A/N: Thanks guys for your lovely comments. I love to hear from you all!
--
House ordered two bowls of raspberry jello, ignoring the surprised look from the cafeteria manager when he actually paid for them. He realised it was probably the first time he'd ever paid for anything there from his own pocket and was vaguely surprised that moths hadn't flown out when he'd opened his wallet.
He carried the tray over to the table Alice had selected and gave half a thought to "accidentally" tripping and pouring the jello over her – he was very eager to see what she wore under yet another black, tailored suit. But then he figured that if he wanted her to remove more than just her suit jacket, she might respond better to good table manners rather than him initiating a food fight.
She made a face when he put the tray down in front of her.
"You know, I was kind of thinking that 'jello' was a metaphor," she said.
"Really? I don't think so. You see, I specialise in metaphor, and today, jello is jello."
"Right. See, I was thinking that 'jello' was 'coffee'."
"You wanted to have coffee with me?" House didn't have to fake the surprise too much; he'd been as shocked as anyone when the redhead had followed him up to the cafeteria.
She seemed a little flustered by the question and House liked that, she'd struck him as someone who was very cool, calm and collected and he liked that he'd provoked a reaction.
"I normally like to date a man before I jello wrestle in front of him," she answered finally.
"Excellent. Well, I rarely bring dates here for coffee, mostly because the coffee here is awful. Sounds like we better do this properly. Are you free for dinner?" He made his voice deliberately carefree and looked away, over towards other diners in the room, being sure to appear as if her answer made no difference to him whatsoever. The fact that it if she said yes it would be his first date in two years was something he didn't want to dwell on.
She paused before answering, just long enough for House to start preparing an exit strategy.
"I guess you've—"
"I don't normally go for dinner with someone unless I know their first name," she said. She smiled at him and God, it was good. Jeez, if she could make him feel like this with just a smile, his head would probably explode if she gave him a blow job.
"I mean, it would be weird to say, 'can you pass the salt, Dr House?'"
"Greg." He put his hand out and she shook it.
"Alice," she said in response.
"I know."
"I know you know. It just seemed like the thing to say."
"You should say what you mean." House had re-read Alice in Wonderland over the weekend, remembering why it had been one of his favourite books as a kid, and then again when he was at college. He was sure that second phase had nothing to do with hallucinogens. Probably.
"I mean what I say, and that's the same thing, you know," she retorted.
He raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Can you quote Jabberwocky too?"
"Not until our second date."
He laughed. He liked her. "So you're really not going to eat this jello?"
"I'm afraid not. I gave up jello after a nasty bout of gastro a few years ago." She looked at her watch. "And besides, I need to get back to work. I'm not exactly in my boss's good graces right now."
"Why do you think I'm in the clinic?" House muttered.
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Should I pick you up? Seven?"
"Sure." She gave him her address, a house in a ritzy part of town. Her clothes were good quality, but by no means couture, and there were no obvious designer labels on her bag or shoes, so House had a hard time picking her socio-economic bracket. He realised he didn't even know what she did for a living.
Alice rose from the table and gave him that smile again, the one that made him both happy and a little uncomfortable.
"See you tonight."
He didn't get up. He knew he should and his mother would disapprove, but with his leg there were some things he'd given up on. Automatically standing when a woman left a table was one of them.
"See you tonight," he echoed, watching her as she walked away from him. He considered himself a connoisseur of ass. She had a great ass.
He turned back to the table and picked up the bowl closest to him. He quite liked raspberry jello.
--
Back at work, on her last day of punishment on the news desk, Alice ignored a few calls. No one around her cared about an unanswered phone and the PR people would always call back.
As a features writer of a major daily newspaper, with several investigative reporting awards under her belt and a reputation that sent many politicians and CEOs screaming off to their bunkers to get a cuddle and a pep talk from their PR lackey, Alice McKenzie was lost in thought . . . thinking about what to wear on her date that night.
She had a simple, black jersey dress with a scooped neck, and if she wore skin-toned stockings and kept the jewellery plain, it wouldn't be too dressed up. She could wear her heels too – she liked wearing heels, but being so tall already, she was careful about her height. Thankfully he was tall, so she could probably wear stilettos and still be shorter than him, but her mid-height black patent sling-backs would do fine.
Her thoughts wandered more broadly, wondering where he lived, wondering which restaurant he'd take her to.
Maybe the black was too much? But her other choice was a red floral, and that didn't feel right. No, the black. Besides, the dress had a zip down the back which also meant easy access later, when they got naked.
Alice choked on the sip of coffee she'd just taken. She sputtered and wiped her lips with the back of her hand, then looked around to make sure no one had been watching. She picked up a nearby phone and pretended to be taking a call, just in case.
She couldn't believe her brain was thinking like that! When they got naked?
Alice was by no means virginal, but she had never slept with someone on the first date before. And she'd only had three dates since her ex-husband Stuart ran off with the stripper almost two years ago. (Crystal wasn't really a stripper, she worked in an office somewhere, but it made Alice feel better about her hatred of the woman to think of her as a sex worker.) One of the three dates had been with Andrew Coupland and just the idea of it made her sick now. He'd found the word "no" to be a vague construct, with a meaning anywhere between "yes please" and "oh God, take me now". Her other two dates had been with her tax accountant and they'd had a pleasant, if not terribly exciting, night in bed after their second evening out, but then he hadn't called. Except when her tax was due.
Her life had become Jabberwocky: it didn't make a lot of sense and was full of some slithy toves indeed.
Maybe tonight was her chance to change it all. To stop this insanity that she'd spiralled into. Alice didn't want to hurt people. Unless it was an exposé on a corrupt politician and then all bets were off. But ordinary people, like that therapist and Andrew-the-creep, she didn't need to physically hurt them.
Perhaps she was just due for some action? If there was one part of her relationship with her ex that did work, it was when they were between the sheets. She had to admit, regular access to a good lover, no matter how much she hated him, was kind of important to her.
Dr Greg House and his sparkling blue eyes might be just the cure she was looking for.
--
House stopped in at Wilson's office on his way out in the late afternoon. Wilson had been paging him all day with what House assumed – mostly correctly – was an urgent need to lecture him about what he'd seen in the clinic and figured it could wait.
"Wilson, you rang," House announced in a deep, Lurch-like voice as he opened the door.
"House."
Great, from just that one word, House could tell Wilson was exasperated already.
"You've been avoiding me."
"I've been busy. My patient had the plague."
"Yeah, right."
House felt a little hurt. His patient really had had the plague. His second-ever case.
Wilson stood, all the better to lecture him, House thought. So he sat down, letting Wilson get it out of his system.
"House, I know I stand on incredibly shaky moral ground as I say this, but you can't date a patient."
House did a fake, cartoon-style double-take. "Wait a minute. Is this James Wilson's office?" He picked up the name plate sitting on the desk and spun it around in his hands incredulously. "Because I could have sworn the door said James Wilson, MD, philanderer, ex-husband, and sleeper-with-dying-cancer-patients," House improvised.
Wilson blew out a breath and sat back in his office chair, deflated. "Well, I figured it was worth a shot. The only good thing about all of that was that I didn't get caught, House. Make sure you don't either."
"Wilson, relax. She's not my patient anymore. And besides, she came in with a black eye and a cut arm. It's not like I had to touch her anywhere inappropriate."
"Black eye?"
House shrugged. Of course, Alice's black eye was barely noticeable today; all Wilson would have seen were the stitches in her arm.
"She's not in an abusive relationship or anything is she? Because you don't want to get involved—"
"You're right Wilson," House interrupted. "I don't want to get involved. Now, did you page me all round the hospital today just to lecture me or was there something else bothering you?"
Wilson sighed again, but House could tell he'd won that round. "Remember that patient that I asked you to look at for me a few weeks ago? A middle-aged man, small cell carcinoma, questionable x-rays?"
House nodded, he remembered the case. The diagnosis had been borderline, but he'd agreed with his friend.
"He just came in to start his second round of chemo and they did another round of x-rays."
"And?" House's curiosity was piqued.
"See for yourself." Wilson gestured to the lightbox on the wall behind House.
House got up and looked at the chest x-rays closely. He frowned. "No cancer."
"That's right. No cancer."
"One round of chemo wouldn't have made this much difference."
"No. It wouldn't. It didn't. He never had cancer. I re-did the blood tests and all the markers were negative."
"So we screwed up," House said pragmatically. "It happens."
"He's suing me."
"Oh." No wonder Wilson was upset. This was probably his first malpractice suit. Well if not the very first, then the first in a long time. House, on the other hand, was fairly familiar with them. "Look don't worry. Cuddy will look after this. She'll get in some legal eagle and they'll deal with it. You'll have to sign some papers, but between them and the insurance company, you won't really have to think about it."
"Of course I'll think about it!" Wilson was cranky. Wilson was the only man House knew who did "cranky". "Cranky" was normally reserved for little old ladies and toddlers. "I nearly destroyed this man's life!"
"You'll get over it." House said. If Wilson wanted sympathy he really should have known by now to look elsewhere.
The exact same thought seemed to cross Wilson's mind and he sagged back into his chair, all his steam seemingly run out. "Never mind," he muttered.
House felt a little bad. "Look Wilson, you'll be fine, trust me. If you want, you can come over Saturday and watch the game and I'll tell you about the first time I was sued."
"Sure. Enjoy your date, House."
"Yeah, I will. I think." House had been thinking about Alice McKenzie all day. When he'd seen her in the clinic he'd felt an odd sense of déjà vu, as if a dream had suddenly clashed with reality. Which made sense, given that the night after he'd treated her, he had dreamed about her. The sort of dream boys were supposed to grow out of. When he saw her, it took him a moment to connect her with the dream and then the dream with the reality of her treatment.
"Of course you will enjoy it. I'm just going to stay here until I catch up on all my paperwork."
House ignored Wilson's pathetic bid for sympathy, which was all it deserved. He checked his watch and then sprung up from the chair. "Gotta go, Wilson. I'm late." He smiled as a quote came back to him. "I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date."