Knight Fall
It's become a habit over the years. Barging in without waiting for permission to enter after a knock or failing to knock altogether. She has her head down, probably busy scribbling her name on files from patients he failed to see that morning from a skipped clinic duty.
“Need to talk,” he announces, a sense of urgency to his tone. Or what he tries to play off as urgency but knows fully well isn't.
“About the MRSA? I know, we're...” she begins but he decides to cut in, not really feeling up to talking about medicine.
“MRSA, Shmersa. Something important,” he says and takes a seat in front of her, trying to get to the real root of his presence. Something, no doubt, he is sure she is wondering upon.
It doesn't take her long to catch on. He feels the anxiety building in him, to tell her about Wilson and the Repeat Offender, but she already knows about Sam. It stuns him a bit, but he should have known that she'd be privy to it by now. They're weird, her and Wilson. They hang out and have lunches and talk, all the normal stuff he supposes most women like.
“Well, you'd be surprised how many things Wilson doesn't tell you,” she tells him, a small look of satisfaction on her face. Like she has confided in the oncologist and the secret has remained unspoken.
He admits to knowing about her father's friend and her face loses its previous zeal. Before she can build too much anger at the offense, he switches gears.
“You need to break them up,” he commands, leaning forward.
She refuses which only makes him press harder. Not like he actually wants her and Wilson to do the deed. But he is sure the two of them can cause a really good scene, her being “the other woman” and Wilson being the dumb guy who gets caught.
Amidst arguing his point, he lets “You, on the other hand, have decades of experience dating and being attracted to losers.”
Her face grows sad and he knows that the jibe meant to be about Lucas is suddenly not at all.
It's about him.
In an effort to erase himself from the equation, he exempts himself from his last comment.
She tells him it will all blow up, something he already knows but thinks he is ready for anyway. He knows she won't come to do as he wishes but feels like hassling her about it anyway. It seems like an easier task, to focus on destroying something of Wilson's than to try to destroy something of hers.
She's already proven far more resilient. Somewhere, though, beneath it all, despite it all, he knows he has created fissures and cracks in her foundation over the last twenty years.
-
She finds him in his office, a sword slicing through the air in fluid movements. The setting sun glints off the shiny silver of the blade and he flicks his wrists every now and again. All of his weight stays on his good leg and she's surprised by his agility and balance.
Gaining her focus back, she opens the door to his office and frowns. He doesn't acknowledge her entering, doesn't even let on that she's just caught him doing something other than his job...again. He lifts a leg up like she's seen actors do in those old ninja movies and he swivels around, bringing the sword to her throat.
Her breath sucks out of her and she feels her eyes widen in surprise. The mischievous look on his face does nothing to bate the fear and excitement she feels seeping out of her pores. She can feel the sharp blade against her flesh and she inhales and exhales, trying to calm herself.
“House?” she questions.
“How dare ye enter, harlot! Thou hast broken into mine sanctuary!” he yells loudly, eyes sparkling with amusement.
He looks like he wants to smile but knows better of it. She puts her fingers on top of the blade and slowly pushes down on it removing it from her throat.
“I need you to sign off on the report from your last patient,” she says and extends out a file.
His sword drops limply to his side with a thunk on the ground. He takes the folder from her hand, opens it, and scribbles his signature on the bottom. Flicking it back out to her, she takes it and watches as he props up the object against his desk and sits.
“So should I just avoid asking why you have a broadsword in your office? Or why you're swinging it around?” she questions.
“Getting in the mood. You know, since I'm about to check out the live action version of Le Morte De Aurthur.”
“You're going to the Renaissance Faire? For what?”
“Toxins, traitors, and trollops. Checking out for all the T's.”
“Usually your lackeys check for toxins,” she retorts.
He leans leisurely back in his chair and props his leg up on the edge of his desk. Locking his fingers behind his head, he throws her an amused look. “Who knows, Cuddy. I might learn the proper ways to court a woman since it's your fair sex that claims chivalry isn't dead.”
She shakes her head and throws him a smile. Crossing her arms across her chest, she walks over closer to his desk and takes a seat. She feels like goading him, something she told him not too long ago she was done and over with, so she decides to play along in the game of words they have going.
“So that maybe a fair maiden will offer herself to you?”
“In your case, just an old maid. But I'm sure if I took you on a moonlit walk or bought you a dozen roses, either would be a panty dropper.”
“Good luck at the Renaissance Faire,” she says with an eye roll and stands to leave. She almost makes it to his door and into the hall but turns back around at the last moment and pokes her head back in. “By the way, dressing up is for losers,” she smiles smugly.
“You didn't say that on 80's night,” he counters.
She feels her face redden and then drain of color. She can only respond by making a face at him and making her way to the clinic.
-
He waltzes in to her office and she stops talking on the phone, mouth hanging agape. The campus lamps light up her window, creating luminescence instead of letting the world be shrouded in pitch black.
Her own office is washed in soft light, giving a homey feel to the place. Perhaps in a subconscious attempt to create space for herself since she's hardly ever at her place.
She furrows her brow and halts him with a stiff palm extended out toward him.
“Where's Lucas?,” she questions into the phone and then lowers her eyes and swivels her chair away from him as if she is hiding it from him, as if he can't hear her.
The name still chagrins him, especially since he never reached the final stage: acceptance. It's better to leave it alone though, out of character though it is for him. Wilson has been in the forefront of his mind lately and antagonizing a different female in his life seems like a nice change of pace.
“He was supposed to be there at 9 to let you go home,” he hears her say between looking at the art on the wall and rolling his eyes.
“Alright, I'll be there ASAP,” she says, agitated. Her phone slams down on the receiver as he turns to face her.
“You didn't break up Sam and Wilson,” he announces.
“I don't have time for this, House.” She begins to pack up her briefcase frantically. “You heard my situation.”
“And you heard mine.”
“I thought I told you not to meddle,” she grumbles.
“I've learned its what I'm good at. And besides, if I am worrying about breaking up Sam and Wilson, then that shifts my focus off of trying to split up you and Lucas,” he admits.
She stops and stares at him blankly. Time seems to slow completely to a standstill and the look on her face keeps him from regretting what he's just told her.
They're always coming to moments like this. Tense ones. Over twenty years, it seems it's what they are best at. Their gazes hold on to one another from a moment before she severs the invisible line connecting them. He watches as she leaves him standing alone in her office, awash in a feeling of deja vu and nothing but yellow light and silence surrounding him.