Something That We Do, 2/4
Title: Something That We Do, 2/4
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Warnings: possible spoilers for 8.14 “Love is Blind”; angst; references to/implications of gun violence, child abuse, adultery, substance abuse; dysfunctional family dynamics.
Summary: Other than the above, it’s actually kind of fluffy. ;) This is a sharkverse story that introduces House to his biological father. Set post-season 8.
Comments welcome.
“This isn’t the big thing I wanted to buy.” Miss July was sitting on the kitchen counter next to House’s toolbox, cheerfully swinging her legs. “If the garbage disposal hadn’t busted I’d be having you put in a dishwasher, instead. I hate my ugly microwave -- the buttons are round which makes me irrationally angry because it fails my symmetry test -- but it’s still going strong even after my brother Brian measured the speed of light with it. Why do only the things we dislike, last?”
“Truly, one of the great questions of the ages,” House grunted unsympathetically from under the sink. “Appliances, like annoying relatives, thrive on hatred.”
“Wow, that explains why my grandmother outlived the cat and our washing machine. You really are useful.”
“And what a lesson that is; put your grandmother in the washing machine while you still have a chance.” The really odd thing, House reflected, was that this was not the oddest thing he’d ever said when talking to her.
She dropped gracefully to the floor to squat beside him. Her face popped into view. “You know what I don’t get?”
House waited.
She didn’t disappoint. “Why doesn’t C3PO ever break? I presume he has batteries - they never run down. I presume he has an operating system - it never crashes. He’s been dropped, shot, compressed, he’s been run over, he’s had to navigate planets even a land rover couldn’t, he’s been rebuilt like five times, but he never freaking breaks. It’s extremely unrealistic.”
House squinted and tightened his grip on the wrench. “Yes, because everything else in those movies is so true to life.”
She gave him one of her most merrily evasive shrugs. “What was your fight with Doctor Cuddy about?”
“I didn’t have a fight with Cuddy.”
“Okay, what was your fight with Doctor Wilson about? Hey, you show up on my doorstep on a Saturday, I think I have a right to ask the question.”
“You’ve been griping about this disposal for weeks. I can’t be a conscientious landlord? A boss looking out for his employee?”
“You make me leave the premises when you come over every other Thursday to play poker. You still have all your nudey magazines delivered here and make me bring them in to you at work. You changed the locks and wouldn’t give me a new key until I helped you rig Taub’s car. We don’t have an orthodox landlord-tenant relationship. And the boss-employee thing … way, no. Besides, it ought to go without saying that I can install my own new garbage disposal.”
House decided to go without saying that she could probably install a disposal that ran on werewolf blood, blocked satellite surveillance, and dispensed home microbrew while broadcasting the SciFi channel.
“So what did Josh say to you?” she asked.
House angled his neck around the elbow of the pipe, so he could look directly at her without banging his head again. “He told you?”
“We talk. The guy literally took a bullet for me, so I gave him my personal number. He called me to tell me that you went in to see him. Which was good. We’ve all been worried about you.”
“Me?" House was bewildered. He spent a third of his life standing at the edge of a field, wondering when the circus had pulled into town. Case in point, Shaeffer was the one looking at a life with a colostomy bag, and House's team was worried about him.
"You. Go with it. What did he say?"
“He was under when I got there. He woke up and said it wasn’t my fault. He also said it wasn’t your fault either, it was nobody’s fault.“
“That’s bullshit. I mean, it’s obviously his fault, for being dumb enough to burglarize a patient's house just to impress a girl. Also my fault that we burglarized the patient’s house without checking to see whether it was occupied by the patient's steroid-crazed asshole friend, first. Mostly I think was the fault of whatever idiot sold a gun to a steroidal-crazed asshole, but I think they’d revoke Shaeffer's Texas citizenship if he said that out loud."
"Do his parents agree with that, or is it just you pulling a theory out of your ass again?" House demanded.
"It didn't come up. They're nice. I have had the gorillas in the mist education from working in your department for this long so I feel like an anthropologist with something to share, but I think they'll probably be better off not knowing. So, who are you hiding from?”
Anything, House decided, to change the subject. “My parents.”
“Parents? Plural?” She rocked back and considered this. “Did your father fake his death and go into hiding? Did some foreign power try to assassinate him because of something he saw when he was in the military? Was the CIA involved?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what happened.” His phone began to ring as he wriggled out from under the sink. He used the counter and Miss July’s shoulder to pull himself up.
The text message said precisely what he thought it would. The threats were a little more colorful than he’d been expecting, but Cuddy was nothing if not creative.
“Where are you going?” Miss July watched him replace the toolbox in the cabinet.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Thomas Bell was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a literalist. This wasn’t his fault. His father and grandfathers had been storytellers in the great oral tradition, his mother had been a teacher of literature, and his first source for the answers to all of life’s largest questions had come in the form of Bible stories, didactic myths and legends. He was destined to look for the parable, the analogy, the metaphor, the poetry, the moral, behind every occurrence. No fundamentalist, he; he knew, right down to his Scottish bones, that a tale doesn’t have to be factual to be the truth, any more than a character has to be good in order to be heroic.
At the moment, he was reconsidering Paul’s counsel to the Corinthians, it is better to marry than to burn, in a new light. While usually interpreted as a reference to purity of purpose and thought, that scripture might just be an accurate comparison. Being married was, literally, preferable to being set on fire. God, in His wisdom, thought this was something that His followers might need reminding of.
“I told you, we should have called,” he whispered hoarsely.
Blythe disagreed. “I think we both know what would have happened if we had.”
“Yes: exactly what did happen, but without all this horrible awkwardness.”
If Blythe had an answer for this - and she most likely did - she was deterred from voicing it because their hostess, dear woman, returned to the room with a wary expression on her face. Thomas couldn’t imagine how Blythe was oblivious to her daughter in law's distrust. A person only had to watch the way the woman had positioned herself, instinctively and easily, to a place between her husband and the unexpected visitors, her steel-blue eyes missing nothing, to know how fiercely protective she was.
Lisa Cuddy was exactly as Blythe had described her: lovely, intelligent, strong, confident, good-humored.
Also, and Blythe had left this part out of her account, a bit scary.
“I’m sorry,” she said graciously, returning to her seat on the sofa. “I just spoke with Hou … - Greg. One of his employees, is also his tenant - she’s subletting his old apartment. There was a plumbing emergency and he had to go take care of it.”
“Via the back door of your kitchen,” Blythe smiled tolerantly at the pathetic excuse for a cover story. “In the middle of a conversation.”
“Now, technically, Love, it was the very start of a conversation,” Thomas corrected pleasantly. “We’d been here less than a minute when the boy went looking for a cup of tea for me and ducked out.”
“He’s on his way back, now. You’ll have to excuse us, it’s been a very stressful couple of weeks,” Lisa began.
“I’m sure it has been difficult,” Blythe said primly. “With one of your doctors being shot in the course of his work. Again. You’ve had several opportunities to get accustomed to gunplay directed at Greg in your hospital, of course, but when it happens to someone else’s spouse - or child -- it’s no doubt quite upsetting. Do you believe Doctor Shaeffer’s family will sue for negligence?”
The younger woman pressed her lips together. “The incident occurred in a patient’s home, not the hospital,”
“Yes, I’m aware. I began reading the Princeton police blotter regularly the first time someone shot Greg.” Blythe deepened the lines of her brow. “Or perhaps it was when that armed man took him hostage.”
“- so, there is no question of liability on the hospital’s part.” Lisa’s stiff smile didn’t break.
“Only on Greg’s,” Blythe returned, “as the unfortunate young man was under his command when he was wounded. So convenient for you.”
Lisa’s face tightened so quickly her eyes seemed to bulge. “Josh Shaeffer is expected to make a full recovery; so kind of you to ask.”
“That’s a blessing,” Blythe opined evenly. “You know, it was a great disappointment to John when Greg didn’t pursue a career in the military but I was so relieved that I’d never have to worry for his safety. And yet here we are. Greg, with his very civilian career, has been disabled, and put in physical peril as often as some hardened veterans. Life takes such funny turns, sometimes. Don’t you think so, Thomas? Thomas, what are you thinking?”
Thomas fixed his beloved with a walleyed stare. “I was just thinking that the good apostle didn’t mention how much better. Or married to whom.”
Three: Not someplace that we're in.
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Warnings: possible spoilers for 8.14 “Love is Blind”; angst; references to/implications of gun violence, child abuse, adultery, substance abuse; dysfunctional family dynamics.
Summary: Other than the above, it’s actually kind of fluffy. ;) This is a sharkverse story that introduces House to his biological father. Set post-season 8.
Comments welcome.
“This isn’t the big thing I wanted to buy.” Miss July was sitting on the kitchen counter next to House’s toolbox, cheerfully swinging her legs. “If the garbage disposal hadn’t busted I’d be having you put in a dishwasher, instead. I hate my ugly microwave -- the buttons are round which makes me irrationally angry because it fails my symmetry test -- but it’s still going strong even after my brother Brian measured the speed of light with it. Why do only the things we dislike, last?”
“Truly, one of the great questions of the ages,” House grunted unsympathetically from under the sink. “Appliances, like annoying relatives, thrive on hatred.”
“Wow, that explains why my grandmother outlived the cat and our washing machine. You really are useful.”
“And what a lesson that is; put your grandmother in the washing machine while you still have a chance.” The really odd thing, House reflected, was that this was not the oddest thing he’d ever said when talking to her.
She dropped gracefully to the floor to squat beside him. Her face popped into view. “You know what I don’t get?”
House waited.
She didn’t disappoint. “Why doesn’t C3PO ever break? I presume he has batteries - they never run down. I presume he has an operating system - it never crashes. He’s been dropped, shot, compressed, he’s been run over, he’s had to navigate planets even a land rover couldn’t, he’s been rebuilt like five times, but he never freaking breaks. It’s extremely unrealistic.”
House squinted and tightened his grip on the wrench. “Yes, because everything else in those movies is so true to life.”
She gave him one of her most merrily evasive shrugs. “What was your fight with Doctor Cuddy about?”
“I didn’t have a fight with Cuddy.”
“Okay, what was your fight with Doctor Wilson about? Hey, you show up on my doorstep on a Saturday, I think I have a right to ask the question.”
“You’ve been griping about this disposal for weeks. I can’t be a conscientious landlord? A boss looking out for his employee?”
“You make me leave the premises when you come over every other Thursday to play poker. You still have all your nudey magazines delivered here and make me bring them in to you at work. You changed the locks and wouldn’t give me a new key until I helped you rig Taub’s car. We don’t have an orthodox landlord-tenant relationship. And the boss-employee thing … way, no. Besides, it ought to go without saying that I can install my own new garbage disposal.”
House decided to go without saying that she could probably install a disposal that ran on werewolf blood, blocked satellite surveillance, and dispensed home microbrew while broadcasting the SciFi channel.
“So what did Josh say to you?” she asked.
House angled his neck around the elbow of the pipe, so he could look directly at her without banging his head again. “He told you?”
“We talk. The guy literally took a bullet for me, so I gave him my personal number. He called me to tell me that you went in to see him. Which was good. We’ve all been worried about you.”
“Me?" House was bewildered. He spent a third of his life standing at the edge of a field, wondering when the circus had pulled into town. Case in point, Shaeffer was the one looking at a life with a colostomy bag, and House's team was worried about him.
"You. Go with it. What did he say?"
“He was under when I got there. He woke up and said it wasn’t my fault. He also said it wasn’t your fault either, it was nobody’s fault.“
“That’s bullshit. I mean, it’s obviously his fault, for being dumb enough to burglarize a patient's house just to impress a girl. Also my fault that we burglarized the patient’s house without checking to see whether it was occupied by the patient's steroid-crazed asshole friend, first. Mostly I think was the fault of whatever idiot sold a gun to a steroidal-crazed asshole, but I think they’d revoke Shaeffer's Texas citizenship if he said that out loud."
"Do his parents agree with that, or is it just you pulling a theory out of your ass again?" House demanded.
"It didn't come up. They're nice. I have had the gorillas in the mist education from working in your department for this long so I feel like an anthropologist with something to share, but I think they'll probably be better off not knowing. So, who are you hiding from?”
Anything, House decided, to change the subject. “My parents.”
“Parents? Plural?” She rocked back and considered this. “Did your father fake his death and go into hiding? Did some foreign power try to assassinate him because of something he saw when he was in the military? Was the CIA involved?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what happened.” His phone began to ring as he wriggled out from under the sink. He used the counter and Miss July’s shoulder to pull himself up.
The text message said precisely what he thought it would. The threats were a little more colorful than he’d been expecting, but Cuddy was nothing if not creative.
“Where are you going?” Miss July watched him replace the toolbox in the cabinet.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Thomas Bell was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a literalist. This wasn’t his fault. His father and grandfathers had been storytellers in the great oral tradition, his mother had been a teacher of literature, and his first source for the answers to all of life’s largest questions had come in the form of Bible stories, didactic myths and legends. He was destined to look for the parable, the analogy, the metaphor, the poetry, the moral, behind every occurrence. No fundamentalist, he; he knew, right down to his Scottish bones, that a tale doesn’t have to be factual to be the truth, any more than a character has to be good in order to be heroic.
At the moment, he was reconsidering Paul’s counsel to the Corinthians, it is better to marry than to burn, in a new light. While usually interpreted as a reference to purity of purpose and thought, that scripture might just be an accurate comparison. Being married was, literally, preferable to being set on fire. God, in His wisdom, thought this was something that His followers might need reminding of.
“I told you, we should have called,” he whispered hoarsely.
Blythe disagreed. “I think we both know what would have happened if we had.”
“Yes: exactly what did happen, but without all this horrible awkwardness.”
If Blythe had an answer for this - and she most likely did - she was deterred from voicing it because their hostess, dear woman, returned to the room with a wary expression on her face. Thomas couldn’t imagine how Blythe was oblivious to her daughter in law's distrust. A person only had to watch the way the woman had positioned herself, instinctively and easily, to a place between her husband and the unexpected visitors, her steel-blue eyes missing nothing, to know how fiercely protective she was.
Lisa Cuddy was exactly as Blythe had described her: lovely, intelligent, strong, confident, good-humored.
Also, and Blythe had left this part out of her account, a bit scary.
“I’m sorry,” she said graciously, returning to her seat on the sofa. “I just spoke with Hou … - Greg. One of his employees, is also his tenant - she’s subletting his old apartment. There was a plumbing emergency and he had to go take care of it.”
“Via the back door of your kitchen,” Blythe smiled tolerantly at the pathetic excuse for a cover story. “In the middle of a conversation.”
“Now, technically, Love, it was the very start of a conversation,” Thomas corrected pleasantly. “We’d been here less than a minute when the boy went looking for a cup of tea for me and ducked out.”
“He’s on his way back, now. You’ll have to excuse us, it’s been a very stressful couple of weeks,” Lisa began.
“I’m sure it has been difficult,” Blythe said primly. “With one of your doctors being shot in the course of his work. Again. You’ve had several opportunities to get accustomed to gunplay directed at Greg in your hospital, of course, but when it happens to someone else’s spouse - or child -- it’s no doubt quite upsetting. Do you believe Doctor Shaeffer’s family will sue for negligence?”
The younger woman pressed her lips together. “The incident occurred in a patient’s home, not the hospital,”
“Yes, I’m aware. I began reading the Princeton police blotter regularly the first time someone shot Greg.” Blythe deepened the lines of her brow. “Or perhaps it was when that armed man took him hostage.”
“- so, there is no question of liability on the hospital’s part.” Lisa’s stiff smile didn’t break.
“Only on Greg’s,” Blythe returned, “as the unfortunate young man was under his command when he was wounded. So convenient for you.”
Lisa’s face tightened so quickly her eyes seemed to bulge. “Josh Shaeffer is expected to make a full recovery; so kind of you to ask.”
“That’s a blessing,” Blythe opined evenly. “You know, it was a great disappointment to John when Greg didn’t pursue a career in the military but I was so relieved that I’d never have to worry for his safety. And yet here we are. Greg, with his very civilian career, has been disabled, and put in physical peril as often as some hardened veterans. Life takes such funny turns, sometimes. Don’t you think so, Thomas? Thomas, what are you thinking?”
Thomas fixed his beloved with a walleyed stare. “I was just thinking that the good apostle didn’t mention how much better. Or married to whom.”
Three: Not someplace that we're in.