Pictures at an Exhibition

Chapter 3

"If we don't find out the 'why' it could happen again. You always have to know 'why'." Cuddy cocked her head. They had been sitting silently, except to order, until the miso soup arrived. "He doesn't care about the 'why," House continued. "He's not ready."

"Are we talking about Foreman again?"

"Do you know how many times he's responded 'It doesn't matter. The treatment's the same'? Just in the last month. There's no sense I get from him of filing away the information for future recall. No storing up of data from a wrong diagnosis that can get him to a correct one five years down the road."

"Are any of them in that place?"

"Chase. Maybe. But the other two aren't trying to fly the coop." Cuddy was intrigued. In the six years he had worked for her, this was the first time House had ever spoken about his fellows. Not the last crop, and not this one. She had surmised that House was taking Foreman's departure much harder than he let on, but, clearly, it was eating away at him even more than she had guessed.

"Like I said, House, let me try to work something out with the board. What was up back there?" She had held her breath a moment before venturing into what she knew was tricky territory. Something back at the gallery had struck a nerve, turning a reasonably innocuous trip to an art exhibit into a dark journey into House's troubled psyche. For him, anyway.

Cuddy was more than a little concerned with House's emotional well-being. She had watched him internalize what would have been devastating to anyone—the shooting; the incredible release from years of pain, only to see it cruelly return. Then there was the whole Tritter fiasco. The image of House's sunken eyes as he struggled through withdrawal: accusing and hurt as a wounded lion haunted her for months. She'd had the power to remove the thorn from his paw, and it was nearly too late by the time she did it. Even though he'd put himself back on Vicodin, he'd known it was no good. He had tried, in his own way to find an alternative.

House had argued that too many of the pain meds available to him either didn't work or fogged his brain, making him mentally incapable. She knew that all he really wanted was to be "average;" to be "normal," although, she also knew that he would never admit it. She had observed him these past few months, watching him encourage patients to give up a little uniqueness for a little bit of "normal." It's what he yearned for, she knew, and he was projecting that onto his patients. He was desperate and felt he had no one to go to. Especially not after hers and Wilson's betrayal early on.

Cuddy reached a hand across the table. House lifted his eyes, meeting hers along the way. "What happened back there? In the gallery." House gestured with the small soup ladle.

"It's impolite to talk and eat at the same time. Besides, soup's messy. Don't want to get any on my jacket." Cuddy refused to retract her hand; refused to retreat her gaze from his. House sighed, resignedly, caught in the earnestness of her eyes.

"Just something back there. A memory best left just that. Thanks for the poster, by the way." House glanced at Cuddy's hand still extended towards him. He lingered on it a moment before returning his gaze to the soup.

Cuddy relaxed back into her seat. It was all she was going to get, she knew. From him. Now. "It fit. You're always chasing those zebras—the odder, the better."

"Except when they're really horses. Then patients die. I told her that we 'really were that good,' you know. That there was no way she was going to die as long as Dr. Gregory House was on her case." He put the ladle back into the bowl, scrubbing his eyes. "I've never done that before. Said it. Thought it; think it—all the time. But saying it…I… I don't know why I did that. With her. I just…I couldn't stop myself…couldn't filter… My focus is off. I should have been better at…"

The waitress arrived with their main course. House picked at the sashimi platter, selecting a piece of white tuna, then replacing it on the platter before pushing it away.

"Have you changed your meds at all? Upped the Vicodin? You have been known to do that, you know."

"Vicodin doesn't fog my brain. I can still think clearly on it. It's why I haven't…" He stopped himself, not wanting for the thousandth time to explain himself. "It's not like I have a lot of choices…And no, to answer your question. I have not changed my dosage. Or been taking anything recreational, if that was your next question." His tone was sullen, and Cuddy wanted to redeem what was left of their evening.

Cuddy finished her hand rolls while House continued to pick at slices of raw fish on his plate. When the waitress returned with their check, he quickly grabbed it, thrusting his Gold Card into her hand without looking at the bill. Cuddy's eyes widened at the gesture. "Your tickets, your car. Least I can do for ruining your evening."

"House…" He averted his eyes, nervously tapping his cane. He felt like shit for having ruined the evening. She had made the gesture in the first place, he understood, as an act of kindness and he repaid it by being a sullen ass. But what would she have expected. It was who he was. And that wasn't going to change. Just ask Foreman, he mused darkly.

House sulked nearly all the way back to Princeton. He was tired; his leg throbbed unmercifully cramped in her small sports car. "I'm sorry, Cuddy," he declared through the darkness. His voice was tinged with regret and an unarticulated longing—for something. "Thank you. For the Warhol poster. I've always liked that print. Not that I like Warhol, but for some reason…" Cuddy snapped on the radio.

"Pick what you want, House…on the radio." Bill Evans' piano sounded through the multiple speakers, surrounding them with his melancholy composition.

"Since when do you listen to jazz?" House loved Bill Evans. He noted that the radio was tuned to his favorite public radio station. "Jazz and blues: all day and all night," was its motto. He smiled, closing his eyes.

"Since I first heard you play it, back in the day. That trio of yours back at UMich. You guys were good." House remembered that Cuddy had been an undergrad at the University of Michigan while House snagged a Masters in Chemistry, before returning to Hopkins for Med School. He had been her Organic TA. He smiled.

"Another bad influence I had on you." House felt Cuddy smile back at him through the darkened car as they pulled up at House's apartment. And, for a moment, he felt, what he thought was a reasonable facsimile of "normal."

"It's been a long drive back. Want a cup of coffee before you go home?" Cuddy knew he was making an effort to redeem himself from his earlier mood. The street light reflected off of his sad, beautiful eyes, making them nearly transparent, accentuating their depths and their humanity.

"Sure."