Author's Note: And it's back! I hope to get Firsts finished in February because I've got another story percolating in my brain. (Sneak preview: involves coffee and, quite possibly, a golf cart. Non-CV.)

As always, thank you to everyone who has read, subscribed, and reviewed the story.

Disclaimer: Blah blah Fox blah blah; I don't own the playground, I just dig in the sandbox. The CollarVerse is the creation of oflymonddreams. This story is AU to the CollarVerse and isn't connected to any CV/CV AU story.

Firsts
Chapter Four

When Dr. Cuddy caught sight of the new Diagnostics fellow walking purposefully down the hall in her direction, she chose to interpret the little crease between his eyebrows as concentration, not frustration. Realistically, she knew that not every applicant who applied for fellowship would be cut out for taking directions from a slave, but she held on to the optimistic ideal that Greg's first choice of applicants would work out perfectly – even if he was actually second choice. She nodded to Dr. Marten as he passed him; he acknowledged her and hurried on.

Cuddy told herself that she wanted to check on the construction project. Greg said it had been going on for a few nights, maybe that meant it was near completion. And it wouldn't hurt to prod him about creating a second short list of applicants if Marten didn't work out, and hadn't she asked for a list of medical journals Greg would need for the department? She wasn't going to admit that she wanted to weigh Dr. Wagner's observations about smart slaves becoming problem slaves. Wagner was of the opinion that Greg would crave novelty and variety even when he had an intellectually stimulating workload. That wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. She wanted to hear that Greg could keep himself focused and managed and that all she'd need to do was provide occasional guidance. Getting to know Greg's psychology was a touchy proposition; it felt disturbingly intimate. Forming a personal connection with the slave had to be avoided at all costs; she was already too close to him as it was. Better to put Wagner's words to the side for now.

Greg was seated at the large desk in the center of the conference room when she entered. Construction materials were stacked near the far window. A large sheet of plastic drop cloth had been tacked over a framework of wooden beams that would eventually support a wall. Greg stood up when she entered.

"You decided to hire Dr. Marten?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am - yes, Dr. Cuddy. I believe his experience in the lab will be useful."

"Good. We can contact Riley and Ono when they get back."

"How many fellows do you want me to hire?"

"I'm not sure yet. Two, maybe. We'll have to wait to see what kind of case load you have." She nodded at the patient file open on the desk. "You've started already. Good."

He looked down at the file. "The patient's been seen here before. I sent Dr. Marten to re-run some tests."

"Keep me updated."

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy."

She feigned deep interest in the construction progress, walking over to take a closer look. Greg seemed alright; he got through his first interview, hired his first fellow. Was there anything to suggest he was performing less than optimally?

Turning back, she saw a small white object on the floor, out of sight from the other side of the desk.

"Greg, what's that?"

The slave kept his eyes turned down. Was he trembling?

"Answer me, Greg."

"It's a crane, Dr. Cuddy."

She knelt and picked it up. It was a delicate paper crane folded from a scrap of notebook paper. The paper was dirty and had clearly been creased several times, but the final product was admirable.

"And did you do this?" she continued.

"Yes, ma'am." Now he really was trembling.

Dr. Cuddy spoke clearly and slowly as she stepped back towards the door. "You've done good work, Greg. The Diagnostics department has begun to function just as you yourself designed it to. However, never make the mistake of thinking that it would disappear without you. Your work is valuable, but far from indispensable." She was standing in front of the desk again. "If you give me reason to think that you can't do this job, the hospital is going to be in the unfortunate position of owning the most expensive piece of sanitation equipment in history. And I don't want that."

Greg didn't take his eyes off the little paper ornament held in her fingers. "I don't want that either, ma'am."

Down in the ER, Sarah felt too sick to go home, but not sick enough to stay quiet.

"I told them there was something wrong with me," she complained to the doctor holding the clipboard. He nodded, writing something down. "Go on," he said.

"It's an allergy or something but they told me I didn't have any. That whole test was a waste of time."

"The scratch test you did tested for the most common allergies, but there's a lot of other things you might be allergic to instead."

"So do I need to do another test?"

"Yes. Sorry about that," Dr. Marten added when Sarah groaned. "We've given your case to a specialist. We should be able to answer your questions very soon."

"A specialist? Does that mean I'm really sick?" She looked terrified.

"No, no," Marten assured her. Christ, this is why he had been so glad to hide away in labs; not much chance of saying the wrong thing there. "But because you're clearly still sick and your last test didn't tell us anything, we just want to look a little closer."

Sarah accepted this, or maybe she was too tired to argue anymore.

Marten thanked her for her patience. Turning to leave, he almost tripped over a large red purse.

"Sorry," Sarah said. "That's mine. Someone must have dropped it there. Hey, hand it to me? I gotta write down that stupid lunch."

He watched her dig out a little notebook - red to match her purse, he noticed. A clever way of reminding her to carry it along. "What's that?"

"This? Oh, the doctor I saw told me to keep a food diary. I write down everything I eat so I can see what makes me sick. I still don't know what I'm allergic to, but I guess it's better than doing nothing." Sarah used a little matching pen to mark the date and her disastrous food court lunch.

"May I have a look?"

She handed it over. It was a consistently kept little record, if not very thorough. Entries consisted of lists like "Plain tuna fish. Apple. Peanut butter." and "Hard boiled egg. Apple. Milk." Earlier entries had red X marks next to "Ramen noodles" and "Grilled cheese sandwich."

Interesting. Very interesting.

Marten closed the diary. "Could I borrow this for a while?"