"New case!" House limps enthusiastically into the seminar room, where his team is scattered, each performing their daily rituals. Cameron sits at the computer, sorting House's mail; Chase half sips his coffee while completing the daily crossword; and Foreman… reading medical journals, trying to stay ahead of the curve. House ignores all of this, and Chase, as he says:
"'Bout time. I was starting to get bored; thinking I should get hooked on a soap opera," with a curt glance towards House.
House starts scribbling down symptoms on the white board. "Twenty-two year old male college student presents with seizures—"
"Seizures are diagnostically boring," Foreman interjects.
House turns around with a piercing, foreboding look. "—Seizures. Delusions. Hallucinations. Fever. Contralateral neglect—"
This catches Cameron's ear: "The patient doesn't pay attention to one side of his body? Which side? Is he paralyzed?"
Foreman starts in, "Contralateral neglect would be due to a lesion of the right parietal lobe and effects the left side of the body almost exclusively. Does the patient have a history indicating trauma? He could have had a stroke."
"Not in a person so young," Chase mentions. "It could be an aneurysm."
"Still too young," says Cameron.
"Not necessarily. Some genetic vascular diseases don't present until early adulthood. We could do a gene sequencing and test for a few of the more common ones."
"People, people," House loves this moment, when he gets to burst all their little bubbles. "Aren't you forgetting to ask something? You should always ask your Uncle House if the boy was shot." Stunned looks overtake each of the younger faces. "Well—go ahead… ask!"
Foreman chooses to play. "Was he shot? Could that be the trauma causing the contralateral neglect?"
Cameron couldn't stand it. "Is he one of the victims of that school shooting last month? Oh, my gosh."
"Yes, but he wasn't shot in the head. What a silly notion!" House took way too much pleasure in this. "He was shot in the left abdomen, bullet knicked his liver, but I doubt it's causing these symptoms," as he glances back at the board. House pauses, then looks back at his team. "Okay, Chase: do a contrast CT; see if the kid has any bleeds or chinks in his vascular armor. Cameron, get a thorough history… parents should be in his room by now. Foreman… start the kid on blood thinners."
"I thought you said it wasn't a stroke?"
"No, Chase said it wasn't a stroke. I didn't say anything… except to start him on blood thinners. Now, go! Shoo!"
-- -- -- --
"House," Wilson shouted down the hallways towards his meandering friend. His leg must be hurting more than usual; he didn't usually walk that slowly unless he was avoiding work. "House."
"Yes, Jimmy," an unsually sweet yet annoyed tone in his voice.
"How's your patient?"
"Fine, how's yours?"
Wilson decided not to play today. "Cuddy's looking for you. That school shooting has the press planted all over the hospital. She wants you to maintain a low profile for a week or two."
"Only if I get off clinic duty. Otherwise, there'll be Hell to pay!"
"Yes, I'm sure Cuddy will respond to your threats, as usual. They're always so effective," sarcasm dripping from Wilson's words.
They continued walking in silence towards the cafeteria, their stomachs taking turns growling at each other. An individual in a small waiting room by the nurse's station caught both their eyes: a young woman, not particularly thin, with chestnut brown hair just past her shoulders, dark brown, brooding eyes over deep, gray circles of exhaustion… and a cane. She paced, agitated and methodic, behind one of the sofas, staring hard at each tile she passed. Her limp was on her right leg, and, like House, she carried her cane, against medical advice, on that same side. She didn't look up, so never noticed the two doctors staring at her: one almost in disbelief, shock on his face; the other, with intrigue written on his brow, the furrows growing deeper with each halted step.
Lunch was unexceptional; not even a mention of the brooding, female version of House in the lobby. When House and Wilson left lunch, Wilson went back to his office, and House went back to hiding from Cuddy… with one brief stopover. House limped cautiously back to the waiting room to catch another glimpse of the young woman with the cane; no luck. She must have just been visiting someone. And with so many victims of that now infamous shootout at the local university, she was probably just a friend of a victim, or, with that limp, maybe even a victim herself. But as House was on his way back to his office, his eye was caught once again by the girl with the cane, now standing beside the bed of… his patient? House wasn't really sure; he hadn't seen his patient, yet. House decided to let it go for now; he really didn't want to investigate if it meant a chance he had to talk to his patient or the patient's family, so he just went back to his office. "Gameboy, today, I think," he mumbled to himself.
-- -- -- --
His three amigos were waiting for him when House returned. Damn, no gameboy right now. House was sorely disappointed.
Foreman looked ready to burst. "No clot, no aneurysm, no tumor."
"Good thing this isn't baseball. Three strikes and you're out!" Sometimes House's analogies just weren't as caliber as the team had come to expect…. And Cameron hated the ones involving sports. They all decided to ignore his remark, and Cameron spoke up.
"What about the delusions? You said he was having delusions and hallucinations. What if we're dealing with two different conditions? He was involved in the school shooting—"
"He was the shooter," interjected House.
This was unexpected, to say the least. "Wh—what?" Chase stuttered. "He was the shooter? This, Ryan kid killed 17 other students… so how did he get shot? He had a gun!"
"So did the cops, apparently," House made this last comment with an acid tone. His leg was throbbing more than usual, so he limped to his secret stash of Vicodin behind his desk.
Cameron seemed to recover her point, still astonished at this revelation of the evil of her patient. "He was still involved in a very traumatic event. Hallucinations are a symptom of Post-traumatic stress disorder…."
"But so are delusions," Foreman said. "PTSD can present in a number of different ways, depending on the event and the person it affects. We'd have to discount any number of symptoms with a diagnosis of PTSD, and there's no way to tell which."
Chase: "We could start him on some anti-psychotics, see if they counter any of the psych symptoms…"
"He's not psychotic."
"And besides, anti-psychotics have no proven value for PTSD treatment." Cameron and Foreman were finally in agreement about something.
The three were silent, waiting for House to make some remarkable statement that would crack the case wide open and reveal to them his amazing powers of deduction…. Nothing came. Instead, House suddenly started to walk towards the conference room, heading back to the white board.
"We still haven't explained the contralateral neglect. Foreman, do a cold-water flush of his right inner-ear. When the kid sobers up for a few hours, do a routine psych test… see if any of his other symptoms clear up."
House's back still to them as he faced the white board, eyes narrowed, the team left, ready to find out some significant piece of information. Before they reached the door, each of their beepers began to go off in turn… not a good sign. They each ran out of the room.
-- -- -- --
Back in the conference room, Chase, Cameron and Foreman sat staring at the board, trying to account for their patient's suicide attempt.
"So now he's suicidal," House almost didn't know what to write on the board, so he kept the marker poised.
"That's depression, not necessarily PTSD." Foreman was ready to defend his view of things.
"We still need to find a physiological cause to account for the contralateral neglect." House was close to thinking out loud. "Foreman, what did th—" House turned around to face his team, but was instead met with the image of the brown-haired young woman limping quickly down the hallway… being almost chased by Cuddy! They stopped right in front of the glass walls of the conference room, and every word was distinguishable.
"Ms. Starling, you can't just walk away from this situation!"
"I can't very well walk anywhere, Dr. Cuddy." The woman, Ms. Starling, apparently, wheeled around to face the Dean of Medicine. The woman's hair was down, surprisingly clean, considering how tired she looked. Most people who visit the hospital that much, thought House, don't make time to take showers. The woman's cane was a dark wood, like House's. He got a clear look at it as her right side was towards him.
"You should have told someone his plans. Ms. Starling, that constitutes a criminal act on your part. If you had any knowledge that Jim Ryan was going to try and kill himself, you should have told an authority immediately." Cuddy was fuming, ablaze with anger at Ms. Starling's blatant refusal to answer. …but answer, she did.
"Dr. Cuddy," her voice low and smooth, projecting clearly, "do you honestly think I would have had anything, anything to do with Jim trying to off himself?" It was more a claim to innocence than a question. Her right hand gripped the cane tightly, knuckles turning white, as her left arm, previously hanging limply, helplessly at her side, now began to rise with significance. "You honestly believe that I would have shirked every moral responsibility and ignored Jim's desire to commit suicide? Every socially moral principle from Aristotle to Adam Smith dictates that individuals have a responsibility to their fellow man. Beyond that, I want to be a doctor someday, and wouldn't dream of having something like that documented on my record!" Her voice growing in intensity and volume, yet not quite yelling. "And even beyond that, I would never, never cause harm or allow another to cause harm to anyone if I could help it! If I had known, I would have told you! If Jim had made any mention of plans to off himself, I would have said something to someone!" She now pointed emphatically with her left arm to some place over Cuddy's right shoulder. "How dare you accuse me of shirking, or even neglecting my responsibility to another human being! You don't know me, yet you pretend to know what I would do in a given situation! Your ignorance is based on some desire to place blame. Fine! Blame me! But don't you dare accuse me!"
With this last emphasis, Ms. Starling turned sharply to her right, attempting to do a 180 degree turn and leave Cuddy in her dust. But her eye caught something she hadn't previously seen: a man staring at her with intense blue eyes, a dry-erase marker still poised in his hand. Her eyes met his face, and she glanced down to avoid the gaze… and her eyes fell on the cane. They drifted intently over to his leg, then back to the cane. With a final, almost ashamed glance back to the man's intense gaze, Ms. Starling limped feverishly down the hall, leaving Cuddy to contemplate not just her interaction with Ms. Starling, but Ms. Starling's unspoken interaction with House. Cuddy turned quickly and made her way to the stairwell.
House continued the meeting, avoiding the obvious tension in the room that was just created by that heated moment. "Flush the kid's inner ear with cold water. Wait for him to sober up a little and do some psych tests."
"You already said that," Chase mentioned warily.
"Of course I did, but I figured you probably forgot. Do the test…" he said slowly, holding up a CT to the light so he could decipher something. "And do an MRI. Chase, get me an LP."
-- -- -- --
As soon as they left the room, House was down the hall, searching for his new hero. Anyone who could make Cuddy that angry, he had to meet! He found her sitting on the edge of a sofa in a waiting area, rubbing her right leg with the heel of her hand.
"You should never make Dr. Cuddy that angry. It can't be good for anyone." House was trying to manipulate her into an introduction, but her look upwards at him seemed as if she barely saw him.
"That was the best I could do at defending myself without using my cane." She had wit! This could be good….
"I'm Greg—"
"You're Dr. House… Jim's attending."
"You a friend of his? You know he killed 17 people last month, and injured almost a dozen more? Friends don't let friends shoot other people."
"I was one of the injured." She glanced up, expecting to catch the surprised look she got from everyone else. It was usually surprise, quickly mixed and overtaken by disgust, then mingled with pity. Dr. House, however, didn't display any of these. His face revealed… what? Intrigue? Almost admiration? Something was happening she didn't like, but she needed to play out the hand a little more to see what the situation really was. "I'm Rebecca Starling."
"The press is calling you the 'new Joan of Arc.'"
"The press is a collective asshole."
A smirk stole across House's face. "You don't think you saved all those people? I hear you did a tracheotomy with a ball point pen."
"I also leap tall buildings in single bound, but I guess I need more work at the whole 'faster than a speeding bullet' thing," she glanced down at her injured leg. "No," she said after a pause, "I didn't save all those people. I've known Jim since high school. I knew what he was capable of and I did nothing. I didn't save those people; I killed them."
House was unimpressed by her martyred, guilt-ridden attitude. "Oh, grow up. You didn't kill those people, you're—"
"What? You don't believe in moral responsibility? You don't think a person can be guilty of something even if they don't pull the proverbial trigger?" She was agitated now, verging on the anger that started her yelling escapade at Cuddy. Disgust with her attitude, or maybe House's crossed her face and she made an attempt to get up. Leaning heavily on her cane, she managed to get upright, only to lean over and begin rubbing her leg vigorously; she had to sit back down, still rubbing her leg.
"Gunshot wound?" House inquired. Bullet wounds didn't usually continue with this much pain, especially after a month had passed. This sparked his interest.
"Infarction," she answered. "Jim shot me, which hurt. Some of the muscle was damaged, leading to a clot and an infarction. I was already on pain killers for the gunshot wound, so I didn't even notice the pain until it… a good portion of the muscle died, but even more got infected. They had to remove the muscle to prevent the infection from spreading. They wanted to take my whole leg, but there was no way that was going to happen. 'I'd rather die of the infection,' I told them."
House was silent. That story was certainly an unexpected twist. "What happened to your leg," Rebecca asked. "I've seen that nasty scrape on your motorcycle outside. Bad wreck?" She paused for him to answer, but he didn't, so she kept going with her assumption. "You're brave for getting back on that thing. Most people, once they've had a wreck or any trauma, are hesitant to return to any—"
"It wasn't a wreck," House interrupted. "It was an infarction." Rebecca was stunned. He was still on a cane; his leg still hurt. Was that her future? "The doctors misdiagnosed me. Muscle cell death was extensive; they had to remove a large portion of the muscle."
Both paused, scared of the realization of this uncommon similarity. "…And… it still hurts?" Rebecca really didn't want to hear the answer to this. She didn't want to glimpse her future. Her desire to be a doctor, her cynicism that she tried so hard to hide, her real temptation to be as jaded and calloused towards others as this man seemed… could she be looking at a male version of herself in 20 years? 30 years?
"It still hurts." Another long pause; Rebecca stared unknowingly at House's bum leg. And both reached for their Vicodin. Both were again shocked. House limped away; Rebecca stared at the coffee table in front of her.
-- -- -- --
House was brooding, but Wilson couldn't tell about what. Wilson passed by House's office a half dozen times in the past hour, and the picture was always the same: House leaning half-way out of his chair trying to master some new trick with his yo-yo. But the look on his face wasn't right; he wasn't trying to solve a case; he wasn't thinking about Stacy. It was something else. Finally, Wilson couldn't stand it any more; he had to know.
The brooding doctor glanced up just long enough to identify his visitor.
"Having trouble with 'walk the dog' again, House?" Taunting was the only real way to start a conversation when House was like this.
"Nurse Baker called. She wants you to cook dinner tonight."
"I'm not sleeping with Nurse Baker! For the last time!"
"You mean, the last time you slept with Nurse Baker?"
"You know what? I came in here to ask how you were doing, but I guess you don't even care, so why should I?" Wilson turned to walk out of the office, thoroughly annoyed with the insensitivity of his 'friend.'
"She had an infarction." House's statement had it's desired effect on Wilson: he stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face House.
"What? Who? The girl Cuddy was yelling at?"
"Boy, word travels fast." Both spun round to see Rebecca standing in the open doorway of House's office, leaning heavily on her cane. "Dr. House, when you have a chance, could I ask you a few questions?"
Wilson hastily made his way over to make introductions; Rebecca backed away by a step and a half.
"I'm Dr. Wilson."
"Rebecca Starling."
"And I'm a monkey's uncle," House couldn't resist being part of the conversation. "What do you need?"
Rebecca seemed to stop for a moment, considering her options. Her bravery got the best of her. "I have a problem, and I need a doctor. I know you don't like dealing with patients unless you absolutely have to, so I was wondering if you could recommend a good doctor here in the hospital or local area. I'm from out of state, so I don't really have any connections. Do any names of good doctors come to mind?"
"What type of doctor are you looking for," Wilson asked, somewhat concerned about his new acquaintance.
"What are your symptoms?" House's question took the other two by surprise. "You are pre-med, right? What are your symptoms?"
Still hesitant about what she was about to do, Rebecca held out her right hand. It was stable for a split second, then began to shake rather hard. She looked up at House, lowering her arm, and clenched her jaw. Then said, "I've also been having really bad headaches, and migraines. They're getting more frequent. The headaches themselves are concentrated in a certain area extending from my left eye back to the side of my head, and my vision's been getting blurry if I try to concentrate on anything for too long."
This is what Rebecca was afraid of… that look that only MD's can get. And it was on both House's and Wilson's faces. That terrible look that something is really wrong. Just to break the silence, she continued, "I wouldn't have said anything, but it's getting worse. If it was just not progressing…." The look had faded from House's face, replaced by a look of steely obstinance; Wilson's face was just exaggerated, but now with that pity that Rebecca hated so much.
"We could schedule you for an MRI tomorrow morning," Wilson said. Rebecca nodded dolefully. House was still silent, leaning back in his chair, staring at nothing in particular.
"Dr. House?" Rebecca just wanted some response from him. Any response had to be better than this. She took a chance… "Greg?"
This caught his attention. "An MRI would be your best bet at catching anything." He nodded to Wilson and added, "You better schedule for this afternoon."
This was the best Rebecca could hope for from him, so she got up, again caught off guard by how much her leg hurt. She steadied herself on her cane and limped out of the office. Wilson lingered for a moment, but could read his friend's thoughts; this would not end well… for anyone.
-- -- -- --
"So the cold water does what, exactly?" Foreman hated talking to concerned parents, especially mothers. This was agonizing; her kid had killed or injured more than 30 people less than a month ago, and now he was getting first class attention. He'd probably be on death row in a matter of a couple of years, anyways. Why shouldn't he just save the state the time and money? Just not treat the bastard?
"The cold water sets up a convection current inside your son's inner ear. It basically makes him feel like he's spinning in a chair. Clinically, it allows the brain to sort of 'reset' for a few hours… he'll stop neglecting the left side of his body and we'll be able to run a few more tests on him."
"But won't that make him dizzy? That'll make him throw up?"
Yeah, 'cause losing his lunch is so the biggest of your kid's worries right now. Cameron couldn't stand it. She hastily finished changing Jim's IV and left the room, never saying a word to the mom and only giving Foreman an angry, 'I can't believe we have to treat this son-of-a-bitch' look. Rebecca entered as Cameron left; Cameron just didn't understand why Rebecca would stand by this total loser. No one understood it.
"Rebecca!" Jim's mom was apparently relieved to see her. "You're pre-med… can you explain what exactly they're doing with this whole cold water thing?"
"Did you already ask Dr. Foreman, Mrs. Ryan?"
"Yes, but I didn't particularly understand his answer…" This was awkward for everyone, it seemed, except Mrs. Ryan. Foreman almost rolled his eyes, but thought better of it when he realized Mrs. Ryan was watching him; Rebecca almost laughed at Mrs. Ryan's complete inability to understand things on more than a surface level.
"Basically," Rebecca started, "Dr. Foreman will put some cold water in Jim's ear. And because the way the ear is built, it'll make Jim feel like he's spinning around and around… He'll get really dizzy. But, for some reason, we don't really understand why, yet, being really dizzy will make Jim remember his left side again. He's been ignoring it, right?" An affirmative from Mrs. Ryan. "Okay, so this will make him sort of 'remember' that he has a left side. But it'll only last for a few hours. …So why don't you and I go get a cup of coffee? That way Dr. Foreman can do all the tests he needs to without us getting in his hair?"
Mrs. Ryan didn't look very convinced, but was escorted by the elbow with Rebecca's free hand. They left the room and left Foreman to his work.
"Mrs. Ryan, I'm so glad I ran into you." Dr. Cuddy could really pour out the sweetness when she needed to impress someone. "May I speak to you for a few moments? We can go downstairs to my office."
"Well, Rebecca and I were about to go get a cup of coffee…" Once again, she did not understand the subtleties of a situation. Dr. Cuddy's request wasn't really a request.
"That's okay, Mrs. Ryan, we'll get some coffee later, okay?" Rebecca watched the two very different women walk towards the elevator and decided to go sit for a while in a dark corner; her leg was hurting again.
She took the small, orangeish bottle out of her small book bag and popped the top. How beautiful that sound was! The gentle 'pop' was almost enough to make her leg feel better already. She tapped a couple into her hand, contemplating how many it would take to OD, when a now familiar, raspy voice from behind said:
"Got one for me, too?"
Without looking around, she retorted, "You can't afford my prices." There was no way she was letting down this exterior so soon after their last interaction; she was due in the MRI machine in less than 45 minutes, and she needed to keep all the nerve she could. House, on the other hand, looked more curious than usual… that couldn't be good.
"Why do you spend time with him? Or is it his mom that you really spend time with?"
"Why are you so curious? It shouldn't matter to you."
"It doesn't," House wasn't truly defensive, but was more intrigued by Rebecca's unwillingness to answer the question. "But it bugs me when things don't fit. You don't fit—"
"—because he shot me? Because he killed people? Because the media calls him a monster?" She paused. This was becoming more of an emotional situation than she wanted. She tried desperately to subdue the lump quickly growing in her throat. "It's a self-preservation thing. I do care about what happens to Jim, but only because I feel responsible." The puzzled look on House's face caught the corner of her eye, but she didn't dare make eye contact. Her leg was killing her; she sat down on a nearby waiting room sofa, and House limped over beside her.
"We knew each other in high school," she continued.
"In the Biblical sense?!" He sounded magnanimous.
"No… actually… we hated each other. He was jealous of a lot of things; I thought he was an arrogant jerk. He's still an arrogant jerk… but I'm the only one who saw the son-of-a-bitch for what he was capable of… and I did nothing." This statement didn't seem to impress House. If anything, he looked disappointed and annoyed. "I knew what Jim what capable of, but I didn't do anything to stop him."
"You knew he was capable of it, but you didn't know he would do it. It's not your fault; don't be such a martyr—"
"I told you not to call me that." Her voice was stern enough to make House take it seriously.
This was too much. She couldn't and would never tell House the whole story; he wasn't sympathetic and he wouldn't be interested enough to actually listen to the whole thing….
She got up and limped towards her ominous destiny to be found in the MRI machine.
-- -- -- --
Foreman started this session. "The psych test revealed a severe case of PTSD." Cameron's head raised a little, proud of her initial diagnosis.
"So what symptoms can we cross off," House asked, moving towards the dry-erase board.
"Delusions."
House waited for a few seconds before asking, "And?"
"That's it," Foreman replied. "The fever subsided last night. We still have hallucinations, seizures, and contralateral neglect."
"So what can cause hallucinations?" Cameron jumped in.
"Nuh-uh! I get to ask the questions, remember? Besides, it was a bad question," House taunted, ignoring whatever look Cameron decided to throw his way. He decided it was her 'how can you abuse me when I love you so much' look. He didn't care. "We need to start with, 'What kind of hallucinations is he having?'"
"Somatosensory," Chase finally said something. They all waited for House's next cue.
"Fevers don't just resolve on their own."
"Right, because no one every got better before the advent of aspirin," Foreman loved poking holes in House's statements.
"I mean, even without medical intervention, whatever's causing the fever has to be attacked from the inside. What was his white count?"
Again, Chase with the answer, "Normal, actually on the low end of the range."
"So how could a fever resolve if his white count is normal?"
"Maybe whatever he has isn't detected by the immune system." Good, safe answer from Foreman.
"Or maybe," Cameron suggested, "whatever he has has moved to the next stage."
"Or maybe it's both." House always had such medically outrageous ideas!
"How can it be both?" Foreman was getting annoyed. House seemed to say anything if it had a chance in Hell of agitating his little cronies.
"Get me another Chem-7 and a Coomb's test." And with that, they gathered their things and went off to save the world… or, at least, the patient.
-- -- -- --
"How's she doing?" This was odd: House showing interest in a patient that wasn't even his.
"Er… she's scared, understandably so." Wilson turned his attention back to the ankles and feet sticking out from the giant machine. "How are you doing, Rebecca?"
"… um… I'm okay…"
"There. I guess she's doing—" Wilson turned to face House but only managed to see his cane disappearing through the closing door.
-- -- -- --
"It's an infiltrating papillary pituitary carcinoma. Basically, it—"
"It's sent out little 'fingers' into the rest of my brain, usually 'infiltrating' means 'inoperable.' And if it's on my pituitary, there's no way to get at it. Chemo's not an option, neither is radiation therapy because of the danger to the brainstem nuclei." Rebecca said all this without even looking at Wilson. She preferred the view across the blue and forest-green checkered carpet to the base of his Cherry wood desk.
"How—how did you know that?" Wilson's words were staggered.
"I'm pre-med. All I've ever wanted to do was be a doctor. I research stuff like that in my spare time." After a short pause, which was more uncomfortable to Wilson than to his patient, Rebecca continued. "How big is it? How far has it infiltrated?"
"It has a radius of about 3.5 centimeters. It seems to be growing upwards; it's pressing into your thalamus, which is causing the tremors. They're called Essential Tremors. Eventually, you'll start to hear a wavering in your voice and your balance will be a little off."
"That's the least of my problems, if it infiltrates the thalamus. My vision will go. I'll exhibit motor deficits, Parkinsonian symptoms. It'll probably start to effect my cognition—" Here, her voice broke. No tears; just red eyes, a clenched jaw, and staring a hole into the carpet. "Eventually, it'll spread into my brainstem, affect respiratory function… I'll die." Again, she needed a moment to continue. "How long," she managed to mutter.
Wilson didn't actually need to hear the words she said; he knew that question. "Two, three months at the most."
Both jumped as House rapped his cane on Wilson's door. When he entered, neither Rebecca nor Wilson said a word. Wilson just handed House the MRI. He held it up to the light, laid it on Wilson's desk, turned around and walked out… all without saying a word.
-- -- -- --
House's leg hurt double that night. Why should he care! This was just some girl he met in the course of his work. She's nothing, he kept thinking to himself. This shouldn't bother me. The Vicodin wasn't doing enough; neither was the piano. He took out his briefcase, hoping work could distract him from the increasing throbbing of his thigh. When the pain was this bad, it was as if his remaining muscle was in a giant charlie-horse. His entire thigh cramped as if he'd run a dozen miles. What's worse, the muscles tightened up so much, that they started hurting his knee. He pulled out a file, but didn't have time to look at it. Someone knocked on the door… Wilson's knock was definitive.
"I'm not getting up for you!" House shouted. As he was hoping, Wilson used his key to let himself in.
Wilson was met with the sight of House on the sofa, leg propped on the coffee table, a scattering of Vicodin next to an almost empty Scotch bottle. This is a bad night, Wilson thought. He could tell by the redness around House's eyes that he'd already tried to sleep and couldn't. Deciding not to prolong this interaction more than necessary (and in so doing, avoiding whatever abuse House wanted to inflict), Wilson continued with his purpose.
"You picked up the wrong files." Wilson could tell House didn't quite get what he said. "We switched files at dinner. You've got my cases, and I've got yours." Wilson held up a stack of folders.
House looked down and realized he didn't recognize the patient names on the dossiers. "Get me a sandwich." For House, that was a request, so Wilson obliged.
"I can't stay long. Someone's waiting in the car."
"New girlfriend? Or have I finally influenced you… working girl?" Another knock at the door interrupted House's cynical fantasy. "It's open!" he yelled, hoping it wasn't. It was. Rebecca Starling slowly appeared before him, door swinging slowly on it's hinges, pushed by the end of her cane.
"Dr. Wilson forgot a few of these in the car," holding up some more case folders. She noticed House's grimace, but recognized it for what it was. He was in pain. She, too, noticed the open Vicodin bottle. But more than Wilson, she recognized the dull look in House's eyes. It was a look that one only gets when you realize you've got a long, sleepless night ahead… sleepless because the pain won't let you rest.
Rebecca took a few staggered limps forward, hesitant to do what she knew she needed to. For the second time in the same day, she pushed herself into trusting this broken man. She limped towards House, placed her cane on the floor, and sat on the coffee table, across from House. He was severely confused, and showing more fear than he meant to, but didn't actually jump until Rebecca started to move her hands towards his leg.
She noticed his more than hesitant attitudes. "Relax," she said lowly. "This'll help." He was in too much pain to ignore the possibility of feeling better. But still, he watched this girl closely, just in case he needed to yell for Wilson's help.
Her hands were cautious, afraid at first, but they gained confidence as they kneaded Houses leg. It hurt at first, and House grimaced forcefully. Rebecca watched his face to gauge what was right and what hurt too much. She finally settled into a rhythm. It was helping; House let his eyes close for a few moments. The moment of help ended, literally, with a crash. Wilson walked into the room and dropped the plate and sandwich he had made for House. Rebecca responded to the look of almost horror on his face.
"It's not what you think. His leg hurts; I was just rubbing it a little." She avoided turning back to House, and began to pick up her cane, instead.
House grabbed her wrist. "I have to go. I should probably sleep some tonight." Wilson was already cleaning up the mess. Rebecca went hesitantly back to House's leg. She'd wait for Wilson to be ready to go.
By the time Wilson had made House another sandwich, House's Scotch had kicked in.
"Where's his room," inquired Rebecca. "No, help me get him to his room." She had to respond, again, to the look on Wilson's face. Wilson didn't make much of a move to help. "Fine." She began to get up, wearily. "I'll move him by myself. Just, please, don't feel bad when we both fall on the floor." That moved Wilson into action. Together, they managed to get House to his room, where he was fully passed out.
"Will he be okay," she asked. "Scotch and Vicodin really don't mix, last time I checked."
"Uh… I would usually stay the night… just to keep an eye on him…"
"Can you drop me off at my place? There's no way my leg'll stand a night on the sofa."
With that, they left the room quietly, and Wilson took her home.
-- -- -- --
House vaguely remembered Rebecca's massage last night. He did remember the Scotch… or, rather, it remembered him. His head hurt almost worse than his leg. Stupid Scotch, he thought. It was easier to blame things on the drink than on the drinker. It was still early: 7:45. Someone was in the bathroom… Wilson? Idiot. Why'd he stay the night? And then, a more sobering thought. Rebecca? Or did Wilson take her home? Oh, shit… please don't let her be here. Please. Shit.
He limped into the living room, attempting feebly to tame his hair, just in case. No Rebecca. Thank God. Now he could deal with Wilson in style. This might actually make his morning better.
"Are you that afraid of the dark? You couldn't even go back to your apartment?"
"I was staying here to keep an eye on you, House. I thought taking drugs was your vice? Why add the alcohol? It numbs you and we all know how much you love being miserable."
"Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know when your friend will actually make a valid point. Too bad today isn't one of those days." House limped out of the bathroom. His leg was hurting too much, and he didn't want Wilson to know. His friend would just insist that it was psychosomatic. For an oncologist, he sure doles out plenty of psychoanalytical crap. Work. Shit. If his mother were here, he'd probably try to lie and say he had a stomach ache.
-- -- -- --
Chase spoke up first this morning. "Coomb's test revealed clotting when exposed to the HPH enzyme. He's got Amyloid Porthyria."
"But how could that account for the seizures? And the hallucinations? It doesn't even include two of the four remaining symptoms!" Cameron gestured towards the white board.
Foreman spoke up, "Amyloid Porthyria, in rare cases, presents with seizures. It could be affecting his parietal lobe, which would explain the contralateral neglect… and if it spread to the somatosensory cortex, it would cause the somatosensory hallucinations."
House was still staring at the white board. "And Amyloid Porthyria doesn't do what after a gestation period of 2 weeks?"
"It doesn't cause a fever. The fever resolves on its own because the body is tricked into thinking that all the damaged cells are gone."
"Start Mr. Ryan on efalizumab for the porthyria and dexothromorphan to prevent damage to his liver."
The three younger physicians went out, once again, to cure their patient, and House went to his office to brood.
-- -- -- --
"Who's your lover…" That couldn't be right. House took off his headphones to hear what Wilson really said.
"What?"
"Do you love her?" House made no response, just pushed some button on his iPod. "Well?!" Wilson's voice was reaching that pitch where you could tell he was either agitated or angry… perhaps both. "You love her, don't you. I can't believe it." Now he was frustrated and started to turn, hands on hips, back and forth between facing House and facing the wall. "I can't believe you fell in love with her… just because she rubbed your leg!"
"I don't love her." It was a lie, but a necessary one. Wilson looked shocked. He'd been wrong before; was he wrong now? Or was House just lying to him, like he had before?
Dammit, House! "And you're telling me the truth?"
"What is truth?"
"STOP it! … Do you love her?"
Another long pause, in which House didn't make eye contact. "She's dying." Another pause, "She's jaded and cynical, but doesn't want to show it. I don't love her; I just need to figure her out."
Convinced or not, Wilson left.
The fact was, House did love her, if he could call this love. It wasn't the strange familiarity he'd felt with Stacy. This was more of a need to know that Rebecca would be okay; not necessarily that she would live, but that she would be okay. House needed to know that Rebecca could cope with this. She'd coped with the leg, which took him years; he still wasn't completely okay with his extra, wooden walking appendage, and he would never be okay with the person responsible for his injury. That was it! Rebecca was coping. She was okay with the person who made her life a living Hell! Somehow, she wasn't quite happy, but she was okay…
But is she really… Now House had something to figure out: what was Rebecca's motive in standing by Jim Ryan. They weren't friends. They hated each other; why should she care if he recovered or not?
-- -- -- --
"I want him to be okay."
That wasn't good enough. That wasn't really the answer. "And I want world peace. Why do you care what happens to him?" House shifted more of his weight onto his cane, always an aggressive gesture on his part.
"I want him to be okay. I told you: I feel responsible for what happened. I should've stopped him and I didn't. I need to make sure he's okay."
"Just like the seventeen people he killed? Did you need to make sure they were okay, too?" There was more acid in his voice than Rebecca had expected, and it caught her off guard.
With a cool voice, somewhat lowered to overcompensate for the anger rising, she replied, "I told you, I'm not a hero. I can't save everyone—"
"But you can try."
"I'M NOT A HERO. I can't save everyone. Even if I try, I'm not a hero." This didn't seem like enough. House wasn't satisfied with this answer, but neither was Rebecca. "Nobody cares about him. Everybody thinks he's a monster. If I can somehow make him human, then I've succeeded in something… I don't know what. I have to do this for myself."
"Not to mention that it looks good in the press. You should see what the papers are saying about you, Hero."
"Screw the papers! Screw the press! And screw you, Greg!" She drew in a deep breath and began again, unhindered by the normal social principles that would have kept her anger reigned in. "I'm dying, you son-of-a-bitch. I had my whole life to justify my actions to myself. I don't give a flying rat's ass about whether or not I can explain myself to you! I don't care if you approve or disapprove or whatever other judgment you can pass on me! I care about myself! I care about justifying this to myself, and that's all that matters in this shithole of a world!"
Rebecca paused, looking more weary than usual from her outburst, leaving heavily on the cane that now seemed to be her main support. "I hate myself. I'm tired. And I can't save the world. I can't even save myself. … Just let me alone. You don't really give a damn, so neither should I." With this, she turned feebly and made for the elevator, giving the stairs a forlorn look.
House loved her, but he couldn't make himself limp after her. She was dying. He'd accept it later. For now, he took a Vicodin out of his pocket and went to get his motorcycle helmet. He was going home; he had a bottle of Scotch waiting.
-- -- -- --
A week went by and House hadn't completely forgotten about Rebecca. Instead, he just pushed it to the back of his mind and focused on work. Work makes it better. This adage had served him well and his confidence in the statement only grew with each precipice that constituted his personal life. He had completely forgotten about Ryan; former patients meant nothing to him. They got better and he needed nothing from them.
What House had not anticipated was Ryan's continuing visitor. Although he ran into her but rarely, House had seen Rebecca around the hospital several times: in the cafeteria, near the nurse's station… near Wilson's office. Whether or not she was avoiding him, House couldn't tell. House just knew that every time Rebecca was in the vicinity, he managed to find somewhere else to be.
Wilson, on the other hand, had not forgotten about his friend's interactions with the mysterious student. In fact, Wilson was more concerned than ever that House had not dealt properly with his feelings for the girl… House never dealt properly with his feelings… for anyone. Wilson stopped by the apartment twice this week and both times slept on the sofa, having carried House to his bed. At one point, House downed an entire bottle of Scotch before Wilson even got to the apartment. Now Wilson was more worried than usual. House wouldn't answer his questions regarding Rebecca, so perhaps Rebecca would answer his questions regarding House. He had to try, for House's sake.
-- -- -- --
Wilson opened the exam room door, chart in hand, to find Rebecca sitting on the doctor's stool. "That's my chair, you know."
Rebecca didn't look up. In fact, she continued her hard stare towards the tile flooring. "New symptom. Dizziness after increased physical exertion." Now she looked up towards Wilson, cane propped against her inner knee, balanced by her right hand. Wilson noticed the increasingly dark circles beneath her heavy eyes, her shoulders slumped in exhaustion. "I tried to get on the table," she said, glancing towards the white paper-covered exam table, "but I couldn't quite make it." Her speech was more slurred than it should be; he moved a few steps closer, leaving the chart on the cabinet, a familiar and unexpected smell coming from the vicinity of his patient.
"Rebecca, are you… are you drunk?" Disbelief crossed his face and Rebecca looked away, lazily examining the window blinds. Wilson's recovery was quick, as he shifted his weight to his back foot. "I can't believe you would come into an appointment drunk! Don't you know how that reacts with your meds!? You have no idea how alcohol can react with the medicine you're taking!"
"I'm not drunk." Wilson didn't believe, couldn't believe her through those slurred words. Rebecca could see the mistrust in his open face, and decided to press her side further. "I'm not drunk!" Wilson still looked far from convinced. "I haven't slept in three days. I thought a few glasses of wine would help." She looked back at the floor, breaking her earnest eye contact, "They didn't."
Both paused, one wanting to be convinced and the other wanting so badly to be believed. After a few moments, Rebecca continued, "I'm so tired. I just wanted to sleep a little, but it didn't help."
"Are you in pain? Are your meds helping at all?"
"My leg hurts. The Vicodin helps a little. But the other things aren't going away… the shaking… the dizziness…. The tumor." Wilson looked almost more dejected than his patient, feeling guilty for his criticism of the suspected behavior.
"The tumor's not going to go away."
"I know. I just—I thought maybe it wouldn't progress quite this fast."
Wilson really wanted to ask, but didn't know if this was such a great idea. If Rebecca felt as strongly about House as he evidently felt about her, this question could cause more pain than could be fixed with a new pain med regimen.
He did it anyways, "Are you in love with House?"
Rebecca's response was to exhale and furrow her eyebrows, making eye contact only with Wilson's shoes. Damn, he thought. It's a yes.
-- -- -- --
"She can't sleep," Wilson said, looking mournfully at his food as House shoveled yet another of Wilson's fries into his mouth.
"Keeping the new girlfriend awake? Careful; we wouldn't want the neighbors complaining of boudoir bedlam, now would we?" He managed to fit another fry between his already puffed out cheek.
"Rebecca Starling." Wilson thought House was going to choke on his own tongue. "She can't sleep."
House managed to swallow uneventfully. "So?"
"Oh, come on, like you don't care?"
"Since when do I care about anything?"
"You cared about the 'Vette," referring to his one-time mobster kickback.
"Yeah, but that was a gift from a patient. You know how sentimental I am." House went back to his own food… a cold Reuben and a plate of fries, uneaten, of course.
"I'm serious, House." His companion looked unaffected. "She can't sleep, barely eaten in days. I'm thinking of admitting her for dehydration."
"Sounds like depression. I wonder if there's anything wrong with her brain?" House cocked his head and added a special sideways glance across the table just in time to catch Wilson's unspoken 'I'm being serious, here, House.' "Do another MRI. See if the tumor's infiltrated her limbic system, yet."
"Can one of your guys do it? I've got a conference this afternoon."
"My guys are here to work! How could you even suggest I pawn off grunt work to them?" Then House's mysterious turn in expression, "I'll get Cameron to do it. She's not one of the 'guys'… at least, not as far as I can tell."
-- -- -- --
"Okay, Rebecca, we need you to be extremely still. This is going to take a picture of your brain."
Oh, God. If Rebecca had to listen to this nauseatingly sweet voice explain a basic MRI one more time, she was going to make it a point to puke on her beautiful, pointy shoes. I'm a student; I'm not an idiot, Rebecca said to herself, internally mocking the doctor on the other side of the window.
Rebecca's story was fairly unremarkable. Her parents loved her; her older brother doted on her. Being the younger by ten years, she benefited from her brother's wisdom. She was musically gifted, shy, but popular in grade school, and had a knack for making others feel accepted. … Then came high school. Her brother, working for a contract engineering firm, was killed by the rebels of a coup d'etât in the country where he was on assignment. She was never quite the same after that; her attitude became marked by cynicism and her pride in her own abilities soon took its effects on her dwindling circle of friends.
Rebecca met James Ryan their sophomore year of high school. They were both bright; he was much more outgoing than she, but no less arrogant. They competed in the school's music program, but Rebecca always managed to come out the favorite of the crowd and of the director. Rebecca's parents were killed during a five-car pile up during a rainy freeway accident just a year before Jim had his own crisis.
Jim's relationship with the high school music director had always been a little suspicious. Rebecca, being the competitive youth that she was, managed to spread rumors throughout the school about the hidden tryst. The director was placed on an indeterminate leave of absence and an official board of inquiry on misconduct was convened, which led to much flexion of school political muscle, after which the director was rehired. Most all was forgotten; no one ever discovered the source of those hideous rumors… except James Ryan. Jim knew. Rebecca knew he knew. And Jim knew that Rebecca knew he knew… which led to very complicated interactions, especially since they ended up attending the same prestigious university.
Their occasional civil interactions changed drastically, however, when word of the director's death reached Jim's ears. Jim's subsequent actions changed a lot of lives that day…
-- -- -- --
Rebecca didn't believe the words Wilson had just uttered. They sat in House's conference room, at a very large table. Wilson was directly across from her; House was off to her right, just out of her peripheral sight, but the motion of his twirling cane kept her attention keen.
"Let me see the scan." She had become quite well-adept at reading MRI's in the past week and a half. Wilson paused a moment, glancing at House as if to inquire about the wisdom of this idea, then reached inside an ever-thickening file (Rebecca's file) to pull out a large film.
Rebecca carefully held the film by its edges and held it up to the light. "It's not possible." She didn't take her eyes off the MRI, so she missed House's persistent attention to her movements. "Tumors don't shrink. They don't regress. They don't…" Rebecca broke off, choked by the possibility of actually seeing graduation, by the devastating blow of now understanding she had to live even longer—without her parents, without her brother, in the shadow of her own heroics.
This incredibly tense moment was broken by Chase, who stumbled into the room looking for coffee. "Cameron just extubated Mrs. Hilson, but she's still not responding to the steroid treatment," he said, while now searching for a spoon to stir in his cream and sugar. He didn't notice the doctors' and patient's interrupted silence until he turned around: "What if she was telling the truth about—"
What Rebecca didn't know about Dr. Chase would fill a stadium, but so would her interest in the Aussie. This isn't to say that she 'liked' him, just that she was especially interested in his demeanor. First, he would be kind, like with Jim. He was perhaps the only doctor of the three House-mates who had not been exceptionally rude to Jim's mom. Yet, something changed when he was around other doctors. Dr. Chase became almost snide and twinges of his arrogance would shade his words and expression. Rebecca couldn't condemn him, yet, though, as just another manipulative S-O-B. There was something more here, but she couldn't quite see it, so she just observed, almost forgetting the MRI she still held up to the light.
She lowered the film, handed it back to Wilson.
"We need to do some tests," the first words House spoke since sitting down.
"You need to do some tests? You mean, you need to do some tests." She looked angrily at House. She didn't like things (or people) that she couldn't understand. "…No."
"Rebecca, if the tumor has really shrunk, we may be able to get it now," Wilson attempted to explain. House somehow admired Wilson's sweetly manipulative tone.
But Rebecca didn't respond to this. She laboriously stood from her chair, steadied herself on her cane, and limped past House to the door. She walked fast towards the elevator, holding back the tearful flood that was quickly rising against both the lump in her throat and her better judgment. If she could just make it to the elevator… she could escape without them seeing her cry… without House seeing her cry. She pushed the down button. Nothing. Damn! Come on, come on… just get here. Come on. Her mantra ended with the echoes of an uneven gait behind her: House. He stopped just behind her, not turning her around and initially saying nothing. What!? Just do something, idiot! Are you going to get on the elevator with me… dammit, damn. Crap.
"Ignoring this is stupid." What the hell was that supposed to mean? "You can limp away from Wilson, or me, but that tumor's still in your head. You can't run away from yourself." His voice was far too even; he was trying too hard. She moved her head towards the side a little, allowing herself a small view of House's face from the corner of her eye. He, too, moved his head to the side, trying to read her facial expression in order to better… what? See if she was okay? That was new…
Rebecca turned a little towards him, "I can't afford hope. It's too expensive, emotionally, to hope for something this big. I can't do it." House's face had not changed expression; his eyes still searched her demeanor for something he could use to decipher this kid. She was scared. Everyone was always scared.
"What are you so afraid of," House's tone convincingly insincere.
"If someone told you you could walk again, you'd want proof." This wasn't a question, and House was impressed with her certainty. Rebecca glanced at the ground, then looked back at House, made direct eye contact. She wanted a truthful answer from him, which was equivalent to the Holy Grail. This would either end very well or very badly. "I want proof." Her face was steeled against emotion.
"There's no such thing."
"And yet you live your life by it! Don't tell me that, House. You need proof for everything. And so do I."
House contemplated this statement for a few moments, taking in the consequential role this student could have on so many lives. Was his potential this blinding at her age? "Why are you so scared?"
Her barricade against the tears was suddenly barraged by emotion, and the floodgate fell. "I don't want to die," she whimpered. She shut her eyes tightly and began to cry, her sobs suddenly muffled by House's shoulder. He put his arm around this younger mirror of himself, so desperate to save the world and yet unable to save herself. He pulled her to his shoulder and let the sobs dissipate into his frame. The elevator opened again and House guided Rebecca inside.
-- -- -- --
When the elevator doors closed, Cameron's view from around the corner was obstructed. She saw the entire interaction, or, at least, enough of it to form her own conclusions.
Wilson walked up behind her. "Didn't see that coming, did you." He checked briefly for Cameron's unspoken response. "Me neither."
Cameron turned back towards the office and left Wilson to his own contemplations. She was angry, but she couldn't quite explain why. What bothered her mostly was House's move towards Rebecca. He made the move to comfort her. That was odd for House, not part of his usual behavior. Why should he care so much for her? She was barely even a patient and certainly not their patient. Her mind was carried away with envy for Rebecca's position in House's arms and, in turn, guilt for that envy.
-- -- -- --
It was late in the day when House walked with Rebecca out to the parking lot.
"Where's your car?"
"Just a little that way," she nodded over to the right somewhere. Both limped along in silence. Rebecca stopped and began to search for her keys. House had taken a few extra steps, not noticing that his hobbling companion had stopped. He also didn't notice the sky blue, 1967 Pontiac Firebird, until Rebecca placed her keys in the door.
He was too stunned (and incredibly turned on) to speak. Instead, a strange little half-smile crossed his face as he realized that this fiery, sharp-witted girl was getting into one of his dream cars. Rebecca noticed his silence, and broke it, "It was my brother's. He used to drop me off at school; I made a lot of new friends that way." A reminiscent smile caused a pleasant and far-off look to enter her eyes.
House was snapped back to reality and momentarily lost his train of thought. "I'd better get back to work. They're expecting me in the clinic."
"Right. The clinic. That's a valid excuse." Neither moved. House leaned on his cane; Rebecca leaned on the open driver's side door. "Good night, Dr. House."
"Greg."
-- -- -- --
My god, this is awkward. Foreman wasn't used to having other people present for the differential, except maybe Wilson. To have a patient in the room while they were diagnosing another patient was downright unfathomable. And for some reason, Cameron's face seemed deeply set in thought, her soft features not displaying their usual open and accepting nuances. House was letting this Starling kid sit in on the differential… who knows how much trouble this could cause! Confidentiality issues alone could get all of us fired. And, for what? So House can bag a new girlfriend? Impress this kid? And that's where Foreman had his revelation: why should House want to impress anyone? He never cares what others think. This can't be good, especially for us.
"Foreman!" Oh, man! House interrupted Foreman's reverie. Oh, god, what were we talking about?! "You're not Bill Gates; you don't get paid to do nothing and daydream. What did the stress test show?"
Foreman quickly scrambled to thumb through the lab work. "Her pulmonary efficiency reduced by half when we really pushed her."
"Was there any fluid in her lungs?"
"No. Lungs were clear," Chase answered. "But she did show a kidney infiltrate."
"Which means what?" House prodded.
"Kidneys are shutting down." Rebecca half said this under her breath, not actually expecting to be heard; she was. All four doctors, prestigious and well-respected doctors, turned and looked at her, each with a different expression. Foreman's was of admiration: she wasn't even in medical school. How could she know something like that so quickly? Chase's was of shock: she was a patient; she shouldn't know things like that. House's was a look of achievement: he'd been right to let her sit in on the differential. But mostly, Rebecca noticed Cameron's look: one of disgust and question.
They all quickly snapped back into diagnosis mode. "Right. The kidneys are shutting down. Start her on IV Clonalresidine. What else?"
"We allergy tested to see if the skin lesions were histamine-induced. No reaction to anything we tested for," Cameron had a slight chill in her voice. "And her fever's raised from 101 to 103 in the past two hours."
"Then get her in an ice bath to control the fever. Or you could just go talk to her," House said critically, noticing Cameron's markedly cool tone.
"No ice bath on account of the skin lesions," Foreman pointed out. Everyone was quiet as they waited for House's next idea. "We have to keep the fever from climbing if we still want a patient in the morning."
Again, Rebecca spoke, but this time with more confidence (albeit a very little). "What about an alcohol rub?"
"This is no time for drinking games," House retorted, but noticeably interested in whatever Rebecca was talking about.
"Rubbing alcohol placed on her skin would allow for evaporative cooling. Placement of the alcohol could be controlled so it didn't get into the lesions. And even if it did, it's antiseptic so it'd probably hurt like hell, but wouldn't run a risk of infection."
Again, all were stunned, but this time, for the same reason: it was a novel idea, and it sounded like it would actually work.
House's orders, "Do it," and all except the brilliant and the bold (House and Rebecca) were left in the conference room. Rebecca stood up slowly after the others had left, and began to exit the room, pushing her IV stand beside her.
"Where did you come up with that idea?" House had to know.
Rebecca gave him a wily glance, "Saw it on TV." She limped out of the room, waiting until she was out of House's sight before smiling to herself.
-- -- -- --
Rebecca opened her eyes sheepishly to the pattering sound of rain on the window. Wilson, or at least she suspected Wilson, had pulled some strings to get her a private room. A shadowed figure shifted in a far corner, and she made out the silhouette of a cane in the pale evening light filtering through the blinds. It was late, at least 3 a.m. How long had he been there?
"You don't think this is just a little creepy?" Her voice wasn't quite as suave as she'd hoped.
"Your surgery's been cancelled."
"… but… it's operable, now, right? It started to go away, and you can get it now." Rebecca frantically tried to reason out why the tumor would suddenly be inoperable.
"You're pregnant."
Rebecca was stunned into silence. She couldn't tell if her mind was blank or if her thoughts were just going too fast to decipher. She finally managed to croak out, "No…"
"And since your name's not Mary, there's really only one way this could have happened."
"No. It's not—"
"Oh, stop it!" House was standing now, limping towards her bed. "You pretend to be this amazing innocent, this victim who stands beside her attacker and really hopes he'll get better. I don't buy it." Rebecca was silent at the accusation to come. She stood in the face of the media, in the face of physical danger, and in the face of her parent's death. But she knew she would not stand in the face of House's disappointment. "You've let everyone believe that you really are the victim. Everybody lies. And lies of omission definitely count."
Again House paused by her bedside, perhaps to catch his breath, perhaps hoping that Rebecca would stop him, refute him. She didn't. "You slept with him."
"No."
"There aren't many ways to get pregnant. You ei—"
Rebecca's low voice level and soft tone stopped House's train of thought. "He raped me."
House's pride tumbled into his stomach, making it momentarily difficult to breathe. His assertive, blue eyes, which had previously been locked on the deep eyes of Rebecca, now darted downwards, finding their way towards the floor. Regaining some of his previous momentum, he asked, "You didn't take the pills they gave you in the emergency room?" House wasn't sure if he was shocked or concerned; mostly, he was curious. This kid, there's no way she can take much more.
"Levonorgestrel? That's the 'morning-after' pill, right?" She looked for confirmation from House. Her eyes began to water and her voice shook. "I took it. I took the pill! How can I still be pregnant?!" And for the second time in as many days, Rebecca couldn't stop the tears. House didn't console her; he limped out of the room and left her to her true nightmare.
-- -- -- --
Cameron noticed the empty Vicodin bottle first. It lay on it's side at the edge of his desk, top fallen to the floor. Chase noticed the empty bottle of liquor in the trashcan. House was hunched over his desk, papers in hand, with files strewn across the floor in what seemed to be his own semblance of order. Cameron guessed the topic of House's all-night brainstorm.
"You can't save everyone."
"Talking to yourself again, Cameron?" House didn't look up from his papers, an increasingly ominous look overshadowed his brow.
Chase's tone seemed to break some of the tension. "What case is this?"
"Girl in crisis. Problems with her brain and her belly."
Chase walked towards the desk and leaned over across from House to better see the file. "This is Rebecca Starling's file. She's not our patient. She's Wilson's."
"He called for a consult," House chided, lying through his teeth… again.
"No, actually, I didn't. You wish I had called you for a consult. That way, you'd have a legit reason for stealing one of my patient's files." Wilson entered from the hallway and made his way briskly to House's desk, not yet deciding if he should stop this obsession right now, or let House cure the girl first.
Chase continued peering at the file, trying to see what House could see. "She's pregnant?! By who?"
"Technically, it's 'whom.'"
"This is no time for games, House." Cameron was still agitated by House's concern for this girl. "Pregnancy is a serious complication for someone with compromised brainstem function. That tumor needs to be removed, or neither of them will make it."
"Thanks for stating the obvious." House was still speaking into the papers strewn across his desk. He'd barely glanced up since anyone entered the room. "I knew I hired you for a reason. It couldn't have been that I actually expected you to come up with an original thought," his eyes darted upwards.
"I just meant, she doesn't have a choice."
"But she does have a choice," House continued. "She has the choice to be an idiot."
Foreman came in through the conference room, walking purposefully towards House's desk. "Enzyme studies are in the toilet. Her liver's shutting down. The pregnancy's killing her."
Everyone looked at House, waiting for the miraculous diagnosis and treatment plan. They kept waiting, and House had no snide answer, no pithy lesson. He had now turned and was staring out the window on the hazy day. With sure movements, he seized his cane and lept from his desk. There was only one thing to do, and if Rebecca didn't want that… House didn't want to think about the consequences of that choice.
-- -- -- --
Rebecca wasn't in her room. Her monitors were detached; her IV stand she must have taken with her. House limped quickly around the hospital, trying to see the vertical metal stand, or hear the rolling of its wheels. After brusquely inquiring at several nurse's stations, House went back to her room, hoping to find some clue as to Rebecca's whereabouts. In the nightstand, he found a leather-bound journal. Ethics never questioned, he opened the journal and began to thumb through it, skimming for some answer, until he found:
Greg is angry, but I can't tell at/ about who/ what. Maybe it's a person, maybe it's an event, maybe it's his leg. I can't tell, and that bugs me! Will this be me? His leg hurts, I know. Is that what the pain does? Does it drive a person to anger? I've noticed a decrease in my ability to handle banality. Small talk makes me crazy! My patience runs thin, and most of the time, I'm just acting civil. How long will my transformation take? Will I be Greg in a year? Two? Five, ten? His cynicism scares me, because it's what I would be without sociable interaction. His intelligence intimidates me, because it's what I could be. And worse, when I can feel him staring at me… I can't breathe.
This is bad. Nothing good can come from this! And yet I find myself seeking him out, hoping for his opinion, wishing his advice would confirm my own sentiments.
The handwriting got significantly worse after these words, and House couldn't tell if they were hastily written or written in pain. If this girl is so similar… where did House go to think? Office? No. Chapel? No. Roof… ?
House sprang from the edge of the bed, hoping to God he wasn't too late.
-- -- -- --
He paged Wilson while on the elevator; he might need back up for this conversation. House got to the roof first. The door was propped slightly by a small block of wood. The gray sky could be seen beyond the door jamb and the humid breeze brought a cool, ominous fragrance to House. He opened the door and heavily ascended the last few steps.
Rebecca stood in her robe, arms clutched around her to keep out the wind, staring somewhere past the horizon. On detecting the movement to her left, she quickly moved her head to see who it was. House halted his movement momentarily to secure both their positions. "You're smarter than this."
"No, actually." She was back to staring out towards nowhere. "I'm a complete idiot, Greg." House made no response; he had self-defamed plenty of times. He was insulting himself right now for not thinking of the roof earlier and for not thinking of clever words now. "It doesn't really matter what I do, does it?" Her hypothetical question went unanswered. "I try to help; people die. I ignore them; people die. I sacrifice myself; I die… this kid dies. This kid'll die anyways. With the brain tumor, I won't last nine months; without the tumor… that option's only available if we get rid of the kid first." Rebecca turned toward House, moving the IV stand, too. It wasn't an aggressive move. It was meant to spur the conversation (or, at least, the monologue) further. "I'm screwed. Ryan screwed me," she said with a slight grimace/ grin. "And by caring, I screwed myself." Now she smiled, chuckled to herself at the terror of the situation.
"Come inside."
"I just want a few more minutes out here," she requested. "I'm not suicidal. I won't kill myself…. But I guess I do have to kill my kid." Her smile disappeared and she returned yet again to the distant, fading horizon.
Wilson came onto the roof, out of breath from the stairs, wild-eyed from the unthinkable possibilities awaiting him at the top of his ascent. His eyes went first to Rebecca, then to House, back to Rebecca. He straightened, swallowing hard, and looked back at House, his eyes questioning what interaction was to come next. House made no response, so they waited.
After a few minutes, Rebecca bowed her head and turned back towards the doctors. With flippant resolution, she said, "Damn it all to hell. Let's go." And she limped towards the stairwell.
-- -- -- --
"Dr. Rodgers will be performing the procedure," Wilson ended. "He's the best gynecologist in the hospital."
"'The procedure.' It sounds so simple, almost meaningless" Rebecca mused aloud.
"Is there anyone you want in the room with you?"
Wilson could feel Rebecca's hesitation. Please don't say it. Oh, please, don't say it… "No." Wilson exhaled, he hoped not too visibly. "No, there's no one that needs to be there…" Rebecca got up and secured herself with her cane, then hobbled out of Wilson's office, being careful to not catch House's eye as he exited his office. His team was right behind him; they seemed to be disbanning for lunch or some other function. Chase and Forman went towards the stairwell, House went towards the nurse's station; Cameron came straight towards Rebecca.
Shit. I don't want to do this now, was all Rebecca could think. Wilson had alluded to Cameron's feelings about House in a few previous conversations. This would not bode well before a major medical procedure. Oh, well. At least Cameron isn't my doctor!
"Ms. Starling? Can I speak with you for a minute?" Rebecca had turned away, trying to escape to the elevators. Unfortunately, this only meant that when Cameron caught up to her, they were within earshot of Greg.
Dammit! "Sure, Dr. Cameron. What can I do for you?"
House looked up from whatever chart he was pretending to read. "Ooh! This is going to be good. Will you pull her hair? Please? You better have a game plan, Becky. Cameron bites. But don't worry, she just had her shots."
Cameron was determined. "Perhaps we ought to walk this way," she said, indicating a direction other than House's immediate gaze.
Rebecca didn't plan on having this conversation now… not without an attempt to get out of it, at least. "If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need the cane." Out of the corner of her eye, Rebecca caught a glimpse of Houses' mischevious smile, somehow shaded by pride in what he just heard. "I really need to get back to my room, Dr. Cameron. I'm really quite tired."
Rebecca really wasn't tired, but she was filled with anxiety about the impending situation, which made her leg hurt double. Her right hand clutched her cane tightly, and her left went reflexively to her pocket. Damn. She'd left her pills in the room.
Cameron continued, "I'd really just like to have a few words with you." House was still watching. And now Rebecca could see Chase and Foreman heading down the hall, both holding sandwiches from the cafeteria. Wilson came out of his office, looking for House. All noticed the tension between the two women. Rebecca had to get out of here; her air was starting to choke off. She could feel the panic rising in her chest and knew the anxiety wouldn't stop until she was out of this situation. She had to get out. She had to get out now. So she turned abruptly and began walking towards the elevator. Cameron followed suit.
"Dr. Cameron, I really am feeling unwell right now. Perhaps we can continue this later?"
"Continue what?" House goaded, picking up his cane and following them towards the elevator. "You haven't actually started anything."
Rebecca turned, just in time to see the elevator doors open. Thank God! She limped quickly inside, saying nothing else to Dr. Cameron. Then Cameron got on the elevator with her. Dammit! Rebecca's thoughts were seized with explicatives as Cameron began again.
"Dr. House isn't always as professional as he should be," Cameron started. Rebecca waited for her to continue; she wasn't about to jump on this train until she knew exactly where it was headed. "He may be infatuated with you right now, but please don't get too involved."
"Why?" Rebecca waited just long enough for Cameron to feel uncomfortable before answering her own question. "So you can have him to yourself? Perhaps you ought to take your own advice."
The elevator slowed and the doors opened before Cameron could completely answer, but, much to Rebecca's chagrin, the she was followed to her room by the good doctor.
"I don't think you're as cynical as you act."
"I don't think you're as caring as you proclaim."
Both stared at each other; finally, Cameron turned and left the room.
-- -- -- --
If this was victory, Rebecca certainly didn't feel like it. Her and Cameron's interactions were hostile, to put it mildly, and Cameron was just juvenile enough to give Rebecca the silent treatment… for which Rebecca was incredibly grateful. House, noticed, of course, and brought it to the attention of anyone within earshot, whether or not they cared. It made Rebecca's last few weeks terrible and sweet at the same time.
Rebecca found House in his office, alone. "Greg," she began. The sound of his name from her halted his game boy activity; little sounds were emitted from the handheld device indicating that his character had just died. She waited for him to look up before continuing. "I was discharged about half an hour ago." His nonchalance was intimidating.
"And I would care, because….?"
"Sometimes it matters to know that you've affected people… okay, well maybe not you, but… sometimes it matters. I didn't really think this would be one of those times. I just—I thought maybe you'd like something." Rebecca pulled out a set of keys and a piece of paper. "I can't keep the Firebird."
"Because of your brother?"
"Yeah… some memories are good to have… others, not so much. I've had the deed transferred to your name." And perhaps a little too hastily, "You can sell it if you want. I mean, you don't have to keep it or anything…" Then a little more wryly, "Maybe give to Wilson." She grinned. "Tell him it's an early Christmas present… he'll owe you for all eternity…"
House chuckled and took the keys, and Rebecca got up to leave, still leaning heavily on her cane. She took a few limping steps towards the door, at the same time reaching for her Vicodin bottle in her left pocket.
"Rebecca—don't you want to know why the tumor shrank?"
She popped a pill and said, "I think I've already figured it out." House gave her a look as if to say, "Humor me." "Autopsy of the kid…" that phrase struck her more heavily than she anticipated. "Autopsy of the kid revealed damage to certain developing neuronal and cardiac tissues. My body was attacking as… a foreign object. The elevated white blood count on account of the fetus also caused a full-on attack against the tumor, making it shrink." She half-smiled and continued. "Funny, isn't it? Jimmy almost killed me with a gun, almost shot my head off like he did a dozen other kids. Yet his attack, him raping me saved my life… being pregnant made the tumor operable. … silly life…"
She looked him in the eye, still smiling from the ironic realization, then turned and walked out.
Wilson watched her go from around the corner and peaked into House's office, only to see him take another Vicodin.