This chapter borrows characters from other Contractverse fics, Joe Roberts from Harpomarx's A Gentle Knock at the Door and Troopercam's Lifeline. Jones was mentioned briefly in the original Contract by DIYSheep, but not much is mentioned so I decided to weave her in somehow.
Please forgive the mistakes in here, not just medical or grammatical anymore, but if the plot appears inconsistent with other children in Contract-land. I had to tweak some information to fit my version, but tried to gel my story in, so you may catch some references to other fics. (Priority's Exigencies also included).
Many thanks to Harpomarx for letting me borrow Joseph, and to you for reading and reviewing.
I promise more major characters will show up in the subsequent chapters.
One thinks a member of the law enforcement community would have been impossible to intimidate. After all encounters with drug lords, murderers, thieves, psychopaths and all manner of unsavoury characters are all in a day's work. Especially if you happen to be a strapping six-foot-four FBI veteran like Joseph Roberts.
Yet the giant fellow found himself feeling like a misbehaving schoolboy as he stood nervously in front of an irate elderly nurse who must have been half his size at best. It would have been a comical sight if the situation hadn't been so serious. Roberts' discreet glance at his partner – FBI detective Marion Jones – who stood next to him revealed that as shell-shocked as she may be from the conversation that had taken place before, Jones was also penitent in the wrath of nurse Geraldine Morrigan.
"I realise you have a job to do, but so do we, and it's hard enough without your interference, thank you very much. He's been through quite enough!"
Jones had been brave enough to pipe out a question, effectively cutting off Morrigan's tirade. "Will he be okay?"
The nurse's piercing glare had snapped toward Jones - challenging her interruption – before softening as she took in the genuine concern. Joe Roberts watched as the nurse heaved a resigned sigh. She brushed a stray hair away from her forehead, before saying, "He's a tough kid. He'll pull through.
I hope you got the answers you came for."
Roberts and Jones stood as they watched the plucky sexagenarian walk down the corridor to the nurses' station, arms laden with medical paraphernalia.
The two agents shared a last sympathetic glance at the hospital door that hid Gregory House from view, before making their way out of the hospital in silence.
Roberts had been the one to extract House from the dank pit they kept him shackled in. The shock and revulsion had been plainly evident on the law enforcement officers and paramedics who were with him, and even he – ex-army FBI Agent Joseph Roberts – had a hard time keeping his own fury in check when the skeleton lying on the floor gave a weak flinch at the grate of the door and the sudden intrusion of light. A junior agent – still fresh and green – had been heard hurling up his lunch contents from the horrendous stench that emanated from the cell, a foul mixture of coppery blood and the sharp, festering stink of waste.
Roberts had crouched down and made his way slowly to the crumpled figure, empty hands open and held in front of him to show his peaceful intentions. Upon seeing the former doctor curled on the cold, stone floor, struggling to breathe even as he hiccupped panicked pleas and attempting to burrow to a nearby corner in minute movements, the agent had felt his chest constrict painfully. He concentrated on keeping his deep voice soft and moderate, as he silently signalled the paramedics to hurry in.
"Dr. House, I'm Special Agent Joseph Roberts, we've come to get you out. Everything's over, let us help you."
Roberts had felt increasingly anxious about how passive House had seemed, and his alarm only grew as he took in the bluish tinge to House's fingers and lips. His breaths also seemed to come at long, irregular intervals.
Hypothermia. Shit.
The paramedics had been efficient, clapping a BVM resuscitator over House's nose and mouth and transferring him to a gurney even as Roberts had reached up to unfasten his iron restraints. House, was at this point too weak and disoriented to struggle and had flopped into the paramedics' arms like a broken doll. He was immediately whisked to a waiting ambulance, and taken to the hospital.
The shock of seeing House on the hospital bed earlier had been just as poignant as the initial meeting at the prison. The disgraced doctor was dwarfed in comparison to the large, bulky electronic equipment that circled him, and the O2 mask and the sharp, protruding cheekbones enhanced his gaunt face.
Doctor Whitley had provided them the medical details and warned both agents on his patient's condition, but they found themselves ill-prepared for the conversation that ensued.
Jones had taken the lead in the questioning, as Dr. Whitley had mentioned House seemed more at ease in the presence women. Roberts had stood back as he watched his partner introduce them both – House didn't seem to recognise his rescuer – before launching into business.
The man on the bed was tense, but did not appear frightened of Marion, even as she leaned closer to hear his hoarse answers as they were muffled by the mask. Roberts, standing away from the scene, had the time to observe his subjects. He had to hand it over to Jones, this was her first time meeting House, but her expression was schooled to show none of the emotions she must have felt as she took in the injuries and scars on the patient. He strained to listen in on the exchange.
"Mr. House - "
Jones broke off as House flinched sharply at the unfamiliar title – a reminder of his lost medical license and its costs. She waited patiently until he had calmed down somewhat – he still refused eye contact - before proceeding with her query.
"We need you to tell us what the Contract is, and Robert Thompson's involvement in your incarceration."
Her eyes widened at his next sentence.
"What year is this?"
"2009. You've been in for 5 years. Dr. House, what was the last event you remember?
He managed to grunt out, "Election, Bush", after the third time Jones had repeated the question.
Jesus. What the hell happened in prison?
"Do you know who the current President is?"
House had chosen to avoid giving a reply entirely, opting instead for an entirely new tack.
"Are they okay?"
Jones, caught unawares by the non sequitur, had blinked in confusion before moving closer and asking, "Is who okay, Dr House?"
House had allowed his eyes to drift shut then, taking in long hissing breaths, and had remained silent for so long a pause the two agents had thought he'd fallen asleep. Just as Jones had got up to leave, House had rasped out, "Jimmy…Cuddy... th'kids…"
She'd returned to her perch then, placing a hand on his bed, and gave her gentle reassurance. "They're fine, Dr. House. Everyone on the Contract's safe. You saved their lives."
The man gave a snort and a feeble shake of his head at her statement, "You're only saying that because it's what I want to hear."
Roberts and Jones had shot each other puzzled looks upon hearing this, both of them not comprehending his statement. Dr. Whitley had warned them of House's mental state – fragile, disoriented, disconnected, and oftentimes unresponsive; they suspected bouts of hallucinations. Jones had stammered out, "N-No, I'm telling you because it's true. Everyone on the Contract is well. It's over."
"…Cameron?"
"She's - " Jones was unsure of what to say, her mouth hanging open stupidly.
She's dead? Murdered? Beaten to death by your cane? The reason for your imprisonment?
"We were hoping you could tell us about her, Dr. House."
The cardiac monitor had bleeped loudly then, an indication of his jump in heart rate. Outward signs of his agitation were only revealed by the jerk of his head as he faced away from Jones, before he huffed, the words rolling out of his cracked lips in the haste of their delivery, "Said too much. You should go."
"If you could just tell us something, we promise it's kept completely confidential."
House gaze had flickered toward the brand on his forearm – 5,2 – and for the first time in their encounter, he had fixed his blue eyes – made more unnerving by the angry red scar running from the inside of his right eye to his jaw - on Jones. She felt a cold chill run down her spine at the intensity and panic she saw embedded in them. Through his forced pants he managed to murmur, "Clause 5, subsection 2.
Go away. I don't wanna talk."
From the corner of her eye, Jones could see her partner step closer to the bed, whether out of concern for her or the patient she did not know. The movement however, had not gone unnoticed by House, who had scooted to the other side of the bed, pressing himself against the rails that bracketed him. His breathing had become increasingly laboured, coming in staccato gusts that fogged up his mask. He had drawn his spindly arms close to his torso, and had started to quake. Jones had taken a step back in alarm, as monitors had started screaming, shattering the tense silence in the room.
House had tucked his chin to his sternum, a deformed hand reaching up to tightly cup the back of his skull. He'd tried drawing his legs up to his stomach, but ended up knocking his left knee into his mangled right thigh, the pain drawing out an agonized keen from him.
Dr Whitley and two nurses – including Morrigan - had rushed into the room then, with the other nurse telling the agents to leave, pushing them toward the open door, even as Dr. Whitley had instructed Morrigan to fetch a syringe. The startled agents had found themselves transfixed in shock at the huddled mass on the bed, balled tightly and whimpering over and over,
"Goawaygoawaygoaway…"
They saw Morrigan return and inject something into House's arm, as Whitley struggled to hold House still. Before the nurse had shut the door on them, Jones had managed to glimpse House's shivering form shudder and still.
Christ.
Hope you liked this chapter, and as House would say,
"Everybody reviews."
I may have changed that a little.
Merry Christmas.