Title: R.I.C.E. in Reverse [2/4]
Author: Phate_Phoenix
Prompt : 9. House/Wilson – "When everything is wrong, I'll come talk to you" (My Best Friend - Weezer)
Pairing: Canon House/Cuddy, House/Wilson
Rating/Warning: PG-13; Swearing, Spoilers for 'THE GREATER GOOD', Vengeful!House, Hurt!Wilson
Summary: An AU of 'The Greater Good' caused by a simple… twist. What if Wilson had discovered that Dana Miller was House's patient just an hour earlier? Cuddy won't know what hit her.
Beta: Cielo_Claro at LiveJournal.
Disclaimer: DO NOT OWN.
Notes: Written for the House_Of_Fanfic (of LiveJournal) Annual fContest.
XXXX
C: Counterattack
The act of retaliating; Revenge
"The patient had better be dying, or I'm going to fire you. All of you. And then write really bad stuff about you in my diary."
"…You don't actually keep a diary, do you?"
House ignored Kutner's skeptical voice, and instead squinted in the darkness at his alarm clock again, because he couldn't quite believe that his fellows would wake him up at the ungodly hour of five in the morning. "Why? You'll never find it." He sat up and ran a hand over his face. "What's so important that you had to call me?"
"First off, Miller isn't dying—"
"Great opener. Now, how do you want that to read on your personnel file? 'Fired due to incompetence', or 'might have brain damage'?"
"—However, she did scratch a hole through her skull and into her brain last night."
House paused, staring blankly into his dark bedroom, and then smirked. "Alright, you get to keep your job. What's going on?"
Kutner's voice contained a smug air that House both wanted to encourage and tear apart. "Foreman checked up on her before he went home, and found her with some brain matter sticking out of her skull," Kutner said. "I saw it before they took her into surgery. It was kinda cool."
House rolled his eyes and snatched the orange container from his nightstand, shaking out a lone, white pill. "And?" he said before swallowing the Vicodin.
"Oh, and Chase and Taub are currently in surgery with her."
"That's it?" House said as he rose from his bed. He limped through his bedroom and into the hallway. "Is there anything else about the patient that you know?"
"Like what?"
"Oh, what's her favorite song, where does she go to have her nails done, does she have brain damage?"
For a moment, House heard only silence from Kutner's end of the line. "Uh… sorry?" the fellow began, and House planned on making him far sorrier than he already was. "It was really early this morning when they started the surgery. I went home to sleep as soon as I could get out. I just got into work. Foreman and Thirteen just got into work. Taub isn't even out of surgery yet."
House paused in the middle of his living room, shaking his head. "Thank God you're there now," he said, and hung up the phone.
It was another hour and a half before House gimped his way into the hospital, only minutes behind the New Jersey sunrise. He made sure to smile at Cuddy through her office doors as he passed. Her glare, in return, promised retribution and pain. House made his way to the elevators and rode them to the second floor, where he spotted his fellows—except the tiny Jewish one—sitting in front of the admitting desk.
"I'm so glad you woke me up for this," he called, startling Kutner from his newspaper. Foreman merely glanced over his shoulder at him, and Thirteen squinted up at him through her bangs. House limped forward and stopped in front of the desk. He raised his eyebrows and looked at the group. "Any changes?"
Kutner frowned and then shook his head. "No," he said. At House's glare he held up his hands placatingly. "There are, like, twenty students in the observation deck. They won't let any more in."
"Besides," Foreman said, drawing House's attention, "the surgery is almost complete. Taub should be out any minute."
"Any second, actually."
House looked up to spy Taub slipping out of the OR, adorned in a set of clean scrubs. House tapped his cane a few times on the ground. "Tell me, Doctor," he said dramatically, clutching a hand to his chest, "will she ever dance again?"
Taub stared at him before rubbing his face, as if trying to remove the dark circles under his eyes. He wandered around the couches and finally took a seat next to Kutner, sagging. He looked over at House and shrugged slightly. "Amazingly, her scratching didn't cause any brain damage," he said, "and I was able to use a free-flap closure, so she won't have any scarring." He looked over at Foreman, shrugging one shoulder. "But, when she woke up, she said it was still itching."
Kutner's eyes brightened, and he sat up. "Hey, there was another woman who did the same thing a few months ago!" he said. The group looked at him and he continued. "Yeah, scratched right into her brain. She actually managed to paralyze herself, though."
House hooked his cane on the support beam above his head before turning back to him. "Did the woman also present with deflating lungs and a bleeding liver?"
"Uh," Kutner began, "no, but—"
"Then I don't care," House said, smiling.
Foreman leaned forward in his chair. "Itch receptors are only in the top two layers of skin," he said, raising his eyebrows.
"Then whatever is wrong is in her brain," Kutner offered.
Thirteen glared at him. "Are you going to keep saying useless things all day, or are you just getting it out of your system?"
Kutner stared at her, wide-eyed. Taub tilted his head to look at her. Foreman frowned, brows furrowed. Thirteen blinked a few times before putting her head in her hands. "Sorry," came the muffled reply, "I have a headache."
Kutner smiled awkwardly at her and then glanced at Foreman and Taub. "It's, eh, it's fine," he said. "Don't worry about it." He turned back to House and shrugged. "It could be a psychosis. I mean, she made a huge, life-changing decision. Could be because of mental imbalance."
Taub looked over at Kutner, raising his eyebrows. "Just because she wants to be happy doesn't mean she's crazy."
Foreman frowned at them. "Besides, the itching started yesterday, not eight months ago."
House smirked, eyeing Kutner. "You really are full of useless ideas today, aren't you?"
Kutner scowled and slouched backwards. "It could be a brain tumor."
"Or senile plaques," Foreman offered.
Taub looked at House. "MS would explain the itching and possibly the lungs."
House rolled his eyes. "As much fun as it is standing here, listening to you all guess unlikelier and unlikelier things, how about you MRI her brain so we have an idea?"
The fellows looked between each other before quickly rising and rushing from the room, while House watched, amused. His hand automatically rose to snatch the end of his cane, and closed around nothing. He turned, startled, and stared at the empty space beside him.
"What…?" he mumbled, squinting as he turned and scanned the room. He stopped and closed his eyes, clenching his jaw shut and balling his fists. Exhaling through his nose, House opened his eyes and looked around once more. He spotted a mop sitting in a wheeled bucket only a few feet from him, abandoned and unguarded. After a last—and, if House was honest with himself, somewhat desperate—glance, he limped to the mop and grasped the wooden handle. Leaning on it heavily, House made his way towards the elevator.
The water smelled like an old towel, or a wet dog, and sloshed against the sides with every step; drops would fall out and onto the hallway. As the bucket moved along the floor, it would squeak loud and sharp. As House came closer to the elevator, the noise sounded more and more like 'vengeance…' 'vengeance…'
When he boarded, a doctor from nephrology—Campson, if House recalled correctly—smirked at the bucket he walked with. "What?" Campson asked. "Did Cuddy finally demote you?"
House sneered at the bespectacled man. "Your wife still screwing the babysitter? Or did she finally leave you?" At Campson's widened stare, he grinned. "I suppose you must be rather small, if it was so easy for her to just jump to the other gender."
Campson cleared his throat and dropped his gaze, blushing.
When the doors opened to the ground floor, House limped as quickly as he could towards the glass doors of the Dean's office. After getting through the first set of doors, House squeaked his way easily past the second set, as a door was already propped open.
"This means war, you know," he said cheerfully, stopping just beyond the doorway.
Cuddy froze at her desk and sighed, glancing over her shoulder. She glared at him. "I thought we already were at war," she said, glowering, "what with the sudden increase of paperwork I have to do, and Wilson limping through the hospital giving 'poor, poor House' speeches."
House raised an eyebrow. "What about Wilson?"
Cuddy rolled her eyes and turned around completely, tossing the file in her hand onto her desk. "Oh, don't play dumb," she snapped. "Wilson's on crutches and he gave me this whole spiel about how worried he was that some psychopath was after you. Your idea, I suppose?"
"Wilson's on crutches," House said slowly, as if talking to five-year-old, "because he sprained his ankle by falling over the tripwire in my doorway." Cuddy tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. House rolled his eyes and gestured with his left hand as he snarled, "Ask Cameron or Foreman if you don't believe me." Then, he squinted at Cuddy, fighting a grin. "He called you a psychopath?"
"Indirectly," Cuddy said quickly, defensive. Then shook her head and held up hands. "Wait, I don't care," she said, glaring at House, "because you deserve this."
"Couldn't you have just smothered me with your funbags?" House asked, leering at Cuddy's chest. "I would learn my lesson much faster."
Cuddy rolled her eyes. "In your dreams."
"Often in my dreams, actually. Like last night—"
Cuddy slammed her foot down, planting her fists on her hips and glaring at him. "I don't care how perverted you get, House. You'll have to do much better than that to see your cane again."
House scoffed, looking away. "This wasn't about my cane."
Cuddy raised her eyebrows. "This isn't some sort of… negotiation?"
"No," House said. "We don't negotiate with terrorists."
Cuddy stared blankly at him. "If anyone in this room is a terrorist, it's you."
House raised an eyebrow at her. "Just because you represent the man doesn't make me the terrorist."
"No," Cuddy began, "you're the terrorist because you cause terror."
"You're using your executive power to harass me. Does that make you a tyrannical dictator?"
Cuddy rolled her eyes and sighed. "Just do what you came to do and go," she grumbled.
House stood tall as he could while leaning against the mop. "Just know that you brought this upon yourself." He pointed at her, frowning. "If you break anything else of mine—"
"Don't be so melodramatic," Cuddy snapped, turning back to her desk. "I haven't broken your cane."
House paused, finger curving in the air, and grunted, "See that it stays that way."
"Great," she said, "message received." She pointed to the doorway without looking at him. "Now, leave."
House lifted his head and gimped from the room, the bucket sounding off his departure. He noisily made his way through the lobby, and paused at the elevators. He pressed the call button and waited for the doors to open.
"House?"
House closed his eyes for a brief moment. Then he sighed and looked over his shoulder. Wilson, still on the metal crutches and adorned in his winter coat, stared at him with bewildered eyes. They strayed down to the mop and bucket and blinked. He then looked back up at House, mouth opening and closing. The elevator doors, thankfully, opened before he could say anything, and House pushed his way into the now-empty room. Wilson quickly hopped in after him.
"House," he asked, slowly and cautiously, as the doors closed and the elevator began to move, "why do you have a mop? Where's your cane?"
House glowered at Wilson, eyes narrowed. "My cane and I are having a trial separation." He shrugged and looked at the lights. He leaned over and whispered in a scandalous tone, "I caught him sleeping with the enemy, so I'm getting revenge-sex with this mop and bucket."
Wilson paused, decoding the message, and then turned to stare slack-jawed at him. "Cuddy stole your cane?!" His face flushed and his fingers clenched tighter around the handles of his crutches.
House smiled at him as the doors slid open and he began to gradually squeak his way down the hall. Wilson released his death grip on the crutches' handles and swung out after him. "Wait House!" he shouted, and House glanced over his shoulder.
"What?"
Wilson paused beside him before offering his right crutch. "Trade you."
House looked at it before turning his gaze on Wilson. "Why?" he asked, leering. "Did you make a mess in the clinic with a nurse?" However, he took the crutch from Wilson and began to fiddle with the height.
Wilson, meanwhile, grabbed the mop handle and dragged it to the top of the stairwell, which was actually devoid of people for once. As he checked the empty halls for any witnesses, House hobbled over, adjusting his pace to work around the crutch.
"What are you doing?" he asked, staring at Wilson.
Wilson smirked back at him before stepping behind the mop bucket. "Watch," he said. Then he inhaled.
"HEY!" Wilson shouted in a frantic tone, startling House. "LOOK OUT!" With a hard shove from Wilson's remaining crutch, the mop and bucket went sailing down the stairs, water splashing everywhere. It hit the landing and seemed to explode, sending water pouring down the stairs and onto the floor below.
House gaped openly at Wilson, who leaned over the railing. "Oh my God," Wilson called, staring as the water leaked down the stairs and spread across the third floor, "is everyone alright?"
"Doctor Wilson!" one of the nurses called, carefully treading through the water and peering up at him. "What happened?"
Wilson shook his head. "I'm so sorry," he said. "One of my crutches hit it while I was walking."
The nurse looked at the mess before squinting at Wilson again. "What was it doing up there by itself?"
"I think House was using it as a… cane of sorts," Wilson said. "His other one was stolen."
"What?!"
"Yeah, it's gone."
"I heard someone put tripwire in his office doorway. Is that true?"
Wilson nodded. "Seems like someone's out to get him."
The nurse frowned at the water before looking up. "I… heard some rumors…" she frowned and shook her head. "Never mind. I'll have someone come clean this up. Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm fine. I'm just going to check on House, make sure he's alright," Wilson said, shooting a glance at the grinning House. "I don't want to think about how hard it was for him to walk with a wheeled bucket."
"If he needs a cane, tell him to call the nurse's station," she said. "We'll bring one to him."
Wilson smiled winningly at her. "Thank you so much. House may not appreciate it, but… I do."
"Of course," the nurse says, smiling back at him. "I… hope your ankle feels better."
"Thank you, Demy."
The nurse blushed suddenly. She nodded and rushed away, giggling. Wilson turned back around, smiling smugly. House only shook his head.
"You are like watching art," House declared, and Wilson stood straighter.
"Years of practice," he said smoothly.
House shook his head and limped toward his office. He glanced over his shoulder. "Aren't you coming to my office, to make sure the poor, old cripple is okay?"
Wilson took up step beside him, grinning. "Actually, I'm coming to finish the job." He gestured behind him. "That was all a distraction."
"Ingenious," House said, stopping at his office door and pushing it open with the crutch under his arm, "they'll never suspect a thing."
Wilson limped in before him and held the door open as House followed. He let the door go and it closed automatically. House limped to his desk and leaned the crutch against it before taking a seat in his chair. Wilson paused by the chair on the other side of House's desk, setting the crutch on the floor and shrugging off his jacket. He hung it on the back of the chair before taking a seat and propping his right foot, wrapped again in a compression bandage and covered by several layers of socks to keep the cold out, onto House's desk.
"So," House said, eyeing Wilson, "are you going to explain what that was all about?"
Wilson rolled his eyes and looked at House blankly. "There is a method to my madness," he said. When House continued to stare, Wilson sighed. "I was building on your interactions with the nurses yesterday. The nurses all know that Cuddy was behind the elevators and the tripwire. Hearing that your cane was stolen, they'll put two and two together."
House grinned and leaned back in his chair. "Ah, human manipulation—the gift that keeps on giving."
House turned to his computer while Wilson shifted his chair around to the side, so that he was able to comfortably reach across House's desk. Wilson's eyes darted up to House's face before twitching back down to the assortment of pens, pencils, and highlighters that were littered across the glass surface. He began to pull them towards himself.
"What are you up to?" Wilson asked, placing the writing utensils into separate piles.
House glanced at him, smirking. "I'm ordering Cuddy ten volumes of gay porn." Wilson began to cough viciously and House went on. "Kind of a… welcome back present."
After Wilson regained control of himself, he smiled and leaned to get a better look at the computer screen. "Gay porn?" he asked.
House nodded, sticking the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. "Yup," he replied. He looked over at Wilson, frowning contemplatively. "Which do you think she'd like better? Lesbians or Gays?"
"She's going to kill you."
"You're right," House said. He turned back to the computer. "Cuddy loves variety. You can see it in the way she dresses. I'll get both."
Wilson shook his head, turning back to his organizing. "You honestly take the cake, House."
"You think it's too much?" House asked, looking over at him. Wilson stared back and House nodded. "You're right, it's far too much." He turned back to the screen and began to type. "I'll use her credit card instead."
Wilson snickered, turning back to his project. "Yeah, that'll go over way better."
House merely grinned.
The two eased into a period of silence, neither attempting to break it, both appreciating it. As Wilson organized the utensils in front of him according to type and color, he shot House quick glances, as if ensuring House was too busy to notice said glances.
He wasn't.
"So, what are you sitting on?"
Wilson had to fight to not jerk up and stare at House. Instead, he calmly lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
House turned his chair to face Wilson once more, leaning back and staring at him, inspecting him, diagnosing him. "You're tense and you keep shooting me these looks, as if you're checking to make sure I have no idea what's going on in your head," House said, smirking. "You've got something that's just killing you to say. So, what is it?"
Wilson turned his eyes back to the pens and began to reorganize them according to height. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Puh-leeeeze," House said, reaching over and altering Wilson's order by rearranging the pens, pencils, and highlighters by thickness of tip, "you hid in your office after your little chat with my patient yesterday. I didn't see you until this morning."
Wilson winced, his hands freezing in midair. He reached around and rubbed the back of his neck, looking to the side. "It's… it's just…"
House flung a red pen at him, pegging Wilson between the eyes. "What'd she say that spooked you? C'mon—I'll just ask her myself if you don't spill."
Wilson rubbed the middle of his forehead, glowering at House. "She made me think about… stuff. Specifically, how I've… hurt you. In the past."
House's brows furrowed and he frowned. "Are you talking about when you cut halfway through my cane? Because that's nothing like what Cuddy's doing. That was awesome."
Wilson blinked. "Actually, no. I wasn't talking about that. But is that really so different?" he asked, running a hand over his face. "I could have hurt you. It's no better than the tripwire."
House rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Sure it is," House said. "I wanted that to happen. I thought you figured that out."
Wilson frowned at him. "Then what's the difference between you and me then and what's going on between you and Cuddy now?"
House stared at him as though Wilson's face had turned silver with purple spots. "Because you had something to gain," House said, "a cause you were fighting for. Cuddy's just out to get me. There's no reason, no agenda. It's because 'I deserve it', not to teach me a life lesson or to make me do something."
Wilson gaped, squinting at House. "That's it?" he asked, bewildered. "Because I wanted you to leave me alone, that's why I'm better than her?"
House shrugged. "It's one of the few things you're better at than she is, but yeah. Basically."
Wilson slouched in his chair, staring into space. "I… can't believe that's it."
"It's not that surprising," House said. "I only do things to get what I want, or to get leverage. Not just to do something. Why wouldn't I expect that from everyone else?"
Wilson only shook his head, smiling. He then frowned, brows furrowing. "Wait," he said, "then why are you reacting to what Cuddy's doing?"
House frowned at him. "Didn't I already explain this to you?" he asked. Then he smiled, throwing his arms upward. "It's all for you, Jimmy!"
Wilson rolled his eyes. "Seriously, House—"
"But we got off subject," House said, and Wilson glowered back at him. "You said it wasn't about the cane issue." Wilson palmed his face, and House continued. "What was it about, Wilson?"
It was just then, however, that Wilson's pager went off. He snatched the device from his beltline and gazed at its face. He grinned over it at House, who scowled back at him. "Sorry," Wilson said, "but Brown needs me. This conversation will just have to wait."
Wilson dragged his foot off House's desk and pushed himself to his feet. He felt House's eyes on him the entire time he adjusted his crutch under his arm. Finally, House smirked.
"You can't run forever," he said. "Sooner or later, we'll finish this conversation." House smiled wickedly. "I have ways of making you talk."
Wilson stared back at him, bored. "I'll be waiting," he replied. He looked to his other crutch and met House's eyes. "Keep that crutch to remember me by," he said, brushing a finger along his hairline before pointing at House. House faked a swoon from his seat, and Wilson limped away, grinning.
XXXX
Wilson wasn't sure how he managed to end up in front of Dana Miller's door yet again. After the consult with Brown about Wilson's newest patient, Janice Dayson—thirty-four-year-old female, colorectal cancer, three years; Wilson's youngest patient, Scott Hubbard—four-year-old male, clear cell sarcoma of the left kidney, treatment appeared effective; and a brief visit to the vending machines for a pick-me-up of M&M's, Wilson had overheard from a passing nurse that Dana Miller was between tests and resting. Before Wilson knew what was happening, he found himself limping down the hallway of the second floor, only stopping when he was in front of a familiar sliding glass doorway.
He considered, briefly, limping on by and acting as though he'd only stopped to adjust his crutch, but when Dana Miller looked up and saw him through the glass, Wilson's pride wouldn't let him. So he pushed open the door and found it far easier this time, what with only one arm burdened by a crutch.
Wilson limped, once more, to the foot of Dana's bed and looked the woman over. Her head had been bandaged at the temple, where she'd scratched at the day before. Her hands were placed in white mitts to prevent any further damage to herself. She looked back at him, just as much inspecting him as he was her. It only took that moment for Wilson to realize exactly what he should say to her.
"Were you really so miserable before?"
…And it wasn't that. He closed his eyes for a moment, grimacing. When he looked back at Dana, Wilson hoped she could see the apology in his eyes that he couldn't seem to spit out.
"I was."
Dana, however, merely continued the conversation, as though there were nothing odd about Wilson bursting into her room after she had undergone invasive brain surgery and rudely demanding answers of her. Wilson smiled bitterly to himself. All he needed was a limp and—
"Oh God," he said suddenly, making Dana frown at him. Wilson placed a hand over his eyes. "I've become House."
"I doubt that," Dana said, and Wilson peered at her as he dropped his hand. She shrugged as best she could. "The nurses don't stop talking about House, especially now that there's someone out to get him. You're fine, Doctor Wilson."
Wilson frowned at her. "It wouldn't be so horrible to become House," he said immediately. "He's not some sort of… monster."
Dana went silent and stared, hard, at Wilson. He shuffled awkwardly before pulling himself up straighter. "But… anyway," he began, more to change the subject than to discover anything, "why were you so miserable?"
Dana allowed the change easily. "Because I wasn't living for myself," she said. "I was living for others. My life no longer belonged to me. I existed only to work in that lab. I was utterly and completely stuck." She frowned, setting her mitted hands close together. "I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't live my life set on repeat, no matter what anyone else expected of me. I had to get out."
Wilson stared at her, feeling desperate and not understanding why. "Is that so horrible?" he asked. "To live for others? Isn't it… like being in love? To live so completely for another person?"
Dana nodded again and she smiled gently, her eyes softening. "Yes, it would be like being in love," she admitted. Wilson exhaled, but Dana continued. "But it's not the same," she said, "because I don't love everyone. If I did, then my job would have been perfect. It would make me happy to make them happy. Fulfill me. But it didn't."
Wilson felt defeated. He slouched against his crutch, feeling the aches from his joints call out to him. Dana watched him for several moments, leaning her head slightly to the side.
"Do you love your job?"
Wilson looked up at her, frowning. "Yes," he said, "I do. I couldn't imagine doing anything else."
"Then," Dana began, sitting up slightly, "do you have someone you live for?"
Wilson felt himself pale and he stiffened automatically. "I…" he began, trying to sort out his conflicted thoughts. There was no one waiting for him at his apartment. There was someone waiting for him, for a lunch date. "I don't…"
Wilson couldn't tell his mouth what to do. He couldn't make up his mind. His free hand clenched and unclenched at his side. He stumbled backwards, paying no mind to his ankle.
Dana watched him passively as Wilson quickly made his way to the sliding glass door again. "I hope," she said as Wilson fought to pull the door open, "that you and I will finish one conversation without you running off."
Wilson didn't close the door behind him that time, either.
