TITLE: Chapter 9 Hobbies

AUTHOR: new_raven

PAIRING: mild/implied House/Chris

RATING: PG13-ish

WARNINGS: none

SUMMARY: What was Chris supposed to do now?

DISCLAIMER: House and his pretty friends don't belong to me.

SOUNDTRACK: .com/playlist?list=PL0E97EE610F950F6A&feature=mh_lolz

Chris went to Rachel's room, as soon as she could get away, but Rachel didn't want any visitors and Chris couldn't bear sitting with her family, for very long. She went back to her mother's room, only to be informed that Sherry had been moved upstairs to the psyche ward. At the psyche ward she was told, that it was standard procedure for patients not to have visitors, after a violent episode, until they had been evaluated by a doctor.

"She's seen a dozen doctors," Chris protested. The woman behind the window gave her a confused look and then offered to let her speak to the nurse. Chris just nodded. When the nurse came out to the hall to speak with her, she almost did a double take. She recognized him from around the hospital. He had always stood out to her, because he bore a strong resemblance to one of her attackers.

Chris shook her head while she listened to the nurse. He explained that Sherry had become hysterical and attacked him almost as soon as she was brought to the floor. Chris tried to explain that he resembled someone from her mother's past, but this only seemed to annoy him. He thought she meant because he was black, but he really did look like the other man. The more she tried to explain, the less he seemed to listen. When she suggested that another nurse be assigned to her mother's case, he just sneered at her and said he needed to get back to work.

It was after hours, and Chris had no choice but to accept that she wouldn't see her mother that night. She would go over the nurse's head, the next day and make sure he was taken off her mother's service. She didn't really care if he thought she was a racist bitch. Any further outbursts would only hurt her mother's case.

Chris knew she should go home, but she just didn't want to. She tried to study, but couldn't concentrate. It didn't help that she already knew the material and was just reviewing for finals. She started walking and found herself in front of House's office. The odd paper floor lamp was on, and he was reclined in the chair in the corner.

"She attacked a nurse." Chris said as she walked into the room.

"Rachel?" House asked.

"My mom," Chris told him. She went around the desk and sat in his chair, wondering if that would bother him, but not caring enough to let it stop her. "She thought he was someone else. She's not just randomly attacking people."

"Who did she think she was attacking?"

"A guy…" she paused, sifting through memories she generally avoided, "one of the guys from the trial."

"You mean one of your attackers?" House asked.

"Yeah," she leaned forward in the chair and inspected the tiny animal skulls and other random crap on the desk, before picking up the oversized tennis ball. "He testified against the others and got some kind of deal. This nurse really does look like him. He's even got a scar on his nose. I noticed him months ago."

"But you didn't attack him," House pointed out.

"Yeah," Chris sighed. "I didn't know she was this far gone. I would have watched her. I could have …"

"No, you couldn't. You did everything you could. It just wasn't enough. That's why we have hospitals."

She looked up at him for first time since she sat down. "If she was eighty, no one would even question me wanting to take care of her."

"If she was eighty, taking care of her wouldn't be a life sentence."

Chris didn't respond. She didn't have the energy even for one of their fun, petty arguments, much less a real one, especially when she knew he was right. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but she wished he would just talk. She didn't care if he told her about the weather, or read her the phone book. She just wanted to know that he was there.

"I don't know what I'll do," Chris said after a while, "if she's gone, and I graduate, and I have ten thousand dollars."

"Disney World?" House joked, and then wondered if she was old enough to remember those commercials.

Chris offered him something similar to a smile, but couldn't muster up the real thing.

"You'll find a hobby."

"Like knitting?"

"Something fun… square dancing or bomb building," House grinned.

"Sword swallowing?" she asked.

"Erotic poetry writing," he offered. "I think Wilson's taking a class on Thursdays."

Chris's laughter surprised her, but it felt good. As much as she hated the "damsel in distress" theme that their relationship had developed, she couldn't deny that he had helped. He'd been there for her, with a cup of coffee or an inappropriate joke, every time she needed it the most and expected it the least. Whatever it said about her, she didn't want to give that up.

The next couple of weeks flew by, for the most part. Between finals, jobs, and trying to keep in touch with her mother's doctors and lawyers, she didn't have that much time to worry. She kept up her volunteer hours and even covered a few of Rachel's. She applied for a few entry-level clerical and housekeeping positions at the hospital, and basically any other full-time jobs near the bus route.

Sherry was transferred to a state hospital after a few days. Chris protested but there was no wiggle room. Her mother wasn't fit to be in jail, and the "criminally insane" only had one option while awaiting trial. She tried calling a few times. She couldn't tell if it was from the medications or the physical distance, but her mother seemed farther and farther away each time they spoke. The doctors and staff soon grew weary of her daily calls and stopped responding promptly.

Rachel was in a private hospital. Her parents answered Chris's questions when she called, but they insisted that Rachel didn't want any visitors from school. Rachel reinforced the sentiment by not returning any of Chris's messages.

She decided that if her mother wasn't released, she would do exactly what she wanted, and that was to get the hell out of Jersey. She filled any spare time she had, looking into study abroad programs, flight attendant jobs, and cruise ship opportunities. She even applied to the Peace Corps and a few mission trips; even though she knew she was under-qualified for them.

This was how Chris learned what it meant to be truly alone. She'd felt alone for a very long time, but she hadn't ever been literally by herself, not like this. Nights were unnerving. She could keep busy during the day, but at night she ran out of things to do, besides think and feel guilty.

If not for the nights, she might have avoided everything that she was feeling. Even though it was a bad neighborhood, she'd never felt unsafe there. Now she jumped when a car backfired, and double checked the locks at night. She couldn't relax. One night she spent hours imagining how Tommy had gotten into the house, and what exactly had happened after that. She had finally made herself read a book, knowing she could drive herself crazy with thoughts like that.

Then the unthinkable happened. The man she house sat for called to tell her he wouldn't need her that weekend, because his wife was coming into town. This left Chris with literally nothing to do between getting home from school on Friday and going back on Monday. With no Internet and no cable at the house, she quickly tired of all her entertainment options.

That's when she started cleaning. Not just normal cleaning either, this was obsessive moving the furniture and scrubbing the baseboards with a toothbrush cleaning. She went through each room. First moving everything out, and then scouring from top to bottom, before finally replacing only the things they needed. There was a trash heap the size of a car on the curb when she was done.

Sunday night after everything was back in its place, she walked through to admire her work. She began with a sense of accomplishment, but it quickly turned to a fiery anger. The grout was still gray between the broken and stained tiles. The carpet was spotted, the wood was scratched, and the walls were yellowed. Everything was still crap. Nothing she did could change any of that.

As she stepped into the kitchen her anger burned into rage. The first thing that she saw was an old metal card table. The cream colored vinyl was ripped and pulled up, at three of the four corners. Two of the black legs had red and pink stripes, where she and Sarah had painted them with nail polish. Chris upended the table and slammed it against the wall, sending its contents flying across the room. It clattered to its side, propped up by one of the folding chairs that were under it.

Chris took the chair and swung it at the table. She swung and swung, until she broke through the cardboard and vinyl. Then she beat the aluminum frame and legs until they were something between modern art and scrap metal. Exhausted she threw down the chair, and collapsed on the tile floor. Her face was wet with tears she hadn't noticed falling, and when she looked at what was left of the table, she wept harder.

She wasn't crying for the table, or because she'd done something so insane. She couldn't stop thinking that no one would miss that table. No one else remembered eating dinner on it, or building forts under it. No one was going to come home and ask her "Hey what happened to the table?" Nothing she did could change that either.

That night instead of crying herself to sleep, she let herself think of House. She often thought back to their kiss, and what might have happened if he hadn't stopped her, but this was different. This was a full on fantasy, purely for the purpose of escaping reality.

She imagined he had been at the door when she took that first swing at the table, and that he had broken in, fearing for her safety. When he found her bashing the life out of a hunk of metal, he would take the chair from her and toss it aside, then take her in his arms and kiss away her tears. When he knew that she was alright, he would pull her to the ground and make love to her, right there on the semi-sparkling tile floor. Then he would hold her and say that he loved her. He would say that he was tired of being alone too. Then he would ask her to come home with him and tell her that she never had to come back here.

It was a lovely fantasy, a lot like a Disney movie. It got her through the night, but in the morning she was as ashamed of the fantasy as she was of the mangled remains of the table. From that night on she avoided her house at all costs. She'd prefer a nap on the bus to another night in her bed. She felt more at home at the hospital than anywhere else, and House didn't seem to mind the distraction, when she stopped by to steal food or watch his little black and white TV, as long as he didn't have a case.

She never told a soul about her fantasy. She didn't mention kissing him or wanting to do it again. She wasn't sure if she was more afraid he'd agree or that he'd reject her. Mostly she was just tired. Watching soaps and bickering was comfortable. She didn't know if she could take losing that comfort if she tried, and failed, to start something more.

The last day of school, also happened to be the day of the awards luncheon. Chris wore a navy blue sleeveless dress that was cut in a deep V to the middle of her back. She chose it for the modest front neckline and length as much as the decent fit. With her hair pinned up in a simple twist, and tall black faux leather boots on, she looked and felt like a different person walking the halls one last time.

The awards lunch was mercifully uneventful. She was relieved when five other students were called to the stage with her. They all shook Cuddy's hand, were handed a certificate, and ushered off the stage. She took a sigh of relief and a few more bites of her free meal, before slipping, unnoticed out of the conference room's side door.

She pulled the pins out of her hair and shook it, as she rode the elevator to House's floor. Thirteen sat alone at the table, in the room where they did their differentials.

"Where is everyone? Did you get a case?" Chris asked her.

"House went home early. The guys scattered pretty soon after he left."

"Oh ok, Thanks," Chris tried not to sound disappointed and turned to leave. She'd just wanted to see his face, when she walked in dressed like a girl.

"Hey, what are you doing for Christmas?" Thirteen unexpectedly asked.

"Uh-nothing." Chris was a little nervous where this might be going. It was bad enough when actual charities reached out to her during the holidays, she didn't know what she'd do if random acquaintances started doing it too.

"A guy in my building is looking for someone to house sit, until the first. I don't know what he's paying, but I thought you might be interested?"

"Yeah definitely, where's your building?"

Thirteen gave her the address and phone number. As Chris was thanking her and about to leave, House walked in the door behind her. Before he could speak he was distracted by Chris's hair down around her shoulders, and the perfect skin of her back, peeking from beneath it. It wasn't that she didn't fill out her usual jeans, but the A-line dress drew his eye to her curves. He might have run his fingers over the silver buttons at the small of her back if she hadn't turned to face him, and broken the spell.

"We've got a case. Make copies of that." House tossed Thirteen a file. "Page the others."

"On it," Thirteen was already reading the file and making her way towards the copy room.

"Were you two exchanging digits?" House asked Chris.

"It's a job lead." She felt both flustered and validated by his eyes on her. "Today was the awards lunch."

House nodded. "Does this mean your volunteer days are over?"

"I think I'll try for the award next year, unless I get a job here. We'll see." She thought his face brightened a little.

"Turn around," House said.

"Excuse me?"

"Your tag is out."

"Oh," she pulled her hair over one shoulder as she turned, and smiled to herself. "Ok."

"Hmm?" his finger traced over her spine and made her whole body tense. He pressed the pad of his finger to the first of the silver buttons, "my mistake."

"I know, there isn't a tag in the back."

She leaned back into his touch, until her shoulders were against his chest. His hand was still on the small of her back and he traced the other up her arm. She craned her head to one side, as he bent and let his stubbled face scratch her neck. Thirteen cleared her throat from the doorway. Chris pulled away and turned to face them both.

"I should go…" she tried to sound calm but couldn't quite think straight. "…call about that job."

House was grinning and Thirteen wasn't making eye contact. Chris got all the way to the door before House asked, "Do you want your bag?"

Chris pressed her eyes closed and wrinkled her nose before she turned around. "Yes, right, I'll be needing that." She sighed and picked up her backpack.

"Are you hungry?" House asked her.

"I could eat. Why? I thought you had a case."

"I'm going to be here all night and I haven't eaten." He pulled out a twenty and his keys. "I'll buy you dinner if you get me number seven from the Cactus Taco Stand."

She stared at him with a blank expression for a second; unsure whether she was being treated like an employee, a charity case, or this was an attempt at courtship. "You want me to drive your car across town, and get you tacos?"

"It comes with a chimichanga too." His eyes sparkled with the excitement of a new puzzle. Whether the puzzle in question was her or the new case was hard to determine.

"Ok." How could she say "no" to that face? Then she turned to Thirteen. "Do you want anything?"

As Chris was writing down their orders Chase and Foreman came in. She offered to get them something as well, and House rolled his eyes. "Can we talk about the patient yet?" She heard him ask as she left.