Cares fly away on the interstate. Thoughts seem to disappear. The highways are the only place that a limp-legged doctor in the back half of his forties can go to avoid the call of clinic duties. He revs the engine of his motorcycle for the simple joy of hearing the masculine rumbling noise. He speeds past the ramp that would logically have taken him to Princeton-Plainsboro, the hospital wherein everything of great importance revolves around how clear his head is, how sharp his brain. The red wheels of the replica Repsol bike spin, propelled by the same adrenaline that courses through the veins of the man. A passing dragonfly changes his train of thought to the flitty, buzzing movement of one of his toadies upon entering the hospital yesterday. She had covered herself head to toe with form-fitting black digs that made her look as if she were late for a poetry reading. She was twitchy all day, making the patients and her colleagues nervous, and getting on his nerves.
This particular immunologist has been on his mind a lot lately, and he feels a tingle of guilt for being upset with her. The reason for her sudden burst of negative energy was less her fault than the death of the only white cheetah at the zoo. A man of about her age had come in the day before with a parasite he picked up while hunting with his father ten years before. The man, spunky and snide, had coughed his HIV positive blood into her eye and mouth, putting her at risk, and not acting very apologetic about it. He had even had the audacity to tell her that he might have changed her life for the better. He claimed to have given her the freedom to do what she wished free of consequence.
She had apparently taken him more seriously than first thought, for when she had come into work the next day she was late, and looked stressed, as if hung-over. But instead of the natural, mopey, thick-headedness of a hangover, she acted surprisingly fidgety, as if bothered by more than just her impending doom. Every move she had made that day, every word she had spoken, had reminded him suspiciously of his college roommate, which had clued him in to what the problem was: his employee had experimented with some of the patient's confiscated crystal Meth. But it was more than that, it seemed. He had watched her jerky movements, and the uncomfortable silence between her and his intensive care specialist. Her metamorphosis from the smart, beautiful, snappy female, and his transmutation from outspoken sycophant to empathetic mime were enough to prove that something had happened between them.
He grows uncomfortable thinking about this, and his initial thought is that they're his underlings. Upon further inspection, however, he realizes that this feeling stems more from the intrinsic thought that this one belongs to him. Even if he never claims her, and continues to dismiss her –like he does so well - she still belongs at his side, attempting to fix him.
Giving in to his challenging Rubik's Cube of a career, he turns off at the next exit, leaning far into the turn. His leg, damaged from an aneurism, threatens to stroke the ground, but he pulls from the turn just in time. He pilots the bike back to the hospital, where his phone rings as soon as he steps off. He glances at the screen, and revels at the sight of the word "Cuddy" flashing across it.
He pulls it to his head, and barks into it "House." The voice of his boss from the other end sends a familiar shiver down his spine.
"You better have a good reason that my ER doesn't have an attending."
He pulls a solid wooden cane from his bike, and locks the engine. He unzips his leather Repsol jacket, throws his backpack over one shoulder, and starts limping toward the hospital.
"He had a wild night with some blood samples last night, and can't be bothered to show himself in daylight hours. He's gotta wait til his fangs retract." He tries. She scoffs at him over the phone.
"House, where are you?" She asks, more straightforward, and clearly not in the mood to be chatty.
He of course, never one to play well with others, has other ideas. "I'm behind your curtains." He whispers in a very shady manner.
From his vantage point just before the door to the clinic, he looks up to see the curtain in her office yanked to one side, and her worried face staring down at him. He waves with his cane.
"What are you doing down there?" She barks.
He stares up at her. "I thought I'd stand out in the snow for a while. Just long enough to watch a daisy find it's way through the harsh conditions of reality. Then I'll come in and watch Cameron try the same." She scowls at him from three stories up, and he responds with, "Ask a stupid question… Well, you know the rest."
She sighs, and rolls her eyes at him. "Just get in here. Chase thinks he's discovered a cure for … you."
She hangs up on him, not allowing him time to find any snide retort, and he makes his way inside, resolved to ignore everyone until he is safe in his office.