She'd made up all the bullshit, of course. All that crap about Wilson and his stupid green non-sexual-vibe tie. It was disarming, non threatening, whatever -- she had never paid it that much attention: It was a tie, for God's sake.
But she had, all the same, recognized it instantly as Wilson's, because he'd been wearing it when he sat across from her at dinner and spoke of very little other than House; and House had shown up wearing the damn thing, and at long last the connections snapped into place.
There was too much to think about, and she couldn't think while House was beside her in Wilson's tie and a silk-and-linen ensemble straight off a drug dealer from Miami Vice, so she'd sent him packing before Tubbs and Crockett could show up and House could compare Crockett's hair to Chase's and his shoes to Wilson's and seriously, how had she not realized it before?
And if that weren't ridiculous enough, how had House missed it?
She drank a lot of wine while figuring out what to tell him tomorrow. She probably owed him no further explanation, not really, but her life would go more smoothly if she gave him one anyway.
____________________________
This, she thought, must have been the feeling House gets, those moments when his latest puzzle's answer presents itself and he abruptly stops talking and walks out of the room.
Her answer wasn't the diagnosis of the problem -- she'd found that the moment she opened the door last night and found House in all his borrowed glory, standing on her step.
This was the how-the-hell-do-I-treat-this-condition answer, and if it worked (which was far from certain) she'd have pulled off the coup of a lifetime, and her hospital would likely become much less prone to the drama that always broke out when one or the other of her insane department heads began yet another ill-fated romance. Or ended one.
She rattled off the name of the swankiest restaurant she knew, threw a few flimsy reasons at him, and got the hell off the roof before he could question her further.
no subject
But she had, all the same, recognized it instantly as Wilson's, because he'd been wearing it when he sat across from her at dinner and spoke of very little other than House; and House had shown up wearing the damn thing, and at long last the connections snapped into place.
There was too much to think about, and she couldn't think while House was beside her in Wilson's tie and a silk-and-linen ensemble straight off a drug dealer from Miami Vice, so she'd sent him packing before Tubbs and Crockett could show up and House could compare Crockett's hair to Chase's and his shoes to Wilson's and seriously, how had she not realized it before?
And if that weren't ridiculous enough, how had House missed it?
She drank a lot of wine while figuring out what to tell him tomorrow. She probably owed him no further explanation, not really, but her life would go more smoothly if she gave him one anyway.
____________________________
This, she thought, must have been the feeling House gets, those moments when his latest puzzle's answer presents itself and he abruptly stops talking and walks out of the room.
Her answer wasn't the diagnosis of the problem -- she'd found that the moment she opened the door last night and found House in all his borrowed glory, standing on her step.
This was the how-the-hell-do-I-treat-this-condition answer, and if it worked (which was far from certain) she'd have pulled off the coup of a lifetime, and her hospital would likely become much less prone to the drama that always broke out when one or the other of her insane department heads began yet another ill-fated romance. Or ended one.
She rattled off the name of the swankiest restaurant she knew, threw a few flimsy reasons at him, and got the hell off the roof before he could question her further.