Chaos Theory: Chapter 4
Has this been the longest week EVER for anyone else? Seriously, It feels like it should have been Friday about three days ago. Ugh. But... next chapter! Which is also the next-to-last. Enjoy! And happy Friday! (Or almost-Friday, as the case may be. Just a few... more... hours....)
Violence
“Backstage to the front row?” House scoffed, not batting an eye, and she loathed him instantly for his easy nonchalance, for merely cocking his head and not backing away. “Wouldn’t that be a step down?”
“You tell me,” Wilson replied curiously-the voice familiar now. She could just see him around House’s form, was trying not to crane her neck or make it seem as though this close a confrontation (with an employee) were anything out of the ordinary.
“She had something in her eye.”
House fidgeted with annoyance, as if this should have been immediately apparent, but there was a split-second hesitation between the first and second word, everything afterwards coming out in a rush, a little too forcefully. With anyone else, the combined tone and body language would have been obvious, even without the telltale blush-but in House? Was embarrassment even possible? He reveled in causing it, certainly, had mastered the skill to an extent that it was almost surprising not to find a degree from Clown College prominently displayed on his office wall. But never once had she known his charm to falter, seen him try to cover up his actions for any reason other than….
Something smacked against her shin-not too hard, but enough to jolt her, reflexes kicking in so that her heel slammed against the desk with a loud thud. House’s cane (the bastard), and it followed that the sound she’d heard just a few seconds ago had been his voice, because the impatience behind his question seemed to say it wasn’t the first time he’d asked it. “I get it?”
Her confusion must have been evident, her response time slowed (what game was he trying to play now and why?). “I think so.”
“I can leave you two to… do whatever it was you were doing,” Wilson piped in, after a loud and long second clearing his throat. “I just need to grab-”
“Then you owe me ten more bucks.” House was backing away now, and she could finally breathe-deep, full breaths, not the quick, almost panicky gulps that flitted faster than a hummingbird’s wing-a fact that was both relieving and absurd. “I’m filling out a chart and everything.”
There should have been a comeback for this, but she couldn’t seem to summon it. As a general rule, she could handle House-knew not only just how to pitch her voice, angle her body to get what she needed out of him (in a purely professional sense), but also how he would interpret each of her words, signals, even her looks. And when it came to his… well, she hadn’t needed an interpreter or dictionary in years. It was just how they worked, the two of them-too loud, too close-a modification of the employer/employee mechanism, nothing more. But add another element-surprise, uranium-and the already precariously balanced relationship, a power struggle till the death (and how, exactly, was this different from marriage?) could easily tip the odds in his favor. It was this quick, slapdash lie that had done it. Had his voice twisted into some kind of crude joke or base insinuation, she would have been able to handle it with ease. But this… this was a piece of a whole different puzzle-the edges not matching the one she had been working on at all.
House started towards the door, nudging Wilson on his way (and waggling his eyebrows-she couldn’t see it, but she knew). “Watch out for that one-she’ll take you for everything you’ve got and then some. Five minutes with her and it’s time for my nap.”
“Clinic duty,” Cuddy called fiercely, a last-ditch attempt to have the final word.
“Same thing.”
She deflected the rakish grin he aimed in her direction by turning and walking back around her desk (farther away and something between them-always good). His eyes were still on her, but she refused to turn around, instead gazing through the window, letting the soft sunlight that snuck through the slats of the blinds streak across her in warm stripes.
Then the door clicked, he was gone. And she could feel every last muscle in her body-down to those she didn’t know she could physically control-relax.
“Eyelash?”
She bristled at the sound, had forgotten she wasn’t alone (and what Wilson was talking about, but that came back quickly). Leaving the window, Cuddy busied herself by searching the top of her desk for a pen-a task which shouldn’t have been so difficult. “Something like that.”
The silence that followed was awkward (filled too much with thoughts of House, even as she tried to get her brain to rejoice in a few minutes peace from him), and she opened her mouth to perfunctorily fill it when Wilson took a step forward. “He doesn’t think you notice him staring at your ass.”
On the scale of one to ‘things she never expected to hear from James Wilson,’ this scored about a seven. She considered asking how Wilson knew this, what he thought of the view (just to turn the tables, see the look of terror that would inevitably spread across his face), but switched tactics at the last second.
“Does he think I’m blind?”
“No….” The vowel stretched as if the next choice of words were a matter of life and death. “He thinks he’s subtle.”
“Right.” Cuddy almost snorted at the ridiculousness of the idea. House was as subtle as a flashing neon sign over the blackened window of a seedy bar-and just about as crude.
Wilson ran a hand over the back of his neck, chuckling in agreement, and suddenly they were nothing more than good friends sharing a laugh. She tried to revel in that alone, ignore the one thing that almost always brought her and Wilson together (and how that one thing still seemed to be in the room, watching unseen-like a ghost, and just as haunting).
“He didn’t take the….” Wilson had picked up the file from where House must have dropped it on his way out the door (as expected), had opened it as he neared her desk-and suddenly looked very much like a small, wounded animal. “Why were you giving him my patient? Did Mr. Crosby ask for a second opinion, because he never hinted-”
“No, I was just-” Somehow, trying to get the better of House didn’t seem like the best (or most professional) response. “-signing off on these.”
Taking the stack of folders off her desk, she thrust it in Wilson’s direction. He took them, but not without giving her a look. It wasn’t the same as that brazen, broiling stare-lacked the naked-and-rubbed-raw feeling that always accompanied it, as if every single part of her had been systematically separated, cleaned, and was undergoing intense scrutiny beneath the humming glare of fluorescent lights. But still there was something to it, and she felt suddenly like a little girl tangled up in her own fib (or jump rope). Maybe it wasn’t as easy to fool Wilson as she’d thought.
“Did you need something?”
“Just these charts. I have a meeting with a patient in ten minutes.” For Wilson, this was almost last-minute-he usually pored over his patients’ charts, sometimes for nearly an hour, before finding the gentlest way to break the news-but he still didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Cuddy nodded in order to give him some kind of response-maybe more in dismissal-and sunk into her chair. There must have been something almost desperate in the action, because Wilson frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I meant in general. And with House.” He was watching her steadily, that expression that meant he had steeled up his courage (run out of polite patience) and was going to keep questioning until he got some actual answers. This particular look was usually aimed in House’s direction, and it was strange to find herself on the receiving end.
“He’s being no more irritating today than he is any other day of the week,” Cuddy pointed out easily, because it was fact-the next was more fiction, perhaps a dash of hope, but it followed anyway. “I’ve built up a tolerance.”
“You know…. Every time I ask him if something’s going on, he makes some inappropriate comment about exactly how well he knows you….”
“Like he’d do anything different if someone asked him about your relationship.” The words came out quickly, but (she hoped) not so much so that they seemed suspicious. “It’s House.”
Wilson’s smirk was enough to transform his face completely. A half-smile, a knowing stare all it took for her to see House before her, and she had to tilt her head, narrow her eyes to watch the face shift, the image like a hologram-Wilson one second, not the next, and then back to how it should be again. She needed five seconds where her office, her peripheral vision (her thoughts) were completely void of House.
“True. But the level of detail is inspiring. Either he’s put some serious thought into this, or-”
“Don’t-” Cuddy interrupted quickly, quietly, but there was a soft power behind it that even she could feel, “-finish that sentence.”
The door opened without so much as a knock. She would take any interruption if it brought a swift end to this conversation-or at least that’s what she had thought until she saw the look on Brenda’s face. “We have a problem.”
Hope against hope…. “Tell me it isn’t House.”
“There’s no hard evidence if that’s what you mean. Yet.”
Wilson glanced down at his watch. “What could he have done in five minutes? Even House-”
The way Brenda turned towards him, it was as though Wilson had declared himself a being from another planet and asked to be taken to her leader. “You ever leave a half-starved dog alone in a chicken coop for five minutes?”
“Nooo…” Wilson replied slowly, eyeing Brenda warily, and even Cuddy had to admit that the nurse’s statement was begging for a continuation. “But point taken.”
“You’re going to be late for your meeting,” Cuddy broke in as gently as she could. Harsh, perhaps, diving so quickly from friend back to employer, but in all honestly, she could operate better without Wilson watching over her shoulder. House-once she got her claws on him-would only be forced to put on more of a show. “I’ve got this.”
Wilson nodded obediently, murmuring, “Good luck,” as he plodded from the room.
Brenda moved out of the doorway to let him pass and launched immediately into the matter at hand. “Clinic waiting room’s full of patients. No doctors.”
“What?” Wilson had been right-even for House’s evil genius this was astoundingly fast. “Five minutes ago-”
“Five minutes ago, Lee got a call about some emergency at her son’s school. House and Cooper are MIA. I’m having Security track the call. Either someone covers the clinic, or we have to close for the day.” Brenda had her hands on her hips, and there was nothing amusing about the way she tacked on, “You’re the boss.”
Cuddy rested her chin on her hand with a sigh. Why did she let anything surprise her anymore? “I’ll be right there.”
Brenda was out the door without another word, and Cuddy allowed herself a moment to breathe before smoothing her lab coat and following. Each step across the hall was heavy, building on her frustration. Grabbing a chart from the Nurses’ Station, she skimmed over it as she opened the door to the exam room, starting quickly and efficiently into clinic mode. “Hello, I’m Dr. Cuddy. What seems to be the problem, Mr.- House!”
“Doctor,” he answered back easily. He was lying on the exam table, arms folded behind his head and rose with a grin. “Graduated and everything.”
“Where’s the patient?” Clipped, quick-as it should be (so far, so good). She could do this-even after Wilson’s absurd (unfounded) interrogation. And if House tried anything even remotely suspicious, she could always stab him in the eye with a stiletto.
“We’re playing hide and seek. He’s a really good hider.” House didn’t balk at her glare or tone-chances were better every second that neither had been nearly as intimidating as she’d imagined-but at least he rolled his eyes. “Oh, relax. Treated and streeted. He’s pregnant. Well, maybe not him, but his secretary. Worrying that his wife would find out about those lunchtime meetings was keeping him up at night.”
“What happened to behaving and seeing patients?” Not much of a mystery. “And Dr. Lee and Dr. Cooper?”
She was putting everything she had into fury and poise. House simply shrugged. “Got boring. Lee’s daughter-”
“Son.”
“Wow-surprised she fell for that then.” He chuckled, kicked his feet against the table like a five-year-old before continuing. “Her son had an “accident.” And Cooper’s such an idiot he actually believed me when I told him you said he could go home. You should fire him.”
“I should fire you.”
“But you won’t.”
Maybe he had a point-but did he need to sing it like a lark, look so damn pleased with himself? Shift balance, remove shoe, beat that stupid grin off his face. Three simple steps-it should have been foolproof….
House picked up a chart from the table beside him and made a show of glancing over it, smirking. “You actually came to this hospital to be treated for-”
“Give me that.” She had never crossed an exam room so quickly, snatching the chart away from him and poring over it. Aside from her name, and tight-ass, HUGE ASS, and headache under ‘Symptoms,’ all in his familiar, untidy scrawl-it was blank. If she hadn’t been so furious with him (and it was real, this anger-she just barely had to stretch for it), it might almost have made her laugh.
“Got something to hide, Dr. Cuddy? You should want to be my next patient.” He had that look about him again-the cat that had gotten the canary, pleased as Punch (with a touch of almost-but-not-quite pure evil besides-something that was purely and peculiarly him and would never fit another face). “Eight patients today-five pregnancy diagnoses. Odds are in your favor.”
The last sentence, though still teasing, was almost gentle, and…
No, no, no- this shouldn’t be happening. She was softening towards him, needed to stay focused-needed to hate him, loathe him, want to absolutely murder him.
“House.” She placed a hand on the exam table (to steady herself, though he didn’t need to know that). “Whatever this is, it has to stop.”
“This-” he started, watching her hand, “-is an exam table. Give me a second to find the emergency brake.”
He hopped down from his post, twisting as if actually searching for the brake. God…. Infuriating was not even the tip of the iceberg. The charts and her hand slammed onto the exam table almost of their own volition, the thwack and crinkle of paper satisfying only for a second-maybe the euphoria would’ve lasted longer if she’d smacked them first against his leg.
“I meant you-thinking you can do or say whatever the hell comes into that twisted brain of yours, wreaking hav-”
A hand wrenched, too hard, at her elbow, her body pressing firmly, hotly, up against his, and if there were ever an instant for an interruption (fire, tsunami, plague of locusts, a knock on the door), this would be it, because otherwise….
Oh, damn.
Violence
“Backstage to the front row?” House scoffed, not batting an eye, and she loathed him instantly for his easy nonchalance, for merely cocking his head and not backing away. “Wouldn’t that be a step down?”
“You tell me,” Wilson replied curiously-the voice familiar now. She could just see him around House’s form, was trying not to crane her neck or make it seem as though this close a confrontation (with an employee) were anything out of the ordinary.
“She had something in her eye.”
House fidgeted with annoyance, as if this should have been immediately apparent, but there was a split-second hesitation between the first and second word, everything afterwards coming out in a rush, a little too forcefully. With anyone else, the combined tone and body language would have been obvious, even without the telltale blush-but in House? Was embarrassment even possible? He reveled in causing it, certainly, had mastered the skill to an extent that it was almost surprising not to find a degree from Clown College prominently displayed on his office wall. But never once had she known his charm to falter, seen him try to cover up his actions for any reason other than….
Something smacked against her shin-not too hard, but enough to jolt her, reflexes kicking in so that her heel slammed against the desk with a loud thud. House’s cane (the bastard), and it followed that the sound she’d heard just a few seconds ago had been his voice, because the impatience behind his question seemed to say it wasn’t the first time he’d asked it. “I get it?”
Her confusion must have been evident, her response time slowed (what game was he trying to play now and why?). “I think so.”
“I can leave you two to… do whatever it was you were doing,” Wilson piped in, after a loud and long second clearing his throat. “I just need to grab-”
“Then you owe me ten more bucks.” House was backing away now, and she could finally breathe-deep, full breaths, not the quick, almost panicky gulps that flitted faster than a hummingbird’s wing-a fact that was both relieving and absurd. “I’m filling out a chart and everything.”
There should have been a comeback for this, but she couldn’t seem to summon it. As a general rule, she could handle House-knew not only just how to pitch her voice, angle her body to get what she needed out of him (in a purely professional sense), but also how he would interpret each of her words, signals, even her looks. And when it came to his… well, she hadn’t needed an interpreter or dictionary in years. It was just how they worked, the two of them-too loud, too close-a modification of the employer/employee mechanism, nothing more. But add another element-surprise, uranium-and the already precariously balanced relationship, a power struggle till the death (and how, exactly, was this different from marriage?) could easily tip the odds in his favor. It was this quick, slapdash lie that had done it. Had his voice twisted into some kind of crude joke or base insinuation, she would have been able to handle it with ease. But this… this was a piece of a whole different puzzle-the edges not matching the one she had been working on at all.
House started towards the door, nudging Wilson on his way (and waggling his eyebrows-she couldn’t see it, but she knew). “Watch out for that one-she’ll take you for everything you’ve got and then some. Five minutes with her and it’s time for my nap.”
“Clinic duty,” Cuddy called fiercely, a last-ditch attempt to have the final word.
“Same thing.”
She deflected the rakish grin he aimed in her direction by turning and walking back around her desk (farther away and something between them-always good). His eyes were still on her, but she refused to turn around, instead gazing through the window, letting the soft sunlight that snuck through the slats of the blinds streak across her in warm stripes.
Then the door clicked, he was gone. And she could feel every last muscle in her body-down to those she didn’t know she could physically control-relax.
“Eyelash?”
She bristled at the sound, had forgotten she wasn’t alone (and what Wilson was talking about, but that came back quickly). Leaving the window, Cuddy busied herself by searching the top of her desk for a pen-a task which shouldn’t have been so difficult. “Something like that.”
The silence that followed was awkward (filled too much with thoughts of House, even as she tried to get her brain to rejoice in a few minutes peace from him), and she opened her mouth to perfunctorily fill it when Wilson took a step forward. “He doesn’t think you notice him staring at your ass.”
On the scale of one to ‘things she never expected to hear from James Wilson,’ this scored about a seven. She considered asking how Wilson knew this, what he thought of the view (just to turn the tables, see the look of terror that would inevitably spread across his face), but switched tactics at the last second.
“Does he think I’m blind?”
“No….” The vowel stretched as if the next choice of words were a matter of life and death. “He thinks he’s subtle.”
“Right.” Cuddy almost snorted at the ridiculousness of the idea. House was as subtle as a flashing neon sign over the blackened window of a seedy bar-and just about as crude.
Wilson ran a hand over the back of his neck, chuckling in agreement, and suddenly they were nothing more than good friends sharing a laugh. She tried to revel in that alone, ignore the one thing that almost always brought her and Wilson together (and how that one thing still seemed to be in the room, watching unseen-like a ghost, and just as haunting).
“He didn’t take the….” Wilson had picked up the file from where House must have dropped it on his way out the door (as expected), had opened it as he neared her desk-and suddenly looked very much like a small, wounded animal. “Why were you giving him my patient? Did Mr. Crosby ask for a second opinion, because he never hinted-”
“No, I was just-” Somehow, trying to get the better of House didn’t seem like the best (or most professional) response. “-signing off on these.”
Taking the stack of folders off her desk, she thrust it in Wilson’s direction. He took them, but not without giving her a look. It wasn’t the same as that brazen, broiling stare-lacked the naked-and-rubbed-raw feeling that always accompanied it, as if every single part of her had been systematically separated, cleaned, and was undergoing intense scrutiny beneath the humming glare of fluorescent lights. But still there was something to it, and she felt suddenly like a little girl tangled up in her own fib (or jump rope). Maybe it wasn’t as easy to fool Wilson as she’d thought.
“Did you need something?”
“Just these charts. I have a meeting with a patient in ten minutes.” For Wilson, this was almost last-minute-he usually pored over his patients’ charts, sometimes for nearly an hour, before finding the gentlest way to break the news-but he still didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Cuddy nodded in order to give him some kind of response-maybe more in dismissal-and sunk into her chair. There must have been something almost desperate in the action, because Wilson frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I meant in general. And with House.” He was watching her steadily, that expression that meant he had steeled up his courage (run out of polite patience) and was going to keep questioning until he got some actual answers. This particular look was usually aimed in House’s direction, and it was strange to find herself on the receiving end.
“He’s being no more irritating today than he is any other day of the week,” Cuddy pointed out easily, because it was fact-the next was more fiction, perhaps a dash of hope, but it followed anyway. “I’ve built up a tolerance.”
“You know…. Every time I ask him if something’s going on, he makes some inappropriate comment about exactly how well he knows you….”
“Like he’d do anything different if someone asked him about your relationship.” The words came out quickly, but (she hoped) not so much so that they seemed suspicious. “It’s House.”
Wilson’s smirk was enough to transform his face completely. A half-smile, a knowing stare all it took for her to see House before her, and she had to tilt her head, narrow her eyes to watch the face shift, the image like a hologram-Wilson one second, not the next, and then back to how it should be again. She needed five seconds where her office, her peripheral vision (her thoughts) were completely void of House.
“True. But the level of detail is inspiring. Either he’s put some serious thought into this, or-”
“Don’t-” Cuddy interrupted quickly, quietly, but there was a soft power behind it that even she could feel, “-finish that sentence.”
The door opened without so much as a knock. She would take any interruption if it brought a swift end to this conversation-or at least that’s what she had thought until she saw the look on Brenda’s face. “We have a problem.”
Hope against hope…. “Tell me it isn’t House.”
“There’s no hard evidence if that’s what you mean. Yet.”
Wilson glanced down at his watch. “What could he have done in five minutes? Even House-”
The way Brenda turned towards him, it was as though Wilson had declared himself a being from another planet and asked to be taken to her leader. “You ever leave a half-starved dog alone in a chicken coop for five minutes?”
“Nooo…” Wilson replied slowly, eyeing Brenda warily, and even Cuddy had to admit that the nurse’s statement was begging for a continuation. “But point taken.”
“You’re going to be late for your meeting,” Cuddy broke in as gently as she could. Harsh, perhaps, diving so quickly from friend back to employer, but in all honestly, she could operate better without Wilson watching over her shoulder. House-once she got her claws on him-would only be forced to put on more of a show. “I’ve got this.”
Wilson nodded obediently, murmuring, “Good luck,” as he plodded from the room.
Brenda moved out of the doorway to let him pass and launched immediately into the matter at hand. “Clinic waiting room’s full of patients. No doctors.”
“What?” Wilson had been right-even for House’s evil genius this was astoundingly fast. “Five minutes ago-”
“Five minutes ago, Lee got a call about some emergency at her son’s school. House and Cooper are MIA. I’m having Security track the call. Either someone covers the clinic, or we have to close for the day.” Brenda had her hands on her hips, and there was nothing amusing about the way she tacked on, “You’re the boss.”
Cuddy rested her chin on her hand with a sigh. Why did she let anything surprise her anymore? “I’ll be right there.”
Brenda was out the door without another word, and Cuddy allowed herself a moment to breathe before smoothing her lab coat and following. Each step across the hall was heavy, building on her frustration. Grabbing a chart from the Nurses’ Station, she skimmed over it as she opened the door to the exam room, starting quickly and efficiently into clinic mode. “Hello, I’m Dr. Cuddy. What seems to be the problem, Mr.- House!”
“Doctor,” he answered back easily. He was lying on the exam table, arms folded behind his head and rose with a grin. “Graduated and everything.”
“Where’s the patient?” Clipped, quick-as it should be (so far, so good). She could do this-even after Wilson’s absurd (unfounded) interrogation. And if House tried anything even remotely suspicious, she could always stab him in the eye with a stiletto.
“We’re playing hide and seek. He’s a really good hider.” House didn’t balk at her glare or tone-chances were better every second that neither had been nearly as intimidating as she’d imagined-but at least he rolled his eyes. “Oh, relax. Treated and streeted. He’s pregnant. Well, maybe not him, but his secretary. Worrying that his wife would find out about those lunchtime meetings was keeping him up at night.”
“What happened to behaving and seeing patients?” Not much of a mystery. “And Dr. Lee and Dr. Cooper?”
She was putting everything she had into fury and poise. House simply shrugged. “Got boring. Lee’s daughter-”
“Son.”
“Wow-surprised she fell for that then.” He chuckled, kicked his feet against the table like a five-year-old before continuing. “Her son had an “accident.” And Cooper’s such an idiot he actually believed me when I told him you said he could go home. You should fire him.”
“I should fire you.”
“But you won’t.”
Maybe he had a point-but did he need to sing it like a lark, look so damn pleased with himself? Shift balance, remove shoe, beat that stupid grin off his face. Three simple steps-it should have been foolproof….
House picked up a chart from the table beside him and made a show of glancing over it, smirking. “You actually came to this hospital to be treated for-”
“Give me that.” She had never crossed an exam room so quickly, snatching the chart away from him and poring over it. Aside from her name, and tight-ass, HUGE ASS, and headache under ‘Symptoms,’ all in his familiar, untidy scrawl-it was blank. If she hadn’t been so furious with him (and it was real, this anger-she just barely had to stretch for it), it might almost have made her laugh.
“Got something to hide, Dr. Cuddy? You should want to be my next patient.” He had that look about him again-the cat that had gotten the canary, pleased as Punch (with a touch of almost-but-not-quite pure evil besides-something that was purely and peculiarly him and would never fit another face). “Eight patients today-five pregnancy diagnoses. Odds are in your favor.”
The last sentence, though still teasing, was almost gentle, and…
No, no, no- this shouldn’t be happening. She was softening towards him, needed to stay focused-needed to hate him, loathe him, want to absolutely murder him.
“House.” She placed a hand on the exam table (to steady herself, though he didn’t need to know that). “Whatever this is, it has to stop.”
“This-” he started, watching her hand, “-is an exam table. Give me a second to find the emergency brake.”
He hopped down from his post, twisting as if actually searching for the brake. God…. Infuriating was not even the tip of the iceberg. The charts and her hand slammed onto the exam table almost of their own volition, the thwack and crinkle of paper satisfying only for a second-maybe the euphoria would’ve lasted longer if she’d smacked them first against his leg.
“I meant you-thinking you can do or say whatever the hell comes into that twisted brain of yours, wreaking hav-”
A hand wrenched, too hard, at her elbow, her body pressing firmly, hotly, up against his, and if there were ever an instant for an interruption (fire, tsunami, plague of locusts, a knock on the door), this would be it, because otherwise….
Oh, damn.