Work Text:
“Wilson!” House cries, flinging the door to Wilson’s office open with his cane. “Got a date to the dance yet?”
Wilson looks up from his paperwork as if the act causes him physical pain. “It’s not a dance, it’s a dinner to honor the head of the oncology department. But,” he says, thinking about it, “no, I guess not.”
“Excellent,” House says, because it really is. The big romantic gesture he’s planning for Wilson’s ten-year anniversary as head of oncology would not probably not go over so well otherwise. He opens the door again to leave.
“You’re not… You don’t have something planned for me, do you?” Wilson waggles his finger at House like he’s so fond of doing.
House stops in the doorframe. “Of course I do.”
“House, just— Please don’t hire a hooker. Please.”
House gasps in mock offense. “I would never,” he says, which is a lie; he would and has. Not this time, though. His best and arguably only friend is being honored for the work he does, and even if it’s mostly letting patients cry on his shoulder and flirting with nurses, House wants to do something nice. And if it leads to Wilson falling gratefully into his arms, well. He’s efficient. “Maybe I’m using my powers of evil for good.”
“Ha!” Wilson says before House closes the door. Let the games begin.
He’s back in his office, surfing the ‘net on his laptop and contemplating some planning or maybe even some light doctoring when there’s a sharp knock on the glass door.
“House,” Cuddy says, beckoning him out into the hall.
“Can’t this be done while I’m sitting down?” House waves his cane in the air.
Cuddy shakes her head, glancing at the room where his fellows are pretending to look busy. She actually waits until he walks into the hallway and closes the door behind him to start talking.
“I have a case for you,” she says. “Eighteen year old girl collapsed while hiking, heard a ringing in her ears.”
“Sure, sick teenager, whatever,” House says, accepting the file and looking at her shrewdly. “What I really want to know is why you couldn’t tell that to me in my office.”
“Well, it’s a matter of—”
“I think there’s someone you don’t want to see in there,” he guesses. “Trouble in lesbian paradise?”
Cuddy blinks. “She’s a straight-A student turning down a Harvard acceptance to go to art school. She’s—”
“I already agreed to take the case.” He shakes the file demonstratively. “I can treat her for Ménière’s Disease, and still have time to get all the gory details out of Thirteen before lunch.”
“No hearing loss,” she says. “And there are no gory details. We just had a little fight. Like adults sometimes do.”
“Oh, I get it, implying that I’m juvenile, very clever. I’ll have you know, I’m great at fighting.”
“Really,” Cuddy says. “I never would have guessed.”
House flips through the file absently. “I’m—” He stops, processing. “No hearing loss?”
“No hearing loss.” Cuddy nods. “And the ringing was in both ears.”
Alright. He’s interested.
“Differential diagnosis,” House says, tossing copies of the file to his fellows. “Patient presents with ringing in the ears, collapsed while hiking.”
“Ménière’s Disease,” Taub suggests.
“No, you idiot,” House says. “Both ears.”
Foreman frowns, reading something on the first page. “Could be neurological involvement. Says here she got accepted to Harvard, but matriculated at the Rhode Island School of Design.”
“Just because she had a change of heart means she has a brain tumor?” Thirteen says.
Foreman scoffs. “That’s a pretty big change of heart.”
“I decided I wanted to go into the seminary at her age.” Chase shrugs.
“And that worked out so well for you,” House says.
“I had to make my own mistakes.”
“Now we’re talking.” House reclines in his chair. He does so love watching his fellows argue.
“Yeah, but being a priest is pretty much a guaranteed job. An artist, not so much,” Foreman says. “A lot of people have to work hard to get where this girl is.”
“She’s throwing away her future for nothing,” Taub agrees.
Everyone glares at each other for a moment before Chase looks back down at the file. “It could be drugs. Marijuana use can worsen existing tinnitus.”
Foreman frowns. “It says on the intake form she doesn’t do drugs.”
“Everybody lies,” Chase says.
House is inclined to agree. “Chase, Foreman, get me the whole teenage workup. Test for pregnancy, STDs, drugs, misguided idealism. Figure out if she’s teenage-girl crazy, or brain tumor crazy. Oh, and Thirteen.” House points a pen at her.
“I’ll search the home,” Thirteen volunteers.
“But first,” House says, resting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands like so many teenage girls in the movies, “you will totally dish!”
“Dish?”
“Is it lesbian bed death? You can tell me. And Chase and Foreman and Taub.”
Thirteen stands up and makes a show of gathering her papers. “First of all, my relationship with Doctor Cuddy is none of your business, and second of all, I regret saying this already, but things are very much alive.”
House leers at her, buying time to think of his next guess. Taub, Chase, and Foreman likely do not have that excuse.
What, if not sexual dysfunction, would be the cause of disagreement in Thirteen and Cuddy’s relationship? Not money, probably not in-laws. A theory starts to take shape: is it Rachel, he wonders? Thirteen doesn’t want to do to Cuddy’s daughter what her own mother did to her. And, well. If House’s hypothesis is correct, even he can see this is a time to pull his punches. He says, “Oh, I know. Cuddy misses me.”
Thirteen rolls her eyes, but House can see the gratitude beneath it. She slides on her coat and motions to Taub. “I’d stay and hear more insightful pronouncements about my life, but we have a home to search.”
The patient’s room is pretty normal for a teenage girl—posters covering the walls, pastel curtains, three different kinds of acne treatment—except for the art supplies. The corner of Anna’s room across from her bed has a set of shelves built into the wall, and they’re overflowing with paints and canvases and pastels. Taub and Thirteen take one look at each other and start bagging.
Taub gingerly picks up a smushed green pastel from the floor. “So,” he starts to say, and Thirteen can already and unfortunately guess where this is going, “How are things with Cuddy?”
“Fine.”
“I mean, how is she, you know...”
“I’m not giving you the lesbian birds and bees talk. That’s what the internet is for.”
Taub actually seems to relax under Thirteen’s ice glare. “No, I’m not— Not that I don’t have questions, of course—I’m a man, for God’s sake—but I was going to ask, what’s she like out of work?”
“Oh.” Thirteen laughs. “She’s actually kind of… the same. It’s like she channels all the uptight energy of running a hospital into her personal life.” It’s not something Thirteen would have ever thought she would find attractive, but here she is smiling fondly as she rifles through the patient’s art supplies in blue latex gloves.
Taub takes a moment to at least grimace at her before providing his unsolicited advice. “You’d better make up with her,” he says. “Breaking up with your boss went so well for you last time.”
“Thanks, I forgot.”
They collect paint samples in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes before Thirteen speaks again. “Taub,” she says. “Did your wife ever want kids?”
Taub sighs. “I wanted kids, she didn’t. I knew that from our third date, but I always thought she would change her mind. I guess she thought I would too.”
“And that’s a lot of stress on your relationship.”
“Well, the cheating doesn’t help. But the kids thing is a big stressor.”
Taking relationship advice from Taub never feels good. But maybe he has a point. Before getting any more serious with Cuddy, they have to be on the same page about Rachel. It’s not that Thirteen hates kids or anything, it’s just—having children of her own never seemed like something feasible before Cuddy. Being a biological mother was always off the table, and none of the string of artists and drummers and hair stylists she’s dated were anywhere near ready to settle down. Even if they had been: treatment for Huntington’s has come a long way since her own mother died, but it’s still a terminal illness. Leaving behind a son or daughter has never been part of the plan.
Thirteen is dangerously close to opening up to Taub about these embarrassing and private thoughts when he triumphantly holds up a tube of yellow paint.
“Cadmium. Prolonged exposure could be causing a brain tumor.”
“Sure, if she had PIKA.”
“She wouldn’t have to eat the paint for it to get into her system. It dries out on the palette, aerosolizes when she cleans off the palette. Our patient's change of heart is killing her.”
The first phase of any good plan is reconnaissance. That’s why House is crouched on the floor of Wilson’s office with an industrial-grade tape measure, doing his best to get its dimensions.
It’s a nicely sized office. House might take another Vicodin and measure his own next; there could be an administrator he needs to complain to about fairness.
Think of the devil. Said administrator approaches from the hall, entering Wilson’s office and already frowning at House in her low-cut top.
House lets his tape measure roll back into itself and sits against the wall. “Heard about the bed death,” he says.
“No, you didn’t. You made that joke already, and it wasn’t funny the first time.”
“Did I?”
Cuddy sighs. “That means you guessed the real thing and this is your weird way of being tactful about it. I don’t know if I should thank you or write you up for sexual harassment.”
“I also accept gifts.”
“What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Measuring Wilson’s office! Which, by the way, is bigger than, smaller than, or the same size as mine. Either way, I have complaints.”
Cuddy sits down on the edge of Wilson’s desk. “You’re pulling a prank on him? Can’t it wait until, I don’t know, any week he’s not being recognized for 10 years of service to this hospital?”
“My god, Doctor Cuddy. I would never do anything of the sort.”
Cuddy just shakes her head. “Tell Wilson I tried to stop you.”
House grabs his cane and pulls himself to his feet. “I’m gonna need 15 square feet of carnations,” he tells Cuddy on his way out of the office.
“I don’t even want to know what that’s code for.”
Back in the office, House carefully notes down the measurements and reclines in his chair for DDX2.
Taub places a specimen bag on the table in front of him. “What’s with the tape measure?” he asks.
“It’s above your pay grade.”
“So, a prank on Wilson,” Foreman infers. “Seriously, House? Can we get to the patient? Tox screen came back clean, but her change of heart could still be a symptom. She’s giving up a life of pretty much guaranteed employment for—”
Chase cuts him off. “Yeah, so, we should do an MRI to look for a brain tumor.”
“Even when you two agree,” Taub says, rolling his eyes.
House turns to him. “Tiny, Bi-ny, find anything in the home?”
“Cadmium yellow,” Thirteen says, gingerly removing the paint tube from its bag. “Wouldn’t show up on a standard tox screen, but could have caused a brain tumor, which causes the fainting and the ringing in her ears.”
“But not the art school application.”
“No,” Thirteen answers, as if daring anyone to challenge her. “She just changed her mind. Life is short; people should do what they love.”
House wags his finger at her. “Hey, no projecting onto the patient until later. She hasn’t even crashed dramatically yet.”
Foreman taps his fingers on the table impatiently. “So, MRI to look for a brain tumor?”
“What the hell, stick her in a magnetic field. Take Bi-ny with you.”
There’s nothing Thirteen can offer to the procedure that any other doctor couldn’t, but it’s House’s duty as head of department to pair off his fellows in the best way to capitalize on those important emotional beats. Thirteen and Foreman have enough baggage to sort through to get them through 10 MRIs. Besides, he needs Chase and Taub for phase two of the plan.
Thirteen checks that the patient is comfortable inside the MRI machine before going to sit beside Foreman in front of the display monitors. She holds down the intercom button. “Stay as still as you can.”
The patient nods, and Foreman starts the scan.
“You really think Anna just changed her mind about Harvard?” he says, double-clicking to enlarge a window on the monitor.
Thirteen shrugs. “People change.”
“The brand of shampoo they buy, sure. Not their entire outlook on life.”
“This isn’t really about the patient,” Thirteen observes. Foreman doesn’t answer, just watches slices of Anna’s brain appear on the screen, which is as good as confirmation. “It’s about me and Cuddy.”
“You’re a hypocrite,” Foreman says, finally turning to look at Thirteen. “You said you didn’t want to date your boss, and now you’re dating the entire hospital’s boss.”
“People change,” Thirteen says again.
“No, they don’t.”
“I guess I just didn’t want to be with you.” Thirteen tries to say it sneeringly, like she’s feeding Foreman’s masochism, but it comes out closer to earnest. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Foreman frowns at her—thoughtful, no longer angry. “Huh. I guess it was.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway.” Thirteen leans back in her chair dramatically. “I think we might be over. I’m—I don’t know if I’m ready to be around for Rachel. I didn’t think it would be this hard.”
Foreman laughs. “You’re surprised you weren’t ready to settle down? Thirteen, when you came here, you thought giving people your real name was putting down too many roots. Of course it’s going to be an adjustment.”
Thirteen should have known it wasn’t going to be seamless, that it was going to take work. She has no excuse; it’s just hard. “I feel like I’m not qualified for this.”
“Nobody’s qualified to be a parent. Most people do it anyway.”
Thirteen nods, and then the MRI machine beeps that it’s done, which is convenient, because she’s about reached her capacity for unexpectedly insightful advice from her coworkers for the day. Or the decade. Thirteen gets up to help the patient out of the MRI machine.
“Remy,” Foreman says, and she stops in the doorway. “I hope you’re happy.” He could have said it sarcastically, meanly, but he doesn’t. Thirteen thinks he means it.
Taub slows the car, and then stops at a yellow light.
“You could’ve made that,” Chase gripes from the passenger seat. They’re on the way back from running a frankly strange errand for House, the fruits of which are in black garbage bags in the backseat and trunk of Taub’s car. A single red rose sits on the center console.
“Not everyone drives like The Fast and the Furious,” Taub says. “And I don’t want flower petals all over my car floor.”
“What d’you think House wants with all these flowers anyway?”
“The better question is why he couldn’t shlep them all the way across town himself.”
“That’s easy; his leg. And he drives a motorcycle. The better question is the one I asked in the first place: what does House want with all these flowers?”
“I don’t know what. That’s why I asked the other question.”
Chase drums his fingers on the dashboard. “What about that rose? Is that for your wife?”
“No,” Taub says, switching on his turn signal. “As in it’s no, it’s not for my wife, and no, I don’t want your opinion on my poor life decisions.”
Chase rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t offer his opinion. They drive in silence for a moment before he says, “Do things like a rose really make a difference?”
“What, wondering if bringing Cameron flowers a couple more times would’ve made her forget you killed a man in cold blood? I don’t think so.”
Chase rather regrets asking. “No,” he mutters, and is saved any further browbeating by a text from Thirteen. “The patient’s seizing,” he relays to Taub. They exchange a panicked look.
The next yellow light, Taub blazes through at full speed.
The fellows sit around the table while House stands next to the whiteboard, tossing a marker up in the air and catching it over and over again. He’s added seizure at the bottom of the list in his blocky capitals.
“She’s stable,” Foreman says, “but it’s only a matter of time before she has another seizure.”
Thirteen holds up a scan. “Nothing in her brain, but we found ependymomas. Lots of little tumors that grow in the ependymal cells of the spine. That’s probably what caused the seizure.”
“But what caused the ependymomas,” House says, tapping the marker against his leg.
“Let’s get some CSF, find out,” Chase suggests gamely.
“Yes, let’s. Thirteen, go ask our overlord for permission to do a Lumbar Puncture.”
“That’s a routine procedure,” Chase says. “We don’t need any kind of permission to do an LP.”
“Didn’t ask you. Thirteen?” House points the marker at her imperiously. Oh, it’s fun to use the threat of danger to human life to compel his fellows into emotionally compromising situations.
“Fine,” Thirteen says, standing up from her chair. “I’ll go ask Doctor Cuddy a pointless question so you can play out your manipulation fantasy. Some people have hobbies, you know.”
“You’re easy,” House says. “I thought I was going to have to seriously threaten to withhold diagnostic treatment from a sick teenage girl.”
Thirteen rolls her eyes. “Get the needle ready,” she says to Chase, and then stalks off.
Doctor Cuddy is on the phone. She holds the receiver away from her face when she sees Thirteen.
“What’s this about?”
“House wanted me to run something by you. It can wait.”
Cuddy waves a hand and says into the phone, “Sonia, can I put you on hold? Thanks.” She sets down the phone and gives Thirteen her full attention. It’s weird to be back to this level of courteous professionalism. Thirteen would almost rather Cuddy ignored her completely than hold her at arm’s length like any other coworker.
“What does House want to do now? Replace your patient’s blood with antifreeze?”
“He wants a perfectly reasonable, safe diagnostic test. And, incidentally, he wanted to force me to come to your office.”
“I guess it’s better than the antifreeze.” Cuddy sighs deeply. “I was just on the phone with my nanny, I think I’ll call her back.”
Thirteen hesitates. “Is Rachel okay?” she asks, carefully.
“Oh, no, everything’s fine, I’m just calling to make sure she’s eating all her peas.” Cuddy picks up the receiver again, but her finger hovers over the hold button. She looks up at Thirteen. “Do you want to talk to her? I could have Sonia put Rachel on.”
“I would love that,” Thirteen says, and it’s not a lie. She’s not accepting guardianship of Rachel, just talking with her on the phone. She can do this. She sends a quick page to Chase giving him the okay to do the Lumbar Puncture, and then Thirteen exchanges baby talk with Rachel on the phone for a few minutes, and it’s just fine.
House sits in a booth in the cafeteria, drinking a cup of coffee. He’ll probably get up and buy lunch at some point, unless someone arrives who he can mooch off of. Fortunately, it’s no time at all until one such someone sits down across from him.
Wilson sets down his Reuben sandwich and fries. House steals a fry immediately but has yet to even take a bite before Wilson starts wagging a finger at him. “I saw all those black bags Taub and Chase were unloading. What are you planning?”
“It’s a gift,” House scoffs, laying it on thick. “Ever heard of those?”
Wilson fixes him with a stare, and then clearly decides not to believe him. He shakes his head, but pushes the plate forward an inch or so to give House better access to his French fries. “Is it chickens? Why do I think it’s chickens?” he says with the fond air of someone resigned to let a beloved dog wreak havoc on their living room.
“Bring live animals? Into this hospital? I would never.” He would, and has. “Can’t a guy get a gift for his best friend who just happens to be celebrating 10 years as head of the oncology department?”
“No!”
House’s phone buzzes with a text from Chase, forestalling any more badgering. “They’re starting my patient on radiation for ependymomas.”
“Don’t think you can distract me by actually doing your job. I’ll figure it out sooner or later.” Wilson smugly takes a bite of his sandwich.
House just smiles. He isn’t worried. Just like he knows Wilson will grudgingly share his food, he knows this grand gesture won’t go over badly. Maybe they don’t say it like other people do, and they never will, but House doesn’t mind. He doesn’t see it as a shortcoming of their relationship. It doesn’t matter if people look in and see dysfunction; House knows it’s the real thing, and he’d bet his entire Vicodin stash that Wilson does too. Nothing else matters.
There is another benefit to the unspoken equilibrium they have going. There is no way in hell Wilson’s going to guess this one.
Thirteen and Taub take the patient for her radiation treatment. It should treat the ependymomas, but this is just a stopgap. Until they figure out what was causing the tumors to begin with, they’ll just keep growing back.
When they get to her room, she’s drawing on a sketch pad. A girl with brown hair and a large chemical burn on her arm who looks to be about Anna’s age sits on a chair beside her bed, obviously posing for the drawing. Taub opens his mouth, and Thirteen can tell he wants to get on her case about art school again. Mercifully, he waits until the girl is gone and Anna is inside the radiation chamber to complain to Thirteen.
“She’s throwing away a Harvard acceptance to doodle,” Taub says as soon as the machine is turned on.
“Lay off her, Taub.”
“Oh, you’re such a model of following your dreams.”
“If I ever had a daughter,” Thirteen says deliberately, “I would want her to do what made her happy. Not everyone has to save lives to feel fulfilled. Or make six figures as a plastic surgeon,” she adds.
“I take it things went well with Cuddy,” Taub says, ignoring the face value of her argument.
Thirteen smiles despite herself. “Weren’t we criticizing the patient? Let’s go back to criticizing the patient.”
Taub rolls his eyes, but picks up the drawing Anna was working on. “Look at this! She’s not even good.”
Thirteen looks at the drawing, and, well. Taub didn’t lie. It looks nothing like the friend Anna was sketching, or even particularly like a human person.
“Wait,” Thirteen says. She flips to the front of the sketchpad. “Look at this.” The pages from the beginning are filled with beautiful drawings—portraits of Anna’s parents, landscapes, an ink drawing of her cat basking in the sun. It’s only towards the end that the drawings become distorted, out of focus. It’s like Anna has lost her ability to accurately perceive the world around her.
“Anna,” Thirteen calls. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“She just thought she needed to get a new prescription for her glasses,” Thirteen tells the team back in their office. “I gave her an ophthalmological exam, and there was clouding in the lens of the eye.”
House adds cataracts to the board, pressing so hard the marker squeaks loudly. “Are you sure she’s 18, not 81? Our patient is looking more like an old woman every day.”
“Maybe it’s Labyrinthitis,” Chase suggests. “Bacteria in the middle ear cause swelling, infection. That would explain the blurry vision and ringing in her ears.”
House looks at him like he’s just suggested flying pig disease. The longer they go on without finding a diagnosis, the shorter his temper gets. “And the seizure? She just got tired of lying there and not convulsing?”
“Pseudohypoparathyroidism?” Foreman says. “It fits.”
House considers. “Rare genetic condition where the body doesn’t produce enough Parathyroid Hormone. Could be causing the cataracts, seizure. I like it. Pump her full of Calcium and Vitamin D, and test her for PHP. And get an oncology consult with Doctor Wilson.”
“Do we think it could be cancer?” Taub asks.
“No, but I need Wilson out of his office. Thirteen, Foreman, you’re on distraction duty. The rest of you, go practice some medicine or something.”
Thirteen and Foreman stand in the X-ray analysis room, idly looking at old scans. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s not long before Wilson arrives, but Thirteen finds she hasn’t been counting down the seconds in Foreman’s presence. He’s just another coworker.
“You guys needed a consult?” Wilson says, rolling up his sleeves.
Foreman holds up a brain scan. “Doctor Wilson, does this look like cancer to you, or maybe like House is trying to get you out of your office for some reason?”
“God dammit!” Wilson starts to rush off, but then turns back to Foreman and Thirteen. “You won’t tell me what he’s up to, will you?”
“Nope,” Thirteen says. She’s not entirely sure herself, but it’s much more fun to grin at Wilson and pretend she knows and relishes exactly which way his office is being vandalized right now. Thirteen actually has a sneaking suspicion that House actually is trying to do something nice for once, but she doesn’t let on.
Foreman also refuses to talk, and Wilson races off to his office, leaving them alone in the room again.
“Coffee?” Foreman suggests, and Thirteen nods. Coffee sounds great.
They get their drinks and Thirteen reaches into her pocket for cash to pay when Foreman taps her on the shoulder. “I’ll get this one,” he says, and Thirteen follows his eyes to where Cuddy is standing over by the entrance to the cafeteria.
“Thanks,” she tells him, already walking over.
“Doctor Hadley,” Cuddy says, like she’s surprised to see Thirteen in her own place of work.
“Doctor Cuddy.” Thirteen nods politely.
“Are you going to the oncology dinner tonight?”
“I am.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Yeah.”
Cuddy opens her file again and starts to walk out of the cafeteria. Thirteen can’t let things sit like this. If she wants this to work, she has to be the one to reach out.
“Doctor Cuddy,” Thirteen says. Cuddy turns around. “Do you want to get dinner this week?”
Cuddy frowns, calculating. “I was going to make dinner for Rachel tomorrow night,” she replies, nearly without bite. “You’re welcome to join.”
“I would love to.” Thirteen holds Cuddy’s gaze. “Lisa,” she adds. “I wanted to apologize for last week. Or, at least to—to explain myself. It was hard for me to step into Rachel’s life, knowing that I— That someday, I’ll have to step out, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I needed time to make sure I knew what I was getting into. What we were both getting into.”
Cuddy looks surprised, although not displeased, at Thirteen’s honesty. “I know that couldn’t have been easy for you to say,” Cuddy begins, resting a manicured hand on Thirteen’s shoulder. “Thank you, Remy. I appreciate it. I do know what I’m getting into. The invitation for tomorrow still stands.”
“Of course,” Thirteen says, relaxing into her touch. “Just one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Would Rachel like a red toy truck, or a blue one?”
“We started her on the Calcium and Vitamin D, but no change yet,” Chase says. He sits down at the table in his green scrubs.
“Because it’s not PHP,” House says, narrowing his eyes at the whiteboard from his chair.
“We’ll have the test results back in 24 hours,” Taub says.
“It’s not PHP,” House insists. He practically growls it. He shouldn’t have wasted all this time on Wilson’s surprise; their patient could die because he was on the floor with a tape measure instead of working on a diagnosis. “We’re missing something. Ringing in the ears, seizure, cataracts, shaky hands. Unless…”
Unless it’s something that’s been there all along. One of the symptoms is actually chronic, not sudden onset. House sees the parallel to his feelings for Wilson—something thought to be a recent development has actually been there, latent, for a long time. And that’s the missing piece.
House picks up his cane and storms out of the office. The rest of the team follow him like ducklings to the patient’s room, where Anna’s parents and the brown-haired girl are huddled around the bed.
“Hey,” House says, pointing to the girl. “What happened to your arm?”
“It was an accident,” she says in a small voice. “I was making up a chemistry lab after school and I spilled acid on myself.”
House turns to Anna. “What really happened?”
“House,” Thirteen warns. The poor girl looks like she’s about to burst into tears.
“I’m not lying,” the girl says to the floor.
“Ronnie, it’s okay,” Anna says. She swallows, blinks back tears. “It was my fault, okay? I was doing the chem lab, and Veronica stayed behind to help me out, and I—my hand shook, and I spilled the acid.” She’s crying in earnest now. “I’m sorry, Ronnie.”
“Her hand shook,” House says to his team, and then turns back to the patient, oblivious to the fact that she and her friend are in tears. “It was a chronic symptom. You have Neurofibromatosis 2. It’s a genetic condition where tiny little tumors grow all over your body. They’re usually benign, but you have a vestibular schwannoma on the 8th cranial nerve, and ependymomas in your spinal cord that caused all your symptoms.”
“Is that good news?” the patient’s mother asks. “Is it curable?”
“NF2 is manageable with medication and some lifestyle changes,” Thirteen tells the mother. “But it can’t ever be cured.”
His fellows start to go over treatment options with the parents, and House takes this as his cue to leave. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says, “I have a middle-aged oncologist to surprise.”
House takes his time walking to Wilson’s office, riding the high of the diagnosis. He’s waited all these years; what’s another minute?
He gets off the elevator and starts down the hallway, and he can already see from here that Wilson’s office door is open. Carnations cover every available surface, and Wilson stands in the middle of them, agape.
House steps into the office and takes a flower from one of the bouquets. “I would get down on one knee, but.” He gestures to his leg. “Congratulations on ten years, Wilson.”
“I can’t believe you did this for me,” Wilson says, accepting the flower. “I literally, actually can’t believe it. Do you have some kind of ulterior motive here? Are bees going to come out of these flowers and sting me?”
“Nope. Well, no to the bees thing. My ulterior motive is that you would be so blown away by this naked display of affection that you would have no choice but to bend me over your desk and—”
“House!” Wilson splutters.
“Fine, take me to dinner first? I hear they’re throwing a big party for some oncology guy tonight.”
“I think I can swing us an invite.”
House and Wilson take their seats at a round table towards the front of the oncology dinner. Wilson, House has to admit, looks positively dashing in his suit. It’s not like House didn’t already know he cleaned up nice, but it’s different now that he’s allowed to really look. Now that Wilson knows he’s looking.
Some of the hospital bigwigs make speeches, including Dr. Cuddy. While she’s up, House takes the opportunity to talk to Thirteen, who sits beside Cuddy’s vacated seat. “I see you made nice with Cuddy,” he says.
“I had to, unless I wanted to sit at the kids’ table.” Thirteen looks over to where Foreman, Chase, Taub, and Taub’s wife are sitting.
“They made the fatal mistake of not being romantically linked to a department head,” Wilson says. He leans back and wraps an arm around the back of House’s chair, like he’s done it a million times before. Between all his many wives, he probably has.
Thirteen raises an eyebrow at House, but says nothing. He’s prepared for the third degree from all his fellows on Monday, but House does appreciate that Thirteen’s willing to spare Wilson on his big night.
Cuddy finishes her speech, and the room bursts into applause. She takes the seat on Wilson’s other side. There were plenty of congratulations in the speech, but now Cuddy raises her glass for the table to toast Wilson. “Mazel tov,” she says, and they all clink glasses.
“Thanks,” Wilson says, and then dinner is served, and the rest of the evening is under way. It’s terribly nice. The food is good, the wine is plentiful, the candles on the table centerpiece cast everyone in a warm light.
Finished with the meal, Wilson replaces his arm across the back of House’s chair. Couples dance together on the floor: Cuddy and Thirteen, Taub and his wife, Chase and Foreman mutedly and far apart in the corner. House wonders if Wilson wishes he were the kind of guy who had two functional legs and could dance at hospital events. He looks over to see Wilson grinning openly at him. House has a feeling Wilson’s happy with things just as they are. He certainly is.