Untouchable
Chapter 7
(There's A Fine, Fine Line)
House was studying the chessboard. Chase, he had to admit, wasn't a half bad player. What he lacked in subtly and finesse, he more than made up for with the ability to worm his way out of bad situations and somehow come out on top. It was hardly a skill—House blamed it on sheer dumb luck. Chase just managed to squirm his way out of defense, and fumble through offense until he scored somewhere. Nonetheless, he studied the board and noticed how Chase had quickly disbanded his line of rook, bishop and knight with that castling, sensing the looming shadow of his bishop (which House actually had intended to use to knock out at least one of Chase's pieces). But now if he took the knight, there was a bishop waiting to take him. Bishop for a knight was hardly a deal.
He would have to think of another play now.
House was studying the untouched left corner of Chase's pieces when the sound of the door opening made him look up.
"You were right," Foreman said as he came in. "There's a significant bleed in her temporal lobe."
"No poisoning?" House asked as he grabbed his cane, preparing to stand up.
Cameron shook her head. "No. I did a tox screen on her blood, hair and urine, and it was clean. Where's Chase?"
"Lobby," House said, for that was indeed where he'd sent him once Chase had come toddling back to his office with half a bag of M&M's in his hand. After he'd stolen the M&M's, of course.
"We're never going to get a surgeon in this mess," Foreman said.
House stood up. "Oh, ye of little faith. You forget how much Cuddy loves me."
OoO
The pandemic was over. At long last, the scores of patients had been diagnosed and were either on the second floor (where they were now dealing with a severe shortage of beds and medicine) or to the parking lot. Janitors were busily working at the lobby, which had been left in ruins in the wake of the fifteen hundred people who had crowded it for nearly seven hours. Papers, water bottles, coats, candy wrappers, a lone puddle where some kid hadn't been able to make it to the bathroom on time...
House surveyed it with keen eyes.
"Disaster site, isn't it?" Wilson, who was standing next to him, muttered with a sigh. "This is just going to give Vogler more ammunition to close the clinic."
House turned around and began the walk back to his conference room, where his team was hopefully waiting with the news that Mary's surgery was over. Wilson joined him a second later, walking in step with his limp.
"When did you agree to go to this conference?" House asked.
Wilson looked abruptly uncomfortably. "Two days ago. Vogler, uh, managed to score me a slot as one of the keynote speakers."
"Here, pussy, pussy," House called.
"He's sending me to a conference—I haven't sold him my first born child!" Wilson protested. "What was I supposed to say?"
"No?" House suggested.
"Why? It's a great opportunity, House," Wilson said. "This is politics. You'll never get anywhere on principal."
"I have," House said smugly.
Wilson rolled his eyes. "It's a conference. You're just mad because I'm not going to be here for two weeks, and didn't deign to ask you about it first."
"It's in Ohio," House said scathingly. "What the hell is in Ohio?"
"It's at The Ohio State University," Wilson told him primly.
House snorted. "Which is in the middle of a corn field. They could have at least had it at Case Western Reserve."
"Why does it matter where it is?" Wilson asked, sounding annoyed. "You certainly weren't going to tag along. Maybe you didn't read the pamphlet, but it's for oncologists, not nephrologists."
"Yeah, yeah," House said, waving a dismissive hand. "Just don't expect a clean office when you come back."
Having arrived at his office, and Wilson at his, there was a moment of brief silence. Then Wilson muttered something about needing to change the locks on his doors and disappeared into his office, and House pushed open his own door. Turning to look inside, he saw Chase, Cameron and Foreman all sitting around the conference table. On the whiteboard, Cameron had written Mary's symptoms on the board in preparation of another differential.
"Surgery done?" he asked as he passed whiteboard in his quest for the coffee machine.
"Yeah," Foreman said. "Her parents are here, too."
House dumped a used coffee filter into the garbage can and retrieved a new one. He put a scoop of coffee grounds in it, and then began filling the pot with water. "So what could it be?"
Chase sighed. "No toxins, no tumor, no bone cancer."
"Adrenal failure could cause the rash, fever and muscle pain," Foreman said. "Maybe it's some sort of genetic kidney disorder."
"No family history," Cameron said after a second. "And no blood in her urine or—"
"Not yet," Foreman interrupted.
"You want us to do a differential based on symptoms that might happen?" Chase asked.
"Got a better idea?" Foreman asked, his tone challenging and ready for a fight.
"Stop it," House said tiredly, switching on the coffee pot. Knowing that there would be coffee in his hands soon made him feel both relieved and impatient at the same time. "Stop looking for things we don't know and focus on what we do know. What do we actually know besides what's up there?" He used his cane to gesture towards the whiteboard, where the symptoms were listed out in black and white.
The room was silent.
"Come on!" House snapped. "How hard can it be to tell me what you already know?"
"She's twelve," Chase said hesitantly.
Cameron jumped on quickly. "She spends a lot of time at the pool, so there's exposure to chemicals."
"She travels a lot," Chase continued, hurrying not to allowing a gap of silence.
"But never out of the country," Foreman added.
House shook his head, knowing that it was useless. They weren't listing the right factors. "What else?"
"She travels on a team," Cameron said. "Lots of exposure to people."
"Someone else on her team would be sick—it isn't viral," House said. "Something else."
"She's got a tutor," Foreman said. "Lots of one-on-one contact with an older person in private."
"Are you suggesting that she's got an STD?" Cameron scoffed. "That's ridicu—" Then she stopped as realization struck.
House nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, bobbing his head.
It took a minute for Chase and Foreman to catch up.
"That's really..." Chase made a face. "Disturbing. She's twelve."
In reply, he got a one-shouldered shrug. "Who knows what strange kinks these young things have?"
OoO
House hadn't realized that the sun had set until he was barging through the double doors in front of Cuddy's office. He pushed open the doors and had his mouth opened to make some remark when the dimmed lights and the dark sky beyond Cuddy's window caught his eye. Crap, it was late, wasn't it? Almost time for him to go home.
"What do you want?" Cuddy asked warily from her desk. She was typing on her computer, but unlike Wilson's laptop, House couldn't annoy her by shutting it off with the push of his hand. Although, if he could get behind her desk, he could accidentally knock out the power cord.
But he wouldn't get behind her desk. That was Cuddy territory, her little fortress that was nigh impregnable while she was sitting behind it.
"You got the janitors to clean your desk," House said, indicating the front of her desk with his cane.
Cuddy glared. "Yes."
"You can still sort of see it, though," House told her. He cocked his head and squinted at the desk. "Next time I'll use something more permanent."
"You do that," Cuddy said, sighing. "Was that all?"
House sat down on her couch, taking the opportunity to pull out his bottle of Vicodin. "Got our little mermaid diagnosed—rough night with the boys, and she's got TTP. Didn't want Mommy and Daddy to know she's got to have an abortion. Very grown up twelve-year-olds, nowadays."
"Well, congratulations," Cuddy said dryly. "Do you want me to buy you a victory drink?"
"You've got a meeting." House rolled his neck, resulting in a satisfying series of cracks. "Big debate going on."
Cuddy looked exasperated. "Is nothing a secret in this hospital?"
"You forget who you're talking to," House said with a slight smirk. He popped a Vicodin, expertly swallowing it dry within seconds. "I know everything that goes on in this hospital."
"You'd be surprised what you don't know," Cuddy said mildly, leaning back into her chair and stretching her arms upward. In compliment to House, her back cracked in a quick series of a dozen cracks, and then let her arms fall to her sides and she sighed. "There's a lot that happens around here."
"Wilson's going to a conference," House said, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed her and waited to see her reaction.
Cuddy nodded. "I know. Believe it or not, I do have some sort of reigning powers over my department heads." Before House could even open his mouth to pounce on that sentence, Cuddy closed her eyes and cut him off. "Oh, shut it."
House grinned.
"I know that Vogler's doing him a favor," Cuddy said, opening her eyes. "Get used to it. He's going to be doing a lot of people favors—this is politics, House. Either you play or you lose."
"That's what everyone keeps saying, and yet here I am," House said, his tone more contemplative than bragging.
Cuddy shook her head. "I don't know why you're suddenly off his agenda. I don't trust Vogler farther than I could throw this desk, but if he's decided to lay off of you for a while, just shut up and be grateful for once."
"But that wouldn't be any fun," House said with a delighted look. "If he's giving me a break, it means that he's either waiting for something or that someone else is forcing his hand. And he can't touch me for now."
Cuddy said nothing to that, and instead began to pack up her things.
"Ah. Meeting time?" House asked.
Nodding, Cuddy began to shut down her computer and round up a few stray papers across her desk and put them in a stack. "Go home, House," she said. "Go do whatever it is that you do to entertain yourself—no, I don't want to know—and give Vogler a rest. He's not going anywhere anytime soon."
House groaned theatrically as he stood up, knowing that there was no way Cuddy would ever trust him to stay in her office after she'd left. She had also stood up, a folder in one hand for the meeting she was heading to, and gave House a pointed look.
"I'm going, I'm going," he muttered. "There's a reason the cripple never wins the race."
OoO
For the second night in a row, Wilson found himself sitting at a table next to Brown and across from Cuddy. Vogler headed the table, and tonight, there were no mingling conversations about the table. Everyone looked grim and tired, fully prepared for another colossal argument like last night. Wilson cast a despairing glance over to the unused coffee pot, thinking how it would have been really nice if someone had come early and started it. Maybe he'd do that, tomorrow evening.
"Good evening," Vogler said, and heads turned to him wearily. "I hope you're all not too worn out after today's events. I know that a lot of us worked harder than usual to make sure that this crisis passed quickly and safely, and I thank you."
Wilson had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Everyone in the room knew that things like this happened at least once a week, and it was nothing out of the ordinary or worthy of thanks. But Vogler had only been here for a few weeks, and he probably hadn't picked up on this yet. Vogler was used to running a business, not a hospital.
"In a few seconds, I'm going to open the floor to anyone who wants to talk about the free clinic and its future in this hospital, but first let me tell you all that whatever you decide, to close the clinic entirely or to keep it open at a discounted price, this committee will also be in charge of distributing the money that we save," Vogler
said, his gaze going around the room to look each person in the eye as he spoke.
At his statement, a murmur broke out around the room like a kindergarten class. Wilson had to admit that the prospect sounded exciting and at the same time, foreboding. People got vicious when it came to vying for money for their own departments. He could just see the chaos that would stem from that.
Cuddy stood up. "If that's all..." she said, her question speaking for itself as she turned her gaze to Vogler.
Vogler nodded and sat down in his chair, giving her his full attention.
Cuddy took in a breath. "I think that last night," she began, "was enough of an example of the problems that closing the free clinic would cause."
The round of chuckles that went around the room was enough to break the tension that Vogler had unwittingly imposed.
"So," Cuddy continued, smiling slightly, "I believe that our only option is to begin charging our patients at a discounted rate. While we certainly are not the only free clinic in the city, or in the vicinity of Princeton, we are without a doubt the best. People will still come, because people will pay for what they want."
Wilson noted, with a small flare of annoyance, that Cuddy had phrased it as 'their only option'. Not that they really had the option of standing up to Vogler, especially on something that was, admittedly, rather petty, but isolating a single choice was no way to gain support. Unless, he thought for the first time, Cuddy had said that on purpose. This could be some was of subtly manipulating them into remembering that Vogler was not the nice guy that he fronted himself as.
Nguyen stood up, fingertips balanced on the edge of the table in preparation for battle. "People may pay for what they want," she said, "but is that really applicable to the people who cannot afford to pay for what they want? By charging people to use our clinic, we are sentencing the people that this clinic was originally intended for to less than acceptable care. This clinic was not opened for those who can afford the normal rates of hospitals."
"What are you suggesting?" Brown asked, even though the entire room knew it.
"I suggest that we find money elsewhere," Nguyen said confidently. "And continue to keep the clinic as a free place."
The silence that met this statement was so profound that Wilson thought if Cuddy hadn't just orchestrated this thing, he'd eat his own briefcase.
OoO
Water droplets ran down his body, thousands of them absorbing the cold of his skin and giving him warmth. The sound of running water, which sounded so far away, maybe a neighbor's, echoed in his ears like rain on a tin roof. Wet hair was plastered to his skull, the suds of shampoo having long ago been rinsed out, and his eyes still burned from where it had run down over his face. He couldn't see anything—that was the steam from the shower, the frosting of the glass, he told himself.
Chase wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting in his shower, and he didn't care. It had been a while before he realized that he was showering in his shirt and boxers, and even when he'd looked down and found sodden cloth clinging to his body, he hadn't had it in him to take it off. What did it matter? There had been the rhythmic motions of washing his hair, the feeling of being pounded by millions of tiny drops of water, the sound of liquid spattering against the floor, and then he was on the floor. He didn't feel dizzy, just tired. And hollow. He wondered how he was going to go to work tomorrow and find it in himself to care about other people.
It was strange to consider the difference between self-proclaimed and reality. In the former, you had a choice in the matter. And if you grew up and realized that you had been wrong, that maybe what had wanted really wasn't, you could go back and fix it. But when the cold hammer of reality struck down and bashed in a head, that was it. No turning back, no matter how much growing up you'd done.
He wasn't sad that his father was dying. It was just a strange feeling.