Paper Faces on Parade (8/14)
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 Eight
“Differential diagnosis!” House greeted cheerily when Foreman walked through the door. The rest of the ducklings looked at him while he stood near the doorway, raising his chin and eyebrow haughtily at the whiteboard.
“I thought you cured the Nazi.” Foreman folded his arms across his chest and his head dropped to one side.
“So did I,” he retaliated. “But then he decided to go and get more interesting on me. So, what causes vertigo, dizziness, euphoria, and seizures?”
“What about the vomiting blood?”
“That was caused by an ulcer,” Chase explained quickly.
“I still maintain that maybe he actually did find your anti-Semitic remark funny. He is, after all, a neo-Nazi,” Taub chipped in, glaring at the white-board as if it had offended him. Considering there was dark swastika scribbled on it, maybe it had.
“He didn’t chuckle, Taub. He laughed hysterically moments after jumping to defend your people’s honour. Had he found it hilarious, he would’ve responded immediately. Oh, right, and then he seized. I know euphoric people when I see them. Right, Foreman?”
Thirteen and Taub shared a look of confusion.
“It could be pesticide poisoning. His wife has a garden; they grow their own tomatoes, grapes, some carrots--if she uses pesticides with either Xylene or Tolulene, she could be inadvertently poisoning him,” Thirteen suggested, getting a start on the differential.
House shook his head, holding his cane behind his head, holding onto both ends as he leaned his head backwards and paced in front of the white-board. “She’d be poisoning herself, too. Her and the kid would be seizing all over the damn place; puking on my shoes. Besides, if they’re using enough pesticides to poison themselves they’d be getting the skin and eye irritation first. It can’t be environmental; his family‘s just fine--well, except for the Nazi thing.”
“Lidocaine toxicity--if he’s allergic to it . . .” Chase suggested.
“Nope,” Taub interjected. “His office is strictly novocaine and pain killers.”
“It could be a reaction to the local anaesthetic we used on his throat or what we used during surgery,” Chase supplied.
Taub shook his head. “Or it could be another one of the symptoms he lied to us about and he’s been having them for months. He would’ve had a reaction during the surgery or the endoscopy, anyway. Besides, the only way he’d get those symptoms would be if he used them intravenously to get high, and he doesn’t have track marks.”
“He might not be taking intravenous drugs--ODing and withdrawal from amphetamines could cause his symptoms,” Thirteen pitched in, looking over at House for confirmation.
“It would’ve showed up on the drug test,” House shot down as he continued pacing.
“Could be lead poisoning,” Chase offered.
House glared at him. “I just told you; if it were an environmental factor, his family would be sick, too.”
Chase sighed and pushed onward; eager to get a confirmation. “Impulsivity and irritability are symptoms of lead poisoning. His wife’s a piece of work and his son looks like he’s been in fights recently and besides, he’s lied to us multiple times; maybe his family is sick and they just haven’t said anything. We probably don’t even know all of his symptoms; he lied about the seizures too.”
House narrowed his eyes and thought over what Chase had said. He hadn’t checked their blood for lead poisoning; it could work, if their house in both Arizona and New Jersey had lead paint. He shook his head. “He has enough money for the best so he’ll get the best. He won’t be buying any homes with lead-based paint,” he countered.
“He’s an architect now, too?” Taub scowled. “People generally don’t care about others’ well-being; especially if they’re Nazis. Maybe his realtor just forgot to tell him the nice, large, multi-story house from 1942 had lead paint all over the walls.”
“We were at his house,” Thirteen stated while she shook her head. “It’s brand new; no way it’s covered in lead paint. Unless the orthodontists’ office--”
“You really think they’d let that office stay in use if it violated code regulations? Besides, then everyone at his work would be sick,” Taub shot down.
Thirteen scoffed and tossed her pen down; she’d been twirling it and tapping it against the table either in irritation or because she couldn’t sit still. “This is pointless. He’s lied to us about when they presented and half his symptoms; how can we even begin to diagnose him if we can’t trust anything he says?” she burst angrily.
House stopped pacing and then ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Chase had a point. If his family is sick, we could be missing out on something, and we have no idea how many symptoms he’s hiding from us. We need to get them all alone and hopefully honest. Thirteen, you take the wife out for some tea; cosy up to her--I don’t care how. Find out if they’ve been experiencing symptoms too. Chase, you talk to the son; see if he’s been getting sick recently or if he’s noticed anything about his dad. Taub, Foreman--talk to Nazi Guy. He’s a pushover pansy and you’re an intimidating black guy who might ring up the homies and vandalize his car if he doesn’t cooperate and he seems to like Jews. He probably got What’s-Her-Name knocked up in dental school,” he muttered with a snarl.
They all nodded and stood from their seats, heading towards the hallway, but then House put his cane on the ground and caught Foreman’s eye. “Foreman, I need to talk to you for a minute,” he said, and Foreman remained behind while they all left, Taub waiting outside in the hallway.
Foreman waited for a second, then he let out a sigh. “What?”
“Seizures and euphoria are neurological symptoms and you didn’t open your mouth once during the differential. Do you think I paged you for my health?” Foreman didn’t say anything; he just lifted his chin a little. “If your very high morals prevent you from treating the patient, I’d prefer you storming out in anger than sitting on your ass and not contributing. Either do your work or go home.”
Foreman breathed in through his nose and pinched his lips together angrily, then lowered his head in a slight nod and turned on his heel, leaving the room to join Taub.
House turned in his spot to stare at the white board, pressing his cane to his mouth. He wished something would click into place, but until he could know for sure he had all the facts he wasn’t willing to start theorizing. He tapped the curve of his cane against his bottom lip. What if he wasn’t lying anymore? What if those were all the symptoms or what if he’d been going to House’s office not to apologize, but to tell him more?
He heard the door open and he looked over his shoulder to see Wilson. At least it wasn’t Cuddy; she’d been less than pleased with how he’d been around Thomas, although honestly she might have been insulted at the Jew joke. He turned back to the whiteboard and disguised a step aside as a shift in weight to make room for Wilson, in case he wanted to stare at the board and maybe come up with something.
Wilson, predictably, stood by his side and put his hands in his pockets, looking over the whiteboard as well. The silence stretched around them, but it was comfortable so House didn’t bother trying to break it, until Wilson tilted his head to the side and opened his mouth, inhaling to speak.
“If you suggest cancer,” House forestalled, “I will whack you with my cane.”
“Well, I am an oncologist,” Wilson justified with a shrug. “And besides, you whacked me with your cane yesterday. You actually left a bruise.”
“Yet you keep coming back for more, you masochist.”
Wilson chuckled and shook his head. “Name calling, too. What a fine list of activities we do together.” House stared at Wilson’s profile, who continued to look at the white board. He rocked on his heels a little, then turned his head to meet House’s gaze. His smile was so brief House almost didn’t see it, but it was there.
House focused on the board again when his chest seemed to tighten, but not uncomfortably. He stared at the ridiculous equation he’d written on the board--a Swastika plus a Star of David equalled a heart. He stared at the heart, then sighed. “You knew we’d get together eventually, Wilson. You even rooted for it,” he muttered.
“Sometimes I’m not gifted with foresight,” he replied just as casually.
“Or maybe you’re just jealous. Not used to sharing me.”
He expected a sarcastic evasion, or at least a denial. Instead Wilson remained silent until House turned his head to look at him. Wilson passively looked over the symptoms and nodded slightly. “Maybe,” he admitted. “It never stopped you from being right, though. The jealousy.”
“And it never stopped you from dating,” he retaliated.
“Maybe I should’ve.”
“So what are you suggesting? I leave Cuddy for you?” he asked, not meaning for it to come out like he’d leave Cuddy and date Wilson but leave her because he’d asked. He didn’t elaborate, however.
Wilson scoffed and shook his head. “I’m not suggesting you do anything. I’m just--” He sighed, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I should do some of my hours,” he muttered and then turned away, heading towards the door leading into the hallway.
House watched him go. Before he left, Wilson turned back around and cleared his throat. “How’d the meeting with the donor go?”
“How do you think?”
“Well, maybe next time,” he hoped half-heartedly.
House shook his head. “There probably won’t be a next time, Wilson. I’m not you.”
Wilson waited for a few seconds, as if expecting House to say something else or as if he was going to offer another potential diagnosis, but then he just nodded in parting and left House in his office, alone.
* * *
Chase was the first to return. By that time, House was busy trolling the IMDb boards, chuckling to himself as he read dozens of over-the-top whiny responses to his harsh but accurate review of Twilight. As the two teams of shippers battled it out and saw fit to tell him that had he one ounce of intelligence or understanding of real love he’d like the books, Chase cleared his throat to announce his presence.
House glanced at him. “That was quick.”
“The kid blurted everything out the moment I got him to the vending machines. I think he was waiting for an excuse, to be honest. He can’t know for sure when the seizures started, but he knows he’s had them since at least December. Kid said he heard a noise in the bathroom and checked and saw his dad thrashing about in his own vomit. Nathaniel--”
“Who?”
“The kid. Son of Nazi Guy. His name’s Nathaniel,” he explained casually; he was used to House not remembering names. “Anyway, he told me his dad drinks a lot, but he’s caught him puking even when he hasn’t been for a few days. He said he didn’t know if that meant anything. When I asked him if his dad ever got euphoric--you know, started laughing hysterically for no reason or just generally irrationally happy--he said that it happens a lot, but he can’t tell the difference between irrational happiness or just a normal good day. He figured that his dad was stoned whenever he started laughing for no reason.”
“Marijuana would’ve showed up on the tox screen. So we have seizures since at least December and vomiting to add to the list. Anything else? The kid experiencing tremors, blurred vision, skin rashes . . . ?”
Chase shrugged. “He said he got a cold sometime in February, but nothing serious. His mum got pneumonia; had it for a few weeks but she went to Princeton General and got better by April. His dad took two days off last week because he was vomiting so much he couldn’t leave the bathroom for more than fifteen minutes. He hadn’t had anything alcoholic to drink for about a week, except he had a glass of wine the morning he was admitted.”
House nodded, thinking of when he’d examined Thomas and Nathaniel had taken his mother out of the room. He thought of when he and Wilson were doing the blood and urine samples; Nathaniel managed to get the wife to leave then, too. He picked up his large ball and pressed it to his mouth, as if kissing it. “The son’s been trying to get us alone with the dad since he was admitted. He knows his dad lies to them or, well, at least to the mom. He’s not only lying to us about his symptoms, but his wife.”
“You can’t hide vomiting and seizures from your own wife; she’s lying, too.”
“He’s managed to hide his Barbara Streisand vinyl collection from her; he’d be able to hide seizures.”
“No, because he’s had them at the dinner table with Sarah watching. His wife knows you’ve got a black man on your team and a Jew. They’ve researched everyone you’ve staffed, House. Nathaniel said his mum isn’t going to admit to anything her husband won’t. That if he doesn’t want Jews and blacks knowing his symptoms then she thinks it isn’t your business. Maybe he knows his dad isn’t really a Nazi. Maybe the kid isn’t, either. Could be just the mum.”
House shook his head and tapped the ball against his mouth a few times in thought. “He’s a Nazi. He has Rockwell tattooed on his knuckles.” Off Chase’s confused expression, he sighed and continued. “George Lincoln Rockwell is practically the messiah for neo-Nazis.” He pursed his lips and felt his ball move across his mouth; soothing his mind and focusing his attention. “Anything else?”
Chase shrugged. “Nope. New symptom, though. Vomiting. Not a total waste.”
House exited out of IMDb and stood out of his chair, grabbing his cane and limping into the differential room. Chase followed then went to his usual chair, and House uncapped the marker. It squeaked against the board as he wrote the new symptom.
He hooked his cane on the white board and then tapped the now-capped marker to his mouth, eyeing the symptoms. Puzzle pieces clicked somewhere in the back of his brain and his face fell slightly at the half-formed thought.
The door swished open and House turned to see Taub and Foreman walk in. Foreman went over to his chair as did Taub. House waited for a few seconds, then snapped; “Well?”
“He got his scar when he sixteen, apparently. Baseball bat to the head,” Foreman explained sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. “He never had any professional medical advice; his mother stitched it for him.”
“Apparently, he wasn’t aware of the fact he was having seizures or that unexplainable good moods were anything worth mentioning,” Taub added with an eye-roll and sarcasm dripping off every syllable.
The door opened again and Thirteen walked in. Everybody stared at her expectantly. She just sat next to Chase with a sigh. “Sarah says she hasn’t been sick and that she was unaware of any seizures and that she doubted being in a good mood occasionally was cause for concern. She had to leave for work, but I seriously doubt she was keen on talking with me for much longer, anyway.”
“Right, because laughing uproariously seconds after wanting to tear my head off is totally normal,” he muttered, then furrowed his brows in thought as he stared at the equation he’d written on the board. He tilted his head, then uncapped the marker again and wrote ‘head trauma--sixteen’ slowly. “Foreman, you said he never got professional help?” He turned to look at Foreman.
Foreman nodded. “That’s what he said.”
House narrowed his eyes in thought, still pressing the marker to his mouth. “Maybe none of this is as new as any of them thought. He experiences headaches--you said he liked pain-killers--and dizziness, light-headedness . . . Who doesn’t get light-headed every once in awhile? And if he drinks, he could just blame that on the alcohol until one day he realizes he hasn’t had a drink in weeks and he still gets so nauseous he pukes; headache, vertigo . . . He took gingko biloba.”
“I’ve taken ginkgo biloba and I’m not experiencing seizures or even dizziness,” Thirteen supplied.
“Some people have adverse reactions to it. So his mom stitches him up and grabs some herbal wannabe medication from over the counter; he takes it for his head injury, but all it does is cause even more vertigo and nausea.”
Foreman dropped his chin to his chest, then rolled his eyes so hard his head moved with it. “Are you telling me you actually think he’s been taking ginkgo biloba since he was sixteen? He would’ve eventually stopped.”
“Not if the symptoms never went away. Ginkgo biloba dilates the blood vessels in the brain; it’s used to treat head injury and vertigo. So if he had an adverse reaction to it then he’d experience the symptoms it’s supposed to get rid of, so he keeps taking it.”
“Doesn’t explain the euphoria,” Foreman argued.
“It does if he gets drunk a lot,” House countered. “Mixing herbal agents, pain killers, and alcohol--wow, this guy knows how to party.”
“Chase and I went through his house. He didn’t have any ginkgo biloba there--we searched the whole place.”
With a hum, he jerked his cane from off the white board and started limping his way to the exit.
“Where are you going?” Foreman asked with a side of demanded.
He looked over his shoulder. “I’m going to find Nazi Guy’s secret stash. He’s been taking them for years; he’ll have them on his person. I always kept Vicodin on me.”
Either House left the differential diagnosis room too quickly for them to respond or he made a valid point, because he didn’t hear a single word as the door shut behind him. He breezed past Wilson’s office and then limped towards the elevator, past the spot of Nazi Guy’s seizure, and froze in front of the elevator. Something in the back of his mind whirred again; the same something that had clicked a few moments ago that filled him with foreboding and unease. The symptoms flashed across his mind in rapid succession and he pounded the call button, watching the doors slide open and cut his warped reflection in half.
He slid into the empty elevator and pushed the button to the floor his patient was on and waited. It was empty in the elevator and House looked over at where he and Wilson had fought over the papers the day before, laughing inches from each other’s faces. He thought of Wilson fixing his tie and looking at him through lowered lashes, almost in a flirtatious way.
It wasn’t the first time Wilson had given him a look that made House wonder--and it certainly hadn’t rivalled the one he’d given him the night of the organ--but he’d never given him that look while they stood so close before. Maybe he had. House had learned to ignore those looks ages ago; it was just Wilson, accidentally flirting. He was a flirtatious guy--House honestly believed he couldn’t shut it off. He’d seen the man flirt with women far below his standard and not nearly needy enough for him to ignore their attractiveness. So the pathological flirting made sense.
It was either that, or Wilson wanted . . .
House wasn’t going to go down that road. He was dating Cuddy, and Wilson was dating Sam.
Dinging to announce his arrival, the doors slid open and House limped out, brushing past a nurse in lavender scrubs and heading towards his patient’s room.
When he burst in, he found Nathaniel sitting in the visitor’s chair, stretching his arms above his head until his back and shoulders popped. His eyes caught House and he stood up with a smile. “Well, I’m gonna go take a piss and probably stop by the vending machines. Want anything?” he asked.
“No thanks,” his patient said, smiling genially at his son.
Nathaniel walked by House so that his back faced his father, and met House’s eyes, widening them slightly as if trying to tell him something and House nodded. He was leaving to give them some privacy.
When the door shut, House immediately went over to the chair where he’d folded his clothes. He jerked the pants free and started sifting through the pockets, tossing his wallet back to the chair as well has his car keys.
“What are you doing?” Thomas asked.
“Searching for your stash.” When he came up clean, his eyes spotted his wife’s large, white purse. “You had massive head trauma when you were sixteen, but didn’t go to the hospital. I assume your mother, in all her infinite Old Wives’ Tale wisdom, bought some ginkgo biloba and stuffed it down you.”
“Well, yes,” he admitted a bit confusedly.
House stepped forward and grabbed the purse, opening it with no pretence of being gentle.
“That’s my wife’s purse you’re--”
“Women carry their purses everywhere. Your wife left hers here, which means there’s something in here you need, like your secret stash of--” He pulled out the first bottle his fingers curled around and pulled it out with a flourish. “. . . Midol.”
“She’s a massage therapist; all she needs is her phone and car keys. She doesn’t trust her clients or employees. I’m sorry; could you not--”
“Trust me; it’s medically relevant. I’m looking for your ginkgo biloba. I’ll find it eventually.”
“I stopped taking that when I was seventeen,” he said, staring at House as if he’d said something incredibly odd.
“Sure,“ he muttered in disbelief.
“You don’t believe me.“
“Why should I? You lie to your family, you’ve lied about almost all of your symptoms . . .“
“Why would I worry about having a good day or laughing often? And I wasn’t aware I was having seizures. I thought I was blacking out; I drink occasionally. If you thought I was just blacking out from alcohol, then you’d dismiss my other--” House opened the purse wider and dumped it onto the slender bedside table. “Hey! Now, I asked you stop, so could you--”
House sifted through the objects that had landed haphazardly on the desk. A few tampons rolled onto the floor; a yo-yo thunked the tabletop and then slid across, landing on the floor. Loose change tinkled across the faux-wood and rolled to the linoleum, some of it landing on the cover of Mein Kampf, to which House raised his eyebrow, and a bottle of Ibuprofen spun lazily but did not fall to the floor. A bottle of ginseng knocked into the Ibuprofen and then rolled back into a Tootsie Pop. A few crumpled receipts, her bottle of Midol, and a few pens completed the picture, and her wallet had fallen open, revealing a small family picture.
House looked inside the empty purse, then back at Thomas, who was just staring at him with his head reeled back and pale brows furrowed. After a long second, he cleared his throat. “Like I said, I stopped taking it when I was teenager. My headaches and dizziness stopped so I didn’t see the point in continuing to take them.”
House sat the purse beside the mess he’d made, then eyed the jagged scar across the left side of his head. It wasn’t thick or angry looking--just one long crooked line. Thomas self-consciously scratched at it and shifted awkwardly on the bed.
He cleared his throat. “I was just watching her purse,” Thomas explained politely.
House narrowed his eyes in thought. “What happened?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the scar.
Thomas sighed. “I was taking Honours Biology. We had a term-long project and we didn’t get to pick our partners. My teacher paired me up with Justine Seyfield; a black girl. At the time I . . . still had some prejudices I hadn’t worked through, but I figured my education was more important than . . . who I studied with. I knew my parents and brother wouldn’t see it that way, and Dad was sick so I just . . . didn’t tell them. Told them I was at the library; hanging out with some friends . . . Anything so they wouldn’t come looking for me.
“Started . . . going over to her place to work on our project. I realized that--well. She wasn’t so different than me. Started spending more time than it took to study, and one night I stayed past dinner. My parents got worried so they sent my brother looking for me; he called all my teachers to see if I’d said anything and . . . Well, he came to her house and found me. So he dragged me home, made a huge scene, and one thing led to another and he beat my ass.” He shrugged as if it didn’t really matter, but obviously recounting the story affected him; his eyes were watering.
“With a baseball bat?” House urged, remembering Foreman saying something about one.
Thomas nodded slowly and swallowed audibly. “I know you think I’m weak. A . . . hypocrite. But my mom stitched me up with no anaesthetic and still blames me for my dad dying a week later. As for Justine, well . . . They found her body in a river three weeks later. It’s my fault she’s dead--if I hadn‘t forgotten to call--” His voice broke with emotion and he sniffed. He stared at his lap and let a long sigh, House’s stomach clenching at the story. “You can say what you want about me and you’d probably be right. But it’s not as easy as you think, getting away from all of this. I’ve tried, but . . . Well.” He snorted and brushed away the wetness underneath his lids.
For a moment House stared at Thomas as he bowed his head, focusing on his lap. He eyed the scar; eyed the other small scars dotting his head; at the bumps and grooves the skull made, skin stretched across it. He imagined seeing a murdered black girl being dragged out of a lake on the news and knowing it could have been prevented with one phone call he hadn’t made . . .
“I asked you what happened to your head; I don’t want your life story,” he spat, then turned on his heel and left the room.
* * *
Nathaniel stared at his reflection in the mirror, tilting his head one way and then the other. He pulled his lips over his teeth and then pulled his bottom lip down to see the scabs that matched the shape of his teeth. He touched his nose and then ran his finger over the bump--apparently, he hadn’t reset it properly. He looked at his hand, turning it in the light; his knuckles were still scabbed and a little swollen. When he flexed his fingers his hand ached.
He jumped when the door burst open loudly and he looked over his shoulder to see the entrant. It was House. “Hey,” he greeted with a head nod then turned back to the mirror. House stopped a few feet behind him a little to the left and they met eyes through the reflection.
House went over to the urinals and started urinating, so Nathaniel went back to flexing his hand and wincing when it ached.
After House finished Nathaniel heard him flush. House went to the sink beside him and Nathaniel winced when he moved his wrist in a way that shot pain to his fingertips.
House dried his hands, but instead of leaving the bathroom he came up right behind Nathaniel, the two looking at each other through the reflection. Nathaniel turned around so he could glare at him face to face. “Gimme your hand,” House ordered, his shirt un-tucked so he looked less professional than he had when he walked in.
Nathaniel stepped away so his back hit the sink. “What the hell for?”
“I’m a palm reader,” he answered patronizingly.
They locked eyes challengingly, but after a few seconds Nathaniel scoffed and thrust his hand in House’s face. House took it and held it in both hands, then bent it. Trying to pull his hand away and hissing in pain did nothing to change his mind; tiny cracking noises filled the bathroom and after one large crack, the aching went away.
House released his hand and Nathaniel flexed and twisted it. Everything felt perfectly fine, except for a slight sting where House had broken a scab by grabbing his hand.
“Thanks, dude,” he said, then moved to walk by him.
House stepped in front of him. “Every single time I’ve been in the same room as your dad, you leave. You even get Mommy Dearest to go with you. I’d put money betting on the fact you left whenever my team walked in, too. Ten seconds alone with Chase, and you blurt out all the symptoms. You knew your dad wouldn’t tell us all the symptoms when you left, so either you thought maybe he would tell us but you told us anyway because your personal motto is better safe than sorry . . .” He stared pointedly at his recently broken nose in disbelief. “. . . or there was something else you were hoping he’d tell us without your mother or you in the room.”
Nathaniel found House’s gaze a bit too penetrating so he looked at his feet and scratched the back of his head, his shaggy blonde hair dancing in front of his eyes. “Yeah, there’s somethin’ else,” he admitted. He looked up to see House staring expectantly at him. He held his breath for a second, then he swallowed nervously. “My . . . my dad’s cheating on my mom,” he mumbled quietly.
“You catch him with his pants down?”
“Well, no, I haven’t caught him, I just . . . I was lookin’ through his room and I found some condoms.”
“Right, sexually active adults having condoms is entirely--”
“My mom can’t get pregnant,” he interrupted and House shut his mouth. “She had two miscarriages before me. I almost killed her and I was premature so she got her tubes tied.”
House nodded once. “Hmm. Interesting.” He nodded to himself, eyes ticking back and forth like he was reading something in midair. He limped towards the door quickly, but stopped before he left. He turned around and looked Nathaniel over. “Word to the wise--if he was hiding them in his room, your mother would’ve found them. Next time, just tell me you were looking through his wallet for cash.”
With that, House left the bathroom.
* * *
With a flourish House burst into the differential diagnosis room. “Test him for neurosyphilis; he cheats on his wife,” he greeted, holding his thigh and rubbing it; the quick limping had taken its toll on his thigh.
“You can’t know--” Chase began.
“Oh come on, you can’t seriously be that naïve,” he interrupted. Chase sighed and then sat back in his chair and sighed. “His kid found condoms in his wallet and Mommy’s got her tubes tied. If anybody’s surprised he’s cheating on his harridan Nazi of a wife, then now would probably be a bad time to tell you that Spock dies in Wrath of Kahn.”
“So he cheats on his wife; he also has condoms. Just because he sleeps around doesn’t automatically mean he has neurosyphilis,” Foreman countered, staring at House as if he were a total moron.
“The fact he had syphilis and ignored the symptoms for well over--”
“The symptoms don’t fit!”
“Right, because neurosyphilis doesn’t affect the brain,” House said sarcastically. “Oh, wait . . .” Foreman rolled his eyes. “Stuff him full of penicillin and take a blood test to confirm.”
“If he had syphilis his wife would have contracted it too and I know she would’ve noticed him wearing a condom,” Foreman pointed out rationally.
House opened his mouth to point out some fallacy in his reasoning, but realized Foreman made sense. His wife had her tubes tied and there was no reason for them to be wearing condoms; if he was putting them in his wallet, that meant he planned on having sex in places other than their bedroom so he definitely was hiding them. House should’ve made that connection himself. He only didn’t make obvious connections when he was high or because he was subconsciously ignoring them; why would he ignore that?
“Symptoms point to autoimmune--most likely lupus or sarcoidosis affecting the brain. Taking Ibuprofen medication with an autoimmune disease can make you more susceptible to ulcers,” Thirteen suggested.
“Sarcoidosis gradually cures itself. He would’ve been getting better, not worse,” House shot down with a shake of his head.
“It could be a meningioma or brain cancer,” Taub stated.
The final puzzle piece clicked; it wasn’t an epiphany so much as him figuring out what his mind had been trying to avoid. The whirring sensation in the back of his brain; the unexplained sense of foreboding that filled his chest. The reason why he hadn’t made the connection between the condoms--he hadn’t wanted to go down this road in case it ended up on brain cancer.
House shook his head. “Autoimmune fits better. Multiple sclerosis. He said he stopped taking ginkgo biloba when he seventeen because his headaches stopped. MS disappears for periods of time and returns; mimics other diseases. It probably came back during ‘medical school,’” he added air-quotes as he rolled his eyes, “and he wrote it off as stress. It’s autoimmune so it makes him more susceptible to ulcers from the Ibuprofen.”
“If he had MS he’d be twitching all over the place or at least unable to walk properly; it would’ve affected his muscles or spinal cord by now. You just don’t want him to have brain cancer because then your best friend would have his Nazi family breathing down his neck,” Taub stated. “Most meningiomas are benign so chances are he won’t have to be on Wilson’s caseload for very long; it explains his headaches we know he has from all the Ibuprofen he takes, his dullness, even his personality changes.”
“What personality changes?” Chase asked, hopefully taking House’s side.
Taub‘s ‘duh’ expression was directed at Chase, but then he turned to face House as he spoke. “He fell in love with a Jew in college but married a Nazi. Maybe we’re looking at his doomed romance all wrong. Maybe it’s not love; maybe it’s a personality change.”
House scoffed. “No, the seeds of acceptance were buried when he was sixteen. He was paired with some black girl in his class and she’s the one who opened his eyes to not being a judgmental racist piece of garbage.”
“So he says,” Foreman snorted as he folded his arms across his chest. “We all know he lies, House. You’ve caught him in several. He only talked about some Jewish girl in medical school when Taub walked in; he only told you about the black girl after Taub and I tried to get more information out of him.”
Taub nodded in Foreman’s direction to concede with his point. “His dad did die of cancer. The chances of getting cancer are greater if someone in your family--”
“It’s not cancer!” House shouted suddenly, slamming the tip of his cane against the floor. The room filled with silence and his team all shared knowing looks. “Now get down there and pump him full of corticosteriods; he’s got MS.”
“I’m not treating a patient for MS if I don’t think he has it,” Foreman refused, shaking his head slightly and looking House up and down in incredulity.
House turned away from his team and stared at the white board, scratching at his eyebrow and pursing his lips together. “Him having MS is just as likely as him having cancer. If you don’t want to give him treatment, fine; do a CBC to check for lupus and an ESR to check the inflammation. Do an LP to confirm MS and then when you come back with one of those autoimmune diseases, you can treat him then,” he ordered, voice bouncing off of the white board and hitting him back in the face. He looked past the symptoms and focused on his barely-there reflection.
“The fact that you’re asking us to test before you treat means you’re unsure, which means you know I’m right,” Foreman stated.
“Just do the damn tests!” House yelled, spinning to glare at his team.
They all stared at him in return, then after a few seconds of them sharing glances and pursing their lips in annoyance, they slowly stood from their chairs. “You’re just wasting our time,” Foreman snapped.
“Taub can do the LP,” House said on their way out. When Taub looked at him, face blank but with an air of confusion surrounding him, House tried to smirk but his mind was elsewhere. “Poking him with something sharp is the only reason you didn’t storm off,” he reminded, then turned back to the symptoms, listening to the door close as his knee buckled under the pain that seared through his thigh.
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!
Previous Chapter
Chapter Eight
“Differential diagnosis!” House greeted cheerily when Foreman walked through the door. The rest of the ducklings looked at him while he stood near the doorway, raising his chin and eyebrow haughtily at the whiteboard.
“I thought you cured the Nazi.” Foreman folded his arms across his chest and his head dropped to one side.
“So did I,” he retaliated. “But then he decided to go and get more interesting on me. So, what causes vertigo, dizziness, euphoria, and seizures?”
“What about the vomiting blood?”
“That was caused by an ulcer,” Chase explained quickly.
“I still maintain that maybe he actually did find your anti-Semitic remark funny. He is, after all, a neo-Nazi,” Taub chipped in, glaring at the white-board as if it had offended him. Considering there was dark swastika scribbled on it, maybe it had.
“He didn’t chuckle, Taub. He laughed hysterically moments after jumping to defend your people’s honour. Had he found it hilarious, he would’ve responded immediately. Oh, right, and then he seized. I know euphoric people when I see them. Right, Foreman?”
Thirteen and Taub shared a look of confusion.
“It could be pesticide poisoning. His wife has a garden; they grow their own tomatoes, grapes, some carrots--if she uses pesticides with either Xylene or Tolulene, she could be inadvertently poisoning him,” Thirteen suggested, getting a start on the differential.
House shook his head, holding his cane behind his head, holding onto both ends as he leaned his head backwards and paced in front of the white-board. “She’d be poisoning herself, too. Her and the kid would be seizing all over the damn place; puking on my shoes. Besides, if they’re using enough pesticides to poison themselves they’d be getting the skin and eye irritation first. It can’t be environmental; his family‘s just fine--well, except for the Nazi thing.”
“Lidocaine toxicity--if he’s allergic to it . . .” Chase suggested.
“Nope,” Taub interjected. “His office is strictly novocaine and pain killers.”
“It could be a reaction to the local anaesthetic we used on his throat or what we used during surgery,” Chase supplied.
Taub shook his head. “Or it could be another one of the symptoms he lied to us about and he’s been having them for months. He would’ve had a reaction during the surgery or the endoscopy, anyway. Besides, the only way he’d get those symptoms would be if he used them intravenously to get high, and he doesn’t have track marks.”
“He might not be taking intravenous drugs--ODing and withdrawal from amphetamines could cause his symptoms,” Thirteen pitched in, looking over at House for confirmation.
“It would’ve showed up on the drug test,” House shot down as he continued pacing.
“Could be lead poisoning,” Chase offered.
House glared at him. “I just told you; if it were an environmental factor, his family would be sick, too.”
Chase sighed and pushed onward; eager to get a confirmation. “Impulsivity and irritability are symptoms of lead poisoning. His wife’s a piece of work and his son looks like he’s been in fights recently and besides, he’s lied to us multiple times; maybe his family is sick and they just haven’t said anything. We probably don’t even know all of his symptoms; he lied about the seizures too.”
House narrowed his eyes and thought over what Chase had said. He hadn’t checked their blood for lead poisoning; it could work, if their house in both Arizona and New Jersey had lead paint. He shook his head. “He has enough money for the best so he’ll get the best. He won’t be buying any homes with lead-based paint,” he countered.
“He’s an architect now, too?” Taub scowled. “People generally don’t care about others’ well-being; especially if they’re Nazis. Maybe his realtor just forgot to tell him the nice, large, multi-story house from 1942 had lead paint all over the walls.”
“We were at his house,” Thirteen stated while she shook her head. “It’s brand new; no way it’s covered in lead paint. Unless the orthodontists’ office--”
“You really think they’d let that office stay in use if it violated code regulations? Besides, then everyone at his work would be sick,” Taub shot down.
Thirteen scoffed and tossed her pen down; she’d been twirling it and tapping it against the table either in irritation or because she couldn’t sit still. “This is pointless. He’s lied to us about when they presented and half his symptoms; how can we even begin to diagnose him if we can’t trust anything he says?” she burst angrily.
House stopped pacing and then ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Chase had a point. If his family is sick, we could be missing out on something, and we have no idea how many symptoms he’s hiding from us. We need to get them all alone and hopefully honest. Thirteen, you take the wife out for some tea; cosy up to her--I don’t care how. Find out if they’ve been experiencing symptoms too. Chase, you talk to the son; see if he’s been getting sick recently or if he’s noticed anything about his dad. Taub, Foreman--talk to Nazi Guy. He’s a pushover pansy and you’re an intimidating black guy who might ring up the homies and vandalize his car if he doesn’t cooperate and he seems to like Jews. He probably got What’s-Her-Name knocked up in dental school,” he muttered with a snarl.
They all nodded and stood from their seats, heading towards the hallway, but then House put his cane on the ground and caught Foreman’s eye. “Foreman, I need to talk to you for a minute,” he said, and Foreman remained behind while they all left, Taub waiting outside in the hallway.
Foreman waited for a second, then he let out a sigh. “What?”
“Seizures and euphoria are neurological symptoms and you didn’t open your mouth once during the differential. Do you think I paged you for my health?” Foreman didn’t say anything; he just lifted his chin a little. “If your very high morals prevent you from treating the patient, I’d prefer you storming out in anger than sitting on your ass and not contributing. Either do your work or go home.”
Foreman breathed in through his nose and pinched his lips together angrily, then lowered his head in a slight nod and turned on his heel, leaving the room to join Taub.
House turned in his spot to stare at the white board, pressing his cane to his mouth. He wished something would click into place, but until he could know for sure he had all the facts he wasn’t willing to start theorizing. He tapped the curve of his cane against his bottom lip. What if he wasn’t lying anymore? What if those were all the symptoms or what if he’d been going to House’s office not to apologize, but to tell him more?
He heard the door open and he looked over his shoulder to see Wilson. At least it wasn’t Cuddy; she’d been less than pleased with how he’d been around Thomas, although honestly she might have been insulted at the Jew joke. He turned back to the whiteboard and disguised a step aside as a shift in weight to make room for Wilson, in case he wanted to stare at the board and maybe come up with something.
Wilson, predictably, stood by his side and put his hands in his pockets, looking over the whiteboard as well. The silence stretched around them, but it was comfortable so House didn’t bother trying to break it, until Wilson tilted his head to the side and opened his mouth, inhaling to speak.
“If you suggest cancer,” House forestalled, “I will whack you with my cane.”
“Well, I am an oncologist,” Wilson justified with a shrug. “And besides, you whacked me with your cane yesterday. You actually left a bruise.”
“Yet you keep coming back for more, you masochist.”
Wilson chuckled and shook his head. “Name calling, too. What a fine list of activities we do together.” House stared at Wilson’s profile, who continued to look at the white board. He rocked on his heels a little, then turned his head to meet House’s gaze. His smile was so brief House almost didn’t see it, but it was there.
House focused on the board again when his chest seemed to tighten, but not uncomfortably. He stared at the ridiculous equation he’d written on the board--a Swastika plus a Star of David equalled a heart. He stared at the heart, then sighed. “You knew we’d get together eventually, Wilson. You even rooted for it,” he muttered.
“Sometimes I’m not gifted with foresight,” he replied just as casually.
“Or maybe you’re just jealous. Not used to sharing me.”
He expected a sarcastic evasion, or at least a denial. Instead Wilson remained silent until House turned his head to look at him. Wilson passively looked over the symptoms and nodded slightly. “Maybe,” he admitted. “It never stopped you from being right, though. The jealousy.”
“And it never stopped you from dating,” he retaliated.
“Maybe I should’ve.”
“So what are you suggesting? I leave Cuddy for you?” he asked, not meaning for it to come out like he’d leave Cuddy and date Wilson but leave her because he’d asked. He didn’t elaborate, however.
Wilson scoffed and shook his head. “I’m not suggesting you do anything. I’m just--” He sighed, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I should do some of my hours,” he muttered and then turned away, heading towards the door leading into the hallway.
House watched him go. Before he left, Wilson turned back around and cleared his throat. “How’d the meeting with the donor go?”
“How do you think?”
“Well, maybe next time,” he hoped half-heartedly.
House shook his head. “There probably won’t be a next time, Wilson. I’m not you.”
Wilson waited for a few seconds, as if expecting House to say something else or as if he was going to offer another potential diagnosis, but then he just nodded in parting and left House in his office, alone.
* * *
Chase was the first to return. By that time, House was busy trolling the IMDb boards, chuckling to himself as he read dozens of over-the-top whiny responses to his harsh but accurate review of Twilight. As the two teams of shippers battled it out and saw fit to tell him that had he one ounce of intelligence or understanding of real love he’d like the books, Chase cleared his throat to announce his presence.
House glanced at him. “That was quick.”
“The kid blurted everything out the moment I got him to the vending machines. I think he was waiting for an excuse, to be honest. He can’t know for sure when the seizures started, but he knows he’s had them since at least December. Kid said he heard a noise in the bathroom and checked and saw his dad thrashing about in his own vomit. Nathaniel--”
“Who?”
“The kid. Son of Nazi Guy. His name’s Nathaniel,” he explained casually; he was used to House not remembering names. “Anyway, he told me his dad drinks a lot, but he’s caught him puking even when he hasn’t been for a few days. He said he didn’t know if that meant anything. When I asked him if his dad ever got euphoric--you know, started laughing hysterically for no reason or just generally irrationally happy--he said that it happens a lot, but he can’t tell the difference between irrational happiness or just a normal good day. He figured that his dad was stoned whenever he started laughing for no reason.”
“Marijuana would’ve showed up on the tox screen. So we have seizures since at least December and vomiting to add to the list. Anything else? The kid experiencing tremors, blurred vision, skin rashes . . . ?”
Chase shrugged. “He said he got a cold sometime in February, but nothing serious. His mum got pneumonia; had it for a few weeks but she went to Princeton General and got better by April. His dad took two days off last week because he was vomiting so much he couldn’t leave the bathroom for more than fifteen minutes. He hadn’t had anything alcoholic to drink for about a week, except he had a glass of wine the morning he was admitted.”
House nodded, thinking of when he’d examined Thomas and Nathaniel had taken his mother out of the room. He thought of when he and Wilson were doing the blood and urine samples; Nathaniel managed to get the wife to leave then, too. He picked up his large ball and pressed it to his mouth, as if kissing it. “The son’s been trying to get us alone with the dad since he was admitted. He knows his dad lies to them or, well, at least to the mom. He’s not only lying to us about his symptoms, but his wife.”
“You can’t hide vomiting and seizures from your own wife; she’s lying, too.”
“He’s managed to hide his Barbara Streisand vinyl collection from her; he’d be able to hide seizures.”
“No, because he’s had them at the dinner table with Sarah watching. His wife knows you’ve got a black man on your team and a Jew. They’ve researched everyone you’ve staffed, House. Nathaniel said his mum isn’t going to admit to anything her husband won’t. That if he doesn’t want Jews and blacks knowing his symptoms then she thinks it isn’t your business. Maybe he knows his dad isn’t really a Nazi. Maybe the kid isn’t, either. Could be just the mum.”
House shook his head and tapped the ball against his mouth a few times in thought. “He’s a Nazi. He has Rockwell tattooed on his knuckles.” Off Chase’s confused expression, he sighed and continued. “George Lincoln Rockwell is practically the messiah for neo-Nazis.” He pursed his lips and felt his ball move across his mouth; soothing his mind and focusing his attention. “Anything else?”
Chase shrugged. “Nope. New symptom, though. Vomiting. Not a total waste.”
House exited out of IMDb and stood out of his chair, grabbing his cane and limping into the differential room. Chase followed then went to his usual chair, and House uncapped the marker. It squeaked against the board as he wrote the new symptom.
He hooked his cane on the white board and then tapped the now-capped marker to his mouth, eyeing the symptoms. Puzzle pieces clicked somewhere in the back of his brain and his face fell slightly at the half-formed thought.
The door swished open and House turned to see Taub and Foreman walk in. Foreman went over to his chair as did Taub. House waited for a few seconds, then snapped; “Well?”
“He got his scar when he sixteen, apparently. Baseball bat to the head,” Foreman explained sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. “He never had any professional medical advice; his mother stitched it for him.”
“Apparently, he wasn’t aware of the fact he was having seizures or that unexplainable good moods were anything worth mentioning,” Taub added with an eye-roll and sarcasm dripping off every syllable.
The door opened again and Thirteen walked in. Everybody stared at her expectantly. She just sat next to Chase with a sigh. “Sarah says she hasn’t been sick and that she was unaware of any seizures and that she doubted being in a good mood occasionally was cause for concern. She had to leave for work, but I seriously doubt she was keen on talking with me for much longer, anyway.”
“Right, because laughing uproariously seconds after wanting to tear my head off is totally normal,” he muttered, then furrowed his brows in thought as he stared at the equation he’d written on the board. He tilted his head, then uncapped the marker again and wrote ‘head trauma--sixteen’ slowly. “Foreman, you said he never got professional help?” He turned to look at Foreman.
Foreman nodded. “That’s what he said.”
House narrowed his eyes in thought, still pressing the marker to his mouth. “Maybe none of this is as new as any of them thought. He experiences headaches--you said he liked pain-killers--and dizziness, light-headedness . . . Who doesn’t get light-headed every once in awhile? And if he drinks, he could just blame that on the alcohol until one day he realizes he hasn’t had a drink in weeks and he still gets so nauseous he pukes; headache, vertigo . . . He took gingko biloba.”
“I’ve taken ginkgo biloba and I’m not experiencing seizures or even dizziness,” Thirteen supplied.
“Some people have adverse reactions to it. So his mom stitches him up and grabs some herbal wannabe medication from over the counter; he takes it for his head injury, but all it does is cause even more vertigo and nausea.”
Foreman dropped his chin to his chest, then rolled his eyes so hard his head moved with it. “Are you telling me you actually think he’s been taking ginkgo biloba since he was sixteen? He would’ve eventually stopped.”
“Not if the symptoms never went away. Ginkgo biloba dilates the blood vessels in the brain; it’s used to treat head injury and vertigo. So if he had an adverse reaction to it then he’d experience the symptoms it’s supposed to get rid of, so he keeps taking it.”
“Doesn’t explain the euphoria,” Foreman argued.
“It does if he gets drunk a lot,” House countered. “Mixing herbal agents, pain killers, and alcohol--wow, this guy knows how to party.”
“Chase and I went through his house. He didn’t have any ginkgo biloba there--we searched the whole place.”
With a hum, he jerked his cane from off the white board and started limping his way to the exit.
“Where are you going?” Foreman asked with a side of demanded.
He looked over his shoulder. “I’m going to find Nazi Guy’s secret stash. He’s been taking them for years; he’ll have them on his person. I always kept Vicodin on me.”
Either House left the differential diagnosis room too quickly for them to respond or he made a valid point, because he didn’t hear a single word as the door shut behind him. He breezed past Wilson’s office and then limped towards the elevator, past the spot of Nazi Guy’s seizure, and froze in front of the elevator. Something in the back of his mind whirred again; the same something that had clicked a few moments ago that filled him with foreboding and unease. The symptoms flashed across his mind in rapid succession and he pounded the call button, watching the doors slide open and cut his warped reflection in half.
He slid into the empty elevator and pushed the button to the floor his patient was on and waited. It was empty in the elevator and House looked over at where he and Wilson had fought over the papers the day before, laughing inches from each other’s faces. He thought of Wilson fixing his tie and looking at him through lowered lashes, almost in a flirtatious way.
It wasn’t the first time Wilson had given him a look that made House wonder--and it certainly hadn’t rivalled the one he’d given him the night of the organ--but he’d never given him that look while they stood so close before. Maybe he had. House had learned to ignore those looks ages ago; it was just Wilson, accidentally flirting. He was a flirtatious guy--House honestly believed he couldn’t shut it off. He’d seen the man flirt with women far below his standard and not nearly needy enough for him to ignore their attractiveness. So the pathological flirting made sense.
It was either that, or Wilson wanted . . .
House wasn’t going to go down that road. He was dating Cuddy, and Wilson was dating Sam.
Dinging to announce his arrival, the doors slid open and House limped out, brushing past a nurse in lavender scrubs and heading towards his patient’s room.
When he burst in, he found Nathaniel sitting in the visitor’s chair, stretching his arms above his head until his back and shoulders popped. His eyes caught House and he stood up with a smile. “Well, I’m gonna go take a piss and probably stop by the vending machines. Want anything?” he asked.
“No thanks,” his patient said, smiling genially at his son.
Nathaniel walked by House so that his back faced his father, and met House’s eyes, widening them slightly as if trying to tell him something and House nodded. He was leaving to give them some privacy.
When the door shut, House immediately went over to the chair where he’d folded his clothes. He jerked the pants free and started sifting through the pockets, tossing his wallet back to the chair as well has his car keys.
“What are you doing?” Thomas asked.
“Searching for your stash.” When he came up clean, his eyes spotted his wife’s large, white purse. “You had massive head trauma when you were sixteen, but didn’t go to the hospital. I assume your mother, in all her infinite Old Wives’ Tale wisdom, bought some ginkgo biloba and stuffed it down you.”
“Well, yes,” he admitted a bit confusedly.
House stepped forward and grabbed the purse, opening it with no pretence of being gentle.
“That’s my wife’s purse you’re--”
“Women carry their purses everywhere. Your wife left hers here, which means there’s something in here you need, like your secret stash of--” He pulled out the first bottle his fingers curled around and pulled it out with a flourish. “. . . Midol.”
“She’s a massage therapist; all she needs is her phone and car keys. She doesn’t trust her clients or employees. I’m sorry; could you not--”
“Trust me; it’s medically relevant. I’m looking for your ginkgo biloba. I’ll find it eventually.”
“I stopped taking that when I was seventeen,” he said, staring at House as if he’d said something incredibly odd.
“Sure,“ he muttered in disbelief.
“You don’t believe me.“
“Why should I? You lie to your family, you’ve lied about almost all of your symptoms . . .“
“Why would I worry about having a good day or laughing often? And I wasn’t aware I was having seizures. I thought I was blacking out; I drink occasionally. If you thought I was just blacking out from alcohol, then you’d dismiss my other--” House opened the purse wider and dumped it onto the slender bedside table. “Hey! Now, I asked you stop, so could you--”
House sifted through the objects that had landed haphazardly on the desk. A few tampons rolled onto the floor; a yo-yo thunked the tabletop and then slid across, landing on the floor. Loose change tinkled across the faux-wood and rolled to the linoleum, some of it landing on the cover of Mein Kampf, to which House raised his eyebrow, and a bottle of Ibuprofen spun lazily but did not fall to the floor. A bottle of ginseng knocked into the Ibuprofen and then rolled back into a Tootsie Pop. A few crumpled receipts, her bottle of Midol, and a few pens completed the picture, and her wallet had fallen open, revealing a small family picture.
House looked inside the empty purse, then back at Thomas, who was just staring at him with his head reeled back and pale brows furrowed. After a long second, he cleared his throat. “Like I said, I stopped taking it when I was teenager. My headaches and dizziness stopped so I didn’t see the point in continuing to take them.”
House sat the purse beside the mess he’d made, then eyed the jagged scar across the left side of his head. It wasn’t thick or angry looking--just one long crooked line. Thomas self-consciously scratched at it and shifted awkwardly on the bed.
He cleared his throat. “I was just watching her purse,” Thomas explained politely.
House narrowed his eyes in thought. “What happened?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the scar.
Thomas sighed. “I was taking Honours Biology. We had a term-long project and we didn’t get to pick our partners. My teacher paired me up with Justine Seyfield; a black girl. At the time I . . . still had some prejudices I hadn’t worked through, but I figured my education was more important than . . . who I studied with. I knew my parents and brother wouldn’t see it that way, and Dad was sick so I just . . . didn’t tell them. Told them I was at the library; hanging out with some friends . . . Anything so they wouldn’t come looking for me.
“Started . . . going over to her place to work on our project. I realized that--well. She wasn’t so different than me. Started spending more time than it took to study, and one night I stayed past dinner. My parents got worried so they sent my brother looking for me; he called all my teachers to see if I’d said anything and . . . Well, he came to her house and found me. So he dragged me home, made a huge scene, and one thing led to another and he beat my ass.” He shrugged as if it didn’t really matter, but obviously recounting the story affected him; his eyes were watering.
“With a baseball bat?” House urged, remembering Foreman saying something about one.
Thomas nodded slowly and swallowed audibly. “I know you think I’m weak. A . . . hypocrite. But my mom stitched me up with no anaesthetic and still blames me for my dad dying a week later. As for Justine, well . . . They found her body in a river three weeks later. It’s my fault she’s dead--if I hadn‘t forgotten to call--” His voice broke with emotion and he sniffed. He stared at his lap and let a long sigh, House’s stomach clenching at the story. “You can say what you want about me and you’d probably be right. But it’s not as easy as you think, getting away from all of this. I’ve tried, but . . . Well.” He snorted and brushed away the wetness underneath his lids.
For a moment House stared at Thomas as he bowed his head, focusing on his lap. He eyed the scar; eyed the other small scars dotting his head; at the bumps and grooves the skull made, skin stretched across it. He imagined seeing a murdered black girl being dragged out of a lake on the news and knowing it could have been prevented with one phone call he hadn’t made . . .
“I asked you what happened to your head; I don’t want your life story,” he spat, then turned on his heel and left the room.
* * *
Nathaniel stared at his reflection in the mirror, tilting his head one way and then the other. He pulled his lips over his teeth and then pulled his bottom lip down to see the scabs that matched the shape of his teeth. He touched his nose and then ran his finger over the bump--apparently, he hadn’t reset it properly. He looked at his hand, turning it in the light; his knuckles were still scabbed and a little swollen. When he flexed his fingers his hand ached.
He jumped when the door burst open loudly and he looked over his shoulder to see the entrant. It was House. “Hey,” he greeted with a head nod then turned back to the mirror. House stopped a few feet behind him a little to the left and they met eyes through the reflection.
House went over to the urinals and started urinating, so Nathaniel went back to flexing his hand and wincing when it ached.
After House finished Nathaniel heard him flush. House went to the sink beside him and Nathaniel winced when he moved his wrist in a way that shot pain to his fingertips.
House dried his hands, but instead of leaving the bathroom he came up right behind Nathaniel, the two looking at each other through the reflection. Nathaniel turned around so he could glare at him face to face. “Gimme your hand,” House ordered, his shirt un-tucked so he looked less professional than he had when he walked in.
Nathaniel stepped away so his back hit the sink. “What the hell for?”
“I’m a palm reader,” he answered patronizingly.
They locked eyes challengingly, but after a few seconds Nathaniel scoffed and thrust his hand in House’s face. House took it and held it in both hands, then bent it. Trying to pull his hand away and hissing in pain did nothing to change his mind; tiny cracking noises filled the bathroom and after one large crack, the aching went away.
House released his hand and Nathaniel flexed and twisted it. Everything felt perfectly fine, except for a slight sting where House had broken a scab by grabbing his hand.
“Thanks, dude,” he said, then moved to walk by him.
House stepped in front of him. “Every single time I’ve been in the same room as your dad, you leave. You even get Mommy Dearest to go with you. I’d put money betting on the fact you left whenever my team walked in, too. Ten seconds alone with Chase, and you blurt out all the symptoms. You knew your dad wouldn’t tell us all the symptoms when you left, so either you thought maybe he would tell us but you told us anyway because your personal motto is better safe than sorry . . .” He stared pointedly at his recently broken nose in disbelief. “. . . or there was something else you were hoping he’d tell us without your mother or you in the room.”
Nathaniel found House’s gaze a bit too penetrating so he looked at his feet and scratched the back of his head, his shaggy blonde hair dancing in front of his eyes. “Yeah, there’s somethin’ else,” he admitted. He looked up to see House staring expectantly at him. He held his breath for a second, then he swallowed nervously. “My . . . my dad’s cheating on my mom,” he mumbled quietly.
“You catch him with his pants down?”
“Well, no, I haven’t caught him, I just . . . I was lookin’ through his room and I found some condoms.”
“Right, sexually active adults having condoms is entirely--”
“My mom can’t get pregnant,” he interrupted and House shut his mouth. “She had two miscarriages before me. I almost killed her and I was premature so she got her tubes tied.”
House nodded once. “Hmm. Interesting.” He nodded to himself, eyes ticking back and forth like he was reading something in midair. He limped towards the door quickly, but stopped before he left. He turned around and looked Nathaniel over. “Word to the wise--if he was hiding them in his room, your mother would’ve found them. Next time, just tell me you were looking through his wallet for cash.”
With that, House left the bathroom.
* * *
With a flourish House burst into the differential diagnosis room. “Test him for neurosyphilis; he cheats on his wife,” he greeted, holding his thigh and rubbing it; the quick limping had taken its toll on his thigh.
“You can’t know--” Chase began.
“Oh come on, you can’t seriously be that naïve,” he interrupted. Chase sighed and then sat back in his chair and sighed. “His kid found condoms in his wallet and Mommy’s got her tubes tied. If anybody’s surprised he’s cheating on his harridan Nazi of a wife, then now would probably be a bad time to tell you that Spock dies in Wrath of Kahn.”
“So he cheats on his wife; he also has condoms. Just because he sleeps around doesn’t automatically mean he has neurosyphilis,” Foreman countered, staring at House as if he were a total moron.
“The fact he had syphilis and ignored the symptoms for well over--”
“The symptoms don’t fit!”
“Right, because neurosyphilis doesn’t affect the brain,” House said sarcastically. “Oh, wait . . .” Foreman rolled his eyes. “Stuff him full of penicillin and take a blood test to confirm.”
“If he had syphilis his wife would have contracted it too and I know she would’ve noticed him wearing a condom,” Foreman pointed out rationally.
House opened his mouth to point out some fallacy in his reasoning, but realized Foreman made sense. His wife had her tubes tied and there was no reason for them to be wearing condoms; if he was putting them in his wallet, that meant he planned on having sex in places other than their bedroom so he definitely was hiding them. House should’ve made that connection himself. He only didn’t make obvious connections when he was high or because he was subconsciously ignoring them; why would he ignore that?
“Symptoms point to autoimmune--most likely lupus or sarcoidosis affecting the brain. Taking Ibuprofen medication with an autoimmune disease can make you more susceptible to ulcers,” Thirteen suggested.
“Sarcoidosis gradually cures itself. He would’ve been getting better, not worse,” House shot down with a shake of his head.
“It could be a meningioma or brain cancer,” Taub stated.
The final puzzle piece clicked; it wasn’t an epiphany so much as him figuring out what his mind had been trying to avoid. The whirring sensation in the back of his brain; the unexplained sense of foreboding that filled his chest. The reason why he hadn’t made the connection between the condoms--he hadn’t wanted to go down this road in case it ended up on brain cancer.
House shook his head. “Autoimmune fits better. Multiple sclerosis. He said he stopped taking ginkgo biloba when he seventeen because his headaches stopped. MS disappears for periods of time and returns; mimics other diseases. It probably came back during ‘medical school,’” he added air-quotes as he rolled his eyes, “and he wrote it off as stress. It’s autoimmune so it makes him more susceptible to ulcers from the Ibuprofen.”
“If he had MS he’d be twitching all over the place or at least unable to walk properly; it would’ve affected his muscles or spinal cord by now. You just don’t want him to have brain cancer because then your best friend would have his Nazi family breathing down his neck,” Taub stated. “Most meningiomas are benign so chances are he won’t have to be on Wilson’s caseload for very long; it explains his headaches we know he has from all the Ibuprofen he takes, his dullness, even his personality changes.”
“What personality changes?” Chase asked, hopefully taking House’s side.
Taub‘s ‘duh’ expression was directed at Chase, but then he turned to face House as he spoke. “He fell in love with a Jew in college but married a Nazi. Maybe we’re looking at his doomed romance all wrong. Maybe it’s not love; maybe it’s a personality change.”
House scoffed. “No, the seeds of acceptance were buried when he was sixteen. He was paired with some black girl in his class and she’s the one who opened his eyes to not being a judgmental racist piece of garbage.”
“So he says,” Foreman snorted as he folded his arms across his chest. “We all know he lies, House. You’ve caught him in several. He only talked about some Jewish girl in medical school when Taub walked in; he only told you about the black girl after Taub and I tried to get more information out of him.”
Taub nodded in Foreman’s direction to concede with his point. “His dad did die of cancer. The chances of getting cancer are greater if someone in your family--”
“It’s not cancer!” House shouted suddenly, slamming the tip of his cane against the floor. The room filled with silence and his team all shared knowing looks. “Now get down there and pump him full of corticosteriods; he’s got MS.”
“I’m not treating a patient for MS if I don’t think he has it,” Foreman refused, shaking his head slightly and looking House up and down in incredulity.
House turned away from his team and stared at the white board, scratching at his eyebrow and pursing his lips together. “Him having MS is just as likely as him having cancer. If you don’t want to give him treatment, fine; do a CBC to check for lupus and an ESR to check the inflammation. Do an LP to confirm MS and then when you come back with one of those autoimmune diseases, you can treat him then,” he ordered, voice bouncing off of the white board and hitting him back in the face. He looked past the symptoms and focused on his barely-there reflection.
“The fact that you’re asking us to test before you treat means you’re unsure, which means you know I’m right,” Foreman stated.
“Just do the damn tests!” House yelled, spinning to glare at his team.
They all stared at him in return, then after a few seconds of them sharing glances and pursing their lips in annoyance, they slowly stood from their chairs. “You’re just wasting our time,” Foreman snapped.
“Taub can do the LP,” House said on their way out. When Taub looked at him, face blank but with an air of confusion surrounding him, House tried to smirk but his mind was elsewhere. “Poking him with something sharp is the only reason you didn’t storm off,” he reminded, then turned back to the symptoms, listening to the door close as his knee buckled under the pain that seared through his thigh.
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