Twelve Days, Day 5 Part 1
Sep. 18th, 2010 09:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
readingratMalvolio:
Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.
Olivia:
Tell him he shall not speak with me.
Malvolio
Has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak with you.
[Twelfth Night, Act 1 Scene 5]
May 20, 2010: Day 5
(Three days after the crane disaster in Trenton)
Six pm
Thirteen pokes her head through the door of the men's locker room.
"Are you done for the day?"
Chase, hair dripping wet and dressed only in boxers, jumps. "Gee, Remy, you're getting as bad as House. Do you mind?" He tries to shoo her out again.
Thirteen smirks, entering the locker room instead, but she obligingly turns her back to Chase. "So?"
"Yes, I'm done. And if this is an attempt to get me to buy dinner for you, the answer is no. I've been on my feet since 7 o'clock and I'm fagged."
Thirteen, eyeing his reflection in one of the far mirrors, smiles even more. "No I'm not angling for an invite. I want you to check on House before you leave."
"Check on House?" Chase struggles into his pants, the ripple of his abdomen muscles making up for the disappearing anterior and posterior thigh muscles. "Why? I'm leaving now anyway, so you might as well check on him yourself."
"He's in pain. And he's behaving oddly."
"What's odd about his being in pain? He's missing a large chunk of thigh muscle. Now if he weren't in pain, that would be odd!"
"Odd is that he came in for a case an intern could have solved, odd is that he didn't go to Cuddy to requisition you back from surgery although he hates Thomas's guts, odd is that he made me get him a refill for his ibuprofen."
"What's odd about that? We're always running errands for him."
"Not to get him pain meds. He's very uptight about that."
"I distinctly remember him chugging vicodin in full public view. No bashfulness there!"
"Taking vicodin in public made him an object of outrage. He likes that. Ibuprofen makes him an object of pity, so he hides it." Thirteen knows about pity. She tries another tack. "Did you know that Wilson threw him out?"
"Out of where?"
"His condo."
"I thought they got it together."
"No, Wilson paid for it."
Chase pulls on a clean shirt. "You can turn round again. Do you know why?"
"Wilson's girl-friend and House don't get along."
"Who's surprised? That sort of explains why he's odd, doesn't it?"
"Look, he's in pain and he doesn't have anywhere to go. Maybe ..."
"Oh, you're angling for a dinner invitation for House? Reminds me of ... let me think ... guy from oncology ... gosh, can't remember his name!" Chase slams his locker door harder than necessary. "How much are you willing to pay?"
"You didn't do it for the money that time," Thirteen says shrewdly.
"Look, I've seen this before: young female fellow going all dreamy-eyed on House and making it her mission to fix him. Trust me, he doesn't want you to fix him."
"This isn't about fixing him. This is about stopping him from making a giant mistake. To put it in terms that you understand: if he goes down, we go with him. If he loses his licence again, there's no way Cuddy'll be able to get the board to take him back. And somehow I don't think she'll give Foreman the department, let alone one of us. She'll close it down for sure."
Chase ponders this as he shrugs on his jacket. "Okay, I'll go check on him, but I don't promise anything." He's halfway out of the door when he leans back in again. "Don't think I didn't notice you checking me out. It's always the same with you gals - you think a guy is fair game the moment the ink on his divorce papers is dry."
House scowls when Chase enters his office. "Where have you been?"
"Surgery. They were short-staffed, so Cuddy asked me to go help out these last few days."
"I'm your boss. Next time clear it with me." But there's no real bite in his voice; his objection is only a matter of form. Calling Chase out of a surgery for a case as simple as the last one would have been stupid and an insult to Chase's intelligence.
"I didn't think you were coming in. Have we got a case?" Chase asks.
"You're too late. It's solved."
"Oh." Chase tries for something between surprise and remorse, but the look of clueless ingenuity doesn't sit well on him.
"But you know that already. So, what are you doing here?"
"I could ask the same," Chase counters.
House peers at him, and then he peers even more pointedly at his door. "Last time I looked, it was my name on the door. I'm going home now." To underline the statement he rises, grabs his cane with one hand and takes a few experimental steps. His leg is shaky, but bears up. The worst seems to be over.
"And then?" Chase queries boldly. House gives him a don't-even-try-to-get-personal look, but Chase doesn't back down. House, caught by surprise at this unexpected piece of resistance, lets his eyes slide away.
"Gonna get trashed?" Chase continues.
House's eyes snap back. "And if I did?"
"You're an idiot, House...."
"Says the expert on staying sober. Are you divorced yet?" It's a snide little dig, but House really isn't in the mood for another karaoke session or, even worse, a heart-to-heart with Chase where both bemoan the fickleness of their respective cohabitants of the past year.
"... and an ass, but that isn't the point. Alcohol is a stupid drug. You've been addicted; you've been in hell and made it back. Do you want to risk all that for a drug that won't even ease the pain?"
"Oh, addiction wasn't all hell. Sometimes it was downright heavenly. It filtered out all those nagging voices saying, 'House, you're an addict!'" House does his best imitation of a scolding aunt in Chase's face.
"If it was so heavenly, why'd you go through detox and rehab and fight to stay clean for a year?"
"Hey, House!" Foreman walks in, oblivious to what he's interrupting.
"I thought you were gone," House growls.
"I was, almost. But there's someone prowling around your car."
"And you're telling me instead of, say, security or the police, because you want me to scare him away with my big stick."
"I'm telling you because he looks like that detective guy you hired a couple of years ago to spy on us. I thought you wouldn't appreciate it if I called the cops and it turns out that he's out there waiting for you."
"Or for Cuddy," Chase adds. A warning glance from Foreman makes him append, "Uh, he's also done assignments for her."
So the whole hospital knows about Cuddy and Lucas. House wonders whether Cuddy is aware of this. True, Lucas was there a a few times to pick her up, but she didn't exactly flaunt him. Whether this is because Lucas isn't what any sane person would consider a prime prize in the matchmaking sweeps, not for someone like Cuddy, or whether Cuddy wanted to spare House anguish is a debatable point.
The ramifications of her personal life being public knowledge are clear to House, if not to her. It is one thing for James Wilson MD to discard wives in the manner of Bluebeard, but quite another for a female Dean of Medicine. There is her position to consider, her current family status as a mother and, sadly, her gender. The board of governors, a reactionary bunch at the best of times, would disapprove albeit taciturnly if they knew that she's dropped one boy-friend to start something with someone else. That silent censure would morph to vociferous and open antagonism if it came out that her new love interest is an employee of hers and her most annoying one to boot.
Not that House is sure at this moment whether Cuddy and he are still an 'item'.
The past three days have been turbulent. That first night, no, morning, after she found him in his bathroom grasping the vicodin, she left after disposing of the vicodin down the toilet, cleaning out the bathtub and running him a bath. Oh, and changing his bandage, her nominal reason for turning up. And there was a bit of kissing and a teensy bit of groping, but honestly, neither of them were exactly in the mood. (Even if they had been, her babysitter calling to say she'd abandon the orphan to her fate if someone didn't relieve her stat killed off any desire to get frisky.) She'd wanted to go home to relieve the babysitter, shower and have breakfast with Rachel before returning to the hospital. They were both sure he was fine. He bathed and then slept, only to wake at midday with a searing pain in his thigh. By evening, when Cuddy dropped in toting her kid, he was a shivering mess huddled in a corner of the couch, washing down his ibuprofen with scotch. Cuddy took one look at him and dumped the kid on the rug.
"Where's your emergency medication?" she asked, admittedly a reasonable question.
"Wilson's place." He'd forgotten it when moving out because he'd stowed it in Wilson's medicine cabinet in Wilson's bathroom where, according to Wilson, he had no business to be. He'd noticed when he started unpacking his stuff, but he'd thought, what the hell, he worked in a hospital and could pick up new medication any time; there was no need to go back to Wilson's place just for that. Needless to say, he'd forgotten all about it ...
"What do you need?"
"Lyrica. Zanaflex."
Cuddy dug around in her bag, but the short flash of hope that flared up quickly died down - she didn't extract medication, but only a few toys for the marsupial and a box of snacks. She arrayed these around her cub, picked up her bag again and made for the door.
"Cuddy!" he called, alarmed. His apartment wasn't child-proof and he was in no state to chase a toddler around it.
"I'll be back quicker if I leave her here. Don't worry - she won't move." With that she was gone.
He sank back on the couch cursing her roundly. Parents were idiots who harboured illusions about their offspring that bore no relation to reality, but privately he'd nursed the hope that Cuddy, blessed with above-average intelligence and medical training, would prove an exception to this iron rule. An eighteen-month-old who stayed put on a rug for however long it took Cuddy to get her prescription pad, organize the medication and return?
Turned out that Cuddy was right. The sloth really did stay put and was remarkably content with her snacks and toys. Other than the occasional grunt there was no sound, and he would have drowsed off if a louder squawk than usual hadn't brought her back to his notice. She'd tipped her box of snacks over, away from herself, and had flopped forward in an attempt to get at a wayward slice of apple.
"Don't bother; that apple promises more than it keeps, as the mother of all sinners found out at the beginning of time."
Humpty-Dumpty squeaked once more, while House found himself watching her attempts to right herself with interest. As her face crunched up in frustration, he turned himself sideways on the couch so he could reach her and pull her upright - solely in order to stop her from screaming her head off before her mother returned. Then, while he was at it, he tipped her back somewhat, supporting her head with one hand and holding her hands together gently over her chest with the other. He released hands and head simultaneously, but caught the head again at once before it hit the ground. She flung her arms out sideways, her face startled, but then drew them back in again, her elbows flexed. House seated her upright again, after which he pushed the snacks that were strewn over the floor towards her with his cane. He had no idea what Cuddy would say when she saw her kid eating stuff off his floor, but it hadn't been his idea to place her there.
His relief at Cuddy's return with his meds was short-lived: an attempt to move him to the bedroom left him retching, his leg cramping so badly that he literally screamed.
Cuddy wanted to admit him, but he refused - some idiotic resident too stupid to read the big red sticker on his file that screeched: No Opiates! would offer him morphine and he'd be too weak to refuse. He was in no state, however, to explain this to Cuddy, to do more than grunt, "NOT going to hospital," so she yelled at him for being a stubborn idiot.
Her place was out of the question, for Lucas had neither picked up his stuff nor returned his key, and there was no way House was going to risk a confrontation with Lucas in his present state. It was bad enough that Cuddy had to see him like this, but his pride wouldn't allow him to have Lucas muster him, his mobile mien saying as clearly as if he were bawling the words through a megaphone, "Is this what Lisa is leaving me for? An invalid whom she'll have to nurse, a cripple with the shakes, craving his next fix?"
Luckily, much the same line of reasoning must have passed through Cuddy's mind, for she forbore to shout at him for rejecting a move to her place. Perhaps she didn't want him there anyway.
The yelling set in again with a vengeance when he also brushed aside her suggestion to call Wilson.
"He's your friend, for goodness sake! He'll be happy to help. House, please! I'm not asking you to move in with him again. Just let him come and check on you, spend the night here ..."
"He'll - swamp me - with psycho-babble," House grunted. Again, this was shorthand for a complexity of reasons that he couldn't (and wouldn't) have explained to Cuddy even if he were able to talk intelligibly, which he wasn't. Wilson would walk in and lecture him on the psychosomatic aspects of his pain as a result of losing a patient to Death's sharpened scythe and Cuddy to his rival's wooing. Then he'd walk into the bathroom, see the hole in the wall and go all huffy and reproachful on him. He'd never believe that House didn't take the vicodin; furthermore, he'd ascribe everything that House said about Cuddy to narcotic-induced hallucinations.
Of course, House could refer him to Cuddy, but did he really want Wilson scrutinizing their whatever-it-was? He and Cuddy hadn't actually agreed on anything yet. Cuddy was on the rebound; it was only fair to give her the time to reconsider and the space to decide whether she wanted to jump straight into the next commitment. If Wilson got scent of this, he'd pass it on to someone or other, and then it would spread through the hospital like algae on a pond, leaving Cuddy with little chance of back-pedalling without being written off as the hospital harlot. Yet how was he to explain to a solicitously hovering Wilson why Cuddy was bouncing in and out of his apartment like a flaming jack-in-the-box without divulging at least some of what had transpired in and after Trenton? No, he didn't want Wilson over.
At this point the rug-rat, who'd been getting increasingly distressed at the noise level, started bawling in a high-pitched counterpoint to Cuddy's kvetching. It was too much.
"Get the banshee out of here," he ordered.
Cuddy froze, the concern for him that had shone through her diatribe instantly transferred to her little runt. She scooped Rachel up and departed without a backward glance. Before he could decide whether he should be thanking his stars for the blissful silence that now reigned or cursing them for letting him open his big, stupid mouth, she was back again, setting up the medication on the coffee table, making a hurried sandwich in the kitchen and dragging a pillow and his duvet from the bedroom to the couch. Through the open window he could hear Rachel screaming her head off in the car that Cuddy must have parked in the no-parking zone right in front of the apartment.
"Don't ... overdo it, okay?" she said, nodding her head at his meds and the scotch.
"Go, before the neighbours call the police or social services," he muttered, avoiding her eyes, feeling ashamed of the bottle of scotch and helpless at causing even more bother than the panty-pooper parked so unceremoniously on the curb outside. Underneath that there was a current of anger at Cuddy and himself that the little squirt had to suffer fears of maternal desertion because they, two rational grown-ups, couldn't get their act together. Actually, it was his fault that Cuddy had left her alone in the car, because he'd snapped at her to get the kid out of his apartment.
Cuddy stilled at his words. He felt her eyes resting on him. He wanted nothing more than to look at her, to show her that he appreciated her care, that he wanted her there, that he hadn't meant to sound gruff and rejecting, but he knew that she'd read all that and more in his gaze and feel obliged to stay with him. That, however, would just mean more bother for her - she must be up for thirty-six hours straight now, barring cat-naps in her office - and discomfort for the kid, who'd feel ill at ease at having to sleep in strange surroundings, being shushed continuously by a mother worried about disturbing the cranky misanthrope she'd got herself involved with. So he resolutely averted his gaze while Cuddy tugged at the duvet, placed the remote control within his reach and placed a (superfluous) glass of water on the coffee table next to the meds. Then she departed in silence.
An hour later a nurse arrived.
"I didn't order a hooker," he grumbled, but secretly he was happy to see her. With her help and a generous mix'n'match of scotch and the medication Cuddy had left for him, he made it to the bathroom and then to bed.
The next day was marginally better. The nurse departed after breakfast and he was sanguine at first, but the pain returned around midday. When Cuddy turned up during her lunch break, he was on the couch trying to suppress all visible symptoms so as not to worry her into 'maternal caring mode'. She was stressed and in a rush, but she took in the scattered pills (he'd spilled any number of them struggling with child-proof bottle caps and shaking them out with trembling hands) and the scotch bottle ( which he hadn't touched that day) with one glance and his abject form with another. When she strode over rapidly, putting out a hand to feel his forehead, he, guilt-ridden because he'd self-medicated generously with little regard for his liver or kidneys, flinched away instinctively from her hand as though she'd tried to hit him. She stepped back at once; from the way she avoided all physical contact after that he knew that she had misinterpreted his reaction, believing that he didn't want her to touch him.
He spent the rest of her short visit longing for those casual gestures that always marked her interactions with him: the pats on his arm, the quick clasp of his hand, the playful shove in his chest - but he couldn't bring himself to explain, not when it meant admitting to his father's abuse ... and Stacy's, at times. (She'd slap him hard when she got seriously pissed - he'd got used to flinching back to avoid the worst of the blow - and there had been the occasional mug flung at him that hadn't missed its target.)
So he just growled, "I'm fine. Don't mother me!" which made the situation worse.
"Look ... I can't come this evening. Lucas is dropping by to pick up his stuff. Do you need the nurse?"
"I don't want her. I'm FINE!"
"Right, I'm sure you are." Her voice oozed sarcasm. "I didn't ask whether you wanted her, I asked whether you needed her."
"NO!"
"Alright." She hesitated. "I'll call you this evening."
"Okay."
When she called around ten pm the pain had abated to the point that he could speak lucidly without lashing out at every sentence. So he said he was fine again, and to pre-empt midnight emergency visits and the like, he added casually that he was returning to work the next day.
"Work? House, are you crazy?"
"A case might take my mind off the pain."
She was silent; he could sense her weighing up the disadvantage of his venturing outside his own four walls against the advantage of having him under her nose. He'd done the same before suggesting it, balancing the distress of having the team see him in his present state against the relief of allaying Cuddy's worries.
"Okay," she said reluctantly, "but ..."
He interrupted her to forestall any more molly-coddling. "Did Lucas appear?"
She sighed. "Yes. It was awkward. I'm not sure whether he got the message. And then I forgot ..." She trailed off.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. It'll be alright," she said as though trying to convince herself.
Telephone small talk wasn't one of his stronger points. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes. Shall I pick you up?"
"No. We shouldn't be seen coming in together." He prepared himself for a battle over this. When she accepted that without a fight he wasn't as relieved as he'd thought he'd be. It wasn't that he expected her to acknowledge their relationship openly right from the start, so going in separately was definitely a good idea. It didn't mean she was ashamed of him ... although he was nothing to be proud of at the moment - barely able to walk, drowsy and woozy from the medication - and certainly not a suitable boyfriend for the Dean of Medicine.
He came in at a reasonable time, 'reasonable' meaning: not so late that Cuddy would worry and check on him. His first stop was the clinic, where he picked up the only file that could be deemed promising and overheard Taub arranging a date for that evening with the blonde nurse he'd been flirting with the last few weeks. He whistled for Taub to come to heel, interrupted the examinations Foreman and Thirteen were conducting and held the first differential in Examination Room 3. That aggravated Foreman, who lost face in front of his clinic patient when House wouldn't let him finish treating her, annoyed Thirteen because he pulled her off her patient but didn't bother to call Chase from surgery, and pissed Taub off, because House slapped down all his suggestions, preferring to go with Foreman's theory. (This had nothing whatsoever to do with Taub hitting on that stupid blonde nurse, Myra or Maya or whatever, although Foreman's suggestion was so far-fetched that even Foreman was surprised that House deigned to consider it).
Having caused enough of an uproar to alert Cuddy to his presence and ensured that a string of complaints from clinic staff and patients (the former at having an examination room blocked by his differential and three doctors pulled off the rota, the latter at having their treatment interrupted) would punctuate her morning routine, he was fairly confident that he'd managed to reassure Cuddy regarding the state of his health, for normally his disruptive streak was inversely proportional to his pain level. So, after assigning all the useless tests called for by Foreman's obviously erroneous diagnosis to Taub to run, he withdrew to the comfort of his Eames chair and his PSP.
Cuddy came in soon after, carrying a pile of medical journals and murmuring something sotto voce about an appointment with her lawyer and visiting her mother. The buzzing in his ears, a side-effect of the pain he was in once more after the morning's modest efforts, precluded his hearing much of what she said, matters being complicated by Foreman and Thirteen in the conference room not even pretending not to listen. He realized that it was the first time since Trenton that he and Cuddy were officially in each other's company again; judging by the looks he'd earned from the clinic staff this morning, some of what had transpired over there, probably the bit about Cuddy being done with him, had made it back to the hospital. Well, too bad for both sides: his team should know by now that Cuddy yelled hard, but forgave even faster; as for Cuddy, he had no intention of getting involved in whatever time management problem she was struggling with. Besides, the fuller her schedule, the less likely she was to breathe down his neck because of his minor thigh issue.
So, for his team's benefit as much as for hers, he growled, "What do you want, woman?"
She cast a furtive glance at his team and said, loudly this time for their edification, "I found these. Take a look at them."
The journals had one thing in common: they all featured some article or other on pain management. There was no way she could have dug them all out in the course of one morning - she must have been hoarding them, waiting for an opportunity to palm them off on him. He picked up a few journals and read the titles at random (well, not quite at random - he made sure to pick the more ridiculous approaches).
"Hypnosis. LLLT. Biofeedback." He tossed the journals back onto the pile.
"House, don't be so bloody obstinate! Just look through these. There might be something in there that ..."
"None of this new age garbage would survive a serious clinical study. What are you, a doctor or a voodoo priestess? If you want to help, get me a decent flat-screen."
Cuddy stormed out, her heels beating out an angry rap along the corridor, not to be seen again the rest of the day. The flat-screen didn't materialize. Instead, Wilson appeared at one with a Reuben, a soda and the anticipated babble on the connection between Cuddy's presumed love life with Lucas (the twists and turns of which he was thankfully still ignorant of) and House's pain problems, while at two pm a physiotherapist turned up.
"Dr House? Dr Cuddy sent me up to give you a massage."
"You're not touching my leg!"
"She didn't specify which part of your body."
"Oh, goody! I know exactly where I'd like ..."
"And she said that if you got annoying I should jab my elbow into your right thigh."
After testing her abilities on the knots in his shoulders and neck, he finally let her do his leg, after which he spent the afternoon snoozing fitfully in his chair. At five pm the first test results came in, confirming Taub's initial diagnosis (which was also House's secret favourite) and refuting Foreman's tentative guess. House decreed that Taub, as diagnosing physician, should stay the night to oversee the success of the patient's treatment - if Rachel Taub was to spend the evening alone, so would Nurse Mia or Mina - and sent the others home.
Still no sign of Cuddy. Shit, had he managed to screw it up in all of three days? He was wondering whether to call her and 'make up' (or whatever it was that one did when one one wasn't officially 'a thing' and hadn't fought, but wasn't talking to one another) when Chase appeared.
House surfaces from his musings to find Foreman and Chase looking at him with concerned expressions.
"I know about Cuddy and Lucas," he says. "How dense do you think I am?"
Relief and a certain amount of speculation is apparent in both their features.
"I've got a pool going on how long they'll last," Chase says. "Do you want in? 2 to 1 that they'll be engaged by August, 7 to 1 that they'll be married by then, 10 to 1 that they'll split up ditto."
House's hand automatically goes to his back pocket where he keeps his wallet, but then he hesitates. He has no compunction about using his insider knowledge, but a dark, medieval corner of his mind believes that if he puts his money on the last-named option, the fates will conspire to boot him out of Cuddy's life and reinstate Lucas. Foreman uses the opportunity to pass on another titbit of knowledge.
"Cuddy's gone for the day, so he can't be waiting for her."
That only leaves himself. After bouncing his cane a few times in thought, he heads towards Wilson's office. Wilson is at his desk, completing the day's paperwork, sleeves rolled up. He looks up in surprise as House enters.
"House! ... You're better?"
"Peachy." He lowers himself gingerly onto the couch, grimacing slightly as he pulls his right leg up. Wilson frowns at the sight of House's sneaker on the upholstery.
"Foreman sighted Lucas prowling around my car in the parking lot. I'm not sure whether a run-in between Lucas and me on hospital grounds is in everyone's best interest."
"Wow! That's ... very mature of you." Wilson pauses, eyeing House curiously. "It does, however, beg the question why you should fear a 'run-in'."
House twirls his cane. He has no idea what Cuddy told Lucas, but Lucas is nobody's fool. Although Cuddy broke off the engagement without knowing if she and House would ever make it into a relationship, it is obvious that if it weren't for House lurking in the background, she'd carry out her plan of partner, progeny and white picket fence with the same iron determination that she applies to administrating PPTH. She and Lucas aren't inherently incompatible - they are only so because Cuddy has the hots for House. Looking Lucas in the eye and pretending that he, House, has no hand in his present misery will be ... difficult, especially given that he did try to woo Cuddy away from Lucas - subtly by his own standards, but nonetheless with a certain amount of persistence. He'd known deep inside that respecting her decision to be with Lucas while showing that he cared for her would hollow her resolve and erode whatever walls she'd put up against him. Her walls were built to withstand the autumnal gales of major manipulative interference, not the steady spring drizzle of unconditional support.
All this, however, is none of Wilson's concern; if it turns out that Cuddy has had enough of him already, then he'd rather not have Wilson dissecting his character, pointing out just which malignant growths lie at the root of his inability to bond with others.
"I heard that there was some major disagreement between you and Cuddy at Trenton," Wilson observes, probably trying to loosen House's tongue with a helpful hint.
"The angry make-up sex is always terrific," House dead-pans. Stay as close to the truth as possible if you don't want Wilson to smell a rat.
"You had to poke and pry at this thing between her and Lucas until she snapped, didn't you? And now he's in the parking lot ready to bloody your nose as revenge for upsetting his girl-friend. Good grief, House, he showed you that time in the cafeteria that he can get nasty. Did you have to push it?" Wilson is massaging the bridge of his nose, a sure sign of inner distress.
"Be a good fella, Wilson. Go down there and talk him out of beating me to a pulp. I'm rather fond of my face the way it is."
"You've got a first-rate plastic surgeon on your team," Wilson quips, but he gets up obligingly and leaves.
Sending Wilson down is doubtless not an ideal solution, but it is preferable to the team getting wind of something going on between him and Cuddy before it is official. Foreman would stop respecting Cuddy, Chase would get stakes going in no time, and he wouldn't put it beyond Taub to indulge in some modest blackmail.
House's cell phone rings. "Yeah?"
"He says he comes in peace and just wants to talk to you," Wilson says.
"Tell him I'm not here any more - that I left with Chase."
Short pause. "Yeah, he says he figured you were stowed away in the trunk of Chase's car."
"I guess I could go out the back and get a cab," House muses aloud.
"Forget it. He already said that if you did that he'd call on you at your apartment. I think you're better off dealing with him at the hospital. He'll be on cctv and I can call security if need be."
"Have you told him that my leg is giving me hell?"
Another pause. "He says he wants to talk, not walk."
"Oh my, quite the stand-up comedian, isn't he?"
"I'm dying of laughter," Wilson says drily. "I'll bring him up, shall I?"
"Yeah, I guess." House snaps his cell-phone shut, wishing that he'd dug a bit deeper when talking to Cuddy the night before. She'd kept something from him, something about Lucas, but he'd still been in too much physical distress to worm it out of her.
"Hey, House." Lucas saunters in, looking smug and at ease, Wilson trailing behind him with ill-concealed concern. "Jeez, I'm real bad at this stalking stuff - always get caught, don't I?"
"Yes - maybe you wanted to get caught," House surmises.
"Didn't really, but now that my cover's blown, I figured that a man-to-man talk might clear the air, so to say. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression of what I'm up to, get paranoid about me or anything. ... Can we talk alone?" Lucas gives Wilson a sideways glance.
"Sure." House waves a casually dismissive hand at Wilson.
Wilson looks as if he wants to debate this, but then he throws up his hands, shakes his head and goes out on the balcony.
"Doesn't trust me, does he? ... Hey, he's got a really cool office. What's this?" Lucas prowls around, picking up the odd trinket, peering at Wilson's cups and awards, and finally perches on his desk with a tin duck in his hand. "Oh, neat! Look at this - you wind it up here and then ..."
"Yeah, yeah. Something one of his cancer kids gave him. Why are you observing me?"
Lucas gives him a 'dumb question, dude' look. "I'm getting paid for it."
"Ah. By whom?"
"Can't tell, can I? Client confidentiality. He'd be pissed as hell if he knew that I've blown it."
"Gimme a break! You wouldn't be up here talking to me if you weren't intending to spill the beans."
"No, actually ...," Lucas scratches his head, looking genuinely embarrassed, "I hadn't ... it was kinda stupid, getting caught. But since it's happened, I may as well make the best of it. You scratch my back, I scratch yours," he concludes cheerfully.
"Well, start scratching mine by telling me the name of your client."
"Sorry, confidential information is not up for grabs," Lucas says smoothly. "But I'll tell you this: he was very interested in the two vicodin bottles I fished out of your trash."
House gets an inkling of where this is going. "Nice. What do you want?"
"You're a clever guy, House. You can make this tough for me, now that you know I'm observing you: place red herrings, lead me on wild goose chases, set the police on me. Or you can make things easy for me."
"What's in it for me?"
"My client isn't the only one who'd show interest in those vicodin bottles. Lisa, I think, would be interested, too ... and extremely pissed!"
House stills. How much, exactly, does Lucas know? Evidently not everything. Is he really ignorant of the state of affairs between House and Cuddy or is he bluffing?
"Do you think so?" House asks, probing.
"Oh, yes," Lucas replies. "You pissed her off good and proper in Trenton; I'm told she was foaming at the mouth." He laughs unpleasantly.
"You were told?" House probes.
"She was acting odd when she got back, so I asked around: the EMT crew, the firemen at the site. Everyone agrees that you surpassed yourself. If she finds out that you're back on vicodin, she'll have your ass." House is silent. "Oh, come on! You know that you've used up all your credit with her. You're back at work much earlier than anyone expected. That means you're trying to placate her."
Is Lucas playing him or is he really clueless? No, he can't be playing him, because he'd never dare to pretend to an intact relationship with Cuddy if he weren't certain that House knows nothing of the break-up. God only knows what convoluted logic he's applying to make sense of Cuddy's desertion, but it doesn't seem to include House as causative agent. Oh, the ability of the human mind to delude itself! Lucas has also unwittingly admitted to having a source in the hospital. How else would he know whether House was expected back at work or not? It's probably someone in the lobby or in the clinic.
House decides to play along for the moment. "This won't pull. Empty vicodin bottles are proof of nothing. As long as my regular drug screenings are negative, there's not much she can do."
"How long do you think you can cheat on those once Lisa finds out that you've relapsed?"
"I haven't relapsed."
"No," Lucas says with heavy sarcasm, "you just slipped up a little, right?"
"Why didn't you run straight to her with the pill bottles?"
Lucas's eyes shift slightly - he's always been a miserable liar. "She's under a lot of pressure at the moment: moving house, the hassles with the adoption, then the disaster at Trenton. She shouldn't have to deal with you on top of all that."
"How considerate! ... Hassles with the adoption?" Is there something there that he should know of? She'd mentioned something about an unexpected appointment with her lawyer when she was in his office.
Before he can place an exploratory needle on that spot Lucas continues, "It'll be fine once we're married. I'm sure the adoption will be finalized then."
He's baiting House, that much is clear. House can't afford to ignore the planned 'slip-up' without giving away that he knows about the engagement.
"Married?" House asks slowly, pretending to hide surprise and hurt, but actually playing for time.
"Yeah, we're engaged." Lucas is mustering him, analysing his reaction.
House opts for the disbelief that characterized his initial reaction when he heard the news from Cuddy. "She isn't wearing a ring."
"No, not at work. She wants to keep it quiet. I think she's afraid that you're still vulnerable or something. But you're fine with it, aren't you?"
"What? Oh, yes. Just grand." Lucas really doesn't know; he'd never try to pull off a stunt like this if he did. But how can he not know if he is observing House? Casting back his mind over the past days House perceives that although everything seems to be circling around Cuddy for him, their 'quality time' has been limited. Today they saw each other fairly briefly (and none too harmoniously) at work, yesterday Cuddy was over at his place for less than an hour, the day before for not that much longer. If Lucas isn't observing him around the clock, he could easily have missed seeing Cuddy at his apartment.
"Stalemate, I'd say," House remarks amiably. "You don't want to upset Cuddy, and I can guarantee you that you won't be able to prove that I took vicodin. She'll be smoking once she's finished apologizing to me for any extra drug screenings she puts me through at your instigation. I hope her couch is comfortable, because you won't be sleeping anywhere near her for aeons after that."
Lucas looks undecided. House appreciates his dilemma, but he's growing tired of this. "Look, Lucas, even if I were back on vicodin, Cuddy isn't going to thank you for rubbing her nose in it. It means she'll have to act, and chances are that this time the board will fire me. Do I have to spell out to you how unhappy she'll be at losing her biggest asset - other than her ass?"
"Damn," Lucas says good-naturedly, "you've just called my bluff."
"The name of your client," House demands.
"What do I get in return?"
"Free access to my office. I take it that you already searched my apartment today?" Lucas nods.
House sighs. Confronting Lucas is invigorating, but he's had enough of him for one day. Besides, something, some stray thought is niggling him; he wants his peace so that he can chase it.
"I can probably find out who your client is, if I put my mind to it," he says tiredly, "so just tell me and spare me the bother."
"Darryl Nolan," Lucas says after a moment's hesitation.
"Nolan?" Whatever he's expecting, it isn't that. He isn't sure how he feels about this. "Interesting. Why is he having me observed?"
"Not part of the bargain," Lucas objects. "I told you who is paying me, now you let me examine your office."
"Okay," House concedes. "But no bugs. If I find any sort of surveillance equipment, I'll call in the cops."
"Christ, man, what do you take me for? .... Okay, okay, no bugs."
"Hey, Wilson!" Wilson comes in from the balcony. "Can you keep an eye on him while he snoops around my office?"
"Why are you letting him nose around in there?" Wilson asks.
"Don't ask!"
Wilson is irritated, justifiably so. Being escort to the person who messed up his new condo does not rank as a treat. "Why don't you go with him?" he asks.
"Gotta check something out." House avoids Wilson's eyes. If Wilson knew that House is planning to break into Cuddy's office, he'd cause a scene.
"Oh, okay. Come along," Wilson says to Lucas, exuding open hostility.
House takes the elevator to the first floor, trying not to let the unease he felt during his mind-battle with Lucas cloud his thinking. Cuddy has broken up with Lucas, hasn't she? Why would Lucas then pretend to be engaged to her? Surely he knows that his bluff will be called the moment House runs into Cuddy. Ah, but Lucas believes that the communication between House and Cuddy has hit an all-time low after Trenton. Perhaps he's banking on their stand-off continuing for long enough that he can woo Cuddy back. Possibly he dropped the news of his engagement to Cuddy solely to gauge House's reaction; had House called his bluff, any suspicion he harbours concerning House's part in the break-up would have been confirmed.
Or maybe, the nagging voice of uncertainty in House's mind suggests, they aren't really apart. You've been through this with Stacy, she kept Mark on hold while she secured you.
The front lobby desk is still manned, but the clinic is deserted at this hour. Breaking into Cuddy's office is hilariously simple, as always. One would think that a year-long association with a PI would have improved her consciousness for security issues, but no.
Seating himself in Cuddy's chair, he flicks idly through the papers on her desk, wondering exactly what he is expecting to find. Her calendar is as good a starting place as any. At sixteen hours, circled in red, she's noted 'Webber & Rose', a well-known Princeton law firm.
Ah, yes, today in his office she'd murmured something about an urgent meeting with her lawyer this afternoon, but she'd said she'd be back afterwards to 'check on him'. The implication that he can't be trusted to look after himself had irritated him so much that he hadn't listened to the rest of her communiqué. This might be the explanation to what is bothering him on a subconscious level - he's expecting her back, because she said it would only be a short meeting. While basking in the pleasure of another little mystery solved, he pouts at this indirect proof that he's either so dependent on her presence or already so deeply possessive of her that an unexplained absence suffices to perturb him. Furthermore, it raises a question, namely the one of her present whereabouts.
There are no appointments noted in her calendar from 6 pm onwards, which is not all that surprising considering that she is totally at the mercy of her babysitter who probably has strong opinions on late nights. She has, however, shaded that portion of the calendar a different colour, something he doesn't recall having seen before (odd). Turning pages, he notes that the next day (odder), the day after (even odder) ... the next five days are shaded exactly the same way and contain no appointments whatsoever (oddest!).
If this were anyone else, he'd assume they were on vacation. But Cuddy doesn't do vacations - she doesn't even know how to spell the word. The most she'll permit herself is a personal day on a Friday or Monday for an extended weekend with her mother or her sister. Hang on, didn't she mention her mother somewhere in the verbal garbage that he'd mostly blocked out? Damn, she did! But spending five days straight with her mother when the woman lives a mere five hours away? He now remembers - things he didn't register consciously are re-surfacing - that she'd asked whether he'd be alright while she was gone, a question he'd considered so ridiculous (not having cottoned on that she'd be gone five whole days) that he'd merely grunted in reply.
Get a grip! he tells himself. You don't need a bloody babysitter.
He boots her computer, hacks into her account and scrolls through her emails. He finds a booking confirmation for a flight to Seattle leaving from New York tonight. Seattle? Now he knows what she's up to: she's going that endocrinology conference that she insists on attending year after year in the hope that it'll make her feel more 'doctor-like'.She'll have to leave Princeton within the next hour or so to make the flight, he figures. Okay, that would explain why she hasn't returned to the hospital: she must have got delayed and is now in a rush to pick up the parasite and make the flight. She'll probably phone (guilt-ridden) once she's safely checked in.
The conference only lasts two-and-a-half-days - he knows that because he chafes at the bit every year she does this, missing her presence, resenting having to deal with whatever dumb deputy she's chosen to install, floundering in his dealings with administration where no one seems to speak the same language as he when she isn't there to interpret. There are therefore still two days in her calendar that are not accounted for.
He scrolls down the confirmation email to the return flight data: she's booked a circle itinerary for herself and Rachel, going from Seattle to Pittsburgh. That's where her family (correction: her mother) lives. Okay, that makes sense, two days with her mom being as much as she can take.
He's casually scrolling down the rest of the email when doubt strikes suddenly and viciously: listed after the circle flight for herself and Rachel is a round flight to Pittsburgh for ... Mr. Lucas Douglas. His hand stills on the mouse as he fights against the bile rising up in his throat. Is this a filial visit to an ageing parent, or is this a mini-break to celebrate a major event in the life of Lisa Cuddy? It needs little imagination to reconstruct the nature of that event: after the conference Lucas will join Cuddy and Rachel in Pittsburgh to be introduced to her family as her new fiancé. The question is whether his visit is still on.
He leans back, waiting for his heart rate to normalize before shutting down her computer. More from habit than curiosity he fingers through the contents of her desk, seeking reassurance in the familiarity of the objects that meet his touch: a lipstick, a comb, a few coins, a spare set of keys, a soother (why not a lollipop?), her stethoscope, a pair of glasses (she wears contact lenses now, but she's kept them as a back-up option). Oddly, he is soothed - until his fingers encounter a padded envelope pushed well into the back of the drawer. He pulls it out slowly with a sense of foreboding; a memory surfaces of her voice saying amid the background cacophony of drills, pneumatic hammers and sirens, 'It's in my desk."
Although he needn't open the envelope to know what is inside, he can't help himself. He sits there for a long time, staring at the diamond blinking in the light of the desk lamp. Finally, he replaces the ring in the envelope and, on an impulse, slips it into his backpack. He switches off the desk lamp, wishing that the chorus of voices in his head can be switched off as easily.
There is, he tells the voices savagely, one diagnosis that matches all the symptoms he's observed - Cuddy's increasing withdrawal, Lucas's confidence about the engagement, the ring in the drawer. The engagement is still on. There's no zebra to spot here, not even a horse. There's just an ass, and that's one Dr Gregory House!
Wilson is waiting outside for him, leaning against his car. "He found a fifth of scotch," he volunteers, disapproval etched in his face. "Are you okay?" he adds, examining House's mien in the failing light.
House ignores his question, focusing on the former part of his utterance. "I hope you didn't let him take it. That's good scotch."
"House," Wilson remonstrates, "you can't drink on the job!"
"You got all pissy about your girl-friend picking me up from a bar, so I figured you'd prefer me to drink somewhere where no one is likely to pocket my car keys." The reference to the night Amber had her fatal accident shuts Wilson up, as intended. House knows he's overstepped an unspoken boundary, but he's beyond caring.
"God, why do I even bother?" Wilson turns away in disgust. He can't help turning back once more. "You know he'll tell Cuddy, don't you? God knows she's mad enough at you as it is."
Cuddy. The ring. Why the hell did he pocket the ring? If Cuddy finds out about it, she'll interpret all sorts of weird stuff into it. Everything he does after that - getting wasted, causing havoc in the hospital, pissing her off - will be interpreted as a reaction to her betrayal. As though he cares enough to make a fuss over it; hasn't he been expecting exactly this scenario? Doesn't he know and accept that she has a right to change her mind after caving in to some overemotional response to the night at Trenton? God, they'd done it before, after she'd lost that first crack baby she'd tried to adopt. They'd kissed in a moment of madness, and then they'd both got over it.
He digs the envelope out of his backpack and holds it out to Wilson. "Here. Do you think you can get that to Lucas?"
Anger wars with curiosity, but ultimately Wilson takes the proffered envelope, peering inside unashamedly.
"It's ... they're engaged!" he says incredulously.
"Yeah." House scans the horizon, the parking lot, the silhouette of the hospital. He can feel waves of compassion rolling off Wilson and has to fight the urge to barricade himself in his car to escape drowning in them.
"Are you okay?" Wilson repeats his earlier question. The slight to Amber's memory is forgotten in the face of this calamity.
"Yeah, I'm fine. I've known for some time. But I won't be fine if Cuddy finds out I took the ring. So do me a favour and get it back to Lucas asap. Please," he adds as an afterthought.
"Yes, but won't he ..."
"He wants more intel from me. Tell him he can have it if he keeps this from Cuddy."
There! Let Lucas ponder on how House came by the ring. Let him wonder whether Cuddy confided her engagement to House, perhaps considering how to get out of it again. Let him lie awake in bed at night, trying to determine whether her reluctance to wear the ring is a matter of practicality or a subconscious rejection of its giver. He, House, will be damned if he loses any more sleep over this!
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Date: 2010-09-19 01:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-19 02:05 pm (UTC)