Disclaimer: Not mine…just borrowing…
A/N: This is my first House fic, so I hope it's something people are interested in. As a personal disclaimer, I'm a college student who is not pre-med and has no real medical knowledge beyond the internet, so I apologize if there are blatant medical errors. I hope you'll take the time to give it a read and that you enjoy it.
Title: Caricature of Intimacy
Timeline: Season 1, post-Vogler, pre-Stacy's return
Characters: House and others as it progresses
Chapter 1:
House made his way through the clinic with unveiled irritation. Clinic hours were bad enough under normal circumstances, but they were the worst during the hour between three and four o'clock when he could be watching General Hospital in the comfort of his office. As he approached the next exam room, out of the corner of his eye he saw the flash of familiar opening credits through the window of a side room. Tossing the chart he had just picked up back in the rack, House made a beeline for the room with the television and entered without glancing at the chart belonging to the patient.
"Hi, I'm Dr. House." He gave a cursory glance at the patient, who currently was reaching for the remote to turn off the television. "No leave it on."
"Okay." She set it down slowly and gave him a confused look. "I'm just waiting…"
"For a doctor, yeah," he cut her off, sitting down to look at the television. "On commercial."
"Right," she shrugged. "Volume okay?"
"Peachy." He leaned back on the chair, and they watched in silence. When the screen switched to commercials, House looked down at the chart and read: "Rebecca Yates, 19-years-old, complaining of fever and severe headache." He glanced up at her. "How severe?"
"Right now, 6 out of 10, but it jumps up to an 8 at times," she answered. "I get migraines occasionally, but this is different – it's at the base of my skull, not over an eye."
"When did the fever start?"
"I've had a low grade fever for a few weeks, but it spiked up over 100 this morning."
"Low grade?"
"99.3 to 99.7."
"Did you think that maybe this could be a sign that you're sick?" he snarked. "Did it cross your mind to see a doctor then?"
"Yes." She rolled her eyes at his attitude. "My neurotic aunt made me see two – the first was a doc-in-the-box at student health after 10 days and the second was last week. Both did a CBC and showed low white blood cell count, which was attributed to a viral infection that required rest and not the stress of finals."
"You're a college student." It was more of a statement than a question.
"Just finished my sophomore year."
"Over-achiever."
"So?" Having just turned 19 a week before, she was used to being hassled by her young age.
"Pre-med?"
"Hell no," she paused. "No offense."
"GH." He turned his attention back to the television and she did the same. When it came time for the next commercial break he asked. "What about the back pain?"
"It's nothing."
"You were rubbing it."
"It's stiff."
"You also made a face."
"It's sore, okay?"
"Don't you think that's something you should tell the doctor?"
"It's not related – it's chronic."
"Chronic pain." He pulled the bottle of Vicodin from his pocket. "That's why I have these."
"Want to share?"
"Nope." He tossed a pill in his mouth. "Sorry."
"Fine," she sighed, leaning slowly to pull her purse onto her lap. After digging through it, she pulled out a prescription bottle. "Okay if I take my own?"
"If you tell me what it is."
"Prescription nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug." She tossed the bottle at him to prove her point. "I only take Vicodin in the morning." He handed it back to her and she swallowed a pill with a smile. "Don't want to become dependent."
"Of course not, now what-"
"Shh! It's back," she cut him off, happy to have the upper hand for the moment. When it came time for the next commercial, she was the first to speak. "I was in a car accident when I was twelve. I fractured two vertebrae and suffered from temporary paralysis. With physical therapy I regained mobility, but I still have chronic pain. My doctors said it was spondylolisthesis in the one vertebra and that arthrodesis wasn't an option because of muscle scarring. Instead, I pop a Vicodin in the morning so I can get out of bed, take prescription NSAIDs, and do yoga."
"And the yoga helps?"
"Builds muscle strength," she answered with a shrug. "My point is that the pain's chronic, so I doubt it has anything to do with my fever."
"But the it's getting worse?"
"Yeah, but that's what pain does," she answered firmly, her eyes meeting his with a silent understanding of each other.
"When was your last MRI?"
"Two years."
"That aunt of yours can't be as neurotic as you think if she hasn't insisted on a new MRI."
"That's because she doesn't know about the increase in pain."
"So you lie to her."
"Everyone lies."
"Very true." His gaze drifted back to the television, but his mind was on the patient. All of her symptoms did not make sense. If she took Vicodin every morning, the acetaminophen should have gotten rid of the fever, and other than the headache she had no other cold or flu-like symptoms. There was also something about her that seemed vaguely familiar. When the commercial came on again, he looked at her. "I'm going to schedule you for a fresh MRI and draw some blood to send down to the lab."
"You're going to do it?" she raised an eyebrow, "Not a nurse?"
"If I call a nurse in here, the television goes off." He pulled what he needed from the drawer and set it on the small procedures table next to the exam table. "And neither of us want that."
"Good point." She watched him tie the tourniquet around her arm and swab the area with alcohol, but looked away when he picked up the needle.
"All done," he announced when he finished a few moments later. He took her free hand and placed it over the cotton ball on her elbow and folded her arm up to hasten the clotting.
"Really?" She looked at him in surprise. "I didn't even feel it."
"That's because I'm good." He placed the vial of blood in a plastic bag.
"No." She shook her head, the fear creeping in her voice. "I mean I didn't feel anything – no prick, not even the alcohol."
"Here." He unfolded her arm and examined the area, noticing nothing irregular in its appearance. "Wiggle your fingers."
"They feel fine." she moved them for him and made a tight fist to prove the extent of their mobility.
"Close your eyes."
"What?"
"Just do it." he repeated and she obeyed. He placed two fingers on the inside of her wrist. "Do you feel that?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to move my fingers up your arm and I want you to tell me when you think I've stopped touching you."
"Okay." She felt his fingers slide up her arm. "Now."
"Open your eyes." She did as he said and looked over to see his fingers still on her arm. "I haven't moved them."
"What does that mean?"
"That you win a stay in the penthouse suite at PPTH," he answered sarcastically.
"Yippee," she answered in a tone that matched his.
"You betcha." Ge stuck his head out of the exa room. "Can I get a wheelchair in here? I have a patient that needs to be admitted now."
"Do I have to use the wheelchair?"
"I could get you a gurney."
"Fine," she sighed as a nurse brought it into the room.
"Do you need any help?" the nurse asked with a smile directed only at the patient and not at House.
"No." She got off the exam table herself and sat down in the chair, setting her purse on her lap. "I got it."
"Is there anyone you want us to call?" she asked as she adjusted the footrests, "Your parents?"
"No," she answered quickly, "They're dead."
"I'm sorry." The nurse's face filled with instant sympathy.
"Um, thanks, but it was a long time ago." She glanced at House, knowing he was curious. "The car accident."
"Where does she need to go, Dr. House?" the nurse turned to him, her tone all business.
"Diagnostics, duh!" He shook head in frustration. Where else would he send his own patient?
"Right," the nurse sighed and pushed the wheelchair toward the door.
"Later House," she told him, his sarcastic humor calming her nerves.
"Later." He glanced down at the chart. "Racy."
"Racy?" she asked, and the nurse paused in the doorway.
"Your initials," he clarified, "Rebecca A. C. Yates – what's the A. C., Atlantic City?"
"Sadly no." She smiled back at him. "Just a middle name and my mom's maiden name."
"So what's the full name?"
"Why do you care?" she asked and the nurse began pushing the wheelchair again.
"Family history."
"Fine," she answered over her shoulder before the door swung shut between them, "Rebecca Alyse Cuddy Yates."
A/N: So, what did you think? Please review…your feedback is always helpful and appreciated!