November 13th
Greg stares at the phone. He's been here for close to half an hour now in an attempt to dial McMurphy's number, the one Sarah gave him before she left for Oklahoma. But every time he reaches for the receiver, he can't pick it up. Maybe it's the fact that he's in his new office, where everything is still shiny, unused, unfamiliar; maybe it's because he's exactly what John House always said he was, a coward. It doesn't really matter, because the end result is the same: inaction.
He finally grabs his game and starts a new level just as Roz comes in. She's made the rounds, checked on things. As she enters the room there's an echo of that terrible moment after the fight with Wilson, when Greg called her filthy. Nothing could have been further from the truth, then or now; she looks good enough to eat, something he plans on doing later though she doesn't know it yet. She has on a dark green sweater and new jeans, and her sable hair in its new ruffled cut softens the strong angles of her features. When she comes in she sees the phone still in its base. Anyone else would have said "How's it going?" or "Any luck?" or "Why haven't you called yet?" All she does move around behind him to rest her hands lightly on his shoulders. She doesn't hold him in place or try to control him; she just offers the comfort of her presence.
He glances around the office. It's not at all like his old digs in PPTH, no expensive glass box; it's homey, with an oriental carpet on the floor and a woodstove atop on a stone hearth that's part of the original furnishings. But beyond the physical disparity there's an important difference. In those surroundings he was always alone, even with other people in the room. Here he is not.
The warmth of Roz's touch feels good and lessens his anxiety bit by bit. She massages the tight muscles, her slender fingers strong and gentle at the same time. He sets aside the game and closes his eyes, held captive as always by the still-novel sensation of someone willing to spend time with him, willing to offer affection without a requirement for anything in return.
"Everything's looking good," she says. Her cool, dark voice holds a smile. "We'll get the lab set up this week. By the time Sarah comes back we'll be ready."
"Personnel," he reminds her. His palms are sweaty. She gives him a little caress.
"Singh's ready to start work," she says. Some more of the anxiety drains away at her calm reminder. "Doctor Chase called earlier, by the way."
His mind jumps with something like gratitude to the conundrum of what to do about his ex-fellow. "He's nothing if not persistent." He hesitates, then says what's foremost in his mind. "I'd be interested in your impression."
Roz thinks about it for a few moments. "He really wants the job. But he won't beg," she says at last. "I like him. There's something different about him . . . he gets how you do things and he's okay with it."
"He's an alcoholic," Greg says. "Totally messed up in more ways than one."
"Who isn't?" Roz says simply. "You enjoy working with him anyway."
He tips his head back to look at her, a bit surprised by that insight. "How do you know?"
"I hear it in your voice," she says, and kisses his cheek. That's it. She doesn't tell him what to do, or push him to bring Chase in. He asked her opinion, she gave it and nothing more. Amazing. He can't help a grin.
"What's that for?" she says, but she looks pleased. Even upside-down it's a nice sight. He reaches up and guides her in for a kiss.
"Hiring the second team member," he says, and knows the decision is right.
He makes the call to Chase first, with Roz off in the kitchen.
"House," Chase says. There's a hint of surprise in his voice. "How are—"
"You're hired," Greg says. "You can sponge off the Goldmans till you find a place, my shrink said it was fine by her. Work starts the last Monday in November."
"What—I—" Chase is silent a moment. "Okay," he says, and it's clear he's pleased. "Well okay then."
"Make sure you're here early. There's a buttload of paperwork to fill out and you're not doing it on company time," Greg says, and hangs up.
He dials McMurphy's number before he lets himself think about it. She answers on the second ring.
"Doctor House," she says, a note of caution in her quiet voice. "How can I help you?"
"Make up your mind," he says. "And by that I mean work here."
"I didn't think you cared one way or the other," McMurphy says.
"I need an exec sec. You're the best available option."
"You mean I'm the only one," she says dryly. "I believe I mentioned how much I hate the sight of snow. And you get even more there than we do here."
"All things are relative," Greg says. "Moving to some place that's hot and sunny all year round would mean an increased risk of melanoma and drought restrictions." He leans back and attempts a casual attitude, even though she can't see him. "Living here you'd get plenty of healthy exercise and fresh air, something you nurses always like to push on your helpless victims—oops, so sorry, I mean patients."
"There can be too much of a good thing." McMurphy pauses. "Make it worth my while."
"You get to work with me, what else is there?"
"I understand you have a process that sends most sane people running from you in terror," she says. "Believe it or not, I've worked with doctors like you in the past—"
"Bite your tongue," Greg says in mock outrage, his curiosity piqued. "There's no one like me."
"—so my one perk is this: I reserve the right to call you on any bullshit you might be handing out, and you can't threaten to discipline me or kick my ass out the door."
"Now you're just taking the fun out of everything," he says. "No discipline? And I bought those hideously expensive manacles with the spikes on them with you in mind."
"That's the deal, take it or leave it," McMurphy says. "Oh, and I'm not doing the sidewalks."
"Hah," Greg says in triumph, and sits up straight. "Agreed. You'll need to find a place before the twenty-eighth."
"Come on!" McMurphy sounds both exasperated and amused. "That's only two weeks—"
"Talk to Goldman about staying at her place till you find one of your own. She's a total smother mother so she'll say yes. Work starts at nine. Be here at eight. I like my coffee strong and plenty of cherry danish wouldn't go amiss either. See you then." He hangs up as Roz comes in. She wipes her hands on a dish towel emblazoned with the logo 'keep calm and carry on'—one of Sarah's little jokes, no doubt. "Two down," he says, and waggles his brows when she blinks. "You didn't think I could do it."
"When you move, you move fast," she says, and flashes him a grin. "That leaves one team member to hire, right?"
His elation fades. He's got a stack of resumes to go through, and his main resource for this task is away for an entire week . . . Roz perches her slender hip on the corner of his desk. "If you want me to help I'm here," she says in that quiet way he's grown to enjoy. "If not, I'll leave you to it."
"Haven't had dinner yet," he reminds her.
"I'll get something from Poppi's," she says. "We can go through files together while we eat."
When she comes back he has the turntable going with Cousin Joe playing 'I'm Tore Down' in the background, and an enormous pile of resumes stacked in the middle of the blotter. Some of them have Singh's recommendations and notes, but more have come in since that time, so he's bereft of his new fellow's insight.
Roz takes it all in stride, however. While they munch pizza and drink Coke, she flips through the folders and reads their contents to him. After a few minutes Greg realizes she is a fair substitute for Sarah. Once again Roz doesn't offer her opinion unless he asks for it, but when called upon she is concise and unemotional, her analytical eye sharp, unsparing and honest. It could actually be considered something of a pleasant occupation, to sit in his own office—really his, not something granted to him by a reluctant administrator-with great pizza and cold beer at hand, as he listens to excellent music and takes advantage of his wife's intelligence while he admires her slender curves. Pleasant, even if he actually has to choose someone.
Out of the current batch of candidates they narrow it down to two. One's a young guy, fresh out of residency at Hopkins but with an impressive list of accomplishments to his name. The other's a woman with a much more modest CV.
"There's something about this one," Roz says. She indicates the woman's resume.
"The other's got more juice," Greg says.
"Yeah, he's flashier. But this woman . . . she's persistent, she's willing to admit her mistakes and she's smart." Roz took a bite of pizza. "Busted her ass to get where she is," she says around the mouthful of food. "Started in community college in a nursing program and worked her way up to medical school."
"Of course you like her," he teases. Roz takes a swig of Coke to wash down her pizza.
"That's not it," she says.
"What then?"
"I don't think the young guy would work well with you or anybody else," she says. "He's in it for himself and that's it." She taps the woman's resume. "This one became a doctor for the same reason you did, in my opinion. She wants to find out the truth."
Greg hides a smile. He picks up the resumes in either hand and growls as he slaps the folders together in a mock fight. After a moment an olive slice sails over the top of the folders and hits him on the forehead.
"Such a dork," Roz says, but she laughs when she says it.
"Your olive attacked me," Greg says. "I demand restitution."
Roz gives him a sly look full of amusement and a surprising edge of lust. "Wanna baptize the desk?" she says. Greg raises a brow.
Ten minutes later Roz sits naked on the blotter and clutches his shoulders as he drives into her. Her long legs are wrapped around him and she makes enough noise to fill every room. The sweet sounds of her enjoyment drive out the memory of how he wounded her, erase it stroke by stroke until he feels her tremble and tighten on him, to bring him to his own release. He rests his forehead against hers and basks in afterglow.
"I was going to keep a bottle of Booker's in the bottom drawer, but I think we'll just schedule something like this three times a week instead," he says when he's able to speak, and closes his eyes as Roz chuckles. Her breath ghosts over his cheek.
"Only if you get naked too," she says. "Fair's fair."
"And have the battleax or some patient come in and find their doctor in flagrante? Don't think so."
"Oh, so it's okay for me to have my ass hanging out, but not you?" She gives him a tender little buss on the lips. "Chauvinist," she says softly.
"Your ass is worth looking at," he says, a feeble attempt to deflect her criticism.
"So's yours," she says, and reaches around to pinch a cheek. He dodges her fingers, nimble enough now with his rebuilt thigh to avoid her grab. She laughs in delight and he feels the memory of his cruelty begin to fade, replaced by joy.
"I'm gonna need a new blotter," he says when she hops down and gathers up her clothes. "You owe me."
"Do not."
"It was your idea to mess around."
"It was your idea to say yes. Buy your own blotters." She steps into her undies and the sight of her hips as they swing makes his synapses sizzle. "Just make sure they're plastic-lined or something."
"Dry erase," he says, momentarily diverted by the thought of her dimpled little cheeks decorated with schedule notes. "You'd look good in red."
After Roz gets dressed and puts dinner away in the fridge, he makes the decision to bring both candidates in for interviews. Chase and McMurphy will be here by then; while he has final say of course, their reactions along with Singh's will give him more information on who's suitable for the job. He won't let them know that, but his fellows will figure it out for themselves fairly quickly, as will his executive secretary.
He puts the record away, tucks it with care into its sleeve, as Roz comes in and hands him his pea coat. "It's late," she says. "Call them tomorrow."
"Who says I'll call them at all?" he challenges her, amused at her insight.
"How else will you decide who to choose?" she says, and shrugs into her jacket.
It's snowing when they leave—just a flurry, but it's heavy enough to leave a thin film of white on the ground. Roz takes his hand in hers. Her fingers are cold, her shortened little finger curled in a cramp—something that happens now and then. He uses the warmth of his hold to ease the spasm as they go to his car.
"Hope Sarah got to Dallas okay," Roz says as they make their way home. "Laynie said she'd call when she got in. There were big storms across Texas this morning, her flight might have been delayed."
"She'll be fine," Greg says, and winces at how terse he sounds. Roz gives his hand a gentle squeeze but says nothing more.
Half an hour later, when they're home and he's parked in front of the tv while Roz gets ready for bed, the phone rings. He grabs it and makes himself wait for the second ring before he answers. "What?" he says.
"Hey," Sarah says. She sounds tired but okay. "Made it."
"No kidding," he says. "Here's hoping you kicked the Prick out of your organization."
"Yes," she says, to surprise him. "That's it for tonight though."
"Bad flight."
"I've had better," Sarah says. "How's everything there?"
She wants to know how he is. "Hired a fellow and a secretary," he says, unable to resist the urge to brag.
"Excellent." Her approval warms him. "I'm presuming Colleen said yes. Who's the new team member?"
"Chase. He blinked those pretty blue eyes and I couldn't say no." He pauses. "You'll have a full house for that stupid holiday on Thursday."
"We'll manage," Sarah says, and her confidence reassures him. "So you've got one spot left to fill. Planning on interviewing anyone?"
"Two anyones," he says as Roz comes in and claims a spot next to him. She smells of peppermint toothpaste and lavender soap and freshly laundered flannel.
"They can stay with us," Sarah says. "It'll give your team a chance to vet them for you, which is what you were planning anyway."
"Damn, can't you leave me some subterfuge, some mystery?" he complains. "Everyone's all in my business."
"Hey, I'm the one givin' your gang a room," Sarah says.
"Yeah, whatever," he says. "Kiss Laynie for me. You know, something wet and sloppy with lots of tongue."
"Hate to disappoint you but I'm disgustingly straight." Sarah pauses. "Proud of you, son."
"So you should be," he says, and ignores the warm glow of pride deep inside. "I expect a full report after you finish kicking ass tomorrow."
"Okay." Sarah sighs softly. "Can't wait to get back home."
"Technically you already are," he points out.
"This hasn't been home for a long time. Give Roz a kiss for me, since I have to kiss Laynie. 'night."
When the call ends Greg leans over and kisses Roz's cheek. He's doing it for his own purposes, not really to accommodate Sarah's request. When he's done Roz tilts her head and regards him for a moment.
"Proud of you too," she says softly.
"Eavesdropper," he says, but that warm glow deepens.
They lie together snuggled under the covers when Roz says "Sarah's going to need help with all those people at her place."
Greg tightens his hold on her just a little and draws her closer. "You've thought up a terrible plan involving large amounts of work, no doubt."
"I'm taking Wednesday off. Why don't we spend the day there? I can get everything set up for the dinner and you could help out with the other stuff."
It's not a bad idea. "You'll con me into chopping wood or something."
"Only if you want to," she says, and he rolls his eyes at her reasonable tone. He'll be coerced into providing at least half a cord, he knows it. "We can sleep over in the barn. You could bring your guitar, maybe hold band practice." She traces a little circle around his nipple. "You know Sarah will be wiped out by the time she comes back."
"I am impervious to guilt trips," he reminds her, but he knows it's a done deal.
"Yes dear," Roz says, but there's a tremor of laughter in her words. Greg gives a gusty sigh.
"Fine," he growls. "Do your worst."
"Okay, you asked for it." Her small hand caresses his chest, then trails over his belly to take him in a firm clasp.
"That isn't what I . . ." His protest dies as she starts to work him slowly. Usually he's only good for one go per day, but this . . . By the time he's ready to let loose his heart thunders, and his entire focus is on the touch of those slender fingers. His release is awash in pleasure, sweet with an edge of pain he savors because it makes the enjoyment that much better.
"Sheets need changing," he says when he's able to speak. Roz chuckles.
"I'm not sleeping on the wet spot tonight, you are. So it doesn't matter to me," she says, cheeky as sin. She kisses him and curls up spoon-fashion behind him, her arm around him, her hand on his belly. He's been used up good and proper, and the best part of it is, he doesn't even really mind.
