A/N: Sorry if the last chapter's flashback confused anyone, but in order to make the story work we have to go outside Cuddy's head. Just so it's clear, the flashback in italics at the beginning of this chapter (and all the flashbacks, actually) are part of the same incident with House and Wilson. (Which, by the way, takes place shortly after "The Itch.") The rest is from Cuddy's point of view.

Just a reminder, this story ignores Rachel and takes place before House goes wacko. So it's really AU at this point.

Thanks for the great reviews.

–

November 2008

The sound of Wilson's phone snapping shut echoed down the deserted street. "Cab'll be here in a few," he said.

"My leg hurts," House told him. "How long?"

"I'm a doctor, not a psychic. I said a few minutes."

"I need to sit."

"So sit."

House gestured irritably at the uneven cobblestones. "I can't sit here, I won't be able to get up."

"Oh, sorry. Give me a moment. I'll just magically mater... materiali..." His lips couldn't form the word. "I'll make a comfy chair just for you."

"There's gotta be – look, around the corner there. The fountain."

"Right." Too tipsy to recognize the irony of House walking 20 yards in order to rest his leg, Wilson pocketed his phone and reached for the other man's arm.

"Leave me alone," House grumbled, shaking him off. "I'm a cripple, not a... oh, just come on."

They made their way slowly through the public square, across the street and toward the gray fountain. "You're a chicken," Wilson accused.

"Shut up. I told you I don't want to talk about it."

"Right. You just want to get drunk and forget the whole thing."

"I'm not drunk, 'member?" House plopped down on the edge of the fountain. "Ossifer Johnson said so."

"I think his name was Dick. And please, you're high as a kite," Wilson said, scooping up a handful of frigid water and flicking it toward House.

"Hey! You trying to give me pneumonia? And the cop's name was Peter."

"I'm trying to sober you up."

"Oh, I'm sober," he answered and popped a couple of Vicodin. "In every sense of the word."

There was a pause. Wilson sat down, drying his hand on his jacket. "You need to talk about this, House."

"I..."

"What?"

"I am a chicken. I'm a coward. And I'm an idiot." He stared morosely at his cane, lacking even the energy to lean it against the fountain's edge. Instead he merely watched as it rolled down the outside of his leg and clattered to the ground.

"You're human."

"I'm..."

"You're afraid."

His silence was answer enough. Somewhere, a cat howled.

–

Saturday morning I woke up smiling. Finally, I'd managed to stay asleep long enough to see the end of that dream. House in my office, House twirling that cane with hypnotic grace, House meeting my eyes, and – well, I'll save the details for later. For now, the whole weekend stretched out ahead of me with all its potential, an invitation to freedom. For me, that meant freedom from paperwork, freedom from lawsuit threats, freedom from disgruntled employees, and –

And based on the ringing of the doorbell, apparently not freedom from unexpected guests. Wrapping my robe around me, I groused a bit at whoever had the audacity to pester me on my day off.

I looked through the peephole but there was nobody there, so I opened the door a crack. Can't be too careful when you're a single woman living alone. After a moment I pulled the heavy door all the way open. Nothing. Probably neighborhood kids, playing a prank. I stuck my feet into a pair of Crocs and shuffled out to get the newspaper.

"Good morning!" called my elderly neighbor from across the street.

"Hi!" I returned. "Hey, did you see anyone ringing my doorbell just now?"

She nodded and crossed the street, garden hoe still in her grip. "It was a man," she told me, as if it were the scandal of the decade.

Great. "What did he look like?"

"Oh, I couldn't really see his face."

"What was he wearing?"

"Blue jeans and a sweatshirt. The hood was up."

"Was he driving a car," I asked slowly, "or...?"

"Yes," she said, "it was blue."

Well, that's unhelpful, I thought. "Was he tall?"

"It's hard to say, from so far off..."

"Well, thanks for letting me know." I looked up and down the street, seeing nothing unusual, and then headed back up the driveway. It was a little creepy. Neighborhood kids being silly, I can deal with. Grown men ringing my doorbell and running away... not so much. What sort of grown man would-- oh. Right. I frowned. But his car is red, I reminded myself forcefully.

Then, I approached the door and saw something on the step that I hadn't noticed on my way out. Dead center on the top step... a penny.

---

Wilson, I have to tell you, is pretty cute when he wakes up in the morning. His hair sticks out at all angles and he always wears either flannel pajamas or boxers and a t-shirt. And please don't ask me how I know that. Anyway, today it was the PJ's – baby blue with a pocket on the right breast. He ran a hand through his mussed-up hair and gave me a lopsided smile, then redirected his gaze back to the single penny I'd placed in the center of his coffee table. This one, newer than the last, gleamed dully in a shaft of morning sunlight.

"Your car is silver."

"Uh, yeah."

"Whoever left this at my door drove a blue car. It wasn't House, there's no way he could've gotten away so fast."

"He probably just hired someone to do it."

"Looks that way."

Wilson shrugged, nodding toward the table. "So. Another one, huh?" he said rhetorically.

I looked him right in the eye with my best stern boss frown. "You will explain this to me. Now."

"Sorry, no can do." He leaned back and draped his arms over the sofa as if to accentuate his complete lack of intimidation. Guess I'm losing my touch. "You can ask me more questions, though."

I huffed in frustration. "Can't you just tell me?"

He only smiled, clearly enjoying having the upper hand. "I'll even give you eleven questions this time, instead of ten."

"Forget it. Tell him I don't want to play any more."

"Okay." He stood up. "Want some coffee?"

I glared. He was calling my bluff. "Fine. Eleven answers. And it has to be 'hot, warm, cold,' this time, not just yes or no."

Wilson's grin widened and he padded into the kitchen while I tried to come up with some new questions. "Okay!" I called. "The pennies are a metaphor?"

"Hot."

"What could pennies be a symbol of?" I thought aloud. "Pennies, coins, money... abundance, wealth..."

"Cold."

I jumped up and started pacing. "Evil. The love of money is the root of all--"

"Cold."

"Money buys the things we want... want, need, desire..."

I saw Wilson's expression change when I said "desire." But he merely handed me a steaming mug and said, "Lukewarm."

"This is about something House desires?"

"Do you really need to use up one of your questions on that?" He gingerly sipped his own coffee.

I coughed a little at that. Let's be real: I'd known from the start what the general theme was, but hearing someone else acknowledge it – even sideways – was priceless. Still: let him say it out loud. "House wants me."

"Of course he does."

"I mean..." I hesitated. "He wants me."

"As in, not just your body? Coincidentally: Hot."

I sat back down, cradling the mug between my hands. "Why can't he just say it then?"

"Because he lives in a world of metaphors, symbols, and wordplay."

"Indirect. Safe. Easy to misinterpret. Leaves room for the panic, for changing his mind, for denial."

"Hot."

We were silent for several minutes, only the sound of birds and passing cars filtering in through an open window. "Metaphors, symbols, and wordplay," I muttered to myself.

"House doesn't see the world like we do," Wilson said earnestly. "We see an object, we see an object. He sees the object, and what it represents, and its history, and who might have owned it, and so on."

"I know. He's always been like that. It's what makes him such a genius – his ability to make connections where no one else can. He never seemed to understand that not all of us think that way. I see an apple, I think of an apple, not of apple blossoms and hard cider and... and Issac Newton. When I see a penny, I think of a penny--" I put the mug down and picked up the new coin, "-- not Lincoln, or the strength of the dollar, or the rise in the copper markets."

"Yes," Wilson said. "To understand the pennies, you have to start thinking the way he does."

"So it really isn't anything related to money."

He nodded. "Hot."

I pulled the silver locket out from under my shirt, popped it open, and dropped the original penny into my hand with the new one. I rubbed the coins together, then took one in each hand and tapped them against each other. "The fact that there are two now, the number two, this is significant?"

"Cold."

"The fact that there are more now than before, indicates an increase in something?"

"That I don't really know, although I suspect you're warm there. I know their origin and what they represent to House, but he hasn't talked to me about... whatever this new plan is."

"There are more pennies than just these?"

"Hot."

"You said you were with him when he got these. It happened fairly near the hospital, and it was somewhat recently. Outdoors but not in a parking lot or a wishing well."

"Yes – I mean, hot. What number question are we on?"

"I don't remember. The pennies were on the ground? On soil?"

"Cold."

"Well, where the hell else do you find coins outside? On the ground or in a wishing well are pretty much your only options, unless they were some other body of water."

"Getting warmer."

"Water, water... the beach."

"Cold."

"A river, a lake."

"Cold."

"A puddle, a storm drain, a pond."

"Cold."

"A man-made water source. A... a fountain."

"Hot."

"Finally!" I couldn't help but smile. "A fountain. A fountain where people throw coins for luck."

"Told you it was luck-related, but that it wasn't his luck that let him find them."

"No, he just stole other people's wishes out of a public fountain. How very like him."

"I think you've probably used up your question quota for today."

"But we didn't really get anywhere!" I complained, jangling the pennies in one hand. "The only new information is where he got them, which tells me nothing about the rest of this ridiculous game!"

"You're loving this 'game' as much as he is," Wilson said, "and you know it."

"Well... well, it is kind of fun," I admitted. "But still. I wish you'd tell me more, because right now these are still just so much spare change!" I slapped the pennies down on the table.

Wilson jumped slightly at the metallic sound, but I caught the quick smile that flickered across his face.

And then, I knew.

---

A/N2: Totally unrelated, but who else thinks House cooking is just the most adorable thing ever?!