Cuddy arrived early to work Monday morning, leaving House to drive himself in, though he had seemed amazingly up on the schedule himself this morning. No doubt he was hoping for a good case waiting at the hospital.

As soon as she sat down at her desk, she pulled out her cell phone and glanced at the closed office door as she dialed. She didn't want to share this conversation with any bystanders, not even her husband. She was still half uncertain about it herself.

"Good morning, Dr. Cuddy." Patterson, too, sounded bright and chipper this morning. Everybody seemed to be greeting Monday eagerly.

"Good morning." Cuddy took a moment to double check the organization of her thoughts, her eyes automatically resting on her desk, with its neat, professional surface. "Do you have a few minutes?"

"I can give you about 15 until my first patient arrives. Has something else happened with your parents?"

The problem that her mind wasn't even on at the moment landed back in between her ears with a thump. She sighed heavily. "No, nothing new. They're still mad at me and suspicious of Thomas. They keep watching him."

"Let them. They might learn something." There was definitely a new fondness, a personal connection in Patterson's voice that hadn't been there in former sessions.

Cuddy bit the bullet. "Thomas told us last night that he bumped into you yesterday." Thankfully he hadn't identified Patterson's profession in front of Cuddy's parents, just given her name. She might have been any mutual acquaintance for all they knew.

"Good. I was going to tell you myself next time we spoke if he didn't, but I thought he'd probably get that out in the open first chance he had. You don't have to worry about confidentiality, Dr. Cuddy. It's a little awkward, as he said himself, but both of us will be aware of the professional limits. I won't tell him any information about you that he doesn't know himself.

Cuddy picked up a pen. She wasn't exactly fiddling with it, a nervous habit that she refused to indulge in, but she was comforted by the feel of it in her hand. "I'm not worried about confidentiality. I trust both of you by now."

A moment's pause, and then Patterson got it. "You're worried about him."

"I wanted to ask you what you had in mind here. And if you think it might go further than friends, just . . . be careful with him, okay?"

There was a slight edge in Patterson's voice. "You don't need to administrate his friendships, Dr. Cuddy. And you definitely don't need to administrate anything beyond that, not with anybody. He's an adult." Cuddy was silent, turning the pen over in her hands. Patterson softened a little bit. "But I'll tell you this. And that's only because I'm choosing to. I have no idea where things might go from here given time. I'm willing to wait and see. If nothing else, he looks like a new friend, and good friends are a treasure."

"I'm glad he's making new friends," Cuddy said. "I even think the idea of you two has some possibilities. But don't push too hard. He's still pretty raw about his wife."

"I know that," Patterson assured her. "Even if I hadn't had the benefit of your background on him in sessions, I could see that in him. As he should be. He was with her almost 50 years, and it isn't even two since her death. They obviously were very close. That deserves to be mourned." Another pause. "I will be careful, Dr. Cuddy. Whatever happens. But be careful yourself. We are both adults, and we can take care of us. You have a tendency to interfere at times beyond where you should."

Cuddy looked at the pen, momentarily stilled. "I know," she admitted finally.

"And that's the first step in progress." Patterson abruptly switched back from the psychiatrist to the woman, leaving Cuddy to digest the point now that it had been made. "He does seem very special."

Cuddy smiled. "He is. I wish my parents could see that."

"Give them time, and maybe they will. So he told you all about the kitten?"

"Yes. And how it happened. Rachel was all righteous indignation about it, and Abby was wondering about the medical details. "

"Rachel has such a soft heart from your description. I wouldn't mind meeting the girls sometime, for myself, I mean. Not only because I met Thomas. I've heard so many stories about your family by now. I feel like I've almost gotten to know them already, way past the background for our sessions, but I know in person, they would be even better."

Cuddy felt an odd warming inside. All of her life, the majority of people had wanted to get to know her with ulterior motives, either physical or professional, looking for something in return. An uncomplicated, straightforward offer of friendship was still something she wasn't used to. "I'm sure we could get together sometime. Maybe some weekend."

"I'd like that," Patterson said.

The habitual guilt swam back in. "Sorry for giving you the third degree. You're right; he's an adult, and so are you."

"Yes. But I do understand where you're coming from. It's new to you to feel so close to a father figure. That makes you much more protective of him. I need to go now, Dr. Cuddy. My first patient should be here soon. Have a good day."

"You, too." Cuddy hung up. Feeling somewhat reassured, she reached for her day's agenda.

(H/C)

In her office, Ruth Patterson ended the call and then sat there for a moment, thinking back to yesterday. A smile spread like sunrise across her face. True, she had no idea where things might go, and she was willing to give it time to see, and friends were indeed a treasure, and she would be careful of his much newer bereavement. But even so, part of her hoped. Once time had started to file down the sharp edges of grief into a dull ache, she had tried dating a few times in the 18 years since her husband's death. She'd met some nice men and some losers, but with nobody had there been a deeper connection. She had almost resigned herself by now to the rest of life alone.

She pictured him from yesterday, climbing out from under the car gripping his captive in his carefully gloved hands, compassion and attention to detail in double harness.

To her mind, there was nothing as sexy as a man rescuing a kitten.

(H/C)

House entered Diagnostics. The egglings were debating as he walked in and immediately revved up the discussion, putting on a show to impress the teacher. They had obviously spent the weekend brushing up on their homework, and their opinions had more background and more commitment now than they had last week.

"The Lahey memorandum makes it clear that Roosevelt had major health problems prior to running in 1944, and that his doctors warned him not to seek reelection," Ramirez stated.

"But it doesn't mention cancer. The theory that he had metastatic melanoma from his facial lesion makes a good book, but it's just a theory," Templeton insisted.

"Anything is just a theory. There wasn't an autopsy. Lahey does at least destroy McIntyre's credibility as presidential doctor," Hollingwood pointed out.

Templeton's tone reminded House even more strongly of Amber. "He didn't have to destroy it; McIntyre didn't have any remaining credibility. Reading his book is a heaping shovel full of political, whitewashed bullshit."

"The memo was written in 1944, and he died in 1945," Ramirez continued doggedly. "A lot could have happened in that last year that Lahey wouldn't have put in the memo because he didn't know it yet."

"But they all knew about the facial lesion a long time before 1944," Templeton countered. "If he thought that was melanoma, why not add it to the list of other diagnoses?"

"Because he wasn't making a list of diagnoses. The diagnoses he mentions are only one small part of a much longer letter. That isn't a medical chart; he just wanted to CYA against public criticism. His sole purpose was his image in the future as a doctor, not the complete recital of Roosevelt's medical records. All he wanted was to get it on record that he told him not to run and told him to pick the VP carefully if he insisted on running. That's why he wrote it and sealed it unless his medical care was ever criticized. It even took a court case decades later to open it."

"Maybe he also wanted to preserve a little bit of FDR's privacy by hiding the possibility of cancer," Hollingwood suggested. "Cancer simply wasn't talked about openly back then, and he did admire the man personally."

Foreman stood up from the table. "House, could I talk to you for a minute in your office?"

"Yes." House nodded to the candidates. "Keep going, egglings. The search for the truth shouldn't change because I step into the next room."

Once in his office, he sat down behind his desk and nodded toward the chair in front. Foreman hesitated, looked like he would rather remain standing, then glanced at the conference room and sat down. "I had a very interesting phone call this weekend from UCLA Medical Center."

"Really?" House asked innocently.

Foreman glared at him. "Don't try to pretend you aren't behind that."

"I might have made a few suggestions. What they did with that was up to them. And any suggestions I might have made would have been made a few weeks ago, so they took time for their own research in the meantime. What exactly did they tell you in the call?"

"Like you don't know. They're proposing starting a diagnostics department. Small at first, trial version. Growing in funding and fellows if it works. They're interested in me to run it."

"And you don't want your own department?"

"Yes, damn it, of course I want my own department. But I want to get it on my merits, not yours."

House sat back, lacing his fingers. "So let me get this straight. Any time you filled out a resume in the future, you would not include the fact that you worked for me in case that might earn you a few coattail points that weren't yours and yours alone." Foreman looked away. "How many positions have you applied for yourself in the past year, Foreman? That's what I thought. You want your own department, but you're spooked by failing that other time. PPTH is safe, even while you resent it."

"I was thinking of sending out a few applications this summer," Foreman insisted.

"Right. Listen, Foreman. And this has nothing to do with UCLA. Yes, I recommended you, but if you want to refuse the chance in an independence fit, that's up to you. But you've learned as much as you can here. You're ready to move on."

"You're saying I'm as good as I'm going to get?"

"No, I'm saying that to keep improving, you need to step behind the wheel yourself and get out of this department. You should never stop learning, Foreman. And something else; do you really think I would have referred you for the job if I didn't think you were qualified for it? Apparently, they agree. It's yours if you want it, and no matter who referred you, it's yours to make a success of or not. Once you start, it's on you. But you're ready for this."

Foreman looked at him steadily, annoyance warring with pride at the compliment. "I told them I'd give them an answer by Wednesday. Haven't decided yet." He looked toward the conference room again. "Of course, if I leave, you have two openings, not one. Makes your selection process a little easier."

House shrugged. "Nothing wrong with multitasking. Helps you, helps me. Win-win." He didn't want to admit how much he actually hated firing people. That had been the most unfun part of his "game" last time, sending them out that door one by one on the permanent exit. It was a necessary part of the process, but he still deep down felt sorry for them.

"Of course, you haven't told them that yet."

"You hadn't even been offered the job until this weekend," House pointed out. "You haven't even accepted it now, according to you."

"So if I called and accepted it right now, you would walk straight back in there and tell them this morning that there are two positions open?"

House smiled at him, conceding the point. "Got me. But could there actually be a valid reason, besides just jerking them around, to keep the pressure turned up as high as possible during the testing and find out how they deal with it? Maybe that quality might actually be relevant in future cases?"

Foreman slowly nodded, conceding that point in turn. "I won't tell them. If I decide to accept. Which I haven't yet."

"Up to you," House said. "But if you don't take this one, you do need to start actively looking. If you don't, I'll find somewhere else and recommend you there. You're ready for this, Foreman," he repeated.

Foreman stood up. "I'll let you know," he said and started for the conference room. He paused just before opening the connecting door. "Thanks, House," he said awkwardly.

House nodded. "You're welcome."

Back in the conference room, the debate on FDR was still raging, but House cut across the conversation with a question. "Kutner's still not here?" His youngest fellow was due back from vacation this morning. He'd noticed his absence a few minutes ago and figured he was having postvacation difficulty getting back into the schedule, but this was really getting late now.

"He called," Taub said. "Car trouble; he'll be in as soon as he can."

"You're lying," House said, not a differential but a diagnosis. "You're just trying to cover for him."

"It's always hard to get up the morning after vacation," Taub answered. "Give him a while."

House looked at the egglings. "You three, come on. We're taking a road trip." Maybe he could turn this situation to his advantage after all. He needed to observe their skills outside the hospital for the cases when those became relevant.

Foreman and Taub looked at each other, knowing what was coming. The egglings were confused but stood up obediently.

Twenty minutes later, they were at the door of Kutner's apartment. House held up a finger to his lips for silence and quietly tested the door. Locked. "We're going to be supplemental alarm clocks, but first, we need to break in," he whispered.

Ramirez looked shielded, no visible reaction. Templeton looked interested. Hollingwood, of course, suggested the obvious alternative. "Why don't you knock? That would wake him up, too."

"Because it's less fun that way. Also because once in a while, the ability to get into places is diagnostically relevant. So, egglings, this is a pop quiz. 50 bonus points to the first one to pick this lock."

Ramirez didn't move. Templeton reached for his wallet with the deliberate air of the student who expects to be the only one with the answer, sorting through the credit cards therein and considering the choice. While he was still looking, Hollingwood stepped forward with a Visa. The other two stared as she opened the lock swiftly. "I learned that from a boyfriend who was a cop in case I ever locked myself out," she explained. "I have not had experience breaking into places."

House gave her a nod, impressed. "But you're awfully good at it. You surprised me. I like it."

The other three fell in behind him, pointedly letting him lead the way into the formerly locked apartment. The lights were off, the curtains drawn, the air still. House's nose wrinkled at a slight smell. He turned toward what was obviously the main bedroom. "Kutner! You still have a job, for the moment at least, so hop to . . . SHIT!"

The other three followed him through the doorway. Hollingwood hit the light switch. Kutner was in bed, the blankets pulled up tightly, but it didn't take the light of the overhead to reveal his shivering and the sweat standing out on his forehead above his closed eyes, and it didn't take a thermometer to tell that he had a fever. Heat radiated off of him.

House had reached his fellow, checking the carotid pulse. Without turning away, he threw one quick command over his shoulder to the egglings. "Call an ambulance."