-13-

"Process"

Wilson sits at his desk, poring over the new case file he discovered in his inbox this morning. Sighing, he taps his fingers on his desk, forcing himself to read through Mrs. Abernathy's symptoms and past test results for the second time. He is not at all happy with himself. Today is one of those rare days when he is not in the mood to ply his trade, and it's times like these he wishes he had a team on whom he could foist the case. More for the patient's benefit than his own. But he is the department head and it is his responsibility to examine his patient thoroughly, then come up with a diagnosis. After that, if he feels a differential is warranted, he can set up a consult with the other doctors in his department.

Or he can talk to House, which, at the moment, is not an option.

He reads through the symptoms again, knowing what his next step should be but feeling no compunction to begin the process. The words shift and shimmy before his eyes, and he needs to close the file. Give me a minute. His whisper is loud in the quiet. In a moment he will try again.

Cuddy knows nothing of his internet findings. In the light of day they seem trivial, not worth pursuing, just crazed meanderings from a hodgepodge of weirdos wandering the planet in search of 'truth'.

Not important.

Besides, who says House even dialed the number?

He's at the casino, clad in shirt number five, seeing as how he lost the other four.

Wilson doesn't call Rosa, even though she has already left two messages on his cell. Something is wrong between them and it has nothing to do with House. Does she sense how everything is slowly giving way, collapsing around them like condemned buildings under the wrecking ball?

He is beginning to detest the need in her eyes and in her touch, when all he wants to do is sleep. For awhile he had himself believing this could be something strong and right and lasting.

In his head, House snorts at the idea.

Wilson winces, wondering how damaged he truly is, how Amber's death put his desire and need for a solid relationship into cold storage.

This isn't Rosa's fault; every moment he continues to pretend their relationship has staying power makes her more of a victim.

He will talk to her about it. Tonight...or sometime.

He reaches for the file but his hand drifts toward the phone instead. Before he can think about stopping himself he has already dialed the 800 number. He has the power. He can hang up before the person, machine or entity at the other end picks up.

But he doesn't.

Garrett's hands are cold. The office is a comfortable seventy-two degrees, yet his hands are like ice. He paces the length of the room, alternately rubbing his palms together and tucking his hands inside his front trouser pockets. When he is nervous it's as if ice chips have taken residence beneath his skin. He clenches and unclenches his fists to fight off the chill. Why he is on edge is not a mystery. He is well aware of why he slept on the sofa in the office last night instead of heading home.

Irie is coming.

The head of operations will arrive at 4:30 PM on Lansing One, the private jet the government donated to the project five months earlier. Government funding for the project has been generous but tenuous. No promises. No sure things. Money could be ripped away from them on a whim, putting an end to their progress and sending their latest, most promising acquisition on his way. This disturbing scenario hangs over their heads like the swinging blade of a guillotine.

Finding the best and the brightest is imperative if the Getaway project is to continue. A few notables have settled happily in Nova City, and the fact that a gaggle of interesting, productive people agreed to live there is no surprise. It is wicked cool as alternate dimension hot spots go. But simple, homespun Pleasant Hills is another matter.

Now that a brainiac is in their grasp, they need to find a way to make the doctor want to stay. Persuasion takes time and effort. This one is worth the trouble.

The past five years have seen Garrett and Sarno putting their lives on hold to make this project work. They needed to succeed not only in crafting these cities, but to help Irie smooth over The Powers That Be. If she comes off looking like a champ, they have done their jobs well.

Not that Irie needs much help. She possesses charm and eloquence, is organized, versatile, well-read, can hold a conversation on just about any topic and is respected by her staff. Could the fact that she is as statuesque as a pharaoh's daughter and that her almond shaped eyes alternate from gold to sea green, have something to do with the warm welcome she receives in Washington? The honchos nearly fall all over themselves to greet her.

They wouldn't be half as enthusiastic to see Garrett with his big nose or Sarno with that thuggish fedora he wears lumbering into their offices every few months.

Garrett's cell phone blips and shudders in his trouser pocket. Irie is texting him from the airport to say her flight from New Mexico landed at Kennedy ten minutes ago.

While Sarno keeps the doctor captivated and comfortable in the house designed especially for him, Garrett needs to make Irie's arrival at the office as pleasant as possible. After a dinner at Marcel's they will head to Station One, then off to Pleasant Hills, where Irie can see first hand the progress that has been made.

Garrett is certain that like most men, Doctor House will be more than happy to make her acquaintance.

It's almost like being home. But that's the point, isn't it?

The ceilings are high, the walls wood paneled, embellished with prints of some of his favorite works: Munch's "The Scream" and Gorey's "The Gashlycrumb Tinies". Shelves filled with books and exotic glass and ceramic collectibles line the walls of the living room and study.

He hasn't seen the upstairs yet but it's difficult enough taking in what has already been offered. Sarno follows close, his shoulder practically brushing against House's as he checks his watch for the umpteenth time. House wants to ask if the guy has a hot date, but doesn't. He doesn't want distraction. He needs to stop, inhale, exhale, to classify, to separate the pieces of this strange, surreal experience.

He needs to understand.

Pinching the bridge of his nose he waits for the revelation that will make all the tiles clickity clack into place. He thinks of the mosaic on the wall of the town hall lobby, how every shiny square represents a miniscule crumb of Pleasant Hills. If one comes unglued, then what?

He needs to lean against the leather sectional sofa (facing the 42 inch plasma TV on the wall), and force himself to come up with a reasonable explanation for all this.

"Doctor?" Sarno's voice is soft, hesitant.

"Why was Wilson driving the ice cream truck?" House asks.

Sarno tilts his head, tosses a tolerant smile. "You can't shake it off, can you?"

"If I can make sense of that, maybe I can breeze through the rest."

"Why can't you just relax and enjoy? This is supposed to be a vacation."

"Tell me."

"Stick around long enough and you can ask him yourself."

House pouts and pushes away from the sofa. He experiences the slightest twinge in his leg, which he puts down to turning it the wrong way. He is not used to walking without a limp, much less without his cane, which waits in the corner by the rocking chair like an abandoned child. "This is one of those government funded experiments," he says, waggling an accusing finger at Sarno.

The sudden revelation causes Sarno's to stutter step backward, his mouth falling open as he nearly trips over an ottoman. "You-"

"Don't bother denying it or assuring me what an amazingly perceptive guy I am," House flicks a bit of fluff off the sofa arm. "I won't get the truth from you. The only one I'll get it from is me."

Sarno's face has gone as pale as the Hummel angel glowing at both of them from its place on the hearth.

Suddenly there is music. The song stylings and shake your hips rhythm of Robert Mitchum are back, wafting through the air, loud, now soft, now loud again.

"Who else is here?" House asks.

Sarno swallows hard, his eyes flitting around the room. "Just the maid," he squeaks.

"Am I'm making things difficult for you?"

"No." He shakes his head many more times than is necessary.

"Seems like I am." House heads for the stairs. He grasps the banister and readies the formerly traitorous leg to begin the trek. He plans to take the stairs two at a time and conclude the trip by propelling himself up and away from the last step, finishing it off by landing on two sturdy feet.

If the maid hadn't appeared at the top of the steps, it might have happened just that way. But the moment he sees her he gawps and almost staggers backward before gripping the banister tighter to steady himself. The room is a teeter-totter, seesawing up and back. The maid saves the day, her frightened little 'oops' putting everything right again.

But it wasn't her presence that startled him...it's who she appears to be.

She sashays down the steps, this embodiment of Stacy...Cuddy...Cameron. Something is wrong yet so thrillingly perverse about her; House feels like a voyeur in a dirty raincoat, watching Stacy's arched brows rise; as she gives him that look; those brown eyes narrowing, boring into his. She is magic. She knows exactly what he is thinking, even now when he is trying so hard-

(la, la, la, think baseball scores, think grocery lists...)

He fails miserably, of course.

The nose is slightly Romanesque, classic, Cuddy's nose, complementing the sensuous smirking mouth and high cheekbones. The hair is all Cameron, blonde, full bodied, swept back to accentuate the high brow.

You have pretty hair...

The more he looks at her the more he can sense other women who have attracted him, their features winking in and out like glimpses of starlight through the clouds.

Now you see her, now you-

"This is Misha," Sarno extends a hand toward the maid, who nods curtly and sweeps past the two men as if there is nothing absurd about this at all. "While you're here, she will be available to see to any needs you may have..."

A soft moan escapes House as he turns to watch Misha enter the kitchen. She smells sweet, honey-dipped, like a candy apple.

She'd kill you, old man.

Articulating his thoughts is not an option. The words refuse to queue up and spew forth. So he smolders in silence, allowing Sarno to lead him upward and onward.

Later, after a swift tour of the upstairs, with its 'play' room (complete with a grand piano, video games, a wall of DVDs,and more books), a sauna, a bathroom with a marble tub and jacuzzi, Misha's voice crackles over the intercom. Guests have arrived.

He is reluctant to leave. It's comfortable in that sanctum and he can imagine spending a good deal of time wading through its offerings.

"Does she like music?" House asks.

"Who?"

"The maid."

"Misha."

"Yeah."

"You could ask her..."

He is not sure he could. The thought of conversing with her makes him as giddy as a fifteen year old on a first date.

Where is your mind?

"There is more to see," Sarno assures him, leading the way downstairs. "Explanations are in order, I know. You've been really cool, ultra patient."

Ultra dazed and confused...

At the bottom of the stairs House sees the guy with the curly locks and big nose he distantly recalls from the trip here. Next to him is a goddess. No other word seems to fit.

"You know Garrett," Sarno is saying from...somewhere off in the ozone. "And this is Irie."

The woman wraps him in her languid smile, making him all warm and comfy and so glad to be here.

"Irie," continues Sarno, "will give you the rundown on everything."

House can hardly wait.