Chapter 72 — Eye of the Beholder

A/N: Thank you to Rubyia, SoleFaith, Girl-luvs-manga, BrySt1, Iland Girl, honeybeemotorcycle32, CasJeanne, HeatherSS1, OldSFfan, Robin, SAM-SAM, ARANELLA, Saashi samy, Angelstraightfromhell, acelticdream, warmsundae, Lazarith, MiaEther, Butterfly Wings Chaos Theory, LukeAnLaura, Kovou, saraabigailmtzcruz, and all the guests for their reviews on the last chapter!

Hello, all. Resident essential healthcare worker here, trying not to lose their mind in the middle of a global pandemic. But, in spite of still working, every other aspect of my life is on hold thanks to shelter-in-place, so guess who has free-time again? Let's see if I can at least get us to the end of S2 while this is all going on...

"You will do five rotations in the next six months. For those of you looking to be surgical nurses, you will have the opportunity to do an additional, extended rotation in surgery over the summer, and get a separate certification for Surgical Nursing. For those of you not interested in that, you will do a psych rotation, ER rotation, ICU rotation, Pedes rotation, and a rotation on one of the telemetry floors, all here at Princeton Plainsboro."

I vaguely recognized Regina from the show, and from all the time I'd spent wandering the hospital over the past year and a half—she was the Chief Nursing Officer at PPTH, and hated House just as much as every other nurse at PPTH, which could only mean bad things for me, but I was trying not to focus on that.

We were in one of the assembly halls at PPTH, me and over a hundred other nursing students, getting the rundown on what exactly we would have to go through in order to get our licenses. Regina gestured at several wide folding tables in front of the assembly hall stage. "If you'll all come up here, find the packet with your name on it, and you'll find which group you will be in, and your rotation order."

Everyone made to stand up, but Regina stopped us with a hand.

"This class will produce amazing nurses. This class will produce mediocre nurses. And this class will lose a lot of nurses. It's like that every year I've been here, and it'll be like that every year until I retire or this place finally kills me," Regina told us. "Some people can't handle this. Actually, a lot of people can't—this job, it's one of the hardest things you'll ever do. And for some of you, it'll be worth it. For some of you, it won't." She took a deep breath, looking out at all of us, sizing us up. "Nursing is hard, but it's important. And a lot of times, it is amazing." She smiled. "Good luck. All of you. Come get your papers."

And so we did. I found my packet on the leftmost table, amidst the other 'C' last names. GROUP B was written on it in Sharpie.

"Rotations start next Monday," Regina said. Before stepping away from the podium, she added, "Don't mess this up."

I'd barely made it out of the assembly hall before ripping open my packet to find my rotation order, praying I'd be in Pedes first, as I already knew most of the nurses there, and they liked me in spite of being the infamous Spawn of House. Alas, my hopes were quickly dashed—I was going to Inpatient Mental Health first, then the ER, then Pedes, then Telemetry, then finally the ICU. At least I wasn't getting sent straight into the ER. Talk about getting thrown into the fire and having people watch you burn.

I flipped through my schedule for the next five weeks—I'd be bouncing between Inpatient Mental Health and Pathways, the drug rehab on the hospital's top floor. At least I wasn't completely inexperienced when it came to mentally ill addicts. I owed twenty hours in the clinic too, but that wasn't so bad. I probably spent twenty hours in the clinic a month following House around anyway.

The true prize of the packet was stuffed in along with the papers; I withdrew it with a mile-wide grin. My stethoscope. Of course I'd been given one to use in class during practical training, but I'd never had one of my very own.

Not a doctor, sure, but this is still pretty fucking cool.

"What group are you in?"

I was startled by the sudden voice at my side. I turned to see Tali, a girl I'd shared most of my classes with at school. We were on friendly terms—small talk and pencil sharing when the need called for it, but I hadn't expected her to care about my placement. Tali was a tall, graceful, well-spoken Native American girl who had been one of the few to outstrip me academically at ATP. In comparison, I felt like a hobbit who had just crawled out of a hole in the ground and decided to see if I could make it up here with the real adults.

"B," I said, flashing my packet at her. "What about you?"

She showed her own. Group B as well. "I'm...not psyched about being in IPMH."

"Neither am I," I admitted. "But it's only five weeks, and I'm not exactly hellbent on being a psych nurse, so how bad can it be?"

"Love the optimism," she joked with a sly little smile. "We'll see how long that lasts."

I laughed nervously, not really knowing what to say. Tali strode away, throwing a hand in the air. "See you Monday," she called.

"See you Monday," I replied faintly, trying to ignore the pit of anxiety gnawing at my stomach. I was all fine and well sitting at a desk taking tests, but would I be any good in practice?

Only one way to find out.

The sound of thunder woke me up.

I squinted at the narrow shaft of gray light leaking through the windows. A quick check of the clock told me it was a little past eight. Monday had come wickedly fast, and today was my first day of clinicals. My shift was ten to six, so I could've slept a little longer, but with the storm raging outside, I knew that wasn't going to happen.

I glanced at the couch. Wilson was already gone, at work at 8am sharp as per usual. I pushed myself up off of the floor, dislodging myself from the nest of blankets and pillows I'd been calling my bed since Wilson moved in with us. House hunting was still going not-so-well. Finding a place big enough for the three of us that didn't have a set of stairs for House to contend with had been enormously difficult. His lease was already up, but he'd been putting off resigning it. That still put me on one hell of a deadline, though. All it would take was House's landlord to show up and demand for him to resign or get out to put my plans out to pasture.

I had to figure out something, and quick. Never mind the fact that I'd had to majorly cut my hours at Ryan's with clinicals approaching. I would cycle through all three shifts, so I could only work a few hours here and there. Which was especially bad, given I needed money now more than ever, if me, House, and Wilson had to drum up first and last month's rent and a security deposit. Never mind moving expenses, which would be hefty, thanks to House's piano.

It was like Zach had said; I needed a job within the hospital. Something that paid a living wage, and I could do easily enough while still getting my clinicals done. A lot of sleep wouldn't be in my future, but given that my bed was a hardwood floor, that didn't exactly break my heart.

Too much to think about, and too much adulting for this early in the morning. I needed coffee and breakfast in short order before I contemplated any of this.

I went to the kitchen and put coffee on the pot, then flicked on one of the burners on the stove. Wilson had picked up a nice brioche loaf, and I knew we had berries on hand—once again thanks to Wilson, as House and I had never been great about keeping fresh anything in the fridge—so I decided on french toast. I'd make enough for House and I, and maybe that would perk him up. I rarely saw House in the morning anymore, as I was usually out the door by the time he was awake, but I was painfully aware of how grumpy he could be in the early hours of the day. No surprise. His pain was always the worst when he first woke up.

Nine o'clock found me sipping a cup of sugar-loaded coffee, nibbling on french toast, and looking through the newspaper for more possible housing ventures. I circled a townhouse in Princeton Meadows over in Plainsboro. Very close to the hospital. Three bedrooms (one on the ground floor!), finished basement, 2.5 bath. With a yard, no less. I scrawled the number down on a sticky note to call when I'd finished eating. All hope wasn't lost yet.

I registered the muffled sound of House's alarm. He would be crawling out to greet me soon, likely a muttered acknowledgement over his shoulder on the way to his usual morning coffee and vicodin combo.

However, instead of the door opening, I soon heard a loud thump and muffled swearing. I was up in an instant, abandoning my breakfast on the coffee table and hurrying to House's door. I pressed my ear against it, and was met with low, pained gasping. I was probably going to regret this, but I knocked, calling, "Hey, you okay in there?"

"I don't want to hear your voice until I've been awake for at least fifteen minutes," House snapped in response, voice obviously strained.

I rolled my eyes, but went back to my breakfast and left him alone as requested. Fine. I'd give him fifteen minutes, then I was going in. If he'd fallen in there, he would need help getting up, at least this early in the morning.

It didn't come to that, thankfully, as House did shuffle out of his room before my fifteen minute deadline came to fruition. As predicted, he went for coffee, but I noticed how slowly he was moving, hand pressed to his thigh.

"House..."

"Just," he waved a hand at me, "just don't." No sarcasm in his voice, just...I didn't know what that tone was, but I didn't like it. Defeat? Maybe.

"I made breakfast," I said weakly, watching him with an ever-tightening chest. I felt useless at times like this, when his leg was particularly bad. There was nothing I could do for him, and that drove me insane. I could make grand gestures about saving House all I wanted, but I couldn't save him from this.

"Not hungry," he said as he grabbed his vicodin from the pocket of his sweats and downed three pills with a swallow of black coffee.

I cleared my throat. "Right...uh...I'm gonna call the landlord for this place in Plainsboro. It's a nice townhouse. I want to set up a viewing appointment someday this week. Is that alright with you?"

"Stairs," was House's only response. He was leaning against the counter, letting it support most of his weight. His leg trembled in spite of that.

"One of the bedrooms is on the ground floor."

House nodded stiffly. "Fine."

Apparently that was all I was getting from him. So, I made the call, and set up a viewing for six-thirty on Thursday. I would be out of clinicals with time to spare, and hopefully this time, House would show up with some shred of sobriety to cling to.

We both went about getting ready for work. I threw on my tell-tale bright red nursing student scrubs, and proudly tugged my stethoscope around my neck. When we met once more in the living room, the storm had stilled, and sunlight was fighting through the clouds. For late February, it was shaping up to be a relatively nice day.

"We could take Lola," I suggested. "It'd be a little cold, but—"

"Fine," House said again. He was staring out the window at his tarp-covered bike on the curb. I knew he wished he could ride his motorcycle to the hospital, but with his leg in his current state, there was no chance.

I looked at his profile with growing concern, and unsurprisingly, he caught me. "No, there's nothing you can do. Yes, I'm okay."

I shriveled somewhat, feeling useless. "Okay."

"Let's just go," he said, limping for the door. I followed behind him, grimacing with each step he took.

I just wished there was something I could do.

We arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes before I needed to be up in IPMH. Wilson headed off House just as he hit the doctor sign-in sheet at the information desk. He wasted exactly no time, sidling up to House's shoulder and greeting him with, "You're barely standing upright."

House scribbled his signature, dropping the pen and heading for the elevator without looking at Wilson. "Infarction's hurt. That's what they do."

Wilson and I both slowed our paces substantially so we could keep in step with House. "This could actually be a good thing, you know. It could mean your nerves are regenerating."

"Yes, because that's a thing that happens," House said tiredly.

"I mean, it is," I pointed out. "Schwann cells can sit on a damaged nerve for years before switching states, and then—"

"I've got a stethoscope too," House cut me off, irritated. "I know how cells work. I'm aware they sometimes regenerate. I'm also aware that the percentage of cases like mine where that happens is comically low."

I subconciously pulled my stethoscope tighter around my neck. "You never know."

"You should check out rehab," Wilson said. "Of the physical kind, since I know I can't convince you to try the other one."

"Did the rehab thing. Not a fan."

"You went to one session!" Wilson exclaimed. "And you didn't even finish that one."

"The guy wanted me to visualize the healing. I can do that at home," House said, hitting the button for both the fourth and fifth floors, before slipping his Vicodin out of the pocket of his blazer. He emptied two more pills into his hand.

"Five before breakfast?" I asked.

"This is my breakfast," House replied.

"You know, with prolonged use, gabapentin can help regenerate nerves," I said. "Have you ever tried that?"

"Only interested in one medication, thanks. Never mind the fact that I'd have to be on gabapentin for the next decade for it to do any good."

"A semi-functioning leg by fifty-seven doesn't sound that bad to me."

"I can finally start running marathons again," House said, dismissing me.

"At least let me get you an MRI," Wilson said.

House shook his head. "It's a simple equation. More pain, more pills." He popped the two Vicodin into his mouth, and as one, Wilson and I sagged with defeat.

"House!"

We all turned. Cuddy was striding up to us, heels clacking all the way. She brandished a case file at him just as the elevator doors opened.

"Teenage supermodel. Presented with double vision, sudden aggressive behavior, cataplexy—"

I snatched the file out of Cuddy's hand as we stepped into the elevator. "You had him at supermodel." The doors closed on us before Cuddy could say much more.

I passed House the case-file. He arched an eyebrow and accepted it, flipping it open. He whistled in appreciation. "Nice."

Wilson peeked over his shoulder. "Nice," he agreed.

"Check her age, boys. She's fifteen," I told them, tapping the date of birth on her facesheet.

"So?" House said immediately.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "God, this episode didn't age well."

"What's the episode name?" Wilson asked.

"Skin Deep. It'll make sense when you figure out the diagnosis," I said.

"Oh, now you're giving me clues?"

"Or just taunting you." The elevator doors dinged open on the fourth floor. "I'll see you guys later."

Wilson smiled at me. "Good luck, Anya."

"Make all that hard-earned student debt worth it," House added.

The doors closed again, and the elevator trundled upwards, and I suddenly felt very alone and very terrified.

Don't screw this up. You can't screw this up.

"I SAID," Trevor yelled at the top of his lungs, "I'M NOT. TAKING. THOSE. PILLS."

A chair went sailing over my head, crashing into the wall behind me.

My first day was going great.

"I heard all psych nurses smoke," Tali said, holding her own chair to fend Trevor off if needed. "I'm starting to see why."

"Trevor, you need to calm down," Alan said, hands in front of him, trying to calm down our very aggravated seventeen year old patient. Today's group had been about the importance of taking their meds after they were released. Most of IPMH's current patients had been amenable to the suggestion. Trevor, our seventeen year old with PTSD and BPD, was not a fan of the idea.

We'd gotten the rest of the patients out of the room, so now it was just the two of us and Alan, the lead mental health tech on shift, trying to calm down our angry teenager. We'd already called a Code Gray, and the charge nurse would likely be here soon with a syringe of something Very Calming, no doubt flanked by security, but until then, we had to do damage control.

"Stop telling me to calm down! I'm sick of hearing that!" he raged. "All you do is stuff pills down our throats and tell us it will make us better! It's like—like putting a bandaid on an amputated limb! Go fuck yourselves!"

"The pills alone won't help," I told him, suddenly and violently wishing I wasn't a pip-squeak. I had exactly no intimidation factor going for me. "You have to want to get better, okay? Do you want to get better?"

"There is no getting better," he said, but at least he'd lowered his voice.

"Yes there is," I said firmly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I debated moving to stand behind Alan, who was twice my size and burly to boot. A much better position in my opinion. "It'll be an uphill battle, every single day, but you can get better. With therapy, with the pills, with sheer goddamn force of will—you CAN get better. But this isn't the way to do it."

"She's right," Alan tacked on. "We're trying to do everything we can for you Trevor, but you have to work with us. You have to trust us."

"I trusted my parents, and look where that got me," he spat back. He grabbed for another chair. Why weren't these things bolted to the floor?

"We're not your parents!" I yelled, stepping out from behind Alan, trying to stop him from hurting one of us or destroying more hospital property than he already had. I didn't like the idea of getting beaten over the head with a steel chair, but no guts, no glory, right? "Put it down, Trevor. Okay? Just put it down. I know it can seem like everyone else in the world is out to hurt you, but we're not. We want to see you walk out of here, and we never want to see you come back."

"And I've seen way worse than you walk out of this place and totally change their lives," Alan said. "But not like this. So, stop, okay? Put it down. Breathe with me. Like we've been practicing. You've been liking the morning yoga, right?"

Trevor hesitated. "It's alright."

"Let's all do it together," Alan said. He inhaled deeply through his nose, holding it for a five count, then releasing it slowly through his mouth. A quick flick of the eyes to Tali and I and a subtle nod of the head indicated that we should do the same.

Tali dropped her chair, and we both joined him in the slow, steady breathing. Eventually, Trevor did too. For several minutes, the four of us just stood there and breathed.

Finally, Trevor dropped the chair. He ran a hand through the unruly curls of his hair. "Guess I have to go to the Bubblle Room now, huh."

"I'm sorry, but yeah," Alan told him. Cautiously, he went to Trevor's side, putting a hand on his shoulder. "But just work this us, try to do what we ask, and you'll be back in a normal room by dinner tomorrow."

The Bubble Rooms were where we sent uncooperative patients. A line of five of them were in IPMH's back hall, six by twelve rooms with only a mattress, no other furniture, steel doors with a plastic bubble window, hence the name. All bathroom and shower trips were supervised, and the bathroom remained locked otherwise. It didn't seem a fit place for any human, but from what Alan had told me, a lot of times it wasn't safe to have unruly patients in the normal rooms.

The door opened, and the charge nurse stepped inside, surprisingly syringe free. Her name was Tammi, and she was a busty blond in her mid-forties with a low voice who laughed from deep in her belly. She'd been the one to run me and the other nursing students through the basics when we'd come in this morning. I already liked her.

"Everything okay in here?" she asked.

Alan patted Trevor on the shoulder. "All good. We all just took a deep breath."

I could see the hospital's security personel outside, waiting with their hands clasped in front of them, but they didn't come in the room.

"We're gonna hang out in one of the Bubble Rooms for a bit and talk," Alan continued. "Are you cool to talk to me, Trevor?"

Trevor looked vaguely embarrassed, but did nod. "Yeah. Fine."

Alan escorted him out, and once Trevor was out of the room, Tali and I both nearly collapsed in relief.

Tammi just laughed, a reaction that deeply confused me.

"This is one hundred percent not funny," Tali said, voicing my own thoughts.

"You'll get a gallows sense of humor from working here, girls," Tammi told us. "A few hours into your first day and you get a Code. Welcome to PPTH!"

I sank down into one of the few non-upended chairs. "Yippee."

Her mirth faded, and she added, "In all seriousness though, good job. Neither of you are crying, you didn't scream at him, and eventually, he calmed down. I've seen plenty of nursing students crack in here. This is a good start. Now, go to lunch. You've both earned a break."

We gratefully accepted. Tammi unlocked the staff elevator for us, and then we were trundling down to the cafeteria. I leaned against the wall, running both hands over my face.

"Want a smoke?" Tali joked.

I chuckled weakly. "Almost. If that was our first day, it's gonna be a long five weeks. I'm starting to wish we'd gotten the ER instead."

"At least we don't have to watch anyone die up here," Tali pointed out. "Or accidentally kill anybody."

I frowned. "Yeah...good point."

Tali and I parted ways after picking up our food in the cafeteria. She headed to a table in the corner, and I made for Diagnostics.

House was in there with the ducklings, mid-differential. I slipped in, turkey sandwich in hand.

"I heard that Code Gray over the PA. What happened?" Cameron asked as soon as I took a seat at the table.

"Imagine a TLC wrestling match without the T and the L," I sighed. "We didn't have to stick a needle in his ass though, so. I guess it was a win."

"Pretty eventful first day," Chase commented.

"Don't remind me," I winced.

Foreman smirked. "I'd tell you it gets better, but it only gets worse from here. At least for a nurse."

"Thank you so, so much for that pep talk," I griped. "Just go on with the differential. Distract me from what I have to go back to in twenty minutes."

"I'd be delighted. New update: our supermodel is a junkie," House declared.

"Heroin in her system doesn't mean she's a junkie. She could've just tried it. She's only fifteen," Cameron argued.

"There isn't an age limit on addiction," Foreman pointed out.

House, rubbing his leg all the while, surprisingly agreed: "He's right."

"She's never menstruated. Sounds like a symptom of drug addiction to me," Chase put in.

Cameron wasn't convinced. "Or bulimia, or her age. Some girls don't start till their mid to late teens."

"Evidence to the contrary—the rounded hips, the perfectly sculpted bountiful breasts..."

Chase snorted at that. "Implants. I've seen some of her photos. They've grown dramatically since last summer." He bounced his eyebrows.

"Symptomatic of turning fourteen. Two clinic hours says that those love apples were hand crafted by God," House said, turning to Chase.

Foreman scoffed. "I thought you didn't believe in God."

"I do now."

Chase fist-bumped House. "You're on."

"Jesus, you guys are greasy," I said, looking at them all with a mixture of disgust and disappointment. Someone actually got paid to write this dialogue. 2006 was a very different time. "She's a kid."

"A kid who makes millions off of appealing sexually and specifically to adult men," House said.

"We're only human," Foreman defended.

"You guys. She's FIFTEEN. You are sexualizing a CHILD. How would you all like it if someone was talking about me that way?" Chase and Foreman immediately looked uncomfortable.

Cameron smiled. "Not so hot now, is she?"

"I wouldn't care. You're an adult. Sort of," House said, unaffected. "And we're not the one's sexualizing her. She's sexualizing herself."

"Yeah, that's why you sharpen every knife in the house whenever Zach is over," I shot back. "Now, maybe talk about the case, instead of her breasts? Just a suggestion."

House got up to refill his coffee cup. "Are you really mad about this, or are you just green with envy that she hit puberty early rather than never, like you? Forever cursed with the body of a twelve year old—"

Before House could finish his insult, his leg gave out on him, and he stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the counter.

"House—" I jumped out of my seat, though I'm not sure why. There was nothing I could do.

"Detox her," House said before any of us could inevitably ask if he was alright.

"Fine," Foreman conceded, though he was still watching House with concern. "We'll set her up on a program; they'll wean her onto the methadone—"

"If this is something neurological, we don't have four weeks to wait for her to detox like normal. Put her in a coma, pump her full of naltrexone. Cut the four weeks to one night." He finally steadied himself, rising back up to his full height, though still holding the counter for support. "Go," he nodded at the door, and the ducklings obeyed, Chase and Foreman both desperate to get out of the room as quickly as possible, detecting how House's mood had soured.

Cameron lingered when the boys had gone. "It's a bad pain day, isn't it?"

"Every day is a bad pain day," House grunted, finally leaving the safety of the counter and limping for his office. "The 'go' meant you, too."

"I could massage it later. If you want," Cameron proposed tentatively.

House stopped at the door to his office. "...Yeah. That'd be good."

Cameron almost smiled. House left us, retreating to his desk to most likely toss his ball against the wall and brood.

Cameron looked at me. "You're around him at home. Just how bad is it?"

I debated on what to tell her, but decided to go with honesty in the end. "I think he fell getting out of bed this morning. Or at least stumbled. He's barely able to walk today."

"Do you think the pain is actually worsening? Or is it psychological?" she asked, lowering her voice enough that House wouldn't be able to hear her from the other side of the glass.

"I..." In the show, it had been suggested that the pain was getting worse in wake of House sending Stacy away. So, psychological. But I didn't necessarily buy that then, and I didn't buy it now. Though the placebo 'morphine' syringe had helped House in the show...or had the high from our resident supermodel's case just distracted him from the very real, very physical pain?

And what psychologically could be causing this now? The only thing that came to mind was the fact that he was positive he and Cameron wouldn't last...maybe the guilt from leading her on? It wouldn't be the first time House's guilt manifested into physical pain. In season three, his shoulder had started bothering him when Wilson fell victim to Tritter's vendetta. Could this be a case of that?

I had no idea. And there was really no way to prove psychological vs physical—beyond that, did it even really matter? The pain was real to House either way.

"I don't know," I said. "But if this continues, I have to get him to do something. He can barely function like this, and God knows he'd never agree to a wheelchair."

"Even with the temptation of running over all our feet," Cameron said, biting her lip. "Rehab?"

"Wilson already tried that. Offered to give him an MRI too. No dice."

"Maybe if we all corner him..."

"Yeah, that sounds like something that would work on House." I gave Cameron a serious look. "I know you feel helpless. So do I. But House has to make his own decisions about this."

"His decision will be more pills," she said distantly, turning to look at House through the glass. "It always is."

House caught her eye, and chucked his ball hard against the glass wall. "I said GO, not gossip," he shouted loud enough for us to hear him.

Both wearing matching frowns, Cameron and I left the differential room as ordered.

"Just...I'm not gonna be able to around as much, with clinicals," I told Cameron. "Keep an eye on him? For me?"

Cameron nodded, squeezing my arm briefly before heading in the opposite direction. "Both eyes."