Snow Down

The first snow of the year, five inches, and Cuddy loved it. She knew by rights she shouldn't---snow meant traffic snarls and accidents; late arrivals and excuses to call in sick. Nevertheless the clean fluff drifting out of the sky still sent an inward thrill through her as she marched in her boots through it to the front doors. She loved how it blanketed everything and softened hard edges; how it made all things equally clean and bright.

The main front door rug was a mess, of course—not only had snow been tracked in with every visitor, but also mud and rock salt residue. Sighing, Cuddy made a note to tell maintenance to re-salt all the main walkways across campus. She noted the Caution Wet Floor signs were already out and in place as she moved down the hall. Carefully she unwound her scarf and shook her hair out, running a hand over it to brush away melting flakes. Already wetness was seeping in at her shoulders and elbows, and she hurried to her office, thinking of coffee.

As she unlocked it and stepped in, Cuddy glanced out the windows behind her desk, noting the fall was slowing. She didn't have the balcony that the other offices had; hers was off to the left. She knew it would be fluffily blanketed . . . . and then she noticed the wet stains on the carpeting by the doorway.

Annoyed, Cuddy let her gaze go through the glass door to the balcony, and her lips tightened as she noticed the white figure standing tall there. She stepped close enough to the glass to fog it up with her breath, then wiped it away impatiently as she kept staring out at it.

God. A snowman. No, not a snow man, not with the obvious and heavily packed pair of rounded snow curves bulging out at the neckline of the figure. The snow had been whittled down at the waist and allowed to flare at the hips, giving the thing an hourglass figure. Someone had ingeniously sliced up a garbage bag for hair, and it streamed over the snowwoman's shoulders in long strands of black. Two rosy cheeks of pink bologna, blue plastic bottle cap eyes and a tongue depressor nose rounded out the face.

She might have been charmed and forgiven it all, if the creator hadn't added two perky nipples made of pill bottles jammed deeply into the snow of each breast. The dark color made them stand out, and the jaunty angle of each told her immediately who was responsible for this saucy work of art. With a growl, Cuddy yanked on her balcony door and stormed out. She stalked around it, ignoring the snow drifting down as she circled the offending display, trying not to be pleased that he'd made her backside fairly trim . . .

No. She wasn't going to be flattered. OR amused. House had broken into her office, come out to her inner sanctum and created this . . . . monstrosity. The temptation to kick it was strong, but . . .

Cuddy looked to the sky, into the falling snow and smiled.

oo 00 oo

House limped in, a good mood prevailing despite the ache in his thigh. The weather was no treat, but he tended to overlook how it affected his leg simply because deep down, he liked snow. It meant the holidays were coming, and despite all his outer Scrooginess, he enjoyed the lights and general spirit that permeated the hospital and the city at large. There was something silly and foolish and fundamentally reassuring about the way people annually tried to overcome their selfish natures if only for a few weeks.

He'd done all his shopping online. Wilson would never know (but definitely suspect) who'd bought him a case of halvah, Chase would have to deal with six monogrammed SpongeBob sweaters, Foreman would be forced to eat his way through a peanut brittle mansion, and Cameron would wonder worriedly if there was any symbolism to the Barbie Hot Tub Van under her tree.

House had shopped for Cuddy too—it hadn't been easy to decide between the Hooters teeshirts and the book Artificial Insemination for Dummies, but in the end he'd chosen the personalized panties, figuring she'd be just pragmatic enough to keep them. Sunday through Saturday, each with a tasteful sentiment he himself had chosen to cheerily decorate her crotch. His favorite was the last one for the workweek: It's Friday and these are SO off of me!, although each pair had saucy potential.

Musing over Cuddy's panties, he lumbered along the hall, keeping an eye out for low hanging lights and mistletoe. Wilson fell into step beside him, looking bemused.

"House, when you asked me for a trash bag, I assumed it was for trash."

"You assumed wrong," House agreed. "That's your problem—you've always been a logical thinker."

"Sorry to follow the line of progressives, but my point is that the unauthorized use of a trash bag to taunt the Dean of Medicine is an unwise move at any time, but especially during the holiday season. Someone has to cover the clinic over Christmas, and with your name on her lips amid a stream of accompanying profanity . . . " Wilson trailed off, looking over at House. The other man grinned briefly.

"She found the Snowbabe?"

"You could say that, yes."

"How long before she stomped it into oblivion?" House asked with interest. Wilson said nothing, but the purse of his mouth held back a grin.

Interesting.

House prodded him with his cane. "Decapitation then."

Wilson shook his head, a twinkle in his brown eyes. "Noooo. Maybe you ought to check out Cuddy's balcony—and I mean the literal one, not the figurative one—and see for yourself."

Definitely intriguing. House sped up his rocking stride and made his way to Cuddy's office, wondering if there was any way to sneak a peek without going inside. He knew her balcony was visible from the cafeteria—that was a prime factor in the creation of the Snowbabe in the first place—so he bypassed her office and made his way there instead.

House peered through the frosty windows, and noted there was now a second figure on her balcony. This was taller than the first, and sported was looked like gravel stubble on its face. The scowl looked familiar too, and House appreciated that the stick cane was on the correct side. He stared harder, trying to see what (if anything) was out of place. Finding nothing, he sighed and turned away.

It was only when he went into his office that he sensed something wasn't quite right. Cameron blinked and ducked her head down into a patient file, her cheeks pink. Foreman had on his "I'm-so-glad-Cuddy's-not-after-ME' face, and Chase was staring everywhere in a desperate attempt not to make eye contact.

House stared around the room and spotted it right way.

A kidney pan, sterile and metal, was carefully duct-taped to the white board. From it, on a slender piece of cotton string dangled a glittering scalpel. Intrigued, House lumbered over to it and looked in.

House winced.

A pair of Hostess Sno Balls sat in the pan.