Near but Far ; mental doodles, not really a fic
Title: Near but Far
Characters: Team, Wilson, House
Rating: none
Words : 680
Comment: Where is he, then?
“At least we knew where he was, last time.” James Wilson lifted his head from between his hands, his elbows firmly planted on the edge of the conference room table.
This was becoming routine.
“It was my fault. I told him to let it out, that he’d feel better.”
“That was stupid,” said Chase and Foreman, together.
“That was understandable,” said Taub.
“You think so?” Wilson asked almost pleadingly.
“Like asking Yellowstone to have a little quake” muttered Chase “and we all know where that’d lead to.”
“You think your sympathy’s going to help here?” Foreman looked down with derision at his newer colleague. “You really don’t understand anything.”
“What’s the point of making him feel crappier than he does already?”
“The point is; he claims to have known him longer and better than anyone else here.”
“Except for Cuddy.”
“Cuddy,” said James, in exculpatory tones, “said she told him the same thing, in so many words.”
There was a silent sigh of solidarity between the men at that moment. Relief that, thank goodness, a woman could take most of the blame. It was the natural order of things, after all.
“So she’s really going then?” Taub was clearly considering his options.
“Apparently New Jersey isn’t big enough for the both of them.” Foreman shook his head in bemusement. “Even though we’ve no idea where he is and he’d be arrested if he showed up, she’s convinced he won’t leave the state, so she’s going to put the width of the country between them.”
“And Rachel,” said Wilson. “She’s worried about Rachel. She keeps saying ‘avast, me hearties’ and demanding House. Staying with Arlene is not helping, needless to say.”
“So where can he be,” lamented James. “I suppose none of you would consider helping him?” He looked speculatively at House’s fellows, wondering how much blackmail potential they had each offered their boss over the years.
“Of course not, didn’t I just say so?” Foreman looked affronted. Chase shook his head, shrugging, and Taub said “D’you think I want trouble with the cops?”
“Thirteen?”
“Seems unlikely. I’m keeping an eye on her apartment while she’s in the Caribbean. He’s not there, or there either,” added Chase.
“Unless she smuggled him in her hand luggage,” said Taub, sarcastically.
Deep in the bowels of PPTH, inside one of the multitude of anonymous tiny rooms which nestled amongst the vast systems of pipework carrying heating and ventilation and waste, a man stared at the only interruption to the monotony of the grey slab walls. It was an old travel-bureau poster showing the sun setting gloriously over a wide stretch of white-gold sand; a few palm trees in the distance. To the left side was a little beachside bar. The sky was as blue and cloudless as a sky can be. It was a feat of the imagination to transport himself there but boredom and isolation and vicodin could and did assist him.
His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of his midnight snack. Not a Reuben; that would have given the game away, but as ever, a chicken sandwich. If he never saw another one it would be too soon. His host, the man Cuddy called ‘the weird night janitor’ existed on the fringes of hospital society not only because of his unorthodox clothing choices but because he couldn’t read, or understand much more than he needed to for his job. This meant an exceedingly boring menu but this fellow outcast was unlikely to respond to the publicity surrounding the day “House demolishes house” as the local newspaper now scattered on the floor announced, in 72 point.
Besides, the man had always liked him, House realised. Never had stupidity seemed so useful. He ate the last of the sandwich and returned to his contemplation of the poster. He was waiting for an idea.
The scene was tranquil, too tranquil for his mood. He imagined a great Spanish galleon, laden with treasure, listing in the blue waters. Rounding the bay sailed a small privateer, hoisting its menacing flag. “Avast, me hearties,” murmured House.
Characters: Team, Wilson, House
Rating: none
Words : 680
Comment: Where is he, then?
“At least we knew where he was, last time.” James Wilson lifted his head from between his hands, his elbows firmly planted on the edge of the conference room table.
This was becoming routine.
“It was my fault. I told him to let it out, that he’d feel better.”
“That was stupid,” said Chase and Foreman, together.
“That was understandable,” said Taub.
“You think so?” Wilson asked almost pleadingly.
“Like asking Yellowstone to have a little quake” muttered Chase “and we all know where that’d lead to.”
“You think your sympathy’s going to help here?” Foreman looked down with derision at his newer colleague. “You really don’t understand anything.”
“What’s the point of making him feel crappier than he does already?”
“The point is; he claims to have known him longer and better than anyone else here.”
“Except for Cuddy.”
“Cuddy,” said James, in exculpatory tones, “said she told him the same thing, in so many words.”
There was a silent sigh of solidarity between the men at that moment. Relief that, thank goodness, a woman could take most of the blame. It was the natural order of things, after all.
“So she’s really going then?” Taub was clearly considering his options.
“Apparently New Jersey isn’t big enough for the both of them.” Foreman shook his head in bemusement. “Even though we’ve no idea where he is and he’d be arrested if he showed up, she’s convinced he won’t leave the state, so she’s going to put the width of the country between them.”
“And Rachel,” said Wilson. “She’s worried about Rachel. She keeps saying ‘avast, me hearties’ and demanding House. Staying with Arlene is not helping, needless to say.”
“So where can he be,” lamented James. “I suppose none of you would consider helping him?” He looked speculatively at House’s fellows, wondering how much blackmail potential they had each offered their boss over the years.
“Of course not, didn’t I just say so?” Foreman looked affronted. Chase shook his head, shrugging, and Taub said “D’you think I want trouble with the cops?”
“Thirteen?”
“Seems unlikely. I’m keeping an eye on her apartment while she’s in the Caribbean. He’s not there, or there either,” added Chase.
“Unless she smuggled him in her hand luggage,” said Taub, sarcastically.
Deep in the bowels of PPTH, inside one of the multitude of anonymous tiny rooms which nestled amongst the vast systems of pipework carrying heating and ventilation and waste, a man stared at the only interruption to the monotony of the grey slab walls. It was an old travel-bureau poster showing the sun setting gloriously over a wide stretch of white-gold sand; a few palm trees in the distance. To the left side was a little beachside bar. The sky was as blue and cloudless as a sky can be. It was a feat of the imagination to transport himself there but boredom and isolation and vicodin could and did assist him.
His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of his midnight snack. Not a Reuben; that would have given the game away, but as ever, a chicken sandwich. If he never saw another one it would be too soon. His host, the man Cuddy called ‘the weird night janitor’ existed on the fringes of hospital society not only because of his unorthodox clothing choices but because he couldn’t read, or understand much more than he needed to for his job. This meant an exceedingly boring menu but this fellow outcast was unlikely to respond to the publicity surrounding the day “House demolishes house” as the local newspaper now scattered on the floor announced, in 72 point.
Besides, the man had always liked him, House realised. Never had stupidity seemed so useful. He ate the last of the sandwich and returned to his contemplation of the poster. He was waiting for an idea.
The scene was tranquil, too tranquil for his mood. He imagined a great Spanish galleon, laden with treasure, listing in the blue waters. Rounding the bay sailed a small privateer, hoisting its menacing flag. “Avast, me hearties,” murmured House.