Gregory House, M.D. (doctorgreghouse) wrote in willingtoliefor,
Gregory House, M.D.

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[House; Cuddy; closed(for now); House's office-->Dean's office; Thursday after-hours]

I want a girl with the right allocations, who’s fast, thorough, and sharp as a tack.

Sometimes, the world seems to cant precariously, tinted through some nasty red filter, seems to make even less sense than it does on an average basis. And when this happens, it's almost impossible to keep any sense of rational perspective.

It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you, House mused darkly, idly thwacking the oversized tennis ball off one side of his desk. Maybe it was just the increase in the pain in his leg, maybe he was tired, maybe he was getting ready to spawn an entire colony of anal-dwelling butt-monkeys, who knew. But he was getting mightily annoyed, real fast. They needed him, damn it, no matter how high and mighty they might like to think they were. Let Chase try and run Diagnostics for a week, he thought bitterly. You'll have half a dozen dead patients and rainbow slippers as standard operating procedure.

What was with all of them lately, anyway? Cuddy, he could understand... so, okay, almost understand. In his blazing, fierce pride at knowing things about people, he'd thought he'd seen something, in that look. Something significant, anyway. And so what if he thought she was irrational, so what if he didn't want to involve himself in her affairs any more than he could amuse himself with(liar)... so what if he thought she was rash, and stupid, and desperate, which made everything that much more stupid... okay, so somewhere along the line that reasoning got convoluted and lost, but still. He wasn't an idiot. He wasn't obsolete.


He tapped idly at his computer keys for a little while longer, fuming in greater degrees: no cases, no work, no puzzle, no convenient syringe to make him stop thinking... and what was he still doing here, anyway? Not going home, that's an easy one. But he'd be damned if he didn't take some of them with him, at least. Misery loves company.

The few people left in the hallways had learned by long and mostly unpleasant experience to avoid him when he came steamrolli-- well, okay, limping mutely down the corridors; he had the elevator to himself, and wasted no time in glancing around furtively like a cat burglar before bursting through Cuddy's office doors with a fair amount of grace for a cripple.

"Okay. You're an idiot."
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