fic: The Kelpie - Part III Chapter 4

[readingrat]

 Part III: Princeton

Chapter 4: Out of the Frying Pan into the Fire

When James knocks on the door of Nolan's office twenty minutes before the appointed time, Nolan isn't surprised.

"Come in, James," he says pleasantly, closing the file he's working on and putting it aside. "Sit down."

He musters James who, although dressed with his usual care and precision, is looking somewhat ruffled, as though he's been tugging his fingers through his hair. Now his fingers move towards his neck where his tie would be if he was wearing one. He worries the top button of his dress shirt, closes it, opens it again, and gives it a final twist before he sits down opposite Nolan.

"How are you feeling?" Nolan asks.

James hesitates. "Anxious," he says. Nolan nods encouragingly. "Nervous," he adds after a moment with an embarrassed half-laugh. "That's stupid, isn't it?"

"There's nothing stupid about the way you feel," Nolan points out for what must be the zillionth time to the thousandth patient in his long career. He doesn't have to add that it's how James acts on his feelings that matters, not the feelings themselves. James is clever enough to know that himself after months in therapy. Ignorance isn't James's shortcoming; it's the application of existing knowledge to his own situation that's still in the infancy stage.

James picks his words with the precision of a person who has spent many years packaging bad news in attractive wrappings. "It's normal for me to feel anxious. This is a challenging situation, and in view of what happened in Princeton three weeks ago I'd be foolish to overestimate my ability to deal with stress in an adequate manner." Again, Nolan nods encouragingly, leaning back to create a visual impression of giving James space for himself. "But there's no call to be nervous. House is coming for information. He ... he doesn't remember me, and he can't judge me. He has no right to judge me." His voice rises slightly with the last sentence.

"So maybe you're not nervous about how Greg reacts to you, but about how you'll react to Greg."

James closes his eyes and sighs. "Yes."

"Good." James opens his eyes again to look at him enquiringly. "Good that you recognise that it's your reaction that is important at this moment, not Greg's," he explains. "You don't have to do this yet, James. You know that. You don't have to do this at all if you don't want to. I do not consider it an essential part of your recovery process that you face Greg at this point or at any other point in the future. This is your choice, not his."

"No, it isn't," James says wearily. "House is House. He won't let up until his curiosity is satisfied. I may as well get this over with, so I can get on with my life."

Nolan makes a mental note to address this issue with James in a session in the near future as he places the tips of his fingers together and leans his chin on his index fingers. With James it's one step forward and then two steps back, and it's been that way ever since he was admitted. The downside of an intelligence as well-honed as his is that it's not only at the disposal of his conscious thought process, but also at the beck and call of a subconscious that has been conditioned to justify his every thought and action as an act of subservience to the needs of others. James doesn't allow himself to admit, even in his thoughts, that he may be doing something solely for the pleasure it gives him, and wily as he is, his logic is seldom refutable.

This, however, is not the time to discuss such a complex issue or to question his decision to talk to Greg, even if he is deceiving himself regarding his reasons for agreeing to a meeting. Greg is undoubtedly Greg, and shaking him off would require a good portion of resolve and obstinacy, but both are qualities that James possesses in abundance. Warding Greg off while James is in Mayfield is a child's game, and avoiding him once he is released should not pose a challenge for someone of James's resources, both mental and financial. No, James has been itching to see House again with the twitchy eagerness of a small child confronted with a giant roller coaster in a fun park. There's the memory of the last visit when the self-same ride induced violent nausea instead of pleasure, but there's also the undeniable fascination that something so big and fast exudes, the challenge of defeating the juggernaut that was a source of humiliation on the last visit, and the fear that if he skips the ride this time, there's no knowing when the next opportunity will come round.

And then there's James's tendency to blame setbacks on others. He's already swinging everything into place to put this one on House should it turn into an Unpleasant Situation: James is undeniably anxious and nervous, but he is also choosing to apprise Nolan of the fact before the meeting, and he's making very sure that the meeting is seen as his concession to House's demand, not as a mutually desired reunion. Most of this is subconscious, an automatic kicking in of defence mechanisms that James has perfected over the years, but as Nolan has to keep reminding himself, in James's case one can never be sure, and if he invested as much energy into analysing his true motives as he does to hide them from himself, he'd have been out of therapy long ago.

But there's no time for a session now; the remaining fifteen minutes will have to be spent in damage control. Nolan can't help mentally shaking his head at himself. He has known James for decades now, but he continuously makes the mistake of underestimating him in every respect. Greg's genius is so obvious that it's difficult to miss it, and even if one tried to ignore him, his charisma, coupled with his attention-seeking behaviour, would soon force one to pay due attention to him. No, underestimating either Greg's intelligence or his disruptive potential is a mistake that few persons, whether laymen or psychiatrists, ever make. James, on the other hand, is the master of self-effacement. Even now a casual observer would be hard put to believe in his superior intelligence or in the severity of his issues, but after almost half a year with him Nolan has come to the conclusion that it is only thanks to his massive intellectual capacities that James has managed to maintain the façade of a well-balanced individual all these years.

If asked to summarise the difference between the two men, Nolan would say that Greg wastes none of his innate resources in setting up and maintaining complex social networks, preferring to invest everything he possesses into his obsessions, while James primarily works at his public image. One might even say that his public persona is his obsession. (The things James does to convince himself that he's benevolent and caring are extreme and self-damaging: being there for his patients at the oddest hours, donating pieces of himself to them, pushing himself to help until he breaks up under the strain.) Other than that, they are remarkably similar, both of them choosing medicine so as to give their lives some meaning, both manipulative to a high degree and both essentially unable to trust others. James's relationships don't capsize because he's an inveterate cheater, but because he invariably chooses the kind of woman whose ultimate desertion won't disappoint him because he never invested in her anyway. So far, he has only invested in two people, his brother Danny and Greg, and both ran out on him. The problem is that while even as incorrigible an egoist as Greg can be made to see the damage his behaviour inflicts on others - and by extension on himself - it is very difficult to get a martyr to recognise that selflessness and self-sacrifice can be part of as self-serving an agenda as their very opposites.

They are evidently bound for some gruelling therapy sessions this coming week, but now damage control is the motto of the day. "Why don't we set a time limit for this first meeting?" Nolan suggests.

"You think there'll be more?" James asks.

"I doubt Greg's curiosity will be satisfied today," Nolan answers. Nor James's, but that's another issue altogether. "I'd suggest fifteen minutes for a start."

James laughs. "No, fifteen minutes will definitely not satisfy him." He hesitates. "You don't think that a mere fifteen minutes today would be cruel, after he's waited for so long?"

To do James justice one has to admit that he sees things from other people's perspective and empathises with them. What he needs to work on is finding a balance between other people's needs and his own. "I think," Nolan says, "that waiting for another week after having to sit it out for over three years isn't going to be too terrible a hardship, and both of you are better off if he waits a week now than if we push this, causing you distress which will hamper your ability to communicate with him."

"Good, fifteen minutes it is," James agrees, relief etched on his features. "And you'll stay." It's a statement rather than a question.

"Definitely. After what you told me of your last two meetings, I'd strongly advise against a one-on-one interview."

Nolan's secretary sticks her head in through the door. "There's a Peter Barnes here. He says he has an appointment for four, but you've noted ... Horse?" She peers at the calendar she's holding, trying to decipher Nolan's handwriting.

"That's fine," Nolan interrupts. "He's the person who is to come at four."

"O-kay," the secretary says with a what-do-I-care inflection. "Can he come in now?"

"Yes, ask him to step in. Oh, and Belinda, could we have some coffee, please?"

The secretary nods and disappears. James unbuttons his right cuff and rolls up the sleeve. Nolan tries to look nonchalant, but can feel himself failing. He last saw Greg over five years ago - he pulled out the file three days ago and checked - but there's no denying that Greg has been more on his mind than many a patient who spent far more time in Mayfield.

Greg enters the room, cane-free and with barely any unevenness in his gait. It's - disconcerting, to say the least, as is the fact that other than the addition of a bald spot on the back of his head, streaks of silvery grey in the remaining hair and the slightest hint of a receding hairline he's showing no further signs of ageing since he departed in a hissy fit all those years ago. If anything he's looking younger, with fewer lines in his face and a couple or so pounds less around his waist. Feeling his own burgeoning waistline beneath the hands loosely clasped over his stomach, Nolan can't help grousing mentally that life isn't fair. Someone who lives as hard and fast as Greg House has always done should look a lot worse.

He rises to greet the newcomer, while James wriggles undecidedly in his chair.

"Hello," he says, coming out from behind his desk. "I'm Darryl Nolan, James's psychiatrist."

He spent a long time pondering on whether to fill Greg in on their connection in his former life, finally deciding that if Greg hasn't heard yet that he spent time in Mayfield, then he, Nolan, won't be the one to apprise him of the fact during this visit. Spring a major revelation like that on him, and there's no knowing which way the visit will go, and James is hardly in a state to cope as it is. It's a tightrope he's walking on here: when Greg does find out there'll be hell to pay, but at the present moment James is his patient, entitled to his care and protection, not Greg. This conflict of interests could have been avoided - he'd never have taken on James as his patient if he hadn't been convinced that Greg would never return - but the deed is done now, and he must make the best of it.

Greg eyes him warily as he nods an acknowledgement without taking any steps towards him, but given his dislike for social conventions and his distrust of psychiatrists, that is hardly noteworthy. He therefore refrains from holding out his hand or even moving anywhere near Greg's personal space; he merely gestures at the coffee table where he has placed two chairs, one for Greg and one for James.

"Sit down, please."

Greg takes the chair closer to the door, the one he always sat in during therapy sessions. James moves over hesitantly from where he was sitting in front of Nolan's desk and sits down opposite Greg. Then he looks enquiringly at Nolan, a glance that Greg picks up on at once.

"Are you going to chaperon us?" he asks, not taking his eyes from James, but evidently speaking with Nolan.

"Yes," Nolan says easily. "We've agreed to keep this conversation short, because I don't want James strained too much as yet." He wonders whether James has noticed Greg's omission; he hasn't introduced himself. Either he knows that Nolan knows him, which seems increasingly unlikely in the face of his total focus on James, or he is still at war with his own identity. "Fifteen minutes, okay?"

"Fifteen minutes? You're joking - I have about one hundred thousand questions! That's censorship!" Greg is disgusted enough to actually look squarely at Nolan, but there's no recognition or curiosity in his gaze, only annoyance.

"You're free to come again - if James consents," Nolan offers.

"You bet!" Greg snorts. He stretches his legs out and crosses his ankles, while his fingers tap on the armrests of his chair.

"So, ask!" James says, breaking his silence.

Greg fixes James with that intense stare of his, but James, kudos to him, is not intimidated. "Do you like monster trucks?" Greg asks, his eyes slightly narrowed.

James is nonplussed. "What, you have one hundred thousand questions, but the one you ask is whether I like monster trucks? Why?"

Greg tips his head, never taking his eyes off James. "It's as good as any," he says.

"No, House, it isn't. If you want me to play along with this, you'll have to give me a reason. I'm not playing your little games with you." James rises as though to leave.

Nolan notes with surprise that Greg's eyes slide away. He nods at James as though to indicate his consent to the conditions that James is proposing, or rather, imposing.

"My team," he says uncomfortably, "couldn't agree on whether we both liked monster trucks or whether you just went along to humour me."

James massages the bridge of his nose. "And that bothered you so much that you couldn't sleep at night."

"Well?" House says. "Do you like monster trucks?"

"I ...," James stutters. He looks around at Nolan, who nods encouragingly.

"Oh, come on!" Greg scoffs. "It's a fifty-fifty. Either you do or you don't."

"I - don't know," James admits.

Greg leans forward to stare at him. "How can you not know?" he says, mystified rather than annoyed now. "I'm the one with amnesia, not you. If I had no idea or decided I needed to go to a show before answering that would make sense, but ... What the hell are they giving you here?" He looks over at Nolan accusingly.

"I suggest we move on to another question," Nolan says, annoyed at himself for being more interested in the dynamics of the situation than in James's increasing distress. He should have interfered at least one minute earlier.

"Great - so monster trucks are off limits," Greg mocks. "Let's simplify this: why don't you tell me what I'm allowed to ask? I'm sure the list of permitted questions is short."

"You know that your question was loaded," Nolan points out, "or else you wouldn't have asked it."

"Okay, another question," Greg says, suspiciously amenable. He pretends to think for a moment, tapping the side of his nose with a finger. Nolan sighs internally; it's clear that his interference has challenged Greg's inner four year old. "Got one: when'd you start drinking?"

Nolan interrupts. "You don't have to answer this," he says to James.

Greg gives him a dirty look, but he doesn't start a hue and cry about censorship or freedom of speech, so the question must be more important to him than his kindergarten manner implies.

"Is this about me or about you?" James asks.

He waggles his chin thoughtfully before he says, "My team says you started drinking because of me, so it could be either."

Now it's James's turn to sigh. He tugs a hand through his messed-up hair and says, "About three years ago."

"Wow! That's quite an achievement, to acquire a major alcohol problem within that time span!"

Nolan is about to interfere again, but James has this one. "You'd be surprised at how quickly and efficiently you can self-destruct when you put your mind to it," he says.

"Oh, you!" Greg says, waggling his finger at James with an amused hiccup. "I can see what you're doing there. Doesn't really apply to me, though, since my reborn persona is pure as driven snow. Hmmm, maybe I should start a new religion."

"Oh, it does apply," James says sharply. "You're on vicodin again."

Nolan almost starts in surprise. The goofy grin fades from Greg's face as he tips his head to muster James. "I'm - not." But anyone who knows him, and Nolan counts himself as one of that elite group, can sense that he's lying because of the small signs of unease that he's emitting - rubbing his non-existent thigh, shifting his gaze ever so slightly, sliding lower in his chair.

Nolan has known James for long enough to be able to tune in to the moods he emanates, and now he's glowing with anger, even if there are no overt signs as yet. His neck muscles, though, are tense and his hands are clenching on the armrests of his chair. Not that one can blame James; he, Nolan, feels much the same. Here Greg is, sans leg, ergo sans pain, his mind cropped of the memories of all those years of suffering and deprivation, starting anew in circumstances all of his own choosing, but instead of grasping the opportunity he's screwing it up. Again.

There is, of course, another side to the matter: the years of uncertainty and emotional homelessness, the shock of unexpectedly stumbling into his past, the revelation that his new screenplay for a promising relationship with an attractive woman is based on an old B movie that was a box office flop. Greg being Greg, it would come as a surprise if he didn't try to relieve the stress of the moment by seeking refuge in a high.

"I can't believe ... ," James commences, but his expression belies his words. He can very well believe that his former friend is back on drugs.

This isn't going anywhere today, so Nolan rises, gesturing towards the door. "We should call it a day, Greg."

Greg pulls up short at that, training piercing eyes at him. (Is James right - are those pupils slightly dilated?) He mentally curses himself; calling someone who is supposedly a stranger and a high-ranking professional by his first name is wildly inappropriate. But all Greg says (for the moment) is, "It's Pete."

"Of course," Nolan smiles, glad to be let off the hook for the time being, "but I must ask you to leave now."

An array of conflicting emotions flit across Greg's face: annoyance, guilt, curiosity (aimed at him, not at James), disappointment, but also relief. "What about my ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight other questions?"

"They can wait till next week," Nolan says firmly, putting a guiding hand on Greg's elbow.

Greg allows himself to be guided towards the door, but his docility only lasts till Nolan moves ahead of him to open it. Then he turns around briskly and asks, "Why did you choose me as your friend?"

James looks up startled. "I ... didn't."

"Right, I was some stray that stumbled into your yard, and you were too soft-hearted to kick me out again," Greg says bitterly.

"No." James half smiles at some memory. "You chose me."

Nolan takes advantage of Greg's gob-smacked state to propel him out of the room and well down the corridor before he releases his arm this time. "Mr Barnes, I have to go back to James. I'm sure you'll manage to find your way out. Call me in five days, and we'll see whether James is up to another session with you."

He returns to his office to find James massaging the back of his neck frantically. It's not a good sign, but it could be worse. Nolan sits down opposite him and leans forward. Carefully he puts a hand on James's arm. "You did fine," he says.

"I was pitiful. I don't know whether I like monster trucks," James mimics himself. "God!"

"How did you know he's back on vicodin?" Nolan asks, not just curious but also guided by the need to show James that he's far from pitiful to be able to spot something that escaped the notice of his experienced therapist.

"I didn't," James admits. "I heard that familiar rattle in his pocket when he sat down, but it could have been any medication. It was an educated guess, given the events of the past few weeks."

All things considered, Nolan has to admit that maybe Greg is as much a victim of James's manipulations as vice versa. And maybe, just maybe, throwing the occasional challenge in James's way is more beneficial than sheltering him.

---

He took the first one out of curiosity. The next one out of boredom. The next one so as to be able to bear Chase when he got drunk. Which is what Chase invariably did when they met up at a bar, which they did twice more that week, which is why he took the next two.

Another one when he found out that his mother died two years ago. He can't remember her, so it wasn't grief; it was disappointment that the only source of information on his early life is gone.

And two to celebrate the fact that his green card wife filed for a divorce the moment she got her green card and left for San Francisco. (Or was it Sacramento? California, anyway.)

And then he stopped keeping count.

He got his first 'refill' so that he'd have something at hand, just in case. By the time he got his second refill he'd stopped justifying to himself what he was doing, just as he'd stopped wondering why he was still in Princeton or why he hadn't even started on the paperwork that'll get him officially reinstated as 'Gregory House'. He simply sent Foreman an email saying that there had been unexpected legal hassles with his paperwork.

The two he took to be able to face his upcoming meeting with Wilson didn't even register properly on his radar any more, it had become so natural.

He has rented a room in an apartment block in downtown Trenton, a shabby affair whose corridors smell of stale urine and cold cigarette smoke (to which he contributes), and where his light sleep is perpetually disrupted by the clunk of feet running up and down the stairs at all hours and by television sets turned up too loud. In order to fit in, one has to be old or illegal or criminal; he fits all three categories.

Tonight, as he trudges down the hall to the door of his room, his nostrils are assailed by the smell of curries from the old Gujarati couple in 105, while raucous teen laughter and hip hop music proceed from 109. He bangs his backpack against the door in passing, but he doubts the kids will hear it over the racket they are making. He's outside his door digging his key out of his pocket when he realises something is wrong. He can hear music from inside his room. He pauses.

(a) He's sure he didn't leave the radio on.
(b) He's sure he locked the door.

The door, as he ascertains when he puts in the key, isn't locked. It's merely pulled to. He hesitates, but if the person on the other sides means ill, then he's either very brazen or a very big fool to announce his presence so audibly. Pushing the door open he puts his head around it just far enough to get a full glimpse of the room.

There's a guy on the couch playing his guitar. The impudence of it almost takes his breath away. Almost. The obsessive part of his brain is too busy soaking up information to play at oxygen deprivation, so he takes a deep breath and checks what he's got: male, casually dressed, in his late thirties, medium height, brown hair, stubble, grey eyes. Sharp grey eyes. They flicker up to take him in, then they go back to supervising the complicated pattern his right hand is picking out on the strings.

He pushes the door right open and enters, slinging his backpack into a corner and taking off his coat as casually as though he was expecting a total stranger to be sitting uninvited on his couch drinking his beer and eating his peanuts. The stranger continues playing, closing his eyes and rocking his torso to the rhythm. Pete gets himself a beer from the fridge, slamming the door with more energy than the old gadget requires, and returns to the sitting area to look down at the intruder.

His unbidden guest finally looks up properly. "Just like old times."

Okay, so they know each other. Pete frowns in concentration as he considers what possibilities he has of discovering the guy's identity and connection to himself without giving himself away. Seeing his frown the not-stranger adds, "Or maybe not?"

Pete grunts and sits down at the far end of the couch nursing his beer. He's going to have to say something sooner or later, so he chooses a question (play the ball into the opponent's court) that is innocuous under the given circumstances. "How'd you get in?"

His guest looks surprised. "Through the door. It's a simple lock, really. Course, if you want, I'll set up a burglar alarm. Might send the wrong message to potential burglars, though. A burglar alarm implies there's something worth protecting, which in turn makes the place interesting for burglars." He looks around pointedly at the shabby decor and the few personal belongings.

Loquacious, a lock picker, security skills. Potentially a criminal. His former drug dealer?

"My superficial poverty didn't keep you from breaking and entering."

"I guess you could call it that," the lock picker concedes. "I prefer to call it a social visit for our mutual benefit." Off Pete's sceptical look he adds, "See, I feel bad about what happened. Should've warned you about Lisa. Or her about you."

Putting the guitar aside so that it leans against the coffee table, he waits for a comment, but none is forthcoming - Pete is too busy absorbing whatever this fellow is saying. So he's someone who knew both him and Lisa, and who is on first name terms with her. Not from the hospital, because there they all call Lisa by her last name. 'Security skills' rings a bell somewhere. It was something Lisa said. He sifts through his memory, a task quickly accomplished since his memory only dates back some three-and-something years. She said she'd dated a PI once. But is this guy likely to be Lisa's ex? The man is somewhat creepy - he's obtrusively familiar and his demeanour is somewhere between naive and cunning - so your friendly wayside pharmacist seems the likelier option. But Lisa and drugs?

The social visitor continues after a moment, "But you know how it is: you start giving people advice and they think of all sorts of reasons why your advice must be bad. Like, one is Lisa's ex and one is still bearing her a grudge for dumping one. Which is a reasonable enough assumption, except that I didn't hold a grudge against her. Or you."

Hang on, he's the man whom Lisa dumped so as to date him, Pete? He really, really needs to investigate Lisa's life in addition to his own if her exes are going to spring surprise visits on him. He'd rather not be socked on the jaw by some has-been who holds him responsible for the vagaries of Lisa's romantic imbroglios.

"Well, maybe I did have a grudge," Lisa's ex continues unabashed, "but not a big one. See, I knew it was coming. Lisa dumping me for you, I mean, not your little demolition stunt. Always knew we wouldn't last, not with you pining away like a big moon-calf and bringing out all her mothering instincts. Asking her to marry me was just sort of flipping you the bird, since I knew I didn't stand a chance of leading her up the aisle." He half turns to Pete to waggle a finger at him. "You know, that's a good question: would I have asked Lisa to marry me if there'd been the slightest chance that ultimately I'd have had to marry her? Because - don't get me wrong! - Lisa is a great woman, but she's a bit like, y'know, those insects, the ones where the female bites the male's head off after mating. Cuz seriously, who dumps a guy the day after accepting his proposal?"

"Praying mantis," he says on autopilot, the part of his brain that isn't connected to his speech centre too busy leaching the golden nuggets of information to pay much attention to the baser verbal ore surrounding them. So Lisa dumped this fellow the day after they got engaged so as to date him. He'd feel more flattered if he could make out what Lisa saw in his rival in the first place. Just now he feels disappointed that Lisa is using this oddball to - what exactly is Lisa doing?

No harm in asking - this is something he can't possibly be supposed to know. "Why did Lisa send you?"

"Not Lisa. Julia," his visitor says.

And who, pray, is Julia?

The PI is kind enough to answer his unspoken question, though it takes him a while to get there. "People tend to underestimate her - I did, too, you know - because she married that big klutz and gave up her career for her family, but hey! She grew up with that nightmare of a mother and survived, better than Lisa did for sure. She's got a lot of street cred, that girl. So when Lisa phones Julia and asks her for the telephone number of her couples counsellor Julia figures it can only be one of two things. One, Lisa is in a new relationship and wants things to go smoothly right from the start. Thing is, there are two types of people." He scratches his head. "Well, three, really. The first type goes dancing on volcanoes believing they won't get their feet burnt if they just dance lightly enough, and are surprised when they still do. That's Lisa. That type doesn't do couples counselling in a new relationship because 'it's going to be brilliant', isn't it? The second type knows they'll get their feet burnt, but they can't resist volcanoes. That's you. That type doesn't do counselling either, because when the fire's singeing your feet, words won't help, right?"

He nods in helpless approval. "And the third type?" he can't help but ask.

"The third type avoids volcanoes after getting burnt once," his guest says smugly. "That's me."

"Okay, and what's second?"

"Huh?"

"You said Lisa asking for couples counsellors could only be one of two things."

"Ah, yes. So Julia figures that if it isn't a new relationship, then it must be an old one that's gone wrong once before, because that would explain Lisa's uncharacteristic amenability to the idea of taking advice. But that only leaves two options - well, three again, but let's just ignore the third one, - so Julia contacts the one that she hopes it is. That's me again. But you see, I happen to know that it can't be me, because I've got a wife and kid now, second one's on the way, so," he shrugs expressively, "I'm really not interested in Lisa anymore, not in that way. And that only leaves you."

Couples counselling and Lisa. She'd seemed accepting, resigned, when he told her that it was over, but she must have hurt more than he'd anticipated if she's contemplating such drastic measures, 'drastic' in the sense that neither of them are the type to agree to counselling unless blackmailed or coerced into it. It must surely be clear to her that any attempt on her part to persuade him to salvage their relationship in this manner will be met with a generous carpet bombing of ridicule and sarcasm. Not that he's really prepared to discuss the matter. There's just one prerequisite for couples counselling, and that's the one they don't meet: they aren't a couple.

"So Julia sent you to me," Pete says dully.

"Yes. Well, not quite. Actually, no. She asked me to make some discreet enquiries concerning your present location, and at first it looked as though you weren't here. But then I show your picture in a seedy nightclub, and whaddaya know, they remember seeing you recently. So then I go around to all the hotels in Princeton and Trenton with your picture instead of your name, and that's how I find out that you've been using 'Peter Barnes' as your stage name. After that it's easy." He picks up some papers that are lying on the coffee table and leafs around in them.

"Clever, that," he resumes, brandishing Pete's British passport. "House - Barnes. A barn is a shell of a house, only suitable for animals and farm tools. Just like you!" There's an angry glint in his eyes now. "Or what's left of you. Acquitted due to lack of evidence, fired, licence rescinded, false identity, back on drugs."

Pete's gaze automatically goes to his coat where he keeps his pill bottle. The detective's eyes follow his, and then the younger man leaps up and strides over to Pete's coat, expertly patting it down. Pulling the pill bottle out he squints at it, and then he rattles it. There's a single pill inside that he takes out and licks experimentally.

"Totally like old times," he finally says, "except that you don't have a stash here. As yet." Of course the schmuck has searched the place, else he wouldn't have Pete's passport. He pops the pill back in the bottle. "Oh, sorry, hope you don't mind. Or would you prefer me to throw it away now that I've licked it?"

Pete doesn't answer that. Insisting that he wants to keep it after it's been licked would sound whiny, yet it is his last vicodin and getting more is always tricky. The PI sighs at his lack of response and tosses the bottle in a high curve into the bin. Pete follows it with his eyes; if all else fails he can dig it out of the trash again.

The other man is regarding him with a sardonic grin on his face. "You always say people don't change. Guess you're right."

The man's know-it-all smugness is grating and his air of superiority bloody annoying. "If Julia didn't send you and you aren't interested in Lisa anymore, then why are you here?"

"I didn't say I wasn't interested in Lisa any more. I am - as a friend."

Pete snorts derisively.

The other man's eyes narrow. "That's a concept that you can't understand, isn't it," he says with a dangerous undertone in his voice, "that a guy can break up with someone, and still care for them and wish them well? For you it's all about intoxication and possession."

"Right, and you were in it for the beauty of her immortal soul," Pete mocks.

"I don't mind admitting that she's stunning, and great in bed," the detective says, returning to his previous amiable manner. He tips his head sideways at Pete, and his manner grows cold once more. "But she's a lot of others things too: really bright, warm-hearted, caring. Yeah, she screwed you over royally, like she screwed me over royally. Feel pissed at her, yell at her, show her the cold shoulder, be passive-aggressive, marry hookers, by all means - but don't even try to pretend that her bullshit gives you the right to bulldoze through her house and terrorise her. Getting dumped is one of the hazards of being in a relationship; don't like, don't buy."

This is what being Gregory House boils down to: everyone will always see the near-murderer in him, and nothing much else. "Look, it's in the past and it's over, okay?" he says wearily, running one hand over his face.

"Yeah, it was over when you had the sense to disappear, but now you've returned, and Lisa is naive enough to give you another chance. But I'm not. See, I know how this will go. She gives you another chance, you screw it up, she dumps you, you go psychopathic all over her. Read the papers: women don't get killed by the random rapist waiting for them in a lonely corner of the park when they go jogging. They get maimed, beaten up and killed by their exes. So, ..." He rises to loom over Pete. "Stay away from her. I'll find out if you don't."

This is where he should point out that he has no intention whatsoever of going near Lisa again ...

"And then you'll what?" Pete can't help asking provocatively, leaning back comfortably on the couch to get a better view of his former rival.

"You remember the last time you pissed me off? And that time it was just a measly condo we were fighting over." He considers the last statement for a moment. "Okay, it was Lisa we were fighting over - but not her life. Trust me, if you don't lay off, it'll be a hundred times worse than cutesy little opossums in your bathtub or all the other stuff."

Pete still has no idea what half of this is about, but there's no doubt that the guy is threatening him with bodily harm. He needs to get a handle on this before he's short another leg. "Cute, this fraternal affection for Lisa," he says, the innuendo practically highlighted. "Your wife must be proud to have such a chivalrous husband."

The PI deigns to smirk in a self-satisfied manner. "Yeah, actually she is. Because, you see, I told her that I'm coming here and why - about how you stalked Lisa and nearly killed her, how Lisa suffered so badly from PTSD that she had to quit her job, how Rachel got crippled, and how both will suffer for the rest of their lives. And the funny thing is, women don't like it when guys do that, not even when they do it to other women. My gal's really supportive that way - I had to stop her from coming along. Because, I would take a jagged-edged knife and gut you if anything happened to Lisa, but my wife would take that knife and gut you pre-emptively, so to say. So if you want to get in contact with my wife to tell her about our little chat, be my guest. But meet up outside the house; we've just put down new carpets and blood stains don't clean out that well."

He turns to go, and doing so he 'accidentally' knocks over the guitar and steps into it. There's a resounding pling followed by a sickening crunch, and Pete can feel his guts contracting in anger. He half rises, his fists clenched, but the other man raises both his hands, half defensively, half challengingly.

"Whoa, don't even think of it. I can kick your leg out from under you faster than you can say, 'cripple'," he advises. "Last round Lisa chose you, and I didn't interfere, because although I knew you're a crazy loon, I didn't dream you'd ever harm her. See, even I believed you loved her." His mouth twists in self-condemnation. "Trust me, this round I'll play as dirty with you as you did with her." He turns round and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Pete stands frozen for a moment, still absorbing what just happened. He's a complete idiot who puts his foot into it for no reason whatsoever (which is not exactly news) and who has no sense of self-preservation. He could have told this sociopath that he has no interest in reviving his former relationship with Lisa, but no, he had to go and provoke the guy simply because he could. Of all the dumbass things he's done these past years, that one tops the list with a wide margin to spare. Because this dick may have the loosest tongue in New Jersey, but there's no doubt that he means his threats. Not the knife, perhaps, but he has the ability and the brains to make Pete's life very uncomfortable, if not potentially dangerous.

Dangerous. And the guy's a PI. Pete looks around his small, dreary apartment, considering potential hiding places for surveillance devices. Two hours later he has two bugs, a webcam, and an intimate knowledge of all the nooks and crannies in his apartment. The good news is that next time his search will be a lot quicker; the bad news is that he'll have to repeat the search on a daily basis, because Lisa's PI may well replace the equipment a few times before he gives up. Accordingly, he isn't exactly feeling peachy. He's tired, dirty (who'd have thought that such a small place can harbour such a lot of grime?), and sore from crawling into barely accessible corners. He could do with a little relaxation. He considers calling Chase to have a drink with him, but dealing with one alcoholic fulfils his quota for the day. Besides, when he's drunk Chase is too maudlin to be fun. 'Gloomy' he can do himself - he doesn't need Chase for that.

He peers at the bin, but then he remembers the detective's scornful, assessing glance after tossing his last vicodin in there, and he'll be damned if he'll dig the bottle out of the trash and take a vicodin that the other man licked. So he grabs his coat and his keys, and heads back outside.

---

At the best of times Trenton is a dismal place; on a wet autumn night it has the shabby desperation of an ageing prostitute. No one who can avoid it ventures outside; windows that aren't boarded up have their curtains firmly drawn against encroaching stares; street lights that aren't broken fight a lost battle against the damp, foggy darkness.

His apartment isn't far from the disreputable area where Lisa's ex presumably picked up his tracks in a nightclub. The streets here aren't quite as deserted as in the rest of Trenton. Pink and red neon lights flash on the facades of bars and clubs, a few people hang around in doorways, here and there noisy groups (male, mostly) brave the steady drizzle as they move from one establishment to the next. He soon finds what he's looking for, a small bar sandwiched between a night club and a massage parlour. When he enters, his eyes need a few moments to adjust to the semi-darkness. It's a far cry from the after-work bar that his fellows took him to on his first night in Princeton; the people here don't look as though they have any work after which to relax. There are two slot machines in a corner, both occupied by middle-aged women with a world-weary air, a flat screen in another showing a news flash that no one is paying any attention to, a few booths and a long bar behind which a fat barman wearing a greasy tank top and sporting tattoos up both arms is drying glasses.

He sits down at the bar and orders a scotch. When the barman slides his glass over to him, he asks, "Is Jim here?"

The barman nods over to an ill-lit booth close to the exit to the toilets. Pete glances over casually, but he remains at the bar, taking sips of scotch and twirling peanuts. When his glass is half-empty he picks it up and walks over to the booth, sliding in opposite the man seated there. The man is in his mid-thirties, emaciated and twitchy, exactly the sort of person Pete doesn't want to do business with, so he keeps it short.

"I heard you have vicodin."

"Got Percocet," Jim offers.

"It'll do." He slips a wad of bills along the bench. Jim palms them, counting them by feeling them without taking his eyes off Pete. When he's done, he gets up and disappears in the direction of the toilets. When he comes back, he says, "Second stall, inside the tank."

He disappears to the toilets in turn, heading straight for the second stall. After locking the door he turns towards the tank. The lid is easily removed; on its inside, fastened with duct tape, is a pill box. He tears the tape off and scrunches it up, pops open the lid and examines the pills, giving one of them an experimental lick. Yes, it's the real stuff; Jim may look shifty, but it seems he knows better than to screw over new clients. He casts an appraising glance around the restroom before he leaves - Jim's stash must be hidden somewhere here, but he can't spot any likely hiding places. Then again, Jim was gone for so long that it's possible that he went out through the backdoor and came back in again.

Mission accomplished, he thinks as he turns back into the corridor, but almost immediately he notices that something is off. The music, an irritating backdrop the entire time till now, has stopped playing. There's no low murmur of talk, laughter, or clink of glasses coming from the bar; instead the silence is broken only by a rapid staccato of shouts. A bar fight? He hesitates, considering the option of leaving via a backdoor himself rather than getting involved in potential unpleasantness, but before he can decide whether to start looking for an alternative exit, two men lope into the corridor, stopping short when they see him.

"Got another one here," one of them calls back over his shoulder. He advances towards Pete stretching out his hand. In the semi-dark, Pete can't see what he's holding, so he instinctively flinches away. "Trenton Police Department," the man says with authority. "We must ask you to come with us to verify your identity, sir."

In sum, the two men are about as old as he is, and as far as he can make out they have four legs among them, so he has no choice but to accept their 'invitation'. They return to the bar, one officer in front of him, the other behind him. He blinks rapidly as they enter the room: instead of semi-darkness the place is mercilessly lit up, the neon light giving everyone an unhealthy pallor. The barkeeper is now in front of the bar, arms crossed, seriously pissed. One booth has been turned into an impromptu office where a policeman is taking down personal data. The bar's patrons are queuing up in front of this provisory while two officers go down the queue checking papers and asking questions. Two more are stationed at the entrance to prevent guests and staff from leaving. Whoever has been searched and cleared is escorted outside.

"No one deals drugs in here," the barkeeper mutters sulkily. "I watch out - I do."

"I'm sure you do," one of the officers says in a bored, unconvinced tone.

"I can't help it if someone sneaks in and does some dealin' under the table. Can't frisk everyone who comes in, can I?" the barkeeper whines.

"No, you can't. But when someone occupies a booth for hours, and people drop in to see him like he's a fortune teller at a ren fest, then it's time to call your friendly neighbourhood cops."

"Over here, sir," one of the plain clothes officers escorting Pete says, pointing towards a wall. "Face the wall, stand with your legs apart and place your hands on the wall at shoulder height."

Pete shrugs and moves over to it. He isn't worried about the Percocet - he can always say he needs it for the phantom pain in his leg and that it's from a scrip he got while still in England. They pat him down rapidly and efficiently, extract and check his wallet and inevitably find the bottle with the pills. They look at each other, and then at Pete.

"Come along," the younger one says, all politeness gone from his tone.

"Those are legit meds," Pete immediately counters. "Got a peg leg, and I need it for the pain." He knocks on his prosthetic.

"Have you got a scrip for these?" the older officer asks, already knowing the answer.

"Not here."

"Then you're coming to the precinct with us," the officer decrees. "Papers?"

Pete hands him his passport. The officer bypasses the queue to get to his bookkeeping colleague.

"Sol, take this guy down. He has narcotics, no scrip, and a British passport. We're taking him in."

Ten minutes later he's at the precinct, where he´s subjected to an intensive and humiliating search, after which he gets his picture and fingerprints taken. He's not unduly worried; there's bound to be some unpleasantness once it's discovered that his fingerprints are a perfect match for Gregory House, but in the greater scope of things he's small fry. Yeah, possession of prescription narcotics, but given the minor quantity and the time it would take to disprove his story of a scrip from England, he's sure that any sane judge will kick the matter right out of court before the preliminary hearing. He'll get his wrist slapped and he'll acquire a hefty lawyer's bill that he won't be able to pay until Foreman coughs up some of the ready, but once he's in Seattle the matter will be forgotten.

He does a quick mental calculation. He could, of course, admit to being House and explain how he comes to possess papers stating that he is Peter Barnes, but would anyone believe his story of amnesia (should he decide to tell it)? It would be different if he'd already started the proceedings to have his old identity returned to him, but now, after being busted for drugs, his story will sound very convenient. Much too convenient. Already, unbidden, a hundred different reasons spring to mind why Gregory House would masquerade as Peter Barnes, all more credible than total retrograde amnesia and none of them likely to improve his standing with the law-keeping forces. All things considered, he stands a better chance of leaving here a free man if he braves it out than if he trusts in the forces of veracity and uprightness.

That's his outlook as he kicks his heels in the interrogation room waiting for someone to come and start water boarding him or whatever it is they do in Trenton when they catch a big-time mobster like him. After he's waited there for an hour, the door opens, admitting a tall, heavy built man with short grey hair carrying a file. From his position in the doorway he looks at Pete, his thin lips working. Pete leans back, crosses his ankles and folds his hands over his stomach. The interrogating officer closes the door behind him and sits down opposite Pete. He leans forward mustering Pete silently, his fingers interlaced on the table in front of him.

Psychological warfare by silence is a game two can play, so Pete looks around the room whistling tunelessly, deliberately ignoring his opponent. The detective leans back in turn, extracts a packet of chewing gum from his pocket, unwraps one and pops it into his mouth.

"Illegal or fraudulent possession of prescription opiates," the officer finally says in a voice devoid of all inflection.

"I've already told your colleagues ...,"

"I'm sure you have," the officer interrupts him softly, but firmly, "and I'm sure you can come up with a thousand innovative reasons for possessing oxycodone, but I can't think of a single one that would explain why a law-abiding citizen would masquerade as ..." He takes the passport out of the file and opens it, making a pretence of reading the data inside before looking at him mockingly. "… Peter Barnes from Bristol, UK."

It's time to bluff it out. "Look, I can't help it if your technicians are morons who can't scan and file fingerprints correctly, ..."

The detective's smile barely skims his lips, never mind about reaching his eyes. "You haven't changed one bit, have you? As arrogant as ever."

An icy hand crawls up Pete's spine. There's only one way this cold-eyed bastard can know whether he's changed or not. And he'd been so naive as to believe the worst part of his day was over when Lisa's PI left his apartment. Wilson was distant, the PI openly hostile, but neither emanated the intense contempt that's radiating off this guy.

The detective continues, "But I've learned a lot since our last meeting. Al Capone wasn't convicted for his Mafia activities, but for income tax evasion. I'm not going to try to get a conviction for any offense where your friends' lies could work in your favour. In your case I'll stick to black on white: fake papers, fake identity. It may only get you a few months in jail, but I'm pretty sure that in those months you'll have alienated so many people that your little stay will be extended, so in the end justice will be done." He rises, looking down at Pete expressionlessly. "You have one phone call. I suggest you call your lawyer."

---

	Chapter Index

Comments

[menolly-au.livejournal.com]

Oh wow, you blew me away with Lucas's sudden appearance, and then stomped on what was left of my body with Tritter. Gee, I thought *I* was mean to House in some of my stories, but you are even meaner, in a very real, logically connected to the show, karma bites you in the ass way.

It's *almost* too much, Tritter's appearance, but it stays just this side by making sense, Pete goes to a place where drugs are obviously delt, he's picking up on a raid and Tritter obviously has his name flagged somewhere. And Tritter was an obsessive, driven person himself. He's not going to miss this opportunity. I feel so sorry for Pete, but this is his own doing, he *knew* what he should do, and he hasn't done it.

The scene with Wilson - great, love Nolan's analysis, I wonder if Wilson's ever going to get out of Mayfield, he's been in there so long. Wilson shows his teeth during the confrontation with Pete/House (interesting that Wilson refuses to acknowledge this man as Pete, he's always House to him). His observation that House is on vicodin reminds both Nolan and the reader that yes, there is a very sharp man behind the teddy bear persona, a man who knows House so very well. I *love* his confusion over Monster Trucks - does he love them because House lovess them? does he really enjoy them or is he people pleasing as always? Who is the *real* Wilson? Great use of that little bit from that episode.

The confrontation with Lucas was chilling, where House would have just shrugged off the menace, because one has always got the sense that he doesn't much care what happens to him, or thinks he can always deal with it (not sure which) - but Pete quite sensibly sees it as the very real threat it is. Lucas comes through as a manipulative, somewhat evil bastard who plays hard (again House wouldn't have liked him if he was the amiable fool he first presented as). Love the idea that Lucas only got engaged to Cuddy because he knew there would be no follow through, these people do like playing games with each other. I think TPTB have a tendency to view HOuse as 'bad' and everyone else in the cast as 'reasonably good' but to be honest they're pretty much all Not Very Nice people.

I like that you followed through on the Chase Drinks Too Much storyline that the show dropped (the hint in last chapter that he drove to the party but still intended getting plastered). He's going down the same road as Wilson, albeit at a slower pace, eaten inside by his own demons.

I'd better stop before this is longer than your chapter :) Rivetted (but now also very worried) to find out what happens next...

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

Oh wow, you blew me away with Lucas's sudden appearance, and then stomped on what was left of my body with Tritter.
That was kind of an accident. I figured once Pete relapsed, he'd need a wake-up call; hallucinations again would be improbable since he wasn't abusing on a S5 scale, so that left being picked up by the cops. But what cop would do more than slap his wrist and say, 'Naughty, naughty!' when all he was doing was buying for his own consumption? I mean, he didn't even get sentenced when he was popping pills at work and had enough vicodin to drug a battalion. That only left Tritter. But would Pete be stupid enough to get caught scoring drugs? Unlikely; I'm sure House was into casual drug use before the infarction and never got caught. So the police would need a tip-off. Now while Cuddy's family might be mad enough at House/Pete to try to get him jailed, they wouldn't have the skill or determination to trail him, so that only left Lucas. I was somewhat surprised when he sneaked into my story, but I greatly enjoyed writing that scene. He may be a schmuck, but a lot of what he says is how I feel about canon House.

there is a very sharp man behind the teddy bear persona,
It's very easy, too easy, to write a dumbed down, caring Wilson. One just has to watch S1 to realise that there's a lot more. It comes out in his talks with Cameron especially, which is one of the reasons why I have her caring for Wilson in this fic.

Love the idea that Lucas only got engaged to Cuddy because he knew there would be no follow through
Did anyone really think that would last? Lucas showed pretty good skills in analysing what makes others tick; he must have figured out that there was no way he and Cuddy could work in the long run. Besides, he disappeared so smoothly once dumped that he must been reckoning with it, otherwise he'd have made at least as much fuss as he did over the condo.

I think the worst is over, although I wouldn't vouch for it - turns out that my readers sometimes have different opinions on good and bad than I do.

[leesarenae.livejournal.com]

Well. I did not comment on the last chapter because I was stunned, shocked and discombobulated by the vicodin. Pete looking for, searching out drugs was a surprise. Yes, he is addicted to opiates, but I did not get the longing for a release from his life or a longing for his old life. House was a user because of his pain, and I believe terrible pain, but he became an addict because he was fucking miserable. I don't see Pete being all that miserable.

Lucas. Loved how he spoke of Cuddy, and the relationship : "Last round Lisa chose you, and I didn't interfere, because although I knew you're a crazy loon, I didn't dream you'd ever harm her. See, even I believed you loved her."

Tritter. More scary. But do I LOVE David Morse! One of my very, very favorite actors. (Kinda makes me squirm:)

So. House only has one phone call. Only one person who will pick up and see the other side of the chasm~Cuddy. :)

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

You're right about Pete being nowhere near as miserable as House was. Thing is, he's already an addict, even without the constant pain and misery. And the thing about House is that he's always been exceedingly curious, he loves risks and he isn't always wise. (I'm pretty sure that pre-infarction House dabbled a lot in casual drug use, even if he wasn't an addict.) None of that will have changed, and unlike House, Pete has no memories of the miseries of addiction or the horrors of detox. So although his common sense will have told him to stay off opiates, his default mode when stressed the way he was those weeks would be to grab some strong intoxicant.

There's another thought behind this: I decided it wasn't fair to judge his progress on whether he relapses or not. Most addicts relapse sooner or later. I think it's important not to pass judgment on them because they fall; it's how they deal with the fall that makes the difference. S7 House relapsed and then acted in a manner that hurt everyone around him. Now he meant to hurt Cuddy, so that's par for the course, but Wilson was roadkill too. The scene where he jumps into the pool; then Wilson having to pick up the pieces in 'After Hours' and finally the car stunt - and House simply doesn't care how much misery he's causing to someone who was never involved in causing him misery. Let's see how Pete does in comparison.

I enjoyed writing the Lucas scene even though it was unexpected/unplanned, because it gave me the opportunity to deal with some of my issues with canon House's behaviour.

Thanks for commenting.

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

he was unruly like a spoiled child.
He has a problem with authority - that won't change - and he likes defining the rules, not playing by those others define. But the questions he asked were of inner importance to him.

I even liked his wife, and we never met her.
Pete is getting a taste of his own medicine here, with the difference that Lucas isn't threatening the wrong guy. If Cuddy chooses to be completely insane about House then that's one thing. But IMO it's her family and friends' duty to look out for her and point out to her just how insane she's being - that's what friends are for. (I've read fics where her family - Arlene, Julia - actually root for House after what he did, and it drives me crazy. It only makes sense if Arlene wants to see her daughter dead and Julia is speculating on getting Cuddy's share of the inheritance.) The thing about Lucas is that unlike House he also gets physically aggressive ...

Even if I kind of felt sorry for him afterwards, I do believe he was asking for trouble.
He's asking for trouble, but Tritter is anything but a neutral dispenser of justice.

Thanks for your comments.

[damigella-314.livejournal.com]

Your comments are so insightful that sometimes I wonder whether you're listening in on my thought process.
That's because not even you are smarter than menolly. No one is ;).

it is only thanks to his massive intellectual capacities that James has managed to maintain the façade of a well-balanced individual all these years.
This. (I'm impressed on how much better your Nolan is than the pathetic excuse for a doctor I remember in canon).

You're on vicodin again.
Half lucky guess, half keen obeservation. I so love the way you write Wilson. Again, huge contrast to the Jiminy Cricket we were served in Season 7.

And thanks for the great role you gave Lucas. Believable, consistent. How you can be so tolerant of canon is beyond me.

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

pathetic excuse for a doctor I remember in canon
One didn't notice unless one looked closely, which is what fandom does, but the casual viewer doesn't. The actor did a great job with what he got; I had the impression that Nolan was a match for House with regard to manipulativeness.

huge contrast to the Jiminy Cricket we were served in Season 7
And most of S8, I'm sorry to say. That episode with the long-lost son? I thought I was watching bad!fic turned into TV script. (I didn't even bother watching the next two episodes after that.) Glad you like my Wilson. He's a match for Cuddy, and despite his present problems, still capable of holding his own against House. Wilson, IMO, is much more dangerous than House is.

[damigella-314.livejournal.com]

That episode with the long-lost son? I thought I was watching bad!fic turned into TV script.
I refused to watch that episode. The difference between season 7 and 8 in badfic!wilson is that in season 7 we saw only that. In season 8 we've had occasional glimpses of the character we knew.

By the way, I think I've never thanked you enough for your interpretation of Cuddy's behavior in Season 7, especially the idea that all the sex withdrawing was more or less an inside joke between her and House, a way of finding the limits of their new relationship. I just wish that canon had given us some vision of the story from Cuddy's viewpoint.

It's a pleasure to ask you questions because every answer shows that, like all good writers, you have thought more than what you show us, so that when hints are left brilliant readers have the pleasure of figuring things out themsleves and I can just ask :). I wish I could believe the same effort had been done by the writers, but I cannot..

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

I think I've never thanked you enough for your interpretation of Cuddy's behavior in Season 7, especially the idea that all the sex withdrawing was more or less an inside joke between her and House, a way of finding the limits of their new relationship.
I can't say I approve in the slightest - it's a ridiculous way of conducting a relationship - but it struck me early on in the proceedings that it never seemed to bother House the way it would have bothered me. They both treated such situations the way my kids and I deal with my attempts at responsible child rearing, like when I try to insist on manners. When I insist that my youngest child say 'please' before I give her something, she may hold out for some time, but sooner or later she caves and says 'please'. I know that she doesn't mean the 'please', but I cherish the hope that at some point in the far future she'll say it automatically, thus allowing her to move in society without upsetting others unduly. She knows it's a ridiculous but necessary concession to me, so she does it. Neither of us considers her initial refusal a strain on our relationship or her concession as a sign that she fears to lose my love - it's opportunism at its purest and simplest. That's how House and Cuddy's interactions struck me: neither of them seemed to fear that this made any difference in their relationship as such - the question of whether either loved the other or whether they were splitting up never came up. The only time when splitting up is brought up as a possibility is during 'Recession Proof', after House loses his patient and blames it on Cuddy.