Paper Faces on Parade (4/14)
Title: Paper Faces on Parade
Author: vampmissedith
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: some canon House/Cuddy and canon Wilson/Sam, but eventual House/Wilson slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own House.
Summary: As House and Wilson try to balance their strained friendship and life with their girlfriends, House treats a neo-Nazi he can't trust.
Thanks to dissonata for all of his help!
Previous Chapter
Chapter Four
Unhappily, House pushed open the door to the differential room and threw the folder onto the table. It slid across it with more force than he’d intended and it slid past Chase and Thirteen slammed a hand down on it to prevent it from flying off the other side. He limped over to the white board and hooked his cane on the top.
He uncapped his black marker and hastily scribbled down the symptoms. The squeak of it sliding across the board made him grind his teeth for a moment, and he thought about Thomas Mueller, sitting on his bed with his family beside him, stroking his shining, bald head and reminiscing about some good ol’ fashioned Jew bashing.
He capped the marker and turned around, staring at his team expectantly. “Vertigo, dizziness, fatigue, and vomiting blood.”
“. . . and which symptom is the swastika supposed to represent?” Taub asked, tone surprisingly nonchalant.
“Oh, yeah. He’s also a neo-Nazi.”
“We’re treating a Nazi?” Chase exclaimed.
“A neo-Nazi. Apparently there’s a world of difference. They’re a peaceful, loving group of hateful racists, who prefer to commit genocide by voting or some other nonsense they tell themselves so they feel better about all the times they slip up and accidentally shove millions of innocent people into stoves.”
“Why are you accepting this case? There’s absolutely nothing interesting about his symptoms, unless the fact he’s a racist and will hate most of your team by principle is remarkable enough to take on a case you’d normally ignore,” Foreman sneered haughtily, glaring at House as if it were somehow his fault that Thomas Mueller worshipped some Austrian with Charlie Chaplin envy.
“He. Spewed. Blood. On my list of interesting symptoms, that’s pretty much near the top. Besides, I didn’t even want to take the case--you have issues treating him take that up with Cuddy. She’s the one who insisted.”
Foreman stood up. “Spewing blood on its own is not interesting enough for you and neither is the fact Cuddy insists, even if you’re dating. If he weren’t a Nazi then you wouldn’t have cared.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “I’m not participating in this.”
“Come on, Foreman, you’ll treat a tyrannical dictator who admits to genocide but not some suburban dentist who admits that fact he has prejudices?”
Foreman shook his head in the haughty, snobby way only he could pull off. “You took in Dibala because of his symptoms. You’re taking this case because he’s a Nazi or because you want to get laid. That‘s not enough of a reason for me.”
“Vertigo and dizziness could be neurological,” House pointed out.
“And I have a conflict of interest,” he informed icily, then strode out of the differential room, the door shutting behind him.
House furrowed his brows, Foreman’s words niggling in his mind more than they should have. Thomas had vomited blood right in front of him; that was enough for him to take the case, even if he hadn’t been a Nazi. Even if him and Cuddy hadn’t been involved. He bit down on his lip for a second, reconsidering for a brief moment. He’d turned down more interesting cases with more fascinating symptoms before.
Thirteen opened the folder and glanced over it, then up at the white board. “Foreman does have a point. As a Nazi, he’s going to hate us all on principle. Taub’s Jewish, Foreman’s black, and I’m bisexual.”
“The fact that your door swings in a more controversial direction isn’t visible--well, unless you start lunching on his wife’s box. And what about Chase here? He’s part of the team and I doubt Tommy Boy will hate him. He’s practically a poster-child for white supremacy. Unless they’ve got something against Aussies.”
Taub raised his eyebrows. “You’re saying I look Jewish?”
“Have you seen your honker? It’s pretty much a dead giveaway. Lemme guess--you’re going to stalk off in righteous indignation too?”
Taub blinked. “And miss the chance I’d have at being able to poke and prod him?”
House couldn’t help but smirk. “I like the way you think. But while you’re thinking, let’s take advantage of it and start diagnosing. What causes vertigo, dizziness, fatigue, and vomiting blood?”
“Vomiting blood is a new symptom,” Chase said aloud, looking over the file Cuddy had given House before the incident in the exam room. “He’s been dealing with the other symptoms longer.”
“Either he coincidentally started puking blood for the first time during an examination or he’s been lying,” Thirteen suggested.
House narrowed his eyes. “He stopped me when I got to the door. Before he could tell me, he showed me. Obviously there was something he wanted to add.” He thought about the fact Thomas applied directly to him in the same month the symptoms presented and how he hadn’t believed him; he thought of him begging him to wait and how visibly nervous he’d been right before he’d vomited. “If he’s omitted vomiting blood then he could be omitting other symptoms.”
“Why would anyone purposely hide symptoms for months?” Thirteen asked.
“You’d know more about that than anyone else in the room,” House said with a pointed stare. There was a brief, almost awkward silence where Thirteen gaped at him and Chase and Taub tried to pretend they weren‘t glancing between them as if awaiting a verbal tennis match. “Thirteen, get his family out of his room. Get them a cup of coffee; try to see if they’ve noticed any symptoms he hasn’t been telling us. Chase, you get the history and Taub, since being there might present you a chance to poke and prod him with sharp implements, you go along and oh yeah, make sure Chase doesn’t accidentally poison him.”
It was Chase’s turn to gape, but he quickly cleared his throat and looked downward, a failed attempt at appearing nonchalant. Nobody noticed, though, and Thirteen dutifully stood and left the room with a nod just as Taub stood. He stuck his hands in his pockets and ambled towards the door slowly, waiting for Chase.
“I’ll be out in a second,” Chase promised as he stood, keeping his eyes on House as Taub left the room.
House sighed and rolled his eyes. “I know. Life’s so unfair. You murder one patient and it’s like nobody ever trusts you again.”
“Why’d you take the case?”
“Because I’ve got a fetish for men with tats. Skedaddle.”
With a small sigh and tiny head shake, Chase walked out of the differential diagnosis room and left House standing in front of the white board, alone. When he turned around and took the cane from off of the white board, he told himself that taking the case hadn’t been that strange, and his team was just being overly critical because Thomas was a Nazi.
* * *
“Do you think the case is interesting enough for House?” Chase asked, lounging against the wall far enough away where the patient and his family wouldn’t know they were watching, but close enough where he could see Thirteen striking up a conversation with the wife. She was very attractive, Nazi or otherwise, but what Chase didn’t understand (along with the Nazi thing) was why she’d be wearing a turtle-neck in this weather.
“I think that trying to understand why House does anything is a Herculean labour best not attempted by mortals,” Taub replied calmly.
“So what you’re saying is that you don’t care that we’re diagnosing a Nazi?” Chase questioned disbelievingly with a stare in his colleague’s direction.
Taub turned a blank expression to him. “We’re doctors. We treat people. Regardless of race, religion, or beliefs, it’s what we do. It isn’t for us to decide who lives and dies.”
“Well, I’m sure he feels similarly,” Chase remarked sarcastically.
“Harsh truth about living in a free country--you have allow people to have differing opinions. If I want to be able to freely deny Jesus Christ as the saviour, then I have to allow him the right to be a racist, prejudicial jerk. And anyway, what makes you think I want to stoop to his level and deny him equal treatment because of what he believes?”
Chase shrugged and looked back through the glass walls at Thirteen, who was leading the wife and son out of the room. “Suppose that makes sense. Come on.” He pushed off the wall when the family and Thirteen turned around the corner and made his way across the hall and to the patient’s room.
Thomas, who had his bed bent so that he could sit comfortably, had a white purse (his wife’s, presumably) in his lap. When he saw them, he smiled and placed the purse on the bedside table. He looked just as Chase would have imagined a Nazi if he ever cared enough to do so. He had broad shoulders, toned arms, was bald, and had a scar on the right side of his head. Perhaps the vertigo, dizziness, and fatigue could be explained by some massive head trauma but it didn’t explain vomiting blood, and judging by how old the scar looked it wouldn’t explain how recent his symptoms had presented, unless he was lying about that, too.
“I’m Doctor Chase and this is Doctor Taub,” Chase introduced, smiling politely as they approached his bed. Surprisingly Thomas smiled genuinely at the both of them and gave them a slight nod in greeting. “We’re here to conduct a medical history.”
“Everything of relevance should be on my file,” he replied, looking between them as they stood at the foot of his bed.
“Well, we like to be thorough,” Chase explained with a quick smile of his own. “So, when exactly did your symptoms present? Early January, some time before that . . . ?”
“I’ve told Doctor House they started in January.”
Taub plucked the chart from the foot of his bed. “The vomiting blood started then too or is that coincidentally new?” he asked, sounding only slightly condescending.
Chase took the charts from Taub when he handed them over and looked. Thomas Jeremiah Mueller, forty-five (although Chase would’ve pegged him for fifty) and his symptoms were the only things written down on it. Well, the vagueness could’ve been interesting; perhaps House had been attracted to the patient by the fact he was so clearly hiding something. Perhaps that was the mystery. Except, for a patient, that really wasn’t interesting enough. Everybody lied and omitted; so why not take every case presented? Perhaps Cuddy had more of an influence on him that Chase had previously thought.
He glanced up at Thomas, who was staring at Taub. “Are you Jewish?”
“My big honker gave that away?” Taub mocked, raising his eyebrows at him as if daring him to say something.
Thomas chuckled and Chase replaced the chart on the bed and took a step closer to Taub and a little in front of him. “Doctor Hadley took my family out of here for coffee just moments before you two step in, and he did all the talking. The blonde haired, blue-eyed, non-Jewish looking doctor. The nose didn’t help any.”
Chase hummed, impressed. “You’re perceptive.”
“No, I’m a neo-Nazi. I got used to people walking on eggshells around me ages ago,” he murmured, looking at his lap and biting down on his lip. “You don’t need to worry about me. It’s mostly my wife who . . . Honestly, I don’t actually care.”
“Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that,” Taub responded, gesturing at Thomas’ chest.
Thomas chuckled humourlessly, eyes still resolutely lowered. It would have been silent, if not for the fact his heart rate picked up slightly, the beeping coming in just slightly faster. Chase instinctively checked his BP. “I fell in love with a Jew when I was in med school. I haven’t believed any of this for . . . a long time,” he revealed quietly, head still bowed so Chase could really only see the shine of his bald head.
The news came as a shock and judging by the fact Taub and him exchanged glances, he wasn’t the only one surprised. “Well,” Chase started slowly, looking back to their patient, who was still looking at his knees, and his BP elevated a fraction, “regardless of your beliefs, or . . . rather, lack thereof, we still need an accurate medical history if you want a proper diagnosis. So . . . When did all the symptoms present?”
Thomas looked up at them, although he mostly focused on Taub, whose expression was unreadable, then he swallowed audibly. “They started last October. It’s . . . when I noticed them. Can’t say for sure how long they’d been going on; everybody gets light-headed.”
Chase sighed. “And the vomiting blood?”
“I’d say . . . August. Only once. Maybe twice in September. Didn’t start happening recurrently until early November.”
“Any other symptoms you think we ought to know about?” Chase asked, eyeing the monitor as his BP finally lowered. Probably related to stress or nerves, then.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you sure? It’s all right. It’s nothing we haven’t heard before.”
Thomas smiled genuinely. “I’m sure.”
Taub and Chase glanced at each other; if he could lie about being a Nazi and hide not only the symptoms but when they started, how would they be able to trust anything he said? They have to wait and see if Thirteen had gleaned anything from the family. “Right. Is there . . . history of any neurological diseases in your family? Cancer?”
“My father had cancer.” He cleared his throat and looked between them quickly. “I expect the doctor-patient confidentiality prevents you from telling my family . . . what I told you?” he inquired carefully, soft eyes hardening and voice hitting a harsh note since the first time they’d entered.
Chase nodded. “We won’t say anything.”
* * *
House supposed that sleeping in his office chair was possible and probably better, seeing as he had a case and all, but if his team hadn’t figured out to check Wilson’s office in his absence then they were stupid anyway. Besides, Wilson’s couch was more comfortable and he was hanging on to the irrational hope that maybe they were dumb enough to bypass Wilson’s office altogether when the patient started coding. Perhaps that was lazy of him, but he’d never really had any false delusions of his flaws anyway, and besides, how could they expect him to save the poor patient when his kidney exploded if he was too tired to function?
Knowing that Wilson wouldn’t mind, he used Wilson’s coat as a pillow, punched it into a nice, fluffy square, and snuggled deep into his makeshift bed, the scent of watermelon shampoo surrounding him and reminding him that Wilson was probably a woman in disguise. Would that make him kissing Sam girl-on-girl action then? House could maybe go for that.
That was when the door opened and a stream of hallway light hit him right in the retina, he let out a loud, petulant groan.
Thirteen switched on the light, one eyebrow raised and a smug smirk on her face. “Sorry to interrupt your nap, but Sarah decided that she was done talking with me.”
“Who?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing his thigh, glaring at her just to make sure she knew he was blaming her for the twinge of pain.
“The patient’s wife. I took her down to the cafeteria for some coffee. I couldn’t get anything new out of her. She kept mentioning that we had everything we needed in the file, and that she didn’t appreciate us treating her husband like a liar. Nathaniel--”
“Wait, I thought the patient’s name was Teddy?”
“It’s Thomas. Nathaniel is their son. Nathaniel kept asking her to get a soda out of the vending machine but the mother insisted she was not going to let him flirt around with one of his father’s doctors. She . . . didn’t seem altogether pleasant. Nothing new, except that she prefers tea over coffee. That source is tapped--we’re not getting anything from them.”
House sighed and grabbed his cane from where it had been resting against the arm of the couch. “Hopefully Taub and Chase will have a font of something other than nothing,” he said as he stood out of the couch, ignoring her obvious eye-roll. “While I’ve got you alone, there’s something we need to discuss.”
“No, I’m sorry, but I don’t date my employers,” he quipped casually, shooting off a quick smile and looping her thumbs through her belt loops.
He scoffed. “Do you always use humour to deflect in uncomfortable situations?”
“Well, I had to eventually learn something from you, didn’t I?”
“Do I need to start looking for a new employee?” he asked, getting right into her personal space. She blinked rapidly and her eyes shifted around the room quickly before she took a step back and folded her arms. “I give you the time off. I cut some of your hours. You’re still unfocused. I need to know if you’re planning on putting in your two weeks because I’d rather get a head start on replacing you. Not a lot of hot, dying bisexuals with medical degrees to go around, and I’ve kinda got attached to your politically correct stripe of colour in our rainbow.”
She’d left the door open so he could see the fact the elevator doors were opening and Taub and Chase were exiting. She glanced behind her, probably clued in to the fact someone was coming because House had looked at them, and then swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“Convenient,” he muttered just before Taub and Chase walked in.
“What’re you two doing in here?” Chase asked, face scrunched up in confusion.
House shrugged. “Well, we were planning on hiding the body here and framing Wilson, but that just won’t do with witnesses, now will it? What did you learn?”
They both spoke at the exact same time, then cut off and looked at each other. Taub sighed. “He lied about the symptoms,” he said slowly. “And also, he fell in love with a Jew.”
“Good going, Taub. Guess what they say about big noses isn’t a myth.” Taub sighed and rolled his eyes. “What about the symptoms?”
Chase took a step forward. “He started experiencing most of the symptoms in late October; the vomiting blood started in August, but he said it didn’t become recurrent ‘til November and his dad had cancer; nothing else medically relevant. I’m not sure how accurate this is, though--I mean, if he can lie to his family about being a Nazi then who knows what else he’ll lie about?”
“Yeah, right, if you even believe him,” Taub muttered.
“What? You don’t think he fell in love with her?” Chase asked, as if not believing him was completely out of the question.
“I think he doesn’t want to piss off the people who control what goes in and out of his body until we figure out what’s wrong with him.”
“He said he fell in love with her in med school. Why would he lie about that?” Chase illogically pointed out.
“Why would he lie about when the symptoms presented?” House rebuffed, ignoring the slightly smug smirk on Taub’s behalf. “He’s a dentist; he didn’t go to medical school. He went to dental school. He’s obsessed with image. Introduces himself as Doctor Mueller; mentions something about medical school. Dresses like Daddy Warbucks and whitens his teeth to the point it might blind someone.” He waited a beat, then bit down on his lip. “But I believe he fell for her.”
“What? You, the person with the bleakest view on love in this room suddenly believes that this--this Nazi fell in love with some Jewish girl?” Taub asked almost harshly.
“I just told you he’s obsessed with image. When I asked him to take off his shirt, he got all atwitter with shyness. He didn’t want me to see the swastika. He’s ashamed of it when he’s not ashamed to boast about everything else.”
“How is this medically relevant?” Thirteen asked just as Wilson stepped into his office.
Wilson looked at House’s team with all the interest of watching paint dry, then sighed, shaking his head while he peeled off his lab coat. “I’ll be needing my jacket, House,” he said calmly, sticking out his hand and making a come-hither gesture with his fingers.
House picked up the coat that he’d been using as a pillow and handed it over to Wilson. Wilson blindly reached for it, still eyeing the team casually, and his fingers gripped House’s, holding them still. His brown eyes ticked away from Thirteen and locked onto him, warmth spreading through House’s arm and hitting his chest for some inexplicable reason. An accidental touch wasn’t anything new or exciting; especially not for them. How many times had their hands brushed while just walking? Two months’ abstinence from touching Wilson must have brought on the realization of each touch full-force.
House pulled his hand free. “What isn’t relevant? He’s a Nazi who fell for a Jew. How could that not spark your interest?” he belatedly answered. Thirteen was looking at House as if he’d said something in a foreign language and she’d almost understood it.
“What?” Wilson stared at House.
“You need me to repeat that? A Nazi fell in love with a Jew. Disney could make some cute, animated tripe with songs and dancing, but Uncle Walt was an anti-Semite. Who knew?”
Wilson shook the hand not holding his jacket. “W-wait a minute. You took the Mueller case?”
“Did you see Cuddy hand me any other files?” he retorted, and his hand tingled from where Wilson had touched him.
“The dizziness, vertigo, and fatigue one? The uninteresting one?” he pointed out, staring at House strangely.
“Come on; differential time. Can’t do that in Wilson’s office, now can we?” With that, he strode out of Wilson’s office and as his team followed him in triangular formation he inwardly smirked at how well he’d trained them.
“House--wait--” Wilson called and House looked over his shoulder to see Wilson following them.
“Vertigo, dizziness, vomiting blood and fatigue since October--go,” he demanded when he pushed open the glass door.
“Why would he lie about when they presented though?” Chase asked.
“Why are we focusing on the why behind the lie when we should be focusing on . . .” House began, then stared at the white board, at the big, bold swastika on it, and the symptoms. He thought over what had happened in the exam room then sucked on his bottom lip a bit as his team settled in around the table in their usual spots. “They presented before he moved,” he muttered, mainly to himself, just as the door opened again, a slight huff signalling Wilson’s entrance.
“He moved?” Taub said, probably the only person who had heard him since he was sitting the closest.
House hooked his cane over the top of the white board and grabbed the black marker. He wrote ‘Arizona’ down in all capitals and then faced his team (and Wilson, although House was ignoring him at the moment). “He said he moved here from Arizona in December. He lied about when the symptoms presented because he wanted us to think he didn’t have them before he moved.”
“His wife said he applied six times since January--he never went anywhere in Arizona for it,” Thirteen realized aloud, thinking along the same lines as House was.
He bit down on his lip. “This isn’t about him receiving the best care. He wanted me. Specifically. He moved to New Jersey for me to take his case,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. It wasn’t the first time people had travelled long distance for his care, but why lie about it? Was he embarrassed to need help? Was he hiding something?
“Death camas,” Wilson stated and everybody turned to stare at him. Wilson looked unfazed by the attention and just stuck his hands in his pockets casually. “It’s a plant that’s part of the lily family. Native to the western states. Its looks like a wild, edible onion. Even just one or two bulbs can cause symptoms--if he picked some, brought them along . . . ?”
“Picked enough for seven months?” House stated in disbelief.
“Maybe he likes to cook. Well, and marsh marigolds are edible, but large quantities could . . .” He gestured at the white board and realized that everyone was staring at him strangely. “What? I enjoy cooking. If you’d stayed with the cooking class, House, you’d have learned all about the dangers of inappropriate ingredients and food poisoning. You might have actually found the morbid side of it fascinating.”
“It . . . could be eugenol oil poisoning,” Taub suggested, turned in his seat so he could read the white board. “When I was a plastic surgeon, we had a few orthodontists and dentists on staff for facial reconstruction, teeth whitening . . . It’s from cloves; they use it to reduce pain.”
House nodded. “He was a dentist--”
“Orthodontist,” Thirteen interjected. “His wife was really adamant about that.”
“Whatever. He was an orthodontist in Arizona too and probably picked up the habit there. Trying to escape from his fascist lie of a life. Wouldn’t take much to start using it here, too. All right. Chase, Thirteen--you search his house. Taub, you search his workplace. Make sure he hasn’t been sucking down poison.”
The sound of the chairs scraping back across the floor echoed as they stood, all leaving to do their assigned tasks, and even when the door swished shut behind them, Wilson stayed put, hands still in his pockets and still staring at House in the annoyingly knowing way of his; as if House could say absolutely anything and it wouldn’t shock him because he somehow already knew.
“Why did you take the case, House?” Wilson asked quietly after a moment of silence.
“Why’d you bring your coat in the middle of summer?” he retaliated.
Wilson shrugged. “Well, Sam might find it strange if I start bringing a pillow to work,” he explained with a one-armed shrug. Although a dry sense of sarcasm tainted his words, House realized Wilson hadn’t started bringing his coat to work until the fourth time House had napped on his couch. “Why did you take the case?” he repeated more firmly.
House scoffed and rolled his eyes, taking the cane. “What does it matter? I thought you’d be jumping for joy at the fact the ice prison surrounding my heart suddenly thawed and turned me into an altruistic, loving person,” he remarked sarcastically, limping through the door that led into his office, Wilson following.
“Ah, but that would imply I believed there was a prison of ice to begin with.”
“Right. You just thought I was always a nurturing, caring soul.”
“No, but I’m not stupid enough to think you took this case on because of your naturally caring demeanour,” he replied smoothly and House sat down in his chair, narrowing his eyes irritatingly at Wilson, who stood in front of his desk with his arms now folded across his chest and stance a little wide.
House sighed. “The guy vomited blood all over the linoleum after he brandished his swastika tat. What’s not interesting about that?”
“I just . . . you’ve been taking more cases lately and honestly, I’m not complaining. It’s good. But . . . I just want to make sure you’re taking them for the right reasons.”
“The right reason being . . . ?”
Wilson shifted his weight and looked downward for a second before clearing his throat. “Because it’s interesting.”
“Which leads us back to what isn’t interesting about--”
He dropped his arms from his chest and placed them on his hips, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “You had no idea he would vomit blood during the exam. Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t have even done the exam in the first place. And now, what? Because he vomited blood? He lies?”
“He lied about being an amoral, fascist-worshipping racist.”
“Everybody lies, House. And vomiting blood could be an ulcer; you and I--and probably your entire team--know that.”
“What does it matter why I took the damn case?” House snapped.
Wilson, used to House snapping at him, didn’t react. “Because your judgment works because it’s yours. Allowing someone else to interfere with what cases you take, what tests you do, how to think--House, there’s a reason why you’re the doctor and she’s the Dean.”
House clenched his jaw and then pressed his mouth to the curve of his cane. He looked at the desk; his wall; the computer monitor. He scratched the top of his eyebrow with one fingernail and then glanced at Wilson’s chest before staring at the desk again. “I’m . . . not sure I can ever be fixed. But she treats me like I can,” he admitted so quietly he wondered if his voice hadn’t carried far enough for Wilson to hear.
“No, she treats you like you should,” Wilson stated almost waspishly.
House scoffed and glared at him. “Like you’re the one to talk, Wilson.”
“No, don’t--don’t throw that in my face, House. I asked you to change your Vicodin intake. I never expected you to compromise your mind, your--your sense of self or--”
“Yeah, well, while we’re on the subject of how damn perfect and saintly you are, let’s not forget to bring up the fact you’ve barely talked to me since you kicked me out of the loft to make room for your girlfriend, so how the hell would you know anything about Cuddy?” she shouted.
Wilson closed his eyes against the assault and shifted his weight onto his other foot again, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He remained still for a long while, staring at the carpet, and he sucked in his bottom lip for a split second. One hand left his hip and went to the back of his neck and he rubbed, still refusing to remove his eyes from the floor.
After a long second, Wilson turned around and left the door, his head bowed.
House stared at his still tingling fingers.
Next Chapter
* * *
Before I forget--I did study neo-Nazism on the American Nazi Party site and talk to a former neo-Nazi before posting this. So, just in case somebody isn't aware . . . which I do doubt . . . they still pretty much hate everything.
Author: vampmissedith
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: some canon House/Cuddy and canon Wilson/Sam, but eventual House/Wilson slash.
Disclaimer: I do not own House.
Summary: As House and Wilson try to balance their strained friendship and life with their girlfriends, House treats a neo-Nazi he can't trust.
Thanks to dissonata for all of his help!
Previous Chapter
Chapter Four
Unhappily, House pushed open the door to the differential room and threw the folder onto the table. It slid across it with more force than he’d intended and it slid past Chase and Thirteen slammed a hand down on it to prevent it from flying off the other side. He limped over to the white board and hooked his cane on the top.
He uncapped his black marker and hastily scribbled down the symptoms. The squeak of it sliding across the board made him grind his teeth for a moment, and he thought about Thomas Mueller, sitting on his bed with his family beside him, stroking his shining, bald head and reminiscing about some good ol’ fashioned Jew bashing.
He capped the marker and turned around, staring at his team expectantly. “Vertigo, dizziness, fatigue, and vomiting blood.”
“. . . and which symptom is the swastika supposed to represent?” Taub asked, tone surprisingly nonchalant.
“Oh, yeah. He’s also a neo-Nazi.”
“We’re treating a Nazi?” Chase exclaimed.
“A neo-Nazi. Apparently there’s a world of difference. They’re a peaceful, loving group of hateful racists, who prefer to commit genocide by voting or some other nonsense they tell themselves so they feel better about all the times they slip up and accidentally shove millions of innocent people into stoves.”
“Why are you accepting this case? There’s absolutely nothing interesting about his symptoms, unless the fact he’s a racist and will hate most of your team by principle is remarkable enough to take on a case you’d normally ignore,” Foreman sneered haughtily, glaring at House as if it were somehow his fault that Thomas Mueller worshipped some Austrian with Charlie Chaplin envy.
“He. Spewed. Blood. On my list of interesting symptoms, that’s pretty much near the top. Besides, I didn’t even want to take the case--you have issues treating him take that up with Cuddy. She’s the one who insisted.”
Foreman stood up. “Spewing blood on its own is not interesting enough for you and neither is the fact Cuddy insists, even if you’re dating. If he weren’t a Nazi then you wouldn’t have cared.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “I’m not participating in this.”
“Come on, Foreman, you’ll treat a tyrannical dictator who admits to genocide but not some suburban dentist who admits that fact he has prejudices?”
Foreman shook his head in the haughty, snobby way only he could pull off. “You took in Dibala because of his symptoms. You’re taking this case because he’s a Nazi or because you want to get laid. That‘s not enough of a reason for me.”
“Vertigo and dizziness could be neurological,” House pointed out.
“And I have a conflict of interest,” he informed icily, then strode out of the differential room, the door shutting behind him.
House furrowed his brows, Foreman’s words niggling in his mind more than they should have. Thomas had vomited blood right in front of him; that was enough for him to take the case, even if he hadn’t been a Nazi. Even if him and Cuddy hadn’t been involved. He bit down on his lip for a second, reconsidering for a brief moment. He’d turned down more interesting cases with more fascinating symptoms before.
Thirteen opened the folder and glanced over it, then up at the white board. “Foreman does have a point. As a Nazi, he’s going to hate us all on principle. Taub’s Jewish, Foreman’s black, and I’m bisexual.”
“The fact that your door swings in a more controversial direction isn’t visible--well, unless you start lunching on his wife’s box. And what about Chase here? He’s part of the team and I doubt Tommy Boy will hate him. He’s practically a poster-child for white supremacy. Unless they’ve got something against Aussies.”
Taub raised his eyebrows. “You’re saying I look Jewish?”
“Have you seen your honker? It’s pretty much a dead giveaway. Lemme guess--you’re going to stalk off in righteous indignation too?”
Taub blinked. “And miss the chance I’d have at being able to poke and prod him?”
House couldn’t help but smirk. “I like the way you think. But while you’re thinking, let’s take advantage of it and start diagnosing. What causes vertigo, dizziness, fatigue, and vomiting blood?”
“Vomiting blood is a new symptom,” Chase said aloud, looking over the file Cuddy had given House before the incident in the exam room. “He’s been dealing with the other symptoms longer.”
“Either he coincidentally started puking blood for the first time during an examination or he’s been lying,” Thirteen suggested.
House narrowed his eyes. “He stopped me when I got to the door. Before he could tell me, he showed me. Obviously there was something he wanted to add.” He thought about the fact Thomas applied directly to him in the same month the symptoms presented and how he hadn’t believed him; he thought of him begging him to wait and how visibly nervous he’d been right before he’d vomited. “If he’s omitted vomiting blood then he could be omitting other symptoms.”
“Why would anyone purposely hide symptoms for months?” Thirteen asked.
“You’d know more about that than anyone else in the room,” House said with a pointed stare. There was a brief, almost awkward silence where Thirteen gaped at him and Chase and Taub tried to pretend they weren‘t glancing between them as if awaiting a verbal tennis match. “Thirteen, get his family out of his room. Get them a cup of coffee; try to see if they’ve noticed any symptoms he hasn’t been telling us. Chase, you get the history and Taub, since being there might present you a chance to poke and prod him with sharp implements, you go along and oh yeah, make sure Chase doesn’t accidentally poison him.”
It was Chase’s turn to gape, but he quickly cleared his throat and looked downward, a failed attempt at appearing nonchalant. Nobody noticed, though, and Thirteen dutifully stood and left the room with a nod just as Taub stood. He stuck his hands in his pockets and ambled towards the door slowly, waiting for Chase.
“I’ll be out in a second,” Chase promised as he stood, keeping his eyes on House as Taub left the room.
House sighed and rolled his eyes. “I know. Life’s so unfair. You murder one patient and it’s like nobody ever trusts you again.”
“Why’d you take the case?”
“Because I’ve got a fetish for men with tats. Skedaddle.”
With a small sigh and tiny head shake, Chase walked out of the differential diagnosis room and left House standing in front of the white board, alone. When he turned around and took the cane from off of the white board, he told himself that taking the case hadn’t been that strange, and his team was just being overly critical because Thomas was a Nazi.
* * *
“Do you think the case is interesting enough for House?” Chase asked, lounging against the wall far enough away where the patient and his family wouldn’t know they were watching, but close enough where he could see Thirteen striking up a conversation with the wife. She was very attractive, Nazi or otherwise, but what Chase didn’t understand (along with the Nazi thing) was why she’d be wearing a turtle-neck in this weather.
“I think that trying to understand why House does anything is a Herculean labour best not attempted by mortals,” Taub replied calmly.
“So what you’re saying is that you don’t care that we’re diagnosing a Nazi?” Chase questioned disbelievingly with a stare in his colleague’s direction.
Taub turned a blank expression to him. “We’re doctors. We treat people. Regardless of race, religion, or beliefs, it’s what we do. It isn’t for us to decide who lives and dies.”
“Well, I’m sure he feels similarly,” Chase remarked sarcastically.
“Harsh truth about living in a free country--you have allow people to have differing opinions. If I want to be able to freely deny Jesus Christ as the saviour, then I have to allow him the right to be a racist, prejudicial jerk. And anyway, what makes you think I want to stoop to his level and deny him equal treatment because of what he believes?”
Chase shrugged and looked back through the glass walls at Thirteen, who was leading the wife and son out of the room. “Suppose that makes sense. Come on.” He pushed off the wall when the family and Thirteen turned around the corner and made his way across the hall and to the patient’s room.
Thomas, who had his bed bent so that he could sit comfortably, had a white purse (his wife’s, presumably) in his lap. When he saw them, he smiled and placed the purse on the bedside table. He looked just as Chase would have imagined a Nazi if he ever cared enough to do so. He had broad shoulders, toned arms, was bald, and had a scar on the right side of his head. Perhaps the vertigo, dizziness, and fatigue could be explained by some massive head trauma but it didn’t explain vomiting blood, and judging by how old the scar looked it wouldn’t explain how recent his symptoms had presented, unless he was lying about that, too.
“I’m Doctor Chase and this is Doctor Taub,” Chase introduced, smiling politely as they approached his bed. Surprisingly Thomas smiled genuinely at the both of them and gave them a slight nod in greeting. “We’re here to conduct a medical history.”
“Everything of relevance should be on my file,” he replied, looking between them as they stood at the foot of his bed.
“Well, we like to be thorough,” Chase explained with a quick smile of his own. “So, when exactly did your symptoms present? Early January, some time before that . . . ?”
“I’ve told Doctor House they started in January.”
Taub plucked the chart from the foot of his bed. “The vomiting blood started then too or is that coincidentally new?” he asked, sounding only slightly condescending.
Chase took the charts from Taub when he handed them over and looked. Thomas Jeremiah Mueller, forty-five (although Chase would’ve pegged him for fifty) and his symptoms were the only things written down on it. Well, the vagueness could’ve been interesting; perhaps House had been attracted to the patient by the fact he was so clearly hiding something. Perhaps that was the mystery. Except, for a patient, that really wasn’t interesting enough. Everybody lied and omitted; so why not take every case presented? Perhaps Cuddy had more of an influence on him that Chase had previously thought.
He glanced up at Thomas, who was staring at Taub. “Are you Jewish?”
“My big honker gave that away?” Taub mocked, raising his eyebrows at him as if daring him to say something.
Thomas chuckled and Chase replaced the chart on the bed and took a step closer to Taub and a little in front of him. “Doctor Hadley took my family out of here for coffee just moments before you two step in, and he did all the talking. The blonde haired, blue-eyed, non-Jewish looking doctor. The nose didn’t help any.”
Chase hummed, impressed. “You’re perceptive.”
“No, I’m a neo-Nazi. I got used to people walking on eggshells around me ages ago,” he murmured, looking at his lap and biting down on his lip. “You don’t need to worry about me. It’s mostly my wife who . . . Honestly, I don’t actually care.”
“Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that,” Taub responded, gesturing at Thomas’ chest.
Thomas chuckled humourlessly, eyes still resolutely lowered. It would have been silent, if not for the fact his heart rate picked up slightly, the beeping coming in just slightly faster. Chase instinctively checked his BP. “I fell in love with a Jew when I was in med school. I haven’t believed any of this for . . . a long time,” he revealed quietly, head still bowed so Chase could really only see the shine of his bald head.
The news came as a shock and judging by the fact Taub and him exchanged glances, he wasn’t the only one surprised. “Well,” Chase started slowly, looking back to their patient, who was still looking at his knees, and his BP elevated a fraction, “regardless of your beliefs, or . . . rather, lack thereof, we still need an accurate medical history if you want a proper diagnosis. So . . . When did all the symptoms present?”
Thomas looked up at them, although he mostly focused on Taub, whose expression was unreadable, then he swallowed audibly. “They started last October. It’s . . . when I noticed them. Can’t say for sure how long they’d been going on; everybody gets light-headed.”
Chase sighed. “And the vomiting blood?”
“I’d say . . . August. Only once. Maybe twice in September. Didn’t start happening recurrently until early November.”
“Any other symptoms you think we ought to know about?” Chase asked, eyeing the monitor as his BP finally lowered. Probably related to stress or nerves, then.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you sure? It’s all right. It’s nothing we haven’t heard before.”
Thomas smiled genuinely. “I’m sure.”
Taub and Chase glanced at each other; if he could lie about being a Nazi and hide not only the symptoms but when they started, how would they be able to trust anything he said? They have to wait and see if Thirteen had gleaned anything from the family. “Right. Is there . . . history of any neurological diseases in your family? Cancer?”
“My father had cancer.” He cleared his throat and looked between them quickly. “I expect the doctor-patient confidentiality prevents you from telling my family . . . what I told you?” he inquired carefully, soft eyes hardening and voice hitting a harsh note since the first time they’d entered.
Chase nodded. “We won’t say anything.”
* * *
House supposed that sleeping in his office chair was possible and probably better, seeing as he had a case and all, but if his team hadn’t figured out to check Wilson’s office in his absence then they were stupid anyway. Besides, Wilson’s couch was more comfortable and he was hanging on to the irrational hope that maybe they were dumb enough to bypass Wilson’s office altogether when the patient started coding. Perhaps that was lazy of him, but he’d never really had any false delusions of his flaws anyway, and besides, how could they expect him to save the poor patient when his kidney exploded if he was too tired to function?
Knowing that Wilson wouldn’t mind, he used Wilson’s coat as a pillow, punched it into a nice, fluffy square, and snuggled deep into his makeshift bed, the scent of watermelon shampoo surrounding him and reminding him that Wilson was probably a woman in disguise. Would that make him kissing Sam girl-on-girl action then? House could maybe go for that.
That was when the door opened and a stream of hallway light hit him right in the retina, he let out a loud, petulant groan.
Thirteen switched on the light, one eyebrow raised and a smug smirk on her face. “Sorry to interrupt your nap, but Sarah decided that she was done talking with me.”
“Who?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing his thigh, glaring at her just to make sure she knew he was blaming her for the twinge of pain.
“The patient’s wife. I took her down to the cafeteria for some coffee. I couldn’t get anything new out of her. She kept mentioning that we had everything we needed in the file, and that she didn’t appreciate us treating her husband like a liar. Nathaniel--”
“Wait, I thought the patient’s name was Teddy?”
“It’s Thomas. Nathaniel is their son. Nathaniel kept asking her to get a soda out of the vending machine but the mother insisted she was not going to let him flirt around with one of his father’s doctors. She . . . didn’t seem altogether pleasant. Nothing new, except that she prefers tea over coffee. That source is tapped--we’re not getting anything from them.”
House sighed and grabbed his cane from where it had been resting against the arm of the couch. “Hopefully Taub and Chase will have a font of something other than nothing,” he said as he stood out of the couch, ignoring her obvious eye-roll. “While I’ve got you alone, there’s something we need to discuss.”
“No, I’m sorry, but I don’t date my employers,” he quipped casually, shooting off a quick smile and looping her thumbs through her belt loops.
He scoffed. “Do you always use humour to deflect in uncomfortable situations?”
“Well, I had to eventually learn something from you, didn’t I?”
“Do I need to start looking for a new employee?” he asked, getting right into her personal space. She blinked rapidly and her eyes shifted around the room quickly before she took a step back and folded her arms. “I give you the time off. I cut some of your hours. You’re still unfocused. I need to know if you’re planning on putting in your two weeks because I’d rather get a head start on replacing you. Not a lot of hot, dying bisexuals with medical degrees to go around, and I’ve kinda got attached to your politically correct stripe of colour in our rainbow.”
She’d left the door open so he could see the fact the elevator doors were opening and Taub and Chase were exiting. She glanced behind her, probably clued in to the fact someone was coming because House had looked at them, and then swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“Convenient,” he muttered just before Taub and Chase walked in.
“What’re you two doing in here?” Chase asked, face scrunched up in confusion.
House shrugged. “Well, we were planning on hiding the body here and framing Wilson, but that just won’t do with witnesses, now will it? What did you learn?”
They both spoke at the exact same time, then cut off and looked at each other. Taub sighed. “He lied about the symptoms,” he said slowly. “And also, he fell in love with a Jew.”
“Good going, Taub. Guess what they say about big noses isn’t a myth.” Taub sighed and rolled his eyes. “What about the symptoms?”
Chase took a step forward. “He started experiencing most of the symptoms in late October; the vomiting blood started in August, but he said it didn’t become recurrent ‘til November and his dad had cancer; nothing else medically relevant. I’m not sure how accurate this is, though--I mean, if he can lie to his family about being a Nazi then who knows what else he’ll lie about?”
“Yeah, right, if you even believe him,” Taub muttered.
“What? You don’t think he fell in love with her?” Chase asked, as if not believing him was completely out of the question.
“I think he doesn’t want to piss off the people who control what goes in and out of his body until we figure out what’s wrong with him.”
“He said he fell in love with her in med school. Why would he lie about that?” Chase illogically pointed out.
“Why would he lie about when the symptoms presented?” House rebuffed, ignoring the slightly smug smirk on Taub’s behalf. “He’s a dentist; he didn’t go to medical school. He went to dental school. He’s obsessed with image. Introduces himself as Doctor Mueller; mentions something about medical school. Dresses like Daddy Warbucks and whitens his teeth to the point it might blind someone.” He waited a beat, then bit down on his lip. “But I believe he fell for her.”
“What? You, the person with the bleakest view on love in this room suddenly believes that this--this Nazi fell in love with some Jewish girl?” Taub asked almost harshly.
“I just told you he’s obsessed with image. When I asked him to take off his shirt, he got all atwitter with shyness. He didn’t want me to see the swastika. He’s ashamed of it when he’s not ashamed to boast about everything else.”
“How is this medically relevant?” Thirteen asked just as Wilson stepped into his office.
Wilson looked at House’s team with all the interest of watching paint dry, then sighed, shaking his head while he peeled off his lab coat. “I’ll be needing my jacket, House,” he said calmly, sticking out his hand and making a come-hither gesture with his fingers.
House picked up the coat that he’d been using as a pillow and handed it over to Wilson. Wilson blindly reached for it, still eyeing the team casually, and his fingers gripped House’s, holding them still. His brown eyes ticked away from Thirteen and locked onto him, warmth spreading through House’s arm and hitting his chest for some inexplicable reason. An accidental touch wasn’t anything new or exciting; especially not for them. How many times had their hands brushed while just walking? Two months’ abstinence from touching Wilson must have brought on the realization of each touch full-force.
House pulled his hand free. “What isn’t relevant? He’s a Nazi who fell for a Jew. How could that not spark your interest?” he belatedly answered. Thirteen was looking at House as if he’d said something in a foreign language and she’d almost understood it.
“What?” Wilson stared at House.
“You need me to repeat that? A Nazi fell in love with a Jew. Disney could make some cute, animated tripe with songs and dancing, but Uncle Walt was an anti-Semite. Who knew?”
Wilson shook the hand not holding his jacket. “W-wait a minute. You took the Mueller case?”
“Did you see Cuddy hand me any other files?” he retorted, and his hand tingled from where Wilson had touched him.
“The dizziness, vertigo, and fatigue one? The uninteresting one?” he pointed out, staring at House strangely.
“Come on; differential time. Can’t do that in Wilson’s office, now can we?” With that, he strode out of Wilson’s office and as his team followed him in triangular formation he inwardly smirked at how well he’d trained them.
“House--wait--” Wilson called and House looked over his shoulder to see Wilson following them.
“Vertigo, dizziness, vomiting blood and fatigue since October--go,” he demanded when he pushed open the glass door.
“Why would he lie about when they presented though?” Chase asked.
“Why are we focusing on the why behind the lie when we should be focusing on . . .” House began, then stared at the white board, at the big, bold swastika on it, and the symptoms. He thought over what had happened in the exam room then sucked on his bottom lip a bit as his team settled in around the table in their usual spots. “They presented before he moved,” he muttered, mainly to himself, just as the door opened again, a slight huff signalling Wilson’s entrance.
“He moved?” Taub said, probably the only person who had heard him since he was sitting the closest.
House hooked his cane over the top of the white board and grabbed the black marker. He wrote ‘Arizona’ down in all capitals and then faced his team (and Wilson, although House was ignoring him at the moment). “He said he moved here from Arizona in December. He lied about when the symptoms presented because he wanted us to think he didn’t have them before he moved.”
“His wife said he applied six times since January--he never went anywhere in Arizona for it,” Thirteen realized aloud, thinking along the same lines as House was.
He bit down on his lip. “This isn’t about him receiving the best care. He wanted me. Specifically. He moved to New Jersey for me to take his case,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. It wasn’t the first time people had travelled long distance for his care, but why lie about it? Was he embarrassed to need help? Was he hiding something?
“Death camas,” Wilson stated and everybody turned to stare at him. Wilson looked unfazed by the attention and just stuck his hands in his pockets casually. “It’s a plant that’s part of the lily family. Native to the western states. Its looks like a wild, edible onion. Even just one or two bulbs can cause symptoms--if he picked some, brought them along . . . ?”
“Picked enough for seven months?” House stated in disbelief.
“Maybe he likes to cook. Well, and marsh marigolds are edible, but large quantities could . . .” He gestured at the white board and realized that everyone was staring at him strangely. “What? I enjoy cooking. If you’d stayed with the cooking class, House, you’d have learned all about the dangers of inappropriate ingredients and food poisoning. You might have actually found the morbid side of it fascinating.”
“It . . . could be eugenol oil poisoning,” Taub suggested, turned in his seat so he could read the white board. “When I was a plastic surgeon, we had a few orthodontists and dentists on staff for facial reconstruction, teeth whitening . . . It’s from cloves; they use it to reduce pain.”
House nodded. “He was a dentist--”
“Orthodontist,” Thirteen interjected. “His wife was really adamant about that.”
“Whatever. He was an orthodontist in Arizona too and probably picked up the habit there. Trying to escape from his fascist lie of a life. Wouldn’t take much to start using it here, too. All right. Chase, Thirteen--you search his house. Taub, you search his workplace. Make sure he hasn’t been sucking down poison.”
The sound of the chairs scraping back across the floor echoed as they stood, all leaving to do their assigned tasks, and even when the door swished shut behind them, Wilson stayed put, hands still in his pockets and still staring at House in the annoyingly knowing way of his; as if House could say absolutely anything and it wouldn’t shock him because he somehow already knew.
“Why did you take the case, House?” Wilson asked quietly after a moment of silence.
“Why’d you bring your coat in the middle of summer?” he retaliated.
Wilson shrugged. “Well, Sam might find it strange if I start bringing a pillow to work,” he explained with a one-armed shrug. Although a dry sense of sarcasm tainted his words, House realized Wilson hadn’t started bringing his coat to work until the fourth time House had napped on his couch. “Why did you take the case?” he repeated more firmly.
House scoffed and rolled his eyes, taking the cane. “What does it matter? I thought you’d be jumping for joy at the fact the ice prison surrounding my heart suddenly thawed and turned me into an altruistic, loving person,” he remarked sarcastically, limping through the door that led into his office, Wilson following.
“Ah, but that would imply I believed there was a prison of ice to begin with.”
“Right. You just thought I was always a nurturing, caring soul.”
“No, but I’m not stupid enough to think you took this case on because of your naturally caring demeanour,” he replied smoothly and House sat down in his chair, narrowing his eyes irritatingly at Wilson, who stood in front of his desk with his arms now folded across his chest and stance a little wide.
House sighed. “The guy vomited blood all over the linoleum after he brandished his swastika tat. What’s not interesting about that?”
“I just . . . you’ve been taking more cases lately and honestly, I’m not complaining. It’s good. But . . . I just want to make sure you’re taking them for the right reasons.”
“The right reason being . . . ?”
Wilson shifted his weight and looked downward for a second before clearing his throat. “Because it’s interesting.”
“Which leads us back to what isn’t interesting about--”
He dropped his arms from his chest and placed them on his hips, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “You had no idea he would vomit blood during the exam. Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t have even done the exam in the first place. And now, what? Because he vomited blood? He lies?”
“He lied about being an amoral, fascist-worshipping racist.”
“Everybody lies, House. And vomiting blood could be an ulcer; you and I--and probably your entire team--know that.”
“What does it matter why I took the damn case?” House snapped.
Wilson, used to House snapping at him, didn’t react. “Because your judgment works because it’s yours. Allowing someone else to interfere with what cases you take, what tests you do, how to think--House, there’s a reason why you’re the doctor and she’s the Dean.”
House clenched his jaw and then pressed his mouth to the curve of his cane. He looked at the desk; his wall; the computer monitor. He scratched the top of his eyebrow with one fingernail and then glanced at Wilson’s chest before staring at the desk again. “I’m . . . not sure I can ever be fixed. But she treats me like I can,” he admitted so quietly he wondered if his voice hadn’t carried far enough for Wilson to hear.
“No, she treats you like you should,” Wilson stated almost waspishly.
House scoffed and glared at him. “Like you’re the one to talk, Wilson.”
“No, don’t--don’t throw that in my face, House. I asked you to change your Vicodin intake. I never expected you to compromise your mind, your--your sense of self or--”
“Yeah, well, while we’re on the subject of how damn perfect and saintly you are, let’s not forget to bring up the fact you’ve barely talked to me since you kicked me out of the loft to make room for your girlfriend, so how the hell would you know anything about Cuddy?” she shouted.
Wilson closed his eyes against the assault and shifted his weight onto his other foot again, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He remained still for a long while, staring at the carpet, and he sucked in his bottom lip for a split second. One hand left his hip and went to the back of his neck and he rubbed, still refusing to remove his eyes from the floor.
After a long second, Wilson turned around and left the door, his head bowed.
House stared at his still tingling fingers.
Next Chapter
* * *
Before I forget--I did study neo-Nazism on the American Nazi Party site and talk to a former neo-Nazi before posting this. So, just in case somebody isn't aware . . . which I do doubt . . . they still pretty much hate everything.