Checkmate: Chapters 10, 11, 12

[alias424]

Chapter 10: En Prise
House had to stop six people before he found what he was looking for - or at least until someone would let him have it. The refusal of the couple in the elevator had been honest, and maybe that of the woman immediately afterwards, but the male nurse and two teenagers had been lying through their teeth, and it wasn’t until he had offered one of the kids twenty dollars that he had finally succeeded in securing his prize.

Pausing for only a moment outside the patient’s room, he stared through the slats between the half-closed blinds at the figure lying listlessly on the bed. He knew the man by his symptoms, hadn’t the slightest idea what his name was or anything about him outside of his medical history - just like any of his other patients. And he would have remained that way - blissfully ignorant - if he hadn’t seen the look on Cuddy’s face as she had uncovered the scars on the little boy’s back.

The anger would have still been there, certainly, but not this strange feeling of personal violation. The boy’s pain had sparked Cuddy’s, and her pain was his - had been, he realized, long before he had broken into her house, though he couldn’t say exactly when.

Sliding open the glass door, he barged into the patient’s room, pulling a cigarette from his newly-acquired pack and tossing the box onto the bed. “Three days in here without a smoke must be rough.” He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it, an action he had practiced more than once through college and medical school, though rarely with straight tobacco. “Go on - light up.”

The patient had hardly reacted when House entered - glaring at the pack of cigarettes and lazily rolling his eyes in House’s direction, obviously none-too-thrilled at this intrusion. “I don’t smoke.”

House froze immediately, putting on a show of flustered embarrassment. “Sorry. Here, let me put this out.” With a quick gesture, he pressed the lit end of the cigarette against the back of the patient’s hand, holding it there for only an instant before the man pulled away, swearing viciously.

“What the hell’re you doing?!”

“Putting out my cigarette,” House answered, matter-of-factly. “See, in my day, we just threw them on the ground, but from what I’ve heard, this is all the rage now.”

Beads of sweat dotted the man’s pasty forehead and he glared at the welt already forming on his hand. “Get out of here.”

“Yellow teeth, bad breath, nicotine stains on the fingers….”

“Where the hell’s your supervisor? I told that girl of yours that I wanted to see your boss an hour ago. Your whole damn department’s a joke.”

“An hour ago, you and I hadn’t even met yet,” House pointed out.

The patient narrowed his bloodshot eyes, staring much too viciously at him through the slits between the lids. “You’re an asshole.”

“You’re awfully judgmental for a guy who abuses his son.”

“I don’t have a son.” The statement was matter-of-fact - there was no surprise, no outrage at the accusation of abuse.

“Right. And you’re also not a smoker.”

“I quit. Last year.” His breathing was labored now. “I want a new doctor.”

“Not much of a selection. Only two guys accept transfers from my department, and I don’t think the phrase “child abuser” will get you past St. Peter’s pearly gates. Lucky for you, the other guy’s not as picky, and hey, you’re all about dry heat and flames, right? Why bother - ”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“ - with a game of catch or checkers when all you need for some father/son bonding is a lighter and a little - ”

Sitting up and swinging wildly, the patient let loose with a roaring chain of expletives - some even House had never heard before, though he did offer a few creative suggestions on his way out the door, leaving the patient red-faced and breathless behind him.

He made his way to his conference room. His team had been mid-conversation - by the guilty looks on their faces, not at all related to the patient - but quieted quickly as he entered and limped hurriedly to the whiteboard. Scribbling RAGE in large, heavy letters, he turned and faced them expectantly.

The younger doctors stared at him. “You know it isn’t a symptom if you baited him, right?” Foreman finally offered.

House ignored the question. “When you broke into his place, did you find any Legos in the fridge or Cheerios in the couch cushions?”

Cameron frowned. “It was messy, but - ”

“Frat boy messy or four-year-old messy?”

“Thirty-year-old bachelor messy,” Foreman replied, arms crossed.

“Any chains in the closets?” House asked, stepping up to where Foreman leaned against the wall and staring him down. “A cot hidden in the corner of the basement or secret hideout in the attic?”

Foreman held his ground. “It was a studio apartment, not the Tower of London. No basement access, no attic, no closet space, and definitely no one else living there.”

“What does this have to do with - ?” Cameron tried to intervene, leaning over the back of her chair to face him.

House wheeled as she started to speak, jabbing his cane at her. “Get Cuddy.”

She stared at the tip of his cane, frowning. “We haven’t even picked a test yet.”

“And even if we had,” Chase added, tipping his chair back, “why would you - ?”

“I like you better when you’re silent and stupid,” House spat, turning to Cameron. “Cuddy. Go.”

Cameron’s eyes swept from his, and he knew they must be locking with Foreman’s behind him. Foreman, in turn, no doubt meeting Chase’s stare. Chase shrugged, the motion seeming to sum up the thoughts of the three of them: just go with it.

Cameron did, shooting House a curious look before leaving. His two remaining underlings shifted uncomfortably. House checked his watch: somehow it was already two minutes over the twenty Cuddy had allowed him. If he had attained the confession he had sought, she might not have minded, but he knew that even a mere 120 seconds off her schedule, she would be fuming, one hand on her phone and ready to dial.

Foreman was the first to break the silence. “Rage can be attributed to psychosis.”

“Another symptom,” House muttered, picking up his cane and swinging it like a golf club. “Not a diagnosis.”

“But with the flu-like symptoms, we could be looking at syphilis. We should do an LP.”

“Fine.” He swung again. “Go with it.”

“Fine?” Chase asked, incredulous.

“Jealous?” House responded dryly, crumpling a blank sheet of paper into a ball and dropping it on the floor, lining the crook of his cane up behind it - in his mind, this imaginary hole was a par four, and he should be well on the putting green by now. “Don’t worry, you can do whatever you want, too. I’ve always wanted to try some experimental grafting. Gorilla’s may have smaller testicles than humans relative to their size, but - ”

“You want to use this guy as a lab rat and you’re bringing Cuddy up here to stop you?”

Sidling up to the paper ball, he readied himself - from here it was only a few feet to Chase’s left shoe, an easy shot, though the temptation to hit harder and aim higher was enticing. “What makes you think she’ll stop me?”

Cameron returned, breezing in the doorway just as the wad of paper thudded against Chase’s heel. She was alone.

“Where’s Cuddy?”

Even as he righted his cane and pressed the button on his speed dial, he knew that when he held the phone up to his ear he’d get nothing but a few rings and the tinny recording on her voicemail.

“Her office was locked and the blinds were closed. It looks like she’s gone for the…. House?”

But he was already out the door.
“Why does he have that stick?”
“His leg hurts. It helps him walk.”

Cuddy tenderly turned the child and lifted his arm, rubbing ointment onto the burns on his skin, covering the worst of them with colorful Band-Aids. As soon as House had left, she had snagged the first nurse that had passed, sending her first to the clinic for some medical supplies and then down to the cafeteria to get Ari something to eat.

At first, Cuddy had tried to question the boy as she tended to his wounds, but he had been unwilling to discuss them, his last name, or anything about his home life. Gentle as it was, the interrogation had been almost painful, and she had finally given up. Ari had been content to sit in silence for all of thirty seconds before it soon became clear that while he may have been uneasy answering any questions, he had no problem asking them.

“Why?”

“The muscle in his leg….” How did you explain an infarction and the concept of muscle death to someone who had yet to grasp all the letters in the alphabet? It wasn’t as simple as having broken a bone or hurt it in an accident. “… is sick.”

“Will it get better?”

Probably not was the real answer, but not one she wanted to give. “It’s been that way for a long time.”

Ari seemed to consider this. Expecting his next question to press the issue further, Cuddy let her brain flutter into overdrive as she struggled to simplify medical-speak into everyday English, then breaking that down even further into something a child would understand. She shouldn’t have bothered.

“Are you ‘n’ him married?”

She laughed softly, trying not to seem taken aback. It was a ridiculous question… wasn’t it? “No.”

“Why not? Are you gonna?”

This she evaded, though not very nimbly, checking to make sure she had treated all his wounds before lowering his shirt. “Better?”

Ari ignored her question just as she had his, his dark eyes meeting hers with a look that plainly said he wasn’t going to fall for her tricks. “He likes you. He prolly already knows you’re pretty.”

It was a lopsided compliment, most certainly not at all intended, but she’d take it anyway, blushing. She ruffled his hair, the gesture coming to her automatically, just feeling right. “You’re pretty handsome yourself.”

Ari nodded vigorously, adorably, as if there were no need to point out something so evident. “Mommy use’ta say that.”

The past tense wasn’t lost on her, and Cuddy spent a few precious seconds struggling to find a way to capitalize on this new information without scaring the boy back into silence. She lost her chance.

A knock sounded. The nurse she had stopped in the hall entered with a tray, setting it down on the table in front of them, pointedly but silently picking up a plastic container of salad and a steaming cup of coffee and placing them on Cuddy’s desk. She refused to meet her boss’s eye, leaving quickly - obviously relieved - at Cuddy’s nod.

A hamburger, the bun dotted with sesame seeds; a carton of milk; a plastic cup filled with quivering cubes of lime Jell-O, topped with a dollop of whipped cream. Ari eyed it all hungrily.

“Go ahead,” Cuddy softly reassured him, wiping the burn ointment from her fingers with a napkin and reaching to open the milk carton.

The boy took a bite of the hamburger, placing it back on the plate and chewing thoughtfully while picking at the sesame seeds on the bun, finally slipping the ketchup-smothered patty from the bread and eating more eagerly. Cuddy watched him with amusement - after the first few bites, he carefully avoided the edges of the burger, instead hollowing it, not minding that this process covered his face and fingers with ketchup. Catching her eyes on him, he paused, holding the half-eaten hamburger out to her. “Wanna bite?”

Grinning, she shook her head. “But thank you.”

Ari shrugged, piling the remains of the hamburger on the mostly uneaten bun, pausing to gulp his milk and bring the Jell-O cup to his mouth, licking off the whipped cream and picking at the jiggling, fluorescent cubes with his fingers. His eyelids began to droop after a few moments of this, head nodding, and with his belly full, it wasn’t long before he leaned his head against the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes.

Cuddy gingerly plucked the cup of Jell-O from his sticky fingers and wiped the ketchup from his face with a napkin, rising to retrieve her jacket from the coat rack and draping it over his sleeping form. Returning to her desk, her eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of her computer screen. It had been twenty-two minutes since House had promised to return. She would allow him five more, but then she was calling Child Services - something, she knew, she should have done twenty minutes ago, despite House’s pleading; it would have to be done no matter what information he brought her.

Sliding the salad and coffee aside, she picked up a single elastic band without a thought and rapidly began twisting it with both hands. She hated the acrid scent of rubber that would stick to her fingers afterward, but by the time the motions of her hands registered, the damage had always already been done.

God, her head was pounding again, and though she knew she was lucky the flu hadn’t hit her any harder than this, still she half-wished she had given in and stayed home today.

Ari sighed in his sleep, kicking off the makeshift covers, his thumb finding its way into his mouth. She rose and picked up her coat, tenderly smoothing it over the sleeping boy, and though she knew there were a dozen medical reasons why she should have taken his thumb from his mouth, she didn’t have the heart to do it. Her fingers brushed his neck and shoulder as she tucked the jacket around him, and he snuggled into her touch.

Her back was to the door when she heard it open. “You should have been here five minutes ago,” she murmured, trying for stern but failing as Ari’s lashes fluttered and she brushed the auburn curls back from his face.

The sound of the door quietly shutting and the click of the lock were her only answer. The blinds clattered as they were roughly drawn closed, and she knew, even before a strange hand clamped bruisingly around her upper arm, that she wouldn’t find House behind her.

Chapter 11: Time Pressure
The talon-like grip on her bicep was so sharp, so tight, that Cuddy could feel the pulse in her arm pound against the thick, unyielding fingers. She turned slowly, surreptitiously slipping her jacket higher up the boy’s face, keeping her body in front of him to avoid instant recognition. Her attacker was smaller than she would have expected from the force holding, husky but short: with the added height of her heels, her eyes were level with his, the effect somehow calming. She tried to shake the hand off her arm, but that only made its iron grip tighter.
She was careful to keep her voice coldly professional. “Can I help you?”

He was sweating profusely, face pale but cheeks an unnatural crimson, eyes bloodshot. She recognized him after only a moment: it was House’s patient - the smoker, the connection to the boy. She had been caught off-guard one too many times by livid patients and family members fuming about the head of her Diagnostics Department, and now always made a point of glimpsing his newest patient of the week for just such a situation. Well, maybe not just.

His voice rasped hoarsely, gravel grating against rough asphalt. “They’re trying to kill me.”

“Who?”

“Your goddamn doctors. All of them.”

Truth be told, the complaint wasn’t wholly foreign - especially as far as House was concerned, though she generally had some warning beforehand: a ludicrous request for a procedure, one of his staff, concerned about the patient, of course, but also their own salaries. She sighed, maintaining her composure; she hadn’t been appointed Dean of Medicine at one of the best hospitals in the country for nothing, after all.

“While Dr. House’s methods may be unconventional, I can assure you - ”

“Unconventional, my ass!”

She risked a glance behind her, only looking over her shoulder far enough to see the boy still sleeping out of the corner of her eye. “Mr. Grant, I can assure you,” she started, decisively, pulling his name out of thin air and firmly prying his hand from her arm, “that Dr. House is one of the best diagnosticians in the country.” The rush of blood back into the limb left it throbbing but she refused to rub away the pain.

Eli Grant balled his newly-loosened fingers into a fist, his chest heaving, eyes rabid. Something rang out shrilly, familiar, but startling in this suffocating tension.

Her phone.

Neither of them moved, but still he breathed, “Don’t get that.”

Her heart hammered in her chest, the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears nearly drowning out the ability to think, but, oddly enough, she wasn’t frightened. She launched into full-fledged administrative mode without a thought. “I’m sure if you take a moment - ”

“No one in this hospital listens to a fucking thing I say!” His voice was rising dangerously, his hands clawing at her again, and if it weren’t for the boy, she would have already been halfway toward the door or at least safely put her desk between them.

With the backs of her calves already digging into the sofa, stepping back was not an option, so she took a risk, guiding him backwards with a firm hand, in order to lengthen the rapidly closing distance between them. He caught her arm, yanking her off balance, and she knew by the way his hand slid off her, his raspy breathing catching for a moment before kick-starting near to hyperventilation, that Ari had become visible behind her.

“What is he doing here?”

Decorum was fleeing, anger oozing in its place. “Mr. Grant, you need to - ”

“Answer me!”

He shook her roughly, but she was glad, at least, that he kept his hands off the boy. Her cell phone was ringing, but she barely heard it, brushing him off her, her temper flaring.

“Your son was - ”

“I don’t have a son!”

Cuddy didn’t see him reach out - only felt the sudden, stinging pressure of his hands on her, saw her office tilt and soar sideways. Twisting, she caught herself, awkwardly, given the lowness of the coffee table, but not before slamming painfully against its edge and sending the vase upon it flying. It hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash.

Shouting had apparently been nothing more than ambient noise to Ari, but the shattering vase woke him with a gasp. Cuddy righted herself in time to see him jump up, scrambling against the back of the couch as if trying to escape over it and glancing around nervously. There wasn’t a muscle in her body that wasn’t throbbing, but she pushed through the pain without a thought: at her feet, over the glass shards, and scooping Ari up and over the back of the sofa.

The breaking glass seemed to have an oddly calming effect on House’s patient. He crouched, as if to pick up the pieces, hands shaking wildly. His eyes shot around the room more erratically than a pinball, glancing over Cuddy then doubling back and locking on the boy, slamming from almost apologetic to frighteningly fiery.

Ari appeared relatively nonplussed after the shock of the sudden noise, not shying away from the angry man as he had from House only half an hour ago. He fought to get out of Cuddy’s grip. She had to set him on his feet to keep him from falling, but kept both hands solidly on his shoulders, refusing to let him run forward.

“If Daddy was here, you’d be in big trouble,” he scolded, folding his arms then peering up at Cuddy. “He breaks stuff a lot.”

“Let him go,” Grant growled.

Ari struggled forward, and her mind was reeling - this wasn’t at all what she had expected. House had as good as stated that this man was Ari’s abuser: of course, he had been wrong before, but always about details - petty, he’d call them - almost never the main event. It was a tendency she found obnoxiously fascinating about him; just something else that made House… House.

“You’re not mad, are you, Dr. Cuddly?” Ari asked, glancing from where her hand held him to her face, obviously confused. “I can help clean it up.”

“Stay here,” she managed, holding him back as he lunged forward.

“Let him go, God dammit!”

“Whatsa matter, Uncle Eli?” Ari asked, voice wavering. He finally stopped struggling to leave her side, his hand searching out and finding hers, his small grip powerfully tight. “Where’s Daddy?”

The tone of this question was what mattered - guarded, tremulous, petrified - because nothing could have been farther from that of a little boy waiting eagerly by the front door for the sound of his father’s car tires in the driveway. This was a child more afraid of the answer to his query than of a stranger’s candy or monsters under the bed.

And maybe House hadn’t been that far off after all - nailing the general culprit but confusing the person and name. A thousand questions still hung in the air, unanswered.

“They’re gonna kill him, too, aren’t they?” Grant held a jagged shard of glass in his hand, the ends of it had already pierced his fingers, blood dribbling down his palm, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Answer me!”

“Uncle Eli?” The boy was near tears.

“He’s sick, Ari. He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” she reassured the trembling child, tipping his chin up to ensure he saw the truth in her eyes. “No one’s going to hurt - ”

“Answer me, bitch!” Grant interrupted, lurching at her, tilting, clawing at his head with one hand. “They keep saying it, they keep sayingittheykeepsayingit….” The words came too quickly, rushing into a single buzz that rose into a shriek. One hand still tearing at his head, the other lashed out - at her, at Ari, at his own hallucinations.

All she saw was the boy, the glint of broken glass streaking through the air.

Forcing Ari behind her, Cuddy raised an arm to ward off the blow just a split-second too slowly, and she saw the blood blossom crimson on her own pale skin.
House quickly made his way to the elevator, his mind running through the patient’s symptoms - the train of thought was automatic, deflecting feral emotion with the rationality of medicine. He didn’t realize his team was behind him until Foreman spoke. “We can use the spinal fluid from the LP to - ”
“Sure,” House interrupted, impatiently jabbing the button for the elevator. “But when you get to the patient’s room and he’s not there, just go straight to the Path Lab instead of running sniveling to me. Use the blood there for the VDRL, then run an EIA.”

“Why wouldn’t he be in his room?” Cameron insisted. “You were just there.”

“A VDRL and an EIA? So you do think it’s syphilis?”

This was Chase. He thought. House was only half-listening - enough to hear and mechanically answer, not enough to fight, retort wittily, or even pretend to care. “No.”

And they continued without any further input at all. It never mattered which of them was speaking, only insofar that it helped him personalize his responses, providing whatever insult would best fit his target. With no intention of responding, there was no point in paying attention.

“I thought we didn’t test for diseases we don’t think our patients have?”

“Except when we’re looking for false positives.”

“Sure, but we already….”

He let the conversation ramble on behind him, had been waiting for the most protracted three seconds of his life, but the elevator was too long in coming. Staying still was killing him. Movement was necessary. He pushed through his team and started down the stairs, pressing the speed dial for Cuddy’s cell phone and knowing he wouldn’t get a response.

“Where are you going?”

There was a pause here, indicating a response from him was necessary - that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be sneering. “I thought it would be pretty obvious.”

“But you never - ”

He stopped in the middle of the staircase, slamming his cane into the railing. “Stop questioning me and go do your jobs! Now!”

With that, he motioned the younger doctors to pass him, but none of them moved, too busy glancing at one another. House snarled with disgust as he continued downward. It was slow going, but at least it was motion. His team crept almost silently behind him, but as long as they had stopped talking, they could be easily ignored.

“Hey. House…. House?” Wilson’s voice - someone else following him was just what he needed.

“I wouldn’t do that….” Cameron warned, but Wilson must not have heeded her advice, his hand suddenly on House’s shoulder.

“Running away from your patient?”

“Little busy,” was all House could respond, so someone else took the initiative.

“Running to Cuddy.”

“Is there a Jersey-wide pandemic I don’t know about?” Wilson asked, clearly as bewildered as House’s team.

House ignored him. The shades to Cuddy’s office did, in fact, darken the door and windows - something he had known to expect but had been hoping against the entire way down the stairs. As the Dean of Medicine, Cuddy was always distinctly visible: watching with eagle eyes everything that happened in her hospital, at the same time accepting that all eyes would be on her. House had only seen her close the blinds on one occasion before; and then, he had been on the inside.

Wilson followed his gaze, sighing. “What did you do to Cuddy this time?”

Finally, finally, finally, House ground to a halt outside Cuddy’s door, swearing when the handle, of course, refused to budge. Feeling for his wallet, he opened it viciously, and why was it taking so damn long to find that key?

“If you’re going to follow me around like a bunch of lemmings,” he spat behind him, “at least make yourselves useful. Get security.”

Someone left, a coat swishing. Only Wilson was brave enough to speak. “House. What the hell’s going on?”

The key was cold and solid in his fingertips, and he pushed it into the lock, hand trembling though he tried to hide it. The door handle pulled from his grip before he had a chance to turn it, and he was suddenly face to face with a pale, obviously shaken Ari. The boy almost immediately launched himself through the half-foot gap in the door, wrapping his small, thin arms painfully around House’s knees.

The room was unsettlingly silent. Cuddy was nowhere to be seen.

With one hand on the boy’s head, House grit his teeth and forced the door open with a quick jab of his cane.

Chapter 12: Discovered Check

The first thing he noticed was the blood - not much, but still there, and that was enough: smeared on the arm of the sofa, a haphazard path of scarlet drops meandering lazily across the carpet. His eyes followed it across the floor, over broken pieces of glass, finally, thankfully, landing on Cuddy. She knelt beside his unconscious patient, disheveled, but moving, breathing. He could only see her in profile - a view that could easily hide many wounds - but for now, that would have to be enough.

Cuddy twisted her head, met his gaze. Relief was there, rushing out before she could hold it back, and he knew somehow that if Wilson or Cameron or anyone else but him had been in the doorway when it had opened, the look in her eyes - solace, security, appreciation - wouldn’t have quite been the same.

Still, House hung back. They both knew they needed a moment to breathe - if he came within an arm’s length of her, the pull would be magnetic: he’d have no choice but to gather her into his arms, and, at the moment, couldn’t fathom a way to pass such a tender gesture off as their usual, bordering on sexual harassment, give-and-take.

It was an odd feeling, this electric attraction to another human being that was so much more than that - encompassed the overpowering urge to apologize for… anything really, but especially things over which he had no control. She could scream at him now - argue over anything: the patient, the boy, why the hell he still (thankfully) had the key to her office - and he still would’ve been relieved to hear the sound of her voice.

The others hurried through the door, jostling both him and Ari, who was still attached to his legs. Quick reflexes enabled House to reach out and snatch Cameron. “Take the kid,” he mumbled, peeling the child gently from his leg and handing him off.

Ari protested with an unintelligible whine, and House took his eyes from Cuddy for the first time since he had spotted her, bending down to Ari’s level. “Don’t worry.” His voice was gruff, but he meant it gently and the boy seemed to understand. “She really wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

The boy seemed to doubt this, but quietly accepted his fate at Cameron’s side, his dark eyes locked on Cuddy. “He hurt her.”

“Who?” Cameron asked, and something of a conversation continued, but House heard it only as a droning, not words.

“Are you all right?” It was a question he should have asked, but Wilson beat him to it, crouching beside Cuddy, a hand on her shoulder.

She didn’t answer, instead nodding at the patient. “He seized. Lasted about thirty seconds.”

The man’s hands were cut, streaked red: hopefully the only source of all that blood, even if the wounds didn’t look deep enough. Chase was stooped beside the patient, listening for breath and feeling for a pulse. “Breathing’s shallow, pulse’s a little weak,”

Ever the gentleman, Wilson helped Cuddy to her feet. She winced, left arm holding the right awkwardly, tightly against her body. Foreman returned with two security officers; they mumbled to each other, one leaving again while speaking into a squawking walkie-talkie: something about nurses and a gurney.

“Hey.” Wilson eyed Cuddy with a frown, hesitantly placing a hand on her elbow and nodding to Chase. “Go grab a first aid kit.”

“Don’t,” Cuddy warned, stilling them both with the glare she usually reserved for House alone. Wilson smartly retracted his hand and Cuddy turned her stare on House. She was the first to speak, the forced strength in her voice causing it to waver - a stutter that anyone else there could interpret as barely concealed anger. “I gave you twenty minutes.”

House risked a few slow steps forward, leaving only a few feet and the shattered glass between them. Her poise was remarkable - her hands might not have been on her hips and she was obviously trying to mask pain, but still she exuded a conviction that was clearly not to be trifled with.

Only half a second was needed to gauge the response she wanted: that much had been clear enough the moment any words had left her mouth. “Must’ve forgotten to sync our watches,” he mused, glancing at his own watch for effect, frowning. “Mine says I’ve still got two left.”

She narrowed her eyes - a textbook move for her, but somehow he could see her heart wasn’t in it. “If you hadn’t spent so much time avoiding your patient you might have - ”

“What can I say but you bring out the best in people, Cuddy. Symptoms, I mean.”

“Well, hallucinations and seizures certainly make your patient more interesting,” she responded dryly, tiredly. “You must be thrilled.”

“Hardly.” His tone was grimmer than he had intended - given the situation, nothing could have been more removed from the truth. And he could see it now, not the source but the blood, a drop squeezing from between the fingers of the hand she held over her elbow and falling to the floor. “You’re a spoilsport. Case’s closed. And you’re dripping.”

“Case closed? Just like that?” She was dangerously pale, and he was thisclose to damning his gruff exterior and helping her into a chair. Glancing at her elbow, she shifted her left arm, trying to catch the blood. “I’m fine.”

Ordinarily, he would’ve had some retort for that, but any words now were only prolonging the time until he succeeded in examining her arm. “Respiratory symptoms indicate serositis. Kidney dysfunction’s continued despite treating the PHP. And now neurolog- ”

She didn’t wait for him to finish, didn’t need to, they had fallen into such a seamless rhythm of late. “Only three criteria. You need at least one more.”

“Like I don’t know that…. Foreman!” he shouted, louder than was necessary. “Path Lab. Now.”

Foreman sighed, standing, ready for an argument. “How many times are we going to - ” He trailed off, glancing from House to Cuddy, seemed to form a question but obviously deciding against it, leaving the room.

“That should bring me up to four. But Chase,” House continued, speaking to Cuddy but pausing until he had the younger doctor’s attention, “is going to check him over for a rash, just for good measure. And I mean all over.” The thought of this seemed to catch Chase somewhere between dubious and horrified. “Don’t give me that look. He’s gentle as a kitten now. Cuddy must’ve flashed him the funbags - he’ll be comatose for at least another - ”

This time, Cuddy hadn’t spoken to interrupt him, but finding her small frame suddenly pressed against him and in his arms served just the same purpose. He hadn’t seen her step over the broken glass toward him - in actuality, a distance of only a few feet, but a seeming chasm over the past months and years.

This would be the stuff of hospital gossip for days, a headline, for once, that was not of his making. He could almost hear the self-proclaimed gossip columnists now: and without any reason or seduction, the Dean of Medicine fairly launched herself into Dr. Gregory House’s arms (Yes, the Dr. House, and no, not to smack him, though he would’ve deserved it, what with the way he treats her)….

Miraculously, the world continued without them.

The gurney arrived, its wheels squeaking, the sound seeming to wrest Chase from stunned and back to somewhat useful, his mouth snapping shut as he busied himself with the patient. Voices floated from somewhere outside House’s peripheral vision.

“Is Uncle Eli dead?”

These were the first words Ari had spoken that had been crystal clear, and Cameron jumped in to answer. “No, but he’s very sick….”

This should have relieved the little boy somewhat, but still his voice was quick and urgent. “He hit her, he hit her with the glass and there was blood and I pushed him but it wasn’t hard and he fell over and he started shaking and Dr. Cuddly said - ”

“What?” Cameron’s voice asked. “Who?”

“Dr. Cuddly. She said to open the door and find somebody to help.” Ari paused, gulping in a breath. “I didn’t push him hard, only I didn’t want him to hurt her again.”

“It’s not your fault,” Cameron tried to soothe.

But Ari quickly switched gears, seeming to forget the emotion of the last few seconds as quickly as a goldfish that is once again surprised by its own reflection when it makes another turn around its bowl.

“I told her she liked him - ”

“Oh!” There it was, the shock of Cameron’s recognition, but the boy didn’t allow her much time to revel in it.

“ - and he likes her too. Where’s Uncle Eli going?”

Cameron fumbled; if all kids could be perfect distracters like that, maybe they really weren’t half bad.

And for half a moment, even surrounded by a flurry of activity and the sterile, judging walls of the hospital, House had Cuddy to himself. She hid her face in his chest for just a moment, her breath hot against him, shuddering, and he brought a hand up to the back of her head, knowing that though this was against everything the two of them had - literally - fought for, right now it was just what they both needed. Any rules had always been hers and he’d just played by them (and even then, only when it suited his own purposes); as strong as she was there would doubtless be very few moments when she’d profess to needing him at all, and he wasn’t about to miss the first of them.

She pulled away slowly at first, lingering, then more quickly when she seemed to realize where they were. But the damage was done. House took advantage of the disorientation their position brought her, catching her wrist before she could hurry away from him. She gasped, quickly biting her lip to stifle it, and he flicked his eyes to hers long enough to silently apologize, to tell her that this was for her own good.

A deep, jagged gash ran halfway down the outside of her forearm, the blood still flowing, dripping down to her elbow, finally spilling over her cupped hand and escaping through her fingers.

“You do bleed,” he gasped, feigning surprise, teasing to cover the rush of concern. “Some of the nurses were starting to - ”

“I wonder how that rumor got started.” She pulled her arm away, unable to hide how this hurt her even if she cringed only just perceptibly.

“Don’t think you’re going to be able to keep this carpet without a fight. I’ve heard the Dean gets really cranky about potential biohazards.” He thought he saw her smile, didn’t like the way the blood still bubbled from her wound and let his voice soften a shade. “That looks pretty bad.”

“It’s nothing,” she insisted.

He gave her a look before lumbering over to the coat rack, taking the silk scarf he found hanging there and pressing it firmly to her arm. If she complained about ruining the scrap of fabric, he had half a dozen quips at the ready, but she accepted the makeshift bandage silently, gratefully. Her blood stained his fingers and he wiped them carelessly on his pants.

The room was suddenly much too quiet - everyone was watching him strangely, almost expectantly. The gurney had been noisily wheeled from the room, but Chase hadn’t followed it, and House turned to the younger doctor, annoyed. “Why are you still here?”

Chase looked ready to make a comment but seemed to decide against it, shrugging. If he thought House hadn’t noticed the way he raised his eyebrows at Cameron as he left the room, he was very much mistaken, but any chastisement would have to wait until later.

“Babysitting duty,” House declared crisply, facing Cameron. “Check him over in the clinic and call Social Services.”

Not seeming at all happy with this arrangement, Ari folded his arms and scowled at Cameron. Cuddy stepped in. “It’s okay. Dr. Cameron works for Dr. House. She’ll take good care of you.”

Still Ari seemed skeptical, looking Cameron up and down. “Here,” House offered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, handing it to the boy. “She tries to pull anything funny, you hold down this button.” He demonstrated, and Cuddy’s cell phone chirped to life. He retrieved it from her desk and slipped it into his own pocket. “Got it, Spidey?”

Ari cocked his head. “If she’s number two, who’s number one? Your mom?”

“Voicemail,” House answered through gritted teeth; Cameron was suppressing a grin, but not very well. “It comes that way. Now, shoo.”

“You’ll come back?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, the words garbled with Cuddy’s, “Of course.”

When Cameron held out her hand, Ari took it without further argument, letting her lead him out of the office but turning back to watch them before disappearing into the clinic.

His hand was on Cuddy’s elbow - House noticed only when she shifted, pressing more solidly against him. The pad of his thumb circled over her skin, the response so automatic it was as if just the feel of her had triggered it. She relaxed against him with a sigh, her head tilting back to rest against his shoulder.

“Exactly how long have you had Cuddy’s cell on your speed dial?”

It was Wilson, almost forgotten in the corner. He had been watching silently the entire time and now stood with a smirk, arms folded.

Not bothered enough by Wilson’s presence to completely move out of House’s grasp, Cuddy still straightened, pulling slightly away from him. House frowned. “Don’t even start.”

“You don’t even have me on speed dial. You said you didn’t know how to program it.”

“Is somebody feeling a little left out? I bet there are plenty of patients in the cancer ward dying to meet you.” He turned to Cuddy. “Jimmy here’s got magic sperm - the cure to cancer. May not be FDA approved, but - ”

“Right now, I’d say base insinuations aren’t exactly your best option,” Wilson interjected.

“Oh, like you’ll say anything in front of….” House turned to Cuddy. She had grown suddenly, impossibly, paler, all color drained from her face, as if her last show of authority and the final assurances to the boy had sapped the strength from her. Pushing gently, House guided her back to the couch, lowering her onto it. “Cuddy?”

“I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not.”

“Dr. Cuddy?” One of the security guards poked his head in the door and entered, holding a clipboard. “I need you to - ”

“Unless those can be signed with blood, they can wait,” House snapped. “Get out.”

He didn’t wait to see if the security guard obeyed. Cuddy had propped her head up with her good arm, her eyes closed. The swish of the door and the sound of quick footsteps announced Wilson’s exit, and House understood his friend well enough to know he would return shortly with medical supplies. “Lise?”

“House.” Her eyes snapped open; she seemed taken aback at finding his so close. “I’m - ”

“A horrible liar.”

“Fine,” she countered weakly, but this time it was a concession. Her eyes squeezed shut again, her voice lowering hoarsely. “It hurts like hell.”