[House] Objects in Motion [2]
[Previous parts]
[2]
He's in a peculiar mood for the rest of the day; it doesn't improve by the time he reaches the clinic. Snapping out his clock-in time of eleven fifty-five at the nursing station, he even ignores Cuddy staring, in mute shock, at his presence without all the usual preamble (of cajoling, threatening, bribery, blackmail; if he's especially lucky, sometimes he gets the whole quartet).
First patient of the day's a kid with green, spiky hair, facial piercings and more eyeliner than a Maybelline commercial. The unwashed air around him reeks of cigarettes, sweat and old Miller Lite. Rough, calloused fingers on his left hand strum against the safety pin on his jeans.
"Play guitar?"
"Yeah."
Probably in a band with "meat" somewhere in its name.
And today, he's in for--
"Stomach ache," House notes, perusing the chart.
Post-adolescent punk shifts, stammers and mumbles, "Not exactly."
"Not exactly's kinda general. You're going to have to help me out a bit here. IBS? Diarrhea? Constipation? Something Radiology's going to have a good giggle over?"
There's a sigh, a twitch, then, sounds of metal clanking heavily to the floor, as the kid unbuckles and drops his pants.
Well.
"Now I may have only gone to medical school, and maybe things have changed since the stone age. But from what I recall of anatomy classes, the stomach's actually twelve inches north of that."
And what a sad little thing that is. Limp, black-and-blue, and bent to the side; the proud Prince Albert leading a trail of piercings down to the perineum. He figures there's got to be a half-pound of jewelry there.
"I think it's broken," comes the whine.
Understatement of...whatever.
"Yeaaah," House agrees, with a kick of twang. "I'll say."
"My girlfriend's a little...wild. We were going at it, and she, like, swung around and there was a...pop. I thought I was gonna die."
"And you probably wanted to as well. There's a reason why it's called a boner. Bend it the wrong way, a little too hard, and the corpus cavernosum goes snap." He crosses out something on the chart and scribbles something else in. "Any blood when you urinate?"
"Haven't peed yet."
More near-illegible scratches. "I'll schedule you in for a corpus cavernosography to see if there's any tearing. Lots of poking with a bunch of small needles and one very large one." Eyes widen, accompanied by a shiver of mock anticipation. "You'll like that. From the looks of it though, you'll probably need surgery."
"Surgery? Aw, man..." Seems nervous. Go fig.
"More sharp instruments. I thought you'd be ecstatic."
"Can't I just get a splint or something?" Oh Lord, there's the whining again.
"Sure." He slips the clipboard under his arm. "I could send you home with an ice pack and some pills, and the next time your girlfriend goes to fake karate with Little Elvis, blood's going to end up in places it's not supposed to. Scars will form. You'll begin losing sensation. Eventually she's going to start calling you Droopy." The cane begins tapping rapid patterns out on the floor, like an agitated metronome. "One day you come home to find her gone, with a letter. A letter--" Each syllable is punctuated by a click. "--telling you she couldn't take it anymore --even though she's the one that broke--" Gestures vaguely in the kid's direction. "--that in the first place. But, hey, that's not the issue because she was--" (air quotes) "--lonely whenever she was with you, so she's moving in with the drummer from that other band, instead. Because he's got her name tattooed on his ass."
Discarding the cane, he leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking somewhere off to the side.
"Maybe it won't matter anyway, since you probably already piss sitting down. Maybe you already knew it was over for a while. So you go back to your band, you play your music, and you're really good at, but everybody's wondering if that's all you've got left, and maybe it is, because maybe you aren't good for anyone anyway. You deal with that, understand that, maybe even accept it." His head snaps back, and the kid's genitals make an impressive attempt to retract like landing gear. "Until one day you find yourself playing Gershwin in the middle of the night!"
Johnny Rotten Junior looks like he's about to cry; incoherent mumbles of "sorry" burbling out over his twitching lower lip. Must've been something he said.
"What are you apologizing to me for? You should be apologizing to Gershwin. He's the one oscillating in his grave." Grabbing his cane again, he hauls himself upright. "So do all of us and poor, dead George a favor and get the damn exploratory, all right?"
The "okay" that finally squeaks out is barely audible (possibly due to the crushing weight of that flapping labret), and with a curt nod, Dr. House hobbles out the door.
Another satisfied patient.
A glance at his watch tells him it's twelve-fifteen. He wonders what Wilson's doing at the moment.
"Aren't you supposed to be in the clinic right now?"
There's Jimmy Wilson, Master of the Obvious, for you. Like the good oncologist he is, he doesn't look up from the Physician's Desk Reference, but instead jots down a few more notes into a lined composition book. Alimony for two (soon to be three) is a hefty burden.
(One has to admire the tenacity and ease with which Wilson falls in and out of love. How he picks himself up out of every romantic disaster with barely a scratch and, with that boyish smile, starts all over again. Nothing ruined, nothing lost, save a third of his paycheck at the end of every month. He's always been lucky that way.
Greg House is known for many things, medical brilliance being one of them; another, his spectacular ability to crash and burn. He carries the remnants of his last affair in his limp, his cane, the pill case in his pocket; he's reminded of it six times a day.)
"Nothing gets past you, does it?" Planted impatiently in the doorframe, he swings his cane in a dramatic upward arc. "I'm thinking...an extended lunch."
"Am I paying again?"
"Since you insist."
(A persistent dwarf has taken up residence in Wilson's skull; at the present, it's performing flamenco on his occipital lobe.)
With a deep, set-upon sigh, he slaps the PDR shut.
"I just want to know if I need to change into my running shoes for when Cuddy goes on the warpath."
(After all, there's no point in playing hooky without an aid and abettor.)
"Don't worry. I can sense when she approaches. It's like an evil omen. 'By the twitching of my pri--'"
The chair slides back noisily. "That's not how it goes."
"What? No! Next you'll be telling me the lyrics aren't 'the girl with colitis goes by.'" A facial contortion later, House mutters something out of the side of his mouth like he's sharing a tawdry, little secret. "I put in an early show. Even saw a patient."
"Voluntarily? Well, at least Cuddy was in the right place when she went into cardiac arrest."
"She's probably still standing there as we speak." An impatient tap of his watch. "I figure we've got approximately two hours before the initial shock wears off."
Wilson doesn't comment when they take the long, circuitous route to the elevators. He assumes it's to avoid the inevitable trail of destruction bound by a certain Dean of Medicine, when she finally breaks out of her stupor. He reconsiders when the lab comes into view.
Ah. Dr. Cameron's probably inside, peering into a microscope. They'll linger for a moment, and then pass.
Not quite.
House does indeed slow, but then, he also stops altogether. Watches. There's a frown on his face, like he's puzzling out a mental Rubik's cube; dissecting her motivations, parsing her psychological makeup. Painting a picture of what he thinks she thinks.
("I don't get it," he'd admitted, in one brief, bewildered moment. "I'm a walking Jenga tower. Why would anyone want to be anywhere near me?")
Sensing something, Cameron stiffens and looks up.
Busted.
And right now, Mr. Self Destruct's thinking about what he's going to say, because his jaw's doing that self-conscious little twitch. In an ostentatious gesture of dramatic fortitude, he straightens his shoulders and pushes through the door.
"Anything?" House casually asks, once situated inside.
"Lungs are clean. ACE levels normal."
"Lymph nodes?"
"Normal as well. No swelling, no presence of granulomas."
It's all very cool, very professional sounding, except for the fact that she noticeably tenses when he reaches over her shoulder for the videotape of the echo; that he stands closer to her than what necessity, or propriety, dictates. He does, however, take a half-step back when the other two-thirds of the Diagnostics crew come thundering down the hall.
"Patient's gone bradycardic," informs Chase.
"She on any heart medication?"
Cameron's quick flip through the patient's history reveals: "Digitalis."
"When combined with prednisone, would result in a severe depletion of potassium, thus the decreased heart rate." The cane thumps rhythmically on the floor. "Foreman, what would you say would be the side effects of digoxin?"
"Hallucinations, loss of appetite, headaches, diarrhea..."
It then dawns on Chase. "...skin rashes."
More page flipping. "Blood work's clean. If she's been taking it, it hasn't been recently."
"Digoxin is mostly concentrated in the tissues. But Dr. Cameron has a point. What happens when you suddenly stop taking digitalis?"
"Heart rate shoots back up." Foreman nods once, briefly.
"DigiFab, twenty vials over thirty minutes. Use a pacing wire. Phenytoin for ventricular arrhythmia. Give her potassium supplements as well," House calls out after the trio as they pile out the door.
"You enjoy that don't you?"
"What? Making them dance like puppets? Maybe. A little. Okay, a lot." Turning back to Wilson, he shakes the videotape enticingly. "How's lunch and a movie sound?"
"You doctors are all alike. I take you to a nice place, you complain about the food and scenery."
(Dodge, backtrack, and down the hall; it's the next leg in the Amazing Race to Avoid Clinic Duty.)
"Because I've never been to the OB-GYN lounge before. And I bought lunch."
"Nag, nag, nag." Sucking on the remains of his pop, House bites thoughtfully down on the straw. "She's got normal heart dimensions. No signs of cardiomyopathy or mitral valve prolapse."
"Ditto for Ebstein's anomaly and vessel transposition. It might have just been the digitalis."
Soda turns to air; House pitches the cup into a nearby garbage can.
"Those effects are all secondary. The fact that she was taking it in the first place spells out a history of misdiagnosed arrhythmia."
Tap, a shuffle; they round a corner.
...Flowers.
He's handing her flowers.
There's a woman a few doors down with digitalis poisoning and arrhythmia and Dr. Cameron's getting roses from some square-headed Rico Suave in a three-piece suit. She blushes fetchingly and smiles, something gorgeous, brilliant and bright (and he thinks he's seen it somewhere before; just can't remember when).
Still, she seems embarrassed, uneasy with all the attention, the tittering nurses, and the ooh-ing and aah-ing over the ostentatious and extravagant PDA.
Like the big old cat of the block, House stumps on over with his homeys --homey--okay, Wilson-- in tow. Besides, what could be more gratifying than the sudden trapped-and-tied-on-the-train tracks expression that descends when she spots the two of them converging like kestrels?
When Cameron's Teutonic new boyfriend pumps the oncologist's hand in a familiar, friendly shake with a "Good to see you again, Dr. Wilson," he shoots off an expression that spells out, in hundred-point font, 'you've got some 'splainin to do.'
"Matt, this is my boss," she pronounces every bit like she's picking something unpleasant out of her teeth, "Dr. House." (ooh, now that sounded like a dirty word) And the Great Aryan Hope swings the full force of his charm right on over.
"Matthew Lee Michaels." Up close, he seems pleasant enough, if rather bland. Handshake's also a bit limp. (Matt. Matty. Saint Matthew, either the burned, stoned or beheaded. Audiences are still out on that. Rarely has he witnessed such a stunningly whitebread specimen of the unimpressive. Yawn.) It smiles, even. "I've heard quite a bit about you."
"Whatever Dr. Cameron's told you about me...it's completely true. Well, maybe not all of it." He leans conspiratorially in. "The eating babies thing? Total exaggeration. I only get those when they run out of puppies."
Laugher (yeah, he would), light and inoffensive. He's going to need atropine after this encounter.
"No, nothing like that. Allison has nothing but compliments and the utmost respect."
"Huh." He attempts to smile; it comes out all teeth. "That's funny, because Allison hasn't mentioned anything about you."
"Dr. House..." A hiss. His teeth grow.
"I'm just saying. You seem like such a swell guy. She should have shown you off sooner."
"Okay!" Wilson claps his hands together. "I think it's time for everyone to head back to work. You know how doctors are, with the...doctoring...and all."
Three-First-Names turns back to Cameron. "I'll see you tonight, then?"
House looks away when Milquetoast gives her a quick peck on the cheek. It's so saccharine, he can feel his kidneys complain.
"I may need to head down to dialysis after that display," he remarks after the guy disappears through the doors. "Must be nice to be the exciting one for a change, though."
Her glare doesn't quite say 'You're a dick' (but the sentiment's all too clear), before she snatches up her bouquet and stalks off.
There's a chuckle. "You really know how to charm 'em, cowboy." Ah, yes. Homey.
"'Good to see you again, Dr. Wilson?'"
"Yeah...about that. Let's get back to my office first."
As they amble towards the elevator, House senses the presence of a giant shit-eating grin creeping across Wilson's face. Yep, there it is. And he's humming. Humming. Uh, oh. That can only mean...
"Ya got trouble." It starts off as a barely audible trickle that rapidly escalates into a full-production number, "with a capital 'T,' and that rhymes with 'C,' and that stands for--"
"--the cane I'm going to beat you with, if you don't stop serenading me with musicals."
When James Wilson looks back on this, these will have been the two most entertaining hours of hooky he's ever engaged in. Really. If he'd known how much fun it'd be, he'd have let House talk him into it sooner.
"He's a wimp!" (He observes, with great interest, the delinquent in question, pacing a stump-footed trench in front of his desk.) "If she wanted someone spineless, she should date Chase! At least their children will be pretty."
Oh, but he can't help but be amused. Entertainment at it's finest. "You'd rather she didn't date at all. And what does it matter? I thought you weren't interested."
"I'm not. But she's a doctor. Which means she has certain responsibilities." Flopping ungracefully into the chair opposite Wilson, he slaps the business end of his cane onto the desk. "She's a doctor and he's an idiot. With three first names. Do you know what sort of people have three first names?"
(Oh, he can't wait to hear this one. Aaaaand, House doesn't disappoint.)
"Serial killers."
"Surprisingly enough, a lot of people who aren't serial killers also have them. Like...Seann William Scott."
"Or John Wayne Gacy."
"Gacy's not a first name."
"Could be. C and R are right next to each other on a keyboard."
The fingers of Wilson's left hand move in the air for several seconds before an indignant, "They are not!" shoots back.
"But you thought they might have been." The ceiling comes fast into clarity as House's head thumps back against the headrest. "Stifler. She's dating Stifler."
"Cameron's not dating Stifler."
"You admit to the possibility of my theory, then."
"He's an accountant."
"So was Prescot Bush."
And we have a winner. There's the trifecta of gape, a bewildered you have lost it look, followed by the spastic twitching of Wilson's eyebrows conducting the Toreador March from Carmen.
"In the space of three minutes you've just compared Cameron's boyfriend to a serial killer and Hitler's bookkeeper. I think that's a record there, buddy."
"I constantly strive to outdo myself."
A beleaguered sigh from Wilson. "He's...good looking. Well dressed. Educated. Financially secure. It might rock your world to realize that some people find stability an attractive quality."
Like Mark Warner, he almost says, but doesn't. He might as well have, because House easily picks those thoughts right out of his head.
"Well, gosh, he's just perfect, isn't he?" Pressing sullenly back into his chair, House spins the cane in his hands like a slow propeller. "He'll bore her to death. They'll have nice, boring dates, leading up to a nice, boring wedding, a home and white picket fence in some boring suburb with a brood of yapping no-necks that can add really well. Years will pass. Wonderbread begins working longer hours, finding excuses to stay away from home. Maybe the new administrative assistant, fresh out of college, catches his eye. She'll work longer hours too, unwilling to sit at home bored, staring out the window, wondering why her husband's never there. One weekend, while he's away at a "conference", she'll realize she's been ogling the barely-legal, shirtless boy mowing her lawn for the past twenty minutes, invite him inside for lemonade, and discover not only is his name Rodolfo but also he's hung like a prize thoroughbred."
"You've...thought about this way too much. All that from a single glance at the guy?"
"He had a limp handshake." The cane stops, its end pointed in a path leading straight to Wilson's forehead. He pulls an imaginary trigger on the handle. "How do you know he's an accountant?"
"Cardiology conference. You know, the one you gave your so-very enlightening speech at."
Wilson's rewarded with a slow, grizzled smile.
"That was a real nice clambake."
"Especially the part where you ran away like a little girl and hid. While you were busy dodging the big, angry man, Matt came over to our table, they chatted a bit and he gave her his card. I guess she finally called him back." A look. "What? She talks to me occasionally."
"You're my friend. She doesn't get to talk to you."
"Now, now, you'll just have to share. There's enough of me to go around."
"Yeeeaaaah, I hear that about you a lot. Mostly from the nurses in your department." Teeth work his lower lip. "One of Vogler's employees." Hm. "I give the speech of doom, and one of his cronies moves right in. Interesting."
"Because no guy would ever be interested Dr. Cameron. Come on. Even you can see you're reaching here." Leaning back on his hands, Wilson props his legs on the desk. "Need some help popping that arm back in its socket? You're making even less sense than usual."
"I always make sense. It's everyone else who doesn't understand me."
"You're still interested in her, aren't you?"
Eyes narrow. "Oh, that's a nice one, Jimbo. Why don't you ask 'if I've stopped beating my wife yet' while you're at it?"
"Right, right." Wilson waves a placating hand. "I keep forgetting. You don't want her, but you won't stand to see her with someone else either. You can't have it both ways."
"What is it with you? You're as bad as she is. I. Don't. Care. who Cameron dates. As far as I'm concerned, she's free to go right on ahead and marry that idiot-whatshisface Mark."
Pause. A significant one. Eyes shift to the floor. The wall.
Slumping further in the chair, House rubs his now-pounding forehead with his first knuckle. Damn Wilson's clog-dancing dwarf. It's now banging on his brain like the National Tour of Stomp. See if he'll ever listen to Jimmy-boy and what passes for his version of reason and logic, ever again.
Cracking an eye open, he sees the oncologist looking at him with something akin to...God, please let it not be pity.
"His name is Matt," Wilson finally says, not unkindly.
"Whatever."
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