(no subject)
Title: For Every Closed Door: Interlude 4
Author: Starlingthefool
Fandom: House/Dead Like Me crossover
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: Light R, for sexual situations (finally!)
Summary: Wilson wasn't sure what was more pathetic; that he was carrying on a conversation with a dead man at two in the morning, or that he was sorry when it stopped. Either way, it was depressing.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Woe.
A/N: Did I say two chapters left? Because I meant two chapters and another Wilson interlude. Whoopsie.
This chapter is dedicated to Barnes & Noble, for hiring me and then throwing me into a pit full of crazed Harry Potter fans with almost no training.
Crossposted to housefic and house_wilson.
A/N 2:Oh, and there's a quote from Hamlet in here. Sorry to be a pretentious literary nerd.
A/N 3:It's my journal, I can spam if I want to!
A/N 4:If you're disappointed by the lack of super sweaty graphic sex... sorry. I'll try and include more next time.
Maybe that's what happens to some souls. Maybe they get lost. Maybe they have to wander because they're not quite at peace yet. Maybe there's some kind of unfinished business with these kind of souls like they're holding on to something -- holding their breath. And when the business is done, they can finally let go, exhale and sleep. -From Dead Like Me.
Previous Chapters
Wilson woke suddenly from a fractured dream. The brown-haired woman he'd dreamed of before had been there. They'd stood on some cliffs above the sea, smiling and laughing together. But then something had happened. He'd stepped over the edge and started falling towards the waves. He'd been jolted back to consciousness by the terror he'd felt, seeing the water rush toward him.
Wilson looked over at the clock and groaned. It wasn't even two in the morning. He'd been asleep for just over two hours. His sleep had been like this for the last two weeks; broken and sporadic. He'd wake up like this in the middle of the night, and be unable to get back to sleep until dawn. Then he'd catch himself nodding off in the afternoon. The clonzepam wasn't helping, and he'd been wary of taking any other sedatives.
Wilson rolled off of the futon in spare room. It was dusty in there, crowded with boxes, and the mattress was uncomfortable. Still, it was better than the couch, and he had no desire to sleep in House's bed. He padded barefoot into the kitchen to get some water, filling a glass from the tap and sipping from it.
After leaving Mika's apartment, he'd driven aimlessly for about an hour. He'd discovered that movement was a good, albeit temporary, antidote to grief. Once he hit about forty-five, fifty miles an hour, a certain calm seeped into him. All the noise in his head faded once he got on the highway, overtaken by the sounds of the engine and the wind roaring through his open window. He understood now why House loved that damned motorcycle so much, despite the fact that it was practically a signed death certificate on wheels.
Grief ambushed him again, this time at the memory of House showing him the bike for the first time. It was almost like vertigo; the whole world tipped on its axis unexpectedly, and he found himself gripping the nearest steady thing until his equilibrium came back. Wilson clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut.
Fucking hell, Wilson thought. Fucking House!
On the heels of the grief came embarrassment for what had happened tonight with Mika. What had he been thinking? What he'd done was unforgivable by any standards. But at the time...
Wilson set down the glass and rubbed at his eyes. He was screwed up; hadn't House told him that almost every day? But this was bad. When his eyes were closed and he was kissing Mika, he'd been convinced that-
There was no point in following that thought any further. House was dead. Wilson had identified the body, had helped carry the coffin out of the funeral home that carried his friend's remains, and watched it be put in the ground of a nearby cemetery. He'd even thrown his handful of dirt onto it. At some point, comprehension of House's absence should have set in.
Wilson opened his eyes and looked around the apartment, which was still saturated with House's presence three weeks after his death. Maybe Cuddy was right; he should have taken more time off. Maybe he should just get out of Princeton for a while, visit his parents in Connecticut. Or maybe sell the apartment and buy a condo, and live somewhere where he wouldn't constantly be surrounded by his memories.
The thought made him anxious. He knew he was just trying to cling to the remaining presence of his best friend. It was ironic how much House had been his anchor; that one of the most contrary, annoying, selfish men he'd ever met had been the most solid and firm thing in his life. Without him, Wilson felt as though he were drifting.
"The irony of this is killing me," Wilson said aloud to the empty kitchen.
Speaking in clichés to yourself? House answered in his head. First sign of madness.
"Are you sure it's not seeing your dead best friend at his own funeral? Or thinking that fortune cookies and random songs mean he's still around?" Wilson said.
Never could do things the easy way, could you?
"You're one to talk."
I'm just a voice in your head, Jimmy. You're the one talking.
Nonetheless, Wilson could almost see House standing next to him, leaning against the counter, thumping his cane on the floor in a half-assed attempt to annoy him.
"I'm having a breakdown, aren't I?"
Either that, or reality as you know it is.
"Well, that's reassuring."
In his mind's eye, House stopped thumping the cane and gestured theatrically with it.
There are more things to heaven and earth, Horatio-
"Than can be summed up in a Shakespeare quote. Now who's talking in clichés?" But there was no answer to that, in his own voice or in House's.
He looked at the clock again. He'd been standing in the kitchen for close to twenty minutes. Wilson wasn't sure what was more pathetic: that he was carrying on a conversation with a dead man at two in the morning, or that he was sorry when it stopped. Either way, it was depressing.
Wilson drank the rest of the water in his glass, then set it in the sink. He felt wide awake and restless now. He considered trying to go back to sleep, or watching TV, or trying to clear out more of House's guestroom. None of it sounded very appealing. He decided to go for a drive. Maybe it would clear his head a little, to be moving too fast for his thoughts to catch up with him.
He went back into the room and threw on a pair of jeans, some sneakers, and a sweatshirt, then grabbed his keys from the stack of boxes that functioned as his nightstand. He switched off the light in the kitchen and opened the door to the apartment..
Mika was standing there, one hand on the door jamb, the other frozen above his shoulder, poised to knock on the door.
They both stood, paralyzed for a moment, watching each other. Then Mika slowly lowered his hand, but kept the other one of the jamb, effectively blocking Wilson's escape.
Wilson opened his mouth. "I-"
Mika's hand moved again, darting up and softly covering Wilson's mouth, fingers cold against his lips.
"Let me say something," he said. He looked at Wilson, his hazel eyes nailing him in place, and Wilson nodded in acquiesce. There wasn't much else he could do.
"I know you're freaked out. I know you think you're going crazy and that this is a bad idea, and maybe you're right about that. You're going to overanalyze it and agonize over it, torture yourself for a while because you think you're using me for selfish reasons. But I don't care. I want you."
Wilson shut his eyes at the words, inhaling raggedly. Mika's voice was different than House's, richer and less gravely. But the cadence and the rhythm of the words was almost identical, and the sound of them echoed in Wilson's ears. It was painful, but also damnably compelling.
The hand over his mouth shifted, and a thumb stroked lightly over his lips. Wilson felt embarrassingly moved by the gesture, not to mention aroused.
"Can't we just... deal with all the details later?" Mika asked, taking a step closer, moving his fingers over Wilson's jaw
.
The hand was gone from his mouth. Nothing was physically preventing him from speaking, but Wilson couldn't force a word from his throat. Eventually, he nodded.
"Good," Mika said. "I'm going to kiss you now."
Wilson was about to nod again, but then the other man's lips were on his, soft but insistent, demanding, drawing him into a long open-mouthed kiss. He felt torn. He wanted this, almost desperately wanted it, but-
"You're agonizing again," Mika said against his lips. "Stop it." He pushed them both inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
"But-"
"Shh," Mika said, kissing him again.
"But-" he tried again, even though he had no idea what he wanted to say.
"Later, remember?" Mika moved his hands under Wilson's sweatshirt, cool hands moving against his back.
Wilson gave up. Or gave in, rather. It was hard to form any kind of coherent argument with Mika's dexterous fingers working their way into his waistband. He pulled back long enough to remove his shirt, then help Mika out of his.
He knew this was probably a bad idea. Knew that, in the long run, it'd probably screw him up even more than he already was; knew that in all likelihood, he'd regret it and feel terrible about doing this in a couple days. But in the meantime, here was a stranger who he felt like he'd known for years, and who he somehow trusted more than their few days' acquaintance warranted. Here was a man who smelled, moved, and talked like House, showing up right after the man had been killed. The whole situation seemed impossible.
More things to heaven and earth, Horatio, Wilson thought distractedly. Then Mika managed to fumble open Wilson's jeans, slipping a hand inside, and Wilson stopped thinking entirely. It was a relief.
***
Wilson was struggling to catch up with House, who was moving quickly on the narrow path. Wilson jogged, trying to keep up, but the other man was walking so fast and refused to wait. He passed over the crest of a hill and passed out of Wilson's sight.
When Wilson finally made it to the top of the hill, he saw the blue-gray sea stretching out below a series of rocky cliffs. He didn't see House, but there was a woman standing close to the edge. Her brown curls were blowing in the wind. She was familiar, but he didn't know from where.
"Where did he go?"
She pointed outwards, over the edge. Dread filled him.
"How do I go after him?" It was a stupid question. If House had gone over the cliffs, he was lost. But it was imperative that they remain together, Wilson knew that.
She smiled brilliantly at him, then took his hand, squeezing his fingers briefly. "Jump," she said.
"Jump?" he said. Was she insane?
She shrugged unconcernedly. "It's not so bad, really." She let go of his hand. Wilson looked over the edge, so far above the water it was dizzying. He took a step forward and then let himself fall.
Wilson watched the waves rushing up to meet him, terror filling him--
--then woke, shivering from the cool air of the open window.
"Mm," a voice grunted next to his ear. "All right?"
"Cold," he muttered. He pulled the covers, which had worked their way down to his waist, up to his shoulders, and burrowed further into the warm, naked body spooned up behind him. The other man threw an obliging arm over Wilson's chest and pulled him closer.
"I dreamt of you," he told House, already falling back asleep. "I dreamt you died."
"Eh. It's not so bad, really," House muttered, nuzzling into his neck.
Neither of them remembered the conversation the next morning.
Author: Starlingthefool
Fandom: House/Dead Like Me crossover
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: Light R, for sexual situations (finally!)
Summary: Wilson wasn't sure what was more pathetic; that he was carrying on a conversation with a dead man at two in the morning, or that he was sorry when it stopped. Either way, it was depressing.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Woe.
A/N: Did I say two chapters left? Because I meant two chapters and another Wilson interlude. Whoopsie.
This chapter is dedicated to Barnes & Noble, for hiring me and then throwing me into a pit full of crazed Harry Potter fans with almost no training.
Crossposted to housefic and house_wilson.
A/N 2:Oh, and there's a quote from Hamlet in here. Sorry to be a pretentious literary nerd.
A/N 3:It's my journal, I can spam if I want to!
A/N 4:If you're disappointed by the lack of super sweaty graphic sex... sorry. I'll try and include more next time.
Maybe that's what happens to some souls. Maybe they get lost. Maybe they have to wander because they're not quite at peace yet. Maybe there's some kind of unfinished business with these kind of souls like they're holding on to something -- holding their breath. And when the business is done, they can finally let go, exhale and sleep. -From Dead Like Me.
Previous Chapters
Wilson woke suddenly from a fractured dream. The brown-haired woman he'd dreamed of before had been there. They'd stood on some cliffs above the sea, smiling and laughing together. But then something had happened. He'd stepped over the edge and started falling towards the waves. He'd been jolted back to consciousness by the terror he'd felt, seeing the water rush toward him.
Wilson looked over at the clock and groaned. It wasn't even two in the morning. He'd been asleep for just over two hours. His sleep had been like this for the last two weeks; broken and sporadic. He'd wake up like this in the middle of the night, and be unable to get back to sleep until dawn. Then he'd catch himself nodding off in the afternoon. The clonzepam wasn't helping, and he'd been wary of taking any other sedatives.
Wilson rolled off of the futon in spare room. It was dusty in there, crowded with boxes, and the mattress was uncomfortable. Still, it was better than the couch, and he had no desire to sleep in House's bed. He padded barefoot into the kitchen to get some water, filling a glass from the tap and sipping from it.
After leaving Mika's apartment, he'd driven aimlessly for about an hour. He'd discovered that movement was a good, albeit temporary, antidote to grief. Once he hit about forty-five, fifty miles an hour, a certain calm seeped into him. All the noise in his head faded once he got on the highway, overtaken by the sounds of the engine and the wind roaring through his open window. He understood now why House loved that damned motorcycle so much, despite the fact that it was practically a signed death certificate on wheels.
Grief ambushed him again, this time at the memory of House showing him the bike for the first time. It was almost like vertigo; the whole world tipped on its axis unexpectedly, and he found himself gripping the nearest steady thing until his equilibrium came back. Wilson clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut.
Fucking hell, Wilson thought. Fucking House!
On the heels of the grief came embarrassment for what had happened tonight with Mika. What had he been thinking? What he'd done was unforgivable by any standards. But at the time...
Wilson set down the glass and rubbed at his eyes. He was screwed up; hadn't House told him that almost every day? But this was bad. When his eyes were closed and he was kissing Mika, he'd been convinced that-
There was no point in following that thought any further. House was dead. Wilson had identified the body, had helped carry the coffin out of the funeral home that carried his friend's remains, and watched it be put in the ground of a nearby cemetery. He'd even thrown his handful of dirt onto it. At some point, comprehension of House's absence should have set in.
Wilson opened his eyes and looked around the apartment, which was still saturated with House's presence three weeks after his death. Maybe Cuddy was right; he should have taken more time off. Maybe he should just get out of Princeton for a while, visit his parents in Connecticut. Or maybe sell the apartment and buy a condo, and live somewhere where he wouldn't constantly be surrounded by his memories.
The thought made him anxious. He knew he was just trying to cling to the remaining presence of his best friend. It was ironic how much House had been his anchor; that one of the most contrary, annoying, selfish men he'd ever met had been the most solid and firm thing in his life. Without him, Wilson felt as though he were drifting.
"The irony of this is killing me," Wilson said aloud to the empty kitchen.
Speaking in clichés to yourself? House answered in his head. First sign of madness.
"Are you sure it's not seeing your dead best friend at his own funeral? Or thinking that fortune cookies and random songs mean he's still around?" Wilson said.
Never could do things the easy way, could you?
"You're one to talk."
I'm just a voice in your head, Jimmy. You're the one talking.
Nonetheless, Wilson could almost see House standing next to him, leaning against the counter, thumping his cane on the floor in a half-assed attempt to annoy him.
"I'm having a breakdown, aren't I?"
Either that, or reality as you know it is.
"Well, that's reassuring."
In his mind's eye, House stopped thumping the cane and gestured theatrically with it.
There are more things to heaven and earth, Horatio-
"Than can be summed up in a Shakespeare quote. Now who's talking in clichés?" But there was no answer to that, in his own voice or in House's.
He looked at the clock again. He'd been standing in the kitchen for close to twenty minutes. Wilson wasn't sure what was more pathetic: that he was carrying on a conversation with a dead man at two in the morning, or that he was sorry when it stopped. Either way, it was depressing.
Wilson drank the rest of the water in his glass, then set it in the sink. He felt wide awake and restless now. He considered trying to go back to sleep, or watching TV, or trying to clear out more of House's guestroom. None of it sounded very appealing. He decided to go for a drive. Maybe it would clear his head a little, to be moving too fast for his thoughts to catch up with him.
He went back into the room and threw on a pair of jeans, some sneakers, and a sweatshirt, then grabbed his keys from the stack of boxes that functioned as his nightstand. He switched off the light in the kitchen and opened the door to the apartment..
Mika was standing there, one hand on the door jamb, the other frozen above his shoulder, poised to knock on the door.
They both stood, paralyzed for a moment, watching each other. Then Mika slowly lowered his hand, but kept the other one of the jamb, effectively blocking Wilson's escape.
Wilson opened his mouth. "I-"
Mika's hand moved again, darting up and softly covering Wilson's mouth, fingers cold against his lips.
"Let me say something," he said. He looked at Wilson, his hazel eyes nailing him in place, and Wilson nodded in acquiesce. There wasn't much else he could do.
"I know you're freaked out. I know you think you're going crazy and that this is a bad idea, and maybe you're right about that. You're going to overanalyze it and agonize over it, torture yourself for a while because you think you're using me for selfish reasons. But I don't care. I want you."
Wilson shut his eyes at the words, inhaling raggedly. Mika's voice was different than House's, richer and less gravely. But the cadence and the rhythm of the words was almost identical, and the sound of them echoed in Wilson's ears. It was painful, but also damnably compelling.
The hand over his mouth shifted, and a thumb stroked lightly over his lips. Wilson felt embarrassingly moved by the gesture, not to mention aroused.
"Can't we just... deal with all the details later?" Mika asked, taking a step closer, moving his fingers over Wilson's jaw
.
The hand was gone from his mouth. Nothing was physically preventing him from speaking, but Wilson couldn't force a word from his throat. Eventually, he nodded.
"Good," Mika said. "I'm going to kiss you now."
Wilson was about to nod again, but then the other man's lips were on his, soft but insistent, demanding, drawing him into a long open-mouthed kiss. He felt torn. He wanted this, almost desperately wanted it, but-
"You're agonizing again," Mika said against his lips. "Stop it." He pushed them both inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
"But-"
"Shh," Mika said, kissing him again.
"But-" he tried again, even though he had no idea what he wanted to say.
"Later, remember?" Mika moved his hands under Wilson's sweatshirt, cool hands moving against his back.
Wilson gave up. Or gave in, rather. It was hard to form any kind of coherent argument with Mika's dexterous fingers working their way into his waistband. He pulled back long enough to remove his shirt, then help Mika out of his.
He knew this was probably a bad idea. Knew that, in the long run, it'd probably screw him up even more than he already was; knew that in all likelihood, he'd regret it and feel terrible about doing this in a couple days. But in the meantime, here was a stranger who he felt like he'd known for years, and who he somehow trusted more than their few days' acquaintance warranted. Here was a man who smelled, moved, and talked like House, showing up right after the man had been killed. The whole situation seemed impossible.
More things to heaven and earth, Horatio, Wilson thought distractedly. Then Mika managed to fumble open Wilson's jeans, slipping a hand inside, and Wilson stopped thinking entirely. It was a relief.
***
Wilson was struggling to catch up with House, who was moving quickly on the narrow path. Wilson jogged, trying to keep up, but the other man was walking so fast and refused to wait. He passed over the crest of a hill and passed out of Wilson's sight.
When Wilson finally made it to the top of the hill, he saw the blue-gray sea stretching out below a series of rocky cliffs. He didn't see House, but there was a woman standing close to the edge. Her brown curls were blowing in the wind. She was familiar, but he didn't know from where.
"Where did he go?"
She pointed outwards, over the edge. Dread filled him.
"How do I go after him?" It was a stupid question. If House had gone over the cliffs, he was lost. But it was imperative that they remain together, Wilson knew that.
She smiled brilliantly at him, then took his hand, squeezing his fingers briefly. "Jump," she said.
"Jump?" he said. Was she insane?
She shrugged unconcernedly. "It's not so bad, really." She let go of his hand. Wilson looked over the edge, so far above the water it was dizzying. He took a step forward and then let himself fall.
Wilson watched the waves rushing up to meet him, terror filling him--
--then woke, shivering from the cool air of the open window.
"Mm," a voice grunted next to his ear. "All right?"
"Cold," he muttered. He pulled the covers, which had worked their way down to his waist, up to his shoulders, and burrowed further into the warm, naked body spooned up behind him. The other man threw an obliging arm over Wilson's chest and pulled him closer.
"I dreamt of you," he told House, already falling back asleep. "I dreamt you died."
"Eh. It's not so bad, really," House muttered, nuzzling into his neck.
Neither of them remembered the conversation the next morning.