Choux Pastry Heart Chapter 4: Go Mad, a house, m.d. fanfic

A/N: Credit to Shonda Rimes for portions of the previous chapters, which were inspired by Owen talking to Derek in "Stand By Me". Yes, I'm a Grey's fan. Get over it :D Speaking of the previous chapter, special prize goes to iyimgrace for guessing the relevance of the title correctly. (That plot bunny I gave you was the prize :D)

I don't own the song, but I recommend listening to it, especially towards the later sections. "Go Mad" by Caleb Kane. Look it up, it's a fantastic song.

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She is a lot of things, but she is most definitely not a morning person. She needs a reason to get up in the morning-- an assignment, or a page, or usually something that she put off doing until that day. If that was the case, her eyes would snap open at exactly 6:00 AM, a curse on her lips, the stop button on the iHome would be properly found and pushed, and she would propel herself out of bed and in the bathroom.

That was the case that Monday morning. That April morning brought with it good weather along with good luck, it seemed. She really needed it. Today was a big day.

A make it or break it day.

She shook herself.

You can't think like this, she told herself. Come on, woman. Keep it together.

The niggling thought hadn't left the back of her head as she came face to face with her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and attempted to undo her hair. Her iHome was blasting Jet as she completed her morning ablutions, and she moved to her closet to pick something out.

Standing in front of her closet, she debated the merits of various outfits before picking, a bright red, reasonably cut sweater, a wide black belt and light gray trousers. Maybe it had a lot to do with her self-image, or being twenty four, but she didn't have it in her to wear pencil skirts. Or skirts, for that matter. Those were for the stacked, model-types, she thought to herself. With asses to speak of.

The wry smile stayed in place as she blew out her hair, and preened briefly, happy with her straight, shoulder length, coal black hair. She made it back to her closet and with a long suffering sigh, took out a package and ripped it open.

She slipped the gel cushions out of the package and into her pumps, silently promising her aching feet they would not have to suffer after today. Grabbing the burgundy colored tote that was jokingly referred to as the "briefcase", she gave herself a once over in the foyer mirror and stepped out the door.

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Lisa Cuddy kissed her daughter's soft cheek before uttering her daily apology. One of these days, she thought, as she pulled on her shoes, I'll see a dentist. See what kind of damage the big-time, stress-induced teeth gritting is doing.

"I'm sorry, baby," was barely audible as she once again gritted her teeth, and walked out of her house, not turning her back once despite her daughter's cries. Oh, Rachel, she thought, someday, hopefully, you'll realize why Mommy has to leave you alone everyday. If that son-of-a-bitch is alive then, I'll even have someone to point out, was almost muttered under her breath before Cuddy's hyper-developed Jewish guilt complex conveniently supplied images to quell the thought.

Lisa Cuddy hated Monday mornings with a burning passion that was hitherto non-existent. After spending glorious Sundays with Rachel, taking her grocery shopping, walking, playing, she hated Mondays-- especially because she had to go back to the hell-hole her office had now become.

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At exactly 7:30 AM, Cuddy strode through the lobby, only stopping to inspect the front desk and get her daily morning report from Nurse Brenda. Brenda, in one of her more talkative moods had referred to this ritual as "The State of the Union" report, and Cuddy smiled every time she thought about it. It was, she mused. This was her domain, she ruled here, and Brenda's daily walking monologue was like a trusted minister reporting to her monarch. She smirked, thoughts running away with her as Brenda's voice continued in the background.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" Brenda asked.

Because she had known her for fifteen years, back when she was just another doctor and they were friends, in a way, a laugh bubbled around a single word.

"Nope."

Brenda snorted, shoving a pile of papers at her unceremoniously.

"It's in writing anyway." And, because it was Brenda, she simply smirked, accepting the papers, and walked into her office.

"Michael!" She barked at her new assistant. The young man snapped to attention, sitting impossibly straight in his chair. He dutifully handed over her messages, and she wondered, which was also part of the daily routine, why donors insisted on calling when they knew she wouldn't be working.

She spent the next half hour returning those phone calls and making some more, forcing a smile into her voice as she multitasked.

At exactly 9:45 AM, she began what was fondly labeled "Housewatch" by the nurses. She walked through the clinic, making sure everything was in order, screamed at Maintenance which was fast becoming a bi-weekly ritual, barked at her assistant, and paced to and from the lobby for the next half-hour.

At exactly 10:17 AM, Dr. Gregory House, glorified pain in her ass, came limping through the doors, looking pale and drawn. She hesitated, just for a millisecond, before entering the lobby and accosting House at the nurse's station.

"You're late," she barked, case file at the ready to slap against his chest.

"How many times are we going to have this conversation, Cuddy?" What worried her, was not the question, it was the conspicuous absence of underlying snark. His eyes looked glassy, and her proximity to him allowed her to notice deep, bluish-purple circles adorning his face and his white-knuckled grip on his cane.

"Are you okay?" Slipped out before she could censor herself.

"Peachy." Was the clipped answer.

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A young woman had entered the lobby right behind House and went right up to the nurse's station, out of the doctors' line of sight.

"Excuse me, where I can find the Dean's office?" An Anglicized accent of no particular origin flowed out of the young woman's mouth. "I have an appointment with her in and an hour."

"Dr. Khan?" The receptionist asked.

"Yes, that's right," the young woman replied, listening to the other woman talk, thanking her for the directions to the Dean's office.

"...peachy," House had just replied, as he turned on his heel and limped to the elevators.

As Wilson pushed open the doors of the clinic, he caught sight of his best friend and his boss, once more basting themselves in unresolved sexual tension. The striking young woman leaning against the nurse's station, however, immediately caught his eye. He found himself reverting back to his old ways, to the days before Amber, when he had sharp radar and a roaming eye. He sighed and mentally shook himself.

Save the emotional crap for later, Wilson, the voice inside his head said. He was surprised to note it had morphed to sound like House. He had reached Cuddy when he noticed the young woman smile at the receptionist and push off from the nurse's station, big red bag in hand.

Wilson approached Cuddy, smiling at a passing nurse as he made his way over. He stopped as Cuddy turned around and offered him a wry smile, opening her mouth to say something before she turned to see the young woman freeze, mouth parted and blanch. Cuddy's expression was one of confusion, and Wilson was almost about to give in to irrationality and smile at it before he too, turned and watched his best friend mirror the young woman's expression as the elevator doors closed.

Sairah Khan pivoted on her heel to face the woman standing next to her, still operating on the autopilot she snapped into. No… was the thought running through her head, warring with the cautious hope that had quickly taken root. It couldn't be… she never thought she'd see him again. Sairah had given up on ever seeing him again after crying herself to sleep those first few weeks. She had steeled herself and forced herself not to feel anything, forced herself not to mourn the absence of one of the most important men in her life.

She was aware, at least peripherally, that she had paled, but what she didn't know was that she had dropped her red briefcase, thankfully without her Mac Book, and she had turned a sickly greenish-gray.

Not caring, she opened her mouth to speak.

"You wouldn't happen to know where…" she left off, voice now too weak to say anything. The woman didn't seem to notice.

"Fourth floor, Diagnostics," she said, seeming as surprised as Sairah herself was. Snapping out of auto-pilot, she quickly spied the sign for the stairs, and picked up the briefcase she almost tripped on. Before starting, she faced the other woman, and the man standing next to her, and smiled in what she later would hope was an apologetic manner. Not that she cared at the moment.

"I beg your pardon, I didn't get your name," she said, manners apparently resurfacing.

The woman blinked at her before offering her a half smile and a manicured hand.

"Lisa Cuddy," she said, and those words suddenly penetrated the fog that was quickly taking over Sairah's mind.

"Please, thank you, and sorry, Dr. Cuddy. See you in an hour," was all she managed, and she hoped she had covered all her bases with the woman that could make or break her future. Turning around, she speed walked to the stairs before running up them.

"What the hell was that?"

"Let's go find out."

House limped to his office; not knowing what he was doing or where he was going, relying on years of routine to guide him. Cameron was in the conference room, making coffee and talking to Foreman. If they looked up as he passed, he didn't notice. He too, had turned an unhealthy shade of gray, eyes glassy and uncomprehending. He walked on to the balcony, and rested his head on his hands.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," a voice floats into the periphery of his mind. And because it was Cameron, and because she had been visiting a lot, and hanging out a lot, and becoming a sort of Wilson-like addition to his life over the weeks, his shoulders slumped.

"Something like that," he said, voice sounding hollow. Because it was. Something like that. He felt as if he was in some sort of time warp, riding a ripple in the space-time continuum or whatever the terminology was. He felt thirty years younger for a brief millisecond as he stood in the elevator, looking at her… before it registered that he wasn't, which meant that there was only one other person that could be.

Her shoes made an angry pounding noise on the linoleum as she half-ran, checking both sides for the name she was looking for. She stopped, facing a glass section, and found what she was looking for.

Her heart stopped, for a multitude of reasons, none of which could identify or comprehend. Unaware of other people in the room next door, or Dr. Cuddy, or the man that was next to her, she headed straight to the door before knocking. Loudly.

It had been a long, long time, but she somehow knew what tense shoulders and a tilting head meant. She entered, long dormant tear ducts filling the corner of her eyes.

He turned.

She froze.

They stared at each other for a long, long time, not sure how to break the silence. Suddenly, her face crumpled as she cracked first.

"Fourteen years." She focused on her shoes and the carpet below them, fearing the worst, and expecting… not that she knew. Her head snapped up when he cleared his throat.

"Thirteen years, nine months, three weeks, five days…" he trailed off. And because she knew what time it was, she finished his calculations.

"Fourteen hours, thirty nine minutes, five seconds."

"Show off."

"Amateur," she said, half-choking on the word as she looked down again.

"You got fat."

"You got old."

"You sound British."

"You sound bitter."

"Smartass."

"Grumpy."

Gathering her courage, she said the words that were ringing in her head for the past five minutes.

"You're just going to stand there, aren't you?"

House lifted up his cane.

"Cane."

"Oh." She looked like she had just noticed it, despite its presence since the beginning of the bizarre conversation they were having. Knowing her, she had. He loved her for it. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

She seemed to notice it as her head tilted and she half-smiled at him.

"Hospitable."

He moved to lean on his desk and plant his feet, propping his cane on the chair, stabilizing himself. The gesture was not lost on her. For him, that was like throwing his arms open and rushing forward.

"Take it or leave it."

She choked on a laugh that was cleverly disguised as a sob.

He watched as she walked, painfully slow, stopping just short.

"Come on, then," he sighed, a smile lighting up his eyes.

This time she really did laugh, gracing him with one of her trademark 100 watt smile as she threw her arms around him.

She kept laughing as she hugged him, holding on impossibly tight.

He reciprocated, smiling fully as he clutched her to his chest. It had been almost fourteen years, he thought, arms tightening as if making up for lost time. Nobody knew how long they stood like that, laughing and crying. He brought his hand up to the back of her head, tilting it back as she stepped back. Smoothing her hair, and wiping her tears, he grasped her hands.

"Let me look at you," he said, lifting up an arm so that she can turn under it. She laughed as she turned, not caring that her mascara had streaked her face.

"I lied," he said to her. He did. She looked fantastic, a far cry from the little girl he knew and loved all those years ago.

"Me too," she said. No explanation was needed.

Cuddy chose that moment to interrupt one of the happier moments of his life by striding through the door, distracting him. Damn Cuddy.

"I hate to interrupt," she started, and she sounded sincere enough. "But Dr. Khan, your interview starts in five minutes."

House couldn't control his head whipping to the side to stare at Sairah. He raised an eyebrow at her, to which she shook her head, closing her eyes, trying to communicate later through subtle body language. He nodded imperceptibly.

She had almost made in out of the door before she asked Dr. Cuddy to hold on for a second and turned. Sairah did not hesitate this time as she covered the length of the room in four swift strides and threw her arms around House once more. He returned the embrace, forehead on her shoulder as he lowered his arms and briefly lifted her in a pale parody of past gestures. She stepped back, smiling at him.

"Forty tops," she whispered.

"Come back for lunch?"

"Only if you're paying," she quipped, grabbing a tissue on her way out to fix her face.

Cuddy could only stare as House smiled after the young woman, face relaxed.

The others could only stare, too, before House shook himself and walked into the conference room.

"Case?" His voice wasn't as gruff as it would have been, and he actually smiled at Cameron as she handed him his coffee, still in shock.

"Okay, people, stop staring. Cameron, if you're looking for a job, sorry, but Thirteen's already replaced you. Unless you're here for a consult, in which case, keep the coffee coming. Symptoms?"

He turned to face his team, receiving only blank stares in return.

Go on. Press the pretty button with the green words… you know you want to!!