Chapter Three
V. HOUSE
Something was up. Nothing major, nothing overtly visible or obvious; nevertheless the
delicate vibration along his radar kept tingling. House trusted it; that sensitive intuition had
kept him two steps ahead of the world most of the time. He let it sweep over the
mundane realities of his day, picking up tensions and odd notes here and there; in the
quiet privacy of his office, House pulled the bits into neat bundles in his mind.
Cameron was considering moving. He’d spotted a list of phone numbers peeking out of
her purse as she left work, most of them recognizable from bus stop bench ads around
the hospital. If she was moving, it would mean she’d be frazzled for the next two weeks,
and more likely to ask to leave early—first for viewings then for appointments--a pain in
the ass, but at least it meant she’d also be too busy to bother him about mail and phone messages and clinic hours.
Wilson had taken up golf again, and was too scared to mention it. House had seen the
traces of cut grass along his pant cuffs, and the stray tee sitting on the bookcase in
Wilson’s office. It wasn’t a sport Wilson liked much, but it gave him a chance to
schmooze with a few peers and a handy excuse to get away on a few afternoons—and
House didn’t begrudge him that too much.
House didn’t think about golf anymore; it required the sort of mnemonic concentration
that the Vicodin sucked away nowadays, and too many of his memories of it centered
around Stacy, and her terrible backswing, and the showers they took together afterwards.
Cuddy golfed, but not often; tennis and running took her free time. House let his thoughts
flicker pleasurably over the thought of her in her tennis whites, striding off . . . and it
dawned on him then what the little disturbance in the Force was.
Cuddy.
Cuddy hadn’t been . . . around. Oh she’d been AROUND around—in the background,
passing by, a dark-haired figure up on the balconies above, yes. But she hadn’t been
within arm’s reach for almost an entire day, and that was just Not Acceptable in the
grand scheme of things. As Professor Higgins might have sung, House had grown
accustomed to her face . . . among other body parts.
The why of it bothered him simply because he prided himself in the quick uptake of any
break in routine, and most he could see coming. The ebb and flow of life in the hospital
had given him a time sense with mental cogs that turned with the hours and months and
season. Too, his incremental incursion into Cuddy’s personal space was moving forward
with glacial speed; a slow and steady redefinition of the boundaries that neither
commented on.
So to have her withdraw with no explanation required further investigation. Fortunately,
there were no cases on his agenda and clinic wasn’t for a few hours, so he hied himself
off towards Cuddy’s office, intending on a mission of reconnaissance.
He moved cautiously, casting his gaze towards the glass panels that made up the front
walls of her office and noted immediately that she wasn’t alone. Not unusual.
Chase was with her.
That was unusual. And immediately annoying.
Robert Chase had a modicum of talent as a diagnostician, but that didn’t mean he had
any business sitting opposite Cuddy in her office, clearly discussing something that
wasn’t medical, not by the dimpled smile on his disgustingly boyish cherubic face.
Likewise, Cuddy was wasting official time by nodding and smirking back.
House backed out of the immediate line of sight and kept watching, his mind flicking
through possibilities at the speed of light and narrowing them down to three, none of
which pleased him.
Theory A: Cuddy had decided that she needed the sperm of a young, healthy Australian wombat.
This was a nauseating and depressing possibility. True, Chase was young, intelligent and
most likely virile, but House couldn’t quite shake the image of Cuddy in a kangaroo suit, complete with baby in a pouch.
Theory B: Chase had suddenly developed an Oedipus complex.
Although potentially plausible, the complications of such a situation bordered on
pathetically irritating. Clearly Chase admired forceful women—his background knowledge
of S and M seemed to point to that—but Cuddy had far, far better things to do that vamp
for a seminary dropout; House alone could assure that.
Theory C: The two of them were plotting some coup of the Diagnostic department.
More insidious and given Chase’s wily loyalties, completely possible. The kid’s track
record this year had been better than average, and the PPTH publicists would certainly
love his photogenic features beaming out on the brochures . . .
House snapped back to the here and now when Chase reached over and touched
Cuddy’s face.
Wrong.
Not her face precisely, but her hair, along the left side of her face; the details weren’t
terribly clear through the red haze, and House felt his jaw tense. He rocked a little, his
long fingers gripping the handle of his cane as instantaneously two parallel thought
streams flowed from one hemisphere of his brain to the other. The first one consisted of
a lightning swift feed of incoming data that accounted for the time, the weather, the
immediate spatial inventory, the internal GPS at the heart of his radar.
The other was the quicksilver surge of emotions prompting some immediate and
spontaneous autonomic responses. Elevated respiration, tension along the major muscle
groups, a flash of adrenaline radiating out from his mid-thoracic cavity, accompanied by a
mental image of Doctor Robert Chase sprawled out backwards, the rubber tubing of his
own stethoscope wrapped tightly around his scrawny neck as his face turned a rich shade
of aubergine and his tongue lolled out like a limp sea slug.
It was a satisfying fantasy; a variation on a theme, House acknowledged. He often
thought of extinguishing his Fellows in ghastly yet cheerful scenarios; usually when they
were being obstinate or obtuse. Killing off Chase would terminate whatever plans had
been brewing in Cuddy’s office; dead Aussie meant A) no baby, B) no Greek chorus and
C) no coup.
Should Cuddy object, House reasoned, he could always point out that he hadn’t been
the one with nefarious, clearly non-medical plans.
He blinked, coming out of the fantasy, and noted that both Chase and Cuddy were on
their feet now, still smiling at each other in their cozy tête-à-tête. Then Cuddy reached for Chase’s arm and that was impetus enough for House to lurch forward, pushing the door
to her office open loudly.
Something was up. Nothing major, nothing overtly visible or obvious; nevertheless the
delicate vibration along his radar kept tingling. House trusted it; that sensitive intuition had
kept him two steps ahead of the world most of the time. He let it sweep over the
mundane realities of his day, picking up tensions and odd notes here and there; in the
quiet privacy of his office, House pulled the bits into neat bundles in his mind.
Cameron was considering moving. He’d spotted a list of phone numbers peeking out of
her purse as she left work, most of them recognizable from bus stop bench ads around
the hospital. If she was moving, it would mean she’d be frazzled for the next two weeks,
and more likely to ask to leave early—first for viewings then for appointments--a pain in
the ass, but at least it meant she’d also be too busy to bother him about mail and phone messages and clinic hours.
Wilson had taken up golf again, and was too scared to mention it. House had seen the
traces of cut grass along his pant cuffs, and the stray tee sitting on the bookcase in
Wilson’s office. It wasn’t a sport Wilson liked much, but it gave him a chance to
schmooze with a few peers and a handy excuse to get away on a few afternoons—and
House didn’t begrudge him that too much.
House didn’t think about golf anymore; it required the sort of mnemonic concentration
that the Vicodin sucked away nowadays, and too many of his memories of it centered
around Stacy, and her terrible backswing, and the showers they took together afterwards.
Cuddy golfed, but not often; tennis and running took her free time. House let his thoughts
flicker pleasurably over the thought of her in her tennis whites, striding off . . . and it
dawned on him then what the little disturbance in the Force was.
Cuddy.
Cuddy hadn’t been . . . around. Oh she’d been AROUND around—in the background,
passing by, a dark-haired figure up on the balconies above, yes. But she hadn’t been
within arm’s reach for almost an entire day, and that was just Not Acceptable in the
grand scheme of things. As Professor Higgins might have sung, House had grown
accustomed to her face . . . among other body parts.
The why of it bothered him simply because he prided himself in the quick uptake of any
break in routine, and most he could see coming. The ebb and flow of life in the hospital
had given him a time sense with mental cogs that turned with the hours and months and
season. Too, his incremental incursion into Cuddy’s personal space was moving forward
with glacial speed; a slow and steady redefinition of the boundaries that neither
commented on.
So to have her withdraw with no explanation required further investigation. Fortunately,
there were no cases on his agenda and clinic wasn’t for a few hours, so he hied himself
off towards Cuddy’s office, intending on a mission of reconnaissance.
He moved cautiously, casting his gaze towards the glass panels that made up the front
walls of her office and noted immediately that she wasn’t alone. Not unusual.
Chase was with her.
That was unusual. And immediately annoying.
Robert Chase had a modicum of talent as a diagnostician, but that didn’t mean he had
any business sitting opposite Cuddy in her office, clearly discussing something that
wasn’t medical, not by the dimpled smile on his disgustingly boyish cherubic face.
Likewise, Cuddy was wasting official time by nodding and smirking back.
House backed out of the immediate line of sight and kept watching, his mind flicking
through possibilities at the speed of light and narrowing them down to three, none of
which pleased him.
Theory A: Cuddy had decided that she needed the sperm of a young, healthy Australian wombat.
This was a nauseating and depressing possibility. True, Chase was young, intelligent and
most likely virile, but House couldn’t quite shake the image of Cuddy in a kangaroo suit, complete with baby in a pouch.
Theory B: Chase had suddenly developed an Oedipus complex.
Although potentially plausible, the complications of such a situation bordered on
pathetically irritating. Clearly Chase admired forceful women—his background knowledge
of S and M seemed to point to that—but Cuddy had far, far better things to do that vamp
for a seminary dropout; House alone could assure that.
Theory C: The two of them were plotting some coup of the Diagnostic department.
More insidious and given Chase’s wily loyalties, completely possible. The kid’s track
record this year had been better than average, and the PPTH publicists would certainly
love his photogenic features beaming out on the brochures . . .
House snapped back to the here and now when Chase reached over and touched
Cuddy’s face.
Wrong.
Not her face precisely, but her hair, along the left side of her face; the details weren’t
terribly clear through the red haze, and House felt his jaw tense. He rocked a little, his
long fingers gripping the handle of his cane as instantaneously two parallel thought
streams flowed from one hemisphere of his brain to the other. The first one consisted of
a lightning swift feed of incoming data that accounted for the time, the weather, the
immediate spatial inventory, the internal GPS at the heart of his radar.
The other was the quicksilver surge of emotions prompting some immediate and
spontaneous autonomic responses. Elevated respiration, tension along the major muscle
groups, a flash of adrenaline radiating out from his mid-thoracic cavity, accompanied by a
mental image of Doctor Robert Chase sprawled out backwards, the rubber tubing of his
own stethoscope wrapped tightly around his scrawny neck as his face turned a rich shade
of aubergine and his tongue lolled out like a limp sea slug.
It was a satisfying fantasy; a variation on a theme, House acknowledged. He often
thought of extinguishing his Fellows in ghastly yet cheerful scenarios; usually when they
were being obstinate or obtuse. Killing off Chase would terminate whatever plans had
been brewing in Cuddy’s office; dead Aussie meant A) no baby, B) no Greek chorus and
C) no coup.
Should Cuddy object, House reasoned, he could always point out that he hadn’t been
the one with nefarious, clearly non-medical plans.
He blinked, coming out of the fantasy, and noted that both Chase and Cuddy were on
their feet now, still smiling at each other in their cozy tête-à-tête. Then Cuddy reached for Chase’s arm and that was impetus enough for House to lurch forward, pushing the door
to her office open loudly.
