(no subject)
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."
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no subject
Date: 2007-02-25 11:17 am (UTC)"..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.
no subject
Date: 2007-02-25 11:33 am (UTC)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.