Note: Just when my muse was flying into the Bermuda Triangle, my pal Zosia gave me this amazing prompt: What if House was the one who got sick in Airborne, not Cuddy? Since our story picks up in the middle of the action, a knowledge of that episode is crucial to the understanding of this fic. A few lines were lifted directly from the (genius) script, by David Hoselton. (I also borrowed a tiny snippet from Top Secret. Can you spot it?) As always, I do not profit from my fan fics in any way (except for in love, trolls, and the occasional heartwarming GIFset from my friend Marlene).
"You idiot! Why didn't you listen to me when I said we should've turned this flight around?" Cuddy barked. "We are literally halfway between Singapore and New York and there's a very real possibility we have a deadly meningitis outbreak on our flight."
House glared at her.
"First of all, why not say that a little louder because I'm not sure the people in the back row of economy class heard you?" he said. "Second of all, let me think. All your yammering and trying to make me feel guilty about this is not going to solve the problem."
"What's to solve?" Cuddy said. "This isn't a diagnostic dilemma. If it's meningitis, there's nothing you—or anyone—can do about it."
House looked around the plane nervously—several of the first class passengers were throwing up now and others were looking green around the gills. He put his hands over his ears.
"Let me think, woman!" he yelled.
And then he proceeded to throw up.
Both he and Cuddy looked down at the vomit on the floor and then back at each other, in shock.
"Shit," House said.
"Shit," Cuddy echoed, her mouth hanging open.
She immediately ran over to him to check his body for the telltale rash, but he had beaten her to it.
He lifted his shirt: His stomach was covered in red blotches.
"Pretty sure those weren't there this morning," House said ironically.
"Oh my God, House," Cuddy said. "Oh my God."
She put her hand on his forehead. He was sweating profusely now. His hair was matted to his skin.
House swallowed, trying to remain calm.
"Smell me," he said, somewhat shakily.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Get in close and smell me: Pseudomonas smell yeasty. Staph smells musty. Some liver diseases smell of ammonia."
"I'm not sure I. . ."
"Just do it!"
She leaned down to smell him. He lifted his shirt further to facilitate her examination.
"It smells like. . .vomit," she said, wrinkling her nose. Then she got even closer. "And bourbon. And a little bit of leather."
"A bloodhound you're not," he said.
She stood back up.
"House, think! This can't be meningitis. What else can it be?"
"Five minutes ago, you told me it wasn't a diagnostic problem."
"House, what else can it be?"
"It's meningitis," House said evenly. "You were right. I fucked up. We should've turned the plane around."
Cuddy began pacing the aisle.
"You need antibiotics," she said.
"Great, I'll call down to the pharmacy," he cracked.
Then he closed his eyes and groaned.
"What?" Cuddy said, rushing back up to him. "What are you feeling right now?"
"Like a dead man flying."
"Some of the passengers must have antibiotics," Cuddy said anxiously. "I'm going to go check."
She ran into the economy class. When she re-emerged, she had a plastic bag filled with drugs.
"Best Halloween ever!" House said, with a weak smile. "Whatya got?"
She spilled the contents out on the tray table.
"A lot of Demerol, some Xanax, a few hormone-replacement pills, some Ecstasy I got off that teenage boy with the piercings, and two penicillin tablets."
"I'll take the Ecstasy. You should probably take the hormone pills: Your mustache seems to be coming back in."
She ignored him.
"You'll take the penicillin!" she ordered.
"Give them to Peng over there, not me. Or our lovely, possibly not pregnant sorority girl. Or any of the other patients—I mean passengers—who got sick first."
"They're not world class doctors."
"My doctorin' skills don't extend to finding a cure for meningitis on a flight from Singapore."
"It's more important that you get better!"
"Why?" He looked at her knowingly. "Because you like me more?"
"Take the pills, House."
"Give them to Peng."
"No!"
"Then save them for yourself. Odds are, you'll be catching whatever I've got soon. Especially since you were so willing to smell me."
"I. . ."
"I'm just kidding. Either you'll catch it or you won't." He eyed her. "How are you feeling, anyway?"
She thought about that for a second.
"I feel fine—for now. But I'm worried about you. You're turning green."
"You wanna make a sick guy throw up again?" he said, closing his eyes again. "Tell him he's turning green."
She took his hand.
"House, for once, use that giant brain of yours to save yourself."
"Don't you mean: Save this plane full of people?" he said with a queasy smile.
"Help me think of something!"
He sighed. He pressed his head back against the seat. For a second, the sarcasm drained from his face.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I should've listened to you."
"I don't care about apologies right now House. I don't even care about you not listening to me. I want you to not die!"
He blinked at her. Then he gripped her hand more tightly,
"I'm sorry. There's nothing else I can do. If I do kick it, I'm pretty sure my biggest regret is going to be. . ."
Just then, the flight attendant marched up to them.
"Oh my God, is he sick?" she said, looking at House in horror.
"No, I always look this way when I spend time with Dr. Cuddy," he said, recovering from his temporary bout of sincerity.
"We need to land this plane!" Cuddy said, slightly frantic.
"Where?" the attendant said. "Over the Arctic Ocean?"
"Then, we need to get the passengers onto a different plane. Can't we…call the Marines? Do some sort of transfer?"
"That's not possible," the attendant said.
"This isn't Airforce One, Cuddy," House said, with a weak smile.
"What about parachutes?" Cuddy said. She was clearly out of her mind with worry at this point.
"You've been reading way too many Tom Clancy novels," House said.
Then he turned to the flight attendant. "Go check on the passengers in coach. The most important thing is to try to keep everyone calm."
"That's going to be impossible," the attendant said. "Everyone is hysterical back there."
"Everyone is hysterical? . . ."
And then, just like that, it dawned on him.
"Everyone is hysterical," he said, evenly.
"That's what I just said," the flight attendant agreed.
He gave a grim laugh.
"What the hell is so funny?" Cuddy said.
"I'm a moron," he said.
"I'm with you so far."
"I'm not sick."
"The vomit on the floor says otherwise," Cuddy said.
"No, Peng is sick," House said. "I have what she has." And he jerked his thumb toward the pretty blonde girl, who was now doubled over in pain.
"You're pregnant?" Cuddy said, wrinkling her nose.
House stood up, shakily at first and then with more strength.
"It's a fucking conversion disorder," he said. "I'm fine. She's fine. Everyone's going to be fine. Somebody was making me feel guilty about potentially making a plane full of passengers sick, so I transferred their symptoms onto myself."
"So this is my fault?"
"Entirely."
Cuddy looked at him, stunned, relieved, and more than slightly impressed.
"Only you could diagnose your own conversion disorder," she said, shaking her head.
######
The next day when they arrived back at work, House and Cuddy practically collided with Wilson in the hall.
"You're back!" Wilson said eagerly. "How was Singapore? I heard there was some sort of disturbance on the plane?"
House and Cuddy looked at each other.
"There was a scare," Cuddy said. "We briefly thought it was a meningitis outbreak. But it wasn't. It was the power of suggestion at work."
"A conversion disorder?" Wilson said, with an amused smile. "And neither of you were affected?"
House held his breath.
"Actually, House. . ." Cuddy said, glancing over at him. " . . .Was the one who figured it out, naturally. He saved the day."
House exhaled.
"Of course he did," Wilson said, almost disappointed.
"How bout you?" House said. "Any excitement when we were gone?"
"I met a nice woman," Wilson said. "But it turns out she…wasn't so nice after all. I'm actually a little bummed about it."
"Think of all the money you saved on divorce lawyers," House said, clapping him on the back. Then he followed Cuddy to her office.
"Thanks for not narcing me out," he said.
She smiled devilishly.
"Why on earth would I cash in such a powerful chip so early?" she said coyly. "This is the kind of thing I can hold over you for years. I'm salivating just thinking of all the extra clinic hours you'll be putting in."
Then she took note of his face and frowned.
"What are you smirking about? This is my triumph!"
"Just remember, Cuddy: Two can play at that game."
"What game?"
"Blackmail!"
"What do you have to blackmail me about? I was the soul of medical objectivity,"
"Ha! You were willing to violate the Hippocratic oath and give me meds over other patients. You wanted to call in the marines! There was talk of parachutes. I think you were contemplating the metphysical logistics of time travel."
"Shut up," she said sheepishly. "I wasn't that bad. And yes, I was concerned for the wellbeing of all the passengers."
"One in particular," he said.
She gave a half-shrug.
"An outside observer might say you have feelings for me, Dr. Cuddy," House said.
"That was before I knew you were prone to hysteria," she said.
He smiled, in a touché sort of way.
"What about you?" she countered. "What regret were you about to share? Because it was starting to sound pretty lovey-dovey up there."
"I was going to say that I regret not talking about your ass more often."
"Uh huh."
They exchanged a look.
"So it looks like we both have grounds for blackmail," Cuddy said.
House raised his eyebrows.
"It would seem so."
"What are we going to do about it?"
"We should probably discuss it further," he said. Then, gulping a bit, he added: "Say tonight? My place? I, uh, still have those ecstasy tablets."
She gave him a sly smile.
"Well, it would be a shame to let those go to waste."
THE END