(no subject)

[mmkaternater]

There had been some kind of conscious mental break from the time that the plane took off from Stockholm, full of fuel and still palpable memories, and the hard bump of a landing that seemed to shake business back into the both of them. Her cell phone had been more cooperative in New York. She had begun the process of making informative phone calls as soon as the announcement was made. House had appeared to shrink down in his seat. He had pushed a thumb into the ear closest to her and she'd heard the music go up a couple of hundred decibels.

Later, in the gloom of hospital dark, she had left House's company and gone back to her office, still in its state of constant, preserved order. The coat she had been wearing on the day they left was still slung across the back of her chair. There were at least thirty messages stacked beside the computer. She had more e-mails than would fit in her intray. It was good to be back.

'Week had gone by and there had been occasion for House to stop by, mostly for the sake of requesting a piece of equipment or an expedited test result on his father's behalf. Cuddy had approved it all. There had been a couple of times when she thought she might venture to say more, but by that point his back had usually routed itself and he would press out her door with a hard flick of fingers. She went home every night that week and traded e-mails with Wilson. At first she would ask only for the pertinent medical information -- How's John doing? What's the prognosis? Can I do anything on my end? -- but then there had been more and more questions about House himself. How's House handling this? I don't know. He won't talk about it. He avoids the room altogether. Who runs the tests; the team? He won't even look at the name on the chart.

House had once come into her office for what seemed like no reason at all. He'd stood on the threshold for a long five seconds, his palm braced against the door, and then said that he'd take any extra clinic hours that she had to throw at him. "Not that a Nobel Prize winner should have to do clinic hours." She had given him only what she thought he could handle. 'Had offered the use of her office couch. He had glanced on the thing and made a sound of noncommittal.

Wilson had come to her on a Saturday morning, the first since John House's admission, and had rubbed the back of his neck raw while communicating his worry. "I don't think he'll talk to me about -- whatever he's going through. I was wondering if you wanted to give it a shot." Cuddy had had words of protest in her mouth before Wilson had said "Please" and she'd swiped her rebukes away.

He hadn't been in his office, the lounge, the clinic, the cafeteria, or any of the myriad hiding places that she could usually count on finding him. That left only one alternative: the roof. She mounted the stairs and looked past the grated glass --

-- his back was to her, bathed in black, and his hands were out and resting on the chilly stone battlement. She opened the door with a squeak. Her shoes crunched gravel and frost.

"I've got something that I think you might be interested in."

Comments

[addxcted.livejournal.com]

House wasn't interested in much at all as a general rule lately; two days prior, he'd come back from his apartment (having gone to change clothes) to find the television in his office on and pre-tuned to the station with General Hospital for him. Cameron had been in the other room at the table going over some paperwork when House first arrived, but by the time he made it to the door between his office and the lounge, she was gone. He didn't watch it.

He assumed she'd been the one to do it.

The week had progressed at an odd rate, a combination of gaps in time in which House wasn't certain where he'd been or what he'd done (those were most likely attributed to the lingering fog of fatigue his brain was swimming in and out of) punctuated with endless hours pouring over MRIs, X-rays, and every conceiveable test result that spelled out the same thing. If he never saw lung cancer on an MRI again, it would be a blessing.

Shoulders were hunched forward, though not against the frigid December air, as he leaned into the stone railing of the rooftop. They slumped perpetually now, making his lean form seem even more small than it was. He'd lost weight in the past week and was most likely borderline sick from malnutrition and his sudden appreciation for the outdoors. Wilson had commented that House was going to catch the flu at this rate, to which House had responded with he didn't have the time to get sick. In his backward logic, he wouldn't get sick until he slowed down long enough to.

Even there, poised into a hard lean against the bracing wall, his mind was turning feverishly, and it was that same thing that kept him from hearing the door squeak or gravel shift. Cuddy's voice came as a dimly registered surprise, but he turned regardless to view her.

"Did my copy of Playboy accidentally get delivered here again? I keep telling them to change the mailing address to my P.O. but you know how those magazines are..." He gave a minute wave of his hand as if to say that sort of mix-up happened all the time.

[betteroffdean.livejournal.com]

She was shocked by the construction of him. In the well-minded and purposeful lighting of the hospital's interior, gold and bronze had served to fill his cheeks and fill out his frame, but in unfiltered natural light she could see that it had been a deception. His cheeks were sunken and hollow, pitted deeply beneath eyes that had lost some of their lustre. He wasn't wearing a coat and, while this might give her occasion to berate him for his hard handling of himself and his already compromised health, it let her see that his shirt was billowing at the collar. He had lost weight. His chin was two shades darker than she was used to seeing it. The wicks at a few of his cuticles had been gnawed on and the surrounding skin was red and irritated. She stowed her surprise well.

"Dr. Malone," she began, giving him the reproof of her upturned 'brows for the Playboy comment and plunging on ahead without regard to it, "you know him -- he gets his name on the plaque every year for best patient reviews -- has just let it slip to the entire cafeteria that, in the wake of his separation with his third wife, he might have accidentally slept with a call girl." She swept the front of her coat around her chest against the cold and approached, drawing level with him against the baulstrade.

"-- But that's not the best part." She quirked her head in his direction. "Would you like to hear what the best part is?"

[addxcted.livejournal.com]

House was taken aback. He had almost, over the years, seemed to forget that Cuddy knew every gritty detail about anything that went on in her hospital just because she never spoke about it. It always seemed as if she was so far removed from the gossip circles that she was oblivious, even if that logically couldn't be the case. She just didn't talk about it.

Fighting between demonstrating his surprise and responding, House's mouth worked around a response for several seconds in her approach, remaining silent until she'd settled into a mimicing lean alongside him, an act that compelled him to immitate it again.

"..How does someone accidentally sleep with anyone?" The argument could be made about intoxication, but even then there was a Freudian side of House that severely doubted that was accidental.

He wouldn't say it, but his interest was piqued. She definitely had his attention, and he was watching quite curiously as she held onto the supposedly more intriguing bit of information.

[betteroffdean.livejournal.com]

"That was his phraseology, not mine," she said, turning around to push the small of her back against the ledge, her arms folded 'cross her chest, "and are you going to let me finish? You can collect details later. You have carte blanche to collect details -- respectfully and within non-fireable limitations," the instant remand, "-- the best part..."

She had stitched her thumbs over her abdomen, rolling around in this taut green-edged moment like a dog with a bone with a lot of meat on it.

"-- the call girl in question has only been a call girl for about a year and a half." The emphasis would be enough.

[addxcted.livejournal.com]

Really. What was it about the state of New Jersey and virtually everyone outside of House's immediate social circle directly or indirectly connected to Cuddy's hospital having encounters with transgenders?

House smirked to himself and shook his head in a manner that suggested he really wasn't all that surprised. "It must be something in the water. I hear about more people being with or having been with boys or used to be girls or vice versa from this hospital..." He was mystified.

"..do you just make people fill out a prerequisite 'sexual fetish' application before you hire them now? Keeps things spicey?" Could also say a lot for people who flew halfway across the world, slept with their boss, then came home and proceeded with neither of them even mentioning, much less acting as if anything had happened.

[betteroffdean.livejournal.com]

"Ask me how I know that she's a transgender."

She had tucked her tongue into the hollow of her cheek, her brows and every other attached facial feature lofted upward in high regard. Her fingers were folded inward beneath her breasts to keep them warm. The coat, which she had purchased more for form than function, was easy on the eyes but probably detrimental to the immune system. Jersey in winter -- in the home stretch of December cum January -- was one cold snap after another. They were forecasting a white Christmas.

[addxcted.livejournal.com]

"Please say that you dated her -- him -- whatever -- in college." It was as close as she'd get to him doing as requested. He wouldn't oblige directly but it was virtually the query she wanted, just with a spin on it. Besides, if it was true, House would play endlessly with Cuddy being a lesbian.

Granted, he had proof that suggested otherwise...

One could still dream.

[betteroffdean.livejournal.com]

Her grin was permafresh and even in the debilitating natural light -- light had robbed him of her view of him as wholly healthy over the past few weeks -- it was clear that he had taken an interest. House antennae came up when he smelled medicine or gossip.

"No. I know because I approved the surgery. Dr. Miller performed it as a personal favour --" colour in her cheeks, not all from the cold "-- I'll let you have a minute to consider those implications."

[addxcted.livejournal.com]

House made a face that could have been easily perceived as either shock, disgust, amusement, or any combination of the three. Shaking his head and finally allowing it to return to the hang over the edge it had been performing prior to Cuddy's appearance, the amusement dimmed some but not entirely. "The hospital's always been a little incestuous in that regard."

Really, the only ones that didn't seem to contribute were House and Cuddy. House because he was a misanthropic bastard and Cuddy for obvious reasons. Everyone else got sucked into the circle sooner or later.

His tone sobbered slightly. "You came all the way out here to freeze to death and tell me that?" There was no accusation in his tone. Controlled curiousity.

[betteroffdean.livejournal.com]

"What -- that's not good enough for you?" She drew her knuckles down along her arms and made a loose drape of incredulity with them at the joists of her elbows. "I could have told you that he was inviting her to the Christmas party and you still wouldn't questioned my motives."

She held up a hand, fingers red-touched around the ends. "Last time I impart a confidence," she brought the hand back into proximity and held her mouth in a gentle, teasing smile.

[addxcted.livejournal.com]

"Well," Eyes flicked aside and to her at the tone in her voice, but he seemed unconcerned over the prospect of having potentially insulted her. "..I've worked for you for what... ten? eleven years now?"

It was actually closer to twelve, but even 10 or 11 made them sound old. He'd leave it at that. "..and you've followed me out here with the singularly intention of gossiping. It's a nice change, don't get me wrong, but hardly believable."

When she had no immediate argument, he pushed on. "..which means you're here for either or a combination of two reasons; I really just look that miserable, that you had to find a way to cheer me up, or you're using this as one giant precursor to underline why inter-job relations are bad and that you think we shouldn't be doing any more last-minute flights to Stockholm because of the sexual ramifications."

[betteroffdean.livejournal.com]

She tilted her chin. "You think transgender call girls and the doctors who love them is a good ice-breaker for talking about what happened in Stockholm?" The last four words of that interrogative might as well have been in all capitals. "House, if I came here to talk about that I would've been much more direct." She might have, she might not have. With House, there were always a million ways to approach a logical argument and choosing one path depended entirely on his temperament -- a temperament that changed with how much pain medication he had been on, how well the Flyers were doing, or whether or not he would have to put in insane hours because his father had been diagnosed with a terminal cancer.

She drew a corner of her mouth up between two canines and spoke around the fissure. "How much have you been sleeping? Or not been sleeping?"

[addxcted.livejournal.com]

House made a face as if to ask why she didn't think it was a good icebreaker for what had happened in Stockholm. It was as good of one as any.

Sort of.

Her response had answered his question, nonetheless. It was because he looked that miserable and Cuddy had determined it was finally time for her to intervene. He'd liked her better when she was gossiping. That Cuddy was amusing and unpredictable.

This one..well, looked at him like she was on the verge of producing a needle from her coat sleeve and sticking him with it to put him into a sedative-induced sleep. The thought had probably crossed her mind. House momentarily wondered how she'd get him down off the roof.

"I've been busy." The answer was elusive enough. The most he'd slept in the past week had been in Stockholm, and that had been cut short over a fight over blankets that seemed ages ago. Truth was, when House tried to mentally calculate up how many hours he'd slept since then, he hit a brick wall that typically was punctuated with mental thoughts like 'I slept for 3 hours on Friday. Or was that Thursday? Come to think of it, the 3 hours was Wednesday, but I napped for a while on Thursday...'

When the days bled together, it was hard to keep track. For the most part, his time was calculated by when his ducklings came and went, and occasionally by if the light in Cuddy's office was on or off. He had made an awful habit of walking past there lately, even if he didn't stop.

[betteroffdean.livejournal.com]

She drew in and released a sigh that, if its tone wasn't indication enough of what she thought of I'm Busy, produced a curl of downward steam that cleared up any confusion. She would not get him to relent to a break, not even if she offered a hundred of her couches, so arguing or demanding that he go home and sleep was a futile endeavor. So, too, was turning over a lecture about his health and the impact that this constant driving run would have on the already weak structure of his immune system. He would counter that his father's immune system was in more peril and dismiss her immediately. He might retreat into that voluminous collar of his and she would lose her chance at some candor from him.

She was no longer doing this to sate Wilson's impregnable sense of fraternal concern. She was doing this for him and, to a certain extent, for herself. She drew a thumb and forefinger to the side of her face and rubbed numbness from one of her earlobes.

"What can I do to help?"

[addxcted.livejournal.com]

House shifted slightly, adjusting his weight from one aching foot to the other (having been on both for far too long lately) and running a palm against the rough surface of the stone wall they were both situated against, albeit facing opposite directions. How do you even answer something like that?

"..when I was seven years old, my mother threw one of those horrible birthday parties where she invites everyone in your class, even if you don't like them, and there's a pinata and everything.." His expression soured at the very thought. "I didn't go. I locked myself in the restroom and pretended to be sick until everyone went home because I had a black eye. I don't remember what I had even gotten in trouble about.. probably corrected a teacher or something.. it never really mattered with my father."

Shoulders lifted dimly into a weak shrug, barely even perceptible. "When he got home that night, he broke my nose because I hadn't gone to the party after mom put all that work into it." House could still remember that evening vibrantly, and was reminded each time he looked at his reflection long enough to note the minor deviation to the left the bridge of his nose performed between the eyes.

A solid shove was given to ease himself away from the wall and into a two-stepped backpeddle. "I think everything is well beyond the point in which it can be helped." There was nothing anyone was going to be able to do until the whole situation was over with.

He still wasn't positive what had prompted him to give such a long-winded and exposing response, but he didn't plan on sticking around to suffer the fall-out of it. He definitely didn't want to see Cuddy's expression as she pieced it together and fit whatever assumptions she drew from it into the greater puzzle that was House.

Turning, he started across the graveled surface underfoot towards the door. It was late but maybe the cafeteria still had the materials to slap a Reuban together.

[betteroffdean.livejournal.com]

Whatever she had expected him to say -- No thanks, I'm fine; You've got a hospital and an infertility problem to worry about; Wouldn't want you to break a nail -- what came out of Greg House's mouth was as much a surprise as it was a heartbreak. She was not entirely sure that she was hearing him correctly and several times during the long, gravel-pitched piece she'd had to tell herself that yes, these were House's words coming out of House's mouth and there could be no faulty logic in the in-between places.

Whatever he had said, he had needed to say. There was never an arbitrary comment from him, not even when he was deflecting sincerity with humour or gore or derision. He had his thumbs very securely on the pulse of meaning.

Gravel spit out around his feet when he started to cut a path toward the door. His back was straighter than it had been when she'd first come out.

She crunched gravel to, but it was to complete a half-circle turn so that the toggle buttons on her coat were pressed against the stone slab railing. Her fingers were still stitched beneath her arms but she didn't take them out for fear that they would tremble and that House would know that it didn't all come from the cold. She tucked her chin to her chest, blew warm-cold steam into her collar.

It might have been her place to pursue him. Maybe grab his elbow with the strong points of those fingers -- Stacy would have done that because Stacy had demanded attention from everyone that she clashed with -- and turn him around on both of his good feet and make him say it again. Or say something different, just as long as she could bring a reaction out of him that would shake his apathy.

She didn't pursue or grab and there was no reaction that he could give or that she could provide that would make sense to her. She waited until she heard the squeal of the door off to the left before she drew her next breath. It was a heavy one.