Fic::House::Objects in Motion[3b]
[Previous Parts]
[3b]
Those flowers again. Pretty roses perched in an equally pretty vase. Contrasting with the drab conference room; a dark, deep pink, unlike like the two blood-red coffee mugs beside it.
They're the first thing his eyes gravitate to; what halts him abruptly in mid-step.
Cameron makes a soft sound as she nearly collides with his back, shooting a mixed, quizzical glance his way before joining Foreman and Chase at the table. House merely throttles his cane. Looks at his feet, then away.
"Glycyrrhiza glabra; Greek for 'sweet root,'" begins the lecture, as he fascinates himself with fiddling in his pocket. "Found in teas, chewing tobacco, anisette, and," Pulls out his bag of purloined goods, offering it all around, "candy."
"Stuff's nasty," Foreman declares, turning his nose up. Chase, naturally, takes a piece for himself.
"Licorice produced in the United States, though, doesn't contain any glycyrrhizic acid. It's all that fake stuff. If you want the real thing, you have to import it from places like--" Flipping the bag over, he squints at the label, "--Freiburg." Seals and tosses the rest to Chase. "While full of tasty goodness, large doses of real licorice results in hypertension, rhabdomylosis, hives and, uh." Two fingers twirl in the air, before snapping together. "Impotence."
A piece of wet, masticated candy shoots across the room, as Foreman crosses his arms with a smirk.
"Relax, Aqualung. You'd have to eat a whole lot more."
"That's it?" The disappointment is nearly palpable. "It was the licorice?"
"Apparently this bores Dr. Foreman." Sidling up to the neurologist, House stage whispers," Don't worry, there's still a good chance she'll go into acute renal failure. In the meantime, while Kevorkian here waits for our patient to flatline," The cane arcs in a line drive towards the door. "Get her on Spironolactone for the rhabdomylosis, Mucomyst for her kidneys and monitor her electrolytes. See that the only thing that goes into her mouth has hooves and comes in seven fruity flavors."
In completion of the circle, the tip pops under Chase's hand, flicking the bag of licorice up and out. House casually swipes it from midair.
As the three trudge off to do his bidding, he circles the table slowly, distrustfully eyeing the centerpiece like a Claymore mine. Or one of Cameron's Christmas decorations.
"Pink," Consonants at both ends of the word stress as Cameron pauses in the doorway, "means gratitude. Matthew the Grateful," he mouths, trying the title on for size, "patron saint of accountants. Doesn't really seem to be your type."
"And what exactly is my 'type'?" Her inflection informs House in no uncertain terms just how close he's winging to a no-fly zone.
"Terminal." No-fly zone? That sucker's headed for the side of a large, pointy building. Looming a little closer, he draws up that few extra inches of advantage over her. "Or maybe he is. So what's he have? Six months? A year?"
Silence. Fingers clutch the doorjamb. "Amytrophic Lateral Sclerosis," drops out in short, clipped bursts. "It's the usual. Riluzole causes nausea. Amitryptiline, depression. Sometimes it's so bad, not even the Tramadol..." She fixes such a long, suffering glare on him. "You can be such a jerk."
Oh. No. No, no, no. Chin meets chest. "You have got to be--"
"Actually, yes, I was kidding." His head snaps up. "Except for the part where you're a jerk. That's still true."
Without offering any chance of a rejoinder, Cameron stalks off around the corner, leaving House in the wake of that little polar ice cap, and thinking she really ought to get angry more often.
"Wow, Greg," a familar dulcet voice pricks at his ears, "with all that charm you're pouring on, it's a wonder she doesn't go flying straight to your arms."
Great. Fan-tastic. Neck tilting back, eyes slip shut as his head taps against the wall. "Worked on you, didn't it?"
"Yes, but confrontations are my thing. Bartering. Negotiations. Mutually beneficial agreements." Stacy Warner's gaze flickers over to the now empty hallway. "That...wasn't really a negotiation, though. More like an attempt at a hostile takeover, if you ask me."
"I think I hear an ambulance out front. Why don't you go check on it?" There's an impending migraine thundering out on his horizon, and right now her voice feels like four fucking bullets in his skull. "What are you doing back here anyway? Didn't Cuddy fire you?"
"Ha ha. Mark's here for an overnight follow-up."
"And the dutiful wife's decided to accompany him. Hold his hand while he gets poked and prodded. How nice. Five weeks ago, you were all but ready to ditch the big dip..." off her sneer, the last syllable slurs, "...per. Or maybe it's because it was the little one? Why you're here on this floor is another matter. Either you're still feeling extremely guilty and being the ever-so supporting spouse or," he scratches his chin lugubriously for effect, "you just can't stay away."
Crossing her arms, she shakes her head and leans beside him against the partition.
"To think, I almost missed it here."
A grunt. "Good times, no?" The eye closest to her slides open as a nebulous (and probably bad) idea takes shape. "Still have those contacts at the DA's?"
"Of course. Why?"
"Think you can run a background check run on someone? See if there's any history of family disturbances. Child abuse. Alcoholism. Find out if he's set fire to any kittens. That sort of thing."
One eyebrow lifts. "Moved on from death-row inmates to serial killers?"
With a click of his tongue, House shoots her a lopsided grin. "You've been watching CSI reruns again, haven't you? I'd like to think of this as more of a precautionary measure."
That thinly-veiled, dubious stare again. How he's missed it so.
"Oh, come on. What good are exes for if not committing questionable ethical breaches? It's not like I'm asking you to do anything illegal," quickly amended with, "this time." That eyebrow thing's still going on. His smile drifts into something subtly unfriendly. And for that moment, resentment bubbles up, thick and ugly, before settling back into the usual, familiar insouciance. "Fine. See if I ever shove a syringe into your husband's bladder again."
A scoff. "Please. You'd do it again, just for kicks."
"Yeah," he concedes. "Probably." Nearly effortlessly, he banks and swerves, shifting tactics. "Think of all those poor, flammable kittens."
Stacy's mouth draws tight, pressed into a thin little line. "I'll ask around."
(His little victory smirk nearly makes her take it all back, but he seems so inordinately pleased with himself, she doesn't have the heart to.)
And then... and then. Nothing. In the sudden absence of conversation, he fidgets, groping for words, apologies and other foreign terms, but she beats him to the lip.
"I'd better go check on Mark."
"Stacy."
She cuts him off. "I get it. I do. Life with you is...was...an extended debate. We fought. We competed. We were passionate and we had great--"
"--Fantastic."
"--Incredible."
"I am pretty amazing."
"And modest as ever."
He turns to her. "You don't think...?"
"Not gonna happen."
"Just checking." It seems to her, though, his heart's not really in it.
"Like you said," she says softly. "Some things change."
"But some don't."
"Yeah. Some don't. And sometimes it doesn't matter how right or perfect it is," Stacy looks at him. He still hurts, just a little. So does she. And she thinks, it's always going to hurt a little. Taking his hand, she curls her fingers between his, reminiscing, remembering how they used to fit. "Sometimes it's just not enough."
"He's so cool!" Chase flicks his index finger against the hanging IV. "Can I be his friend too?"
Foreman doesn't bother to look up from monitors. "You haven't got a high enough tolerance for pain."
Patterns of shallow dents run up Elaine Sutton's face and chest, finger-sized impressions slowly refilling with fluids. Cameron gently taps below the zygomatic, leaving another set of indentations to linger in her bloated and sweaty skin.
"Sorry he had to pull you off your date too."
"What?"
"House said you were out with Sharon." Stethoscope to the patient's chest, she frowns. Focuses on the abnormal pattern of thumps before motioning Chase over. "Listen to this. Does this sound odd to you?"
A minute later, "I don't hear anything out of the ordinary."
"I've got nothing," concurs Foreman.
"I could have..." But no. Perhaps she's hearing things.
"And I wasn't on a date," he adds.
Oh.
Bastard.
"This is funny for you?" Cameron snaps, at Chase's ill-concealed snicker.
"Actually, it is. For the first time, House isn't fixated on torturing me. Keep doing whatever it is you're doing to piss him off. I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts."
Thoughtful, in the most unimaginative manner. Romantic enough to make a baby barf. Deeply ingrained paranoia shambles to the surface as House contemplates the vase and all its cloying contents.
They're plotting something. Oh, yes they are. All bunched together, their evil fluffy heads bowed in a dark pink huddle, undoubtedly hatching some Voglerian plot of Diagnostics-room domination.
"She's positive for Chvostek's sign. We're running an ELISA and HPLC to confirm the diagnosis."
They're talking. Communicating. They're actually -
He half-turns from the conference table. Oh. Cameron. A quick, guilty glance back. Well, of course they're not saying anything. That would be insane.
"Who's staying with our squishy patient?"
"Foreman's with her until Chase gets back, since he apparently wasn't busy tonight."
"He lied to me?" Stunned, really. Appalled. And a gaggle of other expressions he's doing a lousy job of looking remotely convincing at. "I'm shocked."
Not even Cameron buys it. "Foreman isn't the one who feels the need to lie all the time."
"Really. Ask him about the tattoos sometime. They're not gang, they're zen. Where's Chase?"
"Changing. Partway through diuresis, Elaine developed tachycardia and vomited on him."
"That's different. Usually the patients puke on you."
"Comes with the exchange, I guess. Since you've apparently decided to..." And her mouth suddenly snaps shut.
"I've decided to, what?"
Unfortunately, before he can wheedle or bully more out of her, Cameron conveniently develops a soundtrack; one starring...a, a balalaika?...strumming out something that sounds revoltingly like Dr. Zhivago. Four measures float by before House realizes it's actually not all in his head; in fact, it's coming from her pants.
She blinks once before reaching down into her pocket, taking a few steps off to a slightly more private corner. Snippets here and there of the one-sided conversation reach him at random intervals, none of which, thankfully, involve murmured sweet nothings.
"Yeah." A look shoots his way, as she wraps up the call. "I'm done here."
And she is. Efficiently packed and nearly out the door, Cameron pauses only when he calls out her name.
"Forget something?"
She follows the line of sight from shoulder, down his arm, across his cane, to the rubber tip stopped inches away from the vase.
As events of the day finally come to a crawling halt, Cameron decides, uncharity can swing both ways, and what better place to begin than at home?
"No...I think I'll leave them here." And with a cheery smile she's far more successful at faking, twists the metaphorical thorns in further, "It'll be a nice change, brighten the place up a little."
Change.
Like any creature of habit, he loathes each and every instance.
Despite the dimmed lights, he can sense those flowers brightening up the conference room; can taste it in the air. Insidious and unwelcome, slick and bold on the tip of his tongue.
Change brought his infarction and five years of shedding loved ones, friends, alienating anyone, everyone who couldn't watch him fall apart any longer. It left him one year of relative peace with the illusion of equilibrium. Then change brought Vogler and Stacy sailing through his life again.
Dragging the chair across the office, one leg at a time, House rolls slowly over to the blinds. Reaches for the drawstring. Twirling the cord around his index finger, he hesitates.
The future for him, change, as far as he can see, only offers increased pain, the slow and systematic destruction of vital organs. Thinning hair. Tooth decay. Gradual loss of the world he used to know, a world where he was clever and brilliant, where he still had something to offer. People. Things. All eventually fading away, to be forgotten by everyone. Even him.
Inevitable, and invariably unavoidable.
His lip curls in a sneer.
Hell if he's going to let some three-named serial-killing accountant get away with it, though.
With a firm yank, he draws the blinds tightly shut.
Next: House, Wilson and "the other guy" have a boys night out. Yeah. That'll turn out well. More bad behavior. A stripper named Stacey (That's right. With an E-Y). A night in jail. And, of course, more stupid patients.
"Would you get a blowjob from an epileptic girl?"
"This a trick question, right?"
"Depends. When's your birthday again? Couple into roleplaying celebrate their anniversary. Sailor Moon decides to give her husband a happy little lunch surprise, in all the excitement, forgetting to take her Tegretol."
Envisioning the ultimate conclusion, Wilson reflexively crosses his legs. "Ouch."
"Guy arrives in ER with a partially severed penis, while I get to pull this out of her head." Waving the blood-tipped fork at him, House declares with complete sincerity, "This is why fifty percent of marriages fail."
Wilson's eyebrow merely twitches.
Download these: Ripchord - Rilo Kiley. Cameron's ring tone was a toss-up between Romeo & Juliet and Lara's Theme, but somehow the thought of her having Dr. Zhivago on her phone charmed me.
[3b]
Those flowers again. Pretty roses perched in an equally pretty vase. Contrasting with the drab conference room; a dark, deep pink, unlike like the two blood-red coffee mugs beside it.
They're the first thing his eyes gravitate to; what halts him abruptly in mid-step.
Cameron makes a soft sound as she nearly collides with his back, shooting a mixed, quizzical glance his way before joining Foreman and Chase at the table. House merely throttles his cane. Looks at his feet, then away.
"Glycyrrhiza glabra; Greek for 'sweet root,'" begins the lecture, as he fascinates himself with fiddling in his pocket. "Found in teas, chewing tobacco, anisette, and," Pulls out his bag of purloined goods, offering it all around, "candy."
"Stuff's nasty," Foreman declares, turning his nose up. Chase, naturally, takes a piece for himself.
"Licorice produced in the United States, though, doesn't contain any glycyrrhizic acid. It's all that fake stuff. If you want the real thing, you have to import it from places like--" Flipping the bag over, he squints at the label, "--Freiburg." Seals and tosses the rest to Chase. "While full of tasty goodness, large doses of real licorice results in hypertension, rhabdomylosis, hives and, uh." Two fingers twirl in the air, before snapping together. "Impotence."
A piece of wet, masticated candy shoots across the room, as Foreman crosses his arms with a smirk.
"Relax, Aqualung. You'd have to eat a whole lot more."
"That's it?" The disappointment is nearly palpable. "It was the licorice?"
"Apparently this bores Dr. Foreman." Sidling up to the neurologist, House stage whispers," Don't worry, there's still a good chance she'll go into acute renal failure. In the meantime, while Kevorkian here waits for our patient to flatline," The cane arcs in a line drive towards the door. "Get her on Spironolactone for the rhabdomylosis, Mucomyst for her kidneys and monitor her electrolytes. See that the only thing that goes into her mouth has hooves and comes in seven fruity flavors."
In completion of the circle, the tip pops under Chase's hand, flicking the bag of licorice up and out. House casually swipes it from midair.
As the three trudge off to do his bidding, he circles the table slowly, distrustfully eyeing the centerpiece like a Claymore mine. Or one of Cameron's Christmas decorations.
"Pink," Consonants at both ends of the word stress as Cameron pauses in the doorway, "means gratitude. Matthew the Grateful," he mouths, trying the title on for size, "patron saint of accountants. Doesn't really seem to be your type."
"And what exactly is my 'type'?" Her inflection informs House in no uncertain terms just how close he's winging to a no-fly zone.
"Terminal." No-fly zone? That sucker's headed for the side of a large, pointy building. Looming a little closer, he draws up that few extra inches of advantage over her. "Or maybe he is. So what's he have? Six months? A year?"
Silence. Fingers clutch the doorjamb. "Amytrophic Lateral Sclerosis," drops out in short, clipped bursts. "It's the usual. Riluzole causes nausea. Amitryptiline, depression. Sometimes it's so bad, not even the Tramadol..." She fixes such a long, suffering glare on him. "You can be such a jerk."
Oh. No. No, no, no. Chin meets chest. "You have got to be--"
"Actually, yes, I was kidding." His head snaps up. "Except for the part where you're a jerk. That's still true."
Without offering any chance of a rejoinder, Cameron stalks off around the corner, leaving House in the wake of that little polar ice cap, and thinking she really ought to get angry more often.
"Wow, Greg," a familar dulcet voice pricks at his ears, "with all that charm you're pouring on, it's a wonder she doesn't go flying straight to your arms."
Great. Fan-tastic. Neck tilting back, eyes slip shut as his head taps against the wall. "Worked on you, didn't it?"
"Yes, but confrontations are my thing. Bartering. Negotiations. Mutually beneficial agreements." Stacy Warner's gaze flickers over to the now empty hallway. "That...wasn't really a negotiation, though. More like an attempt at a hostile takeover, if you ask me."
"I think I hear an ambulance out front. Why don't you go check on it?" There's an impending migraine thundering out on his horizon, and right now her voice feels like four fucking bullets in his skull. "What are you doing back here anyway? Didn't Cuddy fire you?"
"Ha ha. Mark's here for an overnight follow-up."
"And the dutiful wife's decided to accompany him. Hold his hand while he gets poked and prodded. How nice. Five weeks ago, you were all but ready to ditch the big dip..." off her sneer, the last syllable slurs, "...per. Or maybe it's because it was the little one? Why you're here on this floor is another matter. Either you're still feeling extremely guilty and being the ever-so supporting spouse or," he scratches his chin lugubriously for effect, "you just can't stay away."
Crossing her arms, she shakes her head and leans beside him against the partition.
"To think, I almost missed it here."
A grunt. "Good times, no?" The eye closest to her slides open as a nebulous (and probably bad) idea takes shape. "Still have those contacts at the DA's?"
"Of course. Why?"
"Think you can run a background check run on someone? See if there's any history of family disturbances. Child abuse. Alcoholism. Find out if he's set fire to any kittens. That sort of thing."
One eyebrow lifts. "Moved on from death-row inmates to serial killers?"
With a click of his tongue, House shoots her a lopsided grin. "You've been watching CSI reruns again, haven't you? I'd like to think of this as more of a precautionary measure."
That thinly-veiled, dubious stare again. How he's missed it so.
"Oh, come on. What good are exes for if not committing questionable ethical breaches? It's not like I'm asking you to do anything illegal," quickly amended with, "this time." That eyebrow thing's still going on. His smile drifts into something subtly unfriendly. And for that moment, resentment bubbles up, thick and ugly, before settling back into the usual, familiar insouciance. "Fine. See if I ever shove a syringe into your husband's bladder again."
A scoff. "Please. You'd do it again, just for kicks."
"Yeah," he concedes. "Probably." Nearly effortlessly, he banks and swerves, shifting tactics. "Think of all those poor, flammable kittens."
Stacy's mouth draws tight, pressed into a thin little line. "I'll ask around."
(His little victory smirk nearly makes her take it all back, but he seems so inordinately pleased with himself, she doesn't have the heart to.)
And then... and then. Nothing. In the sudden absence of conversation, he fidgets, groping for words, apologies and other foreign terms, but she beats him to the lip.
"I'd better go check on Mark."
"Stacy."
She cuts him off. "I get it. I do. Life with you is...was...an extended debate. We fought. We competed. We were passionate and we had great--"
"--Fantastic."
"--Incredible."
"I am pretty amazing."
"And modest as ever."
He turns to her. "You don't think...?"
"Not gonna happen."
"Just checking." It seems to her, though, his heart's not really in it.
"Like you said," she says softly. "Some things change."
"But some don't."
"Yeah. Some don't. And sometimes it doesn't matter how right or perfect it is," Stacy looks at him. He still hurts, just a little. So does she. And she thinks, it's always going to hurt a little. Taking his hand, she curls her fingers between his, reminiscing, remembering how they used to fit. "Sometimes it's just not enough."
"He's so cool!" Chase flicks his index finger against the hanging IV. "Can I be his friend too?"
Foreman doesn't bother to look up from monitors. "You haven't got a high enough tolerance for pain."
Patterns of shallow dents run up Elaine Sutton's face and chest, finger-sized impressions slowly refilling with fluids. Cameron gently taps below the zygomatic, leaving another set of indentations to linger in her bloated and sweaty skin.
"Sorry he had to pull you off your date too."
"What?"
"House said you were out with Sharon." Stethoscope to the patient's chest, she frowns. Focuses on the abnormal pattern of thumps before motioning Chase over. "Listen to this. Does this sound odd to you?"
A minute later, "I don't hear anything out of the ordinary."
"I've got nothing," concurs Foreman.
"I could have..." But no. Perhaps she's hearing things.
"And I wasn't on a date," he adds.
Oh.
Bastard.
"This is funny for you?" Cameron snaps, at Chase's ill-concealed snicker.
"Actually, it is. For the first time, House isn't fixated on torturing me. Keep doing whatever it is you're doing to piss him off. I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts."
Thoughtful, in the most unimaginative manner. Romantic enough to make a baby barf. Deeply ingrained paranoia shambles to the surface as House contemplates the vase and all its cloying contents.
They're plotting something. Oh, yes they are. All bunched together, their evil fluffy heads bowed in a dark pink huddle, undoubtedly hatching some Voglerian plot of Diagnostics-room domination.
"She's positive for Chvostek's sign. We're running an ELISA and HPLC to confirm the diagnosis."
They're talking. Communicating. They're actually -
He half-turns from the conference table. Oh. Cameron. A quick, guilty glance back. Well, of course they're not saying anything. That would be insane.
"Who's staying with our squishy patient?"
"Foreman's with her until Chase gets back, since he apparently wasn't busy tonight."
"He lied to me?" Stunned, really. Appalled. And a gaggle of other expressions he's doing a lousy job of looking remotely convincing at. "I'm shocked."
Not even Cameron buys it. "Foreman isn't the one who feels the need to lie all the time."
"Really. Ask him about the tattoos sometime. They're not gang, they're zen. Where's Chase?"
"Changing. Partway through diuresis, Elaine developed tachycardia and vomited on him."
"That's different. Usually the patients puke on you."
"Comes with the exchange, I guess. Since you've apparently decided to..." And her mouth suddenly snaps shut.
"I've decided to, what?"
Unfortunately, before he can wheedle or bully more out of her, Cameron conveniently develops a soundtrack; one starring...a, a balalaika?...strumming out something that sounds revoltingly like Dr. Zhivago. Four measures float by before House realizes it's actually not all in his head; in fact, it's coming from her pants.
She blinks once before reaching down into her pocket, taking a few steps off to a slightly more private corner. Snippets here and there of the one-sided conversation reach him at random intervals, none of which, thankfully, involve murmured sweet nothings.
"Yeah." A look shoots his way, as she wraps up the call. "I'm done here."
And she is. Efficiently packed and nearly out the door, Cameron pauses only when he calls out her name.
"Forget something?"
She follows the line of sight from shoulder, down his arm, across his cane, to the rubber tip stopped inches away from the vase.
As events of the day finally come to a crawling halt, Cameron decides, uncharity can swing both ways, and what better place to begin than at home?
"No...I think I'll leave them here." And with a cheery smile she's far more successful at faking, twists the metaphorical thorns in further, "It'll be a nice change, brighten the place up a little."
Change.
Like any creature of habit, he loathes each and every instance.
Despite the dimmed lights, he can sense those flowers brightening up the conference room; can taste it in the air. Insidious and unwelcome, slick and bold on the tip of his tongue.
Change brought his infarction and five years of shedding loved ones, friends, alienating anyone, everyone who couldn't watch him fall apart any longer. It left him one year of relative peace with the illusion of equilibrium. Then change brought Vogler and Stacy sailing through his life again.
Dragging the chair across the office, one leg at a time, House rolls slowly over to the blinds. Reaches for the drawstring. Twirling the cord around his index finger, he hesitates.
The future for him, change, as far as he can see, only offers increased pain, the slow and systematic destruction of vital organs. Thinning hair. Tooth decay. Gradual loss of the world he used to know, a world where he was clever and brilliant, where he still had something to offer. People. Things. All eventually fading away, to be forgotten by everyone. Even him.
Inevitable, and invariably unavoidable.
His lip curls in a sneer.
Hell if he's going to let some three-named serial-killing accountant get away with it, though.
With a firm yank, he draws the blinds tightly shut.
Next: House, Wilson and "the other guy" have a boys night out. Yeah. That'll turn out well. More bad behavior. A stripper named Stacey (That's right. With an E-Y). A night in jail. And, of course, more stupid patients.
"Would you get a blowjob from an epileptic girl?"
"This a trick question, right?"
"Depends. When's your birthday again? Couple into roleplaying celebrate their anniversary. Sailor Moon decides to give her husband a happy little lunch surprise, in all the excitement, forgetting to take her Tegretol."
Envisioning the ultimate conclusion, Wilson reflexively crosses his legs. "Ouch."
"Guy arrives in ER with a partially severed penis, while I get to pull this out of her head." Waving the blood-tipped fork at him, House declares with complete sincerity, "This is why fifty percent of marriages fail."
Wilson's eyebrow merely twitches.
Download these: Ripchord - Rilo Kiley. Cameron's ring tone was a toss-up between Romeo & Juliet and Lara's Theme, but somehow the thought of her having Dr. Zhivago on her phone charmed me.