A/N: Thanks so much for reading and reviewing
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.
Thanks: to Betz88 for all her encouragement and help.
-26-
"Getting To Know You"
It's been too long since Cuddy has been wined and dined. Too long since she's been treated with this level of respect, especially by a man of such class, intelligence and importance.
The day was eventful, productive. After a wonderful lunch at Le Jardin Rose (Bill ordered off the menu for them both, those French culinary delights tripping off his tongue with impressive ease), he told her how much he appreciated her accompanying him to the police. Her presence would give him credibility when he surrendered House's file. They would surely have questions and it would be lovely having her beside him to lend moral support.
She told him she had no reason to deny his request. They were both on the same side, after all, working for a common cause: to find House and get him home. A touch of fate's hand brought them together as allies. It was good. It felt right.
What would House think?
In the bathroom mirror, her hand freezes, forefinger and thumb trembling slightly as they hold the mascara brush inches from her lashes.
He would laugh at her for romanticizing a simple alliance, probably call her a fool. Was she romanticizing this bond? First there was lunch and now she was off on a dinner date. But it wasn't a date, was it?
She blinks a few times in rapid succession and exhales softly, deciding her lashes are as full and lush as they are going to get. After jabbing the brush back into its holder, she scrabbles through her makeup case for an appropriate lipstick. Merlot is the shade she chooses. No, it's not a date, she thinks, running the rich wine hue across her top and bottom lips. This meeting will give her and Bill an additional chance to pool their ideas on how best to proceed with the problem at hand. Tonight she won't have to worry about rushing back to work the way she did this afternoon. With more time to talk, to run down the various options open to them, they will be relaxed and freer to brainstorm. They haven't called the FBI or gone the TV route. These are possibilities they will need to explore.
She gives a final scrutiny to her look in the mirror, which turns out to be an invitation for guilt to join the party. It settles on her shoulder, offering her a wink and a hearty hey-ho! Really now. Her eyes are too bright for someone who is supposed to be an emotional wreck. Well, she is troubled. Troubled, upset, heartsick. For the past few weeks her stomach has been in a twist. She worried about House constantly, with no one to help bear the brunt.
She thought she could depend on Wilson, but if Lisa Cuddy was a car wreck, James Wilson was an airplane crash.
Bill helped her figure that one out.
Somewhere along the way she must have done something right. Why else would Bill have appeared when he did? He is strong, someone she can depend on, someone with confidence and insight. With Bill she feels at ease. He knows what to say to make her laugh, regaling her with stories of some of his more 'interesting' patients. His assurance that House will be found and those delusions will be remedied, gives her hope.
Wilson, as expected, put a damper on this newfound optimism.
"So he's Bill now," The statement was as sharp and toxic as a poison arrow. "It didn't take long for him to become your best friend too."
She told him he wasn't being fair.
He told her allying herself with an oily shyster like Faulkner proved she didn't have House's best interests in mind.
She assured Wilson he had no idea what he was talking about..
...which was the end of the altercation. Wilson stomped out of her office in a huff.
As she watched him leave, that twist in her gut took the opportunity to make a return engagement. It didn't last. After a few moments, it left the premises, knowing when it was beat.
Bill was on her side now. House was going to be fine. All they had to do...was find him.
Pressing a tissue to her lips, she blotted the color and gave herself one more serious scrutiny, deciding not to begrudge herself the sparkle in her eyes.
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His skin hums. Hums and thrums and sings and...aches. Strangely, the ache is delicious, conjuring up thoughts of being lost on a sensual expedition. His surroundings are liquid, undulating, dark, deep, emerald green, like the center of a murky alien jewel.
The moon is hardly recognizable: a cloud-like circle of green mist high above his head. But it is there. And that's important...
His skin hums. The universe sings harmony. He knows this, he has the skivvy, the inside information. But the question is, does the sound truly emanate from his skin or is the hum inside his head? Does he surround it, or it he? Seeking reality is pretty damn daunting.
Too many questions. His mind is always going, always generating a challenge.
Easy now. It's all good. Good boy. Familiarity and comfort are this close. He can sense them waiting just beyond the wall, writhing and teasing like strippers at a bar. Here...over here. Put a dollar in the g-string. Get a lap dance for the lad. The voice is familiar, the voice of a friend. It is like swimming, long strokes, powerful thrusts. But it brings him no closer to his destination. He can't seem to make headway. Exhaustion causes his limbs to ache.
His skin hums.
Over there. Where? There. Bill is behind his desk: the desk with the yellow flowers and the knives lined up at the edge. The knives are ready, waiting like soldiers and anxious for orders. He wants to go there, to touch the blades, to hear Bill's voice inside his head. Like it used to be. The knives shimmer. Best friend. Over there, the vacant blue recliner waits.
(for you)
But he can't get there, can't reach. Every stroke pulls him further back, further away from the only person who matters.
He draws one long, tremulous breath and lets out a wail.
His skin hums.
HmmmmMMMMmmmm...
Quiet...quiet...shhhhhh...
He likes the sound of that. Soothing. Nice. A hand rests against his brow. The touch is warm. A soft, pillow-thick palm smoothes his hair, massages his temple. Skin smells like...orchids.
Gently.
His...skin...hums, lulling him to sleep.
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Careful. It is the tenet she must live by for however long her plan takes to pan out. As anxious as she is, as antsy and relieved and euphoric, as...grateful, she must not push the envelope. Tempting fate would be the worst thing she could do. It has, after all, given her a gift; she is in no position to ask for more.
When she returned from her walk, she kept her face stoic as she asked Stefan about her charge. Stefan seemed in a volatile mood, snapping at her to go take a look at the 'unclean mess' for herself.
She knew then shouldn't have left Greg. But if she hadn't, she wouldn't have found the prize at the bottom of the proverbial Cracker Jack box.
Like Yin and Yang, the bad lithely tango with the good.
She strode past the faithful, tromped up the stairs, then down the hall. The Neural Noise Synthesizer was hard at work. She heard its sinister hum through the bedroom door.
Her throat constricted as she stared at that door, as the whorls embedded in the wood came to life, spinning like pinwheels before her. With some difficulty, she tore her eyes away, thinking she might not be as immune to the dastardly power of that hum as she thought.
Slow...easy...slow.
The pinwheel spin gradually slowed...then stopped.
Her hands trembled. Fear gave her an enthusiastic squeeze, nearly crushing her. She pictured Greg in a terrible state: crazed, wide-eyed and gone.
Quickly now.
She fumbled with her keys, dropping them twice before coming up with the right one.
"Greg," she whispered, pushing open the door. "Greg?"
He was seated on the edge of the bed in the throes of...something. His head was thrown back, hips writhing, lips twitching as he murmured, moaned and let out a long, loud wail.
Possessed...he's been possessed.
Then she noticed the small silver thermos at his feet, a trickle of pale brown liquid dripping from its lip, leaving its stain on the white carpet.
Passionflower...
No, she thought with some relief. He was not possessed, but he was most definitely gone.
HmmmmmMMMmmmm...
"Greg?" She walked quickly to the far corner of the room and wrenched the Synthesizer's plug from the wall.
Silence reigned.
Still, he continued the rocking motion, embellishing it with a long stream of incoherent babble. The combined spells of the tainted soup and brain wave entrainment seemed not to have eased their grip.
"Quiet," Lois soothed. "Quiet...sssh." She placed one hand against his brow, which seemed to calm him. The rocking ceased; the unintelligible chatter quieted. She smoothed his damp hair, massaged his temples lightly, which caused a weak smile to cross his lips. His head dropped; his chin brushed his chest. It seemed he had fallen asleep.
For the first time she noticed how...red he was. The area of skin peeking from the sleeve above his wrist looked like it had been under a sunlamp too long. She lifted the back of his shirt and was aghast at the three long purplish scrapes embedded in the scarlet.
"He was unclean."
Lois jolted, then switched round on her heel to face Stefan.
"I don't remember asking you in here." Her voice was gruff, belying her despair.
"I go where I please in my domain."
"Not when I am involved in a meeting with a member of the flock."
"You call this a meeting?" Stefan approached the bed, grabbed Greg by his hair and pulled his head as far back as it would go. "Awaken and hear the word."
"Leave him be, Stefan," Lois said. Her tone was confident, assured, a tone she learned from him. "I'll take care of this."
Greg's eyes fluttered open as Stefan released him. "He needed to be cleansed. You wouldn't have done it."
"No, I certainly wouldn't have shoved him under near scalding water and sanded him down with a wire brush."
Yawning, Greg lifted his arms. He stretched, winced, then let his hands fall to his lap. For a moment, he seemed lost. His gaze wandered the four corners of the room, skimming lightly along the ceiling and the walls. Finally it found direction, landing first on Lois, then Stefan. "I don't want to talk to you," he croaked, before adding, "Bastard."
The tortured sound of that epithet made Lois's chest hitch. Images of the hell he had been through played in her head, her entrails icing over like a muddy field after a hailstorm. Still, she managed to maintain a sense of calm, forcing herself to face Stefan, thinking how best to divert his attention from her charge.
Stefan was smiling. When he smiled he was likeable, charming, angelic, like some gentle creature who lived off leaves and berries and bounded through rich grasslands.
What a crock.
"Greg," He stepped forward, his smile never faltering as he placed a hand on Greg's arm. "The moon..."
Greg's shoulders slumped, his complexion going paste white. All the fight he managed to dredge up dissipated like morning fog. "Huh?"
"It's looking for you but it can't find you."
Greg's eyes grew huge as his mouth dropped open.
"Hurry. Go to the window. Quickly!"
Like an automaton, he obeyed, bearing his weight on his left leg, as he dragged himself across the bedding to look outside. He was like a child on Christmas Eve, searching the skies for Claus, gripping the sill, pressing his nose against the glass.
Rocking lightly on his heels, Stefan crossed his arms and hissed a quiet laugh.
Slowly, Lois turned to him, her fists clenched inside her tunic. "We will depart to begin the Contemplation tomorrow."
"What do you mean depart?" Stefan's elfish nose wrinkled as he sneered. "The Contemplation begins and ends in the church. And, in case you've forgotten, Lois, the church is here."
"Not this time," she said. "Greg needs to recoup his mental powers, which means he must have rest and solitude. Putting him through the Contemplation here will waste our time and his."
Stefan clasped his hands behind his back and walked in a circle, kicking the thermos in the process. "He already is a waste of time, Lois."
"The Contemplation will take place at the apartment."
"So you say." Stefan's look was incredulous. "That apartment is for my meditations and private time."
"The rent for that apartment is paid out of church funds. Your private usage of the space has nothing to do with church matters, and you know it."
"Bastard!" Greg shouted, eyes still glued to the sky.
Lois smirks, recalling how she shamed Stefan into doing her bidding, how his face turned as red as Greg's back as she harped on his pretty little strumpets. Begrudgingly, he gave in, but promised to pop in unannounced to check her progress when the mood suited him. She has doubts about that. He will be happy enough to be rid of both of them for awhile, and the chances of him cozying up to a pretty little strumpet in the interim is pretty slim.
She meets her own eyes in the mirror of her dresser, searching for guilt, the twinge of misgiving that should have shown itself by now.
Nothing.
It feels almost Zen-like staring at her image without regrets. How long has she been sitting here? It doesn't matter. Her door is locked. The Ledger is spread open on the bed, the reward figure circled twice in blue ink.
Soon, she thinks, trying on a smile like it was a new coat.
Soon.
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The blonde woman standing by Wilson's office door has that, 'I've got a pack of troubles' look. Join the club, he thinks, pausing at the elevator bank to give her a surreptitious scrutiny.
Her head is bowed. She grips the strap of her shoulder bag as tightly as a lifeline, tapping one foot against the tile as if keeping time with a grim march. She wears a grey suit, serviceable black shoes, signs she is probably a professional woman. So why is she here? Is she a patient? The Mom, wife, cousin, sister of a prospective patient? The notion that she could be a 'lawyer' slips in unbidden. It is not the choice he would prefer to go with, but it is a possibility.
Wilson rubs his hands together as he steps up to the plate, donning the best grin he can muster after only four hours sleep. He was in New York last night, wandering the streets of midtown, popping into any coffee shop/diner that looked like it might offer a decent burger.
At each eatery, he flashed House's photo to the wait staff, the busboys, the counter help. Nope, sorry, never seen him in here, was the typical response. Although, one customer: a woman in her sixties, her thick reddish-grey hair swept back under a zebra striped headband, recognized House from The Ledger. She determined he was now the panhandler who played the accordion on 43rd and 5th. Sometimes he even brought his dancing monkey Coco with him. She called the hotline, reported her findings. Did anyone check it out? No. No one cared, did they? Did they?
Wilson thanked her, promised he would look into it and walked the five blocks to the designated spot to check out Zebra Lady's story. There he found a smiling old man, whose only resemblance to House was a pair of twinkling blue eyes. He played a fine rendition of "Lady Of Spain" on the squeezebox, and did indeed have a tiny monkey named Coco, who flailed and jumped atop an orange crate as the music played.
Another dead end. Wilson dropped a five into the guy's accordion case and walked back the way he came. A waste of time? Yeah, but he would not have been able to sleep at all that night if he hadn't checked out the story. Desperation can be the catalyst for some mighty odd behavior.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Wilson." Wilson effects an air of nonchalance. Thrusting his hands in his lab coat pockets, he keeps that devil-may-care grin going strong. "Can I help you?" Tilting his head, he attempts to get a better look at the woman's face under her shock of blonde hair.
She raises her head, causing Wilson to take a stutter step back, the intensity in her eyes is startling. They are green, incandescent, as if particles of sunlight lurk behind each one. Strangest thing...
Offering her hand, she returns his grin. "I'm Allison Dubois."
"Ms. Dubois." He takes her hand and her grip is tighter than is generally considered de rigueur.
She draws in a long breath, then lets it out slow. "I know," she says.
"You know...what?"
"It's difficult when the ones you trust seem to have abandoned you."
"I'm...sorry...?" Something cold prickles along the back of his neck, as her gaze plummets deeper.
"You did the best you could, following him to the diner. But he was too far gone by then..."
"What are you...?"
"But your other friend, the one you thought was...with you all the way-"
Wilson flinches as if he's been struck. Ms. Allison Dubois' meanderings pack quite a wallop. His jaw drops. His hand grows clammy inside of hers. But he can't pull away, can't look away.
"-she is too wrapped up in her confusion and her growing bond with another doctor to be of any real help to you right now."
A surprised grunt escapes him.
"You think you're all alone." Her tone softens as her eyes narrow, digging deeper still, burrowing to the core. "I know how you feel."
He sucks in a breath and, with some relief, finds he is able to pull his hand away. His gaze glosses over his palm, his fingernails. Yep, everything is copasetic. But something tells him if he takes a trip back down to the core, he is sure to find the coven that summoned this odd being.
"Uh...Miss Dubois-"
The corner of her lip tugs into a half smile. "Please...call me Allison."
"Allison."
She nods, hitches her bag a smidge higher on her shoulder.
"Would you like some coffee?" he asks.
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"So," Dr. Wilson begins, leaning toward her, his cup of cafeteria brew steaming by his left hand, "who put you up to this? If I didn't know better I would say it was Dr. House. But it wasn't, was it? This whole disappearing act isn't some hoax...is it?"
Allison squashes his hope with two morose shakes of her head. She is seated across the desk from him, wishing she could have curbed herself. Allowing her visions to run rampant succeeded only in spooking the doctor and making her look like some kind of possessed loon. On the train to Princeton, she had primed herself to appear sane, normal and professional. Instead she gave Dr. Wilson what amounted to a reading. A reading! That's not why she's here.
"I'm not angry." The doctor flattens his palms flat against his desk. "I'm just tired, and being the butt of paranormal pranks just isn't on my agenda today."
"I understand your skepticism." She reaches in her bag, removes her business card and driver's license. "But I'm here for a reason, and it's not because I have a choice in the matter."
"See? There you go again."
"Call my boss."
The doctor studies the card, lower lip jutting forward as he reads. "You work for the District Attorney of Phoenix as a psychic advisor?"
"I'm more of an assistant."
"And what do you assist with?"
"Crime investigations, interviews. I help any way I can."
"I'll bet you do."
"All you have to do is call."
"Anyone can print up business cards." He waves the card at her before letting it and her license drop on the desk. "How do I know-"
"Then call Phoenix information, get the number for District Attorney Davalos." She is yelling now. The doctor rears back in his seat, which squeaks and groans from the sudden motion. He looks more than a little spooked, which is good. Maybe, she thinks with some small measure of hope, she has finally broken through Dr. Wilson's wall of disbelief.
He lets out a beleaguered sigh. "I have work to do, Ms. Dubois."
"Listen," She feels those long repressed tears prick the corners of her eyes. "If I had my way, I wouldn't be here. I would be with my family who, at this moment, are taking a hansom cab ride through Central Park."
The doctor lifts his Styrofoam cup, takes a small sip, then sets it down gently, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Ariel - my daughter - won a National Science Fair award, which is one reason we're in New York for the week. This is supposed to be a family vacation. But your friend-" She needs to pause, to pinch the bridge of her nose between two fingers, to inhale deeply, to keep the tears at bay. "Your...friend is one persistent bastard."
Dr. Wilson ducks his head, runs a finger over his top lip. Allison is not sure if he is laughing or crying.
"He will not leave me alone."
"That...sounds like House."
"He's been in my head for weeks. Before he was even missing I saw him. In my dreams he was always a knight, a hero in rusty armor. Took a while before I got a look at his face. He's a stubborn one." She digs in her bag again, retrieving the drawing the sketch artist rendered.. "I described the man I saw in my dreams to our police sketch artist." She thrusts the folded paper at him. "This is what he came up with."
From the look on Dr. Wilson's face, Allison can tell she has succeeded in striking a large economy sized gong with a golden hammer. One of his unsteady fingers travels over the lines, the shadows, the curves, the peaks and valleys that make up the likeness of Gregory House. Then, as if the effort has sapped his strength, the doctor's hand drops to the desk; his face goes paste white. After another moment of careful scrutiny, he sets the drawing down, and picks up the phone.
He reaches Davalos with surprising ease, talks with him for almost ten minutes, offering a Reader's Digest version of the situation at hand. From the one-sided conversation, Allison can tell her boss is doing a nice job of singing her praises.
The color returns to Dr. Wilson's face the moment he returns the phone to its cradle. "I need to apologize."
"It's not necessary."
"Yes, it is." His fingers play restlessly at the edges of the sketch. "The few promising leads the police have come up with have gone nowhere. My boss is suddenly intrigued with Dr. House's therapist. She thinks the sun shines out of his butt..." He gives her an apologetic wince.
"No problem."
She thinks he's got all the answers. I don't know." After running his fingers over the sketch, he bows his head and closes his eyes. "I think this therapist, Faulkner, is responsible in some way for Dr. House's decline and his disappearance. If you're going to help, there is a lot more you should know."
"Probably not as much as you think, Dr. Wilson."
"Call me James."
She smiles. "Again, please...call me Allison."
They exchange shy nods, like strangers preparing to dance.
The doctor shrugs. "Maybe you have an idea where to go from here, since no one else seems to."
With a tilt of her head, she narrows her eyes, allowing those thoughts, ideas, dreams, speculations from the past weeks unite. They make a noise that is nowhere close to being pretty: it is huge, dissonant, bleating like an under-rehearsed, cacophonous orchestra. In time, she assures herself, it will take shape, with a little practice, encouragement and patience it will shine.
"Dr. Wilson," she asks. "Have you ever heard of a shop calledReichenbach Falls?"