Chapter 7

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for taking forever with this chapter. I promise I haven't forgotten about this fic—I have a wonderful time writing it, it's just hard to dedicate enough time to it since homework has been eating away at my brain since school started. Thank you all so much for your patience and continued support.
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"You have spots on your retinas," House announced. He leaned in thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes at the red specks dotting Cuddy's pale blue ones.

Cuddy shifted nervously as he stood up, lowering the ophthalmoscope in his hand and turning to Cameron and Foreman. They both stood with their arms crossed; Cameron's expression was determinedly frosty.

"Well?" House asked.

Cameron looked pointedly away, biting her lip. Foreman simply shrugged noncommittally and gazed absently into space over House's shoulder.

"Oh, what?" House snapped.

"Are you planning on apologizing to Chase?" Cameron asked, still staring fixedly away.

House looked around incredulously. "Pfft!" he laughed. "For what?"

"For scaring the living daylights out of him" Foreman snapped.

"Oh, not you too," House snarled. "Cameron is a woman, it's her job to be obnoxiously nosy and compassionate. You're just an ignorant dude."

Foreman rolled his eyes. Cameron glowered.

"He'll get over it," House said dismissively. "When he's ready, he'll be back."

"House."

The three doctors turned towards the sound of Cuddy's alarmed voice. She stared transfixed at her lap—it was speckled with crimson. Eyes widening, she rubbed her upper lip. Her breathing quickened as her fingers met the wet feel of blood.

"That's not good," House said thoughtfully.

Cuddy's hand quivered as she felt messily at the blood now dripping rapidly from her nose. House limped over to the cabinet and tossed a tissue box at her bed. Cuddy fumbled with it slightly, leaving unnerving red handprints on the floral print.

"This is your second one today?" Cameron asked, her tone much softer now that she was no longer focused on House.

Cuddy nodded stiffly as she jammed a fistful of tissues at her nostrils.

"Whatever the clot was caused by, it sure as heck wasn't a coagulation thing," she said, her voice slightly muffled. "These blood thinners have got me leaking like a bad faucet."

Cameron looked slightly put down as she offered Cuddy another tissue. "We'll figure it out. What do the flecked eyes say?" she asked, directing the question at Foreman.

"Diabetes is the most tame diagnosis," Foreman said with a concentrated frown. "Or it could be a vascular condition. Fragile capillaries could burst and cause the specks."

"Are you an idiot?" House sneered.

Foreman looked affronted. "No?"

House slammed the ophthalmoscope down on the counter. Cameron flinched; she seemed to momentarily forget her frustration, and instead stared at him with a combination of curiosity and apprehension.

"House?" Cuddy mumbled cautiously.

"Damnit," he muttered. "God damnit."

Without another word, he trudged out of the room.

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Wind rustled faintly through the crispy autumn leaves. Somewhere on the lake, a duck was quacking loudly. On the bank beyond it, a toddler splashed in the water while his mother told him exasperatedly to stay on the grass.

House lay back on the picnic table. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He lay there utterly still, his face set in a natural-looking frown, until his eyes twitched behind closed lids at the approaching sound of crunching leaves.

"Hello Wilson."

Wilson flinched. House smiled, eyes still closed.

"House, what the hell was that?"

"My Wilson-sense was tingling."

Wilson sighed. "I'm talking about back there. With Cuddy? Cameron told me—"

"Oh, well if Cameron told you then it must be serious," House snapped. "Geez, it's just Cameron."

Wilson sat down on the bench next to the table, resting his elbows on the few inches of table-room not occupied by House's shoulder.

"You're evading," Wilson said flatly.

"And you're dumb," House deadpanned.

"Are you going to tell me why you're out here or not?"

House opened his eyes and squinted up at the cloudy sky. He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and closed it.

Wilson shrugged exasperatedly and began to slide off the bench.

House jerked his head around and fixed his eyes upon Wilson. "I want off the case."

Wilson's expression of consternation may have been amusing in any other situation. However, House met his wide eyes with a face set in seriousness.

"What?" Wilson asked blankly, sliding back down onto the bench.

"I want off the case."

Wilson's forehead creased as his eyebrows shot upwards.

"Why?"

"Because I don't like it," House replied firmly.

"Don't like it?!" Wilson spluttered. "Cuddy is as close as you can get to liking anyone!"

"And that's why I don't like it," House muttered.

"A case finally has some sort of emotional impact on you so you drop it like a hot iron?" Wilson asked, shaking his head.

"Caring gets in the way. I can't do my job."

"So you do care," Wilson said, a hint of smugness in his voice.

"It's not a good thing," House snarled. "It's nothing to be proud of."

Wilson smiled sympathetically. "You're human, House… as much as that bothers you. And care is one of the better human emotions."

House sat up, his hands straying subconsciously to his left leg. "Care clouds judgment."

"So what, did you screw up?" Wilson asked. "I thought Chase did."

"Chase didn't do anything."

"So what did you do?"

"NOTHING!" House roared. Wilson jolted back in alarm.

House's slumped form seemed to wilt even further as he leaned forward and buried his face in one hand.

"I haven't done anything. I didn't stop the stroke. I haven't cured her."

A silence fell. The two men sat; House drooped upon the table, and Wilson slightly slouched as well. House stared at Wilson in a way that neither of them were comfortable with; a look filled with desperation.

Across the lake, the disgruntled mother had finally snatched up her toddler; the sound of her scolding echoed faintly across the expanse of water. Wilson squinted his eyes in their direction.

"Poor kid," he said softly.

House grunted noncommittally and stared at his shoes.

Wilson addressed the lake; "I know you're not perfect. You know you're not perfect. You always screw up a case before you solve it."

He paused, but House remained silent on the table behind him.

"You had an idea in there," Wilson said slowly. "What was it?"

House grimaced at his laces. "Endocarditis. Roth's Spots on the eyes are a classic symptom. Palpitations led to the stroke, idling blood in the joints led to the pain."

"It all fits," Wilson said wearily.

"I don't want it to," House muttered. "Endocarditis is the big bad wolf of heart disease."

Wilson shrugged. "Sometimes bad things happen to good people. It's your job to fix it." He fixed House with a stern look. "You are going to fix it?"

"Make someone else do it. I don't want to be involved."

"You don't have a choice."

House slid off the table, hopping on his left leg for a moment before grasping his cane and straightening up.

"We'll see."

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Rain trickled down the window pane. The little beads of liquid glowed with specks of white and red from a far off road; one that House should be traveling down at this very moment. Instead, he stood within the dry expanse of his office, bouncing his favorite tennis ball absently against the floor. The darkness beyond the window pane was reflected upon the face of the man who stared out of it; his features were almost completely hidden in shadows.

He didn't start as the utter silence of his office was interrupted by the sound of the door slowly being opened. Only upon intense inspection could one have discerned the slightest change in his expression; the eyes that had seconds before been staring blankly out the window were now focused determinedly on the droplets of water trickling down it.

"Hey."

The voice was soft and tentative. As the tennis ball bounced back up from the floor, House caught it firmly in his hand.

"Hey," he muttered, his eyes following the path of a raindrop as it maneuvered its way down the glass.

"I can see the parking lot from my window. I was surprised to see your bike still here."

"I was doing paperwork," he responded stiffly, his eyes flitting back up the window in search of another raindrop to trail.

"You're not usually this bad at lying."

"You're not usually this bad at staying healthy," he responded, still addressing the window.

It sounded as though something was being dragged across the floor. Grimacing at his inability to control his curiosity, House turned to face the room.

Lisa Cuddy smiled weakly up at him from the seat of a wheelchair. She looked terribly fragile in an off-white hospital gown, her pale arms and legs appearing much skinnier than House could ever remember seeing them. Small hands grasped the tops of the wheels as she slowly pushed the chair forward.

House's eyebrows twitched as he bit the side of his tongue, his face hardening.

"That's gotta suck," he said softly.

Cuddy inclined her head in a slight nod. "It's not permanent," she said, coming to a stop a few feet in front of him.

"Now we know the stroke was a symptom," House said, staring at the floor near her bare feet instead of at her face. "Chase didn't screw up."

"I know he didn't. You've all been…" she trailed, off, as though searching for a word of praise that wouldn't sound sarcastic.

House continued watching the floor in silence.

"Thank you," she said tentatively. Though her pale face appeared nearly skeletal in the dim light of the office, her eyes glistened through the shadows.

"I haven't done anything yet," House said darkly. He raised his gaze to her face, meeting her tortured expression with one of his own.

"Don't take this out on yourself," she begged. "I don't blame you for wanting to give up. None of this makes any sense."

House dropped his gaze again; an expression of shame flashed across his features before disappearing into the shadows.

"I don't want to give up," he muttered.

Though Cuddy's mouth twitched upwards in a smile, her eyes continued to glisten with renewed tears.

"I don't want you to either," she whispered.

An awkward silence fell between them; House resumed his scrutiny of the carpet, but Cuddy's eyes remained fixed blearily upon his shadow-obscured face.

"Wilson mentioned Endocarditis," she said slowly. "The next step would be a heart monitor to check for palpitations. He also set up an echocardiogram for tomorrow."

"Great," said House distractedly. He picked absently at a splinter on his cane. "Good."

"Good?" she repeated.

"I reserved an operation room for the day after tomorrow," he muttered.

Her expression was blank. "What?"

"Hearts don't generally enjoy having tumors. So let's get rid of it."

"That—that soon?" she stammered.

He raised his head again to meet her eyes. "Yes."

"You're sure about this?"

"No."

"Okay," she said dazedly.

"Okay."

"I'll… I'll leave you with your paperwork then," she said quietly.

"Right," he muttered.

She began wheeling the chair slowly backwards, her eyes still locked on his.

"This is the right thing?"

"Yes."

"Should I trust you?"

"Do you?"

"Yes," she whispered. She paused at the door, a tear sparkling on her cheek.

"Good night," he said, turning back to the rain-streaked window pane.

"Good night."