Paper Faces on Parade (5/14)
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 Five
It had been about a half hour since his little outburst in his office, but House was hungry and Wilson was conveniently in the cafeteria and with a few exceptions, neither of them had ever really held grudges over a tiny argument before. Besides, House had conveniently forgotten to care that his wallet was in his back pocket and he had no intention of buying food, so he was planning on filching. Seeing as most doctors, nurses, or patients’ family members would’ve objected to a cranky guy with a cane randomly stealing their fries, he decided he could look past Wilson’s grave miscalculation on when he should open his mouth and grace him with his presence.
He saw Wilson’s familiar frame, slumped over his plate. He tapped Wilson’s shoulder as he passed behind him so Wilson looked in the wrong direction and wasn’t facing the opposite side of the table until House unceremoniously plopped into the seat.
“House,” Wilson stated as if shocked at his appearance.
“Wilson,” House mocked.
They stared at each other for a second, then Wilson cleared his throat and looked at the paperwork he had sitting beside his plate of food. “I see you’re just enthralled by your patient’s entirely interesting symptoms. So invested are you that instead of sitting here and staring at me blankly you are actually running a tox screen and checking his system for, well, potentially lethal ingested food or diabolical cloves.”
“And you’re exhausting your ability at memorizing thesauruses.” He smirked when Wilson pinched his lips into a thin smile. “I’m waiting until after lunch to test him.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I need my vitamins,” he replied and stole one of Wilson’s fries. Truth was, he didn’t really feel like meeting with the patient and having to talk with the family and actually connect to Nazi Guy. “Unlike Teddy--”
“Thomas,” Wilson corrected habitually.
“Don’t care. Unlike him, I know I’m not going to keel over and die all because I ate a bad onion. Here’s an interesting thought--maybe his wife is poisoning him.”
Wilson rolled his eyes and looked briefly at his paperwork. “Only you could say that with a note of glee in your voice.”
“Why would they pick boatloads of poisonous onions--”
“Death camas.”
“--and put them in their food and only one person gets sick?”
“Here’s a thought--why would it take months when she could’ve killed him in weeks without detection? She’s not poisoning him, House.”
“Seriously? She’s a Nazi and you’re still delving deep into her soul to find goodwill and love?”
“As far as she knows, he’s a Nazi too. Why kill your own breed?”
House shrugged. “She’s a domineering bitch. Maybe he shrunk her shirt in the wash.”
Wilson scoffed and shook his head, but smiled thinly and looked away from his paperwork. “You’ve talked to her less than five minutes and you’ve already figured out this woman’s personality?” He clicked his pen and then signed something lazily, blindly reaching for his Reuben sandwich.
“I’m a good judge of character,” House boasted, then took another fry as Wilson took a large bite and chewed, a small fleck of sauce on the side of his mouth. House smirked at the thought of one of Wilson’s patients staring across the desk at his mouth, too polite to embarrass the good, kind Doctor Wilson by telling him. “Everybody lies about something. About liking Star Wars or never smoking pot. You lied to your wives about working late and they still found out.”
“Because I felt guilty and told them,” he reminded.
“They were suspicious before you said anything,” House pointed out and Wilson nodded once to concede his point. “Lying about a belief is different than how many people you’ve had sex with or no, honey, you don’t look fat in that dress. The bigger the lie, the harder it is to keep it wrapped up. He talked to my team for thirty seconds before he blabbed about his torrid love affair with Anne Frank.”
Wilson clicked his pen again and bit down on his lip. He looked House in the eyes and visibly held his breath. “House . . .” He looked at his plate, sighed then looked back at him, still clicking his pen nervously. “House, in your office--what I said--I never should have--”
“Wilson,” he interrupted and Wilson’s mouth closed with a snap, but his thumb didn’t stop pressing the button on the end of his pen. Click. Clickity click-click. Click, click, click. “It’s fine. Don’t even mention it,” he brushed off casually and stole a fry.
“House--”
“No, really. Don’t mention it,” he ordered seriously, then munched on the fry.
Wilson nodded and looked past House, but not in a way that made him think he was looking at something in particular, still clicking his damn pen. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick--
“Would you stop that?” House demanded, then grabbed for the pen with his left. He missed and instead he enveloped Wilson’s hand, larger and squarer than his; warmer, too, by the feel of it. Although, were he to be honest, it wasn’t entirely accidental. He hadn’t had the intent of doing it although he had been curious about the way their touch earlier had affected him, and the opportunity had presented itself.
House didn’t look at Wilson’s face, but he could feel his gaze. He stroked the vein in Wilson’s wrist with his thumb, then slid his fingers up the pen before tugging it free. His palm was strangely warm and there was some pressure in his chest area. He ignored both symptoms and waggled the pen temptingly.
Wilson sat rigidly, like preparing to bolt, then he leant across the desk cautiously, as if expecting an attack. House pulled the pen an inch further away right before he grabbed it. Wilson lifted his eyebrows and dropped his chin a little and House just smirked.
At this angle and closeness, the smudge of sauce on the side of Wilson’s lip was right in front of his eyes, and House almost laughed when he thought of one of Wilson’s patients wiping her own mouth and clearing her throat in an attempt to convey the message.
Wilson swiped at his pen again but House jerked it to the side.
“House, just giv--”
“You have sauce on your face,” he informed haughtily, staring at his mouth. Well, not at his mouth. At the sauce. Which looked tasty and was close enough for House to lick. Not that he was considering that or anything.
Wilson’s tongue snuck out and wiped the corner clean, the small, pink muscle glistening and House tilted his head. Wilson, from an objective point of view, had nice lips.
Wilson was sitting across from House nonchalantly and signing his paperwork before House realized he’d managed to take his pen back. House’s stomach fluttered from lack of food, obviously for no other reason, and he grabbed Wilson’s Reuben sandwich.
House watched Wilson, noticing the slight pink tint to his cheeks, and then Wilson frowned, furrowing his brows. He looked at House. “Maybe it’s Münchausens By Proxy. She keeps him sick so he can’t leave the house,” Wilson offered.
“Yeah, ‘cause God forbid he meets one of your people and catches The Jew. It’s contagious, you know.”
“Or maybe he slipped up, like you said. She knows about his . . . past,” he suggested lightly, eyebrows narrowed in thought still.
House took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich and chewed, watching as Wilson tapped his own lip with his pen. He clicked it once, stared at House warily, then clicked it several times in succession with a small smirk on his face. “Okay, now you’re just doing it on purpose,” House accused after he swallowed his mouthful of half-assed cooking.
Wilson chuckled then put the pen down. “Enjoying my sandwich?”
“You should cook more often and leave it in the staff fridge,” House told him, placing the sandwich back on the plate and taking a fry. “And leave those funny little anecdotes on them, too.”
“Anecdotes? I’m telling you to keep your hands off; not doing stand-up.”
“You should give that a try though--the stand-up. ‘Cause the fact you actually think I pay attention to your Post-Its is enough to make anybody laugh.”
Wilson’s objectively-nice mouth curved slightly as he shook his head. “You take them because I use the Post-Its.”
“Which would imply you use the Post-Its because you want me to take them,” House replied intelligently. When Wilson didn’t say anything he knew he had won, and stole another fry in victory.
When he stood out of the chair, Wilson looked up at him. “Where are you going?”
“To go test Nazi Guy. Wanna come?”
Wilson blinked. “I’m busy, House.”
“Aw, come on. I’ll let you take the blood sample. Poking him could be cathartic.”
“I’m not a sadist.”
“It’s the whole reason why Taub didn’t righteously storm off,” he persuaded, prodding Wilson in the shin with his cane and pouting, his bottom lip stuck out exaggeratedly.
Wilson barely glanced at House, then stared back at his paperwork. “Darn, I’m still busy with this paperwork. I’ll have to join you in on stabbing your patient some other time.” He scritched his name down with a flourish, obviously aware of the fact House was still watching him.
“You’re so busy you decide to leave your office and do paperwork? If you were that busy you would’ve ate in your office; not brought it down here. You only bring your paperwork down here when you’re not busy but hungry and you think I won’t join you,” he pointed out.
Wilson sighed and tossed the pen down and looked up at him. “You know, most people would be appalled and a little disturbed to find out you study their eating habits and obsess over everything they do.”
“Luckily for me, my best friend is pathologically attracted to people who are so needy they obsess. Admit it--you just don’t want to be in the same room as Terry.”
“Thomas, and can you blame me?”
“I’m more Jewish than you are,” House complained. “Come do tests with me. I’m bored and you have nothing better to do.”
“You’re more Jewish than--? Oh, that doesn’t even make sense,” he grumbled, then flipped a page over, shaking his head.
“Hey, I’m dating a Jew. I get some cred for that. Now come on.”
“I’m not going.”
So House did what any other mature adult would have done. He grabbed Wilson’s paperwork, whacked him on the shin when Wilson reached for it instinctively, and limped as quickly as he could out of the cafeteria.
He rushed down the halls to see Wilson hurrying after him. Nurses and doctors stepped aside and rolled their eyes. By now, they must have been used to his crazy shenanigans. He thought it was funny until he glimpsed Cuddy, staring at him with her mouth dropped open and her hands on her hips, apparently stopping short in her conversation with some loser in a blue suit. She started clacking her way over to him and he made a run for the elevators, his thigh stinging with each footfall.
When he made it to his destination, he pounded the call button furiously, willing for Wilson to catch up before Cuddy, and the elevator door almost immediately slid open, indicating it had been on the floor already.
House slid in and pulled the paperwork back seeing as Wilson had thrust inside too, hands reaching for it wildly, and a repressed grin on his face. “House, don’t be a child, just hand it over!” he ordered with a laugh, and House lifted it as high as he could, using his height against Wilson.
“House!” Cuddy shrieked as she neared the elevator, Blue Suit in tow.
House prodded the Close Door button with his cane, smirking at his girlfriend’s face and knowing he would catch hell for it in a moment, but he was having fun and he wasn’t in the mood to have her get all professional and ruin it.
“House!” she yelled through the doors as he banged the floor he needed and slipped away from Wilson, going to the other side, still waving the papers tauntingly.
“Well, there went your chances of getting any tonight,” Wilson noted as he lunged for the papers and House side-stepped to avoid the barrelling dork of an oncologist.
“Oh, I’m sure I can change her--hey!” House snapped when Wilson managed to grab House’s wrist a bit painfully.
He pulled and Wilson tugged; House dropped his hold when he felt the side of the paper bite into his skin and he didn’t want to get a paper cut. Wilson glanced at the fluttering papers and made to grab them and House, never one to lose without putting up a fight, pushed Wilson away a bit more roughly then he’d intended (and Wilson was a bit of a klutz) so he wind milled briefly and then clutched House’s arms, somehow thinking his crippled friend could support his weight.
Luckily for them both, Wilson was right in front of a wall and hit it awkwardly, House accidentally jamming his cane right in his gut so he grunted and Wilson’s hand, which had clutched House’s arm, slipped up and knocked him in the jaw.
“Ouch! God, beating on a cripple, what kind of man are you?” House joked through a chuckle and Wilson laughed, although judging by the odd scoff he made he’d been fighting it.
His laughter seemed to break the odd tension that had been hovering between them lately, like old enemies at a high school reunion, and House started laughing too, muscles slightly weak from the euphoric feeling. He leaned his forearm against the wall above Wilson’s head, feeling Wilson’s chuckles and air against his mouth and his hand holding his shoulder, as if using it to support his weight.
Wilson’s laughter died, turning into one last, deep chuckle, and House felt his heart clench. His forearm still rested against the wall, but this was the first time he really noticed how close their faces were. He felt pressure on his hip and realized Wilson’s free hand was touching him there; the other hand was still on his shoulder. Wilson’s Adam’s apple bobbed and House tilted his head, fingers tightening around the curve of his cane when his breath hitched against his will.
The elevator shuddered to a stop and House pulled away casually. Wilson fell to his knees, scrambling to get his papers in order. The doors opened and House blinked as two people entered at the same time Wilson stood, holding his papers.
Instinctively he stepped beside Wilson as the other two stood at the other side, talking in hushed tones. Their shoulders bumped and the sides of their hands brushed; Wilson cleared his throat and shifted his weight, but his hand knocked House’s again, almost insistently. Swallowing, House shifted closer and touched his hand again. Touching was normal. They always touched--well, they did before they both started dating others. What wasn’t normal was how they reacted to it; awkwardness, lingering tingling and warmth. House figured it was just because it had returned after a period of absence.
The next stop was theirs, or rather his but he was forcing Wilson to come along, so when the elevator stopped and the doors opened, House grabbed the tip of Wilson’s paperwork and raised his cane threateningly. Wilson chuckled airily and sighed, pulling the papers free easily. “You’re an ass,” he groaned, then followed House out of the elevator door.
“And you’re a pushover.”
“I think I prefer the term enabler.”
“I thought you were through with enabling me?”
“And yet . . .” Wilson murmured as they walked alongside each other, closer than they were the day before but still further than before Sam and Cuddy. “You know, normally, you wouldn’t even be doing the tox screen or blood tests.”
“So why were you harping on me to do them?”
“I always harp on you to do your job. You don’t ever actually listen.”
“And yet . . .” House mocked. “I’d have my team do it for me, but interesting fact, they aren’t here. And I would wait for them to come back, but then I wouldn’t get to be an asshole to a Nazi and watch how my best buddy tries to psychoanalyze the patient’s self-loathing behaviour and masochism by getting involved with Yentl.”
“So this was all some elaborate scheme to get me to talk with your patient so you could . . . watch how I interact with him?”
“He was alone with me and he still spouted off all his Nazi propaganda. He only spouted off his life story when Taub walked in. You’re Jewish; maybe he’ll actually be honest about everything else he’s hiding so I can actually get a diagnosis. She must’ve been a damn good lay if twenty years later he trusts Jews more than us normal folk.” He could see his patient’s room now and watch his family through the windows and he sped up his pace now that he could see his destination.
Wilson slowed down and House managed to walk a few feet ahead before he noticed Wilson had fully stopped. He turned around to see Wilson looking over House’s shoulder, his jaw set determinedly and hands clenched tightly around his paperwork, crinkling the corner he held. They were only a few feet from his patient’s door and Wilson had paled somewhat.
House rolled his eyes and scoffed. “I won’t let them hurt you,” he promised in his best patronizing tone.
Wilson blinked rapidly. “Right. No. Of course. You wouldn’t--yes. I’m fine,” he spluttered, then started walking again.
“Seriously, Wilson. I won’t let them hurt you,” he repeated firmly, no hint of sarcasm in his tone.
House walked into the room first, Wilson following silently. Thomas was fishing through his wife’s purse when he looked at House and then his gaze ticked over to Wilson. He stopped looking for whatever it was he needed and silently handed the purse over to his wife, who took it with a glare in House’s direction. Their son was sitting in a visitor’s chair, one leg draped over the arm while he watched House curiously.
“All righty then--Reich One and Two, I need some privacy with Reich Three so get a move on.”
Predictably, the wife let out a scoff and looked him over with a sneer etched on her face. “Anything you need to tell my husband you can say in front of us,” she insisted, blinking rapidly.
“Well, since you’re neither his guardian or proxy, legally I can kick you out so vamoose.” She scoffed and reared her head back, her snarl deepening as her eyes roved over his body again. “I’m going to stick my fingers up your husband’s asshole and nudge his prostate. Get. Out.”
“I can be here for emotional support--”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality!” he called out like it was the winning answer in a game show competition. “If I say you leave, then you leave. Take it up with the Dean if you have an issue.”
“Well, then, why don’t we just ask my husband if he’s okay with me being in here for emotional support,” she stated through clenched teeth and then turned to face him, her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised halfway up her forehead.
House turned to share a look with Wilson (who was at his shoulder) and roll his eyes, but Wilson wasn’t reciprocating. He was instead staring at Thomas and House sighed--before Sam and Cuddy, they would’ve looked at each other at the same time. They weren’t even on the same wavelength anymore. He sighed again and tapped his cane against the floor. With the wife staring at Thomas that way and the fact she obviously controlled the household, there was no way he’d get alone time with the husband to suss out anything else he might be keeping from them. Well, and get the blood and urine samples.
The wife (Sandra? Sally?) continued to stare at Thomas, who was staring at House and Wilson. She waited and then she smacked his shoulder. “What?” he asked harshly, staring at her in confusion and rubbing his arm.
“Dude, Mom, I don’t wanna sit ‘round here and watch my dad get finger-waved. Let’s leave,” he suggested, scratching his shaggy mane of blonde hair.
“Well, Nathaniel, you can leave. I’ll stay.”
“I wouldn’t want more people than necessary watching me get a finger in my ass. Come on, let’s try and not embarrass Dad. No dude wants his wife watching him get rectally inserted.” He stood out of the chair and grabbed his mom’s arm’s gently and tugged her a little.
House narrowed his eyes and watched as the son met his gaze. Before he could really interpret his expression, his mother pulled her arm free and sighed, looking at Thomas although she was obviously swayed by her son.
“We won’t be far, Thomas,” she promised, then walked out of the room swiftly, their son following and giving a last, long look at his dad before shutting the door.
House looked at Wilson and gestured at the windows. “Close the blinds,” he ordered and Wilson blinked, nodded, then went directly to the blinds just as House moved to stand at the edge of his patient’s bed.
Thomas waited until Wilson was standing by House to clear his throat. “You’re thinking prostate cancer?” he asked.
“No, I’m thinking you like to metaphorically screw yourself so I thought I’d try for the literal sense. Don’t worry, though. Doctor Wilson here has loads of experience with anal insertion--also, he’s just your type. Jewish.”
“House,” Wilson warned, his voice getting slightly raspy in the way it sometimes did when he was uncomfortable with the direction the topic was going.
House glared at Wilson, then back at Thomas. “We’re not checking your prostate. I just needed your family out of the room in case you wanted to tell us something you wouldn’t want them overhearing. Such as, oh . . . unprotected sex with loads of non-blonde, non-blue eyed, non-Aryan women who most likely don’t bother telling you their life stories before you take ‘em back to your place and re-enact a more erotic version of Schindler’s List.”
Thomas looked between House and Wilson, then blinked. “There’s nothing I need to tell you that would be diagnostically relevant.”
“Which is basically a big ol’ hardy ‘yep’ to the unprotected sex department.”
“I don’t cheat on my wife.”
“Yeah, sure,” House muttered sarcastically with a glance at Wilson, who met his gaze calmly.
Wilson cleared his throat. “I’ll go get what we need,” he said, then turned around.
He made it halfway to the door before House caught up with him, grabbing his arm to prevent him from leaving. Wilson glanced at the hand curled tightly around his upper arm, then at House’s face. He tugged feebly just once, and House lowered his chin. “Wilson. I need you,” he said, his voice lower than he’d intended and it could have been taken the wrong way if he didn’t elaborate. “The chance of him opening up to a Jew is more likely than to me. You know that.”
“And you’re great at sussing out lies,” he pointed out before tugging his arm free. “I’ll only be gone for a few minutes, House. I’m sure you’ll do fine.” With that he left the room quickly and House stared at the door.
With a sigh, he turned around and looked at Thomas, who was staring at his lap. House glanced at his heart monitor--it was beeping a little quicker. House scratched the side of his face and walked closer to the bed. “Yeah, I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have told him you like to kill God’s chosen people in your spare time.”
“I’ve never killed anybody,” Thomas insisted, meeting House eyes and looking offended.
“Hmm, don’t care. What I do care about is why you’d lie about vomiting blood and when the symptoms presented. You wanted to be treated by me--specifically. Why?”
Thomas sighed. “I can afford the best. You are the best.”
“Yeah, but I’m also half the country away. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
Thomas sighed and stared at the ceiling, and unless House was mistaken (which he never was) he had moisture in his eyes. He rubbed his hand along his face, then looked at his lap again, cheeks shining with wet tears. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, then down his face, and covered his mouth for awhile.
House scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t actually have all day, unless you want Doctor Wilson to hear. Unlike me, he’ll probe and analyze and make you hold hands with your inner child. Me? I’ll just mock you, tell you why you’re an idiot, but I won’t make you examine your feelings and try to make you find peace with your pathetic lie of a life. I’ll tell him whatever you say later, naturally, but at least you won’t have to endure his Peter Pan pose and listen to him lecture.”
“Is he your friend?”
“Is this relevant?”
“You want to know something about me . . . “
“Oh, God. Quid pro quo,” he moaned with an eye-roll so heavy his head moved with it. “What do you want to know about me? What about me is so interesting you’d pack up your family and move across the country without even going to other doctors?”
Thomas’ Adam’s apple bobbed. He took in a shaky breath and his BP increased slightly. “Look, I’m a Nazi.”
“No you’re not.”
“As far as anyone is concerned,” Thomas corrected with a slight glare, “I’m a Nazi. Most people don’t like Nazis. You have a reputation for not caring about the personal life of your patients unless its medically relevant. In fact, I heard you don’t even like to talk to them half the time. You don’t care about how I live my life. I wouldn’t have to deal with the snide remarks. I wouldn’t have to deal with the prejudice.”
“You’re ashamed of what you are, but you put it on display. Is this some sort of forced poetic justice? Grandpappy made Jews sew a star on their vests so you have to tattoo a mark on your body? You know everybody hates Nazis, you aren’t one, but you say you are anyway. You get the tattoo, you marry the blonde bimbo, you raise your son in that lifestyle . . . you hate yourself so you think you deserve everyone else hating you. You want everybody to believe your lie. Unless it’s a doctor. Why? You deal with prejudice everyday and even encourage it. So unless you suddenly decided to give a crap about people hating you . . .”
He sighed and rubbed his brows. After he scratched the side of his face looked around the room fleetingly, he sighed again and nodded. “My father had cancer and he . . . was also a Nazi. His oncologist was rude. The entire time he went through radiation, he not only had to deal with his sickness, but snide comments and judgmental nurses. It . . . came back two years later. He died the second time and nobody cared. His original oncologist wouldn’t put him on his caseload again; we had to find someone else. If he’d found someone sooner . . .”
“He probably would have died anyway. Boo hoo. You made your bed; you have to lie in it. You dragged your family halfway across the country to have someone hold your hand and play mommy? Well, then, you picked the wrong guy. I don’t have a reputation for being nice.”
The door opened and Wilson stepped in, smiling wanly. “I’m back,” he announced and shut the door.
“Great,” House chirped, then grabbed the urine sample cup. “You get to take the blood.”
* * *
Pressing his cane against his mouth was soothing and helped him think under normal circumstances, but it wasn’t really working. Thomas urinated just fine and willingly gave his blood. Apparently he was scared of needles and his heart monitor beeped quicker when Wilson approached but after some soothing words and a brief hand squeeze (House very nearly retched, but he’d seen Wilson calm down a kicking and screaming child before giving him a tetanus shot so he had to take what he could get) but other than that everything went fine.
Except he didn’t believe for a second Thomas was telling him everything. There were no chemicals in his blood and his urine was clean except for some pain killers and alcohol. He’d already lied once about symptoms and if he could lie to his family about his beliefs, he could lie to people he didn’t even know about anything.
The door pushed open. “They don’t carry eugenol oil,” Taub sighed as a greeting.
Chase and Thirteen walked in beside him and they all shared a look.
“Did you all go together?” House asked, looking at each of them in confusion.
“Cuddy called me,” Taub said.
“That’s absolutely fascinating, but since my girlfriend doesn’t have a history of cheating--”
“She called us, too,” Thirteen interrupted, her thumbs sliding into her belt loops. “She wanted to make sure we weren’t doing anything illegal.”
“We told her we were going out to lunch together and we forget to clock out. So we met up halfway and drove here together,” Taub explained.
“Did she believe you?”
“Probably not,” Chase answered with a shrug. “In any case, we didn’t find anything. They like herbal tea and Ibuprofen. He does have a few medical magazines stashed in his room, but not enough for him to have any subscriptions or anything. We thought it was weird that the patient has loads of books on Zen and finding your inner peace--eastern philosophy, a book on medicinal herbs . . .”
“And unless one of those books is titled By The Way, This Is What I’m Lying About I don’t care. We all know he has issues with his Nazi life and doesn’t believe any of that crap. So he dabbles in Buddhism--tries to find something he does care about so he can cuddle that abstract thought at night while he curls up beside his cold, unfeeling bitch of a wife. I did a urine and blood test. He’s clean.”
“You did a urine--” Chase began.
“Yeah yeah, I know, I’m being out-of-character,” he muttered as he pushed out of the chair, leaning heavily on his cane while he leg throbbed. “So he studies meditation, Zen, inner peace--he’s stressed. Add that to the Ibuprofen he probably downs because of the headaches he gets from all the nagging his domineering wife does, and you’ve got ulcers.”
He limped towards the door, but Thirteen stepped in the way. “Ulcers doesn’t explain the vertigo, the dizziness . . .”
“No, but lying does. He knows I don’t take uninteresting cases. Vomiting blood isn’t all that fascinating on its own. Or maybe, here’s a thought, that’s a symptom of stress too. He’s stressed so he doesn’t sleep, ergo he gets light-headed. Interesting fact--vertigo, dizziness, and fatigue all sound far cooler than ‘oh, I get a little light-headed sometimes.’ Chase, give him an endoscopy to confirm. Since he’s vomiting blood, that means he’ll need a surgery to repair his stomach.”
With that he pushed past them and left his office.
* * *
The door burst open with a blast and House strode into her office. “You called my team,” he spat.
Cuddy sighed and rubbed her temples. “Your team was missing.”
“Oh, wow! Imagine that! I had my team searching for toxins for my case. I don’t know what that says to you, but to me that says you need to back off and let my fellows do their damn jobs.” He stopped right in front of her desk and glared, his blue eyes wide and intense.
“I also assumed that your team broke the law in order to search for these toxins. I can’t have your people breaking into people’s homes--”
“They’ve always broken into people’s homes!”
“. . . while a donor who is considering donating to your department is in the building, especially after the little display you put on earlier today with Wilson,” she explained calmly, her voice even and perhaps a little condescending, like one would use with a child.
“Don’t patronize me. It’s none of his damn business where my team is--as far as he’s concerned, they are on a two hour lunch break. You don’t need to interrupt them; you could just lie, like you did last night. I’m not going to change my methods just because I’m dating you, so stop holding your breath,” he snapped, then spun on his heel and started limping away quickly.
She clenched her jaw. “House,” she halted, raising her voice loud enough to make him stop. Although he stopped, he continued to face the door so all she could see was his back. “The donor wants to talk to you tomorrow in your office. Nine o’ clock, so don’t be late.”
She watched as he shifted his weight onto his left foot and tilted his back so she could see the top of his head. When his fingers curled around the curve of his cane tighter so his knuckles whitened she felt guilt fill her chest, dripping into her stomach like some sort of bile.
“I don’t like talking to donors,” he finally said, shifting his weight again.
“I know. But you need the money,” she told him softly, knowing her guilt was showing through her voice.
“You need the money for your reputation so people can’t say you’re just keeping me here for my good looks,” he accused. “I didn’t need it before; I don’t need it now. Don’t try to kid yourself.” When he slipped out of her office, Cuddy had no idea whether he had agreed or denied, but she knew he wasn’t going to give her anything more than what he already had.
Next Chapter
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!
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Chapter Five
It had been about a half hour since his little outburst in his office, but House was hungry and Wilson was conveniently in the cafeteria and with a few exceptions, neither of them had ever really held grudges over a tiny argument before. Besides, House had conveniently forgotten to care that his wallet was in his back pocket and he had no intention of buying food, so he was planning on filching. Seeing as most doctors, nurses, or patients’ family members would’ve objected to a cranky guy with a cane randomly stealing their fries, he decided he could look past Wilson’s grave miscalculation on when he should open his mouth and grace him with his presence.
He saw Wilson’s familiar frame, slumped over his plate. He tapped Wilson’s shoulder as he passed behind him so Wilson looked in the wrong direction and wasn’t facing the opposite side of the table until House unceremoniously plopped into the seat.
“House,” Wilson stated as if shocked at his appearance.
“Wilson,” House mocked.
They stared at each other for a second, then Wilson cleared his throat and looked at the paperwork he had sitting beside his plate of food. “I see you’re just enthralled by your patient’s entirely interesting symptoms. So invested are you that instead of sitting here and staring at me blankly you are actually running a tox screen and checking his system for, well, potentially lethal ingested food or diabolical cloves.”
“And you’re exhausting your ability at memorizing thesauruses.” He smirked when Wilson pinched his lips into a thin smile. “I’m waiting until after lunch to test him.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I need my vitamins,” he replied and stole one of Wilson’s fries. Truth was, he didn’t really feel like meeting with the patient and having to talk with the family and actually connect to Nazi Guy. “Unlike Teddy--”
“Thomas,” Wilson corrected habitually.
“Don’t care. Unlike him, I know I’m not going to keel over and die all because I ate a bad onion. Here’s an interesting thought--maybe his wife is poisoning him.”
Wilson rolled his eyes and looked briefly at his paperwork. “Only you could say that with a note of glee in your voice.”
“Why would they pick boatloads of poisonous onions--”
“Death camas.”
“--and put them in their food and only one person gets sick?”
“Here’s a thought--why would it take months when she could’ve killed him in weeks without detection? She’s not poisoning him, House.”
“Seriously? She’s a Nazi and you’re still delving deep into her soul to find goodwill and love?”
“As far as she knows, he’s a Nazi too. Why kill your own breed?”
House shrugged. “She’s a domineering bitch. Maybe he shrunk her shirt in the wash.”
Wilson scoffed and shook his head, but smiled thinly and looked away from his paperwork. “You’ve talked to her less than five minutes and you’ve already figured out this woman’s personality?” He clicked his pen and then signed something lazily, blindly reaching for his Reuben sandwich.
“I’m a good judge of character,” House boasted, then took another fry as Wilson took a large bite and chewed, a small fleck of sauce on the side of his mouth. House smirked at the thought of one of Wilson’s patients staring across the desk at his mouth, too polite to embarrass the good, kind Doctor Wilson by telling him. “Everybody lies about something. About liking Star Wars or never smoking pot. You lied to your wives about working late and they still found out.”
“Because I felt guilty and told them,” he reminded.
“They were suspicious before you said anything,” House pointed out and Wilson nodded once to concede his point. “Lying about a belief is different than how many people you’ve had sex with or no, honey, you don’t look fat in that dress. The bigger the lie, the harder it is to keep it wrapped up. He talked to my team for thirty seconds before he blabbed about his torrid love affair with Anne Frank.”
Wilson clicked his pen again and bit down on his lip. He looked House in the eyes and visibly held his breath. “House . . .” He looked at his plate, sighed then looked back at him, still clicking his pen nervously. “House, in your office--what I said--I never should have--”
“Wilson,” he interrupted and Wilson’s mouth closed with a snap, but his thumb didn’t stop pressing the button on the end of his pen. Click. Clickity click-click. Click, click, click. “It’s fine. Don’t even mention it,” he brushed off casually and stole a fry.
“House--”
“No, really. Don’t mention it,” he ordered seriously, then munched on the fry.
Wilson nodded and looked past House, but not in a way that made him think he was looking at something in particular, still clicking his damn pen. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick--
“Would you stop that?” House demanded, then grabbed for the pen with his left. He missed and instead he enveloped Wilson’s hand, larger and squarer than his; warmer, too, by the feel of it. Although, were he to be honest, it wasn’t entirely accidental. He hadn’t had the intent of doing it although he had been curious about the way their touch earlier had affected him, and the opportunity had presented itself.
House didn’t look at Wilson’s face, but he could feel his gaze. He stroked the vein in Wilson’s wrist with his thumb, then slid his fingers up the pen before tugging it free. His palm was strangely warm and there was some pressure in his chest area. He ignored both symptoms and waggled the pen temptingly.
Wilson sat rigidly, like preparing to bolt, then he leant across the desk cautiously, as if expecting an attack. House pulled the pen an inch further away right before he grabbed it. Wilson lifted his eyebrows and dropped his chin a little and House just smirked.
At this angle and closeness, the smudge of sauce on the side of Wilson’s lip was right in front of his eyes, and House almost laughed when he thought of one of Wilson’s patients wiping her own mouth and clearing her throat in an attempt to convey the message.
Wilson swiped at his pen again but House jerked it to the side.
“House, just giv--”
“You have sauce on your face,” he informed haughtily, staring at his mouth. Well, not at his mouth. At the sauce. Which looked tasty and was close enough for House to lick. Not that he was considering that or anything.
Wilson’s tongue snuck out and wiped the corner clean, the small, pink muscle glistening and House tilted his head. Wilson, from an objective point of view, had nice lips.
Wilson was sitting across from House nonchalantly and signing his paperwork before House realized he’d managed to take his pen back. House’s stomach fluttered from lack of food, obviously for no other reason, and he grabbed Wilson’s Reuben sandwich.
House watched Wilson, noticing the slight pink tint to his cheeks, and then Wilson frowned, furrowing his brows. He looked at House. “Maybe it’s Münchausens By Proxy. She keeps him sick so he can’t leave the house,” Wilson offered.
“Yeah, ‘cause God forbid he meets one of your people and catches The Jew. It’s contagious, you know.”
“Or maybe he slipped up, like you said. She knows about his . . . past,” he suggested lightly, eyebrows narrowed in thought still.
House took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich and chewed, watching as Wilson tapped his own lip with his pen. He clicked it once, stared at House warily, then clicked it several times in succession with a small smirk on his face. “Okay, now you’re just doing it on purpose,” House accused after he swallowed his mouthful of half-assed cooking.
Wilson chuckled then put the pen down. “Enjoying my sandwich?”
“You should cook more often and leave it in the staff fridge,” House told him, placing the sandwich back on the plate and taking a fry. “And leave those funny little anecdotes on them, too.”
“Anecdotes? I’m telling you to keep your hands off; not doing stand-up.”
“You should give that a try though--the stand-up. ‘Cause the fact you actually think I pay attention to your Post-Its is enough to make anybody laugh.”
Wilson’s objectively-nice mouth curved slightly as he shook his head. “You take them because I use the Post-Its.”
“Which would imply you use the Post-Its because you want me to take them,” House replied intelligently. When Wilson didn’t say anything he knew he had won, and stole another fry in victory.
When he stood out of the chair, Wilson looked up at him. “Where are you going?”
“To go test Nazi Guy. Wanna come?”
Wilson blinked. “I’m busy, House.”
“Aw, come on. I’ll let you take the blood sample. Poking him could be cathartic.”
“I’m not a sadist.”
“It’s the whole reason why Taub didn’t righteously storm off,” he persuaded, prodding Wilson in the shin with his cane and pouting, his bottom lip stuck out exaggeratedly.
Wilson barely glanced at House, then stared back at his paperwork. “Darn, I’m still busy with this paperwork. I’ll have to join you in on stabbing your patient some other time.” He scritched his name down with a flourish, obviously aware of the fact House was still watching him.
“You’re so busy you decide to leave your office and do paperwork? If you were that busy you would’ve ate in your office; not brought it down here. You only bring your paperwork down here when you’re not busy but hungry and you think I won’t join you,” he pointed out.
Wilson sighed and tossed the pen down and looked up at him. “You know, most people would be appalled and a little disturbed to find out you study their eating habits and obsess over everything they do.”
“Luckily for me, my best friend is pathologically attracted to people who are so needy they obsess. Admit it--you just don’t want to be in the same room as Terry.”
“Thomas, and can you blame me?”
“I’m more Jewish than you are,” House complained. “Come do tests with me. I’m bored and you have nothing better to do.”
“You’re more Jewish than--? Oh, that doesn’t even make sense,” he grumbled, then flipped a page over, shaking his head.
“Hey, I’m dating a Jew. I get some cred for that. Now come on.”
“I’m not going.”
So House did what any other mature adult would have done. He grabbed Wilson’s paperwork, whacked him on the shin when Wilson reached for it instinctively, and limped as quickly as he could out of the cafeteria.
He rushed down the halls to see Wilson hurrying after him. Nurses and doctors stepped aside and rolled their eyes. By now, they must have been used to his crazy shenanigans. He thought it was funny until he glimpsed Cuddy, staring at him with her mouth dropped open and her hands on her hips, apparently stopping short in her conversation with some loser in a blue suit. She started clacking her way over to him and he made a run for the elevators, his thigh stinging with each footfall.
When he made it to his destination, he pounded the call button furiously, willing for Wilson to catch up before Cuddy, and the elevator door almost immediately slid open, indicating it had been on the floor already.
House slid in and pulled the paperwork back seeing as Wilson had thrust inside too, hands reaching for it wildly, and a repressed grin on his face. “House, don’t be a child, just hand it over!” he ordered with a laugh, and House lifted it as high as he could, using his height against Wilson.
“House!” Cuddy shrieked as she neared the elevator, Blue Suit in tow.
House prodded the Close Door button with his cane, smirking at his girlfriend’s face and knowing he would catch hell for it in a moment, but he was having fun and he wasn’t in the mood to have her get all professional and ruin it.
“House!” she yelled through the doors as he banged the floor he needed and slipped away from Wilson, going to the other side, still waving the papers tauntingly.
“Well, there went your chances of getting any tonight,” Wilson noted as he lunged for the papers and House side-stepped to avoid the barrelling dork of an oncologist.
“Oh, I’m sure I can change her--hey!” House snapped when Wilson managed to grab House’s wrist a bit painfully.
He pulled and Wilson tugged; House dropped his hold when he felt the side of the paper bite into his skin and he didn’t want to get a paper cut. Wilson glanced at the fluttering papers and made to grab them and House, never one to lose without putting up a fight, pushed Wilson away a bit more roughly then he’d intended (and Wilson was a bit of a klutz) so he wind milled briefly and then clutched House’s arms, somehow thinking his crippled friend could support his weight.
Luckily for them both, Wilson was right in front of a wall and hit it awkwardly, House accidentally jamming his cane right in his gut so he grunted and Wilson’s hand, which had clutched House’s arm, slipped up and knocked him in the jaw.
“Ouch! God, beating on a cripple, what kind of man are you?” House joked through a chuckle and Wilson laughed, although judging by the odd scoff he made he’d been fighting it.
His laughter seemed to break the odd tension that had been hovering between them lately, like old enemies at a high school reunion, and House started laughing too, muscles slightly weak from the euphoric feeling. He leaned his forearm against the wall above Wilson’s head, feeling Wilson’s chuckles and air against his mouth and his hand holding his shoulder, as if using it to support his weight.
Wilson’s laughter died, turning into one last, deep chuckle, and House felt his heart clench. His forearm still rested against the wall, but this was the first time he really noticed how close their faces were. He felt pressure on his hip and realized Wilson’s free hand was touching him there; the other hand was still on his shoulder. Wilson’s Adam’s apple bobbed and House tilted his head, fingers tightening around the curve of his cane when his breath hitched against his will.
The elevator shuddered to a stop and House pulled away casually. Wilson fell to his knees, scrambling to get his papers in order. The doors opened and House blinked as two people entered at the same time Wilson stood, holding his papers.
Instinctively he stepped beside Wilson as the other two stood at the other side, talking in hushed tones. Their shoulders bumped and the sides of their hands brushed; Wilson cleared his throat and shifted his weight, but his hand knocked House’s again, almost insistently. Swallowing, House shifted closer and touched his hand again. Touching was normal. They always touched--well, they did before they both started dating others. What wasn’t normal was how they reacted to it; awkwardness, lingering tingling and warmth. House figured it was just because it had returned after a period of absence.
The next stop was theirs, or rather his but he was forcing Wilson to come along, so when the elevator stopped and the doors opened, House grabbed the tip of Wilson’s paperwork and raised his cane threateningly. Wilson chuckled airily and sighed, pulling the papers free easily. “You’re an ass,” he groaned, then followed House out of the elevator door.
“And you’re a pushover.”
“I think I prefer the term enabler.”
“I thought you were through with enabling me?”
“And yet . . .” Wilson murmured as they walked alongside each other, closer than they were the day before but still further than before Sam and Cuddy. “You know, normally, you wouldn’t even be doing the tox screen or blood tests.”
“So why were you harping on me to do them?”
“I always harp on you to do your job. You don’t ever actually listen.”
“And yet . . .” House mocked. “I’d have my team do it for me, but interesting fact, they aren’t here. And I would wait for them to come back, but then I wouldn’t get to be an asshole to a Nazi and watch how my best buddy tries to psychoanalyze the patient’s self-loathing behaviour and masochism by getting involved with Yentl.”
“So this was all some elaborate scheme to get me to talk with your patient so you could . . . watch how I interact with him?”
“He was alone with me and he still spouted off all his Nazi propaganda. He only spouted off his life story when Taub walked in. You’re Jewish; maybe he’ll actually be honest about everything else he’s hiding so I can actually get a diagnosis. She must’ve been a damn good lay if twenty years later he trusts Jews more than us normal folk.” He could see his patient’s room now and watch his family through the windows and he sped up his pace now that he could see his destination.
Wilson slowed down and House managed to walk a few feet ahead before he noticed Wilson had fully stopped. He turned around to see Wilson looking over House’s shoulder, his jaw set determinedly and hands clenched tightly around his paperwork, crinkling the corner he held. They were only a few feet from his patient’s door and Wilson had paled somewhat.
House rolled his eyes and scoffed. “I won’t let them hurt you,” he promised in his best patronizing tone.
Wilson blinked rapidly. “Right. No. Of course. You wouldn’t--yes. I’m fine,” he spluttered, then started walking again.
“Seriously, Wilson. I won’t let them hurt you,” he repeated firmly, no hint of sarcasm in his tone.
House walked into the room first, Wilson following silently. Thomas was fishing through his wife’s purse when he looked at House and then his gaze ticked over to Wilson. He stopped looking for whatever it was he needed and silently handed the purse over to his wife, who took it with a glare in House’s direction. Their son was sitting in a visitor’s chair, one leg draped over the arm while he watched House curiously.
“All righty then--Reich One and Two, I need some privacy with Reich Three so get a move on.”
Predictably, the wife let out a scoff and looked him over with a sneer etched on her face. “Anything you need to tell my husband you can say in front of us,” she insisted, blinking rapidly.
“Well, since you’re neither his guardian or proxy, legally I can kick you out so vamoose.” She scoffed and reared her head back, her snarl deepening as her eyes roved over his body again. “I’m going to stick my fingers up your husband’s asshole and nudge his prostate. Get. Out.”
“I can be here for emotional support--”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality!” he called out like it was the winning answer in a game show competition. “If I say you leave, then you leave. Take it up with the Dean if you have an issue.”
“Well, then, why don’t we just ask my husband if he’s okay with me being in here for emotional support,” she stated through clenched teeth and then turned to face him, her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised halfway up her forehead.
House turned to share a look with Wilson (who was at his shoulder) and roll his eyes, but Wilson wasn’t reciprocating. He was instead staring at Thomas and House sighed--before Sam and Cuddy, they would’ve looked at each other at the same time. They weren’t even on the same wavelength anymore. He sighed again and tapped his cane against the floor. With the wife staring at Thomas that way and the fact she obviously controlled the household, there was no way he’d get alone time with the husband to suss out anything else he might be keeping from them. Well, and get the blood and urine samples.
The wife (Sandra? Sally?) continued to stare at Thomas, who was staring at House and Wilson. She waited and then she smacked his shoulder. “What?” he asked harshly, staring at her in confusion and rubbing his arm.
“Dude, Mom, I don’t wanna sit ‘round here and watch my dad get finger-waved. Let’s leave,” he suggested, scratching his shaggy mane of blonde hair.
“Well, Nathaniel, you can leave. I’ll stay.”
“I wouldn’t want more people than necessary watching me get a finger in my ass. Come on, let’s try and not embarrass Dad. No dude wants his wife watching him get rectally inserted.” He stood out of the chair and grabbed his mom’s arm’s gently and tugged her a little.
House narrowed his eyes and watched as the son met his gaze. Before he could really interpret his expression, his mother pulled her arm free and sighed, looking at Thomas although she was obviously swayed by her son.
“We won’t be far, Thomas,” she promised, then walked out of the room swiftly, their son following and giving a last, long look at his dad before shutting the door.
House looked at Wilson and gestured at the windows. “Close the blinds,” he ordered and Wilson blinked, nodded, then went directly to the blinds just as House moved to stand at the edge of his patient’s bed.
Thomas waited until Wilson was standing by House to clear his throat. “You’re thinking prostate cancer?” he asked.
“No, I’m thinking you like to metaphorically screw yourself so I thought I’d try for the literal sense. Don’t worry, though. Doctor Wilson here has loads of experience with anal insertion--also, he’s just your type. Jewish.”
“House,” Wilson warned, his voice getting slightly raspy in the way it sometimes did when he was uncomfortable with the direction the topic was going.
House glared at Wilson, then back at Thomas. “We’re not checking your prostate. I just needed your family out of the room in case you wanted to tell us something you wouldn’t want them overhearing. Such as, oh . . . unprotected sex with loads of non-blonde, non-blue eyed, non-Aryan women who most likely don’t bother telling you their life stories before you take ‘em back to your place and re-enact a more erotic version of Schindler’s List.”
Thomas looked between House and Wilson, then blinked. “There’s nothing I need to tell you that would be diagnostically relevant.”
“Which is basically a big ol’ hardy ‘yep’ to the unprotected sex department.”
“I don’t cheat on my wife.”
“Yeah, sure,” House muttered sarcastically with a glance at Wilson, who met his gaze calmly.
Wilson cleared his throat. “I’ll go get what we need,” he said, then turned around.
He made it halfway to the door before House caught up with him, grabbing his arm to prevent him from leaving. Wilson glanced at the hand curled tightly around his upper arm, then at House’s face. He tugged feebly just once, and House lowered his chin. “Wilson. I need you,” he said, his voice lower than he’d intended and it could have been taken the wrong way if he didn’t elaborate. “The chance of him opening up to a Jew is more likely than to me. You know that.”
“And you’re great at sussing out lies,” he pointed out before tugging his arm free. “I’ll only be gone for a few minutes, House. I’m sure you’ll do fine.” With that he left the room quickly and House stared at the door.
With a sigh, he turned around and looked at Thomas, who was staring at his lap. House glanced at his heart monitor--it was beeping a little quicker. House scratched the side of his face and walked closer to the bed. “Yeah, I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have told him you like to kill God’s chosen people in your spare time.”
“I’ve never killed anybody,” Thomas insisted, meeting House eyes and looking offended.
“Hmm, don’t care. What I do care about is why you’d lie about vomiting blood and when the symptoms presented. You wanted to be treated by me--specifically. Why?”
Thomas sighed. “I can afford the best. You are the best.”
“Yeah, but I’m also half the country away. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
Thomas sighed and stared at the ceiling, and unless House was mistaken (which he never was) he had moisture in his eyes. He rubbed his hand along his face, then looked at his lap again, cheeks shining with wet tears. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, then down his face, and covered his mouth for awhile.
House scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t actually have all day, unless you want Doctor Wilson to hear. Unlike me, he’ll probe and analyze and make you hold hands with your inner child. Me? I’ll just mock you, tell you why you’re an idiot, but I won’t make you examine your feelings and try to make you find peace with your pathetic lie of a life. I’ll tell him whatever you say later, naturally, but at least you won’t have to endure his Peter Pan pose and listen to him lecture.”
“Is he your friend?”
“Is this relevant?”
“You want to know something about me . . . “
“Oh, God. Quid pro quo,” he moaned with an eye-roll so heavy his head moved with it. “What do you want to know about me? What about me is so interesting you’d pack up your family and move across the country without even going to other doctors?”
Thomas’ Adam’s apple bobbed. He took in a shaky breath and his BP increased slightly. “Look, I’m a Nazi.”
“No you’re not.”
“As far as anyone is concerned,” Thomas corrected with a slight glare, “I’m a Nazi. Most people don’t like Nazis. You have a reputation for not caring about the personal life of your patients unless its medically relevant. In fact, I heard you don’t even like to talk to them half the time. You don’t care about how I live my life. I wouldn’t have to deal with the snide remarks. I wouldn’t have to deal with the prejudice.”
“You’re ashamed of what you are, but you put it on display. Is this some sort of forced poetic justice? Grandpappy made Jews sew a star on their vests so you have to tattoo a mark on your body? You know everybody hates Nazis, you aren’t one, but you say you are anyway. You get the tattoo, you marry the blonde bimbo, you raise your son in that lifestyle . . . you hate yourself so you think you deserve everyone else hating you. You want everybody to believe your lie. Unless it’s a doctor. Why? You deal with prejudice everyday and even encourage it. So unless you suddenly decided to give a crap about people hating you . . .”
He sighed and rubbed his brows. After he scratched the side of his face looked around the room fleetingly, he sighed again and nodded. “My father had cancer and he . . . was also a Nazi. His oncologist was rude. The entire time he went through radiation, he not only had to deal with his sickness, but snide comments and judgmental nurses. It . . . came back two years later. He died the second time and nobody cared. His original oncologist wouldn’t put him on his caseload again; we had to find someone else. If he’d found someone sooner . . .”
“He probably would have died anyway. Boo hoo. You made your bed; you have to lie in it. You dragged your family halfway across the country to have someone hold your hand and play mommy? Well, then, you picked the wrong guy. I don’t have a reputation for being nice.”
The door opened and Wilson stepped in, smiling wanly. “I’m back,” he announced and shut the door.
“Great,” House chirped, then grabbed the urine sample cup. “You get to take the blood.”
* * *
Pressing his cane against his mouth was soothing and helped him think under normal circumstances, but it wasn’t really working. Thomas urinated just fine and willingly gave his blood. Apparently he was scared of needles and his heart monitor beeped quicker when Wilson approached but after some soothing words and a brief hand squeeze (House very nearly retched, but he’d seen Wilson calm down a kicking and screaming child before giving him a tetanus shot so he had to take what he could get) but other than that everything went fine.
Except he didn’t believe for a second Thomas was telling him everything. There were no chemicals in his blood and his urine was clean except for some pain killers and alcohol. He’d already lied once about symptoms and if he could lie to his family about his beliefs, he could lie to people he didn’t even know about anything.
The door pushed open. “They don’t carry eugenol oil,” Taub sighed as a greeting.
Chase and Thirteen walked in beside him and they all shared a look.
“Did you all go together?” House asked, looking at each of them in confusion.
“Cuddy called me,” Taub said.
“That’s absolutely fascinating, but since my girlfriend doesn’t have a history of cheating--”
“She called us, too,” Thirteen interrupted, her thumbs sliding into her belt loops. “She wanted to make sure we weren’t doing anything illegal.”
“We told her we were going out to lunch together and we forget to clock out. So we met up halfway and drove here together,” Taub explained.
“Did she believe you?”
“Probably not,” Chase answered with a shrug. “In any case, we didn’t find anything. They like herbal tea and Ibuprofen. He does have a few medical magazines stashed in his room, but not enough for him to have any subscriptions or anything. We thought it was weird that the patient has loads of books on Zen and finding your inner peace--eastern philosophy, a book on medicinal herbs . . .”
“And unless one of those books is titled By The Way, This Is What I’m Lying About I don’t care. We all know he has issues with his Nazi life and doesn’t believe any of that crap. So he dabbles in Buddhism--tries to find something he does care about so he can cuddle that abstract thought at night while he curls up beside his cold, unfeeling bitch of a wife. I did a urine and blood test. He’s clean.”
“You did a urine--” Chase began.
“Yeah yeah, I know, I’m being out-of-character,” he muttered as he pushed out of the chair, leaning heavily on his cane while he leg throbbed. “So he studies meditation, Zen, inner peace--he’s stressed. Add that to the Ibuprofen he probably downs because of the headaches he gets from all the nagging his domineering wife does, and you’ve got ulcers.”
He limped towards the door, but Thirteen stepped in the way. “Ulcers doesn’t explain the vertigo, the dizziness . . .”
“No, but lying does. He knows I don’t take uninteresting cases. Vomiting blood isn’t all that fascinating on its own. Or maybe, here’s a thought, that’s a symptom of stress too. He’s stressed so he doesn’t sleep, ergo he gets light-headed. Interesting fact--vertigo, dizziness, and fatigue all sound far cooler than ‘oh, I get a little light-headed sometimes.’ Chase, give him an endoscopy to confirm. Since he’s vomiting blood, that means he’ll need a surgery to repair his stomach.”
With that he pushed past them and left his office.
* * *
The door burst open with a blast and House strode into her office. “You called my team,” he spat.
Cuddy sighed and rubbed her temples. “Your team was missing.”
“Oh, wow! Imagine that! I had my team searching for toxins for my case. I don’t know what that says to you, but to me that says you need to back off and let my fellows do their damn jobs.” He stopped right in front of her desk and glared, his blue eyes wide and intense.
“I also assumed that your team broke the law in order to search for these toxins. I can’t have your people breaking into people’s homes--”
“They’ve always broken into people’s homes!”
“. . . while a donor who is considering donating to your department is in the building, especially after the little display you put on earlier today with Wilson,” she explained calmly, her voice even and perhaps a little condescending, like one would use with a child.
“Don’t patronize me. It’s none of his damn business where my team is--as far as he’s concerned, they are on a two hour lunch break. You don’t need to interrupt them; you could just lie, like you did last night. I’m not going to change my methods just because I’m dating you, so stop holding your breath,” he snapped, then spun on his heel and started limping away quickly.
She clenched her jaw. “House,” she halted, raising her voice loud enough to make him stop. Although he stopped, he continued to face the door so all she could see was his back. “The donor wants to talk to you tomorrow in your office. Nine o’ clock, so don’t be late.”
She watched as he shifted his weight onto his left foot and tilted his back so she could see the top of his head. When his fingers curled around the curve of his cane tighter so his knuckles whitened she felt guilt fill her chest, dripping into her stomach like some sort of bile.
“I don’t like talking to donors,” he finally said, shifting his weight again.
“I know. But you need the money,” she told him softly, knowing her guilt was showing through her voice.
“You need the money for your reputation so people can’t say you’re just keeping me here for my good looks,” he accused. “I didn’t need it before; I don’t need it now. Don’t try to kid yourself.” When he slipped out of her office, Cuddy had no idea whether he had agreed or denied, but she knew he wasn’t going to give her anything more than what he already had.
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