Disclaimer: [H]ouse isn't mine and never will be.
Hope you like. :-)
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From there to here, a plain Jane café in a bare bones town between California Interstate 5 and 101, his and Wilson's bikes had logged over 4300 miles before trading them in. Most of those miles House had driven with training wheels, developing his inner Wilson.
Slumping in the booth, discouraged, House placed the menu upside down on the table.
A waitress with gray hair crinkled into a poodle perm sprinted to his table. A whirlwind of efficiency, she filled his cup and tucked the bound plastic menu between the napkin holder and chrome caddy housing the salt and pepper. Pencil and pad poised, she asked, "What'll you have?"
"What's the unhealthiest item that won't kill me on the spot…" House in his ongoing bid to Wilsonify himself noted the name on her badge, "Gracie?"
"You look tough enough to survive our bacon and sausage triple-cheese omelet with choice of potatoes, and it's Grace."
"I'll take it with fries. What's healthy and tasty that you can box up?"
"Today's special. Broiled chicken with mashed."
"Add that to my bill."
"Fifty cents extra for the container."
Almost domesticated, House nodded and held his tongue until she was gone.
He scrubbed his hand across his face. Wilson was depending on him, the same way he leaned into a curve with his bike. He was never going to master "responsible" no matter how hard he tried. He wasn't that type of friend.
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For the last month, they had mostly zigzagged aimlessly, driving south to Louisiana then bouncing through the Midwest until the crop duster incident in Blue Skies, Nowhere. Traveling on a frontage road, a biplane painted a bilious yellow buzzed past them, soaring upward on the turns as if taking a deep breath before swooping down on the cornfield, exhaling insecticide on the stalks. House pulled to the side to watch. Wilson joined him.
A wing dipped at an odd angle, and the plane pinwheeled, dropping out of sight. A wispy plume of gray smoke replaced the drone of the motor. He and Wilson stared, open-mouthed. What they saw couldn't have just happened. A dense, rolling, charcoal column dared to disagree. From where they stood, there were no shooting flames.
Selfish to the core, House grabbed onto a fold of leather jacket, now grown supple from wear, preventing Wilson from going toward the field. "Don't be an idiot. Hear the sirens? Leave it to the professionals with proper identification who get paid to be heroes. There's nothing we can do here."
Wilson's face turned gray. "The warehouse."
He fought the need to banish Wilson's hurt with an insult or make light of the tragedy by referencing North by Northwest. "You want to talk about it?"
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The next morning Wilson announced their haphazard odyssey needed purpose. "Let's follow the sun to the Pacific."
"That's up to the ocean, not Thelma and Louise meet A Star is Born?" House half-joked, gauging Wilson's reaction.
They threaded their way through Route 66, stopping at the Jack Rabbit Trading Post, snarking about the kitsch, but falling hard for two cheesy shot glasses.
In a motel fit for the likes of Sam and Dean Winchester, House forgot himself while talking old times with Wilson and testing the worthiness of his new glass on cheap bourbon. He toasted to their good health. Wilson clanked his glass in affable agreement, too tipsy to notice the slip.
Or maybe Wilson did because somewhere after midnight a strangled gasp rattled House out of his drunken stupor. Wilson's breathing sounded asthmatic.
"I'm calling 9-1-1."
"No," Wilson shook his head. "A dream."
"A nightmare." Good friends share, came unbidden into House's head. The best he could manage was to sit beside Wilson until his breathing evened out. He knew staying was tantamount to caring, but he felt helpless to move.
"We were driving down a two-way road," Wilson said, his voice soft but rough. "You were ahead of me. The dividing line disappeared and it narrowed into one lane. Ruts appeared, then thick islands of weeds jutted through the pavement. We got off our bikes and walked." Wilson covered his face with his hands, a slight wheeze still lingered with each breath. "You continued but I gave up."
No answer was required House told himself. "I would have returned. And you know what we would have done? Turned around and come out the way we came in. Moving forward is overrated."
The corner of Wilson's mouth twitched in understanding.
House returned to his bed, wondering what had spawned his Sheriff Andy answer.
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Land's end was Santa Monica Pier. They fist-bumped and celebrated by sitting on a bench, watching the sinking sun set the sky on fire. A forty-dollar investment in skee-ball at the arcade added two more shot glasses to their backpacks.
On the second day, without attempting to hide his impatience, House asked, "How long are we staying, Jimmy?" The merciless sunshine, perfect bodies, and suntanned skin made House feel out of place, but it was Wilson's call.
Wilson scratched his bristled cheek, visibly wincing at the total of their lunch bill. "Give me a night to think on it."
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The next compass direction was due north. They headed up the Pacific Coast Highway where the winding black ribbon of road divided the mountains from the sea. The scenery was unsurpassable, but due to the snaking coastline, reckless drivers, and cloud cover House found driving less than ideal. The spectacular views blurred as House's thigh tightened, threatening to cramp. Wilson, with his built-in House monitor must have noticed. He waved House to a turnout on the road.
"Let's quit early and find a place to stay for the night."
The first motel they had come upon with a lit "Vacancy" sign was happily nestled among fast food joints. House soaked in the bathtub while Wilson foraged for burgers and fries.
When he toweled off and dressed, Wilson had already returned. He was stretched out on the top of the bedspread, snoring softly. House pulled a half-eaten hamburger from the limp hand. If Wilson didn't broach the subject of trading in their bikes by the time they reached San Francisco, House would.
It took two more days on Highway 1 to reach the City by the Bay. By then, House's teeth chattered uncontrollably from the unceasing clammy fog that followed them from Big Sur and obscured their view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
"You were right, House." Wilson stood, shoulders hunched, hands balled in his pockets, looking over the damp, bleak terrain, the white flag of surrender in his voice. "Moving forward is overrated. Let's turn back."
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"Exactly as you ordered, dearie. Want more coffee?"
The platter of steaming food roused House from his reverie. After Grace topped his cup, she went off to greet a customer. Popping open the Styrofoam container, he sliced off a piece of chicken. Wilson should like it.
Not much to hold his interest in the vanilla one-street town, he concentrated on his food until the bell jangled over the door and he looked up.
"I thought you wanted to sleep?" House said.
"I did." Wilson sat down, plucking a fry from his plate.
"Here." House pushed over the white box.
Wilson inspected the chicken. He stole a knife and fork from the neighboring booth, and sawed on a thigh. "I was thinking," Wilson said between bites.
"South, east, or remain in California?"
"Not that. I was thinking about you. You changed, House."
"What are you accusing me of?"
"I meant you changed in a good way." Wilson looked sheepish. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. "I made some phone calls. There's a few cancer treatment centers in Arizona I'd like for us to check out."
About to bite into his toast, House dropped it back on his plate. Chemo? Seriously?"
"If you can change..." Wilson shrugged. "I can change too."
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