Chapter 29

It Looks a Little Odd…

After they left the room, Wilson, Liu and Langley adjourned to Jacey Liu's office.

"What do you think?" asked Wilson.

"Not sure," answered Langley. "Parietal lobe, maybe? Or his little drug cocktail. Could be worse, though. He had no trouble with the math, he's got no aphasia, anomia or anosagnosia, and he was ultimately able to do the task, although not well."

"In general, he's thinking quickly—very quickly—and his memory isn't impaired, at least not much," added Jacey Liu. "Well, we'd better keep an eye on him."

Wilson had to ask. "Do you think this was caused by the attack, or by whatever happened earlier today, or even the painkillers?"

"Could be any or all. I think we need to talk to Anna Stein," said Langley.

Glancing at her phone list, Jacey pressed an extension.

"Anna? It's Jacey Liu. Could you come over to my office? We need a consult."

Considering how much worse it could have been—in fact, how much worse it had seemed initially—this seemed relatively minor, but Wilson knew enough about head injuries to know that nothing was ever simple when it came to the brain. Especially House's rat's maze of a brain.

They got Anna Stein up to speed, explaining their concerns.

"Uh-huh," she said. "We ought to test him for hand-eye coordination, numbness on the left side, fine motor movements, dizziness. See if he can grasp objects, and try him on a drawing test. Has he tried to read or write? And we'd better watch him closely in case there are other problems, things he seemed fine with today, like math or naming objects. Not unexpected," she concluded.

"I guess not," said Jacey. "It would be more surprising if he had no ill effects from the attack. And given how serious it was, he's very fortunate to have survived at all."

"He may not see it that way," said Wilson. "I'm sure he noticed our reactions. He's far from stupid."

* * * *

"So, how is he?" asked Foreman as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Chase debated with himself about describing what he'd seen in House's room, about the bed, about Rainie, about Karen Langley's comments. Eventually, he decided it was no one's business but House's.

"He's fine," said Chase. "A little tired, and in a lot of pain, but fine."

Foreman didn't believe him.

* * * *

Hours later, House was asleep when Rainie's dinner—a nice piece of chicken—arrived. Much easier to manage than those damned eggs. He was still asleep when a nurse took her to the bathroom. It was the first time she'd tried to walk since being admitted, and she found that she was very wobbly, the pain made it hard to move, and she couldn't walk more than a step or two without a lot of help.

He was just starting to wake up when Claudia DuBois arrived for physical therapy. None of the therapists had been in room 304 since House had moved in, and no one had thought to warn them about what to expect.

Rainie noted the expression of surprise on Claudia's face when she saw the bed(s) and House.

I guess it does look a little odd, she thought for the first time. In fact, it looked very odd. Suddenly, the whole setup struck her funny. How would she have reacted to visiting a patient and finding that patient in bed with her doctor? Her face would probably look something like Claudia's.

She started to giggle. Oh, my god, she thought, I haven't laughed—really laughed—in so long. For four years, there'd been nothing to laugh at. There'd been fear, there'd been death, there'd been pain, but not laughter.

Her shoulders began to shake with the absurdity of her life as it now was. Her giggles turned to chortles, and the chortles to deep belly laughs.

Claudia just stared at her, and that just made Rainie laugh even more.

"Claudia!" House, suddenly awake, spoke abruptly, making her jump. "Get Dr. Liu. Now!"

Claudia froze and looked at him.

"I said, now!" said House as loudly as he could, which wasn't all that loud. "Move! Get out of here!"

Claudia ran out the door.

"Rainie!" said House.

She looked at him and began laughing even harder.

"Rainie! Stop it!"

Why would he want to stop her from laughing, she wondered. Why was House looking at her so strangely? Surely this was a good thing. Laughter was wonderful. Relaxed a person, released all those endorphins, made you feel good. It had been so long since she'd felt good.

She was laughing so hard, she could barely breathe. Her mind drifted to other moments of laughter—of Evie one of the last times she'd seen her, laughing at a TV show—of Jeff at their wedding reception, a little tipsy and very giddy.

Suddenly, her emotions crashed, just as House had known they would.

Followed by Claudia, Jacey ran into the room just before the laughter stopped. Rainie sat looking stunned, trying to catch her breath. And then everything swooped downward, leaving laughter behind, with sorrow and despair taking its place.

"Oh, god!" she cried out. Jeff. Evie. She'd never feel their warmth again or see those laughs, and from now forward, whenever she thought of them, she'd picture their last pained terrified moments. She began hiccupping as the emotions overtook her.

"Help her!" said House, a little desperately, turning to Jacey for help. He couldn't ride this rollercoaster again. He was too tired, and too wrung out.

"Rainie!" said Jacey. "Listen to me. We've got to calm you down. This isn't healthy for you. I'm going to give you Ativan. Are you okay with that?"

Overcome by the emotional pain she was now feeling, Rainie nodded. Anything to make it stop.

Jacey inserted the Ativan into Rainie's IV and within seconds, she had relaxed and slid down on the bed.

"Thank god," said House, exhaling in relief as she fell asleep next to him.

"How did you know?" asked Jacey, watching his face closely. When she'd come onto the case, some of the other doctors had warned her about House and how bad his people skills were, and yet she had seen astounding perception from him, insight that didn't jibe with his reputation.

"I just knew," he said decisively. He knew because he'd been there. He'd already had that moment when the freedom from fear overpowered him, when relief turned to laughter and then turned to hysteria and back to despair. He just knew.

"How are you doing?" she asked, noticing how pale he looked, and realizing that he'd begun to shiver.

"You mean with this or something else?" His blue left eye looked right into her, as he determinedly got a grip on himself.

"Whichever," said Jacey.

"I couldn't deal with this. Too much for one week," said House, not intending to go any further. But the showoff in him couldn't let it go. "I assume the other meaning of your question had to do with parietal lobe issues."

"Yes, of course it did," she responded. She'd learned quickly with him that there was no point in pretending she didn't understand.

"And I assume you and Langley and what's-her-name the neurologist are going to continue to poke and prod me for a while. Make me write my name, draw pictures, see if my fingers are numb or if I drop things, move me around to see if I get dizzy and vomit—the usual stuff."

"You assume correctly."

"Okay. As long as all of you know I know. And as long as you tell me what's happening. I want to see the results. All the results."

"Fair enough," said Jacey. "Right now, I think you need to sleep some more."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," he said, yawning.

"How's the pain? That Vicodin should be wearing off. Do you need a sedative?"

"Pain's increasing. I think that's what woke me up before. Or at least part of what woke me up. If you increase the morphine, I think I'm tired enough to sleep without help."

Jacey adjusted his morphine levels, and just to make sure, slipped a little bit of sedative into the IV.

"Hey," said House as the drug hit his system. "No fair. I was… going… to…" His words slurred and got further apart. "…go… …to… …sleep… …anyway…" His eyelids closed as his head rolled back onto the pillow.

* * * *

Wilson always got to the hospital early, but this morning he came in even earlier. In fact, it wasn't even morning—it was the middle of the night. Finally caught up on his sleep, he now found himself restless.

After spending a fruitless half hour in his office trying to concentrate on paperwork, he finally acknowledged that he just wanted to see House, wanted to make sure he was okay.

Showing his ID to get past the guard—until they were positive Pevey was the only threat, security would remain tight—Wilson stepped quietly through the doorway to room 304 and settled himself and his paperwork onto the couch in the corner of the room.

As his eyes got used to the dark, he could see that once again House and Rainie Adler were intertwined. House was still propped up on the pillows, and Rainie was close by his side, snuggled in under his left arm. Both were breathing deeply.

If this wasn't working so well for both of them, it would be really weird, thought Wilson. Actually, it was pretty weird anyway. In fact, this would be weird even for a touchy-feely kind of doctor, much less for House, who couldn't get through a serious conversation without coming up with twenty-seven different ways to keep people at arm's length. And yet, here he was wrapping his arm around his patient, sharing a bed with her—well, beds—and apparently opening up his heart to her.

We've been friends for all these years, and I can barely chisel my way through his defenses. And now, suddenly, he thought irritably, he's telling people he barely knows about his father's abuse, which he never told me, and sharing a bed with a torture victim.

After attempting to read for a few more minutes, Wilson abruptly set his paperwork down and mentally addressed what was really bothering him. For a very long time—since long before Thompson dealt his evil blow—he'd nudged House to open up, to deal with his repressed emotions, to confront his past, to cast aside a few of his defenses. Somehow, though, when it actually seemed to be happening, he was upset to find House lowering his guard with people other than himself.

He, James Wilson, the special one, the one who understood House better than anyone else, the one who had been there through the worst, was feeling left out. And now that he'd put his finger on the source of his unease, he felt vaguely adolescent about it.

He glanced over again at the two sleeping figures. It makes sense for House to share things with Rainie, he reasoned. For starters, she's too badly wounded herself to be a threat to him—she may be the safest person he knows in that regard. And how else can he help her, except by letting her know he's been where she is? Be honest now. No one but the two of them can possibly understand what it's like. She desperately needs someone to trust, and who better than the only other person who could ever truly understand what she's going through?

And that person would be… Greg House? Had he just had that thought? Had he actually just put the idea of trust and Greg House together in the same thought, and it wasn't even a joke? Yeah, guess he did. Would wonders never cease.

Can't have it both ways, James, my boy. What is it you really want? Do you want House to deal with his feelings, or do you want to feel special? Just because House is opening up to other people and not only to you doesn't mean it's a bad thing. Better this than where we were a year ago. Way better than where we were two years ago.

Then there was the other part of it: House had been steadily improving over time, but if he was ever going to really reclaim his life, he was going to have to do at least some of it on his own, without Wilson propping him up. Clearly, House was beginning to take a few steps in that direction. If Pevey hadn't set it all back.

So Wilson really didn't have any right to feel left out. Even though he did.

Change was a bitch. No wonder House didn't like it.