Title: Recommencement
Author: Ellie
Rating: PG
Pairing: H/Cuddy, Gen
Disclaimer: Sadly, most definitely not mine.
Summary: Pre-series, Cuddy makes House an offer.
Author’s Notes: This is my first House piece. I’ve also chosen to go
insane and write in second person POV.

****

Your office still feels new, as if it’s not really yours. In three months the
stale, musty smell of the previous occupant, like cigars and old
magazines, has faded but not vanished. Some mornings you expect the
secretary—you can’t think of her as "yours" yet—to ask where you
think you’re going when you walk in the door.

But it is yours, with all the rights and privileges and headaches that
entails. Right now, you’re waiting on the biggest headache of all, and
only half-expecting anything to come if it. It almost surprises you when
he actually limps through the door, looking even more haggard than the
last time you saw him.

"You wanted to see me," he greets, waving the hand not tightly
clutching his crutch in an almost menacing fashion.

You draw a slow, deep breath as you rise and gesture for him to sit.
"Yes," you say, filling that one word with all the resolve you possess.
You knew this wouldn’t be easy.

"So?" He’s just as direct as ever, but there’s a harder edge to him now.
For all his apparent physical frailty, perhaps what hasn’t killed him has
forged him into something stronger, something harder. You didn’t think
it was possible for him to be harder, but he always was hell-bent on
proving people wrong.

"So," you say, studying his lean, stubbly face, which seems to be doing
a poor job of masking his wariness, enough to make you want to ask
how he’s doing. But you know better. "I’d like to make you a job
offer."

"A job offer," he parrots, mocking, but also studying you like you just
studied him, fingers tapping on the metal crutch with vengeful
deliberation.

"I’m in the process of evaluating and restructuring the programs here.
It would be a coup for the hospital if you would join us to head the new
Diagnostics department." You think that came off reasonably and
neutrally. The rehearsal in front of the mirror this morning paid off.

"Well that offer doesn’t sound the least bit like someone trying to ease
her guilty conscience." This is the Greg House you remember.

For a split second you glare at him, then rein in your emotions. "I don’t
know why you would think there should be any guilt involved in
offering the best diagnostician I know the chance to run his own
department. Most people would be flattered." But neither of you are
‘most people.’

"No, of course not, what would you have to feel guilty about," he says,
patting his ravaged thigh.

You’ve had enough beating around the bush and know you don’t have
to do it with him like you will with everyone else who comes through the
doors. It’s one of the reasons you want him here. "If I didn’t feel that
my prescribed course of treatment for you was the best, I wouldn’t have
done it. I could have handed you off to be someone else’s albatross.
I’m sorry the infarction wasn’t caught sooner, but the misdiagnosis was
not my fault, Greg. The only thing you have to fault me for is keeping
you alive to wallow in your misery."

From the coldly dismissive look he gives, you know you’ve struck close
to home. Perhaps too close, because he actually backs down, glaring
down at his feet as he mutters, "The blame’s not on your for that."

The realization dawns swiftly. You’ve known him long enough and well
enough to know that the prickly exterior hides a man who cares deeply,
passionately. More than mere physical pain is causing the wary,
wounded aura about him. You also know that to directly address this
would be sheer folly.

"So move here, start fresh," you offer, eyes meeting his to acknowledge
the unspoken. "You’ll be able to select your cases, for the most part,
and have two fellows. You’d be in charge."

He nods, the closest you’ve ever seen to thanks from him. "There’s
always a catch to those too-good-to-be-true deals."

"The salary would be five percent less than you’re making now. And
you’d be doing eight hours of clinic duty per month, the same as every
other physician." You know he’s never done this for the money, but he
hates dealing with people in general.

"Eight?" he asks, frowning comically, and you know you have him.

"I’d be tangling directly with you, not some helper monkey?"

You repress a smile. "Yes, and yes. I’ll give you a week to think on it.
We’d like to have you start in April, to get things up and running for the
fall."

"Well, your highness, I’ll get back to you next week," he says, rising
awkwardly from the overstuffed couch.

He pauses just before reaching the door and glances back at you. A
look passes between you, though you can tell that words are as close to
his lips as they are to your own. So much has passed between you since
that sophomore year at Michigan, but you’ll never speak of any of it.

He looks away first, slamming the door open and walking full-circle
back into your life.

****
End
****