A/N: As always, thanks for reading and reviewing.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox
Thanks: to Betz88 for her interest, help and encouragement.
-21-
"Progress"
On one's final day of relative anonymity what should one do to pass the time? Take in an art film in Soho? Skim through the Times, while sipping an espresso at Carlito's? It certainly is an interesting, delightful predicament in which to find oneself, especially on a lazy Sunday morning.
Tomorrow he will drive to Princeton-Plainsboro, present himself and Greg's files to the lovely Dr. Cuddy. He will become an essential part of whatever team she has put together to find that poor lost soul of a physician. For Greg House is wandering out there. Somewhere. If he hasn't gotten himself into some unsightly mess, he will return home soon anyway. But no one knows that. Everyone who loves him must be worried sick.
My, my, my, an impossibly stickity wicket.
Faulkner is past the worrying stage because he knows how this will end. But the same cannot be said for Johnny, who is beginning to make a career of his anxiety. His life revolves around working at the Qwiki-Mart in Lachine, an arts community in Montreal, returning at the end of his shift to huddle next to Sarah in their efficiency apartment to wait for news. As much as Faulkner tries to calm him, Johnny will never be convinced all is right with the world until Greg has left it.
Yes, Faulkner can see his point but, like he has declared more times than he can count: everything you want will come in time, if you take some patience along for the ride.
Johnny detests that simpering mantra Faulkner torments him with when the mood is right. Mother used to sing it when Faulkner was a child. To be honest, he didn't care for it much either. But Mother needed to drill it into him, teach him that anything worth having is worth waiting for. He learned. It took an entire childhood and most of his pubescent years. But he learned.
So...what should he do? Sitting at his desk, he ponders the hours at his disposal. Dr. Cuddy's voicemail plays for the seventh or eight go-round, as Faulkner presses the tip of the jewel encrusted sword to his chin. Hiding in plain sight might be fun. Returning to Princeton-Plainsboro to pose as someone's distraught family member might be just the thing to end the weekend right, a grand prelude of what is to come. Yes! His heartbeat quickens now. He could seat himself next to some comatose non-entity, whose family continues to pay the bills but stopped carrying the emotional baggage weeks, months...years before. No one would question a forlorn, unshaven, distant relative, clad in a baseball cap, baggy work shirt, jeans and sneakers that had been ready for the trash bin two decades ago. Nobody wants to deal with someone like that. He will be avoided, left to fend for himself.
Which is exactly what he wants.
Anonymity will allow him to get a sense of the mood of the place. How has the disappearance of one of their own affected morale? Will the fact that the doctor in question is a thorn in the side of most everyone on staff make a difference? Or will it be business as usual? True, onl two days have passed. It is the weekend. But compelling news tinged with tragedy travels fast and hits hard.
The main players will probably be missing in action. Doctors like Cuddy and Wilson have better things to do than spend Sunday at the office.
"But then," he thinks, tapping the tip of the blade against a front tooth, "maybe not."
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Progress has been made, Wilson tells himself...again, as he watches the technician install the new phone in the vacant office down the hall from to his own. It is Sunday morning. What do normal people do on Sunday morning? They go to church, sleep in or eat pancakes and eggs, maybe play with the dog. Hanging around while a technician puts in an information hotline, is not on his top ten list of favorite Sunday morning activities. And where the hell do you find a telephone tech guy to work on a Sunday? Leave it to the cops and Peter Emery. The tech must be getting quadruple overtime and a half.
And here I am...moping around, watching the guy open three phone lines so that every loon in creation will be calling to claim they've seen the "Disappearing Doc."
Wilson can't wait.
Cuddy was not happy to learn Wilson took it upon himself to make arrangements with Peter Emery without consulting her. But what other choice did he have? She might have bitched and moaned and groused had she been with them in that coffee shop. But the end result would have been the same.
The office is sparsely furnished with a utilitarian metal desk, a rolling chair that squeals under the slightest bit of pressure, a file cabinet filled with more dust bunnies than folders, a PC, and now...a phone.
"How's it going?"
He turns to see Cuddy leaning against the half open door. She looks tired and about three miles past disgusted.
"Good. Gil here is making progress." Folding his arms, he nods and sets his gaze on his shoes instead of her eyes.
"I just had a courtesy call from your pal, Emery." She tosses out the name like it's an old rusty can.
Wilson's head jerks up.
"So sorry we haven't had a chance to meet yet," she mimics in a bitter tone. "Such a sweetheart. He said he wants to drop off a copy of tomorrow's Ledger." Her frown deepens. "Wanted to make sure we'd be here."
"Oh...okay." He tilts his head, narrows his gaze. "What else?"
"You could have told me about the reward," she blurts out.
A muscle spasms in Wilson's cheek. He winces, setting two fingers against the tic. It's like a tiny bug is pushing against the skin,
With a knowing grin, phone guy Gil slows his work; his gaze ping-pongs from Wilson to Cuddy and back again.
"Little pitchers..." Cuddy tosses the tech a icy glare, then jerks her chin toward the hallway, indicating for Wilson to follow.
"What's wrong with offering a reward?" he asks, falling into step beside her. "Emery said it's what stirs people into action. They'll be more likely to-"
"How much are you offering?"
Wilson stops in his tracks. He gives her a helpless look as he backs against the wall, like a strong hand has put him in his place.
"He didn't tell you?"
"I wanted to hear it from you."
"He would have-"
"How much, James?" she asks softly.
He swallows hard. "Ten thousand dollars."
Someone calls a code. Three nurses barrel down the corridor, pushing a crash cart.
Cuddy observes the action until the team disappears around the corner. "Why didn't you ask me first?"
Wilson lifts his shoulders. "I just-"
"You...just."
"Emery gave me the option. I just went for it."
"And you didn't think to ask me."
"Lisa, I'm sorry, the money is coming out of my pocket. It's hasn't got anything to do with the hospital. It's something I wanted...needed to do-"
"You wanted to do it." A tear slips down her cheek. "You!"
"What?" He raises his arms, then lets them slap heavily against his sides.
"Call Emery. Tell him we're upping the reward money to twenty grand."
His mouth falls open.
"You could have...asked me first, James." She rubs at her eye with the heel of one hand, ruining her mascara. She switches around, heels click-clacking against the linoleum as she trounces away.
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Intermission. Joe sips from his Poland Springs bottle, Allison digs one finger deep into her box of Junior Mints. Back home the same candy would have cost eighty-nine cents. But theater Junior Mints must be different, perhaps made with the finest Bavarian chocolate or flakes of gold...or something. For the three dollars she paid, these confections should be served on a silver tray. It's amazing. It's...criminal, really. But this is New York. And the Dubois family is sitting third row center for Beauty and the Beast on Broadway. The cost reflects the privilege. She bites into the cool, chocolaty drop and thinks of other things.
"So...no dreams last night, Allison?" Joe asks, peering past her to look at the girls. Bridget and Marie are engaging their Belle and Beast dolls in conversation, while Ariel sits like a proper and prim lady of the theater, perusing her Playbill.
"No."
"How about Bridget?" He takes another sip of water and pats her hand. "Any more dreams of dragons and swords?"
"Not that she mentioned." Allison snags another mint, brings it to her lips, then freezes as her eyes go wide.
"What's wrong?"
Dead Kid sits on the lip of the stage, glowering, his gaze boring into hers. His bare legs dangle over the orchestra pit. Behind him, Alexandra holds her head high, smiling brightly as she twirls and dips. Her blue-black hair shimmers under the house lights.
"Nothing." She opens her mouth to receive the candy, then chews it slowly, regaining her composure with each sugary bite.
"That dream Bridget had the other night..."
"Mmm?"
"...about the knight and the store and the dragon?"
"Yeah?"
"I was thinking about it."
"You were?" Allison gives him a slow, surprised grin. She likes when Joe gets involved in interpreting the dreams. It means he's with her; it makes their connection that much stronger.
Lifting a finger, he squints in concentration. "Maybe it's what's in the store that's important."
"Could be."
"But that Reichenbach Falls tune has been on the top of Bridget's hit parade since she "learned"it, which could make it an even more substantial clue...
"I guess." Allison shrugs. She doesn't tell him that those same notions have been burning a trail through her grey matter since yesterday. Not that it matters. She's stuck. Up the proverbial creek without a revelation. Her main hope this morning was that she wouldn't be forced to ruminate over the knight today. But no deal, Camille, she thinks, tucking in the flap of the mints box.
Joe continues, "Because it came to me-"
The two dolls interrupt his flow. They are embroiled in a disagreement. Marie's Beast pops Bridget's Belle in the gut, which causes Belle to go down for the count. "Ooooh!" Bridget cries, as if the doll's pain is her own. Marie shows her amusement by throwing up her hands and squealing, while Ariel slaps her Playbill shut and rolls her eyes.
"Girls-" Allison warns.
"LISTEN TO HIM!" Dead Kid is standing on the stage now, legs apart, fists clenched at his side. It is a boxer's stance. Beside him, Alexandra freezes in mid-step, her head is thrown back. She slings one arm across her brow like a tragic chanteuse.
For a moment all the air is gone, sucked out of the room by some preternatural vacuum.
Clearing her throat, Allison plucks the water bottle from Joe's hand and takes a swig. The chocolaty mint taste is starting to make her stomach turn.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yes." She hands him his water then squeezes his arm, staring at the irate apparition onstage. "What were you saying...about the store?"
"If I remember correctly from one of my high school English classes-"
"That's going back a-ways hon." Allison grins, but that smile takes an abrupt hike. Dead Kid's ire is causing the building to tremble. Not that the audience knows...
"Yeah, I guess so, Miss Spring Chicken."
The house lights flicker. Two minute warning. Intermission is just about over. The crowd is filing in from the lobby, flush with drinks, snacks and souvenirs.
"Go on, Joe."
"I'll tell you later."
The room shakes harder; the needle falls off the Richter scale.
She leans in close and whispers, "I think you'd better tell me now."
"I just don't know what this has to do with anything."
The floor rumbles beneath her as her chair shimmies and bucks.
"Just...tell me."
"Reichenbach Falls is a real place. It's in Switzerland," he tells her as the lights go down and the music swells. "Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about it in one of his stories..."
"Oh?"
"...the one where Professor Moriarty pushes Sherlock Holmes to his death."
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Her name is Samantha Alger. A stunning young woman. Unfortunately, she resides in her coma and cannot blush under his appreciative scrutiny. Too bad. She would look even more beautiful with a rosy flush gracing her cheeks. Her auburn hair spreads against her pillow like a fan, those rosebud lips part ever so slightly. Her skin is like porcelain, like clean snow on a barren landscape, marred by a spray of pale freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.
She is Sleeping Beauty. She is Snow White waiting for her prince's kiss.
He sighs, tugs his Yankees cap a little lower over his brow and forces himself to get his mind back on track.
The day has gone well, so far. The heart-melting diversion lying in bed seven of the coma ward is only one of his fortuitous finds.
He smiles gently at his beauty, before drifting further down the aisle to sit by Ellen again. This lady is eighty-four years old and floats in the same half-life as Samantha. According to her chart, was admitted three days ago with severe pains in her legs and arms. Hours after her admission and initial examination, she fell into a coma. As a patient of Dr. House, she should be getting the best of care. But from her chart, Faulkner gleans that nothing much has been done for her. He surmises that the diagnostic team just hasn't been functioning on full steam without their boss.
How sad.
"Charles?"
Nurse Monica is here. She is fiftyish, plump, apple cheeked, cute in a homespun,Good Housekeeping magazine sort of way. She makes a great show of checking charts and IV bags, attempting to keep her mind on her work but finding Faulkner's presence a pleasant distraction. "You're still here. You should get some lunch."
"Oh, " Faulkner plays the role of Charles, Ellen's nephew. Charles lacks confidence and social graces. He is kind of shy but is a good guy, a solid guy. Just the sort of man Nurse Monica would like to have in her life. The hopeful look in her eyes and her lonesome ring finger tells him she is ready and willing. So Faulkner relates his fabricated story, raises her hopes of companionship by confiding in her.
Of course he will let her down. Tonight she will probably sob a bit, thinking about that nice man in the coma ward. Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Charles hasn't spoken with Auntie Ellen for many months and has now come home to make amends-only to discover...she is slipping away. He brushes one hand across his brow and fixes Nurse Monica with a piteous look. "I was waiting around, hoping Dr. House might show up. I would love to have a word with him about my aunt's case."
"Oh, my. Dr. House-" For a moment she loses the ability to speak. Her wide pink mouth falls open as she places a hand against her breast. "I really shouldn't be talking about this."
"It's alright," Faulkner/Charles says, gazing earnestly into her eyes before switching his focus to the hands folding and unfolding in his lap.
"He's gone missing." She blurts out, then slaps a hand against her mouth. A soft sob escapes her as she turns away.
Faulkner bites his lower lip, squelching a grin. "Why, that's terrible."
"Yes," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose before managing to continue. "I heard he'd been having some emotional problems."
"Doctors have it rough sometimes."
"He's not well liked around here, kind of a gruff character." She sniffs, dabs her eyes with a tissue before checking Ellen's chart again. "But he's brilliant. He's helped so many people."
"I see."
"He had some mishap with a scalpel recently, bled all over the gallery floor. He was observing an operation up there and..." Her voice trails off as she slowly shakes her head.
Faulkner scratches his stubble, his eyes wide with concern. "Oh, my."
"Some of the nurses don't like him, but he never gave me a problem." She tosses "Charlie" a brave grin, before leaning over to scribble something on Ellen's chart.
"Really?"
"It's terrible."
"I'm sure." He pushes back his chair and steps away from the bed.
"Are you leaving now?"
Is that a flicker of disappointment jet skiing across her face?
"Yes, I should go."
"I get a break in five minutes," she says. It wasn't easy for her to get the words out, judging by the blush riding up her neck. "Would you like to have lunch?"
You wouldn't like me, he thinks, sensing the power, that urge building inside him again. Dorie's ardor will fade when he eventually tells her Sayonara. But Monica is too nice to be treated with such callousness.. She doesn't have issues. She is a pleasant package, a little big around the ass, but still...
"No,"he decides. He will need to focus on Greg...and future pal, Dr. Cuddy.
"You're very kind," he says. "Maybe next time." He heads toward the door, already anticipating what tomorrow might bring. "Good luck with your doctor friend."
"Thank you." Her voice seems distant, like she is adrift and alone in the center of the big blue sea.
But to Faulkner, she is gone, filed away in the annals of history. She is unimportant, insubstantial. Dust. He walks on, trading the cool blue illumination of the coma ward for the harsh fluorescence of the corridor. Wandering around the lobby before heading home sounds like a good idea. So he strolls by the reception desk, spies an abandoned newspaper on a chair and sits. He opens the paper to the sports page, and peers over the top...
...and is oh, so glad he is here.
His eyes track Dr. Cuddy as she darts past him toward reception. A young man with close cropped brown hair leans against the desk, waiting for her. He wears Dockers, a light stubble, a smarmy little grin, and is truly a nauseating piece of work.
He greets Cuddy with a handshake and a lift of a brow, then offers her a folded newspaper, which Cuddy accepts with a wary look. She gazes at the front page, then with some hesitation opens the paper and bites her lower lip, her eyes narrowing as she reads.
But the front page is all Faulkner needs to see to make his spirits soar. It is The Ledger. Trashy tabloid crap. It is somehow fitting that Gregory House be featured in a rag like this.
"Disappearing Doc!" the headline screams. Beneath it is a photo of Greg, taken at some function, probably some big hospital to-do. He wears a tux, and has that unfocused look of someone who's been partying just a bit too hard. His bowtie is askew, his hair stands up in little sprigs and tufts, like a bird has made its nest in it. A cigar is jammed between his teeth, and his hands are poised over piano keys. He looks unusually nice, as if for that one instance, that single click of the lens, he is at peace with the world.
Dr. Cuddy slaps the pages closed, folds the paper and tucks it under her arm. Her chest heaves, her lips tighten...and those eyes. My, my. Those eyes exude molten heat, overflowing with a venomous wrath. With a haughty tilt of her head, she motions the Docker guy to follow her, and they make their way out of the reception area to somewhere more private.
Docker guy never loses his cool. Pursing his lips at Dr. Cuddy's prominent behind, he follows along at enough of a distance to treat himself to an excellent view.
Smarmy bastard.
As they turn the corner, Faulkner tosses his newspaper onto the adjacent seat, then makes his way toward the door. He has had enough excitement for one day.
And tomorrow, he muses, permitting himself the luxury of a broad, anticipatory grin,will be even more interesting.
He can't wait.