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Feb. 25th, 2007 03:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mmkaternaterThere 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."
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."
