What if it isn't Wilson?

He pulled open the heavy door that marked the entrance of Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. It had been three months since he walked up these steps, and now he would have the pleasure of leaving this hellhole and walking down the steps and back into his life. He looked back one last time before the door closed, and then he looked forward, towards the waiting car in the long driveway at the bottom of the stairs.

He looked up at the sky. It was hot; there were hardly any clouds in the sky. It was much different from that day three months ago, the day that Wilson brought him. He looked back down towards the driveway, realizing it wasn't Wilson's car that was waiting for him. A figure walked out of the driver's side door and walked around the car, waiting for him by the passenger's door. She was leaning back against the door, waiting for him to come down the stairs.

His heart stirred. He knew those curves. He had dreamed with those curves for many years now. He had especially thought about those curves often in the past three months. What is she doing here? I told Wilson I didn't want to see her. I told Wilson to pick me up.

He picked up his bag and started to slowly amble his way down the stairs, clutching his leg, stopping occasionally for a breath. Why would they send a cripple down these stairs? Don't they have a damned elevator? He didn't want her to see him struggle. That is why he didn't want her to visit him at Mayfield. It was bad enough she had to see him for the cripple he was, for the cripple she made him. He didn't want her to see him in a psychiatric facility, void of all pride. Damnit, why did she have to show up here?

He made it down a few more steps and then had to stop again. He noticed she flinched. Fu**, she had better not come over here to try to help me. She stayed by the car. He thought about the missed opportunities. I am such an a**hole, why did I grab her boobs that day? She said everyone knew this was going somewhere. She said we should kiss. What the hell was I thinking? Was I punishing her or myself. Fu**, three months and I still don't know how the hell to handle this.

A few more steps – the new pain management protocol was helping somewhat with pain management, but he still had pain, enough of it to make the trip down the stairs much harder, ironically, than the trip up. You'll su** as a mother, go suckle the bas*** child, why do I hurt her? He thought about Dr. Ross, he thought about vulnerability, and his difficulties forming relationships because of the child abuse. There are reasons for his attachment issues, medical reasons, they had said. You have to believe that making yourself vulnerable doesn't mean you will get hurt, Dr. Ross had said. He looked back towards the car and the heavenly shape waiting in front of it. Even if she wanted me before, before I scre*** it up, how could she ever want me now?

He took the last step, and limped with his cane to the car. He stood in front of her, locking eyes – deep blue to blue grey – as they had done so many times in the past twenty years.

***

As soon as she parked the car she was sure she had made a mistake. House clearly did not want to see her, or at least for her to see him, while at Mayfield. But she had missed him so much that she needed to see for herself that he was okay. She told Wilson she would go, she would say he had to attend a conference at the last minute, and Wilson knew her better than to argue.

The door opened and a figure stepped out, holding a cane and an overnight bag. He seemed to pause there for a moment, looking back and then looking up. She got out of the car and came around the front to lean on the passenger's door and wait for him. He looked thinner, his hair was shorter – that much she could see, but she couldn't see much more from this distance. Talk to me House. Why did I write that damned prescription for Ambien? Haven't I known him long enough to know he was begging for help when he said he couldn't sleep? Was I too distracted by Rachel? Was I just mad he wouldn't admit his feelings after the kiss?

She could see that coming down the stairs was a struggle for him. He was doing it slowly with the aid of the cane, yet he would stop and clutch his leg occasionally. Why the hell would a hospital send a crippled man down this long flight of stairs? There must be an elevator.

I don't want you to come. She had said this to him about the naming ceremony, but then, she had waited for him all night hoping he would show up anyway. Why? Why did she do things like this? Why did she pull him towards her only to push him away? She stood up to stretch her legs and then leaned back again. So many missed opportunities were flying through her mind.

Focused on him again she thought he was having such a hard time she would help him, she made to go up and pick up his bag for him but she decided to stay. He wouldn't want help, she thought. Why do you need to negate everything? I don't know. And then, the most amazing feeling she could have imagined. What a contradiction, losing Joy. She lost this baby she wanted so badly, but House was there to comfort her, to show her he cared, to stir those feelings she had hidden underneath the surface, those feelings that had been there for so long.

He was nearing the bottom of the stairs, and her heart was racing. Do I hug him? She had missed him so much, more than she ever thought she would. She wasn't sure what he had imagined in his delusion. She hadn't wanted Wilson to tell her. She wanted to learn it from House when he was ready to share it. But she knew it was about her. You helped me. Damnit House, if you had asked me I would have. I am sorry I didn't see it. I am sorry I enabled you. I am so sorry.

You're fired. That's what she had done when the man she loved had stood in front of her, dropping his shield for a second, asking her to move in with him. You're fired.

He took the last step, and limped with his cane to the car. She stood in front of him, locking eyes – blue grey to deep blue – as they had done so many times in the past twenty years.

House said simply, "Why are you here? I thought Wilson-"

She responded as planned, "He had to go to a conference at the last minute, so I came instead."

He limped towards the trunk and she popped it open. He noticed the stroller and thought about Rachel. She joined him behind the car.

They locked eyes again. He could smell her perfume. He had missed her so much he wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs.

"You look good," she said, smiling.

"Like hell, I've lost twenty pounds," he responded. Then he added, "Your a$$, on the other hand, has continued to expand."

She chuckled sadly. This is it. We are back where we were. We are going to play the same game. Back and forth, push and pull. Damn she was tired. She closed the trunk and decided with urgency that the dance of deflection would stop, and that it would stop now. Stop the game, get off the merry go round, be the woman that he needs.

"Wilson didn't have a conference to go to," she said, feebly at first, but encouraged by the light in his eyes to keep talking. "I wanted to pick you up. I wanted to see you. I missed you, and not as a hospital asset." There, she had said it; she hoped that was enough, because she did not think she could go any further, she felt naked already.

The anguish, the pain she had seen in his eyes a moment before was erased. They were alive. "I think we should kiss now," he said, provoking her smile. He lowered his head and brushed his lips on hers. He pulled up and looked at her with wonder. Why did I wait so long? His mouth found hers again; they deepened the kiss, exploring their mouths with passion, even moaning softly as they kissed. They were flooded with sensual memories, from the kiss at her house, from the night of lovemaking in college. He pushed her softly back towards the trunk of her car, pushing his body onto hers, kissing her neck, telling her quietly in her right ear between nibbles how badly he wanted her, how badly he needed her, and how much he had missed her.

He pulled back again, taking the keys from her hand, saying, "You've got shotgun."

There was a face watching the scene from a window on the third floor of the Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. Dr. Ross smiled as he saw that his patient had finally found the strength to reach for happiness.