~ Chapter Four ~
Checked Baggage
Chase sat in House's lounge chair, exhausted.
The differential and diagnosis had went by quickly, and the treatment was taking.
But, he was physically and psychologically spent.
He leaned his head back, and he put his feet up on the ottoman. It was odd, to lead the differentials, and ow he had an innate understanding on why House hated dealing with patients.
"Everybody lies," he muttered, letting his eyes flutter closed. He could feel the nervous tension pulsating through his tight muscles. He thought about going back to his condo, but the idea sickened him. There were too many memories, both good and bad, held within those walls.
They hadn't even lasted a year, even after knowing each other for nearly six years. He wasn't deluding himself; he knew they had only a fifty/fifty chance of actually making it, but he had hoped they would have lasted longer than a year in holy matrimony.
The patient had had honey blond hair, Cameron's natural color, and she had even shared her eye color. His guts twinged at the thought. It would take a long time for him to get over her.
She had blamed House for their break-up; he had blamed himself.
Before he could go further in his pity party, a soft tap on the glass door of the office had knocked him out of his thoughts. He sat up quickly, and Wilson popped his head in the door. "You doing okay?" Chase could almost smile. It was the first time since she left that that question hadn't referred to their separation and divorce.
He nodded, "Yeah." He ran a hand through his short hair. "How the hell does he do it?"
Wilson's thoughtful face split into a grin. "You've worked for him the longest. You should know the answer to that."
Chase shook his head. "I've always been on the other side, tossing out ideas, sometimes randomly." He paused. "Sometimes, I just told him what he wanted to hear."
"Well," Wilson spoke slowly, thoughtfully, "House hates random, so you must be one hell of an ss kisser." When Chase failed to smile at his weak attempt at a joke, Wilson added, earnestly, "you're doing fine, and the treatment worked. Results are what matter, and your patient will probably be walking out of the hospital." Wilson shrugged. "That's what House will care about, anyway."
"The ends justify the means?" Chase muttered out loud, more to himself than to Wilson.
Wilson frowned. Something was bothering the young man, and it was more than just being handed the reins to the Diagnostics Department. "Wanna go grab a beer?" He shrugged at Chase's bewildered expression. "I could use one," he admitted.
Chase frowned. "You're not going to give me advice on moving on, are you?"
"God no!" Wilson answered quickly, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I'm the last one you want to hear advice from about that. I'm still on good terms with all my ex-wives."
Chase pondered his words, then stood up. "Let me get my coat."
Wilson thrust his hands in his pockets, and he waited for Chase. Then, a slow smile spread across his boyish features. At least he'd have a drinking buddy for the next week, and that buddy's name wouldn't be House.
It would be nice to have an adult conversation for a change.
** ** **
House limped, without a cane, through the terminal.
He felt like hell.
Normally, being punctual was not on his list of things to do, but with the increased airport security, Wilson convinced him that he needed to get to Newark early.
Boy, and he was happy for that, though he'd never admit it out loud.
Apparently, he'd made it on some form of government watch list, or, at least a Greg House did. Or it was his unlucky day. What ever the reason, he'd been singled out, and after two hours of convincing various officials that no, he didn't plan on blowing up a plane. At least, he hadn't planned on it until he'd arrived at the airport and started to go through security.
Now his head was throbbing, and his thigh was aching. They'd taken away his cane, and they'd offered him a wheelchair which he had just abandoned, preferring to limp his way through the terminal than listening to the squeaky wheel that had added to his already pulsating headache.
She better be on the damn flight.
He'd spent a good chunk of change to change his flight at the last minute, and he'd just braved the mouth of hell, also known as the bureaucratic nightmare known as airport security (that was an oxymoron if he'd ever heard one). It couldn't be for nothing.
He found an empty chair with a great view of who was coming and going in the terminal, and he sat heavily in it.
And he waited.
He watched as people bustled around, sitting down, waiting for their flights.
None of them were Cuddy.
The flight was called, ad he let everyone file in ahead of him. He hung back, scanning the crowd, but he never saw her. Finally, when everyone else had filed into the plane, he followed them in. He took his seat, and he leaned his head back, not listening to the perky blond attendant going how to fasten a safety belt for the morons on the plane.
He'd been played, and that had hurt.
** ** **
Cuddy rushed to the airport as fast as traffic would allow.
She was late. She was never late, but today, she was late.
She'd overslept, then Rachel had been fussy, and that had slowed things considerably. Then there was the the accident that had snarled things on the freeway. Thank god she had everything packed and ready to go.
But that hadn't helped a whole lot.
She rushed up to the counter, and the sympathetic clerk gave her a sad smile. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but your flight has finished boarding. You'll have to take another flight."
She sighed, then started to reach for her purse to dig out her tickets so she could change her flight. The week was not starting off the way it should be.
Then she realized her purse was still in the locked car, with her cell phone and the keys.
