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Mar. 12th, 2007 11:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mmkaternaterSilence from the diagnostics department usually meant one of two things, and those two things were universally at odds with one another: Either things were going well -- and "well" for House and his team meant "progressing under Cuddy's radar as effectively and quietly as possible" -- or they were going terribly. Neither outcome was especially cheering, even on a stunted afternoon in late February, when the first hints of Spring had begun to leak into the collective consciousness.
After her initial consult with House (which had hardly been a consult as much as it was a bargaining session), Cuddy had left much of the diagnostic process to his discretion. She kept her visits to a minimum -- both with the department head and the patient he was treating -- and kept up to date with the progress through impersonal database updates and chart perusals. And, when those proved fruitless (House was notorious for keeping most of his theories in his head and off of paper), she gleaned information from the on-call nurses. She'd learned, for instance, that House had mostly wrapped his pre-standing case and was devoting most of his quota of lab tests and Duckling hours to Don Herrot's troubling brain and lungs. Early on, there had been an incident that she'd red flagged: a catheter had been placed without the use of anesthetic, but Cameron had reported directly from House that, Shrug. Allergic reactions aren't always listed in the medical history.
Now, a week into the case and a week without so much as a word passing between dean and diagnostician, Cuddy began to feel the constriction of worry. Wilson had been mildly helpful in assisting a fraternal diagnosis: "He's just...House," the man had said, and tucked into his beet salad with a raising of block brows, "he's got to know where you stand. Wherever that is."
Knowing where she stood meant that Cuddy had to temporarily step out of herself and into a position where the vulnerable was known to lurk. Her hair was loose when she came to see him, ten-to-three on a murky afternoon that bled with the promise of later sun, and there were softer shapes making up her posture and expression. She was not dressed for work. The effect was strange: a drop of non-Cuddian colour in a Cuddian world. Her sweater was the same pulled-out collar affair that she'd worn in Stockholm, when she'd been more of herself and had rallied him to structure with a tuxedo. Her appearance was cultivated; not an accident.
She pushed inward on the glass that led to his office. Her chin and eyes were level. She cleared her lips of hesitation and made them glossier with tongue's sweep. Her voice came through clearly and without any rumble of throat to precede it:
"I need you for a couple of hours."
After her initial consult with House (which had hardly been a consult as much as it was a bargaining session), Cuddy had left much of the diagnostic process to his discretion. She kept her visits to a minimum -- both with the department head and the patient he was treating -- and kept up to date with the progress through impersonal database updates and chart perusals. And, when those proved fruitless (House was notorious for keeping most of his theories in his head and off of paper), she gleaned information from the on-call nurses. She'd learned, for instance, that House had mostly wrapped his pre-standing case and was devoting most of his quota of lab tests and Duckling hours to Don Herrot's troubling brain and lungs. Early on, there had been an incident that she'd red flagged: a catheter had been placed without the use of anesthetic, but Cameron had reported directly from House that, Shrug. Allergic reactions aren't always listed in the medical history.
Now, a week into the case and a week without so much as a word passing between dean and diagnostician, Cuddy began to feel the constriction of worry. Wilson had been mildly helpful in assisting a fraternal diagnosis: "He's just...House," the man had said, and tucked into his beet salad with a raising of block brows, "he's got to know where you stand. Wherever that is."
Knowing where she stood meant that Cuddy had to temporarily step out of herself and into a position where the vulnerable was known to lurk. Her hair was loose when she came to see him, ten-to-three on a murky afternoon that bled with the promise of later sun, and there were softer shapes making up her posture and expression. She was not dressed for work. The effect was strange: a drop of non-Cuddian colour in a Cuddian world. Her sweater was the same pulled-out collar affair that she'd worn in Stockholm, when she'd been more of herself and had rallied him to structure with a tuxedo. Her appearance was cultivated; not an accident.
She pushed inward on the glass that led to his office. Her chin and eyes were level. She cleared her lips of hesitation and made them glossier with tongue's sweep. Her voice came through clearly and without any rumble of throat to precede it:
"I need you for a couple of hours."
