Title: Of a Thursday
Author: Sy Dedalus
Rating: T, TV-14, PG-13
Pairing: House/Stacy (only cause it's canon), House/Wilson strong friendship
Spoilers: Season One.
Warnings: WIP
Summary: House meets blood clot, or a fill-in for the infarction. It'll be heavy on the hurt/comfort and angst I think.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The bits of dialogue that you recognize from the episode are not mine either, i.e. please don't sue my dirt poor ass.

A/N: I'm surprised that that little chapter got so many reviews. I couldn't bring myself to give up the seven dwarves joke (for the missing dwarf see the chapter title) and I wanted poor House to get laid one last time, but I didn't think it warranted much reviewing. Thanks, though. I appreciate it. :) And, ahh, it can't hurt him if she does it right, but I'll leave it at that so I can keep my T rating. ;)

Also, I'm indebted to Auditrix for the idea that House thinks he has cancer. She was the first one to write the infarc, well before "Three Stories" aired. Check it out or Chase and Foreman will come after you with a tire iron: http colon slash slash housemd dot blogspot dot com slash 2005 slash 02 slash what-i-didnt-tell-eileen-15 dot html.


Chapter Eight: S.O.L.

Stacy woke at her usual time on Sunday morning and slapped the alarm off. Greg was turned on his side again like he had been for the past few days and the gentle rise and fall of his chest told her he was asleep. She smiled softly. He deserved some sleep after last night. Good even when he wasn't at his best. And better than that (well, almost) was that, as far as she could tell, he hadn't been bothered by his leg all night—not enough to wake him up at least. He was getting better. Her smile broadened and she silently thanked science. She'd been really worried for a while there.

She got up quietly and showered and dressed. He was still out by the time she was ready to go with that cute, innocent little boy look she'd seen so much of lately on his face. She carefully placed a plate of toast and two full glasses, one of juice and one of water, on the table next to him, and left him a note to call her if he needed her.

But she was confident he wouldn't need her. He'd be up and about and would probably have the living room littered with beer bottles, chip bags, and half-drunk golfing buddies by the time she got home. Or maybe just James since she knew Greg didn't actually like his golfing buddies. Whatever. She'd be more than pleased to leave them to their sports and catch up with some of her friends this afternoon. To get back to normal.

She smiled again to herself as she locked the door behind her. If last night was any indication, he was just fine.


He glanced down at the toilet. That really wasn't right. The color. No change. It was the only thing that didn't fit. He hadn't had fever since Friday and it didn't hurt to pee anymore, ergo the antibiotic was working, but he still felt like crap in a blender. And he was still so damn tired.

Nice of her to leave toast and drinks out for him like that. He'd been hungry when he woke up; sex was good for the appetite. No blood in the condom last night—he'd insisted on one and was happy when she found one quickly—and he'd been silently relieved at the assurance it provided that whatever the problem was, it wasn't with his reproductive organs. He was attached to them and rather liked having them around. And as methods of narrowing down a diagnosis went, he liked that particular one more than anything else he could imagine.

But the problem remained. He curled his upper lip in annoyance. Had to be kidneys or bladder, one of the two; he knew that much. He couldn't figure out what was wrong, though.

Rusty urine and fatigue. What did those two symptoms indicate?

Renal failure, chronic becoming acute or acute becoming chronic, but without a doubt acute. Acute nephritic syndrome—glomerulonephritis. The many different kinds—mesangial proliferative, membranoproliferative types I and II, others.

Causes?

IgA nephropathy, Berger's disease. Goodpasture's syndrome presenting without the lung component. Lupus presenting really weirdly. A few other things.

But most of those included edema and—he glanced at his hands and feet and rubbed his abdomen—and no, he hadn't noticed any swelling.

Hematuria indicated…lots of things. Hard to tell without labs.

Could be kidney stones—microscopic, shredding his kidneys. But no. He'd feel that. He'd be howling if he had kidney stones. He'd know.

Not the kidneys at all maybe, though as a nephrologist he was predisposed to think kidneys when bloody urine was a symptom. But maybe not the kidneys at all. Could be bladder stones. Ripping his bladder to shreds. He wouldn't feel that as much—not as painful as kidney stones. But it wasn't as common and thus not as likely. And he could pee okay—peeing wasn't the problem. Didn't hurt, wasn't difficult, wasn't too often, wasn't retained, didn't require angles, wasn't hesitant, wasn't foamy, wasn't a dozen other things.

Just discoloration and fatigue, and fatigue could be unrelated. And fever except that the fever had gone away and hadn't come back… UTI still made sense. Could be any of those, though. He should go back in…

He shook his head—he didn't want to go anywhere but back to bed right now—and flushed the toilet. It was too weird and he was too tired to think any longer. Whatever. Treatment was easy enough: fluids for the rust, rest for the fatigue, and if he gave a crap when he felt better and had the slightest inclination to swab his urethra—he shuddered at the thought as he washed his hands—then he'd get cultures and other labs to figure out what was making him miserable.

Cancer.

No.

Not cancer.

No biopsies. No cancer.

He pushed the thought away, limping slightly as he went back to bed.

The leg. That's how it had all started.

At least it didn't hurt much anymore. Not too much. The dose he'd taken almost six hours ago had been holding strong until he'd gotten up, but now as he lay back down, he felt his muscles begin to spasm and clenched his teeth, reaching reflexively for the bottle on the table.

He grunted in relief when it finally stopped, covered with a light sheen of sweat, and forced himself to stop panting: it wasn't just the spasm, it was fear, and if he didn't take control of it, it would control him. Tumor, his mind spat. No. No. No tumor. It was nothing. He was starting to pant again and made himself stop and breathe through his nose. The last thing he needed was a panic attack over what was probably nothing.

But it wasn't right. It really wasn't right. Now it really hurt. He gulped in air, put two pills in his mouth, and swallowed as much cranberry juice as he could stand. He grunted again as he lay down: it really, really hurt.

Tumor, his mind spat unbidden at him again as he rolled over and gripped his thigh. He couldn't stop his thoughts this time: too tired to stop them. Tumor, it's a tumor causing ischemia, it's a tumor, you're going to die, Greg, pissing blood because it's metastasized to your kidneys, Fibrosarcoma, Malignant Fibrous Histiocytoma, Chondrosarcoma, Rhabdomyosarcoma, Liposarcoma, Leiomyosarcoma, Osteosarcoma, ischemic muscle riddled with tumors impinging on the blood supply, in the bone, in the soft tissue, too much to excise, chemo won't kill it, gamma can't get all of it, you're going to die you're going to die you're going to die…

He shuddered and pushed the thought away again. He did not have cancer. He wasn't going to die. Hand trembling, he examined his leg carefully, knee to scrotum: no masses.

Nothing.

It would have to be big to mess with a muscle group as big as the quad…wouldn't it? Big enough that he'd be able to detect it with his hands…right?

Surely.

Surely it would and he hadn't felt anything. No mass. No tumor. Just tired muscle, weak from misuse. Tired body, tired mind. The codeine was starting to kick in. Tired, tired. Sleep.

Just sleep.


She arrived home later than she'd expected. Lang, one of their medical consultants, had looked at her like she had two heads when she'd brought up the food allergy theory. Hearing who it came from made him stare even more wildly at her. He finally said he'd never heard of that happening but agreed to look into it and backed out of the room like he was afraid she might hex him.

Sam had teased her mercilessly through lunch and only toned it down when Lang came back and said that not was it only possible but it may be probable. Sam had to content herself with tossing out the occasional barb as they figured out how to get the guy's lawyer to get the guy to consent to another allergy test. She had many less than kind words for Greg "Nutball" House by the time they finally called it a day at four o'clock.

Stacy wasn't too surprised to see the living room and kitchen undisturbed, the apartment as dark as she'd left it that morning, but at the same time, it worried and frightened her, making her stomach twist. She'd hoped… He said he'd be better today. Maybe he is, she thought as she filled a glass of water for him, and he's reading or working.

She checked the study first, hoping to find him there engrossed in a journal.

Nothing. Lights out. Just as she'd left it last night.

She sighed to herself and tried to push the worry away. It wasn't as if she hadn't known…she was holding a glass of water for him in her hand right now—of course she knew or she wouldn't have poured it for him in the first place. She just didn't want to acknowledge it. It was hard, seeing him sick and being unable to help him. It was frustrating and difficult and, dammit, he was supposed to be right. He was supposed to be better today, like he'd said. He was supposed to be right like he always was.

But, she thought pausing outside the bedroom, maybe he was better. Maybe he was just taking a nap. Maybe he'd been watching tv all day and he was just taking a nap right now. Nevertheless, her hand shook slightly as she pushed the door open.

Her heart sank. There he was, in the same place he'd been since Friday. Dammit. He was supposed to be right.

She cautiously approached the bed, glancing at the night table. Through the fear and worry, she was pleased to see that most of the toast she'd left was gone, the water glass empty, and the juice glass near-empty. At least he was eating and drinking. Not as much as he should be if this was all he'd had—she'd left that for him over eight hours ago—but it was better than yesterday. Sort of.

She cursed herself—should've stayed home yesterday, should've stayed home today. Of all the times for him to be wrong… She gathered up the plate and glasses and took them to the kitchen, leaving the fresh glass on the table, not worrying about being too quiet. She changed her clothes, hoping he'd wake up and leer at her and invite her to bed or make a sarcastic comment. Anything that would indicate he was feeling better, anything at all…

Nothing. Not a thing.

She approached the bed.

"Hey," she said, brushing his hair with her fingers.

He shifted a little.

"Still asleep?" she asked.

"Still asleep," he confirmed, not moving, eyes closed.

She ignored the tacit leave me alone. "Did you get up?" she asked.

He breathed in. "A few times," he sighed and blinked heavily. "Took a shower." He looked tiredly up at her. "Thanks for the toast and the note," he added, smiling faintly at the feel of her nails on his scalp.

"And not waking you up?" she said with a smile.

"Especially that part," he said, smiling tiredly back.

"You're welcome," she said and added an apologetic smile for waking him up now. "Doing any better?" she ventured.

"Think I have the wrong antibiotic," he said rubbing his face. "I'll go back in tomorrow."

She frowned. "You can call one in, right? Can't you do that?" she asked. "You know what you need better than anyone else." She paused, seeing him consider it. "I'll go pick it up," she offered.

He waved a hand dismissively. "Nah," he said. "I'm actually feeling kind of flu-ish. Flu would explain a lot. Weakness, tiredness." He paused. He didn't want to tell her his theories—particularly since he didn't really have a theory yet. Prescribing himself something new…it would just waste pills and time and contribute to the immunity he'd already built up after years of taking antibiotics freely when he was younger. It was possible he still had the right one, too. It had taken care of the fever…or so it seemed. "Switching antibiotics…no, I'll stay on the one I have today and go in tomorrow. Sometimes it just takes a while…"

"This long?" she asked skeptically.

"It can," he said. He tried to smile softly. "Whatever it is, it can wait another twelve hours."

"Okay," she said, letting him appease her. "I'm leaving you some water." She indicated to the glass. "I'll be in the other room if you need me."

He grunted a 'thanks' and rolled on to his back, pulling the comforter around him.

She cracked the door, biting her lip. He looked bad but he was right: it could wait until tomorrow.

Still, it took her longer than usual to settle in to work.


He dreamed that he was eight again watching Mickey Mantle play ball from the first base line at Yankee Stadium, how he could swing so powerfully and knock the ball out of the park but how he nearly went down on one knee when he took the first step toward first base, it was so painful for him to run, how he had that limp all the boys imitated, watching him run so strangely and tip-toeing to a stop as he closed in on second or third even though he was trying to beat the throw,and asking his dad what did it mean that he ran like that? and his dad said 'son he's beat up, Mick's beat up, he won't last another season, never has been the same since he hurt his knee in the '51 series, tore it up, it's amazing he's played this long, you don't remember it, you weren't even one yet, but we brought you out here to watch Maris break The Babe's record, everyone wanted Mick to do it but he was just too beat up, hit fifty-four homers that year though, but you watch, if he knows what's good for him he'll retire soon before he really hurts himself', and he said 'no, dad, you're lying, he's the best ever', and he couldn't stop himself from crying though he was ashamed to cry in front of his dad, he was eight, he was a big boy, he didn't cry anymore, big boys didn't cry, but he couldn't stop himself and his dad looked away, jaw clenched, disapproving

disapprovingly eyeing Wilson and shouting across the cafeteria, 'your cancer killed my baseball hero'; Wilson shouting back, 'your baseball hero drank himself to death'; 'did not'; 'did too'; then that jackass from ortho yelling 'get a room you two'; closing the gap and choosing a table, badgering Wilson about hepatocellular carcinoma, Wilson claiming Mick got special treatment, getting a new liver so quickly, telling Wilson to go to hell, this was The Mick, and Wilson throwing a pickle at him and changing the subject, 'so, you and Stacy, it's working?' 'three weeks and she still comes home every night' 'amazing' 'you don't know the half' 'you drugging her?' 'druggin' her with luuuvin' Wilson rolled his eyes 'are you ever going to thank me for setting you up?' 'we'll name the first kid after you' 'kids? already?' 'not sure if she's serious; not sure if I'm serious; post-coital pillow talk is all' 'thanks, I so needed that image in my head right now; I'm trying to eat' 'you knew what you were getting into when you sat down' 'a momentary lapse in judgment; I forgot that you have no concept of table manners' 'you're the one who told me I should get laid more often' 'that doesn't mean I want to hear about it' 'you're such a puritan' 'you're such an exhibitionist' 'we're making memories…I look at this hospital with new eyes now…my office, her office, the roof, all the exam rooms in the clinic, patient rooms on every floor, radiology, ultrasound, a few rooms I didn't know existed, the basement, the sub-basement, her boss's office, the nephro lounge, your office—' 'my office!' 'your office' 'you didn't' 'we did' 'no way' 'oh yes; your desk; a few days ago' 'I work at that desk!' 'it's a nice desk; she's still got the imprint on her back' 'that's disgusting' 'oh, like you haven't done it' 'not on your desk!' 'maybe you should' 'how would I get in? no, wait, the better question, how did you get in?' 'I have my ways' 'c'mon' 'not telling' 'I'm gonna get you back for this' 'I'm shakin' in my boots; it would be good for you and Mrs. Wilson to have some illicit fun' he leered and Wilson eyed him again disapprovingly

disapprovingly Maher looked down on him though he was taller than Maher by over an inch, 'House, you've got a real attitude problem; you're arrogant, you're selfish, and you're proud, and one day you're going to get in real trouble because you won't always be smarter than everyone around you; you think you will be, but times will change and if you don't learn to change with them, you'll be left behind; I don't normally have to take residents aside like this, but you have got to pay more attention to your intern or this is going to happen again and next time I won't be the one to talk to you' 'Kaverty screwed up, it wasn't me—' 'she's your intern, it is you; you're responsible for making sure she doesn't screw up and when she does, it's on you' he bit his lip and looked away sullenly 'go find her, tell her it's your fault—hold her hand if you have to, she's scared of you—and show her how to do it again; take the time to make sure she really knows how to do it, that she's not just trying to get away from you—it won't kill you to be gentle with your students—and for God's sake, do not do this again' he looked away in tacit agreement; 'try the ladies room if she's not in the lounge,' Maher said and looked down again disapprovingly before he walked away


In the end, she couldn't quite manage the level of concentration she needed to actually get something done. She'd expected that he would be better today and it nagged her that he seemed worse.

She turned on the television and searched through the cable guide for something he would want to watch. Anything to get him out of the bedroom for a few hours. When she was seven, her grandmother had come to her parents' house to die. Cancer. Though she'd been too young to really understand what was going on then, she knew that the days when her grandmother would leave the guest bedroom in favor of a couch or chair in the living room were good days. It had stayed with her and the idea of Greg spending all his time in the bedroom frightened her in ways she didn't really understand. But if she could get him to join her on the couch for a little while…anything

Her seven-year-old inner self did a cartwheel when she found a movie he loved and she clasped her hands together quickly smiling. This would get him up. He loved this movie.

The apartment was so quiet that she found herself tip-toeing unconsciously into the bedroom. He hadn't moved an inch.

"Greg? Honey?" she said going around to his side of the bed. "Major League's on. It just started."

"Tired," he mumbled into the pillow, not bothering to open his eyes.

"C'mon," she said, "it's your favorite movie."

"Don't wanna move," he mumbled.

"Charlie Sheen, Wesley Snipes robbed of their Oscars," she cajoled, repeating what she'd heard him say about it all five times he'd made her watch it. "Best movie ever."

"Tired," he mumbled and pulled the covers over his head.

She sat down on the bed next to him and pulled the comforter off of his head. He cracked an eye open, knowing he was caught.

"I'm worried about you," she said softly, not trying to disguise the worry she felt this time.

He groaned in annoyance and pulled a pillow over his head. "Wanna sleep," he muttered.

"Gre-eg," she jibed, lifting the pillow.

He sneered at her. "Not funny," he grumbled.

"Really," she said, letting him have the pillow back now that she knew she had his attention, "I'm worried. You shouldn't be sleeping all the time."

"Don't worry," he mumbled from under the pillow. "It's just the flu. I'm just tired and weak. I don't even have fever."

"The flu?" she said dubiously. "In July?"

"Doesn't have to be flu season," he mumbled. Damn, now he was really awake. He opened his eyes, peeping out at her from under the pillow. "Might not be the flu at all," he said. "Could be mono."

She snorted in disbelief. "At your age?" she said.

"It's not impossible," he said with a half-shrug. "Weird and rare, but not impossible." He flung his arms over the pillow that covered his head, pushing it down on his face and blocking out light and sound. "Feels like mono."

Stacy considered it, tilting her head. "My roommate in college had mono," she said. "This does look familiar…" He moved his arms and peaked out again. She smiled at him. "Who have you been kissing?"

"You," he said and buried himself under the pillow again. "Thanks a lot," he added, voice muffled.

She lifted the corner of the pillow. "Just me?" she asked playfully.

"You and lots of foxy college girls," he mumbled, head still under the pillow. "Lots and lots. Truckloads."

"More boobs than brains?" she teased.

"You wouldn't believe the boobs," he mumbled. "Melons, cans…what's another word for boobs?...racks…" he lifted his head, peaking out, "help me out here…"

"You're being a dick," she said.

He grinned tiredly and disappeared under the pillow again. "You encouraged me," he mumbled. "Not s'posed to encourage me."

"Sure you don't want to try another antibiotic?" she asked.

"Won't help if it's mono," he mumbled. "I'll get Wilson to look at me tomorrow. Let's wait till then."

"If you're sure…" she said.

"I'm sure," he mumbled. "Let me be miserable in peace."

"Okay," she said standing up. "If you need anything—"

"The other room, I know, I know," he mumbled and pulled the covers over his head again.


He dreamed he was in college again playing lacrosse against Dartmouth. He passed the ball to his teammate, broke away from the defender who'd been hounding him, and ran to his position on the edge of the two-point line, just like they'd done a million times in practice. Less than a minute left in the fourth quarter; two points would tie the score and force overtime. He prowled the line until Ugly caught his eye and passed him the ball. He ran along the line until he spotted an opening and planted his foot on the turf to shoot when a defender smashed into him from the left. His right foot stuck to the ground and he heard his leg snap in a rush of motion and he screamed. He hit the ground and saw his leg from the knee down still stuck cartoonishly in the turf, spurting blood. He knew he was screaming but he couldn't feel it at all.

He breathed in sharply, awake, and looked around. No, no, that hadn't happened. They'd won that game by three points. He never had a serious injury playing lacrosse. His leg, he knew, was still there and in one piece. Codeine drug him down into sleep again.


She coaxed more toast into him, ignoring his protestations that she was treating him like a baby, gave him his pills, made him drink a full glass of water, and found herself watching The Sopranos and Six Feet Under alone with the volume down, picking at an unappetizing microwave dinner. Even the promise of good television couldn't get him up and out of the bedroom. She felt helpless and scared, half-watching the 10 o'clock news with her legs drawn up on the couch, head resting on her knees. She gave up concentrating on anything after the weatherman predicted more hot weather for the week and unfolded herself, turning the lights off and making sure the door was locked.

She was undressing, turned away from the bed, when she felt eyes on her back.

"Getting enough beauty rest?" she asked without turning around.

"I'm working my way up to diva," he said, voice rusty. He cleared his throat. "Slowly but surely. I'm going on tour with Whitney next year."

"I really hope you don't have mono," she said slipping a nightgown on.

"That makes two of us," he said.

She turned to face him, hands going to her hips. "You don't really think…"

He'd turned on to his right side again so he could watch her. The comforter rose and fell as he shrugged. "It fits."

"That's really weird," she said, brow furrowing. "I thought you said you had mono when you were in college."

"I did," he said. "Really messed my term up."

She frowned to herself. "I thought you couldn't get it again once you'd already had it. Like chicken pox."

He made one of his funny faces that she loved to see. She was convinced he'd been the class clown as a child despite his repeated assertions that he was a quiet, bored and very boring child. He could be so expressive and animated…seeing him pull a face now made her worry a little less.

"It's possible but extremely unlikely if I'm healthy," he said and kicked himself immediately for saying 'if' instead of 'since'. "Lucky me," he added, hoping she wouldn't pick up on it.

"If you're healthy?" she said. "What does that mean?"

"It means…" he sighed to himself; no reason to worry her. "It means it could be any number of things. Fatigue is a very common symptom. By itself it could mean hundreds of things. Usually it means the patient is stressed out from doing too much and is wasting my time because there's nothing wrong with them. Less coffee, more sleep."

"But it's not by itself," she pointed out. "Unless you're back to yellow and you haven't told me."

"No," he said pulling another face, "still red. But hematuria and fatigue together can still be a number of things. It's hard to tell based on the symptoms alone."

"But you've got theories," she said.

"I always have theories," he said with a shrug. "But it's kind of pointless to rattle them off right now. I'm tired and I don't know anything without labs at this point. Are you going to stand there all night or are you coming to bed?"

She realized she had been standing there in her nightgown, hands on her hips, through the whole conversation. She gave him a dirty look and went around to her side of the bed. "Smartass," she said.

He rolled on to his back and leered at her.

"How's your leg?" she asked slipping under the covers and putting her pillow against the headboard so she could sit up. "I assume it's better since you haven't mentioned it."

"You assume correctly," he said glancing up at her. "All my other muscles are joining in now. Doesn't feel different any more."

She frowned. "That can't be good," she said.

"Consistent with mono and flu," he said, shrugging the comment off. "Probably viral whatever it is."

"S.O.L.?" she said with a wry smile.

"S.O.L.," he confirmed, making a face. "Es muy S.O.L."

"Well," she said, "at least you're going to a real doctor this time."

"Yeah," he said faintly. If he mentioned today's incident with his leg to Wilson, it'd be straight to cancer. Straight to that look. Fibrosarcoma, Malignant Fibrous Histiocytoma, Chondrosarcoma, Rhabdomyosarcoma, Liposarcoma, Leiomyosarcoma, Osteosarcoma, you're going to die you're going to die nothing we can do.

"Greg?" she said, noticing his far-away look. "What is it?"

He pushed the thoughts away. "Nothing," he said, still staring at space. He snapped out of it and looked up at her. She was worried. No reason to scare her over a mere possibility. It could be something else. A virus plus an infection plus a pulled muscle. S.O.L. indeed. "Nothing," he repeated. "Just tired."

"Okay," she said, not convinced but unwilling to push him. He looked so tired. "Will it bother you if I read for a while?" she asked.

"Not at all," he said. "I could sleep through a tornado right now."

She smiled and leaned over to kiss him goodnight. He held a hand up. "Probably not a good idea," he said.

She smiled and gazed at him for a moment, then kissed him anyway. "Wake me up if you need anything," she said.

"I will," he said and smiled tiredly before rolling over to his right side again, facing away from the light.

She opened the book, the latest John Grisham novel, and read the same page three times before she gave up. He was breathing softly and deeply next to her: asleep again. She sighed, hoping he'd be okay, and turned off the light, not sure if she'd be able to sleep at all.