A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews, readers. Every time I get a new one, I'm sparked to write more of this. I just wish real life would stop getting in the way. ;) There is more dialogue from "Paternity" in this chapter.
The kid's attempt to swan dive off the hospital roof while conscious, believing he was on the lacrosse field, means it's not MS, so you're back to square one. Everyone is tired and frustrated, including you, but the kid is circling the drain so there's no rest in sight.
"His immune system is working," Chase says, before sticking the end of his pencil in his mouth.
"Right, he has an infection in his brain."
"What about sex?" Allison asks, and your thoughts go south immediately.
"Well, it might get complicated. We work together. I am older, certainly, but maybe you like that."
"I meant maybe he has neurosyphilis," she replies, but there's a little grin she's trying very hard to restrain.
"Heh, nice cover," you say, with a smirk, and she has to look away, hiding her smile. Oh, you really can't wait to get her home. Who knew flirting with your secret wife in front of your employees could be so much fun.
"Well, if it's neurosyphilis, the likelihood of a false negative on an RPR test, thirty percent. The likelihood of a sixteen year old having sex, roughly 120 percent."
"We should start him on IV penicillin," Allison suggests.
"Can't wait for that," you reply. "Inject it right into his brain via the spine."
There's a brief argument about the dangers of your idea, until Foreman remembers that the kid already has a shunt in his brain, and then off they go to do your bidding. For you, it's clinic time again, otherwise known as nap time. Strange how you've never had a problem sleeping in a clinic exam room. You grab a file on the pretense of working, shut yourself in and settle on the exam table, fluffing the flat little pillow beneath your head. Just as you close your eyes, the door flies open and there's Cuddy in all her ire-laden glory. She's immediately followed by a patient, a worried new mom, who thinks vaccinations are an evil plot from greedy pharmaceutical companies. Good times.
That one patient is enough to send you sneaking off to the cafeteria for lunch, which you mooch off of Wilson. It's there your patient's parents spot you and decide you're clearly not doing everything you can for their son, what with the eating and stuff. Obviously if you really cared, you'd forego food until he's cured. You rattle off the kid's stats and then kindly offer to bus their trays for them as if you actually care. Wilson looks positively verklempt at your uncharacteristic generosity, until you reveal you're just stealing their cups for DNA testing, and then he's outraged. But as soon as you offer to double the bet, his outrage fizzles like an open can of soda. Funny how that works.
With the cups in a plastic bag, you head back up to check on your patient and see if the treatment is working.
When you arrive in the hallway outside the kid's room, you see Allison bent over, holding the kid still while Chase does the lumbar puncture. You're briefly distracted by the sight of your wife's shapely little backside pushed out that way, but then you hear Chase say, "Hey Dan, isn't Dr. Cameron's necklace a beauty? Something old, I think."
Her necklace is a delicate chain that holds her wedding ring, and a simple antique diamond ring, a family heirloom that Sarah gave you to give to Allison. She wears her rings on a chain because they interfere with the latex gloves needed to treat patients. You can imagine why Chase suddenly noticed them, given that they're likely part of the gorgeous view of cleavage she's displaying while bent over that way.
"It's antique," she says, drily, and you can picture the look on her face: annoyance that someone is noticing her for one of her many lovely physical attributes and not for her brains.
"It's a cool necklace," the kid says, while staring directly down your wife's shirt.
Her breasts might be a nice distraction for the kid, but Chase is getting an eyeful too. He'll be lucky if he doesn't jab the needle into the wrong spot and paralyze the kid. It's definitely not as fun when Chase flirts with your secret wife at work.
When Allison comes out, you're annoyed even though she didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes you wish the rest of the world was as oblivious to her beauty as she is. You hand her the two cups and tell her to run the DNA tests. She rolls her eyes and looks mildly disapproving, but you cut her off, saying, "Wilson already gave me a lecture. Just do what you're told," and she moves off to the lab without a word, glancing back at you once over her shoulder, as if gauging your mood. As she walks away, you think about how a turtleneck would be the perfect work attire for her. Maybe you should buy her one or two or twelve.
MDMDMDMDMDMD
You are right; the parents aren't the biological parents. They could've saved you a hell of a lot of time if they'd just told you from the beginning, but then, you've long ago stopped expecting people to be honest and upfront about stuff. The good news is you won the bet.
"Dave, Don, Dick... whatever the kid's name is has Sub-acute Sclerosing Pan-Encephalitis, which is a fancy way of saying he's got a mutated form of the measles virus all up in his brain. There's only been twenty cases in the United States in the last thirty years. Cool, huh?"
"Can we treat it?" Allison asks, ignoring your glee over such a rare diagnosis.
"Ask the neurologist," you reply, waving toward Foreman.
Foreman suggests Intraventricular Interferon, and you agree and send them off to start the treatment, but not before collecting on your bet. You are up $1000, and you think about taking Allison somewhere special with your winnings. Somewhere where turtlenecks won't be necessary.
You're daydreaming about the possibilities when Cuddy drags you into her office to scold you about the DNA tests. Tests that cost the hospital $3200.
"It's not an actual cost," you say. "I don't know if you know this, but the hospital actually owns the sequencing equipment."
She's not buying your excuses, and she's not going to let you have your week off from clinic duty until you pay for the tests. Spoilsport. You should've upped the ante when you had the chance. You've not only lost your winnings, but another $2200, which puts a damper in your celebratory mood.
When you leave work, you find yourself going to a most unexpected place, drawn by long-buried memories your patient has evoked. It's nostalgia that brings you there and nothing more. The stands are filled with parents cheering on their kids, waving banners and wearing team colors. You feel old and out of place, in your tweed cap and wool coat, with your cane and your gray-flecked whiskers. A grumpy old man with a limp and a bad attitude, that's what you are.
Soon Allison joins you on the hard bleachers, watching you more than the kids on the lacrosse field. She takes your hand and it's that simple touch that brings you back from the edge of self-pity. You should feel even older with her by your side, like some kind of letch with a trophy wife. But she has the opposite effect on you. On the inside, she's as worn and aged as you are; she just wears it a lot better. It is still such a mystery that you found something you aren't sure you ever really believed in: a kindred spirit, your one true love, your soulmate, or whatever other corny name you could give it that you'd never say out loud.
The action on the field heats up and you find yourself rooting for the Comets for no good reason except you like the intensity of some of the players. The game is tied and time is running out and you're completely engrossed.
"Wheels, one-eight! Wheels!" you shout, gripping your cane like it's your own lacrosse stick, like you're a member of the team. Number eighteen makes the goal that wins the game and you smile.
While the boys celebrate and the crowd begins to disperse, you sit quietly with Allison and wait, the buzz of victory like an electric current in the air around you.
"That was exciting," she says, scooting closer to you on the bench as the last of the spectators climb down from the higher seats. "I'm glad we came."
You simply nod, happy you led her here, and contemplative all at once.
"You used to play." It's half question, half statement. There's an understanding in her eyes, a sympathy for the physical things you can no longer do and you look away at the now empty field.
"Briefly," you reply. "When I was a kid. We moved before I could really get into it."
"I bet you were good at it," she says with a smile.
"What makes you say that?"
"You're good at everything you do." She squeezes your arm and stands, holding out her hand. "Come on, I'll buy you dinner."
"Does that mean I have to put out later?" you joke.
"Absolutely," she says with a wink.