Chapter Text
House cracks open the exam room door, glancing left and right. Coast clear! Or so he thinks, slipping out into the bustling clinic halls. Within seconds, Wilson appears at his side, following him.
“You? In the clinic? Have the angels already begun to sing of the endtimes?”
“I’m dodging Cuddy,” House replies. “Successfully, might I add. Haven’t caught a glimpse of her buxom figure yet today.”
“I can’t imagine Stacy is thrilled about those remarks,” Wilson sighs. “Y’know, I’m not sure how much longer you can get away with this whole... avoidance dance. Cuddy’s bound to put her foot down eventually.”
“I’ve got the rhythm down to a pat after two years, I’d bet I got a good five years left. Until then, she’s getting excellent cardio.”
Wilson stops at the circulation desk, talking with a nurse and picking up a file. House throws his gaze around the lobby, considering his options. He still has about an hour to kill before he could officially clock out, after all. Mulling over this, his eyes land on a woman with short, honey-colored hair, checking into the clinic. She’s average, if a bit unkempt. White, probably lower-middle class, roughly in her 30s. Wears makeup and clothes to look younger. None of that really interests House: what does is the way she walks to her seat. Moving from the check-in desk, she takes a couple sure steps before suddenly developing a limp. Someone isn’t scoring today.
Wilson’s eyes digging into the back of House’s head draws his attention back to the present. “You don’t have a case.”
House shrugs.
“You don’t have a case???” Wilson repeats with more bewilderment. He shakes his head, an exasperated, disbelieving smile on his face. “Those poor doctors. You’re wasting their fellowship experience.”
“Oh, relax. We just had a case last week -- It’s called a work-life balance.”
“I believe it’s called irresponsibility. In some cultures, that term has the underlying meaning of ‘future unemployment.’”
“Speaking of life, you wanna go golfing tomorrow? It’s my day off.”
Wilson absently leafs through the file in his hands. “Can’t. Oncology seminar tomorrow.” He looks up at House pointedly. “And you need a case. Soon. Look through that pile on your desk.”
“Seen ‘em. They’re all boring.”
“Look through them again,” Wilson says, already walking away. “It’s the only reason you’re employed!” he calls out over his shoulder. House rolls his eyes, shifting from one foot to the other. He’s looked through that pile twice now. Some weeks, people are just boring.
A nurse steps out into the clinic. “Ms. Benson? Dr. Summers will see you in Exam Room 2.” The woman with the fake limp gets up, throwing a wince into the act too.
Dr. Summers... Maybe this will be interesting. House gives the woman a few seconds lead before following her into the exam room, closing the door behind them.
The recently hired doctor, Summers, is an older white man. Probably in his late 50s. Usually, that would indicate experience, and usually, experience would indicate intelligence. The little of what he has seen of Summers, however, indicates quite the opposite. As an avid defender of the scientific method, what sort of hypocrite would House be if he didn’t investigate this incongruence between hypothesis and observation? Summers turns around, flinching back in confusion at House’s presence. His mouth opens and closes as his vocal chords struggle to catch up to his brain.
“Cuddy asked me to supervise. Standard procedure for new hires,” House smoothly lies. He smiles flatly at Summers, who is baffled but doesn’t argue. Gullibility. Further evidence for idiocy.
“It’s my leg,” the woman cuts in. She doesn’t really seem to care what’s going on with House, and for her part, that is consistent with how someone in pain would act.
“Please, sit. You must be Paula Benson. I’m Dr. Summers.” He speaks in a kind, dry voice.
“It hurts really, really bad,” Paula chokes out, as if holding back tears. She sits on the examination bed, stretching out her leg with another practiced wince. “I think I pulled a muscle or something. I tried stretching it and taking ibuprofen and everything, it just feels so bad.”
Dr. Summers carefully observes her leg. “No signs of injury...”
“Well, unless you’ve got x-ray vision...” House trails off.
“Excuse me?” Summers glares.
House shrugs. “Carry on.” It’s a pulled muscle, moron. Supposedly.
“Isn’t there something you can give me? Just until it heals up, or something.” And there it is.
Summers flips through her chart. “No conflicting medications... I don’t see why not. I can write up a Codeine prescription for you.” He smiles warmly. Paula returns the smile with relief.
Like a viper, House’s hand shoots out and grips Paula’s calf, hard. She gapes at him--shock, confusion, annoyance--she flips through a dozen emotions a second before yelping.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing-“ Summers starts.
House lets go of her leg, looking to Summers. “Delayed response to pain, symptomatic of you being an idiot.” When he turns back to Paula, his eyes are thrown wide open with mock sympathy. “Don’t give up on that Oscar yet! There’s always next year.”
She blinks, jaw dropped. “I am not faking!”
“Oh, please. Based on your wardrobe choices, I’d say you’re vying for that innocent angle--it’s not a bad idea, really. You might wanna practice the limp some more though--it kept magically disappearing in the lobby.” House leans his back against the wall, gazing at the ceiling. “Even then, you were this close. It’s just too easy these days, isn’t it? If we keep hiring idiots like him, soon we’re going to be running a very different operation here.”
“... I’m gonna leave now.” Paula excuses herself, not bothering to fake the limp on her way out.
As the door shuts, Summers gets up in House’s face. “I don’t like your attitude. Barging in here, some teenybopper all hopped up on his own ego.”
“I prevented you from kickstarting an opioid crisis on the streets. You’re welcome.” House turns to leave.
“You’re not leaving now.”
“Really? Then why’s my hand on the doorknob?”
“Cuddy never really asked you to supervise, did she?”
“So?”
“You think so little of me, you lied to get into my exam room.”
“And you make lying too damn easy. You wouldn’t know ‘drug-seeking behavior’ if a patient OD’d in front of you.” House checks his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me--wouldn’t wanna miss The West Wing.”
***
House’s day off could not have been better. A morning spent tangling limbs beneath the sheets, slow sips of coffee, and playing Bill Evans on the piano. Come noon, he tried to pull Stacy back to bed, but she had errands to attend to. Some client meeting, or something. He didn’t pay much attention. Once sex was off the table, he got dressed and headed out to the golf course, as planned. He’d wanted Wilson to be there, but oh well. He’d harass him into going out for a drink later that night.
Mid-swing, House noticed a strange numbness in his right foot. Hm. That can’t be good.
***
A man screams in pain. Doctors and nurses flit about the ER, a chaotic swirl of beeping monitors and swishing coats. The screaming man lies in a bed off to the side, back curling with unbridled agony.
“Are you experiencing pain anywhere else? Sir?“ An attending physician questions the man futilely.
“We can’t get anything out of him like this,” says another physician, returning to the patient’s side with a syringe. “50mg Demerol,” he explains.
The other physician holds out a hand to stop him. “Wait, we have no patient history! What if he’s allergic?”
The man in pain rolls his eyes before sitting up and snatching the syringe from the physician, plunging it into his thigh. A sigh of relief escapes his lips. House looks up at his attending through slitted eyes. “Gee, thanks for the help, Doc.”
After that incident, the ER docs were quick to discharge House. Stacy drove over to pick him up, peppering him with all sorts of questions he didn’t have the mental capacity to answer. That Demerol stuff works wonders!
Evidently, wonders aren’t enough for whatever this is. Within the hour, he’s howling with agony in the passenger seat as Stacy drives him back to the hospital.
***
The door slides open. Stacy stops pacing. House looks up, suppressing another cry as white-hot pain laces up his leg. In walks in an assistant physician--Gray, House thinks--followed by Summers. If he weren’t in debilitating agony right now, House would almost consider it a miracle of the Lord.
Summers shows no signs of caring that it’s House--he would’ve known before accepting the case, anyhow. He skims through House’s chart, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Pain in the leg. The same reason for your earlier ER visit?”
“If you’re going to try and leisurely converse with me right now, I could really use another hit of that Demerol,” House snipes through gritted teeth.
“Can’t you do something?” Stacy appeals. Her hands are restless: wringing themselves, her sleeves, the hem of her shirt.
Summers looks from her, to the chart, to House. “It says here that Dr. House was promptly discharged after injecting himself with an opioid. A sign of drug-seeking behavior.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Seriously? What kind of moron do you think I am? If I wanted to score, I’d go steal Wilson’s prescription pad!”
Stacy’s resumed her pacing, mind running a hundred miles a minute.
Summers’ grave expression doesn’t change. “I’m not saying we’re going to discharge you this time. For the time being, you’ll stay in this room. PA Gray here’s gonna catheterize you.”
“PA Gray doesn’t seem to have any sedatives among all that catheterization equipment,” House notes, grimacing.
“You never did provide us with a comprehensive list of allergies. We want to be extra careful.”
***
Having a rubber tube shoved up his penis serves as a hell of a distraction from the ongoing agony in House’s leg. Silver linings, he guesses. Stacy’s gripping the side of his bed, stuck halfway between anger and worry.
“This is a malpractice suit just waiting to happen. How could they do that to you?”
“With a rubber tube and a steady hand,” House grunts. “It’s only a suit if I choose to sue.”
“They could at least give you something for the pain.”
“Yeah, well...” House trails off as a nurse walks in, pauses for a few seconds, and then walks right back out. Stacy cranes her neck to see where the nurse goes.
“What was that about?” Her voice is tense.
House grits his teeth as he leans over the edge of the bed, far enough to see the urinary bag, filled with what looks like tea. The realization drops in his stomach like a lead weight. Blood and waste. My kidneys are failing.
***
Three days of bedrest and antibiotics, and still, it took his and Stacy’s combined coercive power to get his leg into that MRI machine, revealing what he’d thought: muscle death. Cuddy’s platitudes and Stacy’s pleas barely even register. He’s already made up his mind: there would be no amputation. The bypass has to work. Sure, he’ll suffer unimaginably for a few days. There’s a potential risk of organ failure and cardiac arrest--but it would work. Logically, it makes perfect sense. So he insists.
Post-op, the pain is unbearable. He maxes out on his morphine, he goes into cardiac arrest. Just wait it out. He can’t be wrong.
***
“We’ve gotta let them cut the leg off,” Stacy says. She’s leaning next to his bed, her gaze unwavering, imploring him to listen to her.
House meets her eyes and exhales shakily. “It’s my leg. It’s my life.”
“Would you give up your leg to save my life?”
His voice is barely a whisper. “Of course I-”
“Then why do you think your life is worth less than mine?” When he doesn’t answer, she continues, “If this were any other patient, what would you tell them to do?”
“I would say it’s their choice.”
“Wha- not a chance! You’d browbeat them until they made the choice you knew was right. You’d shove it in their face that it’s just a damn leg!” That careful, even tone unfurls, revealing a voice thick with ache. “You don’t think you deserve to live? You don’t think you deserve to be happy?”
He turns his face, unable to look her in the eye.
She inhales deeply, tears streaming down her face. “Now let them cut off your leg.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Stacy swallows, steeling herself. “The pain alone is going to kill you.”
“I know. I know.”
***
When he comes to, he’s greeted by pain. Something heavy curls around his neck, weighing down his shoulders. A hopelessness. Days stretching far, far into the distance, until they lose all meaning, converging into a single line. Going as far as the eye can see, it’s nothing but pain. He doesn’t know what day it is, what time it is; there’s only this room, this hospital bed, those lights boring into his eyes, and this pain.
The pain is... somewhat different however. He reaches and feels his bandage covered leg. As his eyes begin to focus, the fluorescent lights form halos around a figure at his bedside. It’s Stacy.
“There was a middle-ground,” she starts.
House squints. His head feels like it’s full of dense cotton. He tries to sit up, but he can’t quite crack it, and Stacy helps lay him back down. “Water,” he says. She grabs the cup of water at his bedside, supporting the cup with her hand as he holds it up to drink.
She purses her lips. There’s a nervous energy about her; a trepidation. Something she wants to get over and done with, and yet she doesn’t want to do it at all. House notes the door is closed, and the blinds are drawn. She wants total privacy. All these pieces lie set in front of House, like a jigsaw puzzle. An easy one. One he doesn’t want to solve, for once.
Unfortunately, it’s not up to him.
Stacy clears her throat as she takes the water cup back and sets it down. She laces her fingers together, eyes following the line of his leg beneath the blanket. “There was a third option, a middle ground,” she starts again. “They were able to remove the dead muscle from your leg.”
When he was under, she had medical proxy. This simple fact stabs through him. He can’t do this.
“Greg, please.”
“Get out.”
“Can you at least look at me?”
“I said get out,” he repeats, his voice harsher. He doesn’t see her stepping out of the room. The door closes behind her.
***
“You should at least let her in to see you,” Wilson says in between bites of his taco salad. He sits in a chair pulled up to House’s bedside.
House swallows a bite of his burrito. He looks all over himself, feigning disgust. “Oh, but I’m a mess--I haven’t shaved my legs in days!”
“She’s worried about you.”
“That does seem to be the trend lately. You, Cuddy, and now her too.” House takes another bite, frowning. “My team members, on the other hand, appear to be heartless jerks.”
“I don’t blame either of them for not wanting to get involved. They’ve only been working here for a few weeks; Stockholm Syndrome takes a bit longer than that to set in.” Wilson puts down his fork, leaning towards House. “Seriously. At least let her sit in the same room as you. She probably saved your life, you know.”
“It’s funny, you know, everyone’s been saying that too--‘she probably saved your life.’ You could say that about... well, basically anything. Ground up spiders probably cure cancer. Horoscopes probably predict the future. People say whatever makes them feel the better in hindsight--the fact that I’m not dead right now means that she probably saved my life, right? But no one can possibly know that. It just has better optics than the alternatives.”
Wilson huffs. “You’re deflecting. You’re angry, but you recognize you don't have any grounds to be angry, so instead you’re just digging into semantics. No one can possibly know anything other than what’s actually happened, sure. But your chances of surviving by going your way, without her intervention, they’re- they were infinitesimal, compared to what she decided.”
“Sure! I owe it all to her for assessing the risk and reward, making the safest bet. Bring her with next time you hit up Vegas.” House sets down his burrito, suddenly not very hungry anymore.
Wilson sighs and shifts in his seat. He sweeps the dirty napkins and dirty takeout container into the paper bag, picking up his coat as well. “You’re allowed to be hurt and angry, you know. But you can’t avoid the source of it forever. You’re getting discharged pretty soon.”
House pretends not to listen, opting to watch the birds outside his window instead. It’s sunny outside; clear skies. As Wilson closes the door behind him, House notices a flock of geese in the distance, in V-formation. Autumn is here.