bathroom, but stopped to gaze in the mirror. He appeared to be startled by something. Wilson watched as House turned his neck, revealing Wilson's handiwork. House looked directly into the mirror, and softly called out,

"Jimmy?"

"I'm here, House." Wilson replied, pressing his palm into House's back. When no reaction came from the older man, he said, softer, "I'm here."