Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story
Disclaimer: House M.D., its concept, current story line and characters past and current are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.
A/N: Hi! I don't know anything about Princeton so if I've blundered in any of the geography of the area, I ask that you forgive me. I did look up maps and Google Earth-ed it but that's not the same as actually having been there personally.
I really appreciate all of the wonderful reviews I've been receiving and I would encourage everyone who reads to please leave a review! Thanks!
Songs that helped inspire this chapter include: "Amazed" by Lonestar, and "You're the Devil in Disguise" by Elvis Presley.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Opening her eyes was the hardest part of waking up. She was uncertain how long it took for her to emerge from the nether world of unconsciousness but once she was aware of the sounds, smells and touch around her the real challenge was opening her eyes. Chloe knew that there was someone lying right next to her, fingers tangled in her hair and breathing lightly in her ear. She heard the sound of chair legs scraping along the floor on the other side of her and a body shifting in it. The steady, quiet beeping reminded her that she was in a hospital bed—again. A hand larger than her own held hers warmly and gently. She was intubated so she was careful about not panicking against the strangeness of that feeling in her throat.
Forcing her eyelids open she saw that the lighting was dim and easy for her eyes to adjust to; she turned her head slightly to the right and discovered Sara curled up next to her, sound asleep. Chloe would have smiled had she been able to; it was overwhelmingly wonderful to see her little girl again. She turned her head to the left and found Gregory House looking into her eyes and smiling softly. He held her hand with his left hand. The relief she felt at seeing him there caused her eyes to tear a little.
"So I hear that you're a hero," he murmured to her. "You'll have to tell me about it sometime."
Chloe gently pulled her hand away from him and pointed at the breathing tube.
House shook his head sadly. "I can't, not yet. You're not breathing well enough on your own. You're going to be alright but it's going to take a little while. You were lucky…the bullet missed everything of consequence. A magic bullet, obviously."
Chloe looked at him knowingly and shook her head no. She wanted to tell him that magic had nothing to do with it; God had taken care of her. He hadn't prevented her from being shot—she didn't know why—but He had allowed her escape dying from it. Something good would come from all of it, but she may never know what it was in her lifetime.
"I think I know what you want to say and I'm glad you can't," the diagnostician told her, smirking. "I convinced Nolan to bring me back to Princeton just in time." His face frowned and his blue eyes filled with pain as his fingers traced the bruising around her neck, barely touching her. "What did that bastard do to you?" His fingers went next to her wrist. Lifting her hand to his mouth his lips brushed feather light kisses along the bruising and abrasions, careful not to disturb the IV line in her arm.
The chaplain was glad she couldn't answer that question. The details would only disturb him and really made no difference anymore. It was over. There was something she knew she was supposed to tell him, but for the life of her she couldn't recall what it was. All she wanted to do was focus on him. The only thing keeping her from doing that was the pain in her torso that was gradually awakening. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the caress of his lips on her skin. It wasn't working well.
"Chloe?" she heard House murmur after a few minutes. She opened her eyes again to look at him. "Are you in pain? You're heart rate has been increasing."
She was in a great deal of pain, now, breathing quicker in her effort to tolerate it. She nodded slightly. The doctor looked down at her, frowning in concern. He rose from his chair and limped without his cane to the IV regulator. Punching a code in he then adjusted something. As he did he explained to her what he was doing.
"You're on a morphine drip for pain. I'm just adjusting how much you're getting. You should start feeling relief soon." He sat down next to her again, reclaiming her hand. "I'm not the romantic type. It's been a long time since my last relationship—at least one that didn't include the exchange of money. As I've told you, I'm not easy to tolerate for very long. I just don't understand myself when I'm with you. I don't take to people…easily. Trust is not easy for me. So why do I trust you, Chloe?" He seemed to be having difficulty meeting her gaze but for brief glances. There was a vulnerability she saw in House that she knew only a precious few in the world had been allowed to see.
He paused a moment to kiss her fingers. "What is it about you that's different from everyone else? I'm not making much sense, am I? God…I'm afraid that when you find out who I really am inside you'll…leave. If you do…there won't be anything left of me. The last twenty-four hours has been hell. I believed I would never see you again. I couldn't think about anything else. I can't promise you much but I can promise you this…I need you…I…I don't just think that I am…I know that I…love you. Just give me a chance to be the man you deserve." He shook his head and looked down at an indeterminate spot on the blanket over her.
More than anything else she wanted to take his face in her hands and plant small, tender kisses all over it and tell him that she loved him for him and that he didn't have to worry about her leaving. His past was his past and as far as she was concerned it was irrelevant. She had cob webs and skeletons in her closet that she was afraid to reveal for fear he would be repulsed and if he could love her anyway, how could she not love him too? It was frustrating to her not to be able to express these things to him. Tears floated on the surface of her dark eyes; a couple fell and slid down her face.
"Shh," he whispered, gently brushing the tears away. "Don't cry Chloe. I don't want to hurt you."
Chloe shook her head as far as she dared. Pulling her hand free from his grasp she placed her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes and pushed his face into her touch. Her hand moved to his jaw and she traced the outline of his lips with her thumb in the closest thing to a kiss she could offer him just then. He kissed her thumb, grabbed her hand and placed kisses in her palm, opening his eyes to gaze in hers. She felt like she could see eternity in their azure depths.
House gave her a little smirk and moved his face to within less than an inch from her ear. His hot breath on her skin felt like electricity.
"I may get slapped for this later," he breathed, "but I can't wait until you're recovered so I can get you naked and kiss every inch of you and show you exactly how much I love you! I'll start with my lips on your forehead and move my way all the way down; your every wish will be my command—and I do mean every."
Chloe smiled around the tubing. Perhaps it was the morphine or maybe the idea of what he was promising but she began to tingle from head to toe. With that, however, she felt her eyes grow very heavy again and her body felt like it was going to float away.
House leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Ayez les rêves doux, ma Beauté."1 Nodding almost imperceptibly, Chloe's eyes closed and she felt herself drift off to sleep.
* * *
House paused at the door and looked back. The tableau of mother and daughter sleeping peacefully next to each on the hospital made him smile. Apart, Chloe and Sara didn't look a great deal alike, but with their faces so close together the resemblance suddenly became uncanny—except for their coloring; Sara was fairer than her mom. They were both beautiful, angelic. He couldn't stop marveling at the effect Chloe had on him. Although it was different, he loved her as much as he did Wilson, and he had been friends with the Oncologist for years. It wasn't logical, which is probably why it baffled him.
He stepped quietly out, sliding the glass door shut nearly silently. He turned to nearly walk into two men. Instantly House could tell that they were cops.
"Dr. House, is it?" the older, darker of the two asked him with a pleasant smile and easy manner. The diagnostician looked him up and down suspiciously and then his younger, fairer partner.
"Who's asking?"
"We're with the Princeton police department," Molonitny told him, extending a hand to him. When House simply stared at his hand and made no move to shake it, the hand was casually withdrawn. "I'm Detective Molonitny and this is my partner Detective H--."
"What do you want?" House asked bluntly. If they thought they were going to go in and try to interrogate Chloe in her condition, they were going to be very disappointed—and hurting—depending upon how insistent they were. "She's sleeping and is not to be disturbed—by anybody."
"Actually," Hunt spoke up, "We were hoping to talk with you, Doctor. It will only take a few minutes of your time."
House scowled. He was in no mood to answer a bunch of questions. However, he had several of his own that he wanted to have answered; an idea came to him.
He spoke to Molonitny. "Do you know what quid pro quo means, Detective?"
Molonitny chuckled and nodded. "Yes, Dr. House. I may be just a dumb cop, but I do. It's Latin for 'something for something'. In other words, if you answer our questions, we must answer yours. I think that's acceptable. But I want the complete truth."
A smirk crossed the diagnostician's face; perhaps this cop wasn't all that 'dumb' after all; that would be a pleasant surprise indeed.
"Walk with me," House told Molonitny, ignoring Hunt altogether. He began to limp with his cane down the corridor, heading for a less public place to talk. He would have preferred going to his office but it was not ready to be used yet. The senior detective walked in step with the doctor and Hunt walked a pace behind.
"It was my understanding that you were undergoing treatment for depression," Molonitny said; it wasn't technically a question, the diagnostician noticed.
"I'm on temporary leave from the hospital," House told him, offering a freebie. "I'll be returning within the next few days." He turned into a small visitor's lounge that sat only six people at the most. It was after visiting hours so they wouldn't be disturbed. House sat down in one upholstered chair, lifting his aching leg onto the coffee table and resting his cane against the chair beside his; the detectives took up two more of the chairs positioned opposite him.
Hunt nodded at House's leg and inquired, "Sport's injury?"
House was about to throw him a pithy comment but restrained himself. "Yes," he said straight-faced. "I fell over a jump—fortunately she broke most of my fall and only my leg was hurt."
Hunt looked at him stoically, obviously not getting the joke. Molonitny did, however, and smiled with amusement. House determined he was only going to answer the older detective's questions.
"Since I'm in a good mood right now," the doctor said, "I'll let you start."
The senior detective sat forward in his seat, folding his hands calmly in front of him. "As you're probably aware, two of Dr. LaSalle's kidnappers were killed today during her escape from them. We've identified the gunman as forty-five year old Peter Haszon. The guy doesn't have any criminal record whatsoever—he seems to have just appeared out of nowhere. The other suspect was Lucas Douglas and I'm sure you're acquainted with him seeing as you once hired him to investigate your team members for you. There's a third party, a woman named Sandra Luchak, was also involved but we haven't apprehended her yet. Do either of the names Haszon or Luchak ring any bells with you? Former associates or patients, perhaps?"
Searching his rather impressive memory House tried to recall if he had ever met anyone with those names but nothing occurred to him. They were somehow connected with Lucas but he didn't recognize them.
"No," he answered. "I have had a lot of patients…still, I don't recognize the names. They may have been clients of Lucas'."
Molonitny nodded and Hunt scribbled. "Yes, we've thought of that possibility and we're checking into it."
House looked Molonitny in the eye; it was his turn. "Quid pro quo…How did Chloe manage to escape?"
"We don't have all of the details," the senior detective answered honestly, "but we've been able to piece together a construct based on evidence at the scene and witness statements. She was being held in an apartment along Plainsboro Road between Maple and Prospect. She had been gagged and bound and at some point there was a strangulation attempt. She must have convinced her captors, probably Douglas, to untie her hands and possibly her feet as well. There was a white board in the bedroom she was being held in and it looked like she was communicating with her captors using it."
"If they tried to strangle her, they may have damaged her larynx so she couldn't talk," the diagnostician told him softly. He tried not to focus on the kind of pain and suffering Chloe would have experienced while being choked.
Nodding, Molonitny continued. "We're not certain at what point she tried to make a break for it, but it looks like she asked Douglas for a glass of water. He went to get it for her, likely forgetting to bind her again before leaving the room. We found his body lying across the threshold of the bedroom, dead, an empty glass by his hand. He had been struck on the head with a heavy bronze lamp which crushed his skull. It's likely LaSalle stood in wait for him to return with the water and then incapacitated him."
In spite of the grisly nature of Lucas' death House couldn't help a small smile of pride. An angry Chloe was a force to be reckoned with; he remembered how she had fought like a wildcat in the restaurant parking lot two nights before. She was a passionate woman and he looked forward to finding out how she behaved in the heat of another kind of passion. His smile faded however when he realized what an impact killing someone—even if it was justified—would have on the chaplain.
"We figure she ran for the exit, saw Rachel in a playpen in the living room, grabbed the baby and fled the apartment. There was the other suspect—Haszon—in the apartment as well. He pursued her, firing several rounds while still inside the building. LaSalle was seen running out of and away from the building, heading for the street—probably to attract as much attention as possible—and was shot trying to wave down a car. A Traffic officer happened to be present and shot Haszon dead."
It didn't surprise the doctor that Chloe would have risked being caught to rescue Cuddy's daughter. The mental picture of her being shot in the street and collapsing with the baby in her arms was one House wished hadn't formed in his head.
"Your turn," he told the detective, folding his hands behind his head.
"Do you suspect that Dr. Cuddy may have, at some point, been aware that her boyfriend was targeting you and your team?" Molonitny asked.
"No," House said without hesitation. He knew Cuddy too well to suspect her of something like that. Had she known, she would have gone to either him or the authorities immediately. "There is absolutely no way. My turn. I understand Lucas' motive, but what about the other two? Why were they working with him—it wasn't for money. What did he have on them?"
The diagnostician watched the senior detective's expression carefully for any hint, any tell, of duplicity. He was surprised to see how open the cop really was.
"We're not one hundred percent certain," was the reply that came with a shrug. "Like I said, Haszon has no criminal record that could have been used as leverage. The woman is a different story. Luchak has an extensive criminal record, mostly misdemeanors. She may have done something more serious that he knew about and was holding over her. She is in violation of her parole agreement so it's possible that was it."
House considered that. "It's possible," he said to Molonitny, "that Haszon was caught doing something—maybe the fourteen-year-old babysitter, for example—by Lucas during one of his investigations. Statutory rape can ruin one's marriage and social life, not to mention one's freedom."
Molonitny smirked and glanced at his partner briefly before asking, "What was Lucas' motive for going after you, do you think?"
"My penis is larger than his," the diagnostician sarcastically. "He was afraid that I was going to steal Cuddy from him, jealous of my obvious…attributes and the way women simply can't resist me."
"Was there any risk of that occurring?" Hunt interjected only to receive the look of death from the doctor.
"That's two questions in one turn," House told Molonitny, ignoring the dirty look the younger detective cast at him. "That's a foul. I get to ask two in a row as your penalty. Firstly, if you've found your man, why are you still investigating?"
He saw the senior detective appraising him carefully. This was going to be interesting.
"I'm not convinced that there isn't yet another accomplice we haven't identified yet," was the answer. "There may yet be someone with farther reaching connections involved."
The doctor frowned upon hearing that. Another accomplice, other than the missing woman?…but who? If there was still someone at large, they may all still be in danger, the mayhem not yet over. He knew that the detectives wouldn't give him that information unless they figured he knew something that could help them identify who that was. Such was the strategy behind Quid Pro Quo.
"What makes you think that—you have to have a reason? What is it?"
"That's two questions," Hunt sniped impatiently. He obviously had no use for the diagnostician and his game. "Your foul!"
"That was two-parts, but still only one question," House sneered. "No foul!"
Hunt bristled. "Look, I've had enough of your games--."
Molonitny raised his hand to silence his partner and it worked. House smirked; so the pit bull was paper-trained. The older detective calmly answered the question.
"Twice the police guard supposed to watch the vics and potential targets disappeared against orders. One of those times occurred close to the time of Dr. LaSalle's abduction. There's a possibility that someone in the department or someone in some way connected to the department may be involved. Douglas wouldn't have the influence or authority to call those cars off."
House stared at Molonitny in disbelief, shaking his head. A dirty cop involved with Lucas? After the revelation the detective had just made it made sense—a lot of sense. If Lucas didn't have something over one of the accomplices the cop may have. It certainly would make it easier to attack doctors in a hospital full of cops if one of the accomplices was a cop. It made sense that Lucas was able to abduct Chloe in broad daylight with supposed police protection at her home if those cops were told by one of their own to take a hike. He was furious that Chloe and the rest had been placing their trust in the police when it was possible it was the police they should have been afraid of.
"Quid pro quo, Doctor," Molonitny told him, breaking him out of his reverie. "I have a two part question of my own: Is there any reason you can think of for a cop to have it out for you? If so, then who?"
The truth was, House knew that he had had a lot of run-ins with the police in the past—being a smartass drug addict attracted trouble; however, lately he'd been keeping his nose clean. He still drove like a maniac and was a smartass towards all symbols of authority but was less unpredictable and violent than when he was on Vicodin. Vicodin. If it was a cop with a grudge it would date back to pre-Recovery…." The diagnostician's eyes widened suddenly and he began to kick himself for taking this long to think of it.
"You have someone in mind?" the senior detective asked him, noticing the recognition in the doctor's eyes.
"Tritter."
Molonitny heard the softly spoken answer but he wanted to be sure he had heard it correctly before he reacted. "Did you say Tritter, Dr. House? Detective Michael Tritter?"
The diagnostician nodded slowly as his brain calculated the possibilities to see if it was indeed possible that his old nemesis had returned with the intent to make his life a living hell again.
"That's exactly who I said," House told him firmly. "Back when I was still using Vicodin, he tried to have me busted for drug possession with the intent to traffic. Used it over me to get me into rehab, then changed his mind and wanted to see me rot in prison instead. He blackmailed my colleagues into testifying against me in court. I managed to evade jail by going into detox, which I faked quite easily by having drugs brought to me on the inside. I remember the look on his face the last time I saw him. He could have killed me with his bare hands if he could have got away with it. It wouldn't surprise me if that sanctimonious sonofabitch was working with Lucas!"
Molonitny and Hunt looked at each other meaningfully; it was the latter detective that broke the news. "Detective Tritter is no longer on the force. He quit almost two years ago. He was demoted by the brass for embarrassing them over something—likely your case—and he went kind of…."
"Psycho," Molonitny finished for his partner, his eyes meeting the doctor's. "Began getting violent with his arrests, defying his superiors--there was even the rumor that he had started drinking a lot. God damn! Even off the force he's got a lot of guys still on who thought he got shafted who'd be willing to help him out." He turned to his partner. "Mitch, we need to get back to the station—start looking into Tritter's whereabouts and activities over the past week. We have to be casual about it. We don't need to tip anyone off that we're investigating him."
The detectives rose smoothly out of their chairs; House followed suit a little more slowly. His leg was throbbing without mercy. He reached into his pocket automatically and found he had nothing in there—no Ibuprofen, no Naproxen—like he usually did. Of course he didn't—he was still a patient without permission to dispense meds to himself. He'd have to find Nolan tout suite—while he still could move under his own power.
"Thank you, Dr. House," Molonitny said with sincerity. "Until we know for sure, keep your head up and only tell about Tritter to those who absolutely need to know."
House nodded curtly and watched the two detectives stride out of the lounge. Tritter. He thought that rotten chapter of his life was closed but not it appeared that it wasn't. The diagnostician swore to himself that Michael Tritter would have more than a thermometer rammed up his ass if he showed his face anywhere around him again. With that thought in mind he tapped his cane against the floor and then headed in the direction of the nearest nursing station to locate a phone and have Wilson paged and bring Nolan with him.
* * *
Pulling her rental car into her double garage Lisa Cuddy glanced over at the empty spot where Lucas' car normally sat while he was at her place. His car would never be parked there again. That thought brought mixed emotions to her: grief, anger, fear, and shame. He had caused so much hurt to so many people—him and his 'honest' face; Mr. Responsibility had sure pulled the wool over her eyes. She couldn't believe how blind she had been, how much she lost because he fit into her idea of the perfect family man.
She tasted bile in her mouth, her stomach churning. How much she lost? She couldn't get the face of Dr. Chris Taub out of her mind. He had lost his life. Rachel Taub had lost her husband, her Soulmate. Thirteen had lost her sense of security at work along with her blood; the scar that would be left on her neck as a result of the assault on her would be a permanent reminder. Foreman nearly lost his life and now remained in a coma, perhaps never to awaken. If he did awake, then what? How much of his neural functions would be lost to the effects of the cyanide? No matter what loss he may suffer he would certainly never be the same man again. LaSalle--? Cuddy stopped herself. Not LaSalle…Chloe. She would always be Chloe to the Dean of Medicine from now on. The chaplain had selflessly risked her own life to take the time to save Rachel from the hands of a maniacal gunman. She would always have a place in Cuddy's heart for that. She had been beaten, nearly strangled and shot…her loss would be great, especially in terms of the time it would take her to recover physically. Emotionally it was anyone's guess how long it would take her to heal.
House?…well, perhaps he was suffering worse than them all. Physically the toll on him had been relatively light. A broken hand, some bumps and bruises—but the psychological toll had nearly killed him. It had nearly undone months of hard work pulling his life out of the chaos of drug addiction. He ended up having to return to the psychiatric hospital. He would take it as a failure; he already blamed himself for what had happened to them all. That was all on top of the humiliation he had felt at discovering Lucas in her life after she had misled him for weeks following his return to Princeton. It all caused Cuddy to realize how easy she had got off compared to the rest. She lost a little of her dignity at being duped, and a good-for-nothing boyfriend who used her to get at her friends and employees, who got a little pussy and a whole lot of protection from scrutiny as a bonus. She lost her car—a goddamned car that could be replaced at the click of a mouse, really. She still had her daughter, safe and sound and her own health. She had lost basically nothing but baggage.
So why did she grieve Lucas?
Shaking her head she got out of her car and reached into the back-seat to retrieve her daughter from the car-seat she had borrowed from the hospital; Rachel's own car seat was likely still in Lucas' car, wherever the hell that was. A few car-seats were kept on hand at PPTH to loan to patients who found themselves in a similar predicament as she had that evening. The baby was still wide awake in spite of the car ride home; she usually fell asleep in the car. That was fine as far as Cuddy was concerned. All she wanted to do was curl up in her living room and cuddle her child close to her, thankful that she was still alive.
She carried Rachel into the house and straight to the nursery where she would change her and get her ready for a bath. She hadn't even set the baby down when the phone rang. Cuddy considered letting the answering machine pick it up but then thought better of it; it could be news from the hospital or the police. Taking Rachel with her she went to answer the phone on the extension in her bedroom.
"Hello?"
On the other end of the line was a click; at first she thought that the caller had just hung up and was about to do so herself when an automated message began to play. Great, she thought ruefully. Telemarketers. Just what I need right now! Only it wasn't a telemarketing ad…it was Lucas. The Dean of Medicine listened in shock. He had sent her a pre-recorded message from the grave.
"Lisa," the message went, "I set this up on my computer to ring you at ten o'clock just in case I didn't get a chance to talk to you personally when you got home, so if I've already talked to you, just hang up. If not, then you have to listen to me carefully and do exactly what I have to tell you. I just found out myself—that crazy bastard! Please, Lisa. It's for your safety. I can't explain to you how I know this, but you have to get out of the house right now! Get out! You've only got three minutes before the bomb will go off! I'm not kidding—run!"
Cuddy dropped the phone in a panic. She had no idea what was going on but she wasn't going to risk ignoring the warning. A bomb! With Rachel in her arms she ran, scooping up her purse without stopping. She stopped at the front door and began to frantically unlatch and unbolt the locks; she swung it open so hard that the door knob left a dint in the wall in spite of the door stop. She ran away from the house and towards the street as quickly as her feet would carry her, her heart racing a million miles a minute. She had barely reached the curb when she heard it: it sounded like a balloon popping followed by crackling and then the sound of air being sucked towards the house. Finally there was a microsecond of a pause before the loudest bang she had heard in her entire life.
The Dean of Medicine dove with her baby behind a parked car as a fireball burst forth in every direction, sending light and heat just before a shockwave that hit the car, moving it a quarter of an inch away from the blast. Pieces of what was once her home flew yards up into the air, some of the debris smashing into the neighboring houses, a four-foot length of two-by-four hitting the car she ducked behind like a rocketing projectile. Some of the wood, shingles, plaster, glass and metal began to rain down around her and Cuddy covered Rachel with her own body to protect her. She felt pieces of material fall against her head and torso, some of it sharp and cutting, some of it hard and bruising; a particularly large piece hit her head and she cried out in pain but when everything began to settle she was still in one piece and Rachel was unscathed but crying.
Cuddy was crying too as she pulled her baby to her chest in a bear hug and rocked on her haunches to soothe her herself as much as her daughter. Neighbors were running out of their houses into the street staring at the disaster burning hot before them. She heard the sound of shoes running up to her and a hand on her shoulder.
"Are you and your baby alright?" the man from the house three down from hers asked her with concern. What was his name…oh, yes. Russ. His wife was Denise. She was the president of the block association. Was she alright? Cuddy had no idea. She rose slowly to her feet without answering him, tears still falling down her face. She stared at the flames consuming what was left of the house that hadn't been sent flying.
"You're head is bleeding, Lisa," Russ told her with concern but she didn't hear him. She didn't feel any pain—the injury was probably superficial; heads were quite vascular. Even the smallest scalp cut would bleed quite a bit without any serious injury having been sustained.
The Dean of Medicine turned to her neighbor, staring at him dully. "Could you hold Rachel for a second?" She asked him, handing her daughter over to him without waiting for an answer. She forced herself to stop crying and wiped the tears from her face with her hands. When she pulled them away from her face she saw blood mixing with them. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She dialed Wilson's.
When the oncologist picked up she said into the phone, "Wilson, it's me, Lisa."
"Lisa?" Wilson responded, sounding alarmed right away. She realized that she had to sound like hell to inspire that kind of response from him. "Are you okay? What's wrong? You don't sound good!"
Cuddy laughed almost hysterically at the ridiculousness of his questions. "My house just blew up into a million pieces, James! Lucas warned Rachel and me to get out. He called me from hell to save our lives!"
"What?!" Wilson shrieked. "Where are you? You're not making sense, Lisa. Lucas is dead! Lisa?"
"My head's bleeding," she told him, her voice beginning to shake uncontrollably. "I hear the sirens coming. I have to go get something to stop the bleeding." She sat down on the curb and looked up at Russ and Rachel. He was encouraging her to come with him somewhere but she was too tired to stand up again.
The next voice to come over her phone wasn't Wilson's. "Cuddy, it's House. Do you hear me? What happened?"
"My house blew up," she answered, her body shaking now. "House, I got hit in the head and Russ has Rachel. I need somebody to come and help me stop the bleeding. It's getting in my eyes now."
"Lisa," House said deeply, now using her first name, something he almost never did. "Is there someone there with you?"
"Yes," she answered, nodding. "Russ is."
"I need you to listen carefully to me," House told her calmly but an edge to his voice belied that. "Give Russ the phone! I need to speak with him. Are you still there? Lisa?"
The Dean of Medicine began to feel woozy and she laid down in the gutter, curling up into the fetal position with the phone still in her hand. "I'm sorry, House. I should never have become involved with Lucas. He did all of this because of me."
"It's not your fault," the diagnostician told her . "Don't blame yourself. Lisa, I need you to give Russ the phone. Can you do that for me?"
"For you," she answered and then held out the phone towards her neighbor. Russ frowned in confusion and took the phone. Cuddy looked up to see another person approach, a woman this time, wearing a uniform and carrying a bag slung over her shoulder.
"Ma'am," the woman said to her. "My name is Vanessa and I'm a paramedic. I'm here to help you."
The Dean of Medicine heard her neighbor say into her cell phone, "Yes, the paramedics are here now, Doctor. Yes, she's still conscious…I'll tell them."
"Can you sit up, Ma'am?" Vanessa asked her, helping Cuddy to a sitting position. The paramedic took a look into the doctor's eyes and then flashed a penlight into them to check the responsiveness of her pupils to light. "Can you tell me your full name?"
Cuddy opened her mouth to speak but she couldn't quite remember what it was she was going to say. The paramedic kept asking her questions but they weren't making any sense to her. She could hear Russ tell Vanessa that he had the Dean of Medicine's doctor on the phone and to have her taken to her hospital. She watched as a field dressing was applied to her head and a uniformed male arrived with a gurney, lowering it. She cooperated as they helped her on to the gurney, strapped her on and rolled her into the back of an ambulance.
"Rachel?" Cuddy asked the faces looking down at her. Where was her daughter? She thought she heard Vanessa assure her that Rachel was safe with the police. Everything was moving very slowly and everybody was talking funny. In the back of her mind Cuddy knew that she had a head injury, that she was being taken to the hospital. She felt movement and subliminally noticed as the paramedic and EMT worked over her.
The doctor felt her headache now, and it was bad. She closed her eyes for what seemed to be a few seconds at the most but when she opened them again she was no longer in the ambulance. She was indoors somewhere; the pot lights on the ceiling above her whizzed by and then the faces looking down at her changed and one of them, then two of them she knew.
House stared down at her with his shockingly blue eyes, his face blurry but still unmistakably his. He was saying something to her but she couldn't hear him. She saw Wilson's face appear, looking very worried.
"I can't…hear you…." Cuddy tried to tell them but she couldn't tell for certain whether she said that or just thought it. She was so tired and her eyes felt heavy; she closed her eyes again, the thought floating around in her head that if she went to sleep she would never wake up. Regardless, she just couldn't keep her eyes open another second and allowed them to slip closed.
1 Translation from French: "(Have) sweet dreams, my Beauty!"
