Chemotherapy- Chapter Two

It doesn't take much to get me to update. Just a few, really brilliant reviews. From what have to be clearly the best reviewers in the world. Y'all can thank Elix90, quiddie, Batman'sBeauty18, Jen, Ataea, Anon and TheWatcherandReader for this here chappie. Getting inspired enough to actually go and write another story on the other hand... well... that would take effort. From me. It's just not there. So savour this one. (end egotistical posturing note. Start story)


House's hair fell out with alarming ease. Well, he found it alarming. Wilson just shook his head, and with an underlying streamer of sadness, told him it was normal. House frowned at the underlying streamer, but let it lie under, because he was not just another cancer patient, and this was only a little thing really.

A little thing, and a big excuse to fob off clinic hours. Cuddy was backing off him a little; perhaps even avoiding him from time to time so she wouldn't be forced to do her job and force him to do his. He was subtly shocked by the indication of real human sympathy from her.

Cameron, on the other hand… Cameron was just plain painful to deal with. About two weeks into the first round of chemo, he took to wearing a cap that said 'Just fine, before you ask,' on the front. It was far more polite than many a version he could have picked, but those all would have been banned by Cuddy way too quickly, even with her real human sympathy.

The cap managed to put some sort of a lid on it, although she could still be caught giving those annoying glances, and doing that little bit extra for him. What really annoyed him was when he started to feel worthy of those glances, and worthy of Cuddy's slack.

Then came a day when he couldn't go into work at all.

Not long later, came a whole week.

After that, Wilson forcibly booked him into the hospital, because he was worried House would die at home alone and no one would notice. House pointed out that if no one noticed he was dead, then no one particularly cared. Wilson replied that he was being irrational, and went back to studying his chart.

oo00OO00oo

'I hate chemo.'

'I've yet to meet a patient that likes it.'

'Oh, so I'm a patient now?'

Wilson sighed and didn't answer. House's usual heckling was frequently starting to border on the genuinely pissy. Wilson couldn't honestly blame him, but it wasn't worth getting into another pointless argument.

'How's the nausea?' he asked instead.

'Great. They fed me my breakfast through a tube. How do you think it is?' That wasn't to say House was going to give up his right to an argument easily.

'I'll try a different anti-emetic,' Wilson assured him. House let his head flop back on the pillow, rolling his eyes up. He didn't strictly need to be confined to bed, but after the time he'd passed out on the roof, Cuddy had made it a policy. As a result, all his meagre energy reserves were now spent chafing at his restrictions.

'It's only one more week, House,' Wilson mentioned, as he placed the chart down and pulled up a stool. That was the official symbol that he was now in friend mode, rather than 'treating doctor.'

House rolled his head sideways to fix Wilson with a sarcastic stare. The lack of eyebrows robbed it of much of its intensity. 'And then they'll slice me open like a drunk in a bar-fight.'

'We usually refer to it as surgery,' replied Wilson dryly. 'Also- maybe not such a good idea to be rude about surgeons right now.'

'On the contrary- they'd be suspicious if I stopped being rude now. Might think I was up to something.'

'Your logic is flawless as always.'

'Must be the vomiting five times a day. Really focuses the mind.'

'You're responding excellently to the chemo. The vomiting has probably saved your life.'

'Don't speak too soon. Thought you'd already learnt the lesson about that pesky hope stuff.'

Wilson shook his head. 'You're impossible when you're like this.'

'I'm impossible normally.'

'More so now. I'll be back later.'

'It will brighten up my afternoon,' House told him solemnly.

'Yeah, mine too,' muttered Wilson under his breath as he stood. House caught the inflection and smiled evilly. Wilson just rolled his eyes and stalked out. Secretly he was just glad House still had enough life in him to joke. The old cripple's Vicodin-traumatised liver had taken chemotherapy badly. Whilst the cancer was shrinking, the rest of House's body was border-line dangerously toxic. They were playing a risky game balancing the two, but House had chosen the stronger course of drugs, and would not be swayed. In the end, Wilson had to respect his wishes.

oo00OO00oo

House lay motionless on the hospital bed, drugged to the eyeballs, and asleep. He made a beautiful picture in a crumpled hospital gown, chest slowly rising and falling. His long limbs rested leadenly under the bed covers, graceful even in stillness.

Wilson tore his gaze away and went back to flicking through the surgery notes. He'd read them a thousand times before, it seemed, but given that he compulsively looked up to check on House every half minute, it was a lost cause trying to get any important reading done.

House's three fellows had been and gone, to reappear at frequent intervals, as had Cuddy. It seemed the compulsion was one shared among them.

Thinking about it, Wilson realised it was probably understandable. House had died on the table twice due to anaesthetic complications. He was fine now. Nevertheless, it was a terrifyingly abrupt reminder, as if the long months of chemotherapy had not been enough. House was mortal, like the rest of them. He was fallible. He could die.

Wilson glanced at House again. The condensation on the inside of the oxygen mask over his face shrank and grew in regular rhythm. Sighing, the oncologist put the surgery notes on the bedside table and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair.

'You got those memorised yet?' the rough, low voice was almost inaudible, and it made Wilson blink in surprise.

'You should be sleeping,' was all he could think of to say.

'How did surgery go?' asked House, rather than reply to that. He didn't open his eyes or otherwise move, falling completely still between sentences. Wilson resolved never to underestimate House's ability to play possum.

'It was a success,' Wilson informed him seriously. 'You'll be fine.'

A slight smile curved House's pale lips beneath the oxygen mask. Wilson found there was one mirrored on his own face.

The room fell once more to the whoosh and bleep of countless machines, and Wilson settled back. House dozed.

The End