Chapter Twenty-Six

Departures

Gregory House's dreams had been haunted for weeks, ever since that photographer with the Maternal Mirror Syndrome. It had been the last case he had taken before his vacation, and he had spent his free time wisely, mostly on his couch watching marathons of The Deadliest Catch and Mythbusters on the Discovery channel, sprinkled in with episodes of South Park and Family Guy to spice things up a little. And of course, his ever present bottle of scotch and vial of pills on the coffee table ensured that he would spend his week in a drug induced stupor, just to make sure that he didn't dwell on the events of the past eight months.

Unfortunately, that seemed to be the only thing his mind was tuned in to, even with the efforts to keep memories at bay, they still kept returning, except now, there was one more.

He could still feel the warmth of that tiny hand wrapped around his gloved finger, bloody and warm. The tiny fingers were perfectly formed, and its grip was strong, for something that was supposed to be still protected from the world by its mother's body. He felt a chill flow through his blood as he thought about how they almost lost it, and how it technically shouldn't be in the world. He had argued for termination, which was the rational and logical choice, though cold it might have been, and he still stood by that opinion, but secretly, he had been impressed by the way Cuddy had fought for the eight pound tumor that was killing its mother. He dealt with stark, cold decisions all the time, as did Cuddy, but this time, she had fought, even when all the signs pointed to the opposite conclusion.

It was why he loved her.

That thought felt like ice water poured down his spine, causing him to shudder. He didn't love her; he couldn't love her. He couldn't love anybody; he shouldn't love anyone. He had learned his lesson with Stacy; anyone loving him would just lead to pain. By shoving people away, he didn't have to see them hurt when he lashed out, or when he grew distant and obsessive about something that wasn't them. Besides, he would only say or do something to hurt them, and when he did, he could cut deep, as Cuddy well knew. It was a good thing she was running away; he would only push her even farther than he had already tried to.

Except, he couldn't get that image of the tiny hand holding on to his finger out of his mind. If their child had devolped enough to be delivered, would it had gripped his finger like that? It would be over eight months along, and Cuddy's belly would be hugely swollen with it's mass. Her whole body would be changing, all in preparation for that last month, and the delivery. Would it have been a boy or girl? It's genitalia would have been developed, letting them know if it was a girl or boy, along with most of its bones and organ systems. It would have been using Cuddy's bladder as a kicking bag, causing her to want to go to the bathroom every seven seconds. Knowing Cuddy, she would still be at work, if there had been no complications, but preparing for her coming maternity leave. Maybe her mother would have come down to help her prepare.

All of those thoughts played in his mind as he laid on his leather sofa, rubbing his fingers together, still feeling the warm pressure of the tiny fetus' hand. It was a surreal state of mind, and one he had never thought he would have had. He had never wanted children, never wanted to possibly put a child through what he had gone through. It was well enough to take himself out of the gene pool, and as much as he liked sex, he had always taken precautions against bringing another House bastard into the world; one was enough, and he had the scars, both physically and emotionally, to prove it.

Not that his mother hadn't prodded him into getting married, especially after it had seemed like he had settled down with Stacy, even though Stacy hadn't wanted kids, either. Or wanted to get married, or so he thought. Oh sure, she dropped hints now and then, but every time he tried to get a little more serious, she would suddenly back away. Looking back, he realized that the more he wanted her, the more she would step back, and he would do the same to her. They were always playing that game, and they never became serious.

Then, of course, there was his own obsessive nature, and the fact that once he had a patient, even as a resident, he would spend hours trying to figure it out, unless it was obvious. He was always chasing zebras, and the more exotic and unusual, the better. He would pour over medical journals and articles, pull out his reference books and research until sleep deprivation overtook him, ignoring everything else that was going on in his life, something Stacy had never been able to get over.

And now, he would do that to Cuddy. Oh, it wouldn't be intentional; it never was with Stacy, either, but it would happen. Even if he wanted a relationship with Cuddy, which he didn't

He sat up and shook his head, as if trying to remove the thoughts from his brain through force. He reached over to the coffee table and he poured a generous amount of scotch into the mostly empty glass that sat beside the thick glass bottle. He took a drink, relishing the smoky burn of the amber liquid, feeling it as it traveled all the way from his mouth to his stomach. He finished it off, then laid back down, folding his hands across his belly, staring at the ceiling in his apartment, his eyes tracing the small cracks as he tried to clear his mind of thoughts about Cuddy.

He failed, miserably.

He wondered where she was, now that her leave of absence had started. He had tried to check her date book, and her computer before she left, but he didn't find anything; not a trace, and he began to wonder if she knew at all. He chewed on his lip; that wasn't like Cuddy at all; every little detail of her vacation had to have been micro managed every step of the way. Cuddy never did anything on a whim.

He contained to ponder what she was doing, where she was going. She would probably spend some time with her parents, or maybe not. She would either go someplace metropolitan, or someplace warm. Miami was both, so maybe she wound up there. Or maybe she was in New York, or Boston, or even Chicago, even though their weather was lousier than Jersey. No, wait, she'd want to go somewhere that didn't remind her of Princeton, that didn't remind her of him...

Making a chuffing sound, he sat up, the air escaping from his lungs. He needed an escape; he needed to do something to take his mind off of everything that had happened. Cuddy had escaped, had run away, so why couldn't he, at least metaphorically. Reaching for his cell phone that was lying on the glass topped antique coffee table, he flipped it open, scrolling through his contacts to find a familiar number. He hit the send key, and, after a brief conversation, he sat back on the couch, waiting. He poured himself another generous glass of scotch, and he took another drink of the liquor, hoping it would calm his anxiety. He could feel his palms become sweaty, and he wiped them on the thighs of his jeans.

After what seemed like hours, a soft knock came from the door, and he hopped up, limping a little heavier than usual. He opened the door, and a pretty young girl – it wasn't fair to call her a woman, even though she was easily in her mid-twenties – stood in the door frame. "Hi," she greeted him with a smile. "I'm Daria." Her dark bangs fell haphazardly in her eyes, making her seem younger than she was. The rest of her long tresses were smoothed back and gathered in a long tail that fell between her shoulder blades. Her vibrant green eyes were the product of tinted contact lenses, but somehow they added to her surface beauty, contrasting nicely to her mocha colored skin.

He swallowed, "hi, Daria."

She peered around him. "So," she said, straightening her shoulders with fake confidence. "Can I come in?" Her full, burgundy tinted mouth curled up in what was supposed to be a seductive smile. He shuffled out of the way, liking this one; the last one the escort service asked too many questions and talked too much for his liking. Once she was inside his apartment, he closed the door behind her, grateful for a momentary distraction.

[H] [H] [H]

Foreman's resignation was more of boon than House had originally anticipated. Oh, he was upset about the situation. It wasn't even that he hated change, even though he did; he just didn't feel that Foreman was ready. The man was arrogant enough, and even intelligent enough, though House was loath to admit it. What galled him was the man was leaving because Foreman "didn't want to be like him." "What a load of bullshit," House had originally moaned to Wilson.

His best friend had just rolled his eyes and ate another bite of the bagel that was on his desk. "It's a valid reason," he had finally responded after he had thoughtfully and thoroughly chewed his food.

"You're just mad that I dosed you with amphetamines," House had growled, darting his hand out quickly to snatch what was left of the bagel. "Even though you were dosing me with anti-depressants."

"Which you needed," Wilson countered. "You were happy!"

"Hazy!"

Wilson stared at him in response. "Whatever you say," he finally sighed, his gaze lingering longingly on his pilfered bagel.

"So, what should I do about Foreman," House polished the toasted treat, licking his fingers clean of the cream cheese.

Wilson wrinkled his nose, mourning his lost meal. "Talk to him," he said, turning his eyes to the paperwork on his desk. "Tell him you don't want him to go."

"I don't care if he goes-"

"Then why are you in my office whining to me about it?" Wilson snorted, losing his patience.

House gaped at his friend for a moment, stunned by the outburst, then a sly thought crossed his mind. "Good point," he huffed, standing up abruptly. He limped out of the office, a sly smirk forming on his features.

Wilson watched his friend leave, then went about working on his charts. A few seconds later, he dropped his pen, and he rushed out of his office. He reached House's office, and he put his hands on his hips. "Don't do it," he gave House his sternest look.

"Do what?" House asked innocently, rummaging his his desk drawer.

"Whatever thought is going on in that rat maze of a brain of yours," Wilson informed him, narrowing his eyes, glaring at his friend.

They stared at each other for a few moments in a silent standoff, engaging in a battle of wills. The tension wasn't broken until Cameron came rushing into the room. She opened her mouth, then glanced at each of the men, her mouth still slightly agape. "What do you want?" House barked, causing her mind to go blank for a few seconds, more intrigued by what was going on between the two men. Finally, she regained her purpose. "We have a case," she told him, striding confidently over to his desk, thrusting the folder out to him.

He stared at the folder for a moment, then looked at her. "No, we don't." He leaned back in his chair, putting space between himself and the folder. "Tell that pompous Brit that I'm not taking the case."

"I'm not British," came a low voice from the office doorway. Tall and distinguished, Dr. Geoffrey Allen stepped in the room. "I'm Welsh, and trust me, you want to take that case." His gray-green eyes twinkled in the light, although the rest of his posture was reserved. "Unless Dr. Cuddy was wrong about you."

"British, Welsh, doesn't matter, you're from the same island," House snorted. "And, I don't have to do a damn thing you tell me to do."

Allen's thin lips turned up into a small smile. "I'm not going to fight you on this. I'm just here as a favor to Lisa."

"Good," House snorted. "You can get back to sitting on your ass and assigning parking tickets."

Allen's smile grew wider. "I'm not going to fight you on this," he repeated, "but the Board of Directors see things differently." House's eyes met his for a split second, then they shifted back to the file that was lying on his desk. "Apparently, Dr. Cisco thinks that you will take it, and all the publicity that will come with it, or you will lose your job." At House's glare, Allen held out his hands to the side. "I'm but the messenger." With that, he left office, leaving House to fume behind his desk.

Still seething, House opened the file, then turned to Cameron. "Gather the troops," he spat. "We've got a case."

[H] [H] [H]

Cuddy was furious. "You fired your entire team!" she shouted, disturbing some birds that had roosted in the palm outside her window.

"You know, you're voice causes more shrinkage the louder it gets," House obliviously blathered. "And I only fired one team member. Foreman quit, remember? Or is advanced age catching up with you?"

She decided to ignore that jab. "And Cameron?"

"Resigned." The answer was short.

"You have to have a team." She could feel the familiar tension headache building.

"Wilson has resumes for about forty candidates sitting on his desk," he told her, confidently. She felt her brows knitting together in a scowl at the smirk in his voice.

"Why aren't they on your desk?" she asked, trying to keep her voice down, when she really felt like screaming bloody murder at him.

"Because," he paused, "I don't need a team."

"That's it," she huffed. "I'm coming back." The phone still held securely between her shoulder and ear, she began to throw her things together. "You are not going to be allowed to screw your time away doing nothing for two weeks. You will hire a team, do you understand me?"

"Don't quit your vacation because of me," House purred, trying to sooth her. "After all, I'd be screwing around even if you're here. And no, that wasn't a euphemism."

"House," she warned.

"You know, all that sun and sand and warmth has done nothing to unfreeze your cold, cold heart, Ice Queen."

She froze, "How did you know where I am?"

He paused on the other end of the line. "I didn't; it was just a good guess," he admitted.

"House..." she drew out his name in a warning tone yet again, chagrined by his flippant responses.

"I'm serious," he protested. "It was just a guess. But, in case your wondering, Lewis wins the pool if your in the Keys. Schaffer if you're in the Bahamas."

"There's a pool over where I went for vacation?" She rubbed at her head.

"Yeah, but since I fired Chase, I suppose it's not worth anything, since he was in charge of it." She could hear scraping, and she figured he must be scratching at his beard.

"Hire him back then."

"Can't. What if he already found a job?"

"Then find out, and if he has, hire a new team." She grew even more frustrated with the conversation as she pulled out her suitcase. She checked her watch. "I'm gong to hang up, and change my flight. I should be back in New Jersey sometime tomorrow," she informed him. "I suggest you start looking at applications."

"But Mom!" he whined, but she hung up before he could protest anymore.

She took a deep breath, and she was organizing all the things she had to do in her mind when her phone started to chirp again. Without looking at the caller I.D., she answered it. "House, I don't want to deal with this anymore tonight."

"Lisa?" her mom's shaky voice came from the other end.

"Mom?" her eyes grew wide, and she immediately felt the room grow colder, and the lights seemed to dim. There was something in her mother's voice that caused her stomach to knot with tension. "What's wrong?"

Silence on the other end. Then, a deep breath. "Your father," her mother finally spoke, emotion making her voice wobble. "Your father's in the hospital."

Lisa felt her eyes grow wide. "What's wrong," she breathed.

"You need to come home, now." And with that, her mother broke down, and Lisa heard a clink as the phone hit a hard surface, her mother's sobs echoing in the background.