2:07 p.m. -Wrath
"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she yells as she walks into her office, throwing her door a little too hard behind her. She doesn't even turn around to see if it smacks him in the face. Her lab coat misses the hanger and piles on a heap in the floor.
"Saving my patient last I checked," he answers in a hateful tone.
"You are to approve everything through me. That includes scheduling the OR for procedures. I get a call that says you've booked the room in a little under an hour to dig in the guy's spinal column."
"He needs surgery."
"Based on what? Where are your MRI scans?"
"Each time the MRI is used, that costs the hospital 10 grand. I am just trying to cut costs and save a life at the same time," he shoots back and then scuffs his shoe against the carpet of her office.
"Syringomyelia. Explains the uncontrolled emotions and sleep deprivation. I need the surgery to find the cyst."
"Can the bullshit, House. This is about you thinking you're right and playing a hunch. That isn't how this hospital works. You need proof before you run off and do a high risk surgery."
"You can the bullshit, Cuddy. I've been watching this guy squirm in agony for the past five hours while you have been shoveling down muffins and playing I-Spy in my office. Do what you are good at, administrating. And I'll do what I am good at, being a doctor."
Walking over to stand in front of him, she brings her body so close to his that she can feel his body heat wafting over to her. Or maybe it is his anger. She isn't sure either way but she wants him to understand that she isn't sitting in on this gamble.
"Do the damn MRI to make sure he has a legitimate cause to warrant surgery. Then, and only then, can you scrub up and play Operation," she says in a low, but harsh voice.
She wonders if she resembles one of the cartoons on Saturday mornings where coyotes have steam coming out of their ears. Her fingers curl into tiny fists and brush against the fabric of her skirt.
"Just so you know, I'll attend your lynching from the Board when this guy gets shipped to his family in a nice pine box," he frowns, then sticks out his tongue.
He speeds out of the door, despite his handicap. Plopping back into her chair, she sticks her muscular legs up on the edge of the mahogany, idly wondering how long it will take her to get back to Earth due to the TNT he has lit under her.