Chapter 75 — Heart to Heart

A/N: We're well past apologies at this point. I was five years younger than Anya when I started this. Now I'm five years older than her. I hate myself.

Thank you to angelstraightfromhell, MiaEther, CalvinHobbesGatsby, Yuuki no Yuki, Iland Girl, SAM-SAM, HeatherSS1, Robin, Lauren, , Saashi samy, CamiStark13, An-Angels-Lily, animecraz85, batman1010, A, and all the guests for their reviews on the last chapter.

"You don't really think things are just going back to normal after this, do you?"

I was trailing House's footsteps into the hospital. We'd gone in together, since I'd been blessed with another day on first shift. There was a substantial lack of those in my near future, with a slew of 7pms to 7ams approaching. Per Regina, "better to get used to twelves now rather than later."

"Are you really still trying to talk to me about this? Don't you have an off switch?"

"If you didn't want me to try to talk to you about this, you never should have told me."

"Yeah, I'm getting that now."

After telling me the night before that he had broken up with Cameron, House had absolutely shut down any attempt thereafter to have a conversation about it. I didn't know what was said—whether it was amicable or not—nada, zip, nothing. I once again found myself missing having 24/7 access to House's personal life available to watch on television. Only seeing things from my own point of view, usually greatly limited by House's insistence on lying to me or minimizing absolutely everything that happened to him, was becoming more frustrating by the day.

"Look at me and tell me you honestly think this isn't going to impact work," I demanded, halting by switchboard to clock in at the terminal there, something House got to skip as a salaried employee.

"If it does, that's on her. We were boss and employee before, then boss sleeping with employee, then boss dating employee. She's obviously adaptable."

"Because it would be totally irrational for her to not want to work under her ex-boyfriend," I said with a roll of my eyes, clipping my ID badge back onto the chest pocket of my scrubs.

"She loves this job more than she loves me. At least she should," he told me as we headed for the elevators.

"And you'll be able to treat her just like you treat Chase and Foreman?"

"I did when we were dating."

"You're not anymore."

"I'm sorry, weren't you encouraging me to dump her not long ago?"

"I was encouraging you to do what felt right to you, but trying to pretend there's no consequences to this is naive at best."

"Ignorance is bliss." He stabbed the button for the elevator with his cane. "Like the bliss I'll feel when you spend the next eight hours annoying psych patients instead of annoying me."

"My patients like me," I sniffed, my nose possibly (undeniably) in the air. "The dayshift charge told me the other day that I have the magic touch. It's almost like I have experience working with the mentally ill."

House barked out an exaggerated, mirthless laugh. "Oh, I get it, you're saying I'M mentally ill. That's hilarious."

"You're not mentally well, that's for damn sure." We stepped into the elevator. House and I seemed to spend a great deal of time arguing in elevators. Even with the show being reality to me now, some tropes still applied.

"Save armchair psychology for PM hours," he requested, massaging his brow. "I will not be more or less of an ass to Cameron just because we broke up. Honest Indian. Happy?"

"If I believed you, maybe. And even if you can treat her as if nothing happened, Cameron might not be able to do the same. If you told me how things went down, maybe I wouldn't be so on you about this..."

"If this is you trying to manipulate me, you suck at it."

"Just tell me what happened, House."

"Mad that you don't have a perfectly positioned camera over my shoulder at all times anymore?" he taunted. "And ope, so sorry, looks like we're out of time." The elevator opened at the fourth floor, and House couldn't get away fast enough.

"You'll lose her if you don't handle this right!" I called after him. "You have to take this seriously, House!"

The door closed before I could receive a response—not that I really thought I was going to get one in the first place.

I could only hope that House and Cameron would both handle this like adults. A pipe dream, I know, but if something caused Cameron to leave her fellowship early, it would wreak such absolute hell on the timeline that I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to get it on track again. And if I couldn't at least sort of predict what was coming, that meant I was fuck-all useless, and had more or less defeated the point of me being here before season two even came to a close.

Anxiety upon anxiety piling in my chest, I took a deep breath, trying to push it aside. Tammi had said last week that as a psych nurse, you had to leave your own baggage at the door. This wasn't a place for our baggage—it was for the patient's, and our own would only get in the way.

So I checked my baggage at the door, and stepped out into the psych ward, trying to shift my thoughts away from House as much as possible—at least for now.

"Another one-to-one?" I asked, checking today's assignments. "Who do I have today?"

Tali passed me a patient file from where she sat at the nurse's station. Our ward secretary had called off, so she was on paperwork for the day. "You're with Scottie. She just came over from Pathways. Had to detox her first."

"IVDU?" I asked, accepting the file.

"Nope, she's a boozer. Not super bad—chart says she didn't show any seizure activity, but she did have to dry out. Lotta puke. She's still on Zofran. Can't handle a lot in her stomach."

"Why is she a one-to-one—oh." I quickly found the notes from her ER doc. Came in for a suicide attempt, alarmingly high BAC. She'd only been in Pathways for forty-eight hours, so her seventy-two hours psych hold still applied. Anyone suicidal got a sitter. Especially ones who were refusing any psych meds, which Scottie evidently was.

"Yeah. She's a hot mess. She's got inattentive ADHD, GAD, and MDD. Only med she was ever prescribed was xanax, but according to her she liked them too much, so she had to stop."

ADHD, anxious, and clinically depressed. That was a hell of a combo. "That's...a pretty typical side effect of xanax." I flipped through a little more. Her full name was Evelyn Scott, but it was specified several times that she only wanted to be referred to as Scottie. "Neuropsych said she tested out with a genius IQ? Wow."

"146. Not too shabby," Tali agreed. "Smart enough to know the world is a huge bummer, not smart enough to realize that an entire bottle of Oxy washed down with bottomshelf gin is not necessarily the answer."

I hummed in response. "Anything else I should know?"

"She's in one of the Bubble Rooms. Threw a book at Calvin yesterday."

"Why?"

"Calvin said she just did it for no reason. But, Calvin's kind of dick, so I bet there's a reason."

I nodded, tucking the file under my arm and grabbing the cup of coffee Tali had so kindly brought me. "Alright. Let me know if you need me. Am I with her all day?"

"Yep. Hey, look on the bright side, at least this one keeps her clothes on."

"Small mercies."

I departed the nurse's station, heading for the Bubble Rooms. Scottie was at the far end of the hall. Kim, one of the older nurses, sat in a plastic chair, occupied with a harlequin romance novel. She looked up as I approached. "Oh, thank God. I was about to fall asleep." She rose from her chair and stretched, several bones cracking and popping in the process. "Have a good shift." And with that, she was gone, and I was alone with Scottie.

I poked my head into her room. There she was, cross-legged on her bare mattress. I knew from her file she was twenty-three, but she looked even younger. She had thick, messy brown hair, and bangs that reminded me deeply of the 2008 emo scene. Which, considering the current year in this universe, she was technically ahead of her time.

She looked familiar too—I'd seen her before, hadn't I? But where? So many people passed through the hospital, it was anybody's guess.

"Hi Scottie," I greeted with a smile. "I'm Anya. I'll be with you for most of the day. How you doing?"

Scottie looked up at me, arching a single, sardonic eyebrow before quickly turning her eyes away. "Consider where I am, and I think that question doesn't need answering."

This was going to be fun. "Okay, going off the standard of being in an isolation room in a mental ward—how are you doing?"

"Shitty," she answered shortly. She looked back at me, narrowing her eyes. "Wait, I know you. You're House's kid."

I tilted my head. "Do you come here a lot?"

"Ha. Forty hours a week. I work here."

"Ohhh, okay. I thought I recognized you from somewhere. What department are you in?"

"Registration," she answered blandly. "I'm the ER runner."

To be honest, I only had the barest understanding of what registration did, and I didn't know what an ER runner was. Seemed like a good starting point for a conversation. I pulled the chair close to the threshold of her door and settled in. "What does the ER runner do?"

"Register patients in the ER," she answered, as if it was obvious. "Get their basics, address, phone number, emergency contacts, whether they want a clergy visit or not, PCP, etcetera. And I receive ambulances when they come in. It's an easy job once you get used to the, you know, everything." She gestured vaguely with a hand. "It's the ER. Shit's insane."

It was difficult to imagine someone with her list of disorders handling such a high stress job. Though, given everything in her file, apparently she wasn't handling it well. "Do you like it?"

She brightened somewhat at that. "Actually, yeah. I like it a lot. High-paced stuff works well for me."

"And you don't panic at all, working in a place like that?"

Scottie rolled her eyes. "I know GAD is in my file, but that doesn't mean I'm anxious over everything. Trust me, I'm never anxious over things I actually should be anxious about. I'm calmer at work than anywhere else."

I leaned forward. "So, if you don't mind me asking...how'd you end up here?"

She looked away again. She wasn't good with eye contact. Not surprising. "You're a nursing student, not my psychiatrist."

"I know. You don't have to tell me anything. I just figured, if we're stuck together today, I could get to know you."

"Just remember HPPA. I don't want a fucking soul in this place knowing what went down. It's already embarrassing enough that my own department knows. Registered and admitted by people I work with everyday...I don't ever want to show my face here again."

"You're not the first PPTH employee to end up here," I told her gently. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Oh yeah? Being this fucked up at my age, that's nothing to be ashamed of? I don't even have a reason to be like this."

"Brain chemistry seems like a pretty good reason."

That answer only seemed to frustrate her. "Look. I don't have any kind of sob story. Parents couldn't have been better. In school, kids were mean, but kids are always mean. I don't have any deep dark childhood trauma to work through. I just...can't handle..." She shrugged. "Fucking anything, apparently."

"When did you start drinking?"

She scratched the back of her head. "Twenty. I was straight-edge as a teenager. But, once I got a taste for it," she made a farting sound.

"What do you like about it?" These were all questions I'd heard Alan ask before in group. We had a lot of recovering addicts come through. Addictive tendencies and mental illness usually went hand in hand. My mind threatened to drift towards House once more, but I forced myself to stay on task. "What does it do for you?"

Scottie seemed to contemplate the question. "Imagine...having a hundred radios and TVs on in your head, all the time. And you can't turn them off. There are no off buttons. Then one day, you drink, and it all just...stops." She laid down on her mattress, folding her hands behind her neck. "It made me feel like a normal person. Like I could function like everyone else."

"Well...normal's pretty overrated, honestly."

"You don't get it," she insisted. "I can't—I can't even drive. When my mom was trying to teach me, I couldn't focus, I—I nearly killed the two of us, one time. Now anytime I get in the driver's seat, I have a panic attack. Forget to eat, I can't sleep sober, fuck, before I got this job, I could hardly bring myself to shower. I can't—I can't make my body do anything. Not anything useful."

"What useless things do you do?" I challenged. "If it's something you like, that's not really useless, is it?"

"You don't get it," she repeated again. "I—I'll decide—okay, no, let me rephrase that, I'll get obssessed with one particular thing—blow shitloads of money on it, it's all I think about, all I do for weeks and months—and then one day, it stops giving my brain the happy juice, and then it's just—" she motioned to her head. "Just fucking empty up here. Nothing. I don't even...I don't even feel like I'm here half the time."

"Has it always been like that for you?"

"I mean, kinda. But it gets worse the older I get. I feel like...life stacks on you. And your back's gonna break eventually."

"Was this your back breaking?" I asked softly, hoping I could continue getting her to open up to me. I wanted to note this all in her chart. It would be important for her therapy while she was here, if she chose to stay after her seventy-two hour hold was up.

"Been broken for awhile." She turned over on her side, more of an attempt to not look at me. "Enjoy being nineteen," she said, "because you're just gonna see the world for what it is more and more, and you start to see yourself for what you are, and you start to lose hope."

"Twenty-three seems pretty young to lose hope," I ventured.

"I just realized, I'm always going to be like this. There is no solving what's wrong with me. It's intrinsic. And sure, I could get put on meds—meds that I'd inevitably get addicted to because I can't do literally anything in moderation. So it's either OD and die, or take myself out of the game early. There's no way out for me. The deck's stacked against me from the start."

I watched her, heart aching in my chest. A lot of sad cases came through IPMH, but seeing someone so young be so totally devoid of any hope whatsoever, to be so consumed by self-hatred, to feel so utterly trapped...it was hard to see.

"You know my dad," I said abruptly.

Scottie grunted. "Everyone knows your dad. He's an asshole. No offense."

"None taken." I carefully schooled my train of thought, trying to piece together how best to put this. "But, he's also one of the best doctors in the world. He thinks in ways other people don't. Saves patients no one else can. Because he's different."

She didn't seem impressed by where I was going with is. "Oh, just overcome your mental illness by sheer force of will, Scottie, and you too will someday be a dickhead doctor who makes too much money and has a stack of patient complaints taller than he is."

"I didn't say anything about overcoming," I told her lightly. "Not to say that House hasn't made the best of a lot of bad situations, but he hasn't coped with any of his own bullshit, and trying to get him to is like pulling teeth. He is a crippled, mentally ill—"

"Drug addict," she interjected. "I see how much vicodin that dude slams down. Can't believe he's still alive."

"Okay, crippled, mentally ill drug addict, who has never come within twenty feet of a psychologist. House hasn't overcome anything. But he still gets up everyday, and lives his life, and finds joy wherever he can. He's authentically himself, whether that's in spite of everything or to spite everything, I don't know. But everyday he makes that decision to roll out of bed, and I think that alone is a hell of an accomplishment."

I earned a laugh from her. "Dr. House exists to spite God," she said. "Sounds about right."

"He'd probably like that tag-line," I admitted. "I guess what I'm saying is...yeah, what you've got is a handicap, but it can be a super-power too. That hyperfocus? That's something only people with ADHD can get. You can do a lot with that, even if you're not controlling what you're hyperfixating on. And by the sounds of it, I think you like your job, and you're good at it, so it's clearly giving you an advantage there."

"Hate to break it to you, but you're not going to be able to put a positive spin on depression and anxiety."

"And that's why meds are probably a good idea for you," I said gently. "There are options for mood stabilizers that aren't addictive. I get wanting to avoid ADHD meds—Vivanse, Aderall, they're addictive as all get out. But there are things that can help you. That can maybe make the world seem a little brighter."

"But it isn't brighter," she argued. "It'd all be lies. What's the point?"

"The point is to be happy," I responded. "We only get one shot to be here. We might as well try to be happy while we're at it. And there is no objective truth about the world—life is not objectively good or objectively bad, neither are people. It's all about what you do with it. What you choose to focus on."

She curled tighter into herself. "Three weeks here and you've already got platitudes down pat. Impressive."

I deflated somewhat at that. "I'm just saying. It's all up to you. People don't change if they don't want to."

She fell silent for a bit, and I busied myself with finishing my coffee and checking my phone to make sure that Cameron hadn't flipped any tables in diagnostics. I hoped if things went particularly south, someone would let me know so I could invoke my ten minute break and go try to do damage control.

"You call him House."

I looked up in surprise. Scottie was upright again, chin resting on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs.

"I do," I acknowledged.

"I suppose it makes sense. Rumor mill says you didn't even know about him until recently."

"Fall 2004. Kind of a shock."

"What's it like, having him for a dad?"

I wasn't surprised by the interest. I was evidently an item of gossip around the hospital, inevitable given my connection to House, so she was probably eager for some insight. "Dad's a strong word. House is my friend, and he's my roommate. I care a lot about him. But, he didn't exactly step into a dad role with me, and I don't think he ever will. That's not him."

"And you're okay with that?"

"I'm okay with House being House."

"Even though he, you know. Sucks?"

"Yes, even though he sucks," I confirmed.

A few more beats of quiet, then, "Would you change him? If you could?"

That was a question I'd thought of far too many times. I still didn't have a good answer for it. I was here specifically to change things. But changing House? I certainly hadn't been batting them out of the park on that account. But...I wasn't so much trying to change him. House was who he was at his core. Did I want him to make changes in his life that would make him happier? Yes. Would I ever want House to suddenly adopt basic human decency and impulse control...?

Well, he wouldn't really be House then, would he? For all he was a constant and massive headache for me, I adored House. He'd been my favorite character for a reason. He was spontaneous, hilarious, insightful. He constantly kept me guessing, still able to surprise me, even with all my future knowledge in tow. If you started cutting pieces away, there was no telling what could get lost in the process.

I wanted House to be happy—or as happy as he could be. But I didn't want him to lose himself in the process.

"I've always taken House as he is," I eventually said. "And I always will."

"That's not really an answer."

She wanted something more decisive. "Alright then—no. I wouldn't change him. Some of his habits, maybe. But not him."

We didn't talk much after that, and eventually Tali came to relieve me for my lunchbreak while the charge nurse watched the phone for her. I trudged out of IPMH, feeling heavy. I didn't know if my conversation with Scottie had even been in the vicinity of helpful for her. I just wished there was something I could say—something that would give her hope.

Hope was the thing with feathers, and we all had to catch our own birds.

I took the elevator to the fourth floor, lunch pail in hand, ready to go view the wreckage in diagnostics. When I arrived, however, there was only one person to be found: Cameron. Exactly who I needed to see. If I could induce word vomit out of anyone, it was Cameron.

I pushed through the door, set my lunchpail down, looked at her, and asked point-blank: "What the hell happened?"

She looked up at me, and I noted the bags under her eyes. "House didn't tell you?"

"He gave me the heavily abbreviated cliff-notes version, so, basically nothing. If you're comfortable with telling me, I'd really like to know what went down."

She wrapped her arms around herself, practically shrinking into her chair. She seemed so much older than twenty-seven. "He said I wouldn't have a future with him, and it was better to let go now."

"And...?"

"That was pretty much it. I...I brought up, maybe, taking over a dresser drawer in his room. To keep some of my clothes there. And boy, did he pump the brakes."

I could tell she'd spent a lot of time crying over the past few days. Poor Cameron. I hadn't entertained any delusions about her and House lasting, but I still hated to see her heartbroken like this. I couldn't deny a twinge of guilt on my part—I had been the one encouraging House to spend time with Cameron last year, thus causing them to grow closer...if I'd refrained from meddling, the timeline might have proceeded as normal, and I could have saved Cameron the pain.

"I'm so sorry Cameron," I said, which was probably unwelcome coming from her ex's supposed-daughter, but, I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"It's not your fault, Anya." She sucked in a deep breath. "I'll get past it. This job is too important to let what happened with House and I interfere with anything. Things will just...go back to normal."

So they were both laboring under the misconception this wouldn't impact the department. Cross-generational naivete, then.

"Probably the last person you want ot hear this from, but, I'm here if you need me."

Cameron rewarded me with a weak smile. "Thank you. And you're not the last person I'd want to hear it from. Your father is."

We both chuckled half-heartedly at that. I rifled through my bag, extricating a package of fruit snacks. "Sympathy fruit snacks?" I offered.

Cameron gave me an amused look, but accepted the fruit snacks. "I feel better already."

I proceeded to sit down with Cameron, eating lunch while I gently pestered her about their current case. We were on Sex Kills now, which was a particular good episode, and I wanted to try to keep up with it as much as possible. Cameron was evidently just waiting for the boys to come back from their particular tasks House had ordered them to complete—Cameron had been put on the simple task of running an STD panel and had already finished.

"But how are things going upstairs?" she asked as I finished my PB&J.

Since Cameron (and the rest of the team) had no qualms relentlessly violating patient confidientiality with me, I supposed I could grant her the same courtesy. "I'm on a one-to-one. Twenty-three year old alcoholic on suicide watch."

"That's so young," Cameron commented, the same thought that had crossed my mind.

"Any age is too young to try to off yourself, but...I don't know. She's getting to me."

"Why? Because she's not much older than you?"

"Maybe." I wasn't sure myself, really. "Does the world really beat you up that quickly? I get that growing up means facing a lot of hard truths, but...she just seems so hopeless."

"She's mentally ill, Anya," Cameron reminded me. "You seem pretty even to me. I don't think you'll ever have to worry about ending up in IPMH."

I took the comfort, shooting Cameron a smile. "Let's hope not." I checked my phone. "I gotta get back. Good luck with the case—I'll stop in later, if I can."

Cameron bid me goodbye, still seeming like she was on the verge of crying at any moment, but I pushed that to the back of my head in favor of being consoled by the knowledge that Cameron was going to tough out the post-breakup feels in order to finish her fellowship. At least that meant the timeline hadn't had a hydrogen bomb dropped on it.

I returned to IPMH, and Scottie, feeling full and less like a nervous wreck than I had that morning. Scottie had her lunch tray, a turkey and swiss sandwich, strawberry milk, and pretzels. She munched along with her back to the door, staring up longingly at the singular high window in the Bubble Room.

"Miss me?" I called to her as Tali vacated the chair.

Scottie glanced at me over her shoulder. "So much."

"Tali, can you sit for Anya for one more minute?" Tammi hollered from down the hall. "I need to talk to her."

"Someone's in trouble," Scottie cracked. "Enjoy the lashes."

Tali and I shot each other an alarmed look, and then I went to meet Tammi at the nurse's station.

Tammi leveled an even look at me, as if trying to extrapolate something from my vaguely worried expression. "What did you say to that girl?"

"Wh—you mean Scottie?"

"Yes."

"We talked for awhile, about a lot of stuff. Why?"

"Because she took her meds with her lunch, and said to tell her attending she's willing to talk later about medication once she's out. That's a hard left turn from 'fuck you, I'm not taking any meds'."

"I...I don't know what I said," I told her honestly. "I didn't really think she was listening to me."

"Well, evidently she was," Tammi said. She clapped me on the shoulder. "Girl, I'm going to steal you when you get your license. You need to be in psych."

I laughed nervously, still baffled by Scottie's 180. "We'll see. Still not sure psych is for me."

"If it isn't, it should be." She nodded in the direction of the Bubble Rooms. "You're free to go."

I swapped with Tali once more, taking my seat by Scottie's door. "So," I said.

Scottie glanced up from her pretzels. "So?"

"You said you'd be willing to try meds."

She shrugged, almost seeming embarrassed. "Yeah, well."

"What made you change your mind?"

She took a deep breath, staring down at her near-empty tray. "I live alone."

I blinked. "Okay."

"I don't...I have trouble making friends. I'm bad with uh, well, pretty much the whole thing. Acting like a normal person long enough to make someone want to be my friend is probably where I trip up. And relationships, forget it. It's pretty much me, my cat, and nightly calls to my mom and dad." She swallowed with difficulty, suddenly seeming to lose interest in the remnants of her food. She set her tray to the side. "But. House..."

Ah, so it was something I said about House. "House has people who love him."

"Yeah. And the dude is like, a mad scientist with a cane and a pill problem. But, you love the guy, and you love him for what he is. And it's not like it's 'cause he's your dad, because you said earlier you don't really view him like that."

"Definitely not."

"And that oncologist, Watson, or whatever his name is—follows the guy around like a lost puppy."

"Wilson," I corrected. "And yeah, he does. Wilson loves House, too."

"I was looking at the on-call schedule the other day," she shared. "We have to get ahold of doctors pretty often in Reg. And I noticed no one was on-call for diagnostics, which I've never seen happen before. I asked my supervisor about it, and she said his fellows were helping him move."

I nodded. "Yep, everyone helped out—made a huge difference. We saved a fortune on professional movers."

"I guess I just keep thinking, if people can care about House when he's such a fuck-up, then eventually, someone's bound to care about me, right?" She sighed, looking back at the window once again. "So, I'm gonna try to stick around for a bit, see what happens. And can't hurt to try some happy pills. Worse comes to worst, at least I get free, legal drugs. The hospital's mental health coverage is banging."

I beamed at her, almost wordless with delight. House being a near-irredeemable jerk might've saved someone's life. Talk about leading by example.

"I'm psyched to hear that—but I do have one more question," I said.

"Shoot."

"Why'd you throw that book at Calvin?"

She threw her head back and laughed, surprising me. "Oh, no reason. I went to school with him and he was always an asshole to me, so I figured this was the one and only time I could get away with some payback." She turned her expression into one of mock innocence. "I'm just a poor little girl in a mental ward, I can't POSSIBLY be held responsible for my actions here."

I decided with a barely restrained giggle that I liked Scottie.