PATIENT - Chapter 2
Title: Patient
Author: zeppomarx
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, plus the characters created for Priority’s Exigencies and zeppomarx’s A Gentle Knock at the Door.
Summary: House’s minions find a new patient, one who is reluctant to allow House to treat him. Begins three months after the opening scene of A Gentle Knock at the Door. Part of the Contract universe, which includes DIY Sheep’s intense and angsty The Contract, and Priority’s sequel Exigencies.
Thanks: To priority and houserocket7 for encouraging me to writing this side story to A Gentle Knock on the Door, and for their faithful diligence in copy editing my sloppy prose.
Disclaimers: You know the drill. Don’t own `em, never did, never will. Wish I did.
Warnings, etc.: Generally safe, but references to torture, rape and major character death that has happened in the past. Some chapters are pretty angsty.
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Chapter 2
Dry Spell
Six Months Later-Winter
A gentle knock at the door roused House from the journal sitting open in front of him.
“Come.”
Lisa Cuddy slid through the door, gliding softly into the office.
“Anything interesting?”
House’s eyes slid upward for just a fraction of a moment as his head wavered left and right.
“Nope. Not a thing. Dry spell.”
“You okay with that?”
No, not okay with that. Give me something to do. Anything. Anything to distract me from thinking about the pain. Fill up every second. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to think. Give me something. Anything.
“Sure.”
Liar. Oh, well. What’s another lie?
Cuddy, determined not to show House the pity he so detested, reached out her hand.
“Come on. We’re going to lunch.”
He pulled back sharply, ducking his head and turning his eyes downward.
Damn, she thought. When am I going to learn? No sudden movements. No… touching. They tell me he’s much better around women than men-I guess no women assaulted him-but if this is how he is with women… how bad is he around men?
“It’s only 11 in the morning.”
“So what? We’ll go to breakfast. Or brunch. I’m hungry and you’re bored. Let’s get out of here for a while.”
The corners of House’s mouth turned ever so slightly upward in what now passed for a smile, and he heaved himself out of the chair and eased himself into the wheelchair.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Beats me? What are you in the mood for?”
Beats me? Had he really said that? House winced. Even common phrases weren’t safe, thrusting undesired images into his mind. He gritted his teeth, trying to force away the flashback that was charging toward him, threatening to overtake him. No, he thought, closing his eyes. Not now. No.
There was no way Cuddy could miss his reaction. In the old days, he’d have made some sort of sexual, offensive joke about “beats me.” But now… now the look on his face gripped her. She forced herself to look away, refusing to draw attention to the flitting emotions on his face.
After a moment, she said, “House?” as softly as she could. “Are you…?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” he said fiercely, opening his eyes and daring her to join him in keeping the conversation casual. “Not hungry. You’re the one with a craving.”
Cuddy got the message. Change the subject. Anything to keep his mind busy. Anything to keep it off of his pain and his past.
“Okay. I’m craving Eggs Benedict. Let’s go.”
Reluctantly, House gave a curt nod and wheeled himself out of the office, following Cuddy to the elevator. Nice view, he thought. Then, bitterly: Not that it matters.
* * * *
Clinic duty. With no intriguing patient to practice her nascent diagnostic skills on, Devi welcomed clinic hours. Stuffy noses, rashes, broken bones, coughs, eye infections, allergic reactions all filled the minutes until something more challenging came along.
Exam Room 2.
“My fingers tingle.”
The young woman sat looking perplexed and concerned. Dressed in black jeans, a black camisole and black jacket, a few tattoos peeking out from above her breasts, down her arms and up her neck, she was pierced and adorned with heavy silver jewelry dangling from her ears, off her arms and fingers and through her nose and visible on her tongue.
Devi suppressed a smile.
“One hand or both?”
“Just the left.”
“And, umm, how long has this been going on?” Devi asked, reaching out for the woman’s left arm.
“Oh, I guess it’s been, I don’t know, about three weeks.”
She looked worried.
“Do you think it could be anything serious?”
“Probably not. Tell me: Do your fingers tingle more at certain times of day?”
The slim woman tossed her long hair out of her face, gazing at the stethoscope around Devi’s neck as she thought.
“Funny you should mention that. Yes. It seems to get worse as the day goes on.”
“Is this new?” Devi asked, pointing at the heavy, skull-encrusted, Goth watch adorning the woman’s left wrist.
Inspiration dawned.
“Oh, God!” she replied, rolling her eyes.
Devi nodded.
“`Fraid so. It’s too tight and too heavy-it’s cutting off circulation.”
A pink blush colored the woman’s neck, rising quickly up past a tattoo of some indiscriminate violence to her cheekbones.
“Go back to your old watch and you should be fine.”
Exam Room 4.
“He’s got a fever.”
The young mother, clearly a first-timer, looked panicky.
Devi looked closely at the little boy sitting in his mother’s lap.
“How high?”
“It’s 101,” she replied, “but he’s never had a fever before.”
After settling on a quick diagnosis of too many clothes in a warm building, Devi sent the mother on her way.
Just as she was about to enter Exam Room 3, nurse Brenda Previn touched her arm.
“Dr. Rajghatta? There’s a man in Five who wants to see you-said he’d been in before.”
Switching folders, Devi headed to Exam Room 5 to find herself with an odd sense of déjà vu. It was the tall man from five-or was it six?-months earlier, the one with diarrhea, the one she’d completely forgotten a few hours after she’d met him. He looked thinner than before.
“I-uh-don’t know if you remember me,” he stuttered.
“Why, yes,” she said, smiling now that his face jogged her memory. “I do. I’d been hoping you got treatment somewhere.”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“I did,” he mumbled, sounding annoyed. “But it didn’t help… it’s worse.”
* * * *
Devi stared at the whiteboard. House would be pleased. It might be something rare. The symptoms were ambiguous enough, but there seemed to be something seriously wrong.
It took her most of the morning to convince the patient to allow her to admit him. The man resisted the whole way, clearly wanting nothing to do with her department or in particular, her boss. He got squirmy every time she mentioned House. Damn the press anyway.
Diarrhea.
Abdominal pain.
Weight loss.
Fever.
Joint pain.
She thought that if she stared at the words long enough, perhaps a pattern would emerge.
“Looks pretty vague to me.”
Devi looked up to see Robert Chase come through the door carrying a candy bar and a cup of hot chocolate.
“I thought so, too,” said Devi, “but it’s been going on for months and it’s getting worse.”
“Interesting. What did House say?”
Devi shook her head.
“He hasn’t seen it yet. Finally got the guy admitted and House is out somewhere with Cuddy.”
Chase’s head tilted slightly and his eyes narrowed. She should have known he was going to pick up on that-Chase was sharp, even if he did cover it up with his Australian surfer-dude act.
“What do you mean finally?”
Devi sighed. “Remember the clinic guy-it was about six months ago-who freaked out when I mentioned House’s name?”
Chase shrugged. “No, not really.”
“Doesn’t matter. But this is the same guy. He’s got a few new symptoms, and I just admitted him.”
“Still freaked out?”
“Oh, yes. You should have seen his reaction every time I mentioned House’s name.”
Chase felt his stomach clench. It was clear that House would never get past what had been done to him, but Chase hadn’t really come to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t either.
No amount of talking to a shrink changed the fact that still-daily, weekly, sometimes hourly-his imagination wandered to images of Cameron pleading for her life as House struggled in vain to save her, forced to watch as his cane was used to beat her to death. Or of House being tortured repeatedly, day after day-stuck in a cold, dank cell knowing he would face this kind of torment for the rest of his life-just so the lives of those he cared for (cared for-House!) would be spared.
He couldn’t help it. That knot in the pit of him ground and churned every time House came in, wheeling in his chair or struggling to use a walker. On some level, he had gotten used to the new House-this fragile, fractured, frail creature who used to terrify him-but on a primordial level, his soul consistently twisted itself around the truth of the situation and slapped him in the face.
As if on cue, Chase bit back a gasp as House slowly and diffidently entered the room, shielding himself from sudden movements or loud voices.
“What have we got?” came the raspy voice. For the first time in months, Chase found himself riveted to that scar across House’s throat, wondering how it came to be, and how anyone could inflict that kind of injury. The scar that had so damaged the man’s vocal chords, he could barely speak. It started just under his chin and wiggled across his throat before shooting down toward his shoulder. Someone had taunted House as that wound was inflicted, teasing it across his throat, threatening to go deeper and wider. Perhaps it would have been a merciful relief for everyone if the tormenter had just dug into the jugular and ended things right then.
It was the voice that really got to Chase, almost more than the visual evidence. House’s voice now bore almost no relation to its former glory. Once upon a time, it was vibrant and fluid and expressive. Now it was barely a whisper, with almost no inflection, the ability to produce any sound at all an extreme effort.
Chase struggled to find his own voice, his eyes darting away looking-where?-anywhere but at his boss’s throat.
“Uh… it’s Raja’s case. She should tell you,” he managed to get out, turning quickly away to fix himself a cup of coffee… coffee he suddenly realized he didn’t need because he already had hot chocolate sitting on the conference table.
“Making mocha?” came the soft voice behind him.
Chase felt his heart pound. Fragile he might be, but House’s powers of observation hadn’t diminished. It was piercing-almost as if he knew what was going on in Chase’s head. Oh, well. Might as well pretend. No use making a public issue out of his own inability to cope with the situation.
“Yup,” he replied, nodding, refusing to look over his shoulder.
“So, Raja, about this patient...?” came the soft voice.
Relieved, Chase slowly let out his breath.
* * * *
The patient stared at the ceiling, his teeth gritted and his lips pursed. An annoyed breath forced its way out through his teeth.
He shouldn’t have let that girl admit him. He shouldn’t be here. Not here. Surely one of those other clinics could have been able to figure it out. But no, they couldn’t. They kept telling him it was a simple bacterial infection. Antibiotics had helped briefly, but then he kept losing weight, spending half his life on the toilet.
As he stared upward, a face drifted into view, the one from his imagination. House’s face. Damn if he’d let that man anywhere near him. He knew-knew-what would happen if he did. And yet, what choice did he have? Apparently the bastard really was that good, and no one else would be able to figure this out. Fuck. Irony sucked.
Chapter 2B...