Worry
House was splayed out on the couch, drinking scotch and watching a Real Housewives of New Jersey marathon, when they broke in with a local news brief: There had been a murder/suicide at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, a 28-year-old patient and her 31-year-old ex husband were confirmed dead.
House sighed. This was bad news on many fronts: For starters, the live report was ruining his Housewives marathon. Also, this would probably lead to heightened security at the hospital and endless meetings about safety and gun control, not to mention a general level of freaking out among the staff. People tended to overreact to this sort of thing.
"The only witness to the shooting," the anchor was saying, "was the hospital's head administrator, Dr. Lisa Cuddy."
House bolted upright.
He put on his boots, grabbed his leather jacket, and left for the hospital.
######
The scene was somewhat chaotic: There were dozens of cop cars and fire trucks, several TV news trucks parked on the lawn, and throngs of curious onlookers assembled in the courtyard. But House was easily able to gain access with his PPTH ID badge.
As he made his way toward Cuddy's office, he heard enough accounts to loosely piece together what had happened: Cuddy had been doing her rounds on the third floor when she saw a man who looked vaguely familiar. Then it occurred to her who he was: The ex husband of a patient she'd been warned about by the cops. They had shown her his picture, explained there was a restraining order. If she saw him, she was to notify the authorities immediately.
Cuddy had circulated the photo to the entire staff so she wasn't sure how the creep had even made it to the third floor. But he was wearing a baseball cap, slung low over his eyes. Maybe no one recognize him?
"Call security!" she yelled and chased after him.
By the time she got to the room, it was too late. He was pointing the gun at his ex wife.
"Stop!" Cuddy had screamed, in vain, just as he pulled the trigger.
Then he looked at her. For a brief, heartstopping moment, he took the gun and pointed it at Cuddy. Then he emitted a chilling laugh and shot himself in the head.
Jesus, House thought.
He limped quickly toward Cuddy's office.
When he got there, of course, she wasn't alone.
She was sitting on her couch, with a blanket over her shoulders, drinking a hot liquid, talking to the cops. Several people were hovering—a few nurses, Cuddy's assistant, and Wilson, too.
Cuddy looked drawn, weary, slightly numb. House couldn't hear what she was saying, but as she talked, Wilson was rubbing her shoulders.
House watched this scene for a few seconds from outside her office door.
Then he turned around and went home.
#####
Cuddy wasn't at work the next day, because she was held up with media and the cops, but she returned on Thursday.
It was hard to get in to see her, because all day long her office was like Grand Central Station—concerned friends, well-wishers, admirers, various staff members.
Finally, at about 3 pm, House was able to be with her alone.
To the untrained eye, she looked good, but he saw tiny signs of distress. She was wearing a gray pin-striped suit with a cream-colored blouse—a nice outfit by any measure—but she had just worn the same thing last week. (She almost never repeated the same outfit in the course of a month.) There was an uncharacteristic chip in her nail polish. Her eye makeup was smudged a bit. There was a large coffee on her desk—she usually drank a medium. Her iPod was in front of her—he knew she only listened to music in her office when she really wanted to shut out the world.
He cleared his throat.
She looked up when she saw him. She had bags under her eyes.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," she said.
"Crazy coupla days around here, huh?" he asked, shifting his weight on his cane.
"You could say that."
"All these new security procedures are out of control. Cameron just frisked me."
Looking for a smile. It didn't come.
He started to say something, then stopped.
"I. . ." he started.
"You what, House?"
"I . . . need your approval for a pancreatectomy for a patient with chronic pancreatitis."
"Why do you need my approval?"
"Because he's also diabetic."
The pancreas was needed to produce insulin.
She took the file from him. She was suddenly interested in the case.
"Chronic pancreatitis?" she said, flipping through the file.
"Yup," House said.
"Fluid drain didn't work?"
"We're way beyond that."
She looked at the scan skeptically.
"Why not try a partial pancreatectomy first?"
"Because it won't work."
She looked at him.
"You're positive."
"Positive."
"And the insulin?"
"Insulin-producing cells are injected into the liver. Turns out, the liver is a lazy organ. It had some free time."
"Does the patient know the risks?"
"Yes," House said.
"Okay," she said. "I'll sign off on it."
"Thank you."
She handed him back the file. He stood there, not moving.
"Anything else House?" she said, somewhat wearily.
He sighed a bit.
"No," he said.
####
He was back in her office the next day.
(A nicer outfit, make up still hastily applied. Chip in her nail still there. The bags under her eyes receded. The iPod still on the desk.)
"They switched the coffee maker in the employee lounge," he said.
"I know," she said. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I want the old one back."
"Everyone was complaining about the old one, because the coffee tasted like mud."
"I liked the old coffee."
"You'll learn to like the new coffee."
"No, I won't."
"Sounds like a problem, House."
"Exactly. So what are we going to do about it?"
"We're going to do nothing. You're going to learn to deal with change.
"I have a better solution: Why not have two coffee machines?"
"Because we don't need two."
"Where does that leave me?"
"I don't know House. Switching to tea?"
#####
The next day. In her office. (Another nice outfit, makeup a bit better, nail chip filled in, bags almost gone. iPod still on desk.)
"What now House?"
"I can't find anyone to do my clinic shift for me."
"Here's a novel idea: Do it yourself."
"I can't. I'm busy."
"Doing what: Searching dumpsters for the old coffee pot?"
"I need to take my bike to the repair shop."
"House, the repair shop can wait."
"Actually, it can't. It's easier to get a table at Le Cirque than an appointment with my mechanic."
"Get Cameron to do it."
"She can't ride a bike."
Finally, a tiny smile.
"I meant the clinic duty."
"I know. Asked her already. She's busy volunteering at soup kitchen. Selfish, right?"
"Chase?"
"He filled in for me all last week."
"You told me you did your own clinic duty last week!"
"I sometimes get me and Chase confused. Must be our similar boyish good looks."
She sighed.
"Foreman?"
"No one on my team can fill in."
"Then looks like you're out of luck, House."
"Or more accurately, the clinic is out of luck."
"House," she said, somewhat wearily. "Not today."
He squinted at her.
"Fine. I'll reschedule the appointment."
"Thank you," she said.
He shoved his hands in his pockets.
"Umm. . ." he said.
"Yes?" Her voice was already distracted. She had moved onto something on her desk.
"Nothing. I'll see you later, Cuddy."
She nodded, didn't look up.
#####
"How are you?" Wilson asked.
He had been spending a lot of time with Cuddy since the shooting. Taking her emotional temperature, bringing her lunch, making sure she was eating.
"Hanging in there," she said. "Taking it one hour at a time."
"That's all you can do."
"Of course, House is proving to be a distraction—an annoying distraction, but a distraction all the same."
"How so?"
"He's been in here every day for the past week: First it was approval for a risky procedure, then he didn't like the new coffee pot in the employee lounge. Yesterday, he felt compelled to tell me that the vending machine was out of Nestlé's Crunch bars."
A tiny smile played at the corner of Wilson's mouth.
"What are you smiling about?"
"He's checking up on you."
"No he's not. He's being a pain in my ass."
"He's worried about you."
"I doubt it."
"I know it."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because he's been in my office every day—several times a day, actually—asking how you are."
Cuddy looked up, surprised.
"Why doesn't he just ask me himself?"
"Why does a dog bite? Why does a donkey kick?"
"Huh," Cuddy said.
It suddenly occurred to her that the reasoning behind every one of House's little visits had been specious at best.
"He cares about you, Cuddy. He just doesn't know how to express it."
Cuddy shook her head.
"Its actually been nice to focus on something other than the murder/suicide," she admitted.
"Bingo," Wilson said.
####
The next day, like clockwork, he was back in her office.
"They put my phone number in the employee directory," House said.
"That's what an employee directory is for, House," Cuddy said.
"My home phone number!"
She looked up at him.
He was just about to start working himself into another fake lather but she stopped him.
"House," she said gently, standing up and walking toward him. "I'm okay."
He started to protest. Then his posture relaxed a bit.
"I know," he mumbled, looking at the floor.
"Really," she said. "It sucked. But I'm going to get through it."
"I know," he repeated, sheepishly.
"Thanks for caring," she said.
"Who said anything about caring?" he said. But he smiled a little and she smiled back.
Then he said softly: "No more cowboy stuff, okay? No more chasing after bad guys."
"Okay," she said.
"You promise?"
"I promise."
He swallowed. Hesitated a second.
Then, out of nowhere, he reached out and collected her in his arms.
He squeezed her tightly, more tightly than either of them expected. He breathed her in, pressed his body against hers, felt her strength.
She was okay. She was going to be okay.
Finally, reluctantly, he let her go.