A/N: I actually like Foreman, I think he's terribly sexy and amusing, but I also heart him on powertrips, so hee. If you don't know who Petra or Robert are, rewatch "Kids" (they were job applicants). Kevin was the patient in "Hunting" (and Chase/Kevin is a secret OTP of mine).

Grey Gardens

I'm trying to keep my mansions green, after I've grey gardens seen, honey won't you hold me tight, get me through grey gardens tonight?
Rufus Wainwright

Part One

Robert Chase sees James Wilson for the first time in a park. It’s pouring with rain and he’s running really, really late, water seeping into his converse allstars as he runs desperately through puddles. He has no umbrella of course, because some part of him still thinks he’s in Australia, so he doesn’t have time to register the man sitting on the bench, looking at a cane held in front of him, brown hair plastered to his skull. Robert’s own eyes are full of thick, wet fringe, so he vaguely sees a man in a black coat, and then keeps running and forgets him entirely.


It’s been six months since the divorce and Greg House wakes up to a peaceful empty room. Sighing, he pulls himself out of bed and notices that he has thirteen answerphone messages blinking away at him. He patiently ignores them and makes his way to the shower, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Six months since she stopped being Stacy House and went back to being whatever she was before she married him. Maybe he should see if he’s got champagne to have for breakfast.

He doesn’t miss her much, because the last few months of the marriage were hell on earth, Stacy’s eyes full of accusations and tears, and Greg gritting his teeth and biting back furious words. Even the silence is better than that, and it’s rather nice actually. He got to keep the apartment, which is conveniently close to work, and she got a load of alimony and, last he heard, was seducing pretty young men in bars while getting easily over him. Greg has to concede that she’s got style, but then she always did.

Water crashes over his head, scalding hot, just the way he likes it, and Greg gasps from the heat and leans his head back against the cool tiles as rivulets of water run over his skin and down the plughole, the heat making him dizzy, and he thinks God, it’s been *six months*, and so very little has changed.
*
Allison Cameron deftly flips pancakes, makes school lunches and irons clothes in the way that only the most organised of career moms can manage. She can hear her husband showering upstairs, and her children arguing over the remote next door. She is an immunologist, a fellow in diagnostics at Princeton-Plainsboro hospital with the world-renowned Greg House, but she is also a mother of twin seven-year-old girls, and the wife of an incredibly sweet man called David, who has a smile that can make her feel weak even after years and years of marriage. They married back in college, when he was diagnosed with brain cancer, but against all odds, he recovered, and that rather set the tone for their relationship.

Smiling slightly, she calls to her kids, telling them that breakfast is ready and they’d better come and get it, easing perfect pancakes onto plates with a drizzle of lemon juice (because she’s not going to fill her children with syrup at seven thirty a.m), and pouring orange juice into glasses. She’s probably going to be late to work this morning but there’s nothing new there then and Petra’s always happy to cover.
*
Greg wanders through his apartment, drying his hair with a towel and sipping at a mug of the last of the expensive coffee Stacy left behind. He got used to waking up alone, because being married to a lawyer often meant she was away, and she wasn’t talking to him anyway, but he does sort of miss the furious little post-it notes Stacy used to leave in the kitchen, if only because they added a certain je ne sais quoi to the fridge. As it is, there’s no food in there, more beer than there should be, and Greg realises that tonight it’s going to be cafeteria food or takeout, and neither of those options really appeals to him. He supposes that’s the price for driving away the woman you love, but then he hasn’t loved Stacy in a while, and sure he misses her, but it’s a big apartment and it gets lonely more often than he wants to admit.

After ten minutes of searching for his bike keys and a further ten trying to work out if there’s any food anywhere (there really isn’t), Greg notices that at some point in the last hour, the number of ignored answerphone messages has become seventeen. Funny, he wasn’t even aware the phone was ringing.
*
“I could have been a fucking priest.” Robert Chase mumbles to himself as he brushes his teeth, shoulder-length blonde hair looking atrocious and sticking up all around his head. “I could have been a fucking doctor.”

But he privately knows that he would never have been happy in either of those professions, so he sighs, spits toothpaste into the sink, and pours a glass of water. Then he tips several different-shaped HIV pills into his hand and makes his way into the bedroom.

“Pills are here.” He whispers to Kevin, his lover of the last few years, and who is still groggily asleep. “Don’t forget to take them.”

“Never do.” Kevin mumbles, although they both know that’s kind of a lie. “You off to work?”

“Yep.” Robert brushes a kiss over Kevin’s temple and turns to go.

“Brush your hair.” Kevin mutters, rolling over and going back to sleep.
*
He wakes up every morning with an ‘Oh God, not again’ sort of feeling, the pain sudden and raw in his thigh, the certainty that he ought to be somewhere firmly implanted in his head until he wakes up enough to remember that, oh, right, he doesn’t *have* anywhere to be. He never does. His life lost most of its meaning four years ago and half of his purpose was lost eight months ago. He lost the only people worth having around seven months ago, and now he just drags himself along through life because he’s too afraid to try and kill himself and yet too apathetic to try and do something with his time.
*
The elevators are broken again, so Greg takes the stairs instead, although his office is on the fourth floor, and Jesus, isn’t the whole point of the hospital being owned by a billionaire to make sure maintenance is done? He gets into the office in a foul mood. Petra Gilmar, one of his fellows, is reading the newspaper and eating cereal. Roger Spain, one of his other fellows, is asleep on the couch in the corner. Greg wouldn’t swear on it, but he’s sure that Roger just lives here now.

“Morning.” Gilmar mumbles with her mouth full. “Stacy called.”

“Of course she did.” Mutters Greg, walking over and getting himself a mug of coffee. “What does she want now?”

“She thinks you’ve got something of hers.” Gilmar replies, not looking up from the newspaper. “Although, after six months, you’d think she’d have everything by now.”

“Woman is stalking me.” Greg replies, sitting down and smirking. “Just wants to apologise for the fact she was the one who demanded the divorce.”

“Sure she does.” Gilmar smirks. Greg did actually consider having an affair with her when he first hired her, a little over a year ago, but he didn’t. He’s not sure why, but he’s kind of grateful for the fact he didn’t. Petra’s one of the few people in this hospital who’s still on his side.
*
Lisa Cuddy makes her way past the office door that says Eric Foreman, Dean of Medicine on it, reading a medical file for yet another teenage boy with cancer, although this one’s chances don’t look too bad, which makes a change.

“Dr Cuddy?” Eric Foreman pokes his head around his office door.

“Yes?” she asks, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like to discuss the treatment you’re giving Mr Thompson at some point this afternoon.” Foreman replies with a smile that isn’t really that much of a smile. “And if you could try and persuade Dr House to try and do his clinic duty at some point…”

“I don’t think anyone can do that.” Lisa replies with a small smile of her own, and walks briskly away, heels clicking on the floor. She makes her way up to diagnostics (fourth floor and no elevators- the balls of her feet are going to hate her for this later), where House is sitting with his feet on the desk and laughing at something Petra is saying, and Roger is asleep on the couch.

“I just ran into Dr Foreman.” She says, pushing open the door.

“And what does Blackpoleon Blackaparte have to say for himself this morning?” asks House, swivelling around in his chair.

“He says you’re not doing your clinic duty. Again.” Lisa sighs, slumping into a chair and accepting a mug from Petra. “How stupid can you get? Vogler is just looking for an excuse to fire you.”

“And has been for the last eight months. Where’ve you been Cuddy?” smirks House, and God she hates his arrogance. “He would have fired me by now if he really wanted to.”

“Oh, don’t give me that.” Mutters Lisa, sipping at her coffee. “You’re clinging on by your fingertips.”

“What because I’m the one downside to this lovely shiny gift Vogler gave his nephew?” House enquires, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re more than a downside.” Petra interrupts through a mouthful of cereal. “You’re a madman.”

“Nah, I’m just an anarchist.” House replies with an exaggerated wink.

“You’re an idiot.” Lisa replies. “He’ll get rid of you in the end, just like he got rid of-”

“Don’t.” House replies tightly, slamming his mug down on the table, cheerfulness gone. Lisa bites her lower lip. She’s known House a long time, but she still hasn’t got the hang of walking his lines.

“Have you even called him lately?” she asks pointedly. Petra has placed her bowl down and is staring at the table in silence. A nerve is twitching in House’s jaw and the only sound in the room is Roger’s soft breathing. House opens his mouth to speak, closes it again, and walks out. Lisa sighs as Petra picks up her cereal again and turns the page of the newspaper, and wishes that House weren’t so damn complicated.
*
Allison Cameron makes her way into the office to find House is precisely not in there, Petra is doodling on the whiteboard despite the fact that none of them are allowed to touch The Markers, and Roger is curled up and fast asleep, black hair over his face.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“Cuddy and House had another argument over you-know-who, so she stormed off back to Oncology and House could be anywhere.” Admits Petra. “We’re trying to cover for him so Foreman won’t find out, and you’re on Fielding His Phonecalls Duty because Stacy’s calling him again and I’ve been putting her off all morning. I’m tired.”

“Let me get my coat off!” Allison laughs, pulling her brown curly hair back into a ponytail. “Do we have a patient?”

“Of course not.” Replies Petra. “There’s coffee in the pot if you want it. How are the girls?”

“Math test today.” Replies Allison, sinking into a chair. “Rosie’s incredibly worried and Tara’s incredibly cocky, so they’ve been bickering for hours.”

Petra laughs, drawing another swirl on the board in green pen. Allison takes a mouthful of coffee and manages to voice the question.

“Why did Cuddy and House argue over you-know-who?” she asks. It’s stupid, the way they can’t say his name, even when House isn’t around (say the name when he is around, and House starts twitching and scowling and breaking things), but there’s something about the office and it’s still too awkward.

“Cuddy told him that if he didn’t start doing clinic duty soon, Vogler would get rid of him too.” Petra replies, trying to fake a casual tone. Allison bites her lip, imagining that that would have gone down really well. It’s an awkward subject and one too close to home for all of them, and they all have reasons to feel guilty. “This is stupid.” Petra mutters, laying down the green marker and picking up a blue one, and for a minute there’s just the sound of the pen squeaking on the board.

Allison looks up to see, in Petra’s very neat hand, the words: James Wilson. James Wilson. James Wilson. We have to fucking talk about him some time.


The second time Robert Chase sees James Wilson, he’s running late (again), and dashing across the road, and is nearly run over by a man in a silver car. The driver beeps his horn at him and Robert screams obscenities, and their eyes meet, and they both stop at once. Brown eyes meet blue and Robert’s mouth opens slightly, and then he shakes his head and keeps on going, and, after a minute, hears the car drive off behind him.


Kevin keeps begging Robert to let him photograph him.

“You’re so beautiful baby.” He keeps insisting, “I want to share your beauty with everyone.”

But Robert doesn’t want to. He’s shyer than anyone would believe, and Kevin’s a semi-famous photographer, and the idea of being pictured and then stuck on the white walls of a gallery somewhere fills him with dread. Kevin keeps pushing, keeps persevering, covering his face in kisses and begging blatantly.

But Robert just keeps saying no.

He sits at his desk, tapping his fingers on the polished surface, a migraine building in his head, sipping at a mug of rooibos tea. In front of him are a couple of books, and he’s supposedly looking something up for his latest case, but in truth he’s thinking about nothing. Nothing at all.

“Robert?” He looks up into the face of Stacy Hou- Stacy Kelley, she is now, sorry, six months since the divorce and all that. “How is everything coming on?”

“Fine.” He replies. He went into law school because he had no emotional attachment to lawyers, and the pay is good, and now hey; he’s an attorney. Quite when that happened, Robert isn’t sure, but then he’s been drifting through his life for years now. Making strange decisions, making stupid ones, doing pretty much everything except drink because that killed his mother.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” She smiles, and Robert considers that it would really be all too easy to seduce her. Stacy, she needs a rebound guy, and he, he just is too perfect at making stupid mistakes. Her cell phone starts ringing and she checks the caller ID before answering.

“Greg? Oh Allison, right.” She chews her lower lip. “No, I get that. Ok, well just let him know that- yeah, I’ll try back later.” She terminates the call and gives Robert a vague smirk before walking away. Robert makes an effort to turn his attention back to the case at hand.
*
Roger Spain finds himself covering House’s clinic duty, since Allison is covering House’s phonecalls and mail, so he and Petra drew straws and he lost. House is AWOL (some sort of argument went on while he was asleep, he’s not sure what kind), so Roger sits in the clinic and convinces people that actually no, they’re not nearly as sick as they think they are, and starts working on a new song in his head for his band. Eric Foreman, dean of medicine and fascist, sticks his head around the door.

“This is Dr House’s clinic duty.” He tells Roger. Roger resists the urge to say something along the lines of no shit, Sherlock.

“Er… he has a patient.” He lies quickly. “So I’m covering for him while he works out what tests need to be run.”

“I didn’t know your team had a patient.” Foreman replies, narrowing his eyes slightly. Roger tries his best to look like he’s telling the truth. He’s only been working for House for six months, but he’s already honed his lying skills pretty well.

“Uh… we only got them a couple of hours ago.” Roger says quickly.

“Well, where are they?” Foreman demands.

“Witherspoon Wing. Room 124-b.” Roger replies. Foreman turns to go, and Roger leaps for the phone on the wall and dials House’s cellphone number.

“What?” House growls.

“Foreman’s on the warpath. Get yourself to the Witherspoon Wing, room 124-b, and pretend to be treating whoever the hell is in there.”

“You call this covering my ass? Anyone could be in there.” House complains, and there’s a strange edge to his voice that Roger’s never heard before.

“Well, next time you could maybe do your own damn clinic duty.” Roger snaps, and puts the phone down.
*
He gets the photo albums out, cane abandoned under the coffee table because he can’t bear to see it and be reminded of how fucking helpless he is, and looks at them, at the four wives whose lives he’s wrecked. Laura was the first. They were both too young, and she was sarcastic, and abrasive, and at least had the honour of having the first affair (although she by no means had the last). Then there was Rose, who started off being sweet and naïve and charming, and who ended the marriage in tears, completely snapped into wrecked, jagged shards. He’ll feel guilty about her forever, because he broke her completely. Then there was Julie, and they were only married for three months before they both realised they’d made a stupid, stupid mistake. Finally, five years ago, there was Elizabeth, a beautiful red-headed surgeon who didn’t so much hold his hand through the infarction as force him to have chunks cut out of his thigh, performed the surgery herself, and then left him a year later both physically and emotionally crippled without a backwards glance.

He’s alone now, completely alone, and so he sits in his empty apartment and cries at the mess he’s brought on himself.
*
Greg sprints down the corridor, labcoat tied around his waist so that he can pull it on when he gets into the room, cursing whoever fucked up the elevators and has now meant that he can’t just serenely walk into the room and pretend to care about whoever’s in there. Really, if he didn’t need this job so damn much he wouldn’t make the effort. Working in Princeton/Plainsboro teaching hospital used to be fun, before billionaire Edward Vogler bought their souls and handed them to his nephew, also a doctor, and now Greg is walking the thin line between keeping his job and getting his ass fired fired fired.

Foreman and Vogler run the hospital and control everything. When Greg’s last fellow quit, a young man who’d been really apathetic but damn good at what he did, Greg was forced into hiring Roger Spain. He basically hates Spain but he can’t do anything about it apart from push him too hard and hope pretty boy quits.

He doesn’t have a lot of allies here, he realises, as he runs down another flight of stairs, and yes, he can see the silver words proclaiming Witherspoon Wing within his grasp. He’s got Cameron and Gilmar, both of whom have been working for him for a couple of years and who will essentially trust him to the ends of the Earth. He’s got Cuddy, who’s been a friend of his since med school, although there’s very little the oncologist can do for him. And he used to have- don’t think about it, don’t think about him, just don’t.

Greg slows down outside the door, pulls on his crumpled labcoat, takes in a deep breath through his teeth, and walks into the room. Thankfully, Cameron and Gilmar are already in there, giving the impression that they’re working. Quite how they’re going to carry this off, Greg isn’t too sure, but hey- they’ve got to give Foreman some kind of a show, and he’s always had a thing for vaudeville.

“Where’ve you been?” asks Foreman, turning around with his hands on his hips.

“I-” was hiding out on the roof imagining your guts exploding into bits “-Was taking a pee. You know, when you just can’t hold it-”

“Fine.” Foreman scowls at him. “Is this your patient?” He gestures to a pale young woman lying in the bed.

“Yeah.” Greg replies, realising that any minute Foreman is going to realise that someone else is signing the charts and they’re just in there trying to save themselves.

“Her case seems a little ordinary for you.” Foreman looks really doubtful.

“Yeah, well, my priest says I should do more good deeds.” Greg replies. “Apparently with all my hooker activities, I might not get into heaven.”

Cameron is glaring at him with a don’t push it kind of look on her face, but Greg isn’t going to listen to her.

“Fine.” Foreman snaps. “Although I didn’t know you were quite so into religion.”

“Mazel Tov.” Greg replies with a wink. Gilmar mouths ‘that’s Jewish’ at him and then shuts her eyes.

“What, now you’re Jewish?” Foreman is starting to look really quite angry.

“What can I say? Gilmar will only sleep with Kosher guys.”

“People can’t be-” starts Foreman, but is thankfully interrupted by their ‘patient’.

“Excuse me, Dr House, when will my lab results be back?” she asks.

“I’ll have Cameron go and check in a moment.” He replies with a fake polite smile. “Dr Foreman, if you would excuse me, some of us have actual work to do. We don’t all have time to tramp around glaring at everyone, you know.”

Foreman gives him a long, long look and then walks out. Greg waits until he’s sure the other man is gone before shrugging out of the labcoat, and watches Gilmar hand the patient a $20 bill.

“Thanks.” She says, with a smile.

“You paid the patient to pretend to be our patient?” Greg asks. Gilmar blinks blue eyes at him.

“Duh.” She replies. “Roger paged us, we didn’t have much time to come up with something convincing without help.”

“I’m getting discharged tomorrow.” Their ‘patient’ adds. “Won’t one of you have to go and edit the charts?”

“I’m on it.” Cameron smiles as she makes her way out.

“You’ve got to stop doing this.” Gilmar tells him, and Greg has to admit that she’s got a point.
*
Lisa walks into House’s conference room and finds it… empty. Written on the board are the words James Wilson. James Wilson. James Wilson. We have to fucking talk about him some time. She assumes that House hasn’t seen this message yet, if only because the board isn’t in pieces on the concrete outside (House does have this habit of being very violent at the mention of Ja- that name). Carefully, she picks up the boardwiper and cleans the blue words away feeling guiltier than ever, and then makes her way back out again. She’s got clinic duty and the elevators still aren’t fixed.
*


The third time Robert Chase sees James Wilson, he’s walking past him in the street, on his way to meet his boyfriend for lunch. It’s a Sunday and there are holes in the knees of his jeans, and the sun is shining, and he looks at a man walking past him. Well, limping, using a wooden cane, his gaze downcast. His whole body is hunched over and dejected, and eventually he glances up. Robert meets his eyes and is amazed to see that the man is much younger than he first took him for, and that brown gaze is full of so much pain and exhaustion that Robert is left momentarily breathless.


“What do you think?” asks Kevin the moment Robert walks through the door. “Pretty, huh?”

Robert looks at the print his lover is holding up, a black and white shot of the normal scenery out of their apartment living room window, except that it’s done in negative form.

“It is pretty.” He replies, pulling his hair out of its ponytail and coming over to examine it in more detail. “I love it.”

“Thought you would.” Kevin replies, handing him the picture. “It’s for that gallery showing.”

“You decided on a main theme yet?” asks Robert, running his finger over the Princeton skyline thoughtfully. “It’s on *next week*.”

“I’ll think of something.” Replies Kevin, deftly removing the photograph from his hands and pulling him into a kiss. “I do love you, you know.”

“I love you too.” Replies Robert, and wonders when that stopped being enough.
*
“Have you called Stacy yet?” Gilmar asks. Everyone else has gone home (well, Roger is nowhere to be seen, presumably he’s living in exam room one at the moment or something), but his auburn-haired half-Jewish fellow is still sitting in the room, bouncing one of his giant tennis balls off the glass.

“No.” Greg replies.

“Are you going to?” she asks. Greg can’t remember when looking after him suddenly became her responsibility, but she’s disturbingly good at it.

“No.” he continues.

“Ok.” Gilmar sighs loudly and picks up the phone, dialling a number she already knows off by heart (God, she’s like a secretary). “Hey, Stacy?” Greg tunes out the conversation, until eventually Gilmar covers the mouthpiece with her hand. “She says she wants her blue shirt back.”

“Huh?” Greg has no idea where that shirt is. “Um-”

“He burnt it.” Gilmar informs Stacy. A few moments later, she concludes the conversation. They sit in silence for a while. “Screw this.” Mumbles Gilmar, and reaches for the phone. Greg watches her dial a number that is too familiar.

“No.” he snarls, getting to his feet and pulling the handset out of her fingers, then yanking the phone out of the wall and throwing it across the room. “Go home.” He snarls. “Go fucking home.”

Gilmar looks at him, lips curved in a sneer.

“How long can you let this go on?” she asks as her shoes click out. Greg doesn’t know the answer himself so he stares at the wrecked telephone and bites his lips together with something akin to guilt.
*
He hates life with the Vicodin, hates life without it. He fights so hard to try and stop himself from becoming dependant, but he is. God he is. And so he drives over to Princeton General every week and gets a new pot with his prescription (self-prescribed but who gives a shit?), because although it would be quicker to go to Princeton/Plainsboro he can’t. Won’t. Just shouldn’t.

So he holds off as long as he can before taking the pills, until his muscles are screaming in agony and he’s sobbing into the sofa cushions, until he dry swallows a pill or two and the pain dims to a dull sort of permanent ache that he just can’t be rid of. It’s always the same, a vicious circle of trying to escape and never, ever managing it, and he finds himself thinking, from time to time, I’m an addict. But he never cares enough to want to do something about it.
*
Stacy stands on the doorstep and bangs on the door, ringing the doorbell over and over, and she shouts too. She needs to see him, needs to talk to him, but the lights are off, and she can’t get in.

“You can’t hide forever!” she yells furiously. “You have to let someone in!”

But the door remains stubbornly closed.

“James!” she screams. “James, open the door.”

But he won’t and he doesn’t, and in the end she turns away, dejected, helpless, the way everyone else is too.
*
Kevin is almost unusually affectionate tonight, and if Robert weren’t so lonely and obscurely angry at no one in particular, he’d wonder more about it. As it is, he accepts Kevin’s warm, slow wet kisses and the warm hands on his stomach, the teasing brushes of fingers over his skin raising goosebumps and the blindfold, because they do this from time to time, blocking everything from sight but feelings, and God, the feelings…

“You’re so beautiful.” Whispers Kevin, breath warm against his ear, pressing sharp kisses along his jawline.

“Shut up.” Mumbles Robert, shifting as Kevin straddles his hips and begins kissing him in earnest.

“Oh, but you are baby.” Kevin continues, drawing back and running a hand down Robert’s chest, pinching his nipples and making him hiss. “You’re so fucking-”

“Stop it!” Robert insists, but it comes out as a moan, Kevin’s hand wrapping around his hard-on and making his back arch, his head pressing back into the pillows. “You’re insufferable…”

He loses the ability to speak a minute later, moaning incoherently as Kevin continues to stroke him, pushing himself harder into that hand.

“I’m going to share your beauty with the world.” Kevin whispers, but Robert is so far gone that he can no longer hear him.
*
“He’s getting worse.” Petra says. Allison shifts slightly, curling her legs up underneath her. David is fast asleep in the armchair and she’s lying on the sofa, comforting Petra, who’s nearly in tears and is also completely furious.

“What can we do about it?” Allison points out. “We go to anyone in authority and he gets fired.”

“Maybe we should consider the fact that he needs professional help.” Petra offers. “I mean, all that business with- with Wilson, and then Stacy divorcing him, and now he’s trying to walk the line and it’s clearly not working and-”

“You think we should get him a psychiatrist?” Allison is a bit surprised that no one has thought of this before, but then again, this is *House* they are discussing and he won’t appreciate being pushed in the direction of a shrink. “Isn’t that a little-”

“He threw a telephone across the room because I tried to get him to call Wilson.” Petra sighs. “I think therapy is the only course of action before he explodes.”

“House wouldn’t go for that.” Allison replies, and then pauses, trying to phrase the question carefully. “Have you spoken to, you know, Wilson lately?”

“No.” Petra admits, sounding uncomfortable. “Have you?”

“I tried last month. He’s not picking up the phone, and I know Cuddy went around and tried to get him to let her in. He wouldn’t.” She swallows hard around the lump in her throat. “We’re losing him.” She whispers. “And I think that-”

“House is possibly the only one who could save him?”

“Yes.” Allison sighs. “If only we knew what they’d argued about, we could try to repair the damage and-”

“What if it’s too late?” asks Petra, and Allison bites her lip because that’s a possibility that she can’t allow herself to consider.
*
Lisa abandoned her shoes halfway through the afternoon, because walking up and down stairs in stilettos just kills everything about her feet, and she hates it. She had to put up with a shouting at from Foreman who seemed to think the clinical trial she put Gabriel Thompson into was completely unsuitable, until she pointed out forcibly that he is a neurologist, not an oncologist, and besides, it’s got nothing to do with him anyway, and then he threatened to fire her and she asked him if it was like this in the Nazi party, and oh yeah, it was, wasn’t it? Hitler organised that night when he rounded up all the potential threats in his party, claimed they were plotting treason, *and had them executed* (she was pleased that she, House and Wilson decided to research all they could about various dictators when Foreman took over the hospital, and although that actually didn’t work out too well for Jimmy, House once deflated Foreman with a nicely-placed Genghis Khan analogy).

Foreman hadn’t taken that too well, but she’d managed to sweep out of his office with her head held high (although her feet were in agony). Now, she’s hanging around not going home because there isn’t really anything much there for her. Instead, she goes back to diagnostics. House is slumped in a chair staring at the wreckage of what was once his telephone, chewing his lips together and looking devastated.

“Greg-” she says softly. He shakes his head. “Forgive him Greg. Whatever he did, forgive him, and stop torturing yourself like this.”

“I can’t.” whispers House, pressing his forehead into his hand and looking a mixture of helpless and furious. Lisa bites her lip, powerless and completely unable to help him. She’s known him for years, longer than Wilson knew him, but she was never jealous of the friendship between Wilson and House because House needs people on his side and so few people are. But they had that argument and now there’s nothing she can do.
*

Part Two