Archive of Our Own

The earliest memory Robert Chase had - at least, the one he wrote about in all his essays for university - was of being a kindergartner in a private school gazing at the print above his head, by the office. Later, he would learn that it was Dali's Crucifixion (Corpus Hypercubus), but at the tender age of five that hadn't mattered. Little Robbie, he told the reader, was so transfixed by this image that he was late to his first class on his first day. (He didn't mention how both his parents were working long hours and so couldn't see him off. He didn't mention that he was staring at the print to keep from crying because all the other parents had given their children one last hug and a smile, but his had not.) The class's teacher, a nun in full habit with a large, heavy gold cross hung from her neck, had slapped his palms smartly with a ruler for his tardiness and then sent him to his seat. He had, the essay said, been so preoccupied with that print that the day flew by. Each day he had returned to the image, from kindergarten all the way through to this day in senior year.

He talked about Dali's use of color and light and shadow. He talked about the significance of all the imagery. He talked about the importance of having Jesus's family by his side, even in death. He mentioned the background, how Mary resembled Dali's wife, why any of this mattered. Why it didn't. What dreams he had had that were influenced by this painting. And, finally, he emphasized that it was this painting and how it made him think of his faith that inspired him to apply for seminary school.

Almost none of it was true. While the school had kept a print of Dali near the kindergarden, and while it had made him late that first day, and while the nun had rapped his palms with a ruler, little else was real. The print had gained meaning over time, but the image that had struck him most didn't appear to him until he had reached high school. It wasn't Crucifixion (Corpus Hypercubus) that had caught his fancy. It was, instead, a print outside the art room that appeared around the same time a new art teacher was brought in. Rumor had it that she was from bush country, but Robbie hadn't had the chance to see her yet. However, this print had captured his attention. Something about the figures most illuminated, about the lazy way the hand pointed, about the line of the frame - it struck him.

"The Calling of Saint Matthew," a soft voice stated. He nearly jumped out of his skin, and whirled on his heel to give the offender a piece of his mind. But the sight of the woman made him snap his mouth shut. She was diminutive at best, even to his 157 cm. Her dark hair was pulled back and plaited, and she stood with her arms akimbo. He could see fine lines in her otherwise flawless skin, lines that gave away her age.

"Is that what it's called?"

She nodded and moved closer, hand gesturing vaguely at the various figures. "That man, with the hand outstretched, is Jesus. The other man, at the end of the table, is Matthew." She turned to him, dark eyes glittering with something he couldn't quite pin down. "You know the story," she said simply, raising an eyebrow. Her accent was a little bush, he noted, though it was clearly tempered by years of city life. It almost sounded foreign.

"Matthew looks hunched over," he pointed out.

She nodded. "Caravaggio has him in a reluctant posture, yes." She pointed at a detail in the work, drawing his gaze to it. It was a pile of coins, winnings in a card game or collections of a tax. "But, perhaps Matthew simply hadn't noticed."

He scoffed. "Hadn't noticed? How do you not notice the Son of God walking into your presence?"

"That's just it, isn't it?" There was a wistful sort of expression on her face now. "Caravaggio said that anyone could be divine, and the rest of us could simply never notice."

"What a crock."

"Is it?" She turned to face him fully, gazing at him with a shrewd sort of curiosity. "You've read the Gospel of St. John, haven't you?"

"Of course I have."

"'In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.' Saint John said that we, each of us, has a touch of God within him. The Gnostics call it the Divine Spark." Gently, she tugged at the pendant at her throat, a tiny golden cross. "Our innate divinity, then, isn't instantly recognizable, is it?"

For a moment, he considered it. Then, he shook his head. "I still don't buy it."

The older woman laughed, a hearty sound that made her whole body shake. He wondered how such a small woman could make such a loud noise. "You'll understand." She patted his arm firmly and walked past him, leaving him to study the print alone.

Three days later, his father walked out on them.

&&&

Essays Robbie didn't write to get into college:

1. How My Father Walking Out on My Family Changed Our Lives


2. How My Mother's Alcoholism Affected My Education, My Relationships, and My Self-Esteem


3. How My Parents' Emotional Unavailability Has Left Me Dead Inside


4. My Therapist Would Say I Have Abandonment Issues


5. God and Me: How My Faith is Lapsing


6. Could I Be More Fucked Up?

The last one's his personal favorite.

&&&

His first year in seminary school, he took an art history class that emphasized great Christian masterworks. It traversed the ages, starting with medieval art and advancing into the Renaissance and beyond.

He liked the frescoes. Raphael's bright colors were appealing in their own right, and the idea of painting with plaster - no hesitation, no second-guessing, just painting - was oddly heartening.

"There are no take-backs in life," his mother had told him once, before the scent of bourbon scented and slurred her speech, when her eyes weren't rimmed red near constantly.

"You're too cerebral," his father had said once, over lunch in a quiet area of Melbourne. "You need to stop thinking. Just go for it." In response, he has simply shaken pepper onto his salad and speared a cherry tomato. His father had shaken his head.

Renaissance art, he thought, was good. Lots of math, perfect forms modeled off of the ancient Greco-Roman statues. It was full of thinking, and he was still cautious at this age. (His friends invited him to go drinking every week. He was running out of excuses.) They spent a month and a half talking about the development of frescoes, looking at commissioned works - statues and paintings and mosaics - across the Western world. He devoured the textbook, seeking the supplemental readings from the library with a quiet intensity.

"You're so quiet," his roommate noted once, arranging his desk. "I don't really know what you do." He had looked up from his book and shrugged, turning a page and his attention back to the glossy paper.

"You're really intense, mate. Let up a little, have some fun." Mark was the closest thing to a best friend he had, and even that was debatable. "Come out with us. Relax a little. Christ, you don't even go home on holidays." He hadn't known what to say and so had said nothing.

He liked Da Vinci, the way the man played fast and loose with his forms, the way the man had dipped a finger in every pot and pulled out gold every time. (Mixed metaphors, he thought, and laughed quietly to himself.) "A Renaissance Man," he said aloud, testing the phrase on his tongue.

He liked it.

&&&

Renaissance: (n) a movement or period of vigorous artistic and intellectual activity; rebirth, revival

&&&

Her name was Emma, and he had met her at the book store.

It was an odd place, really, to meet someone. He has been looking at coffee table books of art, and she had been looking at coffee table books of photographs and they met somewhere around film, but it worked.

She was talkative. She went to the local girls' college, majoring in comparative literature, but she was starting a photography club and wanted to get some good references - Ansel Adams, you know. He nodded, feigning understanding.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" She laughed as he shook his head, and he felt a smile of his own creep across his features.

"So, what do you do?" Her accent was Sydney, and she sipped protein shake smoothies with a delicacy he hadn't ever seen before.

"I'm a biochem major," he replied, stirring his tea. Seminary school was a distant memory, now, though it really hadn't been all that long.

"You thinking about med school?"

No. "Maybe," he said instead.

She laughed, blonde hair falling into her face. The light caught the highlights and made it look dazzling. "You're cute," she said bluntly, and then she leaned forward and kissed him impulsively.

Later, they sifted through a poster shop, box after box filled with prints of many sizes temporarily mounted on cheap cardboard behind plastic lining. She sought photographs - the view of the clouds from Ansel Adams and the human form as per Annie Leibovitz. He wandered through the art section, passing Picasso and cycling past Cezanne. He finally stopped and, at random, began flipping through the prints. Beautiful images stared back at him, the bright colors of The School of Athens juxtaposed against the gray tones of El Greco. He flipped past great masters, past lines and shadows and two hands touching. Then, he saw it.

It was beautiful, and he fell in love within moments. A woman, pensive, sat quietly at a desk, the only light an oil lamp on her desk. The small halo of light extended only so far, and made the shadows at the edges of the canvas deepen to an incredible darkness. It was haunting, and he knew that he would get this, regardless of the price. Carefully, he pulled out a medium-sized print, the high-gloss paper oddly rough in his hands. Turning it over, he made out the label in the bottom right-hand corner.

"Mary Magdalene, by Caravaggio," he read aloud, the words a soft sound in his throat.

"Oh," came a sigh, and he lowered the print to see Emma's admiring expression. "I like it, Rob." In her hand was a fair-sized roll of her choices.

"Me too," he replied, and took it to the counter. It was all he needed.

&&&

All of the following statements are true:

Mary Magdalene was a penitent.

Mary Magdalene was a whore.

Mary Magdalene was the wife of Jesus.

All of the above statements are false.

Truth is relative.

All generalizations are _______.

&&&

He was seventeen when his mother

He was twenty when he saw his first Caravaggio in person. The National Gallery of Victoria was having one of its blockbusters, a large exhibition of noteworthy artists or periods. The large gallery was quiet yet filled with people, all of them moving quietly from canvas to canvas, silently reading the paragraphs of information alongside each work.

He shuffled from room to room, stopping at a van Gogh to admire. He moved aside to let another woman read the placard and saw gobs of paint dried onto the canvas, and thicknesses he had never noticed before. There was something different about seeing a piece of art in real life, he thought, and squinted.

("Perspective is everything, son.")

He gazed at the canvas from angles he had never considered before and, suddenly, felt like he understood. Art was an experience, van Gogh told him, once that can't be limited to paint on canvas. Thick, thick oils hundreds of years old and still making a statement.

Caravaggio loomed before him, then, a long expanse of neutral walls and print on cards. He breathed and took a step inside.

The first was The Calling of Saint Matthew, and suddenly he was ten again, standing in the high school building and made to feel small by a diminutive woman. Somehow, even more strongly, the painting spoke to him, and the ray of light that fell on Matthew's shoulders felt oddly comforting to his spirit.

He wandered from canvas to canvas, gazing at the image of Saint John for a long time. The vivid colors, the absolute darkness - quietly, something inside of him, something long-since dormant, began to reawaken. His eyes turned away from three men playing cards and alighted upon it.

A broken, battered man wearing thorns, two men hammering away at the shameful crown, and a third, darker figure watching the proceedings. There was something infinitely sad about the image, something powerful and pitiful in the same breath. The card beside it labeled it "The Crowning with Thorns" from Vienna, the history discussed the Gospels. For a long, long moment he stared, transfixed by Christ's expression, the blood running down his face, the shadowed expression in his eyes. At twenty, he could but only imagine what Christ thought at that time.

Beside it was another canvas, this one different. More figures - three soldiers, two men, and them - scattered across the canvas with great deliberation. Judas made to kiss Jesus, and the Son's face was filled with a sorrow it seemed no man could understand. The clamor around them seemed muted somehow, the focus on the two men. His eyes couldn't waver from the absolute sadness on Christ's face, and in that moment he understood. Then - there and forever - Christ lost. Lost his best friend, lost his mother and father, lost any hope of living life. Suddenly, his chest felt tight.

Hastily, he wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, hoping no one saw him, trying to sniffle softly. A white square entered his vision, and he followed the arm up to a wrinkled old woman looking dignified in an outfit the Queen would have been proud of. "Here, dear," she said, her accent unmistakably German. "I don't need it anyway."

"Thank you," he replied quietly, and gently dabbed at his eyes and nose. Refolding it, he offered it back to her.

She refused with a wave of her hand and turned to the painting instead. "It's heartbreaking, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Can I ask what moved you?"

"It made me--" think of Mother's death "...Remember something painful."

The old woman nodded, an almost regal air about her. "Art can do that, sometimes." She looked away for a moment. "There are days I cannot look at Nighthawks without feeling like I'm going to break." She fixed her gaze squarely on him. "I've long since learned that you can't run away forever. Eventually, it catches up to you. Maybe, even, in a painting." She smiled graciously. "It was nice to meet you. Keep that - it might come in handy." She walked away, turning the corner and disappearing from view.

He turned the kerchief over, and a monogram greeted him: RC.

&&&

"Robert, I heard you got one of the highest scores on the GAMSAT. Good." He paused.

"Continue to do well."

Silence.

Silence. (A breath.) Silence.

Click.

&&&

He kept returning to Matthew.

He was tired of the question. Not just any question - The Question, with capital letters and everything.

"So, why are you going to be a doctor?" Rikki had fiery red hair, a heart-shaped face, and freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. She drank lemonade like it was going out of style and went jogging at the crack of dawn every morning.

He shrugged and kept walking.

"No, really," she continued, jogging a couple of steps to keep up with him. "Why?"

"I don't know." He appeared thoughtful. "It felt right," he added simply, and steered them toward the park. They wandered through shady paths between colonnades of trees and he pushed her on the swings they found on the far end. The last lap through, they held hands.

"What's that?" she asked suddenly, pointing at a small crowd gathered in the distance.

He looked in the direction she pointed. "Let's find out."

The small group gathered around a lone artist. Surrounded by chalk, he diligently applied the finishing touches on his masterpiece. It was dizzying, an anamorphic pavement mural that, from the right angle, looked three dimensional. From where they stood, the angel seemed to push out into the foreground more, and the book on the table seemed almost within reach. The dark colors of the blacktop melted into the heavy, black chalk the artist had used, and it made the two figure stand out even further.

He had to know. "I've seen this painting before," he told Rikki, who oohed and aahed appropriately. (He had forgotten that art had no sway over her.) They waited for some time, applauding as the artist wiped his hands clean of chalk and greeted the small crowd jovially. He accepted the complements with grace and laughed off the offers for commissions, handing out business cards subtly in handshakes.

Finally, it was his turn. "I swear I saw this painting before."

The artist - a young man not too much older than Robert - grinned. "Good eye," he complemented, clapping Chase on the upper arm. "It's 'The Inspiration of Saint Matthew' by Caravaggio. Didn't know a lot of people knew about this one."

He blinked a few times. "I went to the Caravaggio show six months ago. It's fantastic, really."

"Thanks, mate." They shook hands and the artist turned to the next person.

He stood at the appropriate point and gazed at the artwork for several minutes. Rikki came up and kissed him, tugging his hand and pulling him away.

A few days later, he sat through class, bored, and allowed his mind to wander. It fixated on the drawing from the park, as it had the past few days. He tapped his pencil against his chin, thinking on the image, when it struck him.

And he knew the answer to The Question.

&&&

His mother had needed him.

Some mothers need their sons with them to protect them. Others push the bounds of what mothers and sons are to each other too far for comfort, relying wholeheartedly on their children. Helen needed her son to be there to fight her demons, and to pick her up when she fell to them time and again.

"The last glass, Robbie, I promise," she would say, words slurring together on a tongue made thick and sluggish by rum.

He began to gauge the days by his mother's actions. Hair straightener and makeup kit in disarray meant a good day - an exceptionally good day. Brush in the sink and bathrobe on the floor meant a bad day. Liqueur in the coffee cup signaled a truly terrible day.

"What's that you've got there, Robbie?"

He tried not to flinch at the smell of alcohol on her breath. "Nothing, mum. Just something for my art credit for school."

"Let me see," she motioned, setting her drink down on the coffee table. He slid the book to her lap and watched her trace the figure in the book. "David?"

"By Michelangelo," he added, nodding.

She flipped through the book wistfully. "I used to paint, you know."

"Did you." He clasped his hands together, trying not to shake.

"Yeah. Oh, I wish I hadn't stopped. You'd have liked them, Robbie. Ah, they were brilliant."

"I'm sure they were, mum," he said softly, surprising even himself with the sincerity in his voice.

"Did anyone call today, dear?" She handed the book back to him and picked up her glass. The flat base rested against her leg, hands wrapped around it.

"No." He stood and stretched. "I'm going to do my homework now."

"Okay. Do your best."

That had been a better day. Other times, she would scream at him, and on more than one occasion she had thrown things at him, slapped him, and once even raked her fingernails against his cheek. The marks had been explained away as a cat, but sometimes he swore the old matron was giving him a once-over.

The screaming was the worst, he had decided, trying to distact himself from the throbbing in his cheek. Obscenities and horrible accusations would fly out of her mouth, but the worst - the absolute worst - was when she mentioned his father.

"You're a disgrace!" She shrilled, voice breaking from strain. "Your father would be so proud of you now. You're the spitting image of him - cold, hard-hearted, and cruel." Her shouting had turned tearful, and he stood in stunned silence, accepting her words into the lowest layers of his skin. "You never loved me, did you Robbie? Who could, who would." She had then burst into tears and slammed the door to her room.

He opened the door gently so as not to startle her. The living room was clean, he was surprised to note. The family room, too. The kitchen, usually a mess, looked as if it had been scrubbed down to a sparkle. The house was eerilie silent, and the cleanliness of it unnerved him.

"Mum?" He set his bag down by the back door and toed off his shoes. The television wasn't even on, he noted, and grew worried.

A note on the fridge provided his first clue. "Gone to store, be back soon, Mum," he read aloud, incredulous.

His mother had shuffled in later, looking strangely put together. It was surreal, and Robbie had been certain that it was a dream.

"Oh, hon, here." She handed him a flat, brown bag. "I found this and thought you might like it."

Curious, he had unfolded the brown paper and pulled out a postcard, the lines in a faint gray and the stamp box in a far corner. He flipped it over and saw a woman holding a child with two men begging at her feet.

"You thought I might like a picture of a beggar woman?"

His mother had sighed in exasperation. "No, look." She pointed at a faint line above the mother's head - a halo. "She's the Virgin Mary."

He turned the card over. The corner read, in nearly invisible font, "Madonna di Lorento, by Caravaggio."

The card was suddenly heavy in his hands. "Thank you," he said simply and hugged her.

It seemed to be a dream.

And it had been; a week later her guilt wore off with the removal of his bandage, and suddenly the world was as it had always been, except now it hurt so much more.

&&&

Helen Kirkpatrick Chase

Loving mother and friend.

She will forever remain in our hearts and minds.

19-- to 19--

Rowan Chase had not even shown.

Robert Chase had not shed a tear.

&&&

"So, do you have any questions for me?"

Chase peered carefully at this James Wilson person, unsure of what to make of the man with the open face and a heart on his sleeve. "Not really, no. I think we're covered most of it in the interview. Is there anything else?"

"No, you're free to go. Make sure you sign out at the desk." They stood, shook hands, and Chase walked out of the office.

He waited until he was safely in the elevator with only one companion before sighing.

"Rough day?" The man was unshaven, with a cane in one hand.

"Not really." He paused, watching the numbers shift from four to three. "I just had an interview."

"Ah. Good luck."

"Thanks."

The bell dinged and they both moved to step out of the elevator at the same time. Chase gestured for the scruffy-looking man to go ahead, who nodded curtly in thanks. He turned into the hallway that would lead him to the door, walking slowly. Along the walls were matted photographs of statues, most of them not very famous. He stopped to stare at one particularly interesting, abstract one.

"You like art?" It was the man with the cane again, studying him carefully. Chase resisted shivering; the blue gaze was unnerving.

"Some. I prefer paintings, though."

"Still, you must have a favorite statue. C'mon. I like Rodin, myself. Thinking and all that."

Chase turned an incredulous stare to the man. He leaned casually on his cane, a smirk spreading across his features even as Chase's incredulity turned to something like anger.

He straightened his shoulders. "Michelangelo."

"David?" He looked confused before a light dawned. "Oh! You bat for the other team. Well why didn't you say--"

"No," he cut in firmly, silencing the other man with a word. "Pietà." It was the other man's turn to look stunned. Chase smiled, perhaps more than a little sarcastically, and turned on a heel.

He was four steps away from the exit when a voice stilled him. "Robert Chase," it said firmly, the tone direct and arresting.

He turned back around to see the unkempt man looking at him with something like malevolent glee in his eyes. "You start tomorrow. Nine-thirty sharp. Don't be late."

"What?"

"Get a clue, art-boy." His smirk returned with a vengeance. "I'm Gregory House." He tapped the cane once and walked off.

(Chase would later swear the man had cackled.)

&&&

Reasons why House hired him:

1. He is a capable doctor.


2. He is very good at his job, as the recommendations will attest.


3. He has impeccable bedside manner.


4. He is very good at following orders. (And making strong coffee.)


5. He happened to pick House's favorite statue.


6. His father is Rowan Chase.

Reasons why House kept him on:

1. He is a good great doctor.


2. The girl patients think he's cute.


3. His father is Rowan Chase.


4. Wilson keeps stepping in for him.


5. House sees a little a lot of himself in Chase.

Chase prefers to believe it's the last one.

&&&

He started awake, disoriented and confused. The lighting was all wrong, and he didn't remember the room looking like that before. A rustle of cloth and the press of a warm body beside him brought him back to the present, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to calm down. Whatever the nightmare had been, it had left him panicky and disoriented, but both sensations soon passed.

Cameron - Allison, he thought - breathed deeply and sighed. Carefully, he slipped out of the covers and dressed, freezing in place every time she moved. He found his jacket and his shirt by the front door, and when he had buttoned and zipped himself together, he turned the knob. For a moment, he considered staying, considered the ramifications of dealing with this in the cold light of day.

He pulled the door open.

Outside, the air was cold, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. Striding quickly, he made it to his place in near-record time, stumbling through the door because of shaking hands. He pulled off the jacket, carelessly throwing it onto a chair in the entryway. It landed with a sound like a sigh, one he himself echoed.

Running a hand through his hair, he wandered into the kitchen and finally checked the time. "Four in the bloody morning," he muttered, grabbing a kettle and filling it with water. Old habits die hard, and making tea was something he had picked up in university. He left the water to boil on low heat (No hurry) and sat at his small kitchen table.

He had been reading there when she had text messaged him the night before earlier. It was a humanities textbook, a survey of work from the Mesopotamian statues to Christo. Art, literature, philosophy, architecture, and music were laid out before him. Six hundred pages on glossy paper before him summarized the whole of humanity's artistic endeavors. It was oddly powerful, really, and that was why he had bought the book. (His own interest in art and artistry notwithstanding, of course.)

He scanned the page and continued to read. "When not handled by a master, the use of heavy shadows surrounding brightly lit figures in the foreground tends to become artificial and overtheatrical, but in Caravaggio's work it always serves a true dramatic purpose." On the opposite page was a large image of that painting from so many years ago, The Calling of Saint Matthew. He stood and moved to his bookshelf, suddenly curious if what the book said was true. Carefully, he pulled out a Caravaggio collection and laid it beside the textbook. Quickly, he flipped pages until he came to The Calling, larger and more detailed here. He studied it for a long moment before turning the page.

Here, a woman and her maid worked to sever the head of a man covered in bed linens. He was fascinated, the violence and the sense of movement palpable. More stirring, though, was the way both women faded into the shadow, leaving the man in full view. It was dramatic, it was bold, it was oddly--

The kettle whistled, loud and piercing.

&&&

True or false: Chase has nothing more to learn from House.

Tick-tock.

&&&

He touched the bruise House's punch had left gingerly, wincing as the swelling twinged sharply for his trouble. He wasn't used to being punched, that was certain. It was almost worth it to see House's expression, although he was certain his own shock and anger had been readable. The crowd in the hallway helped, too.

He had meant what he said - he was done waiting for House's approval. Erythropoietic protoporphyria was possibly his greatest moment of the fellowship, and House was too proud or too sure that Chase was idiot to believe him or even to listen. Either way, Chase knew that he was glad the fellowship ended in a year. He wasn't sure how much longer he could handle this.

And the Tritter nonsense. Honestly, working with House was proving to be a bigger hassle than it was worth.

He sighed and turned on the water, as cold as it would go, and splashed his face. The biting cold felt good against his skin, and woke him up with a start. He patted his face dry and made his way back to their office to get his things and leave. A hot shower and a long nap - not sleep, rarely a true sleep - sounded irresistible, and he shuffled back, twisting his hands in the towel.

Through the glass, he saw House sitting at his desk, pensive. One hand propped up his chin, the other tapped a pencil between fingers. All the lights were off save for the desk lamp, casting the room in odd shadows. It was oddly beautiful, and Chase stopped to stare. In the sole light, he could see the lines in House's face, the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes and in his forehead. It was strange; for a man who seemed at once so indomitable and so humbled, he had never seemed old save for in this moment.

He stared for a few seconds more before shaking himself out of it. Quickly and quietly, he slipped into the conference room, grabbed his bag, and left. House never even moved a muscle.

Later, when he got home, he noticed that the Caravaggio book was still open on the dining table. He flipped through it quickly before stopping at Saint Jerome.

"I need a shower," he said aloud. "And a vacation." He threw the bag onto the couch and made his way into the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

&&&

Descriptions of the fellowship that he did not use for his resume:

1. A constant struggle between us, the fellows, and Gregory House. Oh yes, and we often were brought into his personal vendettas against whomever felt like taking their revenge out on House. A constant subjugation to "differential diagnostic" sessions - sometimes with the patient's life in the balance - and never-ending days rounded out the program. Not to mention the casual firing-slash-dismissal.



2. Three years of working under esteemed diagnostician Gregory House, during which we: diagnosed patients using a Socratic, try-and-see method of diagnosis in which, almost with unerring constancy, we would be trumped by our "genius" (his word, not ours) department head. Featuring peanut gallery commentary by James Wilson, noted oncologist, and Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.



3. Worked with renowned diagnostician, Gregory House, alongside an immunologist and a neurosurgeon. (The former I ended up sleeping with while she was high on the crystal meth she had gotten from a patient. I later entered into a casual relationship with her. The latter and I had a sometimes friend, sometimes foe type of relationship that often led to struggles between us. All this while Dr. House cheerily watched from the sidelines, exacerbated the problem, or baited us. Or mocked us mercilessly. Which was usually the case.)



4. Solved intensely difficult medical problems whilst simultaneously dealing with myriad personal problems, all of which were exacerbated by a nosy, pushy, insensitive boss and meddling coworkers. Learned a great deal but may have authority issues, difficulty dealing with large-scale changes in life, and may be prone to diagnosing an infarction, especially in thigh muscles. (May also show an unwavering loyalty.)
   

The one he does go with:

Worked closely with Gregory House diagnosing rare and difficult to treat diseases. Honed diagnostic skills as well as other skills essential to patient treatment.

He has to admit that it doesn't really give the full impression.

&&&

"I like this one."

She looked at him, a little confused. "Really?"

"Well, yeah." He shrugged and gestured at the painting. "Jesus is almost completely silhouetted against the doorway. The beam of light falls almost directly on Matthew. He is being called, and the light highlights that."

"But why is Matthew shrinking back? Wouldn't he be glad to join Christ?"

He smiled and pointed at the pile of coins in front of Matthew. "Maybe he just didn't notice. Or maybe he was afraid."

"Mmm. I could buy that."

"Good."

"What's it called again?"

"The Calling of Saint Matthew," he said without hesitation, eyes never leaving the canvas.

"Saint Matthew? There's another painting here..."

"The Inspiration of Saint Matthew?"

"No, hang on..." She squinted at the map, scanning for the one she sought. "It's over here," she said, biting a lip. They walked through a doorway, past a false wall, and came to stand in front of another wall-sized canvas, a chaotic scene taking place. The right-hand portion was filled with a great, gray cloud, and in the center was the executioner extending his hand to a prone figure on the ground. It was a melee of people.

"It's joy," he said quietly, unable to tear his eyes from the image. He had seen it in textbooks and art books before, but never like this. Never majestically. He remembered thinking, so many years ago, that art was better experienced in full, and he had never agreed more than in this moment.

"Are you serious? What about all those scared expressions?"

He shook his head. "No, no, it's the joy of it. See, the angel is extending the palm leaf--"

"Oh, is that what that is?"

"--of martyrdom, and Saint Matthew is reaching for it." He pointed at the intersection of the three hands, circling his hand around them for emphasis. "The eye is drawn toward the executioner because he's in the center and brightly lit, but then it follows the line of his figure to Matthew's hand, and then we see the angel. Everything else is secondary."

She cast a sidelong glance at him. "I didn't know you were that into art."

"I'm not," he retorted. He tore his eyes away from the canvas at last to look at her. "I just...I like Caravaggio."

"You sure there?" She was smirking now.

"Definitely." He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers.

She looked at their entwined hands for a moment. "Come on, art-boy. Let's grab lunch."

He shot her a pointed look. "'Art-boy'? At least call me Rob, Allison."

"Quiet, art-boy."

He groaned dramatically as she rolled her eyes. Then, he bumped her shoulder. She moved to bump him back, but he stopped and kissed her swiftly.

"What was that for?" She smiled softly once they had pulled apart.

He shrugged. "Just...because."

Her smile widened.

He tugged on their joined hands. "Lunch?"

"Okay, but you're paying."

"Fine, but no calling me 'art-boy.'"

"Yeah, yeah...art-boy."

He grinned as they emerged into the sunlight.