Professional Suicide
Author: Storm
Characters: The new Dean and the jailbird.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Greg House. Including his creators. And theirs.
Summary: "You didn't invite me here to offer me my job back. It'd be professional suicide."
Notes: Written for the Wanted: Dean of Medicine Challenge.
The Dean's office has not been redecorated. The furniture has been rearranged, but that is all. Budget considerations, no doubt. In one corner, the same cream leather suite and coffee table are arranged in a small circle of empty intimacy.
Across the room, easily visible by prospective donors who might sit on the couch are the new Dean's wall-mounted qualifications. These are set between two large mahogany bookcases that take up the whole wall, aside from the small door into the private bathroom in the corner before the giant picture windows. The bookcase directly in front of the donors is stacked with files: evidence of systems, organisation.
The one nearer the windows is laden with medical texts. There's at least one on every speciality the hospital has to offer, including general practice. Then two shelves of worn-spines and dog-eared texts covering the Dean's own – now neglected – specialty.
Standing with his back to the glass doors that open out into a small assistant's office before the electronic doors that lead into the clinic, House has to confront not only the glare from the windows but the desk. Antique. Her favourite. His apology. He wonders if she left it here to spite him.
"You didn't invite me here to gloat," he announces, as the doors open behind him.
"I might've done."
He whirls, the voice familiar but still a surprise. Blue eyes twinkle at him amidst a face full of wrinkles.
"I didn't get a job working for you now, did I?"
He can remember the man's moniker, but not his name.
"You're not in charge of this hospital."
He manages not to make it a question. Ridiculously Old Fraud shakes his head, jerks his thumb at the assistant's desk between the two sets of doors. Ah. Smart move, that man. Hiring a chap who has twice audited the entire medical degree programme, but never taken the qualifications. In any hospital, assistants with good medical knowledge are the only ones worth their pay checks.
"The Dean's just coming."
House nods, turns back to the eerie mismatch between a familiar nameplate and a familiar desk. Behind the plate, there are several mountains of paperwork, a telephone and a hideous lamp, the kind made out of an old bottle. His eyes narrow as he realises that this one is a fraud too. There's no bulb in it and the bottle is a little less than half-empty.
He's thought of a better line when the doors open again.
"You didn't invite me here to offer me my job back. It'd be professional suicide."
"What you know about professionalism would fit on the back of a matchbox."
The new Dean crosses the room until the desk stands between them. It makes a change from the thick shatterproof glass of the prison visiting area. There is, at least, no sweaty handset to speak into. The silence shuffles around them, a faint breeze stirring it like the pages of a book – a reminder that what he knows about suicidal tendencies could fill a whole library.
"Diagnostics has been expanded and restructured," the Dean announces, without preamble. "Drs. Foreman, Chase and Cameron have been granted full consultant status. Dr. Chase will be co-ordinating all surgical procedures from this department, including and especially transplant requests. Dr. Foreman will assume responsibility for the newly appointed fellows, supervising all patient contact, laboratory testing and..." a slight, tactfully evasive, pause, "other investigative procedures. Dr. Cameron has been re-appointed and is now the department's deputy head. There are three new fellowship posts open and a host of applications lined up. The deadline for appointments is in three months. Dr. Taub has resigned and will instead be heading up the new Princeton Plainsboro Plastics department. Dr. Hadley remains on your books, as a research specialist. Masters has returned to complete her medical training."
House's mind races, noting substitutions, promotions, the reappointment of a secretary-cum-conscience-cum-babysitter deputy that he wants to curse at and knows he will forgive. The resignation and departure are unsurprising. The reassignment means, damn, Hadley's Huntington's has begun to chip away at her motor control. In a melee of concepts to object to, he finds he says only:
"My books?"
The Dean matches his tone with a look like sandpaper.
"On the provisos of: an occupational health assessment; monthly drug tests; mandatory counselling; compulsory attendance at departmental, inter-departmental meetings and the weekly mortality and morbidity conferences; regular appearances at fundraisers; committing to signing off on grant applications; giving a once yearly lecture for the medical students; appearing at least annually at conferences; accepting a caseload with one as minimum and the same maximum as all other specialties, which will mean taking on unusual as well as thus-far-unsolvable cases and, as necessary, following through on management of conditions and palliative care―"
"Clinic duty?" he demands, resentment boiling.
It's not only the boring and the humdrum he resists, the unnecessary distractions. It's the expectation that he can maintain the kind of adrenaline-fuelled pace he had once thrived on: a heavy, complex caseload plus administrative nonsense and a barrage of professional commitments. His right hand sinks down to knead at the muscles panic-cramping in his thigh.
A minuscule softening of the stern countenance.
"No."
"Salary?"
"As before."
He cocks an eyebrow, recognises in the steeliness of the reply a long hard won battle with the board.
"Is that all?"
"No. There is also the matter of the hospital fulfilling what is called reasonable accommodation."
"You're offering me a couch in your office?"
The hook of his eyebrow makes that as suggestive as possible.
The Dean doesn't smile. It's an impressive feat of willpower.
"You've been granted an extra allowance of paid sick leave to be taken as and when necessary. You will also be provided with a walking aid and wheelchair of your choice, as needed, and permanent access to the short-term post-surgical rehabilitation wing, which means you can book for personal use the flotation tank, and the jacuzzi. You will also be entitled to free acupuncture and massage sessions, at a maximum of three each per week. You are also allowed free physiotherapy – including any supports, braces or other paraphernalia." The Dean reads his expression, quickly raises a hand. "If you choose to make use of them. Any other valid surgical procedures you choose to investigate or pursue – in consultation with an appropriate specialist – for your own condition will be covered by your new insurance."
The Dean moves on, swiftly, plays the last card in hand:
"Diagnostics also now has its own doctors' lounge, complete with full colour widescreen TV with all channels, table-tennis and pool tables, stocked fridge, and discounts at the canteen."
House shifts his weight to lean more heavily on his cane and eyes the new Dean narrowly.
"You manipulative bitch."
The smile comes at last, all devilishness and dimples.
"Welcome back."
He rolls his eyes, already working out not only the advantages of the blatant bribery, but also the deliberate loopholes left in the new system: the silent free reign he's been given in terms of diagnostic practices, breaking and entering, and final calls; the reduction in patient contact; the assistance with administration; the unacknowledged option to use his research assistant to help himself – if he can. He wants to refuse, to resent, to rail and hate at being so skilfully manoeuvred; but after six months trapped in a hybrid of every prison show that screens on Best Buy, it's a terrible, terrifying, tremendous relief to find that someone, his someone, the only real someone he's ever had, still cares.
"Dinner tonight?"
A flash of gently mocking dark eyes.
"Is that a date?"
"Yes, Wilson, I've gone gay and I want you."
A pseudo-sober nod.
"Figured that's what you meant. Eight o clock?"
House cants his head, looks through his lashes to continue the charade.
"Your place or mine?"
An assertive forefinger flicks out.
"Your place and you're buying."
"You'd better be putting out then."
A soft snort.
"Pretty sure I just did."
House doesn't thank him; he doesn't need to. But, as he spins on his heel and heads off toward his department, he does look back over his shoulder. To his relief, when Wilson thinks he isn't looking, he removes the half-drunk bottle of House's favourite bourbon from beneath the hideous lampshade and drops both of them into the trash.
[End].