The Piano, chapter 3
The faint lines around Wilson’s
mouth deepen as he smiles tiredly. “Then
he is a good candidate for the study?”
Ella smiles back. Seth Greer, an eight year old with recurrent lymphoma, still has a crummy prognosis, but it is better now than it was an hour ago. “Oh yeah. I’ll fax Aster for approval, of course, but Seth definitely fits the parameters. You’ve read the protocol?”
Wilson nods.
“Then you know that rituximab with a YIT chaser shows some promise for treating recurrent small noncleaved cell lymphoma, but it may be harder on the patient than even the usual high-dose cytarabine cocktail. The poor kid’ll be a pincushion with all the blood draws we’re going to have to do to keep an eye on his hematologic toxicity.”
She pages through the thick chart, checking on the previous course of treatment. “He suffered no tumor lysis the first time around?”
“No. In fact he responded pretty much textbook-perfect to his first round of treatment and was cancer-free for almost six months. SNCC has about a ninety percent cure rate these days, and everything went so smoothly we thought for sure he’d be one of the ninety.”
“I guess he drew the short straw. Well, let’s see what we can do about improving his odds of pulling the long straw this time. I’ll fax this over to Aster on my way out, get him assigned to a protocol group right away, and he can probably start treatment tomorrow.”
“You mean you’re not going to stay and help me explain the inner workings of a phase I study of the use of rituximab followed by yttrium90 ibritumomab tiuxetan?”
Ella shakes her head with a laugh, relieved to see that whatever personal disquiet has occasioned the dark circles beneath Wilson’s eyes hasn’t robbed him of his wry humor. “Sounds tempting, but no. You can go explain the details to Seth’s parents, I’m going antiquing. I’ve been in Princeton almost a month and I’ve barely started replacing the furniture I so blithely declared was more trouble to move than it was worth. You wouldn’t…”
She pauses and turns to look as something clicks against the glass behind her. She catalogues the man standing outside on the balcony - tall, slightly scruffy, no lab coat, leaning lightly on a cane, right knee casually bent. The cane. Mystery solved, her eyes travel back up to his face. She suddenly understands all the gossip. He really does have the most astonishingly blue eyes.
A mischievous grin lights her face as she turns back to Wilson. “That must be the notorious Gregory House. Does he always throw pebbles at your window like a lovesick teenager? No wonder half the hospital thinks he’s hoping to be Mrs. Wilson Number Four.”
She rises, her cool grace a deliberate and mocking contrast to the hot flush of embarrassment she has induced in Wilson. It is an interesting reaction, and a corner of her mind wonders whether it is just normal straight-guy embarrassment about a gay joke or whether her jibe might have hit somewhat closer to home.
Ella looks down at him, eyes still glinting with humor but mouth curved in a genuine smile. “Relax, Jimmy.” Her eyes soften, something else replacing the humor. “Everyone should have one friend they love that much.” With a last smile, she leaves.
----------------------------------------
House tosses the ball from hand to hand meditatively. The set of three oversized, colorful balls had been a gag gift years ago. He’d mocked Wilson one too many times about tennis being a sport for tail-wagging Labradors, all that energetic chasing of a little yellow ball. He keeps one on his desk because he likes watching people try to figure it out. And having something in his hands helps him think. He isn’t good at stillness.
The ball isn’t helping today. His patient is getting sicker by the hour, and he can’t shake the feeling that he has missed something important in the maddeningly unremarkable test results arrayed before him. The stroke-like symptoms defy the clean CT and angio. Eighteen kinds of tests later, all House has to work with is mildly elevated protein in the CSF tap and a faintly low T4 level, both values still within normal limits. Maybe a quick chat with Wilson will jog something loose. He sets the ball down, grabs his cane, and limps purposefully through the balcony door, towards Wilson’s office.
Outside, he pauses. A woman is seated opposite Wilson, talking with him. A patient? She looks around at the click of a pebble thrown against the glass door. Not a patient, but that new hematologist Wilson is so fond of. Their eyes meet briefly, then hers drop to the cane, and linger.
His jaw twitches in a flash of familiar anger.
Her gaze slowly travels up until she meets his eyes again, and a crooked grin lifts her mouth as she turns back to say something to Wilson. Interesting. It has been awhile since House has seen a woman make Wilson blush. She stands, delivers a parting shot, and saunters out.
Wilson edges out from behind the desk and joins House on the balcony.
“Took you long enough. Were you interviewing Mrs. Wilson Number Four?”
Wilson makes an odd, strangled sound, and blushes again. Definitely interesting. “Hardly. You may recall the job is not available, since I’m still married to the current Mrs. Wilson?”
House snorts indelicately. “Not for long if she hears you’re conducting interviews. In broad daylight, no less!”
“That was a hematology consult, not a date.”
House goggles in mock astonishment. “That was a doctor? Surely not. I didn’t see a lab coat. Doesn’t she know Cuddy will send the fashion police if she’s caught without a lab coat?”
Wilson’s eyes flash a smile, though he schools his mouth to sternness. “First of all, Cuddy hasn’t hassled you about the coat since Vogler left. Second, Cuddy would probably never hassle Morgen about not wearing a coat, because unlike you, she knows how to be nice to people. And third, she does wear a coat, but not on her days off. She just stopped in to assess a patient’s suitability for a clinical trial she’s been involved with.”
House leers dramatically. “I wonder what sort of payment she’ll extract for doing you the favor?” It is only half a joke. House can do the math. Wilson’s reluctance to go home last night plus today’s tired eyes equals a man whose marriage is foundering. Granted, Morgen is not Wilson’s usual type - her face is too strong-boned for conventional prettiness, and she appears to be closer to House’s age than to Wilson’s - but the blushing was undeniable. He wonders how long it will be before Julie has papers served, and whether Wilson will show up at his door or at Morgen’s. His, he hopes. He doesn’t think much of a woman smart enough for medicine but dumb enough to make eyes at a man working on his third divorce.
“And why is it,” Wilson retorts, “you never worry about what payment I’ll extract for favors? Since that does seem to be the norm.”
House doesn’t immediately respond. He cocks his head at Wilson, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth as the pieces fall together in his mind. “It does seem to be the norm, doesn’t it? But what if it isn’t? A seemingly normal T4, and a seemingly normal CSF tap. I wonder if Cameron thought to check thyroglobulin or microsomal antibody titers?” He wheels abruptly and heads back inside.
----------------------------------------
Wilson watches House move off in search of a fellow to run new tests, then turns to lean on the balcony wall. House means well, he knows.
The opening arpeggios of the Moonlight Sonata echo soundlessly in his thoughts, haunting him with the memory of Julie’s tears. In his mind, Greg’s hands are at the keyboard.
He remembers getting drunk with House the night before his wedding, remembers promising that this time would be different, that he wouldn’t screw it up. That he’d be worthy of Julie’s trust in him. The gentle - and sometimes not-so-gentle - mocking, the warning jibes about lunches and coffees, the jokes about ties and shoes are House’s way of helping him keep his promise. And he is grateful, he really is. Old habits are hard to break, and he appreciates his friend’s support, the barbed reminders like the snap of a rubber band on his wrist when he has been in danger of sliding back into old patterns.
It isn’t House’s fault that Wilson has managed to be faithful to Julie and still screw it up.
Chapter 4
Ella smiles back. Seth Greer, an eight year old with recurrent lymphoma, still has a crummy prognosis, but it is better now than it was an hour ago. “Oh yeah. I’ll fax Aster for approval, of course, but Seth definitely fits the parameters. You’ve read the protocol?”
Wilson nods.
“Then you know that rituximab with a YIT chaser shows some promise for treating recurrent small noncleaved cell lymphoma, but it may be harder on the patient than even the usual high-dose cytarabine cocktail. The poor kid’ll be a pincushion with all the blood draws we’re going to have to do to keep an eye on his hematologic toxicity.”
She pages through the thick chart, checking on the previous course of treatment. “He suffered no tumor lysis the first time around?”
“No. In fact he responded pretty much textbook-perfect to his first round of treatment and was cancer-free for almost six months. SNCC has about a ninety percent cure rate these days, and everything went so smoothly we thought for sure he’d be one of the ninety.”
“I guess he drew the short straw. Well, let’s see what we can do about improving his odds of pulling the long straw this time. I’ll fax this over to Aster on my way out, get him assigned to a protocol group right away, and he can probably start treatment tomorrow.”
“You mean you’re not going to stay and help me explain the inner workings of a phase I study of the use of rituximab followed by yttrium90 ibritumomab tiuxetan?”
Ella shakes her head with a laugh, relieved to see that whatever personal disquiet has occasioned the dark circles beneath Wilson’s eyes hasn’t robbed him of his wry humor. “Sounds tempting, but no. You can go explain the details to Seth’s parents, I’m going antiquing. I’ve been in Princeton almost a month and I’ve barely started replacing the furniture I so blithely declared was more trouble to move than it was worth. You wouldn’t…”
She pauses and turns to look as something clicks against the glass behind her. She catalogues the man standing outside on the balcony - tall, slightly scruffy, no lab coat, leaning lightly on a cane, right knee casually bent. The cane. Mystery solved, her eyes travel back up to his face. She suddenly understands all the gossip. He really does have the most astonishingly blue eyes.
A mischievous grin lights her face as she turns back to Wilson. “That must be the notorious Gregory House. Does he always throw pebbles at your window like a lovesick teenager? No wonder half the hospital thinks he’s hoping to be Mrs. Wilson Number Four.”
She rises, her cool grace a deliberate and mocking contrast to the hot flush of embarrassment she has induced in Wilson. It is an interesting reaction, and a corner of her mind wonders whether it is just normal straight-guy embarrassment about a gay joke or whether her jibe might have hit somewhat closer to home.
Ella looks down at him, eyes still glinting with humor but mouth curved in a genuine smile. “Relax, Jimmy.” Her eyes soften, something else replacing the humor. “Everyone should have one friend they love that much.” With a last smile, she leaves.
----------------------------------------
House tosses the ball from hand to hand meditatively. The set of three oversized, colorful balls had been a gag gift years ago. He’d mocked Wilson one too many times about tennis being a sport for tail-wagging Labradors, all that energetic chasing of a little yellow ball. He keeps one on his desk because he likes watching people try to figure it out. And having something in his hands helps him think. He isn’t good at stillness.
The ball isn’t helping today. His patient is getting sicker by the hour, and he can’t shake the feeling that he has missed something important in the maddeningly unremarkable test results arrayed before him. The stroke-like symptoms defy the clean CT and angio. Eighteen kinds of tests later, all House has to work with is mildly elevated protein in the CSF tap and a faintly low T4 level, both values still within normal limits. Maybe a quick chat with Wilson will jog something loose. He sets the ball down, grabs his cane, and limps purposefully through the balcony door, towards Wilson’s office.
Outside, he pauses. A woman is seated opposite Wilson, talking with him. A patient? She looks around at the click of a pebble thrown against the glass door. Not a patient, but that new hematologist Wilson is so fond of. Their eyes meet briefly, then hers drop to the cane, and linger.
His jaw twitches in a flash of familiar anger.
Her gaze slowly travels up until she meets his eyes again, and a crooked grin lifts her mouth as she turns back to say something to Wilson. Interesting. It has been awhile since House has seen a woman make Wilson blush. She stands, delivers a parting shot, and saunters out.
Wilson edges out from behind the desk and joins House on the balcony.
“Took you long enough. Were you interviewing Mrs. Wilson Number Four?”
Wilson makes an odd, strangled sound, and blushes again. Definitely interesting. “Hardly. You may recall the job is not available, since I’m still married to the current Mrs. Wilson?”
House snorts indelicately. “Not for long if she hears you’re conducting interviews. In broad daylight, no less!”
“That was a hematology consult, not a date.”
House goggles in mock astonishment. “That was a doctor? Surely not. I didn’t see a lab coat. Doesn’t she know Cuddy will send the fashion police if she’s caught without a lab coat?”
Wilson’s eyes flash a smile, though he schools his mouth to sternness. “First of all, Cuddy hasn’t hassled you about the coat since Vogler left. Second, Cuddy would probably never hassle Morgen about not wearing a coat, because unlike you, she knows how to be nice to people. And third, she does wear a coat, but not on her days off. She just stopped in to assess a patient’s suitability for a clinical trial she’s been involved with.”
House leers dramatically. “I wonder what sort of payment she’ll extract for doing you the favor?” It is only half a joke. House can do the math. Wilson’s reluctance to go home last night plus today’s tired eyes equals a man whose marriage is foundering. Granted, Morgen is not Wilson’s usual type - her face is too strong-boned for conventional prettiness, and she appears to be closer to House’s age than to Wilson’s - but the blushing was undeniable. He wonders how long it will be before Julie has papers served, and whether Wilson will show up at his door or at Morgen’s. His, he hopes. He doesn’t think much of a woman smart enough for medicine but dumb enough to make eyes at a man working on his third divorce.
“And why is it,” Wilson retorts, “you never worry about what payment I’ll extract for favors? Since that does seem to be the norm.”
House doesn’t immediately respond. He cocks his head at Wilson, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth as the pieces fall together in his mind. “It does seem to be the norm, doesn’t it? But what if it isn’t? A seemingly normal T4, and a seemingly normal CSF tap. I wonder if Cameron thought to check thyroglobulin or microsomal antibody titers?” He wheels abruptly and heads back inside.
----------------------------------------
Wilson watches House move off in search of a fellow to run new tests, then turns to lean on the balcony wall. House means well, he knows.
The opening arpeggios of the Moonlight Sonata echo soundlessly in his thoughts, haunting him with the memory of Julie’s tears. In his mind, Greg’s hands are at the keyboard.
He remembers getting drunk with House the night before his wedding, remembers promising that this time would be different, that he wouldn’t screw it up. That he’d be worthy of Julie’s trust in him. The gentle - and sometimes not-so-gentle - mocking, the warning jibes about lunches and coffees, the jokes about ties and shoes are House’s way of helping him keep his promise. And he is grateful, he really is. Old habits are hard to break, and he appreciates his friend’s support, the barbed reminders like the snap of a rubber band on his wrist when he has been in danger of sliding back into old patterns.
It isn’t House’s fault that Wilson has managed to be faithful to Julie and still screw it up.
Chapter 4