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Martha… did not think this through. The fabric of her lab coat brushes against her skin in just the right—wrong?—way as she pulls it on, sending a crawling itch up her arms. She breathes in sharply as the coat settles, anxiously rolling her shoulders in an attempt to try and adjust the fabric more comfortably.
It doesn’t work, no matter how she moves.
Her sigh comes out more of a whine, her teeth digging into the skin of her bottom lip. She can’t work like this.
They don’t have a case but… doctors wear lab coats. She has to wear it. No matter what.
After a lingering moment of staring harshly at her reflection in the changing room mirror, Martha steels herself and forces herself out into the hallway.
The harsh overhead lights pierce her eyes just as the stinging smell of isopropyl alcohol floods her nostrils. She barely stifles a whimper, her eyes starting to water as she pushes herself down the hall. The sound of her heels clicking against the tile, something she’d normally find comforting, echoes painfully in her ears like a lion’s roar.
Her hands close into fists, fingers lifting and pressing back down as she searches for the nearest storage closet—or anything she can hide in.
Just up ahead, one such closet comes into view. Things start to blur as her focus closes in on just getting there, everything coalescing into just a blare of too much too much as she all but runs down the hall.
A broken cry claws its way from her throat as the door shuts behind her. She doesn’t really process she’s moving until the cold wall presses against her back. She pants heavily, tears finally breaking free and starting to carve paths down her face.
Somehow, her hands find their way into her hair. She feels herself start to rock just before the first tug stings her roots. Martha doesn’t know if it’s helping or hurting but she can’t stop herself by now.
The sound of her cries echoes in the small room, sniffles punctuating each strangled gasp. Time must pass but she can’t tell how much. All that exists to her now is the repetitive tug, hit, tug on her head and the dull pain each time her back hits the wall.
Light floods the room, the creak of the door barely registering. Martha whimpers, curling further in on herself and burying her face in her knees to block the light.
“Martha?” the muffled sound of her name manages to make its way to her. She only whines in response. A moment passes before—blissfully—the room is plunged back into darkness.
A confused noise escapes her when her hands are pulled away from her, something soft and squishy pressed into one. She closes her hand around it instinctively as her other comes to rest on her shin. It’s… nice. She rubs her thumb over the surface of it, then squeezes again Then again, and again, and again.
Balance starts to return to her world, one squeeze at a time. Her breaths even out, kept in time with each squeeze and release of the… ball? She isn’t sure, but it hardly matters right now.
Finally, she lifts her head. Her eyes strain in the dim light to make out a vaguely familiar figure. “Dr. Wilson?” she manages to say, though it barely comes out questioning through the roughness of her voice.
He crouches down in front of her. “Rough morning?” he asks calmly, almost casually.
Martha huffs with vague amusement. “Uh, yeah.”
That’s one way to say it, she supposes.
He’s quiet for a moment and she winces, already expecting the worst.
But it doesn’t come. “House won’t be coming in today,” he says lowly. “You should go home. Take a day off.”
She opens her mouth to protest but just sighs.
“Cuddy won’t care. She puts up with House, she won’t mind her star doctor taking a personal day for once.”
“Are you sure?”
She can just make out his famous reassuring smile through the darkness. “Very. Take your time.”
Martha responds with a small humming noise of affirmation.
Dr. Wilson nods, a small groan escaping as he stands back up. “Feel better.” He hesitates, just for a moment. “I’m gonna open the door now. You might want to close your eyes.”
“Okay.” She moves to cover her eyes, pausing to say, “Thank you, Dr. Wilson.”
“Of course.”
Martha ducks her head into her hands, keeping her eyes tightly shut until she hears the door close.
She lifts her head a few seconds later, sighing in the quiet darkness.
She will go home.
Eventually.
The next day, Martha returns to work as if nothing happened. She feels better than yesterday, by far, yet a pervasive anxiety clouds her every thought—eerily similar to the feeling of her first day at the hospital.
She goes through the motions regardless, pausing only at her locker. She locks herself into a staring match with her lab coat, glaring it down as if it holds to secrets to existence itself. She’s taken precaution today, of course, wearing her smoothest long sleeve button up to keep the coat fabric off her skin. Still, the idea of putting it on sends a chill down her spine.
Martha digs through her bag, pulling out the squishy Dr. Wilson had given her yesterday. She plans to return it today, but that doesn’t mean she can’t make use of it one last time. She navigates to the nearest bench, rolling the squishy against the wood and letting it return to its shape before squeezing it tightly. Roll, wait, squeeze, repeat.
She exhales slowly.
It’s alright, she tells herself. She can do this.
Martha lets her eyes fall shut for a moment, taking a deep breath before standing. Her locker is only a few steps away, leaving her little time to work herself up again.
Her lab coat hangs just as she left it. Her eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing as her entire expression tightens.
She pushes past it, reaching out for the coat and starting to pull it on before she can think about it.
The coat slightly musses the fabric of her shirt, causing a bit of a tingling feeling across her arms. She shudders at the sensation, but it passes quickly. It’s not much of a problem after the fiasco of yesterday, but it still grates. She lets out a sigh once the coat is fully on and she feels nothing different.
Martha hangs her bag before closing her locker, taking another breath to steel herself before turning to leave the room.
The hall is quiet, but certainly not dim. The lights don’t pain her as yesterday, but they still cause her to shove her hand in her skirt pocket and roll the small ring fidget there between her fingers.
She tries not to grimace at the feeling of eyes on her. Sighing, she pulls her hand from her pocket. It may not look any less peculiar to passersby but it feels less so to her and, well, that’s about all she has. The cool metal of the rings gives her a point of focus as she moves through the long hospital hallways.
Eventually, she finds herself at the “conference” room of Diagnostics. Through the glass walls, she sees the room empty.
She isn’t so sure how to feel about that. It’s possible if she’s there first, her coworkers will be less likely comment. It’s also possible that they’ll be more likely to comment, as they’ll be approaching her one at a time.
Martha shakes her head lightly at the thought, proceeding to sit at the glass table. At first, she simply allows her arm to lay limp at her side. Only a few seconds pass in that manner before she sighs, forcing her hand up onto the table. She sets down the ring set to pull a textbook on the table closer to her, flipping it open to a random page. She picks the rings back up and sets her other on the book to keep it open.
When the door swings open—minutes or perhaps hours later—she resists the urge to turn or still her hands. Judging by the pause before closing the door and familiar sigh, she guesses it’s Foreman. Fairly unsurprising, he tends to be rather punctual as well.
It’s not long before he passes in front of her, sitting at the head of the table.
Definitely Foreman.
Martha looks up after a moment, an acute awkwardness pricking at the edge of her consciousness. “Do you have any appointments today?”
“Not yet,” he answers evenly, about the same as he normally does.
She only nods, returning her gaze to the book in front of her.
Foreman doesn’t speak further, so nor does she. Not exactly ideal but, well, it’s harder to try and fill the silence than to sit with it.
The remaining two members of their team filter in before much longer. Neither comments or says anything to her at all, yet her hair stands on end. Her grip on the rings grows tighter, almost painful as she rolls them between her fingers.
Martha refocuses her attention pointedly on the book in front of her. She tries to read but none of the words really process. She turns the page anyway.
She takes a deep breath, focusing on the feeling of the rings in her hand. It doesn’t feel like enough. A quick glance reveals no one looking at her—all caught up in their own busywork until House deigns to show up—so she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the squish, slipping the rings in their place.
Setting it down on her thigh, she repeats her pattern from before. It’s a bit uneven, rolling against her thigh rather than wood, but it’s still soothing. Roll, wait, squeeze. Roll, wait, squeeze.
Eventually, maybe a dozen or so repetitions in, she starts to settle. Her focus returns enough to continue reading. It’s not particularly new information but she enjoys reading it all the same.
The door opens some time later. She looks up to see House, oddly enough. He usually doesn’t bother walking through here.
He looks at her briefly, then says, “Keep it.”
Martha opens her mouth—to say what, she’s not sure—but he’s already gone, walking into his office.
He comes back in perhaps an hour or so after, tossing reports on the table. It seems they have a new case.
The DDX goes much the same as always yet he seems… softer. She can’t quite explain it, but somehow his harsh attitude seems ever so slightly dulled.
Soon enough, he’s sending them off to do tests. Martha stands last, taking the time to put her squish away unseen, but just as she’s getting to the door, she hears her name. She turns back, tilting her head curiously.
“Masters,” House repeats. “If you don’t like the lab coat, don’t wear it.”
“Uh—”
He motions at her, apparently that was all he had to say. “Go.”
“Yeah.” She nods, turning once again to leave.
The interaction lingers in her mind as she goes through the motions. She has no doubt Wilson is the one who told him, though she isn’t sure how she feels about that, but she can’t help feeling surprised at how… kind he was about it. He wouldn’t be the first person to call her a slur or insult her over it, not by far, but he didn’t. She can’t think of another time he held back like that.
Interesting.