He walks off and leaves her standing in the hallway, feeling woozy. Her body's exhausted from not enough food and too many emotions; did she take her pill this morning? Her mind feels so odd. Black dots begin to clump in her vision, and her joints become a little too loose.
"Whoa there." A hand grabs her arm and pulls her to a bench. "Head between your knees."
She obeys. Breathing becomes her focus, in-out, in-out. When she raises her head, the doctor is still there.
"You alright?"
"Yes, thank you. I just forgot to take my medicine this morning, among other things."
"What is it? Maybe we can get you some from the pharmacy."
"Brupropion."
"All right. You feeling okay to walk? I'm Wilson, by the way."
"Harding." He helps her stand.
"You're House's new social worker, right?"
She chuckles. "I think he prefers 'spy,' but yes, that's me."
"I don't know; he was impressed you figured out the ovarian torsion."
"I didn't figure it out at all. I just had an idea that lead him to the right answer."
"Yes, well House isn't impressed easily." They push through the clinic doors. "Here, sit down. One hundred fifty all right?"
"Yeah, that'll get me through the day."
It takes him a moment arguing with the pharmacist, but he brings her the pill.
"You should eat something with that," he warns as she swallows.
"I've got a sandwich back in the office," she says.
"Good, I was just heading over there."
"Do you often escort strange women through the hospital?"
"Only when I see them on the verge of fainting. It's my job, you see, to make sick people better."
"My goodness, is that what doctors do? And this whole time I thought you were just playing dress-up in lab coats."
"That is fifty-percent of the requirement. Then twenty-five is saying large words, ten is saying reassuring things, so only fifteen is the actual making people better."
"Sounds like my kind of job."
Chase twiddles his pencil, staring down at the crossword. "Phantom horse offspring, five letters."
"Misty," Cameron says. "Like the book."
"Surprisingly, I never went through my pre-pubescent girl horse phase," he says, scribbling it down.
"Damn shame," says Wilson, pulling open the door and ushering Harding in. "I would pay good money for those pictures."
Harding pours a cup of coffee and sits, resuming her book.
"There you are," House emerges from his office. "What took you so long?"
"You called five minutes ago."
"And your office is two minutes away."
"Maybe I was busy."
"It's lunch time. But it's Tuesday, meaning you brought your lunch and had probably already finished eating it, so question is, what were you doing?"
"Even after all these years, your inquisitive nature never ceases to amaze me. If you must know, I ran into your operative about to pass out in the hallway."
"I just couldn't help myself," she quips, not looking up from her book. "I just saw him and swooned."
"His zygomatic arches do have that affect," House responds. Harding snorts into her coffee. "So, why did you pass out?"
"Forgot to take my medicine."
"What medicine can you not go less than a day without fainting?" he presses sarcastically.
"Vicodine."
Chase and Foreman chuckle, and House joins in sarcastically.
"Oh, very clever."
"Are you going to tell me what I'm here for?" Wilson sighs.
"Yes. Come on."
The door shuts again.
"Enigmatic quality - a lot of letters."
"Je ne sai quoi," Harding says.
"Thanks."
He doesn't ask about anymore clues.
The doctors read or leave occasionally to do consults. Chase stares at the crossword in the long lulls; he knows he can't finish it without Harding's help. In a perfect existence they'd go home, pop open a few beers and sit on the couch. She'd lean on his shoulder, kissing his neck as she gave him extra hints, teasing him over the crossword clues. In his mind, he tries to add a kid into that picture, some faceless little girl, but Bowen could hardly take care of herself; he can't imagine her with a kid.
She's sitting at the end of the table, her face resting in the crook of her arms, hands on the back of her neck. Rain begins rumbling outside. Gently at first, then harder, her fingers curl on her skin until her nails are digging into the flesh. The vertebrae of her spine make hills under the skin.
Chase taps his pen on his teeth. Differential diagnosis. Weight loss. Fainting. She's on medication. Irritability. Combined with a family history of depression…maybe the fainting's related to the weight loss, not the medication. But if the weight loss is caused by the medication…
"It's five." he says.
"Fuck." she sits up. "I've got to get-" The chair nearly falls as she scrambles up, grabbing her bag. "Shit it's pouring, mother-fucker." For the first time he notices the shadows under her eyes, and just like she has all day, she looks as if she's about to cry.
"Wally," he grabs his keys and hurries after her as she weaves down the hall. "You can't ride the bike in this."
"Apparently I can." She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand, stopping the tears before they begin.
"Let me give you a ride."
"Look," she whirls on him. "You can hate me or you can be nice; I don't see both working."
"I don't hate you!"
"Yeah, when you were being nice yesterday. I'm assuming something changed your mind." Spinning, she continues walking.
"Look, Wally, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did earlier. I'm sure you had a reason we just…we obviously need to talk."
She stops at the door to the parking garage and stares at him. They're not the eyes of the manically happy woman he knew, but tired, scared.
"Robert…"
"Just come here." Tugging her into a hug, he holds her tight against him. "I'll give you a ride, and we can talk, all right? And I can meet Winnie." Rubbing the nail marks on the back of her neck, he pulls back.
"If you're sure."
"I have to be nice to you; I need help with this crossword."
She laughs. "Bastard."