This is a crack!AU inspired by DreamsofSpike's "Dark Redux". Assuming I can keep it up, there's going to be one chapter per episode, based on the episode. Whee...

1.10 Histories

"Got a case that might interest you," Doctor Wilson said.

Foreman had his ER nurses to find him cases that could be interesting, but they hadn't come up with anything in the last two days. And he didn't like Wilson.

"Doctor House" was in the clinic, doing his morning shift. Cameron was doing Doctor House's paperwork. Chase was doing the crossword. Foreman was heading for Neurology, and Wilson was persistent.

"Homeless. Admitted 24 hours ago with a suspected drug overdose. Her tox screen s clean, but she's still delusional."

Foreman shrugged. Homeless meant she'd been admitted via ER, which meant none of his nurses had thought her case unusual: and if she was homeless, that probably meant she was crazy, had no money, and wanted a warm bed and a hot meal.

"Homeless," Foreman said dismissively, "usually means crazy; no money. Cuddy's not going to like this - "

Wilson interrupted him. "We're a teaching hospital." He went on "No ID. Doesn't even seem to know her name. I got called in because of some lesions on her arm."

Skin cancer. Homeless meant no insurance and likely no Medicaid. No proper treatment. Lethal. "Homeless always means no roof, at least, there's too much sun."

"The lesions were non-cancerous," Wilson said, "but I noticed a twitch. Her wrist."

Like or dislike Wilson, Foreman liked it that Wilson had brought this case to him rather than to Chase or Cameron. "I'll see her."

She wasn't interesting. At all. She faked nerve damage and then a seizure: and she was almost certainly diabetic.

Wilson appeared offended: "Fake low blood sugar. Now that's acting."

"The blood sugar was real. But she s probably diabetic. OD'd on her own insulin." That made sense. Foreman meant to check to see if she was carrying insulin, but she'd vomited in her own bag before she was admitted, and the stench was more than Foreman wanted to deal with. He didn't care anyway: this was a horse, not a zebra.

"What about the twitch?" Wilson asked. He evidently didn't regard Foreman's opinion, which was damn annoying.

"Her arm moved."

"Why fake a twitch? In case the seizure was too subtle? A twitch could indicate a tumor, which could indicate "

Foreman interrupted him. He was right, Wilson was wrong, and Wilson wasn't his head of department. "A need to see a neurologist, which is why you called me. Keep an eye on her until two pm, watch her blood sugar, give her a nice hot lunch, and discharge her." That would give her 48 hours indoors, and what more could a homeless person want? If she wanted a permanent home, she could walk down to the slave market and find some dealer to clean her up and take her on: if she had any skills, that would outweigh her need for insulin. Foreman walked away.

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Wilson waited on the stair by the Diagnostics floor when Greg should be leaving the clinic. Greg climbed the stairs slowly and steadily, planting his cane, pulling himself up. He stopped at each floor and caught his breath for a minute: on the floor below Diagnostics, he stopped for five. Wilson waited. After five, impatiently, he started down the stairs.

Greg was by the door on to the hall, his hand pushing it open, his head turned back to the stair: he saw Wilson coming down and froze.

"Hey," Wilson said.

Greg turned away from the door and began to climb the stairs. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Got a case." Wilson ran through the symptoms again.

"Talk to Foreman," Greg said. He reached the Diagnostics floor.

"He's wrong."

Greg started heading towards the washroom with the showers. He glanced sideways at Wilson. For a moment, he sounded like Doctor House: "Foreman is wrong? The neurologist is wrong, about a neurological problem?"

"He took one look at her and figured it was a scam."

"So, you figure he's not being objective?"

"The woman had a twitch. She had a seizure."

"Both of which Foreman saw?"

Wilson could still see that dismssive look as Foreman turned away. "He just wanted her out the door!" That came out a bit more emphatically than he'd meant. He was standing right in front of Greg, who had frozen again, both hands planted on his cane, looking as if he was bracing himself against a blow.

Wilson sighed, frustrated. "I - just - want her to get some medical attention." He held out the file.

Greg stood there, staring at him. So strangely, like a mask dissolving, the submissive, frightened look was vanishing: the pale blank eyes were sharpening into a look of intense, almost impersonal curiosity.

After a moment, Doctor House took one hand off his cane and reached for the file. "That s not even close to being true. Something else. Something personal. Okay. Next time you want a consult, don't wait for me on the stairs where I can't see you. I can't tell you have nice hair and a winning personality from one floor down."

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Of course any department head had a right to refer a patient to Diagnostics. But Foreman had heard Doctor House, from the safety of the Diagnostics glass box where he was allowed to say anything he damned well liked, turn away patients who were far more diagnostically interesting than a homeless woman scamming a free bed and a hot meal. Wilson had asked, and got, the full attention of the Diagnostics team: and Doctor House had told Foreman - in front of Cameron and Chase - that the main reason he was making them work on her was Foreman didn't want her as a patient.

She was still faking seizures, panic attacks, and she'd bitten Foreman. House had said she had to have an MRI, and by all that was fair, Foreman should have got away with postponing a rich-bitch patient's non-emergency post-surgical check-up.

Foreman had been in Doctor Cuddy's office before, twice. Once for his job interview, in which the lame doctor with the roll-top sweater had asked, if he'd thought about it, far too few questions for a department head filling a fellowship: and once for his post-job interview, where it was explained to him that the lame doctor was actually, legally, diagnostic equipment, the property of the hospital, and if Foreman accepted the fellowship, he'd be studying diagnostics under a slave.

He sat down. Greg remained standing, leaning on his cane. Foreman glanced him over, and remembered what Chase had said: we can call him 'Greg' outside Diagnostics, but I prefer to run away.

He still didn't like Chase, but he saw what Chase meant, right now.

The door opened and Cuddy came in, saying brusquely without other greeting "You tried to steal someone else s test?"

"Doctor Terharg is a plastic surgeon," Foreman said. "The woman was getting a six-month checkup on a chin implant."

Cuddy sat down behind her desk, and stared at Greg. She sounded exasperated and disappointed. "I can't believe you authorized this."

"Really?" Greg lifted his chin and settled his grip on his cane. "Sounds exactly like something I'd do."

Foreman looked away, suddenly remembering that cane landing with a clatter on the table in front of him. That thin high whining noise as the two security guards jerked Greg off his feet.

"She can't have an MRI," Doctor Cuddy said. "The CT scan shows she has a surgical pin in her arm, the MRI magnet would have ripped it out of her body. You like the Alien movies? You had no medical history, what were you thinking?"

"We'll surgically remove the pin, then do the MRI, does that sound good?" Doctor House inquired.

"She has an electrolyte imbalance," Cuddy said.

"Doctor Foreman, a neurologist, believes this woman has a brain tumor," Doctor House said.

Foreman still thought the seizures were faked. He supposed he ought to admit that. "Actually, I - "

Doctor House interrupted, with a cold look. "Hey, don't ever apologize for a medical opinion." He looked at Doctor Cuddy. "If he's right, we don't do this test, the patient dies. Now I realize that you have a specialty of your own, but does yours have anything to do with the brain?" He nodded at Foreman. "His does."

"Fine," Doctor Cuddy said. "But nothing more until you find out who she is."

"How are we supposed to "

"Hey!" Doctor House looked amused. "He knows more homeless people than any of us. Go check out the hood, dawg."

"Fine," Doctor Cuddy said, dismissing him. "Greg, stay here."

"Just a minute," Foreman said. Cuddy looked at him. She didn't look pleased. Foreman glanced away and thought of leaving. A thin high whine and a clatter of a falling cane and seven days of doing Greg's clinic duty. "Doctor House authorized her MRI. He didn't know I was taking Doctor Terharg's patient's test. I'm very sorry."

"You can go, Doctor Foreman," Cuddy said. She still didn't look pleased. Greg's expression was blank and - as Foreman had expected - pretty much solidly ungrateful.

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Wilson wasn't pleased. He didn't want Foreman playing good guy.

"Surgical pin. Better than a wallet. Serial numbers in case of recall, tied to a patient s name," Greg said.

"You risked a whipping to find out who she was?"

"Hey, it worked," Greg said. "If we have her medical records, we can treat her. She was in a car accident two years ago, she's Victoria Matsen, and I got seven hospitals in the tri-state area where she's been treated under that name. Anyway Foreman saved my sorry ass. Your turn, you going to tell me why this case?"

"She's my new girlfriend, I m having a tattoo designed, I was hoping you could find out her name."

"So she's just another sick person the kindly Doctor Wilson has made sure doesn t get lost in the big ugly system."

"Yes, I forgot, I need a reason to give a crap."

"You're giving two craps."

"The metric system always confuses me. Are those her medical records?" Greg had two folders on the table in front of him: he pushed one at Wilson. It was a PPTH employee medical file for Eric Foreman.

"Foreman s parents, happily married, 40 years."

"Mazel Tov," Wilson said, surprised, picking it up. He flipped through it. "Why are you looking at this?"

"Keinahora. So, why does Foreman hate homeless people? If it's an uncle or a grandparent you'd think he'd use it in his college application essay. Family struggles beats a 4.0 GPA any day. Maybe he s just a snob."

"Why do you care if he hates homeless people?" Wilson asked, curious. He leaned over the table: Greg's hand was over the name on the other file. "What s the other one?"

Greg looked up. His eyes were wide and pale. "There were two interesting things about this case. One of them was how much Foreman didn't want me to take it. The other was how much you did." He moved his hand. He was looking at Wilson's own employee medical file.

Wilson slammed his hand down on it. Greg's chair scooted back an inch. His eyes didn't flinch from Wilson's.

"How the hell did you get hold of this?"

"I can access any employee medical file, if I claim a diagnostic need," Greg said.

"You had no diagnostic need to see my medical file!"

Greg shrugged. "And you can tell Cuddy that, and I'll get thirty for using my file access privileges to spy on you."

"I should," Wilson said flatly. "You are way over the line."

"Yes," Greg agreed. He didn't take his eyes from Wilson's face. "Both parents living and still married to each other, one brother, one sister, two previous marriages, one current marriage, no children. What right do I have to know that much about you?"

Wilson saw, with clarity, two things happening.

He could pick up his and Doctor Foreman's medical files, slap Greg's face, and go tell Doctor Cuddy that her hospital equipment was overrunning his parameters, with these files as proof.

He could walk out, slam the door, and go find "Jane Doe" - Victoria Matsen - and check that she was still being taken care of: leave Greg to return the files without being found out. He probably could.

Greg had sulked for days after Wilson had searched his room. How long would he sulk if Wilson turned him in to Cuddy?

Too long.

Wilson turned around, leaving both files lying on the table, and walked out. He would check that Matsen's medical records had arrived.

*House*MD*House*MD*House*MD*House*

Matsen died.

Greg had found the diagnosis: Wilson couldn't fault him for that. Probably even by the time Matsen had been brought in, even if Greg had known on sight that she had rabies, it would have been too late.

The body went to the morgue: she was Wilson's patient, but he could not face the job of locating and informing the next of kin tonight.

The Diagnostics office was empty: Foreman had been admitted for treatment, Chase and Cameron had gone home. Wilson walked through and entered Greg's room. It was empty: Greg was downstairs in the clinic, doing his evening shift.

Wilson sat down in the comfortable chair and waited, leash in hand.

He nearly fell asleep, sitting there: when the door opened, casting light into face, he sat up, almost surprised. Greg was standing in the doorway, watching him.

"You told me not to wait on the stairs."

Greg nodded. "That's right, I did." He didn't move further into the room. He must already have showered and changed: he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, slave work clothes. His voice was even. "I suppose it would be pointless to ask you - what do you want?"

"That's right, it would," Wilson said, and stood up. "Matsen died. I want to talk to you."

"Uh huh," Greg said. He still didn't move.

"Come on," Wilson said. As he passed Greg, he clipped the leash to the ring fixed at the back of his collar, and put his hand in the small of Greg's back, so the leash went from the collar to Wilson's hand, not tugging at Greg's neck: "Let's go."

"Where are we going?" Greg said. He tried to stop in the doorway of his office, but Wilson wouldn't let him. "We can have this conversation anywhere."

Wilson laughed. He kept Greg moving. He didn't tug at the leash, but Greg knew it was there. "No we can't. You'll understand."

"I guess," Greg said. He could move quite quickly, for a cripple. He kept up.

Wilson knew which exit they should use: he had used it more often before he was promoted to head of Oncology, with a larger office and access to a balcony and this odd interest in this strange slave.

They were standing outside the hospital and Greg turned to look at him and his face was blank. His eyes were colorless in the dim light. "Where are we going?"

"I'll tell you when we get there." It was necessary to tug at Greg's leash a couple of times, as he hung back, but he really had nowhere to go but with Wilson: he was outside the hospital, and while Wilson would get into trouble if he lost him, Greg was smart enough to know he would be in worse trouble if he ran. Anyway, Wilson wasn't the fittest guy in the world, but he could certainly outrun Greg. Wilson had worked all this out earlier. Right now, walking down the narrow rainy streets to the cafe where he had sat when he decided to accept the job offer at PPTH, he was trying to think how to say it. He didn't say it, ever, because everyone who already knew didn't talk about it and he shouldn't talk to anyone who didn't know.

The cafe was closed. The street was dark. The street light had burned out. Far down the block there was the yellow glow of one open diner. Wilson stopped, where he always stopped, and sat down, tugging to make Greg sit down next to him.

He realised, when he put his hand on Greg's shoulder, that Greg had his arms wrapped round himself and was shivering violently.

"You're cold," Wilson said. He shrugged his coat off and wrapped it round Greg's shoulders. "Is that better?"

Greg moved his jaw twice before he answered. "Yes. No. I'm sorry." He was still shaking.

"We'll get some coffee before we go back." Wilson waited, his free hand against Greg's collarbone, keeping a grip on the leash. Gradually Greg's violent tremors slowed.

"Are we here?" Greg said. "Is this where you talk to me?"

"Yes," Wilson said. He stared at Greg. "I have two brothers."

There was silence. After a long minute, Greg said, sounding more confused than before, "Your family history says you have an older brother and an older sister."

"I have two brothers," Wilson said. "But one of them - he's not in my life any more. He has schizophrenia."

Greg said nothing.

Wilson drew in his breath. "This was the last place I saw him, nine years ago. I don't even know if he's alive."

*TBC*