Note: Got restless and had to write. Have an idea of where this is headed, but no specifics. Just going along for the ride.
The tennis ball thudded off the wall and fell back into his waiting hands. He threw it again, eyes watching the ball but seeing nothing. It was familiar, it was comforting, it was a habit that involved no thinking and no effort. Ever since Mayfield, it was the little things that provided reassurance. Everything was going to be ok. Nothing changes.
Still no bite. He had bailed on clinic duty, again, but not before leaving a patient waiting in Room 3. Waiting for test results to confirm an infection of Idiotsitis. House glanced down at his watch. Two hours and counting—there was no way Cuddy could have missed this. For the number of times she had interrupted his midday naps, the woman probably had surveillance cameras installed in all the rooms. His computer dinged, alerting him to a new email. Gleefully, House dropped the ball on his desk, oblivious as it slowly rolled away and fell to the floor. The email was from Dr. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine. It was a reminder to department heads that staff evaluations were due in the next couple of weeks. House furrowed his brow and reached for his ball. His fingers met the cold and smooth desk top. Sometimes, everything changes.
Wilson ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. Cuddy looked up from behind her desk, arching a perfect eyebrow before refocusing on the neatly stacked paperwork in front of her. "Wilson, this better not be about House. I don't have the time or energy to babysit right now." Wilson sighed; he was never good at making a grand and dramatic entrance.
"Cuddy, he's trying. House never started something without knowing how it was going to end. He lives in a world framed by logic and reason…"
"Exactly. And look where it's gotten him." Her left hand flew across a page, beautiful and impeccable signature marking her approval.
"It got him to admit that he can't control everything. House is trying to break bad habits and it scares him. Change is never easy. And for House, who looks for patterns in everything, change is scary. For the first time, this man has no idea what's going to happen next." Wilson set his hands on his hips, the awkwardly rolled sleeves, mismatched in size, sitting on his forearms. Cuddy finally set down her pen, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath before glancing up at the oncologist.
"Wilson, House will always be House. He's trying, but once he gets bored or frustrated, he'll be right back to…" Cuddy's voice trailed off and her eyes widened, focused on the commotion behind him. Wilson turned to look over his shoulder, and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Movers in blue uniforms were carrying in giant furniture boxes. Each box had a very large Ikea logo printed on the side. Cuddy placed her hands over her eyes and Wilson could hear her muttering beneath her breath, "This is not happening, this is not happening."
House rolled by Cuddy's office in a wheelchair, no doubt stolen from a patient, and grinned lopsidedly. He raised his cane in one hand and knocked on the glass paneling, waving, before disappearing from view. Wilson barely had time to register what he had just seen before Cuddy stormed past him, giving his shoulder a rough shove and pushing him from her path.
The grizzled doctor was still sitting in the wheelchair, scrawling on the clipboard one of the movers had just given him. Click-click -click . Her heels announced her arrival. House tossed the clipboard back at the man and spun around, leaning back and popping a wheelie. "Dr. Cuddy, to what do I owe this pleasant surprise? I'd like you to meet Sven, a long-lost cousin of mine. He's just dropping off some Christmas gifts from Sweden.
"My name is Dan…" followed by a grunt as House brought the rubber-tipped end of his cane down on the man's foot.
"Gutentag, Sven. Tell the family I'll see them the next time we celebrate the birth of a make-believe idol. So… Martin Luther King, Jr. Day?" House laid his cane across his lap, smiled at Cuddy, and tried to make a quick getaway.
"Not so fast." She grabbed the back of the wheelchair and kept him in place. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Celebrating Jesus. He wanted us to remember him through material gifts, you know. Oh wait, you don't know. Jew-lous of my new toys?"
"Ha. Ha. You already used that line on me last week. I want you to return everything and I want an itemized receipt for proof. On my desk. End of business today."
House reached back and tucked a crumpled piece of paper into the waistband of her skirt, fingers lingering for an extra second. They barely skimmed over her skin, briefly making contact with her stomach. Her breath caught and her eyes shot to his. He pulled his hand back and the moment was lost. Taking advantage of her stunned silence, he elaborately winked at her and pushed off towards the elevators.
Just as she was starting to feel light-headed, Cuddy remembered to inhale. She pulled the receipt free and skimmed over the product descriptions. And did a double-take. Under "Billing Name and Address", where she had expected to find her credit card information, she read, "Dr. Gregory House." Confused, Cuddy reread the details. He had bought new furniture for the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's daycare center.
The man had never been altruistic in his life. He never did something for others unless there was personal gain involved. She didn't know what he was up to, but she was going to find out.