A/N: At this time, has deleted 5 of my stories and suspended my account. All stories were posted long ago and all had lyrics in them. I'll only be able to post this in a week or so, when my suspension is over. This has made me really angry.

Just a reminder: This is an AU fic set in 19th Century France. Romantic friendship did flourish at this time, so that is the way I write the House and Wilson. It is not intended to be slash.

There is also some Wilson/OC romance, just to warn you.

Please read and review. Thanks.

Chapter Two

House groaned awake, sure in his subconscious that is must be an ungodly hour. He refused to open his eyes at once, but he was indeed awake, with his leg stiff and throbbing. He wanted to curse himself for sleeping in the same position all night, which always seemed to pain him more than moving did, but when he recalled where he was and with whom, he decided he could suffer a little bit more than he was accustomed to. He felt a sad gratitude creep into his heart, as he noted that he had never been this warm in the last five years. He was now reminded how much his soul missed it -- the warmth and security of another person holding him close.

He would hardly think to share a bed with any other man, not because of the nature of such an act but because he dared not let anyone so close, no matter whom it was. But Wilson -- Wilson was and had always been an exception to every personal rule House kept. From the time they had spent together in their youth, both knew that each was the other's closest companion, held above all other friends. Keeping such intimacy exclusive made it all the more special, in House's opinion. And regardless of their friendship's earlier days (when their love was fiercest, as love often is in the hearts of the young), House felt that no other friend knew him quite so well as Wilson or had such a compulsive, unconditional devotion to him, which he had found in no other human being, save for his mother perhaps.

Wilson took great pains and even delighted in taking care of him. If he allowed himself to revisit the memories he had of the days surrounding his accident, he would find a discreet but significant comfort among all the hazy visions of misery. Wilson had been the most admirable friend to him then, going beyond the concern and well wishing of his other friends and instead staying with him every moment, over-seeing his medical treatment and struggling to find an ultimate solution. Even now, all these years later, Wilson still had not given up his quest of restoring House to full health, no matter how many times someone reminded him that his friend would remain in this painful state for the rest of his life.

House couldn't begin to fathom, as he lay in the soothing warmth of the bedclothes, how he could've allowed five years to pass by before reuniting with his dearest friend. He was all at once consumed with guilt for all the loneliness he must have surely caused Wilson and with a grief for his own loss and loneliness in America, while his only joy left in life had stayed across the sea here in France. He was also suddenly sure that he and Wilson should never part again, that they should remain together in relatively close locations, and he might worry and wallow over the probability of Wilson finding himself a wife, if they had not already discussed the scenario time and time again in the last few years. Wilson promised to never let House slip even a little out of place in his life and heart, regardless of whatever woman and family awaited him in the future.

"How could you think I would be so fond of a woman, however handsome, that I would neglect our friendship?" Wilson had confronted the last time they had spoken of it. "I do not mean that I should not love my future wife wholeheartedly, but a wife is one sort of companion and a friend like you is quite another. Do not mistake me for such a heartless man."

Their eyes, as they were often inclined to do, bore into each other's.

"I could never think you heartless, James," House had said. "It is your heart that renders me so undeserving of your care."

That had been almost six years ago. Good Lord, House thought. How long, how long. Too long. No wonder he had spent so much time being cold and unapproachable. He always knew it was not behavior fit for a gentleman, but his melancholy reached a point where he could not hide behind etiquette any longer. If only he had stayed with James, whose presence offered tremendous relief to his pain, both in his leg and his soul.

His eyes opened. The only light in the room was a pale lavender that fell through the window like a dream. The oil lamp had passed away, and all the shadows were friendlier here than ever they had been in his homeland solitude. He felt Wilson's gentle breaths puff against his back, the welcome pressure of his friend's brow in between his shoulder blades and the movement of Wilson's chest nudging him toward a better life, a life improved not because of more elaborate conditions but because his heart may find itself in the company of love again.

Though he did not wish to disturb his friend's long-awaited peace, he wanted to see Wilson again, to make sure it was not another haunting dream. Carefully, he drew away from Wilson's hold, grasped his bad leg as he rolled over onto his other side. He felt his eyes gleam with solemnity, as he at last looked up at Wilson's boyish face and head of messy hair. House felt that he had woken from a fitful sleep that had lasted these past five years, and only now, when there was sunlight again in Wilson's presence, could he stop the dreary fever he had been suffering.

Wilson rolled onto his back, breathing audibly, and finally started to wake. He stretched like a cat, making House smile (which felt unnatural, the elder man noted), and looked over at his friend.

"Have you been awake long?"

"Not long."

"What is the time?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

Wilson looked up at the ceiling and exhaled.

"Sleep well?" House asked.

"Very. I don't think I've slept so well in a while."

"I know I haven't."

Wilson didn't know whether to smile at him or frown sadly.

"Are you up for breakfast?" he asked, instead.

"Do you know of any worthwhile places that serve breakfast?"

"The bistro on the corner."

"Across the street?"

"Indeed."

They somehow made themselves presentable, wearing their top hats, and walked, arms linked, across the street to said bistro. And Wilson surprised himself with a happiness that he hadn't known he'd been missing. House felt his own mood lift; it had been too long since he had walked with Wilson like this. He almost proposed that they save breakfast for later and keep walking.

The day passed on in House's room and around tables for meals, as the two caught up on what had transpired in each of their lives since they were last together, and House did get his walk. It was the first time since Wilson left America that House had been happy to be amongst the busy life of a city, the other people walking and the buggies rolling along noisily in the streets. A few of the French even smiled at House, as he and Wilson strolled arm in arm. Perhaps it was because of House's leg -- or perhaps it was because he was smiling himself.

Wilson savored every minute with House, only vaguely remembering that he had promised his lady the night. After so long a time where only she could make him feel light, this old and new sensation of -- dare he call it -- bliss, in House's company, made him feel vibrant. The simple gesture of linking arms restored a sense of such utter intimacy, he marveled at it as if it were new.

Later on, they found it was already time for supper, and Wilson decided that they would dine in his apartments. The buggy ride from the hotel to Wilson's building was one of pleasant smiles.

"Good Lord," House guffawed, as the wheels chattered.

"What?" said Wilson.

"Do you remember this?" House asked, holding up a handkerchief that he had pulled from his pocket. On the corner, a cursive W was stitched. Wilson smiled.

"I gave that you a long time ago," he said.

"On the day you left, I think."

"And you kept it all this time?"

"Did you expect me to do anything else?"

They sat at Wilson's dining room table in their evening attire, and it seemed the brightest night House had seen in Paris thus far. Dozens of candles were lit throughout the room and in the adjoining ones also, along with an oil lamp or two and the chandelier that hung above them. A fresh bouquet was arranged in the vase at the table's center, and House could ever so slightly smell their aroma. Wilson offered a small smile, as he settled his cloth napkin in his lap, and two servants readily appeared with bowls of soup.

"Onion and potato, sir," said the one serving Wilson. House couldn't remember ever enjoying food so much in quite some time. The soup was followed by a partridge hors d'oeuvre and a main entrée of rabbit roast, along with a light salad and cranberry tart. They ate quietly, House enjoying everything and Wilson simply waiting as long as he could before letting House know that he would not be following him straight back to L'Oeil Rouge tonight. But as their cranberry tarts began to turn into crumbs and stick smears of red and House finished off what must've been his fifth glass of champagne, Wilson figured he couldn't wait any longer.

"I have an appointment tonight," he said cautiously.

"An appointment?" House echoed.

"Just something to be taken care of."

House pressed no further. He didn't have the energy, and he's realized that five years of his friend's absence has made him unfamiliar with the necessity to know everything about Wilson. He drank his champagne in brooding silence.

Once the last of their plates were taken away, they rose from the table and made for the door, nodding to the maids and thanking them for the service. Wilson called down a buggy in a few minutes and helped House in, telling the driver to go back to the hotel. The streets were wet again, the rain having come and gone while the doctors had dined. They spoke little during the ride, each looking out their respective window into the dark night. House was pleasantly intoxicated, and Wilson was anxious for contradicting reasons.

When they arrived, smoke faintly spewed from the door, and Wilson only got so far as to help House out of the buggy, before House told him to go.

"You don't need help getting upstairs?" Wilson asked. House waved him away.

"I'm fine, Wilson. Don't be late to your engagement."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite."

Wilson looked at him in surrender, a little unsure.

"Well, all right then. Good night."

"Good night."

Wilson climbed back into the buggy and shut the door, as House turned away and made for his own door. Wilson sighed, as the driver asked where to go. House only just heard the wheels rumbling away, as the hotel door shut behind him, and he found himself coughing from all the smoke in the whore-ridden lobby. The women and their drunken clients laughed aloud and grunted and groaned, as he stumbled toward the stairs, shielding his face. He almost wanted to stay at the bottom of the staircase for the rest of the night, sleeping disgracefully on the damp carpet like a drunkard, rather than suffer the task of climbing all the way back up to the third floor.

But he couldn't. He couldn't fall asleep here, so near to the whores and the drunks who threw their money away to them, who were all so much happier than he was. He couldn't fall asleep here in the smoke; he might drown. And he could never let Wilson find him in such a distressing position as that.

So with a sigh of resignation, he gripped the banister and looked up into the cleaner space, pulling his good leg up first.

When Wilson entered her apartment, its atmosphere was quite different from what it had been the night before. Instead of the oil lamps burning, candles dotted the rooms with light, and it smelled as if someone had sprayed out an entire bottle of perfume. To his surprise, Soleil laid strewn out on one of her couches, unmoving and seductive. She smiled at him, her shoulder exposed and the ruffles of her gown spilling everywhere, like an ocean formed from her waist. She had chosen to leave her neck bare, the olive skin even more tempting without any pearls or -- God help her, diamonds -- to adorn them.

He stood smitten anew, his mind suddenly a slush of incoherence.

"James," she purred. "I've been waiting."

"I -- I'm sorry to not have come sooner."

"Oh, make no fuss. I know your friend needs to be looked after."

He swallowed. "Yes. Yes, he does."

"And -- you love him?" she asked, slowly rising to her feet, the candle light soft on her right cheek. He stared at her, struggling for words. He had never confided in anyone about such personal details concerning his friendship with House. But this was Soleil -- and he could keep nothing from her, if she asked to know.

"Yes," he said, the open admittance rendering him vulnerable. "I love him."

"Much?" she flirted. He gulped again and gave a slight nod. "How much?"

He was starting to feel invaded, trapped. He searched the floor, his pupils large in the near-darkness. He didn't want to give away the secrets of his and House's love. Its privacy was part of what made it so special.

"Never mind," she said, as he hesitated. "You are here now. It should be about us."

She was right in front of him now, leaning in to kiss him, and all he could do was smell her and wrap his arms around her waist. She was so beautiful, so intoxicating; he couldn't believe she loved him, of all men. It must be a mistake. She must be meant for some Frenchman far more exciting than he. This must be a dream he just can't wake up from. It must be. But instead of telling her so, he kisses her and lets her kiss him, until he has no idea who is kissing whom. He is almost completely lost in this, in this moment, being here with her. But the tiniest sensation of magnetism pulls at his heart, pulling toward the door and east, to where House is.

House. House is all alone. He should never be alone. He's been alone for the past five years. He's in pain, and he's probably drinking too much laudanum and red wine. He came all this way just to see Wilson. House. Wilson needs to go back to House, needs to stay with House forever, needs to take back their glorious friendship and hold on with all his might.

But -- Soleil. Oh, Soleil…. The most beautiful woman in the world, to Wilson. The only one who has made Paris worthwhile all this time, while House was across the sea. He is in love with her, so in love -- even if he never tells her, even if they're only supposed to be lovers for as long as he's a bachelor.

She is not his wife. She can never be his wife. She is a lorette, his lorette. Their relationship is only supposed to be one of passion and pleasure, not love. God help them if there was ever love. But there is -- in Wilson's heart. He believes with his whole soul that if he could just have her and House with him for all time, he would never want for anything again. He would be the happiest man ever to walk the earth.

"James," she whispers, breaking away from his lips. "James, I need you tonight. You promised me."

"Yes," he almost whimpered. "Yes, and you shall have it. You shall have everything, everything I could ever give."

She pulls him, he pushes, she stumbles back onto the couch, and he kisses her again. His hands are in her hair, his lips travel down her neck, and she's arching with her eyes closed. He struggles with the strings at the back of her corset and then with his trousers, and she is helpless this time, her arms latched around him. He kisses her mouth, worships it with his tongue, trying to make up for the poetry he can't write. The corset lays undone on the rug, and her breast emerges easily from the loose bodice of her dress. He thinks it's so perfect, she should be painted like this. He loves her, he loves her, he loves. Oh, how he loves her.

"James," she groans, as he fondles her with his lips. And he wants to say that he loves her. He wants to tell her. He wants to murmur about running away, taking her to America or the Caribbean, and marrying her. He wants to go crazy. She always makes him crazy, strips him of his doctor's practicality, streaks his mind with madness and love and desire.

But now he thinks fleetingly of House -- cooped up in his hotel room with nothing to do and no one to talk to, waiting for him to return for dinner or for anything. He thinks of House braving the flights of stairs like a fool, all the pain he must feel, all the loneliness he must be drowning in. He's an American in Paris, with no way to move about freely, no company save for Wilson. He's too easily saddened, though he won't admit it. He suffered to come from the States, for God's sake. And now? He was alone in his room because Wilson had left him.

Yet he makes no move to leave, to choose House over this woman he's kissing. He feels the most urgent pull in his heart to go to the door, but he stays. He stays with her.

House has finished off the 2nd bottle of laudanum he's used since leaving America, and he only managed to take off his coat and vest. He sank onto the bed in his shirt and trousers, not giving a damn, and he knew before he even picked it up that he was never going to read anything of the book now on his stomach. His mind is muddled -- a familiar feeling -- and he wishes he could call on someone to bring him some wine or brandy.

He didn't understand. He was in Paris. He was with Wilson again. He shouldn't be miserable. He shouldn't feel this way. He didn't know why he did. All he knew is that he was too lost in it now to do anything except pass out into another restless sleep. He let the empty bottle slip down onto the floor, and the cap rolled across the room, disappearing into the shadows. He almost wished he had given up in the lobby after all, paid one of the whores for her services or simply asked for a cigarette. He knew it was all wrong. He knew it made no sense. He didn't condone prostitution, a majority of the time, and as a doctor, he knew few things could be unhealthier. He also had never really smoked a cigarette before, and he didn't want to start just for the sake of smoking itself. All he wants is a distraction, a way to snap himself out of this melancholy that he can't explain. It is in this moment that he remembered he must've come to Paris for a purpose, other than seeing Wilson again. He must have something to say…. But he drifted away before recalling.

"House!" Wilson exclaimed, bursting into the room racked with guilt that it was already two o'clock in the morning. He had no chance to offer a defense. House lay in bed, asleep and clothed, book collapsed on his stomach. The oil lamp glowed, and Wilson sighed, shutting the door behind him. He shed his coat and felt his guilt twist him again.

"House," he murmured. "Forgive me. I've been so selfish."

But his friend slept on obliviously, no doubt heavily drugged and maybe even drunk, for he looked the picture of peace. Wilson stepped out of his shoes, blew out the lamp, and slunk next to the sleeping man. Resting his head snugly against House's shoulder, he slid his arm over House's chest and shut his eyes, never having been so remorseful in many years.

Soleil had made him feel burning and then content exhaustion. She overwhelmed him, left him crazy and hungry and impassioned. But House -- House made him feel as if everything were right, just sleeping with him like this. With House, Wilson felt secure and warm, in such a soft and gentle way that was the total opposite of the almost unbearable heat Soleil inspired in him. With House, everything was calm and certain. Wilson was beginning to consider which situation felt better.