PATIENT - Chapter 4: What Matters
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 4
What Matters
Now that House had seen, and reacted to, the patient’s name, Devi turned her attention to the other mystery. Why was Michael Tritter, whoever he was, so sure that House was going to “get even” with him, treat him unfairly? From everything she’d learned about House over the past year, Devi was positive that if House could find the answer, who Tritter might be and whatever relationship he might have had with House in the past wouldn’t figure into the equation. The answer was all that mattered.
But if that was the case, why were Chase and Foreman so worried?
* * * *
In his hospital room, Michael Tritter had an unusual moment of peace. Every few minutes, the room was invaded… by nurses taking his blood pressure and temperature, by nurse’s aides lifting the mattress and tucking in the sheets, by fellow police officers coming to visit, by that naïve doctor. And every time someone walked in, he was sure it was going to be Gregory House, come to gloat.
The man was hazardous to patients, and now he was one of those patients. How could House, soaked to the eyeballs with drugs, arrogance and hubris, possibly come up with a solution to whatever it was that was making him so sick? There was no way he could trust that man he’d so desperately pursued, the man he’d been so eager to see behind bars.
And yet, House had been behind bars, albeit for a crime he hadn’t committed.
When the news broke, Tritter had been delighted-elated even-watching the story unfold, so sure he had been proven right. If they’d just listened to him all those years ago, if that judge hadn’t been swayed by Lisa Cuddy’s obvious lie on the witness stand, none of this would have happened. That peril to society would have been put away, lost his license and Allison Cameron would still be alive. Cameron’s naïvité in the face of House’s destructive drug use-so similar to the naïveté of this Dr. Raja-whatever-had been pathetic. And it had cost her life. They all should have listened to him.
So he’d watched and he rejoiced.
A few years behind bars would teach that bastard a lesson. After a year or so in the penitentiary, he wouldn’t be so smug. Some other prisoner or guard would smack that smugness off his face, tear that quick tongue from his throat, do what Tritter himself had been unable to do. And he would deserve it. Once an addict, always an addict. A danger to society.
Unfortunately, Tritter thought, that also made House dangerous to him now. His mind drifted. He tried reading the newspaper the nurse’s aide had dropped at the foot of his bed. But all he could see was House’s self-satisfied grin as Tritter’s case had been dismissed.
Fuck. He had to figure a way out of this. There was no way House was going to give him a fair break-he had too much to gain by tormenting him, making him believe he had some kind of serious illness. Payback. He had to get out of here. But where else could he go? Everywhere he went, they told him House was the best, his only hope. They had to be wrong. He couldn’t be dependent on that son-of-a-bitch. Shit. What a mess.
* * * *
“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Wilson, his voice rising slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me that Tritter was your new patient?”
House looked up serenely over the brim of his reading glasses. When he saw the agitation on Wilson’s face, he seemed puzzled.
“Didn’t think it mattered,” he said, and returned to his journal.
“Didn’t think it mattered?! The guy who almost destroyed your career is here, in this hospital, as your patient, and you didn’t think it mattered?”
With a sigh, House put the journal down. He’d just had the same conversation with Foreman. The topic was growing old.
“No, Wilson, I didn’t think it mattered. It’s old news-really old news-and I frankly don’t care. Whatever he did and whoever he is holds no interest for me.”
Wilson dropped into the chair across from House’s desk, scrutinizing his friend’s fractured face for signs of deception.
“Can you honestly sit there and tell me that having Michael Tritter as your patient holds no interest for you?”
House looked him squarely in the eye.
“Yes, Wilson, That’s exactly what I can tell you. Maybe for you, what happened might be fresh in your memory, but a lot has happened to me in the meantime-in case you haven’t noticed…”
Wilson winced, suddenly embarrassed. He broke eye contact with House.
“Tritter is insignificant in the grand scheme of my life. It all happened to some other person in some other life. I simply don’t care about it. He’s my patient, and he’s brought me a case, which will keep my mind off of…”
Suddenly, House stopped talking and looked away, his eyes unfocusing. Wilson knew that look, the one that meant House was slipping dangerously close to memories that were best forgotten. He was on the verge of a flashback. Wilson touched his friend’s hand, trying to snap him back to the present. For once, it worked.
“…uhhhh… off of… things that hold a great deal more significance to me now.”
House’s eyes focused again as he pulled himself together.
Wilson sighed.
“It’s a matter of degrees, Wilson. At one time, Tritter might have mattered. Now he doesn’t. He’s a gnat. No. Actually, he’s just a puzzle to be solved. It’s that simple.”
For the next five minutes, Wilson attempted to resuscitate the conversation, but all he succeeded in doing was making House increasingly agitated and angry.
* * * *
By the time House got home, he was in a foul mood, proceeding to inflict his annoyance on Linda McAllister, who dished it right back to him, and on Rainie, who stared him down and told him to behave himself.
He was exhausted and he had a headache, brought on by the fact that no one would leave him alone about Tritter. By the end of the day-meaning by three o’clock, when Wilson dragged him home-both Chase and Cuddy had cross-examined his motives in treating Tritter. The only one who’d had the good sense to leave the subject alone was Devi, although he could see the questions flitting across her face.
Stretched out on the sofa, he grabbed the remote and began looking for something-anything -to distract his attention. Animal Planet-no. TV Land-no. Reruns of Law & Order-God, no! For a few minutes, he spun through the channels one after another, going through the gamut of possibilities twice, three times, then over and over, faster and faster, hoping for something to hold his interest. Nothing. With a grunt, he threw the remote to the floor.
Finally, he slid back into the wheelchair and rolled himself to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
Rainie could hear the television in his room, volume high, spinning through the same channels House had already scanned in the living room.
“What the hell was that all about?” she asked Linda, who had watched from across the room.
“No idea,” said Linda, who hadn’t seen House display this kind of agitation in the couple of years she’d been taking care of him. “Ask Wilson.”
After a few minutes of thinking it through, Rainie wheeled herself to the front door, pulling it open and sweeping across the landing to the other half of the duplex, where she reached up and rang the bell.
Following the sound of running feet, the door opened.
“R-Rainie? What is it?”
Looking down at her from the front door, Wilson, as always, looked concerned. The man had an expression of perpetual anxiety painted on his features.
“Let me in and I’ll tell you. I’m freezing out here,” she said, beginning to shiver.
“Oh, uh, of course,” stuttered Wilson, pulling the door wide enough for her chair to roll through.
Surprisingly, this was the first time Rainie had been in Wilson’s apartment-she seldom left House’s side of the duplex, sticking to the familiar surroundings of the place she now shared with House.
Looking around, she noticed both the similarities and the differences. Of course, the layout was reversed, and Wilson’s place had not undergone the expensive renovations she and House had spent months implementing next door. But it was a homey and comfortable place, with some of the identical furniture in the living room-Wilson had chosen the furnishings for both places, back when House had originally been released from the hospital and was in no condition to make decisions about chairs and coffee tables.
“Come… come in,” said Wilson, still startled at seeing her. She wheeled herself into the living room, and awkwardly pulled herself out of the wheelchair and settled herself on the sofa. Where their apartment had rare artwork, Wilson’s place had a few classic Hitchcock and Orson Welles movie posters simply framed.
“Thanks,” she said, panting slightly from the exertion.
Wilson settled himself onto the other end of the sofa, scrutinizing Rainie’s face for clues. Why had she ventured out of her comfort zone and into his?
“What’s going on?”
Rainie thought a moment before answering, toying with the idea of pretending this was just a social call. But she just didn’t have enough energy for that kind of game.
“I want to know what insect crawled up House’s butt,” she said bluntly. “He’s been an unmitigated pain in the ass since you brought him home.”
Wilson, on the other hand, had no problem feigning ignorance.
“He has?” he ventured.
Rainie wasn’t having any part of it.
“Don’t bullshit me, James. Something’s bugging him.”
“Okay, okay.” Wilson leaned back as he raised his palms in a show of compliance. If House’s behavior was bothering her enough to get her to leave her comfort zone and venture into his, Wilson doubted she would back down until she got the answer.
“So…?”
“He’s got a new patient, a guy named Michael Tritter.”
After a mere count of four, light dawned.
“Tritter… the cop?”
Wilson’s jaw dropped. Not virtually dropped-actually dropped. He continued to be surprised by Rainie’s quick mind. Despite everything she’d been through-torture, rape, false imprisonment, physical and emotional devastation-she still spun mental rings around him, her thinking process so much faster than his own.
“Yes… h-how do you know about him?”
She snorted.
“Come on, James. Did you forgot all those months I spent researching Greg before… before… before…
She paused, and he saw her slip away, off to the same place House had drifted toward earlier in the day.
“Rainie?” He reached out to touch her arm. No reaction. Her eyes were unfocused and she began to tremble. “Rainie… come back.”
With a start, she shook her head and gasped.
“You okay?”
“Oh, God!” she whispered.
Wilson held out his arms, and she fell trembling into them. He felt a few warm tears soak through the light fabric of his blue pinstriped shirt.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, soothing, in the same voice he had used as House had begun to recover from the ordeal that had left him a shadow.
“Dammit. Dammit all to hell!”
He felt the words more than heard them, muffled through his shirt and arm.
“I know, Rainie. I know. But it gets better. I promise. It gets better.”
Usually, House was the one to hold and comfort her. A year ago, Wilson would have bet large sums that House was incapable of reaching beyond his own anguish to try to reassure someone else. But something had happened to his battered friend in the months since Rainie Adler had been discovered, like House, traumatized beyond belief in a dark prison cell.
Somehow, House had used his own horrific experience to help this tiny woman in her attempt to reclaim her life. He’d gotten past his guilt that if it hadn’t been for him she wouldn’t have gone through a similar experience to his own, losing her husband and child in the process. He’d supported her, and encouraged her to return to her career as a New York Times journalist, going so far as to blackmail The Times into rehiring her, not as the investigative reporter she’d once been, but as an editor and feature writer. At least it was a start.
“Hey,” said Wilson softly, gently lifting Rainie’s head from its resting place on his arm. “I’ve got better Kleenex than this.”
He felt a hint of a laugh, then a slow intake of breath as Rainie tugged herself back into the present. She flicked the tears off her face, sniffed, and sat up, determination obvious on her face.
“Okay, I’m fine now. Let’s get back to Tritter.”
Oh, yes. Tritter. Wilson wasn’t sure where to start. “How much do you know?”
She told him. To his surprise, she knew more than he did about the background of the vindictive cop who had persecuted House, almost ending his medical career in a prison sentence and his life in a drug overdose. To Wilson’s relief, she didn’t seem to be aware of his own culpability in what had happened-how he had failed to provide his friend with the pain relief he desperately needed, which set off the chain of events, or how he had eventually offered his friend up as a sacrifice to end the miserable experience.
But she certainly knew who Tritter was, and how his obsession had affected House’s life.
“So now he’s House’s patient?” she asked. “And Greg is upset by it?”
“Actually, no,” said Wilson, his confusion apparent not only in his tone of voice but also by the expression on his face. “That’s the weird part. He insists that it doesn’t bother him to have Tritter as a patient, that he feels no sense of… I don’t know… vindictiveness or revenge. In the old days, I wouldn’t have believed him. But now…”
He drifted off.
“Then why is Greg so irritated?” she asked. “Why did he come home loaded for bear?”
Wilson shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe you’d better ask him.”
Great. Linda said to ask Wilson. Now Wilson says to ask Greg. Next thing you know, it would come back full circle, and Greg would tell her to ask herself.
Once she’d gotten back to the safety of her side of the duplex, Rainie wheeled herself to House’s bedroom door, and then, steeling herself, knocked softly and entered. The volume on the television was lower than when she’d left, and House had finally found something to watch, a Charmed marathon.
“Hey,” she said, tentatively.
He looked over and motioned her in. Apparently, he’d gotten past the foul temper that had set her on this quest. He hit the mute button.
“Doing better?” she asked.
Rainie never let him get away with self-deception; it was easier just to tell the truth.
“Mm-hm,” he mumbled, his eyes focused on the television screen.
“James says this is about Michael Tritter,” she said, watching his shoulders tense up.
“No, it’s not about Tritter,” he huffed, and she was afraid she’d made a mistake-afraid she’d just pushed him back into an irritable frame of mind. “It’s about the fact that no one will leave me alone about Tritter.” His gaze caught hers in a quick warning before darting back to the television.
“Fair enough,” said Rainie, and she turned to leave him alone and surprised with the remote and three television witches.
* * * *
For House, the next day wasn’t much better. Even if Rainie had clearly taken the hint, no one else seemed to.
On the drive into work, Wilson tried again to get House to “open up” about having Tritter as a patient. The result, by the time they arrived at the hospital, was a sullen and angry House.
Shortly after he got in, Cuddy stopped by for no apparent reason-yeah, he believed that-just to “see how you’re doing today”-followed by Chase and Foreman watching him expectantly and processing everything he said, as if they anticipated some sort of reaction from him. Devi continued to eye him warily; it was apparent that she was dying to ask him about Tritter, but at least she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut. He may not have been the one who originally hired her-that had been taken care of by his predecessor, Evans-but she was a good choice.
In the meantime, symptoms continued to pile up. Now the board included a heart murmur and what seemed to be difficulty in walking. The results of yesterday’s tests were in… all except the HIV test, which took longer to process. All were negative.
Around noon, House had had enough. As Chase and Foreman prattled on behind him-something something blah blah blah something something blah about dealing with his feelings-he abruptly grabbed the wheels of his chair and scooted rapidly out of the office, leaving them open-mouthed behind him; since he had returned to work, he seldom left the safety of the office.
With no destination in mind, he meandered aimlessly around the hospital. Under normal circumstances, Cuddy couldn’t have paid him enough to leave his office-wherever he went, he saw the stares and heard the rumblings as patients and staff reacted to his presence. Whether they were responding to the obvious effects of his injuries or because they recognized him from the ubiquitous news stories didn’t really matter. He hated being out, being seen. And yet, here he was. Even this was better than the constant grilling about Tritter. He briefly toyed with the idea of locking himself in the morgue, just to have a place where no one bothered him.
Keeping his head down, he tried to ignore all the intrusions. When the gawking got too invasive, he snapped and snarled, hearing a murmured “Same old House” rushing by in his wake.
* * * *
Standing at the nurse’s station, Nurse Brenda Previn saw something out of the corner of her eye. The something moved slowly and emitted a mild squeak. It took her a moment to figure out what it was. Not until an eerie silence descended did she realize who had ventured from the security of the Diagnostics Department to return to the Clinic for the first time in years.
“Oh, my God,” she heard behind her. “It’s House.”
“Look at him.”
“Holy hell. He looks awful.”
Previn watched as House attempted to ignore the mutters, until one of the younger nurses who didn’t know better approached him awkwardly. “Dr. House, it’s an honor to meet you,” she fawned.
Previn saw him flush uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. She winced. He deserves his privacy, she thought. Why don’t they just leave him alone?
The naïve nurse blocked his path, stretching out her hand, obviously expecting some sort of reaction from the great man-a handshake, perhaps, or at least an acknowledgment.
Pursing his lips, House huffed in annoyance. “And I suppose your gushing is supposed to make it all better, right? Get out of my way.”
Startled, the nurse froze.
“I said, get out of my way.” Without waiting for her to respond, House ran over her foot. Yelping, the young nurse gawped as he rolled off toward the elevators.
“Same old House,” said Previn, allowing herself an affectionate smile. “Same old House.”
As the elevator swallowed up the doctor and his wheelchair, she turned back toward the desk, still smiling.
* * * *
After nearly an hour of roaming, House began to grow weary. When he found himself outside Tritter’s room, he started to sweep past, but his curiosity got the better of him. As he rolled by the room’s windows, he peeked through the glass to catch a glimpse of his old nemesis… asleep.
It had been nearly eight years since Michael Tritter had first shown up in the clinic. In his wake came chaos and destruction. House vaguely recalled a beefy man exuding a quiet menace that House, if he’d had any sense, would have recognized meant business. That was about all he could dredge up, and even those memories were shrouded in fog.
Skidding to a complete stop, he stared into the room.
How did he really feel about the man? Was everyone else right? Was he actually upset that Tritter had come back into his life? Was he so out of touch with his feelings that he couldn’t even identify his emotions? Or did he now understand his own inner workings much better than he once had? Was he right-had Tritter become too insignificant to concern himself with… if everyone else would just drop the fucking subject? What exactly were his motives?
He closed his eyes and searched his soul. Finally, he opened his eyes again, scrutinizing the man in the bed. Tritter was thinner now-much thinner. Even asleep, he looked uncomfortable in his restless slumber. In this condition, the man appeared to be no threat.
After a moment, House grabbed the big wheels of the chair, turning and pushing himself rapidly down the hall toward Wilson’s office.
I knew Tritter would upset him, thought Wilson when his office door suddenly flew open and an angry House rolled through. This was a bad idea. What was Cuddy thinking, allowing House to have Tritter as a patient?
“Fuck!” House muttered irritably.
“House?” Wilson’s inflection echoed the annoying concern that on occasion, including this one, drove House crazy.
“The very same.”
“What’s going on? Tritter?”
“No, not Tritter,” enunciated House, glaring. “You.”
Wilson looked confused.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You, Cuddy, Foreman… and everyone else. Quit trying to second-guess me. I don’t need your concern. I’m a big boy now, and I can handle this without half a dozen colleagues telling me what I should feel.”
He wheeled himself to the far side of Wilson’s office and stared out the window, snorting in exasperation.
Quietly, Wilson got up and moved into position behind the chair, leaning over to place his fingers gently on House’s neck as he checked House’s pulse. Suddenly, he felt a hand grasp his wrist and yank it away.
“Stop that!” growled House. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are, House,” hissed Wilson in return. “You’re the picture of tranquility.”
“I would be, if everyone would just shut the fuck up and let me do my job,” House said through gritted teeth. He looked up, his eyes piercing Wilson’s. Neither man moved for a moment, each trying to stare the other down.
Although House’s pulse was near normal, Wilson felt his own heartbeat begin to pound. It had been years since the two of them had allowed themselves this kind of open conflict. If House was agitated enough to allow himself to get angry, Wilson recognized this as a crucial moment, one he needed to handle properly. Tritter’s presence might actually have triggered a major step forward in House’s recovery.
For once, Wilson held his tongue, despite his omnipresent need to offer advice. For a couple of years now, he had been providing House with desperately needed emotional support, so counseling him was almost impossible to resist. Exhaling slowly, he backed off, palms up and head bowed.
With an effort, he said, “You’re right. It’s not my business.”
“Damn right it isn’t,” huffed House, turning the chair around.
As Wilson started to perch on the corner of his desk, he stopped himself, realizing he would be looking down on his friend, which House no doubt would interpret as condescension. He slid over onto the couch, where he could sit face-to-face with House.
For another few minutes, they sat quietly, looking down and saying nothing.
Finally, Wilson ventured forth.
“I guess… I guess I’ve gotten so used to taking care of you that I take you for granted. Underestimate you.”
House gave a short nod.
“So… what is it you want from me… from us?”
House thought for a moment.
“I already told you.”
Puzzled, Wilson tried to reconstruct the past few minutes. Ah.
“Shut the fuck up and let you do your job?”
“Bingo.”
This time, it was Wilson who nodded.
“I can do that.”
“Can you? Can you really?”
Wilson was momentarily dumbstruck. It had been a very, very long time since House had felt safe enough to nail Wilson on his behavior.
“Uh… I… ummm.”
House’s shoulders relaxed, and he smiled as he looked at his friend with genuine fondness.
“Well, give it a try, anyway.”
Wilson grinned back.
“I’ll do my best. No guarantees. Bad habits are hard to shake.”
“Granted. But the man is my patient. No matter what your feelings might be, he’s here because no one else can treat him. The guy is an arrogant pain in the ass who made both our lives a living hell in another universe, but frankly, that’s unimportant. Now he’s a patient. And I intend to treat him like one. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
With that, House grabbed the doorknob to Wilson’s office, swinging it open as he pushed himself through the opening with a whoosh, letting the door slam in his wake.
Back in his own office, his staff awaited, eyeing House apprehensively as he rolled to the head of the conference room table. For a long, awkward minute, they watched him, waiting for… what?
Finally, he spoke.
“Look, let’s get this out in the open,” he said firmly. “Tritter is our patient, like any other, and we will treat him exactly as we would anyone else. If you have problems with that, deal with it. If you think I should feel differently about this situation, do me a favor and keep those thoughts to yourself. If Tritter has problems with it or with me, then it’s his problem, not ours. Am I clear?”
He looked from face to face. Devi smiled. As long as patient care came first, she was uninterested in the back-story. Foreman, normally confrontive-which he often confused with being assertive-unwillingly nodded his agreement. Only Chase seemed uncertain.
“I just don’t understand how you can…” he started, quickly interrupted by House, who by now was determined to end this once and for all.
“However you plan to end that sentence,” he said calmly, “know that my response is going to be ‘I can.’”
Chase looked startled.
“I-I’m not sure what you mean,” he stuttered out.
“Sure you do,” said House, cutting through to the heart of things. “I can treat him objectively, I can put it behind me, I can handle this. Who he is-or was-and what he did-as well as how I behaved-none of it matters. I simply don’t care. What matters is that the man is our patient. His condition is deteriorating, and we need to find out why. Whatever feelings you might still carry with you, set them aside. No more discussion. Got it?”
Chase lowered his eyes, and slowly agreed.
“Good. Now get back to work. Find out what’s killing our patient.”
* * * *
With a gasp, Tritter awoke from his nap, feeling unsettled. He tried to hold onto it, but his dream evaporated before he could grasp it. Somehow, he knew it was about House.
When the story broke that the world-famous, drug-addicted doctor not only hadn’t brutally murdered his beautiful, young employee but had actually sacrificed himself to try to save her life and the lives of six others, it made headlines around the world.
As is often the case when something earth-shattering intrudes into real life, Tritter remembered exactly where he was when he heard the news.
“Hey, Tritter, get this!” Sanchez had called out from two desks away. “Wasn’t this that guy you were so eager to put away? The doctor? That House guy?”
Tritter looked up to see Sanchez pointing at the local news feed running on a dusty television set hanging precariously from the ceiling. Suddenly queasy, Tritter felt the blood drain out of his face. He barely remembered stumbling across the room, or standing dizzily in front of the screen watching, unbelieving, as the story unfolded.
The bastard was free.
After a few stunned weeks, during which his fellow officers mercilessly taunted him about having so completely misjudged the doctor, he carefully stuffed the reality of House’s bravery back into its proper compartment, convincing himself despite the evidence that someday the real story would come out and House would be back in prison where he so obviously belonged.
TBC...
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 4
What Matters
Now that House had seen, and reacted to, the patient’s name, Devi turned her attention to the other mystery. Why was Michael Tritter, whoever he was, so sure that House was going to “get even” with him, treat him unfairly? From everything she’d learned about House over the past year, Devi was positive that if House could find the answer, who Tritter might be and whatever relationship he might have had with House in the past wouldn’t figure into the equation. The answer was all that mattered.
But if that was the case, why were Chase and Foreman so worried?
* * * *
In his hospital room, Michael Tritter had an unusual moment of peace. Every few minutes, the room was invaded… by nurses taking his blood pressure and temperature, by nurse’s aides lifting the mattress and tucking in the sheets, by fellow police officers coming to visit, by that naïve doctor. And every time someone walked in, he was sure it was going to be Gregory House, come to gloat.
The man was hazardous to patients, and now he was one of those patients. How could House, soaked to the eyeballs with drugs, arrogance and hubris, possibly come up with a solution to whatever it was that was making him so sick? There was no way he could trust that man he’d so desperately pursued, the man he’d been so eager to see behind bars.
And yet, House had been behind bars, albeit for a crime he hadn’t committed.
When the news broke, Tritter had been delighted-elated even-watching the story unfold, so sure he had been proven right. If they’d just listened to him all those years ago, if that judge hadn’t been swayed by Lisa Cuddy’s obvious lie on the witness stand, none of this would have happened. That peril to society would have been put away, lost his license and Allison Cameron would still be alive. Cameron’s naïvité in the face of House’s destructive drug use-so similar to the naïveté of this Dr. Raja-whatever-had been pathetic. And it had cost her life. They all should have listened to him.
So he’d watched and he rejoiced.
A few years behind bars would teach that bastard a lesson. After a year or so in the penitentiary, he wouldn’t be so smug. Some other prisoner or guard would smack that smugness off his face, tear that quick tongue from his throat, do what Tritter himself had been unable to do. And he would deserve it. Once an addict, always an addict. A danger to society.
Unfortunately, Tritter thought, that also made House dangerous to him now. His mind drifted. He tried reading the newspaper the nurse’s aide had dropped at the foot of his bed. But all he could see was House’s self-satisfied grin as Tritter’s case had been dismissed.
Fuck. He had to figure a way out of this. There was no way House was going to give him a fair break-he had too much to gain by tormenting him, making him believe he had some kind of serious illness. Payback. He had to get out of here. But where else could he go? Everywhere he went, they told him House was the best, his only hope. They had to be wrong. He couldn’t be dependent on that son-of-a-bitch. Shit. What a mess.
* * * *
“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Wilson, his voice rising slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me that Tritter was your new patient?”
House looked up serenely over the brim of his reading glasses. When he saw the agitation on Wilson’s face, he seemed puzzled.
“Didn’t think it mattered,” he said, and returned to his journal.
“Didn’t think it mattered?! The guy who almost destroyed your career is here, in this hospital, as your patient, and you didn’t think it mattered?”
With a sigh, House put the journal down. He’d just had the same conversation with Foreman. The topic was growing old.
“No, Wilson, I didn’t think it mattered. It’s old news-really old news-and I frankly don’t care. Whatever he did and whoever he is holds no interest for me.”
Wilson dropped into the chair across from House’s desk, scrutinizing his friend’s fractured face for signs of deception.
“Can you honestly sit there and tell me that having Michael Tritter as your patient holds no interest for you?”
House looked him squarely in the eye.
“Yes, Wilson, That’s exactly what I can tell you. Maybe for you, what happened might be fresh in your memory, but a lot has happened to me in the meantime-in case you haven’t noticed…”
Wilson winced, suddenly embarrassed. He broke eye contact with House.
“Tritter is insignificant in the grand scheme of my life. It all happened to some other person in some other life. I simply don’t care about it. He’s my patient, and he’s brought me a case, which will keep my mind off of…”
Suddenly, House stopped talking and looked away, his eyes unfocusing. Wilson knew that look, the one that meant House was slipping dangerously close to memories that were best forgotten. He was on the verge of a flashback. Wilson touched his friend’s hand, trying to snap him back to the present. For once, it worked.
“…uhhhh… off of… things that hold a great deal more significance to me now.”
House’s eyes focused again as he pulled himself together.
Wilson sighed.
“It’s a matter of degrees, Wilson. At one time, Tritter might have mattered. Now he doesn’t. He’s a gnat. No. Actually, he’s just a puzzle to be solved. It’s that simple.”
For the next five minutes, Wilson attempted to resuscitate the conversation, but all he succeeded in doing was making House increasingly agitated and angry.
* * * *
By the time House got home, he was in a foul mood, proceeding to inflict his annoyance on Linda McAllister, who dished it right back to him, and on Rainie, who stared him down and told him to behave himself.
He was exhausted and he had a headache, brought on by the fact that no one would leave him alone about Tritter. By the end of the day-meaning by three o’clock, when Wilson dragged him home-both Chase and Cuddy had cross-examined his motives in treating Tritter. The only one who’d had the good sense to leave the subject alone was Devi, although he could see the questions flitting across her face.
Stretched out on the sofa, he grabbed the remote and began looking for something-anything -to distract his attention. Animal Planet-no. TV Land-no. Reruns of Law & Order-God, no! For a few minutes, he spun through the channels one after another, going through the gamut of possibilities twice, three times, then over and over, faster and faster, hoping for something to hold his interest. Nothing. With a grunt, he threw the remote to the floor.
Finally, he slid back into the wheelchair and rolled himself to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
Rainie could hear the television in his room, volume high, spinning through the same channels House had already scanned in the living room.
“What the hell was that all about?” she asked Linda, who had watched from across the room.
“No idea,” said Linda, who hadn’t seen House display this kind of agitation in the couple of years she’d been taking care of him. “Ask Wilson.”
After a few minutes of thinking it through, Rainie wheeled herself to the front door, pulling it open and sweeping across the landing to the other half of the duplex, where she reached up and rang the bell.
Following the sound of running feet, the door opened.
“R-Rainie? What is it?”
Looking down at her from the front door, Wilson, as always, looked concerned. The man had an expression of perpetual anxiety painted on his features.
“Let me in and I’ll tell you. I’m freezing out here,” she said, beginning to shiver.
“Oh, uh, of course,” stuttered Wilson, pulling the door wide enough for her chair to roll through.
Surprisingly, this was the first time Rainie had been in Wilson’s apartment-she seldom left House’s side of the duplex, sticking to the familiar surroundings of the place she now shared with House.
Looking around, she noticed both the similarities and the differences. Of course, the layout was reversed, and Wilson’s place had not undergone the expensive renovations she and House had spent months implementing next door. But it was a homey and comfortable place, with some of the identical furniture in the living room-Wilson had chosen the furnishings for both places, back when House had originally been released from the hospital and was in no condition to make decisions about chairs and coffee tables.
“Come… come in,” said Wilson, still startled at seeing her. She wheeled herself into the living room, and awkwardly pulled herself out of the wheelchair and settled herself on the sofa. Where their apartment had rare artwork, Wilson’s place had a few classic Hitchcock and Orson Welles movie posters simply framed.
“Thanks,” she said, panting slightly from the exertion.
Wilson settled himself onto the other end of the sofa, scrutinizing Rainie’s face for clues. Why had she ventured out of her comfort zone and into his?
“What’s going on?”
Rainie thought a moment before answering, toying with the idea of pretending this was just a social call. But she just didn’t have enough energy for that kind of game.
“I want to know what insect crawled up House’s butt,” she said bluntly. “He’s been an unmitigated pain in the ass since you brought him home.”
Wilson, on the other hand, had no problem feigning ignorance.
“He has?” he ventured.
Rainie wasn’t having any part of it.
“Don’t bullshit me, James. Something’s bugging him.”
“Okay, okay.” Wilson leaned back as he raised his palms in a show of compliance. If House’s behavior was bothering her enough to get her to leave her comfort zone and venture into his, Wilson doubted she would back down until she got the answer.
“So…?”
“He’s got a new patient, a guy named Michael Tritter.”
After a mere count of four, light dawned.
“Tritter… the cop?”
Wilson’s jaw dropped. Not virtually dropped-actually dropped. He continued to be surprised by Rainie’s quick mind. Despite everything she’d been through-torture, rape, false imprisonment, physical and emotional devastation-she still spun mental rings around him, her thinking process so much faster than his own.
“Yes… h-how do you know about him?”
She snorted.
“Come on, James. Did you forgot all those months I spent researching Greg before… before… before…
She paused, and he saw her slip away, off to the same place House had drifted toward earlier in the day.
“Rainie?” He reached out to touch her arm. No reaction. Her eyes were unfocused and she began to tremble. “Rainie… come back.”
With a start, she shook her head and gasped.
“You okay?”
“Oh, God!” she whispered.
Wilson held out his arms, and she fell trembling into them. He felt a few warm tears soak through the light fabric of his blue pinstriped shirt.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, soothing, in the same voice he had used as House had begun to recover from the ordeal that had left him a shadow.
“Dammit. Dammit all to hell!”
He felt the words more than heard them, muffled through his shirt and arm.
“I know, Rainie. I know. But it gets better. I promise. It gets better.”
Usually, House was the one to hold and comfort her. A year ago, Wilson would have bet large sums that House was incapable of reaching beyond his own anguish to try to reassure someone else. But something had happened to his battered friend in the months since Rainie Adler had been discovered, like House, traumatized beyond belief in a dark prison cell.
Somehow, House had used his own horrific experience to help this tiny woman in her attempt to reclaim her life. He’d gotten past his guilt that if it hadn’t been for him she wouldn’t have gone through a similar experience to his own, losing her husband and child in the process. He’d supported her, and encouraged her to return to her career as a New York Times journalist, going so far as to blackmail The Times into rehiring her, not as the investigative reporter she’d once been, but as an editor and feature writer. At least it was a start.
“Hey,” said Wilson softly, gently lifting Rainie’s head from its resting place on his arm. “I’ve got better Kleenex than this.”
He felt a hint of a laugh, then a slow intake of breath as Rainie tugged herself back into the present. She flicked the tears off her face, sniffed, and sat up, determination obvious on her face.
“Okay, I’m fine now. Let’s get back to Tritter.”
Oh, yes. Tritter. Wilson wasn’t sure where to start. “How much do you know?”
She told him. To his surprise, she knew more than he did about the background of the vindictive cop who had persecuted House, almost ending his medical career in a prison sentence and his life in a drug overdose. To Wilson’s relief, she didn’t seem to be aware of his own culpability in what had happened-how he had failed to provide his friend with the pain relief he desperately needed, which set off the chain of events, or how he had eventually offered his friend up as a sacrifice to end the miserable experience.
But she certainly knew who Tritter was, and how his obsession had affected House’s life.
“So now he’s House’s patient?” she asked. “And Greg is upset by it?”
“Actually, no,” said Wilson, his confusion apparent not only in his tone of voice but also by the expression on his face. “That’s the weird part. He insists that it doesn’t bother him to have Tritter as a patient, that he feels no sense of… I don’t know… vindictiveness or revenge. In the old days, I wouldn’t have believed him. But now…”
He drifted off.
“Then why is Greg so irritated?” she asked. “Why did he come home loaded for bear?”
Wilson shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe you’d better ask him.”
Great. Linda said to ask Wilson. Now Wilson says to ask Greg. Next thing you know, it would come back full circle, and Greg would tell her to ask herself.
Once she’d gotten back to the safety of her side of the duplex, Rainie wheeled herself to House’s bedroom door, and then, steeling herself, knocked softly and entered. The volume on the television was lower than when she’d left, and House had finally found something to watch, a Charmed marathon.
“Hey,” she said, tentatively.
He looked over and motioned her in. Apparently, he’d gotten past the foul temper that had set her on this quest. He hit the mute button.
“Doing better?” she asked.
Rainie never let him get away with self-deception; it was easier just to tell the truth.
“Mm-hm,” he mumbled, his eyes focused on the television screen.
“James says this is about Michael Tritter,” she said, watching his shoulders tense up.
“No, it’s not about Tritter,” he huffed, and she was afraid she’d made a mistake-afraid she’d just pushed him back into an irritable frame of mind. “It’s about the fact that no one will leave me alone about Tritter.” His gaze caught hers in a quick warning before darting back to the television.
“Fair enough,” said Rainie, and she turned to leave him alone and surprised with the remote and three television witches.
* * * *
For House, the next day wasn’t much better. Even if Rainie had clearly taken the hint, no one else seemed to.
On the drive into work, Wilson tried again to get House to “open up” about having Tritter as a patient. The result, by the time they arrived at the hospital, was a sullen and angry House.
Shortly after he got in, Cuddy stopped by for no apparent reason-yeah, he believed that-just to “see how you’re doing today”-followed by Chase and Foreman watching him expectantly and processing everything he said, as if they anticipated some sort of reaction from him. Devi continued to eye him warily; it was apparent that she was dying to ask him about Tritter, but at least she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut. He may not have been the one who originally hired her-that had been taken care of by his predecessor, Evans-but she was a good choice.
In the meantime, symptoms continued to pile up. Now the board included a heart murmur and what seemed to be difficulty in walking. The results of yesterday’s tests were in… all except the HIV test, which took longer to process. All were negative.
Around noon, House had had enough. As Chase and Foreman prattled on behind him-something something blah blah blah something something blah about dealing with his feelings-he abruptly grabbed the wheels of his chair and scooted rapidly out of the office, leaving them open-mouthed behind him; since he had returned to work, he seldom left the safety of the office.
With no destination in mind, he meandered aimlessly around the hospital. Under normal circumstances, Cuddy couldn’t have paid him enough to leave his office-wherever he went, he saw the stares and heard the rumblings as patients and staff reacted to his presence. Whether they were responding to the obvious effects of his injuries or because they recognized him from the ubiquitous news stories didn’t really matter. He hated being out, being seen. And yet, here he was. Even this was better than the constant grilling about Tritter. He briefly toyed with the idea of locking himself in the morgue, just to have a place where no one bothered him.
Keeping his head down, he tried to ignore all the intrusions. When the gawking got too invasive, he snapped and snarled, hearing a murmured “Same old House” rushing by in his wake.
* * * *
Standing at the nurse’s station, Nurse Brenda Previn saw something out of the corner of her eye. The something moved slowly and emitted a mild squeak. It took her a moment to figure out what it was. Not until an eerie silence descended did she realize who had ventured from the security of the Diagnostics Department to return to the Clinic for the first time in years.
“Oh, my God,” she heard behind her. “It’s House.”
“Look at him.”
“Holy hell. He looks awful.”
Previn watched as House attempted to ignore the mutters, until one of the younger nurses who didn’t know better approached him awkwardly. “Dr. House, it’s an honor to meet you,” she fawned.
Previn saw him flush uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. She winced. He deserves his privacy, she thought. Why don’t they just leave him alone?
The naïve nurse blocked his path, stretching out her hand, obviously expecting some sort of reaction from the great man-a handshake, perhaps, or at least an acknowledgment.
Pursing his lips, House huffed in annoyance. “And I suppose your gushing is supposed to make it all better, right? Get out of my way.”
Startled, the nurse froze.
“I said, get out of my way.” Without waiting for her to respond, House ran over her foot. Yelping, the young nurse gawped as he rolled off toward the elevators.
“Same old House,” said Previn, allowing herself an affectionate smile. “Same old House.”
As the elevator swallowed up the doctor and his wheelchair, she turned back toward the desk, still smiling.
* * * *
After nearly an hour of roaming, House began to grow weary. When he found himself outside Tritter’s room, he started to sweep past, but his curiosity got the better of him. As he rolled by the room’s windows, he peeked through the glass to catch a glimpse of his old nemesis… asleep.
It had been nearly eight years since Michael Tritter had first shown up in the clinic. In his wake came chaos and destruction. House vaguely recalled a beefy man exuding a quiet menace that House, if he’d had any sense, would have recognized meant business. That was about all he could dredge up, and even those memories were shrouded in fog.
Skidding to a complete stop, he stared into the room.
How did he really feel about the man? Was everyone else right? Was he actually upset that Tritter had come back into his life? Was he so out of touch with his feelings that he couldn’t even identify his emotions? Or did he now understand his own inner workings much better than he once had? Was he right-had Tritter become too insignificant to concern himself with… if everyone else would just drop the fucking subject? What exactly were his motives?
He closed his eyes and searched his soul. Finally, he opened his eyes again, scrutinizing the man in the bed. Tritter was thinner now-much thinner. Even asleep, he looked uncomfortable in his restless slumber. In this condition, the man appeared to be no threat.
After a moment, House grabbed the big wheels of the chair, turning and pushing himself rapidly down the hall toward Wilson’s office.
I knew Tritter would upset him, thought Wilson when his office door suddenly flew open and an angry House rolled through. This was a bad idea. What was Cuddy thinking, allowing House to have Tritter as a patient?
“Fuck!” House muttered irritably.
“House?” Wilson’s inflection echoed the annoying concern that on occasion, including this one, drove House crazy.
“The very same.”
“What’s going on? Tritter?”
“No, not Tritter,” enunciated House, glaring. “You.”
Wilson looked confused.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You, Cuddy, Foreman… and everyone else. Quit trying to second-guess me. I don’t need your concern. I’m a big boy now, and I can handle this without half a dozen colleagues telling me what I should feel.”
He wheeled himself to the far side of Wilson’s office and stared out the window, snorting in exasperation.
Quietly, Wilson got up and moved into position behind the chair, leaning over to place his fingers gently on House’s neck as he checked House’s pulse. Suddenly, he felt a hand grasp his wrist and yank it away.
“Stop that!” growled House. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are, House,” hissed Wilson in return. “You’re the picture of tranquility.”
“I would be, if everyone would just shut the fuck up and let me do my job,” House said through gritted teeth. He looked up, his eyes piercing Wilson’s. Neither man moved for a moment, each trying to stare the other down.
Although House’s pulse was near normal, Wilson felt his own heartbeat begin to pound. It had been years since the two of them had allowed themselves this kind of open conflict. If House was agitated enough to allow himself to get angry, Wilson recognized this as a crucial moment, one he needed to handle properly. Tritter’s presence might actually have triggered a major step forward in House’s recovery.
For once, Wilson held his tongue, despite his omnipresent need to offer advice. For a couple of years now, he had been providing House with desperately needed emotional support, so counseling him was almost impossible to resist. Exhaling slowly, he backed off, palms up and head bowed.
With an effort, he said, “You’re right. It’s not my business.”
“Damn right it isn’t,” huffed House, turning the chair around.
As Wilson started to perch on the corner of his desk, he stopped himself, realizing he would be looking down on his friend, which House no doubt would interpret as condescension. He slid over onto the couch, where he could sit face-to-face with House.
For another few minutes, they sat quietly, looking down and saying nothing.
Finally, Wilson ventured forth.
“I guess… I guess I’ve gotten so used to taking care of you that I take you for granted. Underestimate you.”
House gave a short nod.
“So… what is it you want from me… from us?”
House thought for a moment.
“I already told you.”
Puzzled, Wilson tried to reconstruct the past few minutes. Ah.
“Shut the fuck up and let you do your job?”
“Bingo.”
This time, it was Wilson who nodded.
“I can do that.”
“Can you? Can you really?”
Wilson was momentarily dumbstruck. It had been a very, very long time since House had felt safe enough to nail Wilson on his behavior.
“Uh… I… ummm.”
House’s shoulders relaxed, and he smiled as he looked at his friend with genuine fondness.
“Well, give it a try, anyway.”
Wilson grinned back.
“I’ll do my best. No guarantees. Bad habits are hard to shake.”
“Granted. But the man is my patient. No matter what your feelings might be, he’s here because no one else can treat him. The guy is an arrogant pain in the ass who made both our lives a living hell in another universe, but frankly, that’s unimportant. Now he’s a patient. And I intend to treat him like one. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
With that, House grabbed the doorknob to Wilson’s office, swinging it open as he pushed himself through the opening with a whoosh, letting the door slam in his wake.
Back in his own office, his staff awaited, eyeing House apprehensively as he rolled to the head of the conference room table. For a long, awkward minute, they watched him, waiting for… what?
Finally, he spoke.
“Look, let’s get this out in the open,” he said firmly. “Tritter is our patient, like any other, and we will treat him exactly as we would anyone else. If you have problems with that, deal with it. If you think I should feel differently about this situation, do me a favor and keep those thoughts to yourself. If Tritter has problems with it or with me, then it’s his problem, not ours. Am I clear?”
He looked from face to face. Devi smiled. As long as patient care came first, she was uninterested in the back-story. Foreman, normally confrontive-which he often confused with being assertive-unwillingly nodded his agreement. Only Chase seemed uncertain.
“I just don’t understand how you can…” he started, quickly interrupted by House, who by now was determined to end this once and for all.
“However you plan to end that sentence,” he said calmly, “know that my response is going to be ‘I can.’”
Chase looked startled.
“I-I’m not sure what you mean,” he stuttered out.
“Sure you do,” said House, cutting through to the heart of things. “I can treat him objectively, I can put it behind me, I can handle this. Who he is-or was-and what he did-as well as how I behaved-none of it matters. I simply don’t care. What matters is that the man is our patient. His condition is deteriorating, and we need to find out why. Whatever feelings you might still carry with you, set them aside. No more discussion. Got it?”
Chase lowered his eyes, and slowly agreed.
“Good. Now get back to work. Find out what’s killing our patient.”
* * * *
With a gasp, Tritter awoke from his nap, feeling unsettled. He tried to hold onto it, but his dream evaporated before he could grasp it. Somehow, he knew it was about House.
When the story broke that the world-famous, drug-addicted doctor not only hadn’t brutally murdered his beautiful, young employee but had actually sacrificed himself to try to save her life and the lives of six others, it made headlines around the world.
As is often the case when something earth-shattering intrudes into real life, Tritter remembered exactly where he was when he heard the news.
“Hey, Tritter, get this!” Sanchez had called out from two desks away. “Wasn’t this that guy you were so eager to put away? The doctor? That House guy?”
Tritter looked up to see Sanchez pointing at the local news feed running on a dusty television set hanging precariously from the ceiling. Suddenly queasy, Tritter felt the blood drain out of his face. He barely remembered stumbling across the room, or standing dizzily in front of the screen watching, unbelieving, as the story unfolded.
The bastard was free.
After a few stunned weeks, during which his fellow officers mercilessly taunted him about having so completely misjudged the doctor, he carefully stuffed the reality of House’s bravery back into its proper compartment, convincing himself despite the evidence that someday the real story would come out and House would be back in prison where he so obviously belonged.
TBC...