Chapter 2
House came home to clatter from the kitchen. He'd hoped to have more time and get home before Wilson returned from work.
He dumped his bags in the hallway, grateful to lose the additional weight, and limped into the kitchen.
Wilson stood at the counter. This had become a familiar sight again after he had lost interest in food for a long time. He didn't eat. Or not enough anyway. Getting food into Wilson during his treatment, and for some time afterwards, had been a battle House had fought valiantly. It wasn't an entirely heroic fight, though. He missed Wilson's cooking. Occasionally, he dreamed of home-cooked breakfasts and roasts on a weekend. Everyone could live on take-out, but it lost its appeal after a while. All you were left with then was the convenience aspect. House could cook but the kitchen really was Wilson's domain. So he went about the mammoth task of making him enjoy eating again, hoping that once he got that far, he would also start cooking again.
Whenever House could, he had made soups, potato mash with lashings of cream, casseroles – anything that was easy to swallow, not too spicy, had lots of protein and plenty of calories. Wilson picked at the food and complained about a metallic taste in his mouth.
House kept cooking.
Slowly, Wilson put some of the weight he'd lost back on. House guessed he would never regain that boyish look he had sported when they had met all those years ago. But eventually, Wilson arrived back at a healthy weight and didn't look like death had taken a big bite and spit him out again after finding him lacking in flavor.
It took a lot longer for him to enter the kitchen again. And when he finally did, it emerged that his taste was slightly off. Wilson's dishes had been a little bland ever since. But House was so pleased to see Wilson return to cooking that he didn't even complain about it. Nor did the predominance of vegetables in most dishes bother him much.
House grinned at Wilson's back clad in work pants and shirt, with green apron strings tied in a neat bow. He lifted the foil off a roasted chicken resting on the counter and pulled off a piece of meat.
"Needs more pepper."
Wilson turned, scowling. "No, it doesn't. And besides, I didn't ask for your opinion."
"Oooh, cranky today, are we?" That chicken did need something, though. Maybe not pepper. Definitely more spice, though. "What, your boss complain about you sticking your nose into every cancer patient's files in the database?"
For the last two months Wilson had been working in a private, general practice. He claimed to enjoy the lack of drama and urgent cases. But House had the suspicion he was getting bored.
"I… never, House!" Wilson spluttered. "You know I wouldn't do that!"
"More's the pity. Could keep you entertained for a couple of hours. But it probably wouldn't endear you to the other so-called doctors."
Wilson sighed and apparently decided not to take that particular bait this time. House needed to find new ways of teasing him about his professional decline.
Instead, Wilson changed the topic completely.
"Do you want me to drive you to the airport?"
"No."
"Okay. Have you booked a cab?"
"Nope." House kept picking at the chicken. Maybe it didn't need more spice after all.
Wilson looked a bit confused. "So… how…?"
"Ever thought about how you'd fly across the country without a valid ID, Wilson?"
"Umm… no. So, how are you going to fly back to New Jersey?"
"I'm not."
A moment's silence.
"Okay."
Wilson turned back to his chopping board, picked up a zucchini and started slicing it into rounds.
House knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to play him at his own game. But Wilson was no match for him. It was only a matter of time. He figured he had about five minutes to put his purchases away before Wilson would cave.
He had just unpacked and dumped everything in his wardrobe when Wilson flung open the door. House bit back a grin and turned around.
Wilson stood there, in his stripy apron, knife in hand, and said nothing.
"You look like a character from a Stephen King movie. Who are you about to carve up after you're done with the chicken?"
Wilson glared at him.
"I know what you're doing."
House pulled an innocent face. "And what would that be?"
"You're playing your usual games. But you know what? This isn't a game. This is your life. What's left of it. You're going back to recover what you lost. No, let me rephrase that. What you threw away for me. I do appreciate it, even if I've never said. This is serious. It's not a joke, so stop treating it like one."
House sat on his bed and waited for him to continue.
"So." Wilson took a deep breath. "How are you getting to New Jersey?"
It was then that House realized he hadn't closed the wardrobe. Everything would be on full view. And it wasn't exactly subtle. If Wilson wasn't so upset – and why was he so upset? – he would have spotted it the moment he came in.
A second later Wilson's eyes went wide.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me! A helmet and boots? You can't be serious, House. You bought a motorcycle?"
"Not yet. Made a down payment, though."
Wilson slowly shook his head. "One, do you know how old you are? Two, have you noticed how you're having more trouble in the mornings lately? Three, do you even know how long it'll take you to drive across the whole continent? And… four… four… are you out of your mind?!"
Wilson could be so damn perceptive sometimes. And, as always, he had to stick his nose where it didn't belong.
"Four questions? That's all you've got?" House felt anger boil up. "You think I haven't noticed? I notice every damn morning. And every night when I go to bed. And every stupid fucking hour in between. It's kinda hard to forget if you're in pain every damn hour of the day. It's my life, my decision. And yes, I've done the math, thank you. I've worked out a route with plenty of stops. And I'll phone you every day, Mommy, so you don't need to worry."
He got up – slower than he would've liked – brushed past Wilson and left him standing in the doorway.
Not unexpectedly, House ignored the table Wilson had set and chose to eat in front of the TV.
Wilson decided to overlook the snub, took his own dinner and went to join him on the couch.
"I could come with you. Visit my parents," he suggested after a moment.
House sighed.
"Wilson, you don't want to see your parents. You've been sick for over two years. You almost croaked twice. They never made an appearance. You don't want to see your parents."
He chewed and looked at Wilson for a moment. "You also said you never wanted to sit on a motorbike ever again."
House had a point. Wilson had never been a fan of motorbikes. And yet, they held a strange appeal. House loved them for a reason. Wilson found the speed scary and, at the same time, liberating. He had wanted that exhilaration at some point. Needed it, even. But he had slowly grown to hate the reality of sitting on a bike every single day, for more hours than he would normally sit in his office chair.
"You're right. I couldn't manage a trip like that. So I wonder how could you?"
House snorted. "Niiiice. So now your ex-cancer body is in better condition than mine? You forget that I actually know how to ride a bike. I've been doing this for years. You're not exactly in mint condition yourself. Think I haven't noticed that your neuropathy never completely went away? Whenever the weather turns bad, you take twice as long to button your coat, and you suddenly get very careful around the kitchen."
Wilson felt his face flush. There was no keeping secrets from House. There were times when his fingers still went numb. It was annoying, but at least it wasn't painful any longer.
"You figured it out then. Bravo. The great diagnostician, still at the top of his game. But at least I know my limitations. I don't pretend I'm 30 anymore." Wilson knew he would have to stop sounding testy if he wanted House to listen. "House, please. What if you get stuck halfway?"
"Well, if I crap out along the way, at least you'll be happy that you were right," House shot back. He stood and put his empty plate on the table with so much force Wilson was surprised it didn't crack. "At least I don't act like I'm dead yet. Not like you, with your safe, boring job. Anything to avoid living a little, eh?"
The anger felt like fire rising up from his stomach. Wilson took a few deep breaths to calm down before he could say something they would both regret later.
"Yeah, maybe that's because I did almost die more than once over the last two years, as you pointed out yourself a moment ago. Maybe I don't want to risk my life willfully after I almost lost it. Maybe I want to hang on to what I have. Maybe I'm not suicidal."
For a moment, Wilson thought he had gone too far and House would launch into a tirade about how Wilson always knew better and would be vindicated if House didn't make it. But he just stood there, leaning on his cane, and looked at Wilson.
He held House's stare. He knew how dangerous it could be to completely let your guard down with House, so he usually avoided it at all costs. But this time he didn't care. If House could read what was really going on, so be it.
After a moment House nodded and said calmly, "Unless it turns out to be a total piece of shit, I'm buying the bike tomorrow. I'll leave on Wednesday."
Wilson silently watched him disappear into his room.
