Thanks for the reviews! Here's the next chapter!
"Negative for Huntington's," Kutner announced. They were in the laboratory. He glanced over at Thirteen, who kept her expression perfectly indifferent. She didn't know whether to be happy that this person would not suffer the same fate as she did, or to be disappointed that once again, she was alone in the "slowly dying of a degenerative disease" box.
"Negative for MS and ALS too," Foreman said.
"Alzheimer's, negative." Taub said.
Thirteen tried to focus on her own test. When she got the results, she gasped. "Parkinson's—positive!"
"Wow. Really?"
"Young onset. It happens," Foreman shrugged. "I guess the case's solved. Start her on levodopa. We should tell House."
--
House left the hospital on his motorcycle. He stopped at a red light at an intersection. He normally went straight to go back to his apartment. Turning left would take him to Cuddy's house.
Turn left, urged the Wilson-voice. Go see how she's doing.
No way, he retorted. I'm tired and I want to go home. I'm going straight through.
Turn left.
Go straight.
The light turned green.
On an impulse, he turned left.
--
He left his bike at the curb, briefly remembering the night of madness when he almost knocked on the door to ask Cuddy out. That had been all Wilson's doing; luckily House had come to his senses at the last second. He went up the steps and knocked.
No answer.
"Cuddles!" he yelled. "Open up!"
Listening intently, he could discern a weak moan, followed by a coughing fit. Concerned, he felt along the edge of the flowerpot on her porch and found the spare key. He opened the door.
"I'm in here," she called, her voice barely a thread.
He followed it and found Lisa Cuddy's bedroom. How ironic. He was here, at long last, and she was in no condition to get down and dirty.
Cuddy was buried in blankets and duvets; yet she was visibly shivering. "Hi," she said through chattering teeth. House went over to her side and felt her forehead. It was burning hot.
"Do you know your temperature?" he demanded her, noticing a thermometer on her bedstead, along with a glass of water and open bottles of Tylenol and Advil.
"H-hundred and five," she replied.
"And you took these?" he indicated the medication.
She nodded. "Didn't work."
Geez. Her fever was high, yes, but it was not lethal. She had the flu. He had nothing to diagnose and all there was to do was to wait it out, wait for her immune system to conquer the virus.
"Do you want antibiotics?" he asked. He knew as well as she did that antibiotics did nothing for viruses, but there was an off chance her symptoms were bacteria-caused.
"N-no," she said. "Won't work and I don't want to build up resistance. I'm f-fine," she added. She closed her eyes as another agonizing shiver ran through her body. She didn't need him; he could go. Flu was nothing a world-class diagnostician needed to bother himself about. She opened her eyes, expecting him to be gone.
He was still there, looking at her with a strange mixture of concern and hesitation. She assumed the latter was due to his indecision whether to leave her alone or not. "Go, House," she said.
House still hesitated. What if her fever got higher? She clearly needed someone to take care of her, but he wasn't sure that he was the one to do it.
She said to go, said the misanthropic side of him. If it were some patient in the clinic with a fever like this, you would sigh loudly for them wasting your time, tell them to drink plenty of fluids, and send them home without a second thought.
Yeah, retorted the Wilson-voice. But that hypothetical clinic patient would have someone to take care of him back at home. She doesn't.
Yes she does. I'll just phone up Wilson and he'll be more than happy to sit by her bed and press cold towels to her forehead.
Sure, you could do that. But when she gets all better, do you want her to remember that you abandoned her in her illness and it was Wilson who took care of her?
That last one stuck.
For God's sake, it's just the flu. But that was the last protest the misanthropic little voice made. He sat down in a chair by her bed. "No," he said in a nonchalant tone, "since I finally made it into the love den of Lisa Cuddy, I figured I might as well stay and brag about it tomorrow at work."
A tiny smile appeared on her sweat-streaked face. "Thanks, House," she said so quietly that she wasn't sure he heard her.
"Yeah, yeah. Next year, take the flu shot."
--
She was afraid she wasn't much company for House, for she slipped in and out of delirium for a while. She had trouble distinguishing between reality and hallucinations; one moment she would see House there, and then he would be gone the next. When she did see him, she would be terrified that she had only dreamt him, that he would disappear any moment. "House," she moaned.
"Great, you're moaning my name," House muttered from his chair. "Pity it isn't for the right reasons."
Her hand was tense and balled up into a fist. Not really knowing why he was doing it, he reached out and stroked it gently. Her hand slowly relaxed muscle by muscle. House was almost mesmerized by it. When he realized what he was doing, he drew back as if burnt.
--
Finally, she woke up, and felt clearer than she had been all day. He was reading one of her magazines that said "Makeup Palette for the Fall" on the cover.
"I think you're a Winter," she joked weakly.
He put down the magazine. "This is very educational," he said, tapping the glossy cover. "I feel like a pioneer into the twisted land of women's minds. For example, did you know that green is the new pink?"
"That was last fall, House. Black is the new green now."
"See? That is so twisted. How do you feel?"
"Better."
He took up the thermometer. "Open wide," he said with a grin that hinted vaguely at some sexual connotation.
She rolled her eyes but opened her mouth obediently. As they waited for the mercury to rise, she was keenly aware that he was scrutinizing her. It was a little uncomfortable. She looked alternately at the ceiling, her hands, the wall, anywhere but at him. But when, by accident, her eyes finally met his, she was jolted by the intensity of his gaze. It was like she was some puzzle that he wanted—no, needed—to solve.
Finally, he broke it by taking the thermometer out of her mouth and checking it. "Yeah, it's gone down a bit. Do you want to eat? I ordered in." Afraid that she might think he was being too nice, he hastened to add, "I used your credit card. And I also rented some porn since you won't be up for any action anytime soon."
"Good to know," she said. She sat up slowly. He went out to reheat the takeout.
Why is he doing this? She wondered. The last person he had been this considerate with was…Stacy.
Oh.
--
She managed to keep her food down, though she felt nauseous a couple of times and nearly succumbed to the trash can.
After making sure she ate and drank more water, he stood up, grabbed his cane, and headed towards the door.
"Are you leaving?" she asked, and was surprised at hearing the note of desperation in her voice. What was she going to do, ask him to stay? Sleep on her couch with his leg?
House had heard it too. He paused. "Yeah," he said.
"Oh." She struggled to recover some of her dignity. "Okay."
"I have to go to work tomorrow. You know, unlike you?"
"Yeah, I get it," she smiled. She wanted to ask if he was coming tomorrow, but all she said was, "Bye."
"Bye."
And he was gone.
I enjoy the inner dialogue House has with the Wilson-voice, don't you? The next chapter will be a lot more cheerful, I promise! But meanwhile, you might want to keep me motivated by reviewing! Pretty please?
P.S. Speaking of makeup palettes--check out A Little Bit of Fry and Laurie on youtube. The sketches are hilarious. Hugh looks great in drag ;)