Chapter Text
Cuddy had been joking, of course. Wilson knows that.
And yet he can't get it out of his head. The idea has a weirdly freeing appeal about it. He's not normally one to dodge his responsibilities as a doctor; in fact, he gladly shoulders more than his fair share, because that's just who he is. But every once in a while, the pent up frustration at being the only person in his department, or in the hospital, or in the entire world who cares about a particular problem or issue has to be let out. Mostly that involves getting hammered with House. They never talk about specifics, but Wilson finds him a comfort nonetheless. Once he has his teeth in a problem, there's no one who cares more about the answer than House, after all. That all-consuming desire to do something, to make a difference, to matter – that is something that has always united them.
But, Wilson realises, sinking half a bottle of whisky with House has historically got him nowhere besides having to do the same thing again a couple of months later. It's treating the symptom, not the cause.
The more he thinks about it, the more he starts to unravel.
Is this really what he wants the next twenty years to look like? Giving and giving and giving, and getting nothing in return?
A idea starts to form in his mind: a month away from Princeton, with no plans, no destination, no rules. Just exploring. Figuring it all out.
The next morning, he goes to see Cuddy again.
"Okay." She has listened patiently to his rambling. "Well, I can't say you don't deserve it. I can give you two weeks' paid leave and a further two weeks' unpaid. You'll need to arrange adequate care for your current patients before you go. Where are you going, by the way?"
"Uh…" Wilson realises he hasn't really thought that far ahead. He doesn't know the first thing about backpacking, or Europe. Hell, his last international flight had been to Canada, ten years ago.
"I'll send you a postcard when I get there," he says instead, and walks out of her office.
First things first. He needs to call House.
Disappointingly, House is initially reluctant to fall in with Wilson's plan. Wilson understands; House is a creature of habit, and is only just getting his life and work back together after his stint in Mayfield. Another month off would probably feel like yet another setback.
Wilson therefore decides to start a rather underhand campaign of manipulation. He begins to drop hints of possible places he might visit on his travels, the majority of which he knows House has been to before, either as a kid or as part of his job (in the old days, before his leg added an extra layer of difficulty to travelling, House had often accepted speaking invitations at infectious disease conferences in exotic locations). Wilson deliberately makes mundane or inaccurate statements about these places, and House unerringly rises to the bait every single time, correcting his supposed misapprehensions and showering Wilson with facts and information about his presumed destinations.
With each conversation, Wilson can see House's resolve to stay out of Wilson's plans weakening. It's only after Wilson claims to be looking forward to visiting Stuttgart so that he can practice his French that House eventually cottons on, fixing Wilson with an annoyed stare that would melt a lesser mortal.
This strategy of Wilson's seems to win half the battle, and the following week House gets home from a session with Nolan with an uncharacteristic spring in his step.
"So," House says, slinging his leather jacket into the closet and plunking himself down on to the sofa. "Where are we going?"
"Oh, you're coming?"
"Like you could survive a month without me." A beat. "Nolan thinks it will be good for me. For this." He circles a finger between them. "Rebuilding relationships and all that."
"Good. That's good."
"So, destination? I need to know if I should be packing my swim shorts or my skis."
"You own swim shorts?"
House narrows his eyes. "Your deflections tell me one thing: you don't know where we're going because you haven't decided. Because you're scared to decide. Just like with the furniture; you're still scared of choosing the wrong thing. Admit it."
"I'm not scared of booking a flight."
"Prove it, then."
Wilson gets up from the sofa and stomps off to find his briefcase. He wrestles his laptop out and sits down at the kitchen island, a safe distance away from House's ire.
He opens a flight comparison website and types in Newark as the departure airport. His fingers hover pathetically over the empty box for the destination. He sighs and puts his head in his hands.
House heaves himself off the sofa and limps over to stand next to him. He's left his cane behind, and instead leans his weight on the counter so that his chest is pressing against Wilson's shoulder.
"Ever been to Paris?"
Wilson suddenly realises he can smell House, the old leather smell of his jacket that's clinging to the clean cotton of his shirt and the scent of the cool spring air in his hair. A butterfly swoops through Wilson's gut.
"Never."
House grins, and pulls the laptop towards him.