I.
..anything that's honest and good, an eye
that makes the whole world bright. your open heart,
simple with giving, gives the primal deed,
the first good world, the blossom, the blowing seed,
the hearth, the steadfast land, the wandering sea,
not beautiful or rare in every part,
but like yourself, as they were meant to be.
Edwin Muir
She breathes in the air as if she expects Vienna to have the fragrance of another world. She is disappointed, and not. The air is cold, and she is in the city, where there is the smell of snow and cars and buildings and sidewalks. But when she inhales deeper, there is also the smell of chocolate, so rich and deep as if freshly grounded from cacao that she is certain she is no longer in Jersey. She instinctively turns her head, where she spies a small chocolaterie.
'Miss?' someone says a little irritatedly behind her.
She blinks and snaps out of her reverie, and descends the shuttle steps to the hotel.
They really pulled all the stops on this one, She thinks, as a porter smiles and immediately takes her hand carry, and she is ushered towards the double doors of The Grand Hotel Wien. She is assaulted by the sounds of crowds--mostly the doctors form the conference, no doubt, she thinks--and the Christmas jazz playing in the background. She admires the enormous tree in the middle of the lobby, decorated in delicate ornaments and frosted with fake snow, the stylish decorations of fresh holly and red silk ribbons laced all around the pillars.
Idly, she wonders if this was the reason Wilson always cheerfully volunteered to these things, though of course, not in this great a scale, and why he had convinced her to go.
'You need the time off,' He had told her for what seemed like the hundredth time, setting his palms down her table.
She gave him an arched brow. 'Going to an international summit is hardly considered a time off.'
'You'll just be listening to speakers, eating free food and not running hospitals,' He replied firmly. 'You know it'll be easier for us to handle things back here, especially now that--'
She had given him such a tense look that he didn't continue, just gave her back the tickets and left, and three days later, here she is.
'Dr. Cuddy!' She hears a warm voice from behind her.
'Dr. Holly,' She puts on her best administrator smile and shakes the woman's hand before her warmly. 'This is such a lovely place. You've really outdone yourselves.'
The woman beams and nods, her strawberry blonde hair swaying. 'Isn't it? Thank god Ralph and I convinced the board to hold it here. They wanted it back in New York at first, can you believe? And I said no, of course not. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right, and with style...'
Cuddy is only half listening, a skill perfected in a decade's worth of meetings. What she is really observing is how much Dr. Holly has changed in the last years since she saw her. There are more laugh lines around her face, and she is laughing more freely; the sharp angles in her body have softened and she has gained weight.
'Oh, and Ralph, how is he?' She asks smoothly when Holly stops.
'He's stuck at home with the baby,' Holly smiles. 'She's nine months old now, I'll show you a picture of her sometime.'
'I'd like that,' She says, and is surprised to find that she means it.
The receptionist looks up at her with a smile. 'Name, please?' She asks in accented English.
'Dr. Lisa Cuddy,' She replies. 'Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.'
She looks at her watch and adjusts it in sync with the clock on the wall. She is feeling the effects of jet lag, and the hours she stayed awake during the entire flight. She had found herself sleepless in the darkened plane, sitting with her hand to her chin and listening to the thrum of the engine while everyone else slept. It had been four years, she thought, since she'd last been on a plane.
'Dr. Cuddy, you're in room 1504,' The receptionist places her keycard on the desk with a smile. 'If there's anything you need, please don't hesitate to call.'
She returns the smile. 'There's nothing for now, thank you.'
'Although you might want to stock the minibar with more tequila. And throw in a male stripper or five. She likes 'em tall.'
She turns around so quickly her head reels. He is wearing his patented smirk, his mouth curled, she'd like to believe, almost permanently to that expression. He is leaning on his cane, and she can make out the nearly faded pattern of flames near the end.
'Short ones,' She manages to say, 'are fine with me.'
He smiles a little, and she thinks somewhere in the back of her mind that she has forgotten that he could.
She can see more lines etched across his face, and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he smiles. He has gained some weight and his hair is too long, and some part of her resists telling him to get it cut. There is something she is instantly envious about him, she doesn't know where the feeling comes from, but maybe it's the way he is standing so relaxed and laid back, as if he's been spending the last few years throwing away the weight on his shoulders.
She becomes aware that they are just staring at each other stupidly, and the receptionist is clearing her throat very loudly. She blinks and walks away. He follows her, as she expects, and the thump of his cane behind her is something she hasn't even thought about in years.
They weave through the throng of people until she slows her pace at a clearing to the side of the lobby, and turns around.
He stops a few feet before her and takes a thorough once-over from head to toe.
She suddenly wonders what he sees. Would he notice the lines on her face just as she had earlier? Does she look older, less like herself or too much so? Her hair is longer, reaching until her back, but then again this was probably the first thing he noticed about her.
His eyes linger pointedly on her chest, covered up by her coat.
'You hide the girls now,' He says, in an almost hurt tone.
She has the urge to laugh. 'You never change.'
His eyes darken a little, and his shoulders stiffen, and she knows she hits something. But he recovers just as quickly, and shoots breezily, 'I have. Been eating Fruit Loops over Cheerios. Which is nothing compared to the drastic change of briefs over boxers. Wanna see?'
His shirt is still rumpled where his suit jacket is haphazardly thrown on, and he is still ever-shifting his Nike Air-clad feet.
'Green now,' He supplies, when he follows her gaze. 'Instead of orange.'
'House,' She says, and draws it out on her tongue, testing it, and finds it familiar. 'What are you doing here?'
'Cuddy,' He says. 'I'm eating free food, drinking free alcohol, checking out hot doctor babes.' He waggles his eyebrows.
She rolls her eyes.
'Pretty much like you, I suppose,' He adds.
She notes that they are back in this game, where she asks him something and he never answers, just throws it back at her as if she's supposed to catch it and hurl it again. She foresees three days of this, him acting as if nothing has changed, and she is suddenly angry and impatient and tired, and has the sudden urge to run away from him.
She turns and jabs the button on the elevator.
'I'm tired, House.'
'Well, I assume that's the old age acting up,' He says behind her. 'Tired all the time, all work, no play. Oh wait, you've been that way for years.'
She steps in the elevator, forcing herself not to run to the nearest stairwell. She turns and looks at the LCD screen on top, flashing 'Lobby.' When the doors start to close, he sticks out his cane and holds them open.
He stares at her, and doesn't know what to say.
What is it about this man? She thinks.
'House,' She starts again. 'What are you doing here?'
He has yet to let go of her gaze, and the door. Then he looks away, shifts his eyes to the floor.
'Breakfast,' He finally says. 'Tomorrow.'
He still hasn't let go of the elevator, which is making persistent dinging sounds, and slapping against his cane. She knows, through too much first hand experience of basic House stubborness, that he won't let go unless she says yes.
She nods, briefly. He takes his cane away, and while he tries to look at her, she steps back and stares pointedly ahead until the elevators close.
'There's something different,' He tells her by introduction the next morning, putting down his plate on the table heavily, 'about you.'
She glances up from her coffee. 'Good morning to you, too.'
He unceremoniously plops down on the chair across her, narrowing his blue eyes at her. 'The boobs are the same, no remodeling there.'
She sighs, and waits patiently for him to deliver the verdict. He is the same razor sharp man, although why she thinks he will ever change is a mystery to her.
'You,' He points a knife accusingly at her, 'have lost your snarking ability.'
'I just haven't had practice,' She replies.
'Wilson?' He shakes his head in disappointment. 'Figures, he's such a girl without me. Can't top the master, huh?'
'No, no one can snark like you,' She says dryly.
'Miss me ruining your days?' He says dramatically.
She sees the question he's really asking, and doesn't know how to answer. 'The hospital has less lawsuits, and the nurses seem more relaxed. Almost less terrorized.'
She dodges it neatly, and he grins at that, returning to his breakfast. She can't help but study him, now that she is less tired and more alive. In fact, she can't remember feeling this alive in a while. It's just that this is so surreal, her and him sitting in an expensive cafe, in a city that smells of pine and chocolate. Mostly it's just that he's sitting across her. She believes that if she closes her eyes, he'll be gone.
'Sooo...how's life back in Princeton?' He asks casually. 'Any sprogs? Sleep with anyone else from him to remember details like those. 'Four. Two girls, two boys.'
'You've had or you've...had?'
'Could go both ways.'
'Four kids in three years?'
'Twins in a row,' She says seriously. Two can play at the useless answers game.
He clutches his hands to his heart. 'Ooomph, a woman after my own heart. She's almost back. Just a teensy weensy bit more pizzaz so I know I have the right gal. For a second there, I thought I've been talking to Cameron all this time,' He scoffs. Then he narrows his eyes. 'You are Cuddy, right? Curly hair, dominatrix, puts the 'bags' in funbags?'
She glares at him.
'Yup, okay. It's just--Cameron. Cuddy. Both start with C's, boggles the mind.'
She lets out an unladylike snort. 'As if it needs any more boggling.' Then she frowns at him disapprovingly as he takes a large bite of his breakfast. 'You're eating cake for breakfast?'
He makes a face that eerily resembles a three-year-old patient in pediatrics, and stuffs another bite in his mouth. Just to spite her, she assumes. 'But Moooom. I'm all grown up now. I limp and have sex and everything.'
She eyes the plateful of what seems like chocolate cake teeming with almonds and covered in a haze of confectioner's sugar. 'Your early funeral.'
He rolls his eyes. 'It's called breakfast cake. So the unhealthiness cancels itself out.'
'Right. And you couldn't just take a single slice.'
'Oh you are such a Viennese virgin. This is Guglhupf, the pride and sunshine of The Grand Hotel Wien and the reason I wake up every morning.' He haphazardly cuts a chunk and dumps it on her plate.
She doesn't touch it. 'Every morning?' She tries for casual, finds it strained. She tries again. 'You've been here a while?'
House squints at her and gives a loud sigh. 'Ever-observant, sharp Cuddy. Never misses a thing,' He mocks. 'Don't be such a killjoy so early in the morning.'
'Fine,' She snaps and stands up so abruptly that the cream teeters on the edge of the table precariously. Don't answer me, she adds to herself angrily.
She turns around and is stopped by a jolt on her sleeve. She looks pointedly at his hand firmly attached to her suit jacket. He can't touch her skin; she won't even consider the thought of touching him. The daredevil between them, and that's as far as he can go.
'Let go, House.'
'Did your heart break that badly?' There is a sneer on his face and a cruel tone in his voice that she always supposes he can never help.
'What, you disappearing off the face of the earth?' She fixes her eyes on him. She finds that she can still read a little of his face. 'I'll give, like I always do--' His grip tightens on her sleeve somewhat, and she can imagine the wrinkles he'll leave there-- 'Wilson took it hardest. I've been trying to ask you where the hell you've been all this time. You haven't answered. If you don't plan to, I won't be sticking around to wait.'
He doesn't answer, and people from nearby tables are starting to give them strange looks.
This uncharacteristic silence, except it's so him when he's serious, irks her.
'Skip the first conference,' He tells her.
'What?' She asks, irritated. He's always had the gift of saying something she never expects.
'Daniels, from Barnet General in London. He's the speaker. Much more fun to watch mold grow,' He informs her, waving his other hand dismissively. 'Skip it.'
He still hasn't let go of her sleeve. She yanks it from him roughly.
'No,' she says, and walks away.
She is a little late when she goes down the lobby the next morning. When housekeeping cleaned her room last night, they left the bed with crisp, clean sheets and the fragrance of lilies emanating from every corner. She has not been this relaxed in years, and this morning when the phone rang for her wake up call, she could hardly lift a hand from her cocoon of comforters and pillows to answer.
Her skin felt heavy and her eyes more so. She couldn't understand why she felt more at home there than anywhere else. The thought of the sight of Vienna in winter was the only thing that slowly made her rise up from the covers and pad into the bathroom for a shower.
Now she finds herself amidst a group of people buzzing excitedly around her, and she can make out bits and pieces of languages spoken; she finds it comforting that everyone is so busy, and she is not. Normally she is the center of attention, and flocks of doctors, donors and nurses vie for her time.
She leans back against a huge pillar curled with a string of Christmas lights and relishes her time alone. A woman in the hotel uniform smiles and hands her a brochure--their itinerary for the morning--and she opens it to the first glossy page.
'You can't seriously be thinking of going with these losers.' She shouldn't be surprised that House is suddenly there, leaning on the pillar beside her and gesturing to the man calling out to 'Tour Group A' and waving a gaudy neon green handkerchief high in the air. He grabs the brochure from her hands and ignores her annoyed glare as he scans through it.
'St. Stephen's Cathedral, Karlskirche, Historisches Museum--wow!' He says cheerfully. 'A concoction of death by boredom designed to make you pliant and willing to return for the talks in the afternoon, no doubt.'
'It's a historic tour of Vienna,' She defends, making a grab for the itinerary. 'Rich with culture, churches and art.' He easily lifts it over his head. 'And I am going to return in the afternoon. Daniels was fine.' She is lying through her teeth.
'Come on, Cuddy,' He goads. 'I'll give you a private tour,' He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 'of this here ol' city. None of these kirche and museums.'
She crosses her arms, unimpressed. It is just like him to effortlessly create something new whenever he dislikes what's already there, as if it were so easy and blindingly obvious. It's always been something she has been secretly envious about. 'And that is worse than an express tour of Vienna's strip clubs, how?'
'Shoot, and I already told fat Helga to save us a table at the very front!' He cries in mock outrage.
She raises an eyebrow.
'Gay bars?' He tries helpfully.
Cuddy lets out a huff, and shoulders her tote bag and starts to walk away.
'Okay, okay,' House concedes. She turns back to look at him and he has his hands stuffed in his jeans, eyes downcast, almost a little hesitant. Then he looks at her, piercing her with a steady blue gaze. 'Do you have kids?'
Once again, she is started by his sudden change of topic, and doesn't know how to reply except to counter with a question of her own. 'How long have you been in Vienna?'
Why the hell did you leave? Why didn't you call or write or send a damn postcard? She also has a dozen more to that degree, and can't think of asking them without pounding him on the head with her bag.
He glares at her with good measure and she glares back, arms still crossed. What a sight they must be, she thinks, in the middle of the crowd engaged in their own personal standoff, like nothing else is in the world. She has not felt for ages; standing here across him in the cold lobby and the smell of air freshener, she has never been so warm.
It's him who finally looks heavenward and narrows his eyes at her. 'Fine. Quid pro quo, Clarice, I'll tell you things, you tell me things, the whole nine yards.'
'Do we lock ourselves in an asylum somewhere?' She inquires dryly.
'Oh you naughty girl, you! Perfect time to play out your interrogator fantasy. But no. Ditch the gay patrol, and come with me,' He says.
She weighs the options in her head, as if there is any doubt what she would choose. She can tell he knows he has her by the telltale triumphant gleam in his eyes. She takes her time and makes a point to look between him and the tour guide speaking in a loud, accented voice. No harm in making him waver sometimes.
Then she rests her eyes on him and nods. 'Fine. Lead the way then, Hannibal.'
They start for the doors, her pulling her gloves and him ambling along beside her. It's as if they aren't in the hotel, but in the clinic, her heels clicking on linoleum instead of marble, surrounded by sick patients instead of dignitaries and doctors. When they go out the doors, she can see almost see the sidewalks of Princeton.
'Fat Helga, huh?'
'There's one in every city.'
House tells her to wait by the platform as he gets their tickets. She is a little wary of his gentlemanly ways, especially after he quickly snatched the twenty euros--the smallest denomination she has--from her hand a little too gleefully and scurried off to blend in the crowds. She resolves to break her money down to smaller bills before House has a field day 'buying tickets.'
She pulls her coat tighter to ward off the sudden chill. Wien Praterstern station is open, and if it weren't for the roof she would probably be covered head to toe in flurries of snow. She must admit though, that winter has never looked so lovely.
As a child, she remembers going to Italy. She was maybe ten or eleven, and wishing she were anywhere but in the stifling, overcrowded Sistine Chapel, where a thousand or so tourists had the same idea to see 'a bunch of angels on the ceiling,' she remembers thinking. The Trevi Fountain was the same--she could hardly push through all the people to get to the edge of the water and throw a coin; anyway, she had decided she didn't want to return to Italy.
The rest is a blur of long lines, gelato, and the merciless heat. There is one image she can't forget, though, Going down the steps of St. Peter's Basilica, she had looked back in time to see her mother blow a kiss to the sky. 'For your father,' she explained later, 'who had always wanted to see Italy.' She thought back to looking at the city disdainfully through the airplane window, and felt guilty.
Lost in thought and seeing a towering structure of what must be a ferris wheel at a distance, she brings her fingers to her lips and blows a small kiss.
It's not Italy, She thinks to her father, but it's beautiful.
'For Wilson?' House asks behind her. She turns to him, and is suddenly aware that he has been standing there for a while. His face is unreadable, though his eyes are narrowed dangerously, and she can almost see the clockwork of his brilliant mind turning.
She flushes a little, annoyed at being caught unaware. House eats unguarded moments alive, and she tries her best to keep some things to herself. He can't know everything.
'Bonnie will kill me,' She replies simply, a little pleased at herself when she practically sees alarm bells flash across his face. His face goes dark and his eyebrows weave together, and the hand clutching his cane flexes. She can see the question he wants to ask, the ever-curious nature warring with his pride to win this stupid game they've set for themselves.
The sound of the speakers overhead announcing their train and the faint shaking of the ground makes her look up. He pushes his way past her and throws out a brusque, 'Our train,' over his shoulder. He disappears in the growing crowds, and she has to walk briskly to catch up.