Title: Seeing Double
Genre: General
Rating: T, for some language and allusions to situations more adult than childlike
Summary: House is challenged with the puzzling case of saving a set of twins, one who is extremely sick and the other who is extremely unhappy.
Disclaimer: I don't own "House."
Item #1: Yes, my friends, I have returned! School's been insane, to say the least. So much to do, so little time. (It's my junior year. I've been trying to impress the colleges.) Now I'm happy to say that I'm sailing smooth, everything's under control, and the ole GPA is doing quite well. So…I'm celebrating by indulging in a little story for ya'all!
Item #2: I learned a lot about what not to do in a fic from my first story, "Father House," so I'm sincerely hoping this one will be better. I'm almost sure it is, but you, naturally, may be the judge of that.
Item #3: I did my best to make the plot to this one unlike any other fic I've read, and hopefully the medical mystery is believable yet intriguing. I'm doing my homework – research and whatnot – and trying to portray everything accurately, but I'm no doctor. If I'm messing up really horribly, please let me know!
Item #4: Be gentle while reviewing – as I am not a grouchy middle-aged doctor, I'm not sure I'll capture his POV exactly right. :)
ENJOY!
Chapter One:
Generally, entering PPTH is an unpleasant experience for me, to say the least. Little lovesick Dr. Cameron is constantly nipping at my heels (or really, any part of my body she can reach), my skepticism for the human race at large increases with every idiot patient – redundant, I know – I encounter, and shipping apparently enjoys tormenting me, considering the way they always seem to deliver Vicodin to the other side of the hospital. Honestly, is it any wonder I tried to get stuck in traffic this morning?
I push the door of the main entrance open, my heart as heavy as my bad leg. It's only Tuesday. An involuntary glance at my watch reveals that I'm actually two minutes early. Way to torture yourself, I grumble inwardly as I wander towards the elevator.
Damn. Our resident Cruella Deville sees me, only, I notice with an admittedly perverse delight, she's not decked out in layers of fur. In fact, the crisp fabric of her blouse – blue: so cool and yet extremely hot – dips so low I couldn't be considered a man if I didn't stare for at least five seconds. It's also impossible for me to do anything but appreciate the natural beauty, or booty, as the case may be, of her perfectly toned ass straining against the back of her skirt as she walks.
I don't mention this to her, though. Instead, I go into noble-protector mode as I watch a male nurse, a skater boy waiting with his mom for lab results, and even my constant comrade through lust and loss, Dr. Wilson, all gaze at her as she struts her stuff. I want to deck them all, because I'm the only one allowed to ogle Cuddy. What can I say? I'm a possessive bastard.
Although I suppose the idea that I own her is somewhat contrary to reality.
Her swagger comes to an abrupt halt scarcely a foot away from me. Even with four-inch heels on her feet, she's still got another four to go before she can look me straight in the eye. Nevertheless, I feel naughty, like a pre-teen boy caught with a Playboy magazine between the pages of his textbook. "Dr. House," she begins briskly.
I hold up a hand to stop her. "Not another word, young lady. You go right upstairs and put on some clothes before I spank you." I cackle inwardly, devilishly amused.
"PMSing again, Mom?" she asks. "Go to the clinic. Now."
"Of the two of us, I am the only one that even remotely resembles a doctor," I inform her. In perfect unison, both pairs of our eyes slide to my very classy t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. "As opposed to a call-girl," I add, admittedly as a bit of an afterthought. "Therefore, I'll be giving the orders."
"And of the two of us, I am the only one that can legally authorize your paychecks," she counters irritably. "Go."
I tap my cane petulantly. "I already did all my hours," I whine, deciding to let the getting-dressed thing go. For now.
"Chase did all your hours," she reminds me. "You sat in your office playing your damn GameBoy."
"That was last week, when I bought Foreman off with some exquisite bling I picked out just for him." By this, I mean I paid him handsomely in packages of Starbursts, as they are his favorite candy. I can't even remember if bling is jewelry or a cell phone. "This week, while Chase covered me, I was giving Wilson a consult. 19-year-old female, a gymnast, very nimble. Turns out she fractured her precious little tailbone during practice. Tragic, isn't it?"
"So you spent an hour staring at the poor girl's ass," Cuddy translates.
I am amazed at my insensitivity. "Oh, how could I be so heartless? Don't worry, I'll make room in my terribly busy schedule just for you. What seems to be the problem? Chest pain, perhaps? I may need to make a more thorough examination." I make a show of peering down her shirt.
The subtle romance of the gesture is not lost on her. She looks both ways, then gives me the finger and hisses, "You make me sick."
"I'm not the one who puts more effort into thoroughly displaying my cleavage than making sure the drug counter has Vicodin in stock," I blurt before I can stop myself.
Cuddy glares at me. "You're a disgrace to the medical profession! If I knew what was good for me, I'd fire you."
"So either you don't know what's good for you, or I must have some redeeming qualities about me." Her coral pink lips remain firmly shut. "Come on, I can keep a secret. Is it my ravishing good looks? My charming personality? Oh, I know: it's the Beast, isn't it?" When her eyes drop and her brows raise, I know she has the wrong idea. "My motorcycle, you naughty girl. Come on, which one is it? Or maybe it's all of the above…"
She blinks at me, and when she speaks, her voice is slow, precise, and gentle, as if I'm mentally challenged. I tolerate it because, hell, I kind of deserve it. Plus, believe it or not, I don't actually mind Cuddy that much. She's possibly one of the only women I've ever interacted with that possesses a fully functional brainstem. Not that I'd ever tell her that. "I keep you around because you save people's lives," she enunciates deliberately. "Or at least you're capable of it. God knows, you'd be a lot more impressive if you'd just act like a normal doctor and not make so many waves with your shenanigans."
"My shenanigans are God's gift to this hospital," I say. "Without them, life would cease to exist as we know it. Wilson would run amok like an animal in heat, my team would amount to nothing but a trio of directionless youths, and patients would be kicking off right and left."
"You're right," Cuddy admits, finally seeing the light. "My life would be so empty without all the drama and the paperwork and those wonderful lawsuits. What was I thinking?
"Whatever it was, it couldn't have been as intelligent as what you're thinking now," I assure her.
She gives me a pained smile. "House."
"Yes, darling?"
The title jars her, just as I had surmised it would. Gotcha, I think smugly. I do so love this game. She recalls, with difficulty, what she was going to say. "Please take over Dr. Simpson's clinic hours. He called in sick."
"Newsflash: 'sick' means sitting at home in his underwear leaving suggestive comments on his mistress's MySpace," I tell her, because her naivety is so, so sad. "But tell me: just what do I get out of this?"
"Please?"
So far today, I've realized that I am a lewd creature with a vulgar tongue, but there's nothing wrong with going a little wild and being nice every so often. "Okay," I sigh, hoping I don't sound too compassionate.
Instead of kissing my feet profusely like I deserve, she cries exasperatedly, "Finally!" As she turns away, I'm almost certain I hear her mutter something about me being an annoying, self-righteous prick.
"You're welcome," I call, then I set out on my journey to the clinic. I step in and am immediately immersed in a mad whirlwind of screaming toddlers, crumpled tissues, and outdated subscriptions to Ladies' Home Journal. Somehow I make it safely to the counter, where an RN hurriedly shoves a stack of patient folders my way. I pick up the only one that doesn't go flying to the floor and read. "Becca and Bella Donahue." In parentheses, their real names are listed: Rebecca and Isabelle. Oh boy. Cutesy names with matching nicknames like this tend to signify twins. Double the volume, double the whining, double the pain. I instinctively pop a Vicodin and hobble to exam room two.
I enter and realize just how wrong I was. These are not the loud and obnoxious three-year-olds with energy crammed into every corner of their little bodies I had been expecting. No, what I find is possibly even more sinister: teenagers. They're both sitting on the exam table, bearing the exact same posture, exact same movements, exact same face.
The one to my left is clearly the demon of the duo; I know with absolute certainty from the death glare she gives me. She's wearing quite a bit of black, lots of silver jewelry, and judging from the look on her face, I'm guessing she'd rather be off listening to death metal or smoking weed. I am surprised to see that even with a seemingly gothic disposition, she's left her naturally dirty blonde hair its natural shade and hasn't even gone so far as to put any unnecessary piercings or tattoos anywhere on her anatomy. As I study her from head to toe, I feel something clench around my heart. Could it be that I am intimidated?
Nah. Who am I kidding?
The one on the right is much more my speed. Blonde highlights, hoop earrings, light blue eye shadow crayoned onto her eyelids, and clothes so tight they put Cuddy in the race for Nun of the Year. This one is every man's dream to see double; she looks friendly enough, at least next to her sister. I'm not talking about doing anything felonious; I'm a professional, after all, and it would be extremely unseemly for me to engage in that kind of activity with a child. But I'm also human, and God (if there is a God) would be extremely insulted if I didn't gaze upon the splendor of his creation. Better stay on the good side of the man upstairs.
I approach them slowly, worried that if I say the wrong thing, something bad will happen. I'm not sure what sorts of inventive tortures they'll think of – tying me up and making me listen to gansta rap, perhaps, or maybe performing an extreme make-over – but I'm sure these two are capable of tormenting me greatly, whatever they do. I tentatively ask, "Are you Becca and Bella?"
"I'm Becca," says the prep proudly, her feet, adorned in pink flip-flops, swinging into motion as she speaks. "She's Bella."
"Isabelle," the scary one emphasizes, narrowing her eyes. "My name is Isabelle."
"Right," I say, making note of the detail – not that I truly care. "Well, I'm Dr. House. What can I do for you?"
Nothing. They stare at each other, but neither of them talks. I wonder if maybe this could be the issue. In my experience, teenage girls never shut up. I'm not exactly sure why, when one goes silent, it is a problem, but it certainly is unnatural.
"I have a patient going into surgery soon," I inform them. "I should try to be there." What I don't tell them is that this is taking place on General Hospital. "If we could hurry this up, I'd be much obliged."
Bella – I beg your pardon, Isabelle – rolls her eyes. "Come on, Becca, just tell him."
"I don't want to," she complains, glancing at me nervously. I make sure she notices me fidgeting anxiously and checking the clock. "It's too embarrassing."
"He's a doctor," her sister points out. "There's nothing he hasn't heard before." I want to tell her how untrue this is, that I am dumbfounded every day with people and the problems they have with their bodies, but I have a feeling she'd probably go psycho on me for contradicting her.
Becca shakes her head. "I can't."
Isabelle turns away and mutters, "I can't believe I'm missing General Hospital for this." The sentiment, identical to my own, strikes me as so funny I can't help but allow an appreciative snort to escape my lips. I can barely resist clamping my hand over my mouth as she centers her piercing gaze on me and holds it. "Am I funny to you?" she asks incredulously.
"Not at all," I tell her, doing my best to sound defiant and sarcastic, but it's getting harder and harder to be a jerk. "Maybe you could tell me what seems to be the problem. I'll give her some meds, and then we can all go home."
"Becca missed a period," her sister reports in a bored voice. "She thinks she's pregnant."
I blink. That's it? I'm not an advocate of teenage pregnancy, or really, of any pregnancy at all, but there are far more humiliating problems than something so commonplace and ordinary as a baby. Still, I can't resist extracting every ounce of entertainment I can find in this. I put on my stern-doctor face and ask Becca, "Just how old are you?"
"I just turned fifteen," she says in a small voice.
This surprises me. "How long ago is 'just turned'?"
"A week," she mumbles, "and two days."
"A week and three days for me," Isabelle adds, more social now that her sister is in the limelight. Poor kid. She probably doesn't get a lot of attention at home, not with this one for the parents to keep in line. "I came at 11:58 on May 27, and she came at 12:01 on May 28."
I ignore this interesting bit of information in the interest of sorting through my own thoughts. At fifteen, I don't think I knew what a girl was, let alone how to use one. How could this girl already be fornicating, let alone pregnant? "Fifteen?" I repeat. "What were you thinking?"
"You're so mean!" Becca cries, burying her face in her hands. "Why can't you just help me?"
"I haven't even said anything yet!" I blurt, because either this little girl is very easily offended, or I am getting excessively nasty without even realizing it.
"Yet?" Isabelle puts her arm around her sister and tries to sooth her. "Relax, Becca. Everything's gonna be fine."
"Easy for you to say," she sniffs. "You're not the one who's pregnant." I could potentially point out that we still don't know that she's with child for a fact, but this is far too interesting. I decide to let it sit a little longer.
"There are things you can do," Isabelle tells her suggestively.
"Number one is to find the guy that did it," Becca replies.
This halts Isabelle's comforting act and my gagging episode simultaneously. "You don't know who the father is?" Isabelle asks, raising an eyebrow.
Becca considers how to phrase what she's going to say next. "I've narrowed it down to three guys," she confides finally.
"Three?" we chorus.
"How many people have you ever…" I grope through the recesses of my mind for the polite, medical term. "…Had intercourse with?"
She starts ticking them off on her fingers, swiping at her tears as she counts. "Matt, Josh, other Josh, and Darin," she says. "Four. Wait…are we counting actual times or is there…lesser fooling around involved?"
I close my eyes wearily. "Include the fooling around," I tell her, wondering how this could possibly get any worse.
Becca shuts her eyes and considers for a moment. "Seven," she announces hesitantly.
Isabelle looks ready to cry. I wonder if her parents turn a blind eye to what their daughters do, trusting that they'll keep themselves in line, or at least each other. "Becca, what are you doing?" she asks after a moment. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
Becca begins to wail; I begin to wonder if it would be rude to excuse myself for a potty break and just never come back. I'm not who they need; Planned Parenthood and family counseling are more in line with their problems.
"I don't know," she sobs. "I just wanted to feel loved."
Welcome to hell, I salute myself sadly, glancing longingly at the door.
"They're all so cool and awesome and hot, and I always think they really like me, and…and…" Becca can't explain anymore; she's crying too hard.
Isabelle looks at me for aid. "Now what?" she asks helplessly.
I want to have all the answers, but this is a problem I can't even begin to touch. It freezes me up, like a deer caught in headlights. I begin to wish Cameron was here; she loves this kind of emotional, heart-wrenching drama. "It's a dilemma," I assess bravely, trying to figure this out.
"What am I going to do?" Becca bawls, quite possibly breaking the sound barrier. "I can't –" She breaks off suddenly, grabs her throat, and gasps for air. Can't breath, she mouths, already beginning to turn blue.
Now this is more like it, I think, somewhat ashamed of my attitude but not having any time to waste. I move from the chair I had been sitting in across the room in a heartbeat.
"What's going on?" Isabelle asks, moving out of my way. Her voice is calm. Too calm. She'll go into hysterics if I don't get her out of here now.
"Go get a nurse!" I command her, leaving no room for argument. "Now!" I watch her flee in my peripheral vision as I lean Becca back in order to assess the situation. Tears stream from her eyes as she silently beseeches me for help. I hear myself muttering nonsensical assurances as I fumble with my stethoscope.
To hell with the damn thing, I think as I drop it mere inches away from me. It's obvious she's not breathing normally. I begin CPR with a vengeance, wondering how it is possible that only seconds before, I was secretly pondering how someone with no regard to the fragility of their life deserved to live. Now, I pray she'll be alright. Maybe this, whatever it is, whatever it means, will push her to consider how quickly all her fun and games can end.
Breathe, I think. Breathe, please…
Isabelle and the RN from the counter rush into the room.
"What did you do?" the nurse asks me as she studies Becca, confounded.
"He didn't do anything," Isabelle whispers. I can barely hear her, for all the noise coming from the clinic. People are beginning to gather around the door, looking in at the girl who can't breathe.
"Close that door!" I bellow between gulps of air. She does it silently, never taking her eyes off of her sister.
Rebecca Donahue. I wonder as I work feverishly to breath life back into her lungs if this name will ever see a high school diploma, a marriage certificate, a birth certificate, this time as a mother. I wonder if her death certificate is coming sooner than the rest.
Good? Bad? Hideous? Marvelous? Somewhere in between?
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