Chapter 37

"The Mystery of the Spilled Coffee"

I sat at the table listening to them banter back and forth, sipping at my coffee and trying to lift myself out of my Ativan fog.

The two of them reminded me of those very old reruns of the "George Burns and Gracie Allen Show" my parents used to watch when my brothers and I were little kids. See-sawing back and forth like a couple of sixth graders at recess: both talk, neither listen, neither give a damn! My head felt like a fifty-five gallon drum; empty and echoing like wind through a canyon.

SHUT! UP! ALREADY!

I lifted my head from between my hands and growled at them as though I were their father. "I love your 'George and Gracie' routine, guys, but … uh … anybody get the morning labs? Sat reading? Temp?"

Greg turned in the chair and scowled at me, all long-suffering and overly exaggerated patience. "Don't you ever go off duty? I'm fine! I even cooked breakfast."

I looked down at my perfect slice of coffee cake and snickered. "Yeah … you and Sara Lee must've slaved away all morning."

"I'm hurt!" He pouted. He screwed up his features until he closely resembled Uncle Remus. He snatched away my piece of coffee cake and took a huge bite out of it. "You don't deserve this little slice of heaven!" He smacked his lips in delight … or whatever those special effects were supposed to represent.

"Appetite's back," I observed sagely. Cuddy shook her lead, half laughing, and reached across to cuff the back of Greg's head affectionately. She then sliced off a fresh hunk of cake and laid it in front of me. Our middle-aged child turned with arched brows and made a face at her.

We were more appreciative of his antics this morning, however, than he would probably ever know. Neither of us could remember the last time he'd stolen food from my plate … and this was a milestone.

Cuddy sat down her empty coffee mug and rose from the table. She looked a little dazed, and I figured she was just about "Housed out". She went for her jacket and elbowed into it quickly. "I'll draw the blood and drop it off on my way in. I'll get a little extra. Now that your fever's down, we should get a repeat CBC."

He watched closely as Cuddy pulled the samples, then grunted sarcastically behind her turned back: "You're a vampire!"

She didn't answer, just grabbed her handbag, tucked the samples inside, winked at me over his head and left quietly. Yep … she needed to "de-House" all right!

He and I moved into the living room with our coffee. He sat on the couch while I did the morning meds and got a quick assessment. Surprisingly, I was satisfied with the results. "No fever," I told him, "and you're maintaining a normal 02 sat on room air. Your lungs are even beginning to sound functional again."

"That mean we can dispense with those nasty little aerosols?"

"I said beginning to sound good. You're still pretty junky."

"That's a 'no', then?"

"Yes. Unh … no. I mean yes … that's a no. A couple more days of aerosols won't kill you." I pretended not to see him sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. I ignored him completely and walked out to the kitchen to do his charting, and after that, begin a bit of cleanup.

It didn't take long out there, but when I picked up his chart from the counter, I was surprised to see a small coffee stain on it. I walked over to the couch and sat down beside him, looking into his face with an inquiring expression. I didn't say anything, but it wasn't that he didn't notice. You can't ignore a billboard at the side of the road just because you're not looking directly at it.

Finally, he couldn't stand the implied accusation any longer, and just as I'd known he would, he turned his gaze dead onto mine. "What? You look like you just ate something nasty. Wasn't my coffee cake … I know that." He grinned, but all I saw were two rows of perfect teeth. "Spill, Jimmy! What's buggin' you?"

I took a deep breath. "Speaking of spills … seems to be a coffee stain on one of these files."

"You're a little clumsy, huh? Not like it's an official chart or anything, anyway."

"I didn't spill any coffee. Not this morning. This is fresh."

"So Cuddy's a little clumsy."

"Cuddy takes cream in her coffee. And she cleans up after herself. Also, she has her own copy of this particular file."

His expression tightened. "A doctor, a chef, and a detective … Jimmy, you're a man of many talents."

I kept quiet for a moment. Didn't let him reading anything on my face. It was difficult. Finally, I looked directly into his eyes. "I'm sorry, House. I'm really sorry. Can … will you forgive me?"

Instinctively, I think, he realized it wasn't the time to joke around. "There's nothing to forgive," he told me firmly.

"But I saw you that night … on the floor of your office. And I walked away." I chewed at my lower lip, not sure what to say next. He studied me quietly, and finally it was I who could not stand the silence. I cleared my throat uneasily and went on. "I shouldn't ask you to excuse what I did, though, when I can't condone it myself." I was feeling very subdued, and it was getting difficult to meet those deep, penetrating eyes. So I looked away in haste. "I know I told you that you could listen to the session … that I wasn't ashamed of anything I said … and it's true. Sort of. But I thought we'd listen to it together … and I'd have the chance to talk to you about it first. I'm still ashamed of what I did … that night …"

"You did the right thing."

There it was. He absolved me, and his voice was deep and rumbling and quiet and sincere, and I knew I didn't deserve it. He continued. "What would have happened if you'd come in?"

I hadn't thought about that before. But I thought about it then. Finally I could bring myself to hazard the only possible answer. "You'd have yelled at me to get out … and insulted me. And I would have ignored you."

He smiled. "Preferable to passing a tear-soaked tissue back and forth … which would have been our only other option." He kept looking at me, waiting for me to meet his gaze. "You did the right thing!" We were sitting close together on the couch, and our heads were both down, as though we'd found something of intense interest on the floor at our feet. I looked up slowly, sort-of forcing him to do the same. And our eyes met. He nodded, giving me permission to let go some of the guilt.

"And anyway," he said with a tense ring of cheer in his voice, "this transcript is great, really. Now I have an actual doctor's note with permission to give you a hard time. Your shrink even approved it … how cool is that??"

"What are you talking about?"

He leaned over and lifted the chart from my lap. He rifled through the transcript of the voice file, looking for something. Then, in a badly overblown imitation of Sigmund Freud, he read in an eccentric voice: "He's literally programmed to fight you!"

I stared at him with my mouth hanging open, listening to him as he jabbered on happily: "That's like a blank check to star in my own episode of 'Boys Behaving Badly'. Ya know, The Incredible Shrinking Dick might be an okay fella after all." He grinned maniacally, and I got the glare to end all glares.

I took a deep breath and did my damndest not to smile at the idiocy. "Two things: First, call him the 'incredible shrinking dick' tomorrow night, and I'll put the parental-control lock on your porn channels … all of 'em! Got me?"

"You're no fun!" He grumped. I crossed my arms and continued to wait. He relented. "Oh fine! Got it … no nicknames. And the second thing?"

"I think it's only fair to warn you … you may be 'programmed to fight me' … but I've just programmed myself to fight back!" I looked at him smugly, and he was quiet for a few moments.

"A damned fine job you're doing, too!" He finally said. His voice was low, and more than a little serious. Lucky for me!" He added, even more quietly. "One more thing about this …"

I waited for the punch line.

He turned the transcript quickly to the final page. "Your last line here? You know … the mushy poetic one?"

He waited a moment, watching me squirm.

"History doesn't always repeat itself, Jimmy. You remember what you said … and you believe it. Take it to the bank, Bro …"

He closed the chart slowly. With dignity and finality. He handed it back to me, and when he let go, his fingers brushed lightly across mine.

"Hey! I ate all my breakfast … and yours too. That means I get a Twinkie for dessert."

He cocked his head and grinned that dumb grin of one-upmanship.

Not to be outdone, I grinned right back at him.

I left the file on the coffee table and went to the kitchen for the package of Twinkies …

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