All characters are owned by David Shore and FOX TV.
Confronting the Dancing Bear
She's not the first Mrs. Robinson in your life, but somehow, she's different from the others. The first one almost derailed your medical career...your grades slipped quite a bit that term, as you made up for those celibate years in seminary...but you realized in time what she wanted was a boy toy, and your memories of boyhood were too raw and too recent, and she liked vodka just a little too much. There were a few girls your own age, and then Diane came along with her exotic tastes and esoteric practices, but coming home from the hospital to doctor her burns got old before very long.
There's a lamp on the bedside table beyond her, and in its 40-watt glow, you study her thoughtfully. Her profile makes you think of an old cameo your mother had, carved with delicate precision and the same soft ivory skin tones. What have you, done, oh God, what have you done? This is the first time you've gotten together outside of the hospital. You have a strong desire to ease out of bed and bolt, but you don't want to risk disturbing her. Being this close to someone is scary.
Asleep, the woman beside you looks younger, and you ask yourself, is seven years really that big a gap, and does it matter? Or that technically, you aren't equals at work? She makes a face, mutters something that sounds like "Bad dog!" Umm, okay... She swipes back a lock of red-brown hair that must be tickling her. "No, I said the shoes! Just for that, it's the screamer for you," she mumbles. "Robby, will you slap that idiot?"
No one's called you Robby since you were a kid; hearing it from her brings a lump to your throat. It was natural enough in the heat of passion...this is more intimate, somehow. "It's okay," you say quietly, stroking her hair. "It's just a dream." You fold your hand around hers as she starts awake, blinking, confused. You pull her into your arms. "You talk in your sleep," you say, and are surprised when she smiles.
"I was dreaming about work," she admits. "The circus was in town, and the waiting room was full of clowns and a trained poodle act, and a screaming baby that was really a fifty-year old midget." That gets a laugh out of you. "The clowns were wearing those huge shoes, and they kept getting stuck under the furniture and in the doorways."
"You know what they say about guys with big feet," you tease, and she giggles. "Think that's what it means if you dream about it?"
"There's more," she says, with an impish look.
"You told me to slap someone."
"House." You roar at the thought of House surrounded by poodles and clowns while he tries to diagnose a screaming midget. You're both convulsed with laughter; one of you setting the other one off just when you think you've regained sobriety. It feels incredibly good, you're light-headed with hilarity.
"Maybe we should just tell them, Brenda," you say, countless kisses later. "I don't feel right about sneaking around. I like you too much."
At first it was her, comforting you. The two of you have been stealing moments in Exam Room One ever since the afternoon when you had to call Wilson in to break bad news to the family of a bouncy six-year old who came in for a bump on the head. X-rays showed a brain tumor; the kid probably won't see seven. After they left, the child's mother in tears, you sat in the empty room for twenty minutes, heartsick. It was the first anniversary of the last time you saw your dad, and that grief was too close to the surface.
Then the door opened, and before you could make excuses, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "You should take a break, Chase, get some coffee," she suggested, and you nodded, but couldn't move. "Poor kid," Brenda said, and you're still not sure if she meant you or the previous patient, and then she rested an arm across your shoulders in a hug, and something inside you gave way.
Burying your face against the rose-pink of her scrubs, you shivered while she held you and combed her fingers through your shaggy hair. You couldn't remember the last time you had a few minutes of simple human contact like that, something other than medical procedures or casual sex. She smelled of clean cotton and antibacterial soap and just a hint of apples...it was nice.
You can't remember, any more, if that first kiss was your idea or hers, but by the time she smoothed her hair back and asked if her lipstick was smeared, you felt a helluva lot better. The rest of your shift was a breeze. The next morning, you brought her a Danish as a thank you. She must really like Danish, because she's come in to...assist you regularly since then. Not every day; people would start to talk, and you know better than to volunteer to take House's hours without putting up a semblence of protest. That doesn't stop you from making bets with him involving taking his clinic time that you know you'll lose.
Brenda looks at you, searching your face. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Yeah," you respond, with another kiss. "Look, sooner or later, someone is going to twig it, and there'll be rumors---if there aren't already. Let's get it out into the open. They'll talk for a few days, but not like they would if we tried to keep it a big secret."
"It could get us into trouble," she says, looking troubled.
"Why? We're both responsible adults, you've got seniority and the union behind you." Maybe she just doesn't want her name publicly linked to Dr. Robert Chase, you worry. "Cuddy thinks you're all that, she's not gonna give you any grief."
"What about...House?" What about the dancing bear in Exam Room One?
"House is a pain in the ass," you say firmly. "He'll tease me about it for a while, but he gets bored easily, and if I don't let him push my buttons about it, he'll find something more fun to play with." You wink. "And when he comes down to the clinic, you can always give him the screaming midget." Another smile twitches the corners of her lips. "Come on, Bren, turn out the lights and let's get some shut-eye. We'll worry about it tomorrow."
In the morning, it comes to a head when your pager goes off during breakfast. You call in, and a woman asks, "Brenda?" and for a moment, you're puzzled. "No," you say. "This is Dr. Chase. I got a page..."
"Oh. Chase." There's a pause. You recognize the voice. Lisa Cuddy has caller i.d...and she knows where you're calling from at 9:12 a.m.. She doesn't bring it up, just says "Dr. Litke had to go out of town on a family emergency, and I was hoping you might be able to fill in for him in NICU. I know it's short notice, but we really need coverage."
As you listen to the details of her request, you're torn. On one hand, it tears your chance to spend one-on-one time with Brenda, getting to know each other outside work. On the other hand, you've been busted, and it's important to reassure the boss of bosses that having a relationship with a co-worker isn't going to change the way you do your job. "Okay," you tell her. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Did you want to talk to Brenda?"
Brenda's scouring the bowl that held the french toast batter, and she glances up. "Cuddy." You shape the word with your lips. She dries her hands on a dish towel and walks over to where you're standing. You hand her the phone and after a tentative, "Hello," you hear Brenda say, "Yes, we are..." as you leave the room.
As much as you'd like to be a fly on the wall just then, you go into the bedroom and try to make yourself presentable for work in a day-old shirt and rumpled khaki trousers. Well, NICU knows you got called in at the last minute, and the patients aren't going to notice.
"Cuddy's good with it," Brenda says, on your way out the door. "She apologized for interrupting our weekend, says she had no idea. Come back tonight, Robby," she calls after you as you trot down the stairs. "I'll make dinner."
After your shift is over, you detour to your place for fresh clothes. Walking through your front door, it strikes you how minimal the one-room flat is...a sagging twin bed, a chair by the window and not a helluva lot else besides books. No thriving plants or colorful cushions or decoration...there are a few travel poster of Oz in cheap frames, but they don't cheer you or the room. You never really noticed, but now you have something to compare it to. Taking time for a quick shower and shave, you throw a couple changes of clothes into a gym bag and flee to Brenda's cozy sanctuary. It's a spacious apartment on the second floor of a big, sub-divided Victorian house--your whole flat would fit in her roomy kitchen.
Tonight, the air is perfumed with aromas of tomato and garlic, and you're suddenly aware of how hungry you are. Spaghetti with homemade sauce sates you; you never knew how much you craved this kind of simple domesticity. You watch how she organizes things as you do the washing up. You want to fit in here, want to steal into her life the way a cat does; her Siamese kept his distance at first, but now Frankie's winding around your ankles wanting tribute.
Brenda shakes you awake a while later---you've nodded off on the sofa, after-dinner coffee cooled to room temperature. NICU is short-handed even with you there, and tomorrow is probably going to be just as hectic. She sends you off to bed, and you go willingly. You can hardly keep your eyes open, and when she wishes you sweet dreams, you know you'll dream of her.
Sunday follows the pattern of Saturday. Only the menu has changed. Today, it's scrambled eggs, eight hours of life-and-death precision, followed by paella with shrimp. This time you don't fall asleep on the couch; you wind up having sex on it instead.
Monday morning comes all too soon, as Mondays have a way of doing. You drive in to work together and kiss good-bye in the lobby before heading off to your respective duties. If that doesn't constitute a formal declaration of courtship, you don't know what does.
It takes an hour and forty-eight minutes for the first inquiry. Foreman returns from Radiology and hits you with, "What's the story with you and Brenda?"
"We're seeing each other," you say, not making a big deal of it.
"Oh," says Foreman, exactly the way Cuddy did. "Just wondered."
"Now you know."
You have some qualms when House asks to see you in his office, but all he wants is your opinion on some lab results. You breathe a sigh of relief too soon, because as you're turning to leave, in walks Wilson. The first words out of his mouth are, "You sly dog!"---and he isn't talking to House.
Being matter-of-fact doesn't work with House, not with Wilson smirking, all nudge-nudge, wink-wink. You resign yourself to snide remarks about doctors and nurses and extensive speculation about the state of your love-life. That's the kind of adolescent pettiness you expect from House. Then he stands up, saying, "Come to think of it, I was supposed to be in the clinic forty minutes ago!"
The unholy glee in his smile triggers an unexpected reaction, and you body-block him as he limps toward the door. He staggers, and almost goes down. "No you don't!" you growl. "Leave Brenda alone. I mean it, if you go down there and give her a hard time---"
"You'll what?"
"I'll shove that cane so far up your arse they'll be calling you Cyrano." You don't recognize your own voice. It isn't loud, but it's forceful.
House is staring at you, his blue eyes trying to reduce you to stammering contrition, but it's not going to happen. Wilson, the instigator of this fracas is standing in the doorway with his mouth hanging open. He's the one who finally inserts a note of levity into the moment. "Dr. Pinocchio House," he quips, "with his own built-in lie detector so he knows when everybody's lying."
That earns Wilson a House-glare of his own, and you take a deep breath, knowing the reprieve is momentary at best.
"I'm serious," you say in a level voice. "Don't take your issues with me out on her. Period."
"Or what? You'll knock me down again?"
"If that's what it takes to get your attention. It's not like you'd listen if I said 'please'."
House limps over to his desk, sits back down. He pulls the familiar vial from his jacket pocket and pops a Vicodin. "I was supposed to be in the clinic forty minutes ago," he says, his voice flat. "Go cover for me."
"On my way," you reply as neutrality as you can. That didn't go well, but you suppose it could have been worse. At least now everything is out in the open, and eventually you and Brenda will be regarded as part of the background at PPTH, not the latest hot news, a tasty bit of gossip to get the work-week off to a lively start.
You head downstairs with alacrity. Of course, it's not like the two of you are going to have time to clown around today. Mondays at the clinic are always a circus.