Paper Faces on Parade (7/14)
Title: Paper Faces on Parade
Author: vampmissedith
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: some canon House/Cuddy and canon Wilson/Sam, but eventual House/Wilson slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own House.
Summary: As House and Wilson try to balance their strained friendship and life with their girlfriends, House treats a neo-Nazi he can't trust.
Thanks to dissonata for all of his help!
Previous Chapter
Chapter Seven
Don’t forget you have a meeting with a donor in your office at nine am.
xx, Lisa
He scoffed and jerked the Post-It note off of the mirror. “X’s are hugs, not kisses,” he muttered to Rachel who was sitting on the toilet seat, staring blearily at the wall in front of her. Her hair was still damp and she smelled of the shampoo she’d dumped into the water and splashed all over the walls and floor. It was a flowery scent; something that was supposed to resemble roses but House couldn’t smell the resemblance. At least Wilson’s shampoo had actually smelled like watermelons.
“X is letter,” Rachel corrected, small legs swinging leisurely.
House sighed and looked over at Rachel, who was now looking at him as haughtily as a toddler could. “Hop off the toilet; I’m going to show you something,” he told her.
She did as she was told and he marvelled at that fact; he would have to mark it on his calendar. She didn’t even whine. He gestured for her to walk over to him and she did. He showed her the Post-It, pointing at the X’s scrawled hastily by Cuddy’s name. “Sometimes people sign letters with X’s and O’s. Most people think X’s are kisses, but they’re not.”
“X is letter,” Rachel repeated firmly, blinking at him.
“Yes, I know,” he replied shortly. “But when they sign X’s and O’s they’re supposed to . . . represent kisses and hugs. She thinks these are kisses.”
Rachel didn’t do anything to show she’d understood, but she didn’t act like she was confused, either, so he just turned towards the make-up drawer. “People assume X’s are kisses because people think kisses are more intimate and the letter X has a bit of a reputation for . . . representing intimacy,” he continued, uncaring if Rachel understood or even wanted to know. He fished around in the make-up drawer until he pulled out a thin tube of mahogany-coloured lipstick. He uncapped it and slowly slid the long stick upwards, grinning at it. He had yet to see this colour on her; it must be new. “Apparently these people have yet to experience a really good hug.”
Rachel shut the make-up drawer loudly.
He pressed the Post-It against the sink and began to write sloppily. “When you purse your lips to kiss someone, your mouth looks like a circle,” he explained further, scoffing at the way the lipstick smudged and looked against the yellow paper.
He lifted it and examined what he’d scrawled. X’s are hugs.
He stuck it to the mirror. “When you hug someone, you arms cross against the back of the person so it resembles an X.”
And Rachel hugged him.
He glanced down in shock, watching as she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and buried her face into his thigh. Without meaning to, he scowled and felt his face scrunch up as if he’d smelled something rotten, and before she could look up and see his expression of disgust, he put his hands on her small shoulders and pushed her away, unnerved at the unpleasant churning in his stomach. A child hugging him--especially one he was caring for--should not have elicited nausea, and yet it had.
Although he had tried to act nonchalant as he pushed her away, he must not have been able to hide his face from her or maybe she clued in on his rigid body language, because her chin wobbled. “Hoss, I just hugging,” she warbled.
“I don’t like people touching me,” he muttered as he rubbed his eyebrow, staring at the mirror--at the Post-It note blocking his view of his forehead. His scruff was far more noticeable now, although it wasn’t quite to his normal standard--or, rather, what his standard used to be before he started dating Cuddy. It looked like perhaps he’d trimmed his five o’ clock shadow to look respectable for a date; not shaved entirely.
Rachel went over to the toilet and started banging the lid repeatedly, and he grabbed his razor and shaving cream, clenching his teeth against the loud racket.
It wasn’t until he looked at the mirror the second time with a can of shaving cream in one hand that it struck him--he and Cuddy could work. For the first time since they’d gotten together, he’d realized that they might not be a complete and total disaster. It wasn’t that his thoughts were consumed with them failing; he just tried not to think of the future. With Stacy he’d assumed they would last and he’d been wrong; since then, he tried not to focus on relationships except in the present sense. Thinking of what was to come felt like setting himself up for disappointment, except for perhaps with Wilson. He often thought about him and Wilson in terms of the rest of his life; as a constant. He hadn’t yet thought of Cuddy in that way, but here he was, standing in front of a mirror in a Navy-blue suit with the collar undone and a can of shaving cream in one hand while Rachel threw a tantrum and he determinedly ignored it, knowing that if he played into her games then it would only enable that behaviour.
Theoretically, five years from now he could be barbecuing in their backyard while Rachel played in a paddling pool; with or without the His apron draped over his torso. After all, half a year ago he would have thought it impossible he’d be shaving his beard in order to get ready to talk to a donor while Rachel shrieked beside him; he would have never assumed he and Cuddy would have discussed alternating cooking meals and the issue with her using their relationship to make him take boring cases.
He should have felt elated; instead he felt nauseous, like realizing a second too late he’d taken that turn far too sharp and he was going to crash into the asphalt, road scraping through his clothes and dragging along his bloody skin.
Forever. With Cuddy and Rachel. Coming home, every day, to Cuddy, watching Rachel grow; catching Rachel smoking weed in her room; catching her topless on the couch with her boyfriend (or girlfriend). Unlike with Wilson, the reassurance that he and Cuddy could make this work--that they could last--did not fill him with confidence or help him relax with just knowing. Quite the opposite, actually.
Fear of commitment, he heard Wilson, Cuddy, and Nolan all say. He’d reply with the fact he believed in monogamy and he didn’t want to be alone anymore; that he hadn’t feared commitment with Stacy at all. Each of them replied in turn about how she’d hurt him; that he was responding to the years-old sting of previous rejection.
He stared at his scruffy jaw, then placed the can of shaving cream on the sink and stepped away from the mirror. Rachel banged the seat and he swallowed the dry lump in his throat. “I look better unshaven,” he justified as he grabbed Rachel’s hand and led her out of the bathroom.
* * *
When it came down to it, the decision was relatively easy. The steel grey and blue striped tie Cuddy had laid out for him alongside the tux, which he assumed she’d bought for him, or the deep burgundy that shone almost cherry-red when the light hit it; the tie Wilson bought him. It was easy because the red tie stood out and didn’t wash his face of colour; it actually looked better on him. The striped tie looked dull.
He was pacing the length of the living room while Rachel chewed on her slice of orange for breakfast. Cuddy made some oatmeal and left it in the fridge for House, but he wasn’t a fan of maple-flavoured oatmeal drenched in soy milk, so he was planning on stopping at McDonald’s. Well, if the nanny ever decided to grace him with her presence. It was seven-fifty-five and the nanny hadn’t showed yet, not that he’d expected her to although he’d been hoping since Wilson had texted him awhile ago to tell him that he’d had an early morning and wanted to know if he could pick House up and take him to work.
House only agreed because it was a free ride and because he knew that Wilson only had an early morning because he and Sam were deteriorating; she’d probably decided to drive herself to work.
There were a few quick knocks on Cuddy’s door and House almost smiled, but of course he didn’t. “You don’t have to knock!” he called and the door pushed open to reveal Wilson. “I never do,” he added when Wilson shook his head and shut the door.
“And we should all aspire to be as civilized as you,” Wilson muttered and walked into the living room, clapping his hands together and letting out a breath. “Ready to . . .” His eyes fell onto House for the first time and Wilson’s expression changed into something softly appreciative like every other time House had bothered to dress nicely. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked him over. “You look nice,” he complimented.
“I have to talk with a donor,” he explained. “I wore your tie.”
“I noticed. It . . . looks good.” Wilson looked at his own clothes; neatly pressed khakis, shiny shoes, pristine white shirt and a god-awful pale yellow tie. He looked back at House and rocked on his heels. “I would’ve been here sooner but I got stuck at one of the lights.”
“Damn right you better apologize. I’m such a stickler for punctuality.”
“You always were an early bird,” Wilson conceded sarcastically, a small curve of a smile on his face. House rolled his eyes and then glanced at Rachel to make sure she wasn’t sticking something toxic into her mouth. She waved at Wilson, then turned back to the television.
House checked his watch and sighed. “The donor wants to talk to me at nine sharp.”
“We’d better leave by eight, then. I’m not sure you’ll make it on time even if we do; the traffic was a bit . . .” He shrugged vaguely and then looked around the living room as if he’d never been there before and wanted to memorize it, despite the fact House knew Wilson had visited Cuddy several times.
“Not my fault she’s throwing a hissy fit. If Cuddy wanted her kid to learn Spanish she’d buy bilingual DVDs.” Wilson furrowed his brows in confusion at House, and it took him a moment to realize he’d never actually explained the situation with the nanny to Wilson, which caught him off-guard because that was something he would’ve called him up to joke about at three in the morning a few months ago. “Cuddy gets annoyed when Rachel spouts off in Spanish. I told the nanny to knock it off.”
“The last time I picked you up?” Wilson recalled.
“Yeah.”
“Do you even know the nanny’s name?”
House scoffed. “I don’t know my patients’ names half the time. Why would I give a damn?”
Wilson’s smile was pinched, but there. He glanced at the floor briefly, then back at the tie he’d secured around his neck. “It really does look nice, House,” he complimented again, gesturing at it with his chin, his hands still in his pockets, almost nervously. House barely nodded. Wilson rocked on his heels a little. “It would look better if it wasn’t crooked, though.”
“Hey, you’re lucky I even know how to tie the damn thing.”
Wilson tilted his chin down so it rested against his chest, and then stared at House through lowered lids. After a small second, he walked forward and grabbed House’s tie, loosening it and straightening it, eyes fixed on the half-undone knot. It was not the first time Wilson had fixed his tie; it was, however, the first time Wilson had fixed his tie and stood this close; glanced up at him briefly through lowered lids and a boyish, innocent smile on his face.
House narrowed his eyes.
“Wilsa!” Rachel shouted and they both turned to face her, Wilson fingers still curled around the tie and the scent of watermelon shampoo almost overwhelming. She’d hopped off of the couch and was pointing dramatically at Wilson, her eyes wide. “He not like touching!”
House and Wilson looked back at each other and Wilson raised his eyebrows inquisitively before quickly rearranging the tie and stepping back. House scratched his brow with his thumb and Wilson just pinched his lips shut, trying to prevent a chuckle but failing when House tried to repress a chuckle too and ended up half-scoffing.
“My apologies,” Wilson finally said with a smile, bowing his head slightly in Rachel’s direction.
House wondered if Wilson thought it strange Rachel knew his name; then again, Wilson had visited Cuddy quite a bit when she’d first adopted, and House did talk about him often, so maybe it wasn’t all that surprising. House hadn’t realized quite how much he did talk about his friend until he noticed Rachel recognized the name, though.
He looked at his watch--it was seven-fifty-nine. He met Wilson’s eyes for a second and Wilson offered him a small, sympathetic shrug.
“You and Sam get into a fight last night?” House asked.
“No,” Wilson answered, staring at him in confusion. “Why would you ask that?”
“You offered to give me a ride to work, which means Sam drove to work and you didn’t want to be alone. You only not want to be alone on your way to work when you feel lonely, and you’d only feel lonely if you wanted someone with you--and since Sam isn’t, I can guess it wasn’t your choice. If you were still angry you wouldn’t have picked me up--you’d be at work already. You speed when you’re angry and you don’t like to be around me when you’re in a bad mood, which means you got over it last night.”
“We didn’t fight. Sam and I are just fine.”
“You fought.”
“No, House. We really didn’t.” He looked around the living room again and rocked on his heels. “Well, last night I was in the mood to--” He glanced at Rachel, then cleared his throat. “But, well. It was getting late; Sam wanted to get ready for bed . . .” He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Sam is Wilson boyfriend?” Rachel asked innocently.
“Sam’s a girl,” Wilson told her patiently with a small smile.
“Tch, only by technicality. Everyone knows you’re the girl in the relationship,” House teased.
Rachel lowered her head and gave Wilson that haughty expression she’d given House earlier. “Sam a boy name.”
“It’s short for Samantha. It’s . . . a nickname. She’s my girlfriend.”
“Mom boyfriend gone, so Hoss baby-sit,” Rachel explained, and House felt his chest tighten. He looked at the floor but he could feel Wilson’s eyes on him.
Before Wilson could say anything, the door opened and the nanny walked in. She didn’t even glance at House or acknowledge the fact Wilson was there; instead, she brushed on by and Rachel ran towards her. They hugged and greeted each other, and House limped out of the door, cane ticking against the porch and down the walk. He was inside the Volvo before Wilson was halfway down the sidewalk.
Wilson got into the driver’s seat and took his time putting on his seatbelt and rearranging the rear-view mirror. House wasn’t a moron; Wilson was trying to give House time to open up about what had just happened; how he felt about Rachel bringing up Lucas. House resolutely stared out of the window and into the passenger mirror.
The Volvo thrummed into life.
“You didn’t shave,” Wilson aired when the car pulled away from the curb.
“I look better unshaven.”
There was a beat of silence in which House was sure Wilson smirked, but he would never be sure seeing as he was staring out of the window. Had he been in Wilson’s situation, though, he would’ve smirked. “You were right.”
“And you were wrong,” House countered, staring at the way the passenger mirror framed his face. “About what?”
“I don’t like you dating Cuddy,” Wilson admitted quietly.
House finally turned and looked at Wilson, who stared out of the windshield as if he were alone. Wilson’s lips were pressed closed tightly and his jaw tensed. All House did was smile and then look out of the window again.
* * *
Traffic was horrible. Due to a small collision in which nobody was hurt, except for maybe a bruised jaw from the right hook one man gave another, four blocks from the hospital they’d been totally gridlocked. It hadn’t helped that the nanny had decided to show up at the very last minute, or the fact that Cuddy and the donor had scheduled the meeting at precisely nine am; as soon as his workday began. Wilson tried his hardest to get there as quickly as possible; he even sped.
That was why House limped his way into the lobby at nine-fifteen and why Wilson had to intercept Cuddy on her way to yell at House for being late. All that interception accomplished, from the looks of it, was Cuddy raising her voice to Wilson and gesturing angrily at his face and Wilson continually preventing her from rushing past and yelling at House.
The elevator had been full of people and they needed to stop on every floor on the way to his which he knew should’ve annoyed him but really he didn’t care. In fact, he’d hoped the donor had given up and went home; he didn’t need any extra money and he didn’t want to talk to some pompous ass about whether or not he was deserving of his job. House knew he was a genius and that he was great at diagnosing people; he didn’t need a signed check to validate that. In fact, the only reason he even needed the donation was to prove that Cuddy wasn’t letting their relationship rule her decisions.
House wasn’t a moron, either. He knew what people said behind their backs (and to his face; to hers, too, if she pissed them off enough). He knew she was a woman in a traditionally male field dating someone who annoyed everyone and did potentially dangerous things to his patients. Nobody liked him and pretty much everybody wanted him to get fired; the rumours weren’t new. Neither were the slanderous insults; slut, whore, sloppy seconds; manipulative bastard, thrill-seeker, addict . . .
What Cuddy either didn’t know or purposely failed to recognize was that people were going to think that regardless of their relationship or how many people donated to him.
When he finally made it out of the elevator and limped his way to his office, he saw someone sitting at his desk patiently and he groaned, rolling his eyes. Apparently, the donor had decided to wait around for--House checked his watch--eighteen minutes. He pushed into his office and then casually sat in his chair.
“You’re late,” the donor stated.
House recognized him as the man wearing the blue suit who’d seen him running away from Wilson. Today he was wearing a dark green suit with a matching tie. His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he had a goatee. His cologne wasn’t strong, per se, but it permeated the air a bit more than necessary.
House made a show of acting surprised when he stared at his watch. “Would you look at that!” he gasped. The donor’s expression remained unreadable.
“You’re not going to make excuses?”
“Did you want me to?”
The donor shrugged. “I’d like to know what was more important than our meeting.”
“Aren’t we so very haughty this morning.”
“Most people tend to explain why they’re twenty minutes late when money’s on the line.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m not most people,” House retaliated.
The donor’s black eyes roved over his body in a scrupulous manner; as if trying to detect some flaw, and House was sure there were plenty. “Blue suit and a red tie. Bold choice.”
“I’m a bold kinda guy.”
“Well, you know what they say. Clothes make the man.” The donor smiled thinly and then sat up straighter. “I saw you yesterday. Your tie had four-leaf clovers on it. And Doctor Wilson was chasing you.” He raised an eyebrow at House. “Doctor Cuddy apologized fifteen times for your behaviour and reassured me at least eight that the two of you were normally very composed men.”
“We have a bad influence on each other. Except, well, it’s more like I have a bad influence on him and I’m not very composed at all,” he answered truthfully just as his phone beeped, signalling he’d gotten a text message. Seeing as House didn’t care about appearing professional and also because his team often abused their texting privileges to tell him about his patient coding, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket without even bothering to explain.
The donor sat up straighter. “Let’s cut to the chase, then. I’m Duncan. I’ve . . . heard interesting things about you.” He probably assumed House had taken the text in fear it was a dying, interesting patient whose life hung by a thread.
In reality, it was just Wilson. Cuddy‘s on her way. She took the stairs.
House groaned and then shut his phone. “I’m sure you have. It’s the only reason you’d stick around for eighteen minutes after being blown off for dinner with a friend and watching me play tag.”
Duncan tilted his head to the side. “Dinner with a friend? I was told you were with a patient.”
House would have blanched and winced were he the type of person who thrived on donations. Seeing as he didn’t care, he just shrugged. “She lied. Look, if you’re going to donate money to my department, you’re going to donate because I’m a damn good doctor--not because I participate in circle-jerk conversations and play nice. I forgot we were having dinner at my place because something more important came up--dinner with Wilson. And yes, before you ask, dinner with him is more important than your money to me.
“And if clothes make the man, then I hate suits, I especially hate ties, and I’m wearing sneakers. I was late because I told my girlfriend’s daughter’s nanny to stop speaking Spanish around the kid and so she’s taken it upon herself to show up late in payback and some idiot got into a fender-bender on the way here,” he practically blurted, and surprisingly it felt more like he was getting something off of his chest rather than bitching out a donor who’d probably never had any real intention of donating to him in the first place.
Duncan blinked slowly and tilted his head in the other direction. He stood out of his chair and House sighed, knowing that Cuddy was going to be pissed when she found out he wasn’t getting the money. “I appreciate your honesty,” Duncan said slowly.
“I’m an honest sort of guy,” House brushed off with a shrug.
“Arrogant, too.”
“I have cause to be.”
Duncan stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once and went towards his door.
House watched through his glass walls as Cuddy almost bumped into Duncan just as he stepped out of his office. They stopped, spoke for a few seconds, and then Duncan went on his way, leaving Cuddy to look at House through the windows. Her hair wasn’t perfect; it looked like she’d run her hand through it a few times.
Cuddy walked in and pursed her lips at him. “That was a short meeting.”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up on a donation,” he told her.
“I stopped hoping when you walked in twenty minutes late,” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest.
“It’s not my fault Rachel’s nanny decides to come in at the last possible minute. Or that fact people drive like morons.”
Cuddy furrowed her thin eyebrows and then lowered her arms from across her chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Some moron rear-ended a steroid-pumping jock who thought that getting into a fist-fight would somehow make traffic go smoothly.”
She shook her head. “No--she was late? Again?”
“Yeah,” House chirped, getting out of his chair and took off his suit jacket. Cuddy continued staring at him, her brows still furrowed in confusion. “I . . . told her to stop speaking Spanish around Rachel,” he admitted quietly with a shrug.
Cuddy’s demeanour softened slightly and she had a barely-there smile on her face. “You didn’t have to do that,” she told him.
“I know.” He hung the jacket over the back of his chair.
“Where are you going?“
“Vending machines. I had to skip breakfast.”
For a moment she looked offended, but then she tilted her head. “That’s not the tie I picked out,” she realized. She didn’t sound angry or irritated so much as observant.
“Wilson bought it,” he told her, then walked past her and out of his office.
She clacked her way beside him. “It looks really nice on you.”
“Which is why I picked it instead.”
“You forgot to shave,” she pointed out uselessly.
“I also look better unshaven.”
The elevator doors dinged open just as he made it to Wilson’s door. Considering he’d gotten his text warning him about Cuddy he’d expected Wilson, but it wasn’t. It was his former patient, wearing the clothes from when he’d been admitted. He was halfway towards them when he stopped walking and House dropped his hand, halfway towards Wilson’s doorknob. He wondered vaguely if his Jewish girlfriend knew Thomas was a Nazi when she made him take the case, but he doubted she had any idea.
“What?” he demanded, glaring at him. “Unhappy with the diagnosis?”
“No, not as . . . such. I just figured it was something . . . more dire.” Thomas shifted his weight onto his other foot and clenched his jaw; his hand briefly closed into a fist, but he didn’t seem angry or upset otherwise.
“Why are you here, then?” House demanded, turning to push open Wilson’s door. It was locked, so he let out a sigh. He looked over his shoulder and at Thomas, who was watching him cautiously. Cuddy was watching him too. “To fall on bended knee and thank me profusely?”
“Well, um--actually . . .” Thomas’s cheek twitched, then he cleared his throat. “Yes,” he settled warily.
House rolled his eyes just as the elevator door dinged open. House pushed past Thomas and Cuddy and limped his way over to Wilson, who froze when he stepped out of the elevator to see House coming towards him with his patient and girlfriend in tow.
“Uh . . .” was his eloquent greeting.
“I need twenty bucks,” House demanded, opening his palm. Wilson looked at Thomas, who was standing behind House, and then at Cuddy, who was standing by his elbow. “Don’t worry about the inquisition. They’re just here to make sure you don’t put the Sheeney Curse on me,” House said, making a ‘gimme’ motion with his fingers, palm still outstretched.
“Hey!” Thomas snapped, grabbing House’s shoulder and forcing him to turn. “That’s not--”
House jerked his shoulder out of Thomas’ grasp. “Do not. Touch me,” he growled, narrowing his eyes at his former patient and ignoring Cuddy’s affronted stare.
“It’s fine,” Wilson rushed to explain, stepping in between Thomas and House.
“No it isn’t,” Thomas spat, turning his grey eyes over Wilson’s shoulder and at House. “There’s no excuse for anti-Semitism--I don’t care if it was a joke.”
“Oh, please. This coming from a Nazi? Hypocrite.”
Thomas made to move past Wilson again, but Wilson put his hands on Thomas’ chest and pushed him back slightly. Cuddy grabbed Thomas’ arm but glared at House, her blue eyes fierce and jaw set determinedly. “He’s right, Wilson. There’s no excuse for racial slurs in the workplace,” she insisted carefully, the bite of disappointment clipping her words slightly.
Thomas continued glaring at House until his cheek twitched again. He blinked a few times, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, and then took a step back. “I’m sorry,” Thomas mumbled to Wilson’s shoes.
“No, he’s the one who should apologize,” Cuddy insisted, widening her eyes at House and gesturing at Thomas with her chin slightly.
“I’m not apologizing to that hypocritical, swastika-bearing jackass who spouts off worse things over dinner,” House retaliated.
“Swastika? House, what are--”
Thomas chuckled briefly, interrupting Cuddy. “That was pretty funny, though,” he admitted with another chuckle.
All three of them looked at Thomas strangely, then House pointed at him with his thumb. “See? I knew he’d get a laugh out of it. Most Jew-hating Nazis tend to think anti-Semitism hilarious.” He faced Thomas, whose mouth was tightly closed, a small, barely suppressed chuckle puffing out his cheeks briefly. “You think that’s really funny, you should check out his initials,” he continued, jerking his head at Wilson.
Thomas scoffed back a chuckle, then openly laughed. It seemed once he got started he couldn’t stop, because then he was guffawing, right eye twitching. In fact, he laughed so hard he snorted, and then had to suck in a deep breath. Thomas had to lean one hand against the nearest wall, his face bright red and body convulsing with raucous laughter.
House and Cuddy shared a look of confusion. Wilson stood stock still, as if afraid that at any moment Thomas would lunge at him. After a few seconds, though, Wilson ventured a little closer and, with the hand not holding the briefcase, moved forward to touch his shoulder. “Uh, Thomas?” he managed carefully, hand inching closer.
Thomas rolled his head back, still laughing, and his body followed until he smacked the linoleum, chuckles dying immediately in his throat. His body convulsed and his eyes rolled backwards, only the whites visible. His head jerked and thwacked against he linoleum, and Wilson was on his knees a second later, pushing Thomas onto his side and whipping his coat off to stuff it underneath his head, briefcase skittering across the floor.
“Now that,” he stated, pointing at the seizing Nazi before him and grinning at Cuddy, “is interesting.”
Next Chapter
Author: vampmissedith
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: some canon House/Cuddy and canon Wilson/Sam, but eventual House/Wilson slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own House.
Summary: As House and Wilson try to balance their strained friendship and life with their girlfriends, House treats a neo-Nazi he can't trust.
Thanks to dissonata for all of his help!
Previous Chapter
Chapter Seven
Don’t forget you have a meeting with a donor in your office at nine am.
xx, Lisa
He scoffed and jerked the Post-It note off of the mirror. “X’s are hugs, not kisses,” he muttered to Rachel who was sitting on the toilet seat, staring blearily at the wall in front of her. Her hair was still damp and she smelled of the shampoo she’d dumped into the water and splashed all over the walls and floor. It was a flowery scent; something that was supposed to resemble roses but House couldn’t smell the resemblance. At least Wilson’s shampoo had actually smelled like watermelons.
“X is letter,” Rachel corrected, small legs swinging leisurely.
House sighed and looked over at Rachel, who was now looking at him as haughtily as a toddler could. “Hop off the toilet; I’m going to show you something,” he told her.
She did as she was told and he marvelled at that fact; he would have to mark it on his calendar. She didn’t even whine. He gestured for her to walk over to him and she did. He showed her the Post-It, pointing at the X’s scrawled hastily by Cuddy’s name. “Sometimes people sign letters with X’s and O’s. Most people think X’s are kisses, but they’re not.”
“X is letter,” Rachel repeated firmly, blinking at him.
“Yes, I know,” he replied shortly. “But when they sign X’s and O’s they’re supposed to . . . represent kisses and hugs. She thinks these are kisses.”
Rachel didn’t do anything to show she’d understood, but she didn’t act like she was confused, either, so he just turned towards the make-up drawer. “People assume X’s are kisses because people think kisses are more intimate and the letter X has a bit of a reputation for . . . representing intimacy,” he continued, uncaring if Rachel understood or even wanted to know. He fished around in the make-up drawer until he pulled out a thin tube of mahogany-coloured lipstick. He uncapped it and slowly slid the long stick upwards, grinning at it. He had yet to see this colour on her; it must be new. “Apparently these people have yet to experience a really good hug.”
Rachel shut the make-up drawer loudly.
He pressed the Post-It against the sink and began to write sloppily. “When you purse your lips to kiss someone, your mouth looks like a circle,” he explained further, scoffing at the way the lipstick smudged and looked against the yellow paper.
He lifted it and examined what he’d scrawled. X’s are hugs.
He stuck it to the mirror. “When you hug someone, you arms cross against the back of the person so it resembles an X.”
And Rachel hugged him.
He glanced down in shock, watching as she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and buried her face into his thigh. Without meaning to, he scowled and felt his face scrunch up as if he’d smelled something rotten, and before she could look up and see his expression of disgust, he put his hands on her small shoulders and pushed her away, unnerved at the unpleasant churning in his stomach. A child hugging him--especially one he was caring for--should not have elicited nausea, and yet it had.
Although he had tried to act nonchalant as he pushed her away, he must not have been able to hide his face from her or maybe she clued in on his rigid body language, because her chin wobbled. “Hoss, I just hugging,” she warbled.
“I don’t like people touching me,” he muttered as he rubbed his eyebrow, staring at the mirror--at the Post-It note blocking his view of his forehead. His scruff was far more noticeable now, although it wasn’t quite to his normal standard--or, rather, what his standard used to be before he started dating Cuddy. It looked like perhaps he’d trimmed his five o’ clock shadow to look respectable for a date; not shaved entirely.
Rachel went over to the toilet and started banging the lid repeatedly, and he grabbed his razor and shaving cream, clenching his teeth against the loud racket.
It wasn’t until he looked at the mirror the second time with a can of shaving cream in one hand that it struck him--he and Cuddy could work. For the first time since they’d gotten together, he’d realized that they might not be a complete and total disaster. It wasn’t that his thoughts were consumed with them failing; he just tried not to think of the future. With Stacy he’d assumed they would last and he’d been wrong; since then, he tried not to focus on relationships except in the present sense. Thinking of what was to come felt like setting himself up for disappointment, except for perhaps with Wilson. He often thought about him and Wilson in terms of the rest of his life; as a constant. He hadn’t yet thought of Cuddy in that way, but here he was, standing in front of a mirror in a Navy-blue suit with the collar undone and a can of shaving cream in one hand while Rachel threw a tantrum and he determinedly ignored it, knowing that if he played into her games then it would only enable that behaviour.
Theoretically, five years from now he could be barbecuing in their backyard while Rachel played in a paddling pool; with or without the His apron draped over his torso. After all, half a year ago he would have thought it impossible he’d be shaving his beard in order to get ready to talk to a donor while Rachel shrieked beside him; he would have never assumed he and Cuddy would have discussed alternating cooking meals and the issue with her using their relationship to make him take boring cases.
He should have felt elated; instead he felt nauseous, like realizing a second too late he’d taken that turn far too sharp and he was going to crash into the asphalt, road scraping through his clothes and dragging along his bloody skin.
Forever. With Cuddy and Rachel. Coming home, every day, to Cuddy, watching Rachel grow; catching Rachel smoking weed in her room; catching her topless on the couch with her boyfriend (or girlfriend). Unlike with Wilson, the reassurance that he and Cuddy could make this work--that they could last--did not fill him with confidence or help him relax with just knowing. Quite the opposite, actually.
Fear of commitment, he heard Wilson, Cuddy, and Nolan all say. He’d reply with the fact he believed in monogamy and he didn’t want to be alone anymore; that he hadn’t feared commitment with Stacy at all. Each of them replied in turn about how she’d hurt him; that he was responding to the years-old sting of previous rejection.
He stared at his scruffy jaw, then placed the can of shaving cream on the sink and stepped away from the mirror. Rachel banged the seat and he swallowed the dry lump in his throat. “I look better unshaven,” he justified as he grabbed Rachel’s hand and led her out of the bathroom.
* * *
When it came down to it, the decision was relatively easy. The steel grey and blue striped tie Cuddy had laid out for him alongside the tux, which he assumed she’d bought for him, or the deep burgundy that shone almost cherry-red when the light hit it; the tie Wilson bought him. It was easy because the red tie stood out and didn’t wash his face of colour; it actually looked better on him. The striped tie looked dull.
He was pacing the length of the living room while Rachel chewed on her slice of orange for breakfast. Cuddy made some oatmeal and left it in the fridge for House, but he wasn’t a fan of maple-flavoured oatmeal drenched in soy milk, so he was planning on stopping at McDonald’s. Well, if the nanny ever decided to grace him with her presence. It was seven-fifty-five and the nanny hadn’t showed yet, not that he’d expected her to although he’d been hoping since Wilson had texted him awhile ago to tell him that he’d had an early morning and wanted to know if he could pick House up and take him to work.
House only agreed because it was a free ride and because he knew that Wilson only had an early morning because he and Sam were deteriorating; she’d probably decided to drive herself to work.
There were a few quick knocks on Cuddy’s door and House almost smiled, but of course he didn’t. “You don’t have to knock!” he called and the door pushed open to reveal Wilson. “I never do,” he added when Wilson shook his head and shut the door.
“And we should all aspire to be as civilized as you,” Wilson muttered and walked into the living room, clapping his hands together and letting out a breath. “Ready to . . .” His eyes fell onto House for the first time and Wilson’s expression changed into something softly appreciative like every other time House had bothered to dress nicely. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked him over. “You look nice,” he complimented.
“I have to talk with a donor,” he explained. “I wore your tie.”
“I noticed. It . . . looks good.” Wilson looked at his own clothes; neatly pressed khakis, shiny shoes, pristine white shirt and a god-awful pale yellow tie. He looked back at House and rocked on his heels. “I would’ve been here sooner but I got stuck at one of the lights.”
“Damn right you better apologize. I’m such a stickler for punctuality.”
“You always were an early bird,” Wilson conceded sarcastically, a small curve of a smile on his face. House rolled his eyes and then glanced at Rachel to make sure she wasn’t sticking something toxic into her mouth. She waved at Wilson, then turned back to the television.
House checked his watch and sighed. “The donor wants to talk to me at nine sharp.”
“We’d better leave by eight, then. I’m not sure you’ll make it on time even if we do; the traffic was a bit . . .” He shrugged vaguely and then looked around the living room as if he’d never been there before and wanted to memorize it, despite the fact House knew Wilson had visited Cuddy several times.
“Not my fault she’s throwing a hissy fit. If Cuddy wanted her kid to learn Spanish she’d buy bilingual DVDs.” Wilson furrowed his brows in confusion at House, and it took him a moment to realize he’d never actually explained the situation with the nanny to Wilson, which caught him off-guard because that was something he would’ve called him up to joke about at three in the morning a few months ago. “Cuddy gets annoyed when Rachel spouts off in Spanish. I told the nanny to knock it off.”
“The last time I picked you up?” Wilson recalled.
“Yeah.”
“Do you even know the nanny’s name?”
House scoffed. “I don’t know my patients’ names half the time. Why would I give a damn?”
Wilson’s smile was pinched, but there. He glanced at the floor briefly, then back at the tie he’d secured around his neck. “It really does look nice, House,” he complimented again, gesturing at it with his chin, his hands still in his pockets, almost nervously. House barely nodded. Wilson rocked on his heels a little. “It would look better if it wasn’t crooked, though.”
“Hey, you’re lucky I even know how to tie the damn thing.”
Wilson tilted his chin down so it rested against his chest, and then stared at House through lowered lids. After a small second, he walked forward and grabbed House’s tie, loosening it and straightening it, eyes fixed on the half-undone knot. It was not the first time Wilson had fixed his tie; it was, however, the first time Wilson had fixed his tie and stood this close; glanced up at him briefly through lowered lids and a boyish, innocent smile on his face.
House narrowed his eyes.
“Wilsa!” Rachel shouted and they both turned to face her, Wilson fingers still curled around the tie and the scent of watermelon shampoo almost overwhelming. She’d hopped off of the couch and was pointing dramatically at Wilson, her eyes wide. “He not like touching!”
House and Wilson looked back at each other and Wilson raised his eyebrows inquisitively before quickly rearranging the tie and stepping back. House scratched his brow with his thumb and Wilson just pinched his lips shut, trying to prevent a chuckle but failing when House tried to repress a chuckle too and ended up half-scoffing.
“My apologies,” Wilson finally said with a smile, bowing his head slightly in Rachel’s direction.
House wondered if Wilson thought it strange Rachel knew his name; then again, Wilson had visited Cuddy quite a bit when she’d first adopted, and House did talk about him often, so maybe it wasn’t all that surprising. House hadn’t realized quite how much he did talk about his friend until he noticed Rachel recognized the name, though.
He looked at his watch--it was seven-fifty-nine. He met Wilson’s eyes for a second and Wilson offered him a small, sympathetic shrug.
“You and Sam get into a fight last night?” House asked.
“No,” Wilson answered, staring at him in confusion. “Why would you ask that?”
“You offered to give me a ride to work, which means Sam drove to work and you didn’t want to be alone. You only not want to be alone on your way to work when you feel lonely, and you’d only feel lonely if you wanted someone with you--and since Sam isn’t, I can guess it wasn’t your choice. If you were still angry you wouldn’t have picked me up--you’d be at work already. You speed when you’re angry and you don’t like to be around me when you’re in a bad mood, which means you got over it last night.”
“We didn’t fight. Sam and I are just fine.”
“You fought.”
“No, House. We really didn’t.” He looked around the living room again and rocked on his heels. “Well, last night I was in the mood to--” He glanced at Rachel, then cleared his throat. “But, well. It was getting late; Sam wanted to get ready for bed . . .” He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Sam is Wilson boyfriend?” Rachel asked innocently.
“Sam’s a girl,” Wilson told her patiently with a small smile.
“Tch, only by technicality. Everyone knows you’re the girl in the relationship,” House teased.
Rachel lowered her head and gave Wilson that haughty expression she’d given House earlier. “Sam a boy name.”
“It’s short for Samantha. It’s . . . a nickname. She’s my girlfriend.”
“Mom boyfriend gone, so Hoss baby-sit,” Rachel explained, and House felt his chest tighten. He looked at the floor but he could feel Wilson’s eyes on him.
Before Wilson could say anything, the door opened and the nanny walked in. She didn’t even glance at House or acknowledge the fact Wilson was there; instead, she brushed on by and Rachel ran towards her. They hugged and greeted each other, and House limped out of the door, cane ticking against the porch and down the walk. He was inside the Volvo before Wilson was halfway down the sidewalk.
Wilson got into the driver’s seat and took his time putting on his seatbelt and rearranging the rear-view mirror. House wasn’t a moron; Wilson was trying to give House time to open up about what had just happened; how he felt about Rachel bringing up Lucas. House resolutely stared out of the window and into the passenger mirror.
The Volvo thrummed into life.
“You didn’t shave,” Wilson aired when the car pulled away from the curb.
“I look better unshaven.”
There was a beat of silence in which House was sure Wilson smirked, but he would never be sure seeing as he was staring out of the window. Had he been in Wilson’s situation, though, he would’ve smirked. “You were right.”
“And you were wrong,” House countered, staring at the way the passenger mirror framed his face. “About what?”
“I don’t like you dating Cuddy,” Wilson admitted quietly.
House finally turned and looked at Wilson, who stared out of the windshield as if he were alone. Wilson’s lips were pressed closed tightly and his jaw tensed. All House did was smile and then look out of the window again.
* * *
Traffic was horrible. Due to a small collision in which nobody was hurt, except for maybe a bruised jaw from the right hook one man gave another, four blocks from the hospital they’d been totally gridlocked. It hadn’t helped that the nanny had decided to show up at the very last minute, or the fact that Cuddy and the donor had scheduled the meeting at precisely nine am; as soon as his workday began. Wilson tried his hardest to get there as quickly as possible; he even sped.
That was why House limped his way into the lobby at nine-fifteen and why Wilson had to intercept Cuddy on her way to yell at House for being late. All that interception accomplished, from the looks of it, was Cuddy raising her voice to Wilson and gesturing angrily at his face and Wilson continually preventing her from rushing past and yelling at House.
The elevator had been full of people and they needed to stop on every floor on the way to his which he knew should’ve annoyed him but really he didn’t care. In fact, he’d hoped the donor had given up and went home; he didn’t need any extra money and he didn’t want to talk to some pompous ass about whether or not he was deserving of his job. House knew he was a genius and that he was great at diagnosing people; he didn’t need a signed check to validate that. In fact, the only reason he even needed the donation was to prove that Cuddy wasn’t letting their relationship rule her decisions.
House wasn’t a moron, either. He knew what people said behind their backs (and to his face; to hers, too, if she pissed them off enough). He knew she was a woman in a traditionally male field dating someone who annoyed everyone and did potentially dangerous things to his patients. Nobody liked him and pretty much everybody wanted him to get fired; the rumours weren’t new. Neither were the slanderous insults; slut, whore, sloppy seconds; manipulative bastard, thrill-seeker, addict . . .
What Cuddy either didn’t know or purposely failed to recognize was that people were going to think that regardless of their relationship or how many people donated to him.
When he finally made it out of the elevator and limped his way to his office, he saw someone sitting at his desk patiently and he groaned, rolling his eyes. Apparently, the donor had decided to wait around for--House checked his watch--eighteen minutes. He pushed into his office and then casually sat in his chair.
“You’re late,” the donor stated.
House recognized him as the man wearing the blue suit who’d seen him running away from Wilson. Today he was wearing a dark green suit with a matching tie. His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he had a goatee. His cologne wasn’t strong, per se, but it permeated the air a bit more than necessary.
House made a show of acting surprised when he stared at his watch. “Would you look at that!” he gasped. The donor’s expression remained unreadable.
“You’re not going to make excuses?”
“Did you want me to?”
The donor shrugged. “I’d like to know what was more important than our meeting.”
“Aren’t we so very haughty this morning.”
“Most people tend to explain why they’re twenty minutes late when money’s on the line.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m not most people,” House retaliated.
The donor’s black eyes roved over his body in a scrupulous manner; as if trying to detect some flaw, and House was sure there were plenty. “Blue suit and a red tie. Bold choice.”
“I’m a bold kinda guy.”
“Well, you know what they say. Clothes make the man.” The donor smiled thinly and then sat up straighter. “I saw you yesterday. Your tie had four-leaf clovers on it. And Doctor Wilson was chasing you.” He raised an eyebrow at House. “Doctor Cuddy apologized fifteen times for your behaviour and reassured me at least eight that the two of you were normally very composed men.”
“We have a bad influence on each other. Except, well, it’s more like I have a bad influence on him and I’m not very composed at all,” he answered truthfully just as his phone beeped, signalling he’d gotten a text message. Seeing as House didn’t care about appearing professional and also because his team often abused their texting privileges to tell him about his patient coding, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket without even bothering to explain.
The donor sat up straighter. “Let’s cut to the chase, then. I’m Duncan. I’ve . . . heard interesting things about you.” He probably assumed House had taken the text in fear it was a dying, interesting patient whose life hung by a thread.
In reality, it was just Wilson. Cuddy‘s on her way. She took the stairs.
House groaned and then shut his phone. “I’m sure you have. It’s the only reason you’d stick around for eighteen minutes after being blown off for dinner with a friend and watching me play tag.”
Duncan tilted his head to the side. “Dinner with a friend? I was told you were with a patient.”
House would have blanched and winced were he the type of person who thrived on donations. Seeing as he didn’t care, he just shrugged. “She lied. Look, if you’re going to donate money to my department, you’re going to donate because I’m a damn good doctor--not because I participate in circle-jerk conversations and play nice. I forgot we were having dinner at my place because something more important came up--dinner with Wilson. And yes, before you ask, dinner with him is more important than your money to me.
“And if clothes make the man, then I hate suits, I especially hate ties, and I’m wearing sneakers. I was late because I told my girlfriend’s daughter’s nanny to stop speaking Spanish around the kid and so she’s taken it upon herself to show up late in payback and some idiot got into a fender-bender on the way here,” he practically blurted, and surprisingly it felt more like he was getting something off of his chest rather than bitching out a donor who’d probably never had any real intention of donating to him in the first place.
Duncan blinked slowly and tilted his head in the other direction. He stood out of his chair and House sighed, knowing that Cuddy was going to be pissed when she found out he wasn’t getting the money. “I appreciate your honesty,” Duncan said slowly.
“I’m an honest sort of guy,” House brushed off with a shrug.
“Arrogant, too.”
“I have cause to be.”
Duncan stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once and went towards his door.
House watched through his glass walls as Cuddy almost bumped into Duncan just as he stepped out of his office. They stopped, spoke for a few seconds, and then Duncan went on his way, leaving Cuddy to look at House through the windows. Her hair wasn’t perfect; it looked like she’d run her hand through it a few times.
Cuddy walked in and pursed her lips at him. “That was a short meeting.”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up on a donation,” he told her.
“I stopped hoping when you walked in twenty minutes late,” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest.
“It’s not my fault Rachel’s nanny decides to come in at the last possible minute. Or that fact people drive like morons.”
Cuddy furrowed her thin eyebrows and then lowered her arms from across her chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Some moron rear-ended a steroid-pumping jock who thought that getting into a fist-fight would somehow make traffic go smoothly.”
She shook her head. “No--she was late? Again?”
“Yeah,” House chirped, getting out of his chair and took off his suit jacket. Cuddy continued staring at him, her brows still furrowed in confusion. “I . . . told her to stop speaking Spanish around Rachel,” he admitted quietly with a shrug.
Cuddy’s demeanour softened slightly and she had a barely-there smile on her face. “You didn’t have to do that,” she told him.
“I know.” He hung the jacket over the back of his chair.
“Where are you going?“
“Vending machines. I had to skip breakfast.”
For a moment she looked offended, but then she tilted her head. “That’s not the tie I picked out,” she realized. She didn’t sound angry or irritated so much as observant.
“Wilson bought it,” he told her, then walked past her and out of his office.
She clacked her way beside him. “It looks really nice on you.”
“Which is why I picked it instead.”
“You forgot to shave,” she pointed out uselessly.
“I also look better unshaven.”
The elevator doors dinged open just as he made it to Wilson’s door. Considering he’d gotten his text warning him about Cuddy he’d expected Wilson, but it wasn’t. It was his former patient, wearing the clothes from when he’d been admitted. He was halfway towards them when he stopped walking and House dropped his hand, halfway towards Wilson’s doorknob. He wondered vaguely if his Jewish girlfriend knew Thomas was a Nazi when she made him take the case, but he doubted she had any idea.
“What?” he demanded, glaring at him. “Unhappy with the diagnosis?”
“No, not as . . . such. I just figured it was something . . . more dire.” Thomas shifted his weight onto his other foot and clenched his jaw; his hand briefly closed into a fist, but he didn’t seem angry or upset otherwise.
“Why are you here, then?” House demanded, turning to push open Wilson’s door. It was locked, so he let out a sigh. He looked over his shoulder and at Thomas, who was watching him cautiously. Cuddy was watching him too. “To fall on bended knee and thank me profusely?”
“Well, um--actually . . .” Thomas’s cheek twitched, then he cleared his throat. “Yes,” he settled warily.
House rolled his eyes just as the elevator door dinged open. House pushed past Thomas and Cuddy and limped his way over to Wilson, who froze when he stepped out of the elevator to see House coming towards him with his patient and girlfriend in tow.
“Uh . . .” was his eloquent greeting.
“I need twenty bucks,” House demanded, opening his palm. Wilson looked at Thomas, who was standing behind House, and then at Cuddy, who was standing by his elbow. “Don’t worry about the inquisition. They’re just here to make sure you don’t put the Sheeney Curse on me,” House said, making a ‘gimme’ motion with his fingers, palm still outstretched.
“Hey!” Thomas snapped, grabbing House’s shoulder and forcing him to turn. “That’s not--”
House jerked his shoulder out of Thomas’ grasp. “Do not. Touch me,” he growled, narrowing his eyes at his former patient and ignoring Cuddy’s affronted stare.
“It’s fine,” Wilson rushed to explain, stepping in between Thomas and House.
“No it isn’t,” Thomas spat, turning his grey eyes over Wilson’s shoulder and at House. “There’s no excuse for anti-Semitism--I don’t care if it was a joke.”
“Oh, please. This coming from a Nazi? Hypocrite.”
Thomas made to move past Wilson again, but Wilson put his hands on Thomas’ chest and pushed him back slightly. Cuddy grabbed Thomas’ arm but glared at House, her blue eyes fierce and jaw set determinedly. “He’s right, Wilson. There’s no excuse for racial slurs in the workplace,” she insisted carefully, the bite of disappointment clipping her words slightly.
Thomas continued glaring at House until his cheek twitched again. He blinked a few times, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, and then took a step back. “I’m sorry,” Thomas mumbled to Wilson’s shoes.
“No, he’s the one who should apologize,” Cuddy insisted, widening her eyes at House and gesturing at Thomas with her chin slightly.
“I’m not apologizing to that hypocritical, swastika-bearing jackass who spouts off worse things over dinner,” House retaliated.
“Swastika? House, what are--”
Thomas chuckled briefly, interrupting Cuddy. “That was pretty funny, though,” he admitted with another chuckle.
All three of them looked at Thomas strangely, then House pointed at him with his thumb. “See? I knew he’d get a laugh out of it. Most Jew-hating Nazis tend to think anti-Semitism hilarious.” He faced Thomas, whose mouth was tightly closed, a small, barely suppressed chuckle puffing out his cheeks briefly. “You think that’s really funny, you should check out his initials,” he continued, jerking his head at Wilson.
Thomas scoffed back a chuckle, then openly laughed. It seemed once he got started he couldn’t stop, because then he was guffawing, right eye twitching. In fact, he laughed so hard he snorted, and then had to suck in a deep breath. Thomas had to lean one hand against the nearest wall, his face bright red and body convulsing with raucous laughter.
House and Cuddy shared a look of confusion. Wilson stood stock still, as if afraid that at any moment Thomas would lunge at him. After a few seconds, though, Wilson ventured a little closer and, with the hand not holding the briefcase, moved forward to touch his shoulder. “Uh, Thomas?” he managed carefully, hand inching closer.
Thomas rolled his head back, still laughing, and his body followed until he smacked the linoleum, chuckles dying immediately in his throat. His body convulsed and his eyes rolled backwards, only the whites visible. His head jerked and thwacked against he linoleum, and Wilson was on his knees a second later, pushing Thomas onto his side and whipping his coat off to stuff it underneath his head, briefcase skittering across the floor.
“Now that,” he stated, pointing at the seizing Nazi before him and grinning at Cuddy, “is interesting.”
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