Beautiful Lies

Love your reviews, as always!

Ch. 6

The psychiatrist entered House's room to find him on his bed, playing Gameboy with the volume obnoxiously loud. "You're not allowed that here," he said mildly.

House glanced up at him. "What are you going to do about it?"

The psychiatrist sighed. He'd learnt since practically Day 1 that House was not going to be like other patients. The man was too smart, too arrogant, and in too much pain, both mentally and physically…not a good combination. "Could you at least turn it off while I talk to you?" he asked, sitting down.

House seemed to consider this for a moment, before reluctantly switching his game off. "Yes, Siggy?" he said, making an exaggerated show of paying attention.

"Siggy?" the psychiatrist looked at him.

"Sigmund, Dr. Freud," House said, waving a hand around. "Whatever you prefer to be called. How are you going to psychoanalyze me today?"

"I don't take the Freudian approach, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said patiently. "However, I must ask—since you managed to get a Gameboy snuck in—did you receive anything else from outside?"

"Like what? Vicodin?" House raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

House looked at him significantly for a moment, until the psychiatrist had really started to believe House was back on Vicodin. Then House sighed and said, "No. Taub doesn't love me that much."

The psychiatrist breathed in relief. House seemed to be telling the truth; besides, he was breathing much too shallowly to be pain-free. He decided to change the subject. "Dr. Cuddy phoned me yesterday."

A curious expression flitted over House's face —longing? Sadness?—for the briefest moment before he resumed a mask of indifference. "And what did Dr. Bigass want?"

The psychiatrist had a pretty good idea that this Dr. Cuddy was responsible for at least part of House's mental anguish. "The MRIs we took of your brain the day you were admitted."

House had gotten special permission to look at the MRIs, since he was a doctor. Also because he had whined and needled until the psychiatrist gave in. "There's nothing on the MRIs. What does Cuddy think she's going to find, a big glowing area with an arrow pointing to it, House's problem here?"

"Dr. Cuddy is trying to help," the psychiatrist pointed out gently. He knew House had looked at the MRIs for hours himself, desperately hoping to find an answer, frustrated when it wasn't that simple.

"If she'd wanted to help—" House stopped himself. He winced and grabbed his leg, a sign that his pain indeed hadn't gotten any better.

"Are you still hallucinating?" the psychiatrist asked softly.

House's eyes flicked to the left. "Yes," he said shortly.

"Of, ah, Amber?" Dr. Wilson had told him about Amber, how House believed that he was responsible for her death. That man was screwed up in so many ways.

"Yes."

"Just her?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Not just her," the psychiatrist stated. House was lying.

"Are you sure your name isn't Sigmund?" House snapped. "Are we done?"

"If you like," the psychiatrist stood up. "Till next time, Dr. House."

--

"You told a fib!" Amber teased when the psychiatrist left.

House didn't answer. He couldn't tell the psychiatrist that he'd hallucinated Cuddy again last night. That she'd curled up next to him in bed and wrapped her arms around him and whispered that everything was going to be okay. That her hair had tickled his cheek and smelt like flowers. That he knew perfectly well it was a delusion, yet he didn't want her to leave.

"Aww, how cute," Amber said. "Hallucination-Cuddy is better than no Cuddy, right?"

"At least when she's here, you're not," House retorted. "Hallucination-Cuddy beats Hallucination-Amber any day."

"Ouch," Amber said sarcastically. "I'd feel jealous if I was real. And, you know, if she was too."

"Shut up," House growled. He knew it was pathetic. But what could he do? His brain was obviously coming up with creative ways to deal with the pain. And as long as he could tell it was a hallucination, and didn't bank any real emotion in it, it was harmless, right? Just another, more solid, form of a fantasy.

"Yeah, right," Amber said. "Harmless, just like when you trusted my judgment and nearly killed Chase."

House turned his Gameboy back on, trying to drown Amber and his pain out.

--

"Give it up, Cuddy," Wilson said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It was almost eight o' clock, and they'd been looking at House's MRIs for hours. "There's nothing abnormal with House's brain. Except a bigger prefrontal cortex that makes him the genius he is."

Cuddy wasn't about to give up. "But look at the fMRI's. The anterior cingulate cortex is lit up. So is the limbic system. And these areas…"

Wilson sighed, and moved his finger across each of the areas in question. "The anterior cingulate cortex is responding to the pain. The amygdala is active, means that he was scared. More activity in his right prefrontal cortex signals negative emotions, and can you blame him? These areas there are associated with hallucination. It's telling us nothing we don't already know."

Cuddy slumped back into her chair. "You're right. I just wish I'd find an answer…"

Wilson went over and put an arm around her. "I'll bet anything House's looked at these MRIs already. If there were anything to find, he'd be the first to find it. C'mon, let's get you something to eat."

They drove to the nearest diner.

"The psychiatrist," Wilson started hesitantly over burgers and fries, "thinks that the hallucinations are a consequence of the deep-brain stimulation he did a year ago." He looked guilty.

As you should be, Cuddy thought savagely. House did the electrical stimulation for you. But she knew it was unfair. Wilson had been losing someone he'd loved; he couldn't be blamed for trying everything to save her. But what came out of it? Amber had still died. And the outfall from it was making her lose someone she loved.

Do I love House? She asked herself, astonished at her own thoughts. I always knew I wanted him, but love--?

"He thinks that the synapses are misfiring," Wilson continued timidly, unsure of Cuddy's reaction. "And combined with his use of Vicodin, are causing the hallucinations. He thinks House's brain needs a reboot."

Cuddy snapped out of it. "Like an induced coma?"

Wilson nodded.

Cuddy considered it. "But we tried ketamine before."

"And it worked, didn't it?"

"Not for long."

"Maybe not for the pain. But for the hallucinations…"

"They may come back."

"Or they might not."

Cuddy pictured House, pain-free, addiction-free, hallucination-free. House, just like she'd known him in college, before all the angst.

Yeah, right, the more skeptical part of her brain snorted. She'd pictured the exact same thing during the ketamine treatment. She'd pictured it so many times. She knew it was never going to happen. As House was fond of saying, People don't change…the least of all him.

"I need to talk to him," she said.

Wilson's eyebrows rose. "You?"

"Yes," she said.

"You realize that he'll think…" Wilson didn't need to finish that sentence.

"I don't care if he thinks he's hallucinating me," Cuddy said. "As long as he gives me an answer."

I love my Psych course.

Actual Huddy scene next chapter! Please review!