Sons and Lovers—Chapter 3
"Have you even started interviewing candidates?" House shook his head swiping a chip from Wilson's open bag. "And Cuddy hasn't killed you? She's losing her touch."
"She's just sharpening her claws. It'll happen soon enough." Wilson gaped at House.
"You seem pretty relaxed about all this. Didn't she give you until the end of this week to narrow the candidates down to five. You haven't interviewed anyone. At all."
"What can she do?"
"Make you work in the clinic 9-5? Every day?" House shrugged. Why did everything that Wilson said seem to be in the form of a question? "You must have something sinister planned. You can't be this relaxed. You hate the clinic."
"That, I do." He said calmly. House actually had the candidates narrowed to three. He was planning on seeing them the next morning. Wilson didn't have to know that. Not yet.
"I thought you STOPPED taking the anti-depressants." To Wilson, that seemed the only logical explanation: that House, contrary to popular opinion, had continued taking the anti-depressants that Wilson had given him. House nodded non-committally as Cuddy swept into the cafeteria, stopping at the salad bar.
"Wicked witch at 1:00." House ducked, hiding his face behind a nearby newspaper, like a mischievous schoolboy.
"Your 1:00 or mine?" he inquired conspiratorially. "She IS going to kill you, you know. Whatever your plot is, you better have it ready, because she's headed right this way." House smiled distantly as Cuddy approached, stopping at their table.
"Gentlemen…" She was smiling. Never a good sign in Wilson's book. She enjoyed her work as House Tamer way too much, he thought; relished yelling at him, and if he wasn't mistaken, being yelled right back at by House himself. She was ready and waiting for the forthcoming fight, he was certain. Wilson sighed.
"Join us?" House's tone was solicitous, dripping with an inviting sort of sincerity. He had to be planning something. Wilson felt as if he was about to watch a car crash in slow motion. Gruesome, but impossible from which to look away.
"Fellows. Five candidates. By…" she glanced at her watch. "Tomorrow." She smiled beatifically; her voice cutting, her stance waiting for his counter punch.
"I have my candidates. Three, actually. Two women; one man. Cardiologist, immunologist, intensivist. Ran out of 'ologists' in the CV pile. One from Cornell, one from Albert Einstein, one from UCLA. All firsts in their class; class A residencies. One's actually a good candidate for you Cuddy. Early 40's, single dad. He's the cardiologist from California. Could be your type. Who knows?" Cuddy sucked in a breath, shaking off the sincerity in House's voice for the show she hoped it was.
"I'm impressed. Have you actually spoken to any of them?"
"Didn't need to. We'll all get to meet them soon enough. Tomorrow: 8 a.m., 9 a.m. and 10 a.m. Don't be late." Wilson watched, stunned. This, he would never have expected. Had to be a catch. A big one.
"Can't wait." Cuddy walked off with her tray, her lab coat floating behind her. House watched with interest as she sashayed away.
"Zesty bod. Don't'cha think, Jimmy?"
"So who are these fellowship candidates?" Wilson was not going to go there. Not going to take the bait. Been there. Done that.
"Who the hell knows. Three bodies to fill my fellowship slots. They're smart, at least on paper; two babes. Intensivist has pediatric experience; immunologist was a Fulbright fellow with Rowan Chase in Oz a few years ago. Cardio guy is divorced, wants out of his nice, comfortable, but, as he put it 'boring and disillusioning' suburban practice treating guys who don't know how to say 'no' to pizza and sliders. Any more you want to know, stop by my office tomorrow morning. Gotta go. I hear an STD calling from the clinic. Time to go swab a crotch." House picked up his cane and left without another word.
After a moment to absorb the shock, Wilson bused his tray and headed straight for Cuddy's office.
"He's going to crack. I can practically see the fissures."
"What? Why?" Cuddy was confused by Wilson's concern.
"We both know him. This is NOT how he reacts to….to…to stuff like this. It's not him. He's losing it." Cuddy sat in her chair, putting her feet up on the desk, steepling her fingers. "It's right there under the surface. You can't feel it?"
"Wilson… I dunno. Maybe House is right. Maybe he IS OK with it—his staff all gone. Maybe he's found a way to cope."
House and Cuddy had decided the morning after their first night together that Wilson was not going to know about their relationship. Not right away. This thing they had, whatever it was, and wherever it was going, was apart and separate from the hospital from their careers; their professional relationship as Dean of Medicine and Department Head. It was the only way it would have any chance of succeeding: to keep their professional lives, and other friends, out of it. For now.
Years of practice had made both House and Cuddy virtual professionals at compartmentalizing their lives. It was a skill that, at least most of the time, allowed them, as doctors, to be objective. For House it was a literal and very critical survival skill.
House returned to his office, wandering first into the now-darkened outer office, past the empty white board and into his inner-sanctum. He collapsed into the Eames chair, exhausted. His nights with Cuddy were exquisite, but tiring; he resisted sleep as long as she was there, trying to avoid a repeat of his display the week before. Once, he could shrug off as bad pizza or something equally banal. A second night of waking in a cold sweat, terrified and disoriented would not be so easily explained. Cuddy was no idiot, and she would probe until she had analyzed the damn dream to death. Cat naps on the Eames chair was a much preferable solution, at least for the moment.
In a way—in a big way—he was grateful for the loneliness of the office and the unmistakable absence of Cameron, Chase and Foreman. No personal questions and meaningful stares from Cameron; no useless insights into his psyche from Chase; no sneering from Foreman. He could grow accustomed to the absence of that sneer. House fell into a welcome sleep as Bruch played in his ear.
……..
Vivid images: An icy rain pelting the ground sounding like machine gun fire on the metal gutters. Lightning flashes illuminating a pitch black sky. Fifteen…sixteen. The predictable crash. Sixteen miles away.
He's yelling, but he can't hear himself: the downpour drowns his voice as he tries the kitchen door knob over and over to no avail. Running breathlessly against the rain and wind: first to his mother's car and then his father's old Ford, hoping that one of the doors would be unlocked and he could find some sort of refuge from the rain. Nothing. The rain falling even harder and the wind picking up until even the trees are screaming. The lightning approaches closer as the minutes pass: five…six…seven…eight… seconds. Eight miles away and to the west. No shelter except the big willow tree -- not as good an idea as he had thought just a moment ago.
"You lied to me." He hadn't lied. He was trying to explain. "Not really lied." But there was no "not really" in John House's rule book. His mother, who, in the dream is wearing necklaces of red and black electrical leads that trail behind her like a cans on a "just married car," is a human lie detector. She had found the truth in the 12 year old's eyes. "Bet you're sorry now, mom. That you told him," he says to the wind, which refuses to answer.
Not a lie. Not the truth either. He sees the dog from within the shadows of his mind, idealized into a helpless puppy. White and fluffy. A bichon frisse, maybe. He hadn't really brought the stray dog into the house. He'd kept it in the garage. The mangy animal, scraggly and one-eyed had an injured leg; attacked by Charlie Nelson's pit bull; Nelson laughing about the pitiful mutt being no match for his father's purebred fighting dog.
Didn't they understand? He'd had no choice. "I will not have that flea-bitten animal in this house. Probably has rabies." "No. It doesn't have rabies," he pleads to no avail, trying to commute the dog's death sentence. Who would take him? And even if they did…the mutt's fate was not a happy one.
House sees the dog, as time jumps back a day and a half, wary and skittish, snapping half-heartedly at the approaching 12 year old boy. Resolve overcame fear and drew Greg nearer, more snapping—and not so half-heartedly as before. He opens Mom's refrigerator, six slices of Oscar Meyer bologna not-so-neatly procured. Back to the dog, who is now hunkered down on the edge of the grass. Greg's calm voice and persistence gradually gains the trust of the broken animal. Steady, patient hands. He looks at the limb, and after securing the dog in a cardboard carton, and finding his dad's first aid kit, Greg manages to bandage the dog's leg, not sure if the limb was broken. The dog's eyes less wary now, an ally found, a licked hand, and all Greg can think of are the symptoms of rabies he read in a book.
But it's the best he can do, and it would have to suffice. He probably should have put the kit back properly and sealed the bologna, he thinks, in retrospect. He had not covered his tracks well, and he knew his dad was not fond of dogs or any other domestic animals. His mom wasn't too fond of them either.
A garage door opening slightly, flashes the image back to the immediate crisis, only slightly less surreal as a cardboard container is shoved through the door, dashing Greg's hopes for the dinner and warm bed. He is afraid, and his fear is all he has, and he wants to die. Because living sucks, and given a choice between this Hell or that, he'd rather have one that's a little warmer and drier.
He watches the stunned dog try to maneuver into a corner of the box to escape the pouring rain; within minutes there is nothing left of the box and the injured animal lay there staring with pleading eyes at Greg to do something. Greg's eyes beg for the dog's forgiveness as he clutches the luckless dog--a kindred spirit--beneath Greg's sopping windbreaker.
A flash of lightning splits the nightmare of a storm hours later, yet only a second in the mindscape of memory, starling 12-year old Gregory House from his resigned calm just in time to see the old willow split in two. The ensuing crash of thunder is close enough to nearly deafen him, waking up Blythe and John. "It's the old tree," he heard John explain to Blythe from inside the safety of the house. "It's morning, John, please let him come in. It's enough. He'll catch pneumonia out there." Gregory looked down to see the lifeless form of the dog in the same position he was in earlier, curled against Greg's shivering body. "It'll be alright," he whispers raggedly to no one in particular as he nudges the dog, who refuses to move. Stunned, Greg beseeched the animal to move, quietly at first and then louder and louder until his screams, which have no effect, bring John to his side. He feels John's presence looming above him. "You killed it. You fucking killed it. See? You're not responsible enough for a dog. You're useless. Fucking useless. You don't deserve a pet…" "John enough! Let him in the house," he hears from beyond his tears. And then a blur; and then nothing.
Greg wakes up in the warmth of his own bed. "Stupid kid stayed out all night, what'd he expect?" "Pneumonia…" "Hospital…" "Coulda died…" "Coulda, woulda, shoulda." Words, hazy visions dancing pyrotechnics around the edges of Greg's consciousness. "One hundred four…" "Must've lost his damn house key…" Excuses, explanations, laughter. "boys will be boys…" The laughter growing more surreal and louder, surrounding him, suffocating him until he could no longer breathe… And then her voice above the rest, soaring like a swallow, soft and strong. He knew that voice, but it didn't belong to his mother. He couldn't quite place it--who…?
"House? House! Wake up!" Someone was shaking him. Hard. He gasped, struggling with his breathing. His wrists were being held, firmly but gently. He opened his eyes to see Cuddy staring down at him, holding his wrists. He struggled, fighting her off. "House. It's me." He was having an anxiety attack of some sort, which terrified her. In all the years she'd known him, she had never seen him like this.
Slowly, he came back to himself. He was too shaken to cover immediately. "Bad dream," he managed. Cuddy sat on the ottoman, nudging his feet over, maintaining eye contact with him.
"That was NOT just a 'bad dream.' You were in a full-blown panic attack. You do NOT have panic attacks."
"It was vivid. A bad, vivid, dream. It was too real, it must've…" House was still groggy. Had he taken something to help him sleep? He couldn't quite remember.
"What was it? Do you remember any of it? Scary monsters? Space aliens?" House broke eye contact, choosing instead to stare out into the middle distance of the office.
"Nothing so scifi. Mundane almost. Most mundane. But on the other hand, some of the scariest monsters are terrifyingly ordinary, aren't they?" He was speaking the words, but not to her, but to some phantom in the room. House exhaled a ragged breath, and then another. Discussion over. Cuddy sighed, at a loss. Two nightmares, at least, in a week. The doctor in he was curious; the lover in her was worried. And scared.
