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  Road To A Man's Heart 
 by Topaz Eyes	

 "A shrink? If you'd go to a shrink I'd pay for it myself. The hospital
would hold a bake sale, for god's sake." --Cuddy in 1 x 04, "Maternity"

"Wilson? Come get me."

~~~~~

House was already sitting and waiting on the front steps of Mayfield
Psychiatric Hospital when Wilson pulled up with the car. Before he could
kill the engine and exit the car, House leapt off the steps (as well as a
cripple with a cane could leap) and hefted his bag up before Wilson could
get to the trunk.

"Are you in that much of a hurry to leave?"

House swung his bag into the trunk and slammed it shut. "Patient uprising.
They put peas in the mac and cheese again. Thought I'd get out while the
getting was good."

"Yes, leading the insurrection then escaping under cover of the riot
sounds exactly like you." Wilson rolled his eyes while he headed back to
the front driver's door.

House followed two steps behind, rounding to the passenger side. Through
the car window he spied a paper bag on the front passenger seat. He opened
the door and snatched the bag. "You brought me presents!" 

"Leftovers, actually. From the bake sale."

House swung himself inside, dipped his hand into the bag, and pulled out a
cookie half-wrapped in waxed paper. "Bake sale?"

"Yes. The fundraiser the hospital held yesterday to finance your
four-month stay at this luxury resort. Cuddy asked me to bring a tray of
cookies. Of course, at one thousand dollars a cookie there were more than
a few left over--"

House had already broken off half the cookie with his teeth and he rolled
his eyes heavenward. "Macadamia nut," he said, spewing crumbs over his lap
and the dashboard. "And white chocolate. God, these are better than your
pancakes." He shoved the rest into his mouth and swallowed with an
orgasmic sigh.

Though secretly pleased, Wilson still frowned. "That is disgusting. Didn't
you learn--"

House shrugged and popped a second cookie whole. "Can never beat homemade.
Too bad the slop jockeys who pass for cooks in the loony bin," he jerked
his head at the hospital, "never figured that one out. Boxes taste better
than the stuff that's in 'em."

"Did you even leave toothmarks--? Wait, I don't want to know." Wilson
turned the key in the ignition.

"Floor it," House said through a mouthful of his third cookie, "before
they change their minds about letting me loose on the streets again."

"I will not," Wilson replied--but if he sped ten miles over the limit
while exiting the grounds, he never admitted it.

The cookies went down well, he thought, heading towards the freeway back
to Princeton. And after the food... Wilson expected--hoped, if he were
being honest with himself--that House would jump him any time now. Over
four months of enforced abstinence (despite regular weekly visits) had
made him more than ready to turn off onto a side road at House's say so.

But House appeared content to fiddle with the radio buttons on the console
instead; to expound upon the last couple of patients on his ward in whom
he'd diagnosed organic causes for their illness, much to the annoyance of
the chief psychiatrist; and to catch up on the latest hospital gossip.
Hearing House's animated voice, his visible relief with each mile they put
between them and Mayfield--especially compared to the memory of the drive
to the hospital that forlorn day all those months back--Wilson decided he
could wait. He was just too glad to have a semblance of his friend back
beside him right now.

As they drew nearer to Princeton, however, House lapsed into silence;
instead he looked out the window, munched down what seemed like another
half-dozen cookies, and tapped his knees in an intricate and unsettling
rhythm. Wilson alternated glances at the road and at House. It was
probably the anxiety of getting back on his feet again, of cobbling his
life together without the safety net of the psych ward--of becoming
re-acquainted after they were back home, Wilson assured himself.

They were approaching the outskirts of Princeton when they passed a sign
for a Motel 6 a few miles down the road.

"Pull in and get a room," House said.

Wilson jumped at the sound, then furrowed his brow, silently thanking God
for cruise control. "House, I know it's been over four months since we've
had any, but we're almost home. Can't you wait just another half hour--?"

"Motel 6. Rent a room. I need to talk to you."

"Talk? Is that what they call it these days? We can pull over and 'talk'
in the car."

"Not good enough."

"What? Why?"

"I want the room."

Wilson blinked at the sudden vehemence. "But we're less than thirty
minutes away. Are you out of your mind--?"

House raised an eyebrow. "Mocking the crazy cripple already. Nice."

Wilson winced, feeling his cheeks grow hot. "Oh, God. House, I'm sorry.
That's not what I meant to say."

House's mouth twitched in amusement. "Still impressive, Jimmy." Then he
looked away, fidgeted in his seat. "I need someplace that's neutral," he
added quietly.

Wilson felt his stomach clench at the somber tone. Neutral?

He peered sideways at House, but it was obvious that House wasn't about to
elaborate further. After a minute he acquiesced. "Okay," he said, and
signaled to exit the freeway. "We'll--rent a room."

Ten minutes later Wilson unlocked the door to Room 117, a standard-issue
double room complete with puce-colored bedspreads and dull pictures of
pastoral scenes on the beige walls. He strode into the room and flicked on
the light switch. Behind him, House hesitated at the door.

"I can do this," he heard House murmur above the rush of cars on the
freeway as he stepped inside.

Wilson blinked. Do what?

When House closed the door behind him the din of traffic outside dulled to
a barely-there hum, so when Wilson spoke his voice startled him. "Well,
we're here," Wilson said, "so what is it that you couldn't 'tell' me in
the car, or wait until--?"

He turned around on his heel to find House just inches away from him.

House shook his head and touched a finger on Wilson's lips. "Don't talk."

Wilson's eyes widened, and he held his breath as House reached out to grab
Wilson's shoulders. House's fingers curled around to his back, though he
did not pull him in. House let go of the cane and it fell against the side
of the bed to the floor, with a whish against the nylon spread. Wilson
felt the warmth and pressure of his hand, and watched House squeeze his
eyes closed, swaying a bit with what appeared to be fierce concentration.

Wilson's nerves knotted into a ball. His tongue darted out, tasting hints
of vanilla and butter and nut House's finger had left behind. He heard
House's sharp, and shaky, intake of breath.

"What's going on? House--?"

"I'm re-negotiating boundaries," he said. He pursed his lips together.

Before his meltdown, the only way House would have ever served up those
words was with a generous helping of sarcasm, accompanied by a heaping
side of mockery. Even now they sounded absurd falling from his mouth. But
as House slid one hand from his shoulder to cup Wilson's jaw the pieces
clicked into place; his stomach sank.

"Are we breaking up?"

House licked his lips; when he opened his eyes they appeared ragged in his
grave face. "I'm still not okay, Wilson," he murmured. "I'm better than I
was, but--" He brushed his thumb pad along Wilson's cheekbone, his stare a
little too bright in the dim room. "I don't own you, and I don't want you
to feel obligated to stay."

Wilson heard the distinct I don't deserve you beneath the careful words.
"You want me to decide where we go from here," Wilson said, stunned.

He gave a curt nod of agreement. "It's your call." He dropped his hands;
they fell to his sides. He hopped a half step back and bowed his head,
hands clenched.

Wilson felt the world contract around him. If this were the old House
saying this, it would have been just another classic House manipulation,
just another challenge to the limits of Wilson's endurance. Even now he
knew it was a test.

But this was genuine: the choice to wash his hands and walk away
altogether, despite the certain knowledge that it would break House for
good. Because Wilson had been witness to House's breakdown. Because House
himself had been witness to it.

If you love someone, set him free. There was only one answer, though, had
ever been. "You're an idiot," he replied softly.

House startled and looked up, flabbergasted.

Wilson reached for the lapels of House's jacket to pull him forward, then
lowered himself onto the bed, drawing House down with him. "Don't even
think I plan on abandoning you."

~~~~~

An hour later they lay on top of the bed covers, sweat and stickiness
drying on their skin. Wilson listened to House's easy breathing beside
him, felt his own settle in tandem, and wondered how he could arrange for
housekeeping to get the bedspread cleaned without giving anything
away--assuming it had been clean in the first place.

Despite the warmth of House's body beside him, the room air grew chill,
and House, half-sprawled over Wilson's chest, began to stir. "I'm
starving. I think I left the bag of cookies in the car." Even so, he made
no attempt to get up.

"You mean to say that you didn't inhale them all between Mayfield and
here?"

"Might have left some crumbs at the bottom," House admitted. "Consider it
the highest accolade anyone can bestow."

"Yes, your pancreas begging for mercy pleases me no end," Wilson said,
though he couldn't help but grin at the compliment. He felt House's lips
quirk against his skin.

"My pancreas is honored to make the sacrifice." House raised himself on
one elbow and peered at him. "But seriously. A thousand dollars a cookie?
News flash: I'm crazy, not stupid."

"I--might have mistaken pennies for dollars," Wilson said.

"And it might not have been a bake sale, either." House yanked the sides
of the bedspread over top of them and settled back down.

In minutes House dropped into a snoring doze, and Wilson allowed himself
another small smile. Everything that had happened today was typical House.
Yet it was the most considerate thing he might have ever done in all the
years of their friendship--to let him go.

But he wasn't going anywhere.  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.