(no subject)
Because I was recently reminded that I like the House/Cuddy dynamic. (I know, *gasp, shriek,* het, whatever. You still love me.)
Michigan is cold in the winter, but still she sees him running every morning. The library is open all the time, twenty-four hours, and she wakes up, takes the bus to the campus and walks across every morning at five. It's enough time to finish the notes from the day before, barely enough to prep for the lectures she has coming up, but it's her time. No one else is there, it's quiet, and when she sneaks in a cup of coffee, no one yells or tattles. Med students are all alike, really, pre-med's not much better; if they can trip her up and get her banned from the library, she knows it's less because they hate her and more that she's got a prime position, in the top five of her class.
He runs every morning, the same route, cutting across the quad out front. She sees him when she walks in to the library, scarf flying every which way, hanging on to her hat, and she sees him again forty five minutes later, running the other direction, looking down from a second-story window. She knows who he is, of course, it would be impossible not to. For all that U of M's a big school, the med students are a tight little clique that covers all of Ann Arbor and the suburbs; he's Greg House, and he's a prodigy.
It suits him, she thinks, watching him run like he's got something to prove, barrelling head-first into the wind and then fighting it again later, currents swirling around the university so that it doesn't matter which direction anyone heads, it's always uphill, always in to the snow and ice and whatever else is conspiring to break the trees and collapse the sculptures. He knows all the answers to everyone else's questions, and yet no one knows him, because they don't even know where to start. Oh, it's a military father, childhood spent in ten different countries across four different continents, and he knows how to play the piano, drinks his coffee black and strong, has eyes that mirror the cleaner parts of Lake Huron, but beyond that and his GPA, he's a bigger mystery than whatever case the diagnostic students squabble over at midnight in the union.
He's Greg House, and she's just Cuddy, sleeping four hours a night, perpetually tired, always one colder-than-normal day from getting the flu. He runs and she studies, and one morning he looks up at her window in the library and waves.
Michigan is cold in the winter, but still she sees him running every morning. The library is open all the time, twenty-four hours, and she wakes up, takes the bus to the campus and walks across every morning at five. It's enough time to finish the notes from the day before, barely enough to prep for the lectures she has coming up, but it's her time. No one else is there, it's quiet, and when she sneaks in a cup of coffee, no one yells or tattles. Med students are all alike, really, pre-med's not much better; if they can trip her up and get her banned from the library, she knows it's less because they hate her and more that she's got a prime position, in the top five of her class.
He runs every morning, the same route, cutting across the quad out front. She sees him when she walks in to the library, scarf flying every which way, hanging on to her hat, and she sees him again forty five minutes later, running the other direction, looking down from a second-story window. She knows who he is, of course, it would be impossible not to. For all that U of M's a big school, the med students are a tight little clique that covers all of Ann Arbor and the suburbs; he's Greg House, and he's a prodigy.
It suits him, she thinks, watching him run like he's got something to prove, barrelling head-first into the wind and then fighting it again later, currents swirling around the university so that it doesn't matter which direction anyone heads, it's always uphill, always in to the snow and ice and whatever else is conspiring to break the trees and collapse the sculptures. He knows all the answers to everyone else's questions, and yet no one knows him, because they don't even know where to start. Oh, it's a military father, childhood spent in ten different countries across four different continents, and he knows how to play the piano, drinks his coffee black and strong, has eyes that mirror the cleaner parts of Lake Huron, but beyond that and his GPA, he's a bigger mystery than whatever case the diagnostic students squabble over at midnight in the union.
He's Greg House, and she's just Cuddy, sleeping four hours a night, perpetually tired, always one colder-than-normal day from getting the flu. He runs and she studies, and one morning he looks up at her window in the library and waves.