We're threading hope like fire
Down through the desperate blood
Down through the trailing wire
Into the leafless wood
David Gray
Disappearing World
Chapter 18: Hope in a Handgun
Cuddy examined herself one more time in the mirror. Tired, she mused. Old. Crow's feet and dark circles smothered with make-up. The cliché sprang to mind- where had her youth gone? Youth was wasted on the young? She tapped her lipstick with a Kleenex, tossed the waste in the bin, smoothed her black straight skirt one more time, and went back to the kitchen.
She hadn't slept well since it happened. The first night, she hadn't slept at all- she hadn't gone home. It wasn't often that she stayed overnight for a patient. She'd worked hard to get (semi) regular hours. But House was technically her patient and her employee. She'd made a guilty commitment to him once one of her doctors had misdiagnosed him and once again when she'd given Stacy the release forms and allowed the surgeon to chop away. Cuddy had spent the night periodically dealing with media, catching up on cases, and watching as Cameron and Wilson paced. She'd dosed up on caffeine the following day, filled in for House's clinic hours, and actually finished her catch-up work. She'd tried to steer away from House's ICU bed- Wilson and Cameron had that taken care of. He was in good hands. But she'd found herself there more often than not- eating lunch from a Styrofoam container at the nurse's station, stopping by after getting another coffee, wandering down after the clinic was closed. On the second night, she'd kicked Wilson and Cameron out. They were making her nervous. Wilson had kept his calm, but stood watching, biting nails, pacing, rubbing his neck. And Cameron had just been annoyingly tearful. Surprisingly, they'd given little fight.
Wilson aided, offering Cameron a ride home after he made Cuddy promise to call if anything changed. Cuddy had been relieved to have them out of her way. And when she'd heard an awakening groan from House later that night, and seen him open his eyes, she'd been almost ecstatic. He hadn't stayed awake for long- just long enough to show her that he was still himself, still cognizant of his surroundings and of her. He'd asked all the right questions and avoided her own. After he'd fallen back to sleep that night, Cuddy had immediately called Wilson, fulfilling the promise that she made to him. She slept in the chair next to his bed until Wilson arrived a few hours later, showered and shaved.
Now her duties and her responsibility to him were making her do something that she knew might jeopardize his career and his life. He asked. She owed.
God, it was dangerous.
It really was too bright and sunny. It wasn't right. Days like this should be rainy, or at least overcast. Something should hint at foreboding, of danger. Something should tell her that nothing was fair. Something should tell her that she was about to put her best doctor's life on the line even more than it already was. But it was sunny, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Birds sang. Children laughed at the bus stop. Grabbing her steel coffee mug and her bag, Cuddy left her house. She shielded her eyes, whispered a laughing curse.
It was 7:30 when she got there, pushing through her office doors, setting her mug on her desk. The clinic wouldn't be open for another thirty minutes. House's team was due back today and Cuddy had already collected a stack of consults they could shift through while she worked through details with the ethics committee and the lawyers over House's treatment. She'd done the preliminary work. All that was left was the decision. And telling House. She and Wilson had gone so far as hinting that they would comply with his wishes- but they hadn't given a definite answer. Maybe that should be her first priority: before she fought for him, she'd make sure he was still willing to throw punches himself. If he'd changed his mind, had any doubts, then she wouldn't have this decision to make.
Cuddy sat her mug on her desk and left her office, heading towards House's room, murmuring good mornings to the nurses and doctors as she passed purposefully through the halls and up the stairs.
She knocked before she entered, out of courtesy more than necessity. She knew House wouldn't be awake and he wouldn't tell her to open the door. When Cuddy opened the door, she was momentarily confused.
The sheets were messed, the i.v.'s were dangling from their hooks, and the monitors were unplugged. Cuddy's first reaction was abject fear. Maybe publicity had alerted some other psycho that wanted to take his revenge out on House. God, should she have posted a guard at his door? Her stomach was flipping, there was a lump the size of China in her throat, she felt ill.
He was just being House. Typical, she convinced herself. Wilson took him for a walk. House escaped. Something. Cuddy picked up the chart- last check at 2:30AM. Nothing since. Sucking in her fear and agitation and exhaling irritation, she dipped her chin and headed to the nurse's station.
The nurse at the desk, Vicky, was new. Cuddy had met her just a few days prior. She was young, just out of school, and seemed capable, hard-nosed, perfect for the job. Cuddy swallowed anyway, and spoke in low tones.
"Have you seen Dr. House this morning?" Vicky was well aware of the resident in 302. He'd been the talk of the hospital. Spared having to work with him in the short time she'd been at the hospital, Vicky had heard rumors flying since the day she arrived. How Dr. House was a mad scientist; Dr. House was a grumpy and manipulative bastard; Dr. House was screwing the Dean and got to keep his job; Dr. House cured the incurable; Dr. House was the best doctor in the hospital. Vicky had been off the day Dr. House had been shot, but she'd watched the news, heard the story from the other nurses. And now he was on her wing, but she'd not had to deal with him as a patient either. Some part of her was curious. The other was uneasy.
Vicky frowned, shook her head. "No. He's not in his room?" Cuddy shook her head, tapped her fingers on the desk. "Check the bathroom?"
There was a reason this kid had been hired. Cuddy's eyes widened, her lips pursed, and she headed down the hall towards the bathroom. She knocked again, called out, and found the bathroom empty.
Keep it discreet. Don't panic yet, she told herself. This was just like House. The room hadn't looked out of order, there was no obvious sign of struggle. He was fine, the bastard.
"Who was on duty last night? After 2AM?" Cuddy was standing in front of Vicky again, her hands crossed in front of her on the counter.
Vicky was clicking buttons on the computer. "Donnie Rogers and Carolyn Oblinger. But 309 crashed around 3AM. So…"
"Everyone left the desk?" Cuddy sighed.
Vicky shrugged. "No idea," she responded. "No way to see that in here."
Cuddy ducked her chin again, sighed. Where would House go- if he went on his own will? Before she had the chance to think about it, her pager was going off. Pulling it from its holster, she read the numbers and sighed: relief.
House swiped the towel over his face again, then ran it over the top of his head as he stared into the bathroom mirror. His face, too heavily bearded for his own taste, was pale, drawn. His eyes looked puffy. Gray circles stood out underneath the red rims. Heck of a night. Too much pain, too many fucked up things in his head, too little sleep.
He shook his head, swiped at his eyes. Exhaustion pulled at him. He hadn't gained his stamina back, but this, he knew was due more to the sleepless night he'd had than the injuries and illness. It was 8AM, he needed a nap. Or coffee. Maybe both. After the nurse had come in and pushed the morphine up again, he'd slept, fitfully, awaking every hour until seven, wondering if he was in reality. At 7:09, he'd gotten Wilson on the phone and convinced him to push him down to the showers. Wilson had balked, claiming he had his own patients to attend to. House pulled his best sick face and told Wilson how the nurses had ignored him for an hour that morning while he endured alarms and a desperate need for pain meds. "Don't leave me with those idiots," House had pleaded. "Or I'll tell the entire hospital that you read Cosmo in bed."
House examined the lay out of the materials on the counter. It was the lowered counter, the handicapped accessible one, and everything was within easy reach- even the sink. He picked up the toothbrush and paste first, setting to work on ridding his mouth of the taste of medicene and illness. Washed it all away with the bottle of Listerine. Then the electric razor- set so that it would scrape most (but not all) of the fuzz off his face. Much better.
There was a knock on the door and House looked up in the mirror to see Wilson poking his head into the room.
"Ready yet?" House had been in the room for over an hour. The first fifteen were spent getting rid of the bandages that he still wore. When Wilson moved to his side to help him stand and move to the shower stall, House had glared. Wilson threw his hands up and left, standing outside the door. The shower ran for over thirty minutes. Then the sink. The razor. Wilson had to admit, House looked better.
When he'd come into House's room earlier, it had been obvious that House had had a rough night. The nurse's chart was blank from 2:30 onwards, but Wilson could see a thin line of blood on the mussed sheets. House seemed haggard, yet agitated, raring to leave the room and get a shower and a clean set of clothes. Seeing House's countenance, Wilson hadn't bothered probe into the situation. If House wanted to say something, he would. So Wilson waited. Then he paged Cuddy.
Cuddy met him outside the showers, her hands lifted and an exasperated open mouthed what the heck in her posture. Wilson raised his hands in response, shaking his head. "Rough night I think…" he said, answering her unspoken question.
"The nurses didn't say anything. They didn't chart anything."
"Something happened…"
Cuddy sighed and crossed her arms, looking at the door behind Wilson. "When he comes out of there, I need to talk to him." Wilson looked at his shoes. "I need him to sign the consent form. And I wanted to run it by the ethics committee…"
"I don't think House is going to sue if it goes wrong…"
"Hospital SOP…"
Wilson shook his head knowingly. He got it already. "I'll pass the word…" Wilson supposed that now was as good a time as any. House got his wish for the morning- a shower, a shave, an escape from the room. Time to deal with reality.
House looked at Wilson's head poking through the door and sighed. Glancing one more time in the mirror, he nodded silently and watched as Wilson jammed his grimy clothes and shower supplies into a bag. Wilson hung the bag on the back of the chair and pushed him from the confines of the bathroom.
"Cuddy wants to talk to you," Wilson mentioned once they were in the hallway.
"Yeah."
Wilson frowned. He'd expected more from House. But then everything was changing these days.
"She's getting everything together for your treatment- consent forms, treatment plan…"
House's head tilted to the side and Wilson thought he saw the hint of a smile on the side of House's face. "Good."
"You're sure you're okay? You sound…"
"Stacy called."
Easy enough, Wilson thought. Then he frowned. No prodding required. House was an open book, which meant something else was bothering him. More than likely, House was deflecting questions with less damaging admissions. "When?"
"Last night."
"What did she say?"
Wilson watched as House's shoulders shifted, tightening, then lifting. "Ehh… not much. She thought I might be dead. Once that was settled…"
Sighing, "I should've called her back."
"But then I would've missed the awesome phone sex. Did I mention that part?"
Wilson smirked, and continued to push House towards Cuddy's office. They both stayed silent until they were in the elevator and House spoke again.
"Cops came by yesterday."
It sounded like small talk to Wilson. Something to fill the silence between them. Something to keep House from thinking too much.
"Pair of detectives? Frumpy woman, grumpy guy?"
"Yep."
"I talked to them a few days ago."
Wilson turned the chair and faced House towards the door. A nurse in pink scrubs waved her hand through the door as it was closing, stepped in, smiling at Wilson. "Sorry," she muttered. Wilson smiled back, his foot tapped on the ground behind the chair. House's head tilted to the side, looked up at the numbers as they changed. Their conversation was muted by the presence of the nurse. First floor.
The doors opened and the nurse allowed Wilson and House to exit before leaving herself. House resumed. "What did you tell them?"
It was the opposite of the expected question. Wilson's eyebrows crooked and he slowed for a moment before resuming. "I… told them I didn't see anything."
"Tell them I piss everyone off?"
So this is where it was going. Wilson picked up the pace, moving towards Cuddy's office. "No."
"Tell them about the morphine?"
"Uhh… no."
"So what did you tell them?"
Wilson recollected his interview from the days prior. The cops had come to him in his office. It was early evening the day after the shooting and Wilson hadn't slept. His eyes had trouble focusing on the reports in front of him and the distraction the cops provided allowed him to rest, get some coffee. The cops hadn't probed very deep. They'd asked him about House, about anyone holding a grudge, what Wilson knew about the shooter. Wilson hadn't been blatantly honest, but he'd told as much truth as he could handle. Hold a grudge against House? House saved lives. No, he wasn't a saint. Just a pretty good doctor. Wilson had maintained his calm when the detectives probed further. They needed to know, they said, in case it came up later on. "We've talked to some of the other doctors and nurses here," the man had said. "They say half the hospital staff was cheering. Said your buddy is nasty and has a drug problem. Any way that this shooting could be connected to that?"
Wilson recalled feeling a swelling of anger in his chest. His face might've turned red.
"I write him the prescriptions. He's in legitimate pain. He's not buying. He's not selling. And he doesn't have dealers." That I know of, Wilson thought to himself.
"Enemies?"
"Don't we all?" Wilson had chosen that moment to pick up his pen again and start writing, signaling his reluctance to provide any more information.
"Really," Wilson said to House as they pushed through the doors into Cuddy's office. "I actually didn't tell them anything."
House sighed and his hands lifted from his lap to the arms of the chair, gripping the ends. Wilson stopped walking. Cuddy had watched as they entered, her hands resting casually in her lap, formulating her words. House was in front of Cuddy's desk, doing his best to blatantly stare at her low cut sweater, eyes wide. Cuddy pulled her jacket tighter, limiting his view.
Wilson moved out of the way and took residence in a chair to the right of House. His elbow rested on the arm of the chair, fingers pulling at his lip. Cuddy bit her lip, but she didn't speak. House tapped his fingers, agitated. There was a clock ticking somewhere to his left. Cuddy's ten year hospital service gift. It was engraved. In between ticks, he could hear the click of Wilson's fingernails on his own teeth. "Sooo…." He started. "Is this about the smokebombs in the boy's bathroom? Because I promise it wasn't my idea…"
Cuddy's mouth turned into a smirk that didn't translate to her eyes. Her morning had gotten worse since she'd talked to Wilson. As soon as she'd hung up, her phone had rung again. It had been the police, apologizing. Moriarty was gone, Detective Jones had said. One of seven inmates that overpowered a guard and made a run for it. The dogs lost the scent on the road. Deputies were still searching, agencies notified, photos in post offices. There were no guarantees.
"I just got off the phone with Detective Jones," Cuddy said. She sighed and curled her lower lip in, biting it. "The shooter's gone."
House's head tilted. Wilson's mouth opened. "What do you mean?" House asked.
"He escaped. Early this morning. I just got off the phone with the police."
The room was in silence again. House sighed. "Well then. Saves me the trouble of staring him down in the courtroom." His eyes flashed to Cuddy before turning to the side again, looking at the clock on the wall.
"They're still looking…"
"Yeah yeah…"
"If you want, we can…"
House interjected again, annoyed. "Did you get the consent forms?"
Cuddy sighed, her hands moving to the papers in front of her and sliding them across the desk. House grabbed them, shuffling through to the last page. He gestured to Cuddy to give him a pen. Once it was in his hand, he scribbled a signature and slid the paper back to Cuddy.
"You're sure about this?"
"I just signed the forms, didn't I?"
Cuddy looked down to the form without moving her hands to it. She took the pen and twisted it between her fingers.
"And I'll need an orthopedic consult."
Cuddy's head lifted, questioning. Wilson turned to look at House, confused.
"I haven't had full use of my leg in almost eight years. I want the tendon lengthened. They can do it while I'm under the ketamine." House rambled onwards, keeping Cuddy and Wilson silent. "You induce the coma, put me under, roll me into surgery. Keep me under for five days, full support, bring me out on the sixth. Give me some sort of benzodiazpine before you bring me out. As much fun as hallucinations can be, I don't need to be accidently chasing Tinkerbell out the window." House rubbed his leg, looking down, still speaking. "As long as I'm not seeing big green monsters on the wall- active physio on the seventh day. I'll stay in-house for a week afterwards, then home care with daily physio. Eight weeks should be enough."
Cuddy's eyebrows lifted after House stopped, wondering if he had more to say. It was the most she'd heard out of him in days.
Seeing her reaction, House sighed. "I think we're done here. Wilson, let's go."
Foreman sat at the conference table, clasped his hands around the red ball, and tossed it in the air. He'd arrived early, and had started the coffee. Then he'd grabbed the stack of consults from the inbox and sat down at the conference table to look through them, trying to avoid the fact that he was sitting in what had been a crime scene. It was a difficult situation. He felt uncomfortable in the room alone- like he didn't belong, shouldn't be there. There were still remnants of it having been a crime scene: white marks on the carpet, black marks on walls, there were new scratches on the conference table. Equipment, Foreman supposed.
The cane had still been on the floor, the white board still crooked. Foreman straightened it up, erased the words House had written before he'd been shot, hung the cane on top. He'd take it to House later. He'd pointedly avoided looking towards the stain beneath the board, stepping around it. Someone had tried to clean it, but blood was a stubborn substance, clinging onto fibers even when appearing clean. Whatever cleaner they'd tried on it had barely touched it. The red stain remained, repugnant against the brown carpet. Foreman could make out where more blood had gathered, pooling in the darker spots. And the room smelled like an ER room after someone had died: piss and blood mixed with the faintest hint of generic sterilizer. First on Foreman's agenda: hire a professional carpet cleaner. Get some Febreze. The hospital janitors couldn't get the job done.
Foreman's days off had passed in a blur of inactivity. He'd piled up on the couch for a day before he got bored of himself. He'd watched DVD's, paid his bills, made his meals. Then he got bored. So he'd driven to his parents. He really had no life outside the hospital, he realized. But that was how it was supposed to be. He'd chosen this life.
He hated doing it, but his greater sense of morality and care of his family necessitated the visit. His mother probably had another two years of declining health before her. However, whether or not she would remember him during those last two years was debatable. Might as well go see her, while he still could.
Foreman's father had hugged him right as he got out of the car. "Glad to see you, son," he'd said. "Are you staying for long?"
"Just tonight."
Foreman's father had been confused by the news that House had been injured. "But it's a hospital." Foreman had shrugged his shoulders, taking his bag out of the trunk. "It's House." His father shook his head, verbally recalling his own interactions with his son's boss. "How have you been anyway? Since… you know…"
"Good, dad. I'm good."
Foreman hadn't bothered to explain the situation with House and the hospital to his mother. He'd just hugged her, reminded her who he was, and sat with her on the old corduroy couch, while she looked at the television. They had his father's meatloaf, they talked about the weather, the Steelers, he slept, he left.
He'd gotten back to his apartment the night before, ready to go back to work. A night with his parents was almost too much. But he didn't often have the time between work and his attempts at a social life to make the two-hour drive. He should do it more, he thought. For his mother.
Foreman looked up as Cameron and Chase entered the room together. Cameron was holding a paper bag - bagels. She tossed them on the table in front of Foreman. Foreman opened the bag, probing until he found the plain bagel.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"You're welcome," Cameron responded, going to the coffee maker. Chase dropped into the chair across from Foreman, running a hand through his hair.
"Talk to House?" Chase asked Foreman.
Foreman shook his head. "No."
"They give him the Ketamine?"
Shrug. Cameron stepped back to the table and handed Chase a cup of coffee. He seemed surprised by the gesture, but took the coffee. Foreman smirked. Cameron spoke up.
"I talked to Wilson yesterday. He's going through with it this week."
Thank God, Foreman thought. The guy had been in pain for years. He figured that House was probably an asshole before, but he also figured that his pain affected both his judgment and his mood. He'd seen it before and it was easy to discern. The more pain House was in, the more he became a bastard, rushing tests, rushing diagnoses. He also asked more questions, did less thinking for himself. Just the previous week, Foreman had watched as House paced, questioning the simplest of problems. What did this drug do to this organ? What was supposed to happen? If House had been thinking clearly, the answer would've been simple. But instead, House had had to rely on his team as he paced, sweated, rubbed the leg. House was brilliant. But there was no doubt that his brilliance, and his life, were hindered. It wasn't fair, Foreman thought. But there was nothing fair in life. It certainly hadn't been fair that he'd gotten singled out to search a cop's trashy apartment and picked up a brain-damaging organism from an irrigation system. He'd healed though. House hadn't.
Foreman lifted his head from the consult letter he was reading. "Good. So how long is he out?" Foreman moved the letter to sit in front of Chase. Chase picked it up, began reading, sipping his coffee. Just like any other day. Except no House.
"Who knows. The Ketamine itself has a whole set of side effects. And he's gotta have rehab." Cameron reached into her briefcase, pulling out a stack of papers, cinched with a binder clip. She tossed it on the table in front of Foreman. "I did some research."
Foreman's hands spread wide on the table, around the stack of papers. It was at least an inch thick. Just like her- nosing into House's treatment. Was she trying to be helpful? Or was she just curious? Maybe she had a plan of her own. Nurse him back to health. Screw his brains out.
"So you spent your days off doing this?" Foreman probed, cynical.
"Yeah," Cameron responded. "Did you have something better to do?"
Foreman pushed his chair back, standing. "Yeah, actually I did." He moved to the coffee pot, refilling his cup. The seconds that it took him to walk to the coffee machine made him think that now would be a good time to change the subject. Keep it professional, he reminded himself. Let her do her thing, move past it.
"We need a case," Foreman said. "That stack of consults came in while we were gone. So we have our choice."
"Who died and made you boss?" Chase asked.
Foreman frowned. This again. "House- almost. While he's out, I'm technically in charge."
"Like you did such a great job last time," Cameron muttered.
Foreman, annoyed, but understanding her criticism, sat again. "Listen, it's nothing against you guys. I figure really, we'll just be working together. It's a team thing. The only thing is that I'll report to Cuddy and my name will be on the charts. No big deal."
Chase sipped his coffee, silent. Foreman noted that he was staring at the floor near the empty whiteboard. Cameron, sitting with her back to the board, grabbed a bagel and a third of the stack of mail. He hoped House would be back soon.
House watched as his mother entered his room. She smiled at him, watched as her husband came through the door with a scowl on his face. They were always so predictable. It was how he got away with so much when he was a kid. With the exception of his father's deployments, they were creatures of routine. Up at 6AM, coffee brewed, cereal poured, off to work, out to errands, home at 5:30PM, to bed by 9PM, lights out by 10PM. House used the routine against them. Out the window: 11:30PM, back in by 5AM. Enough time to make use of his girlfriend's mustang's backseat, to smoke a few joints, smuggle a six pack out of the liquor store and drink it down by the creek. And he'd never been caught. Not once.
"Can't believe those idiots," John House muttered as he paced the length of his son's hospital bed. "How difficult is it for a guy with a gun to control a couple without 'em?" House pursed his lips and watched his mother's smile turn south. She sat down in the chair next to the bed.
"You won't worry about it, right Greg?" she asked, concerned. "He probably ran as far away from here as he could get."
House smothered a hopeful smirk and changed the subject. He didn't want to think about the guy. It wasn't a productive thought process. Wasn't like he could do anything about it. "How are you guys today? I'm feeling better."
His dad stopped pacing, moving to stand, hands on hips in front of House's bed. "Wilson says you're going through with this… experiment tomorrow. Do you think that it's a good time now, when…"
House's nod interrupted his father's concern. "If he breaks into the ICU and sees me, he'll think I'm vegetative. Pretty good ruse, huh?" As much as House could figure, it made more sense if he ignored Moriarty's escape. Kind of like going undercover.
The fact that his attacker had escaped didn't bother him as much as it should have- especially considering the state of his dreams the previous night. If he'd been his own doctor, he would've said that he repressed it. PTSD. But House relegated repression to the realm of the Freudians, a club to which he didn't belong. And PTSD? Whatever. The guy shot him. So? What else was he going to do, kill him? The guy had one-upped him the first time by coming unannounced, unexpected, and unknown. House knew him now, knew his name, knew his story. Unless Moriarty had a high powered rifle or a telepathic death ray, he wasn't going to be able to touch House. It was fine- the whole thing. If he hadn't been shot, he wouldn't be taking this chance on the Ketamine. And if it worked, getting shot was a good thing. It was the pain, he rationalized. The pain that Moriarty inflicted on him flipped his fear reaction. Nothing else.
"Will you need us?" House's mom asked. "For after…?"
House shook his head, frowning. "No, Mom. Go home. I'll be here for a while and then I'll be fine. If it works, I'll be better than I was before. Piece of cake. I'll call when its over."
The sigh that was his mother's response was as sure fire as Wilson's next affair. "You always did get along by yourself…" She reached for his hand, held it there for a moment. He wrapped his fingers around hers, gently, feeling the thin, yet solid warmth encompassing his own. The simple gesture gave him the slightest bit of comfort and his lips turned into a thin smile again.
"So when you're all healed up…." His dad started, "then what?"
House hadn't expected that question. Less than predictable. He had no good answer for it, so he shrugged. "Win the Boston Marathon? Join the Olympic team, beat Tiger Woods."
His dad shook his head, grunted. "Sure." It was a cynical notion. One that told House that his father knew he was being sarcastic. John House never had a great appreciation for sarcasm.
"But really Greg…" his mother now, starting in on the topic. "Will this really make you happy?"
House contemplated her words for a moment, moving his hand away from hers and back under the sheets to rest against his hip. It might not make him happy- not in that cheery, gooey, obvious way that cheerleaders eluded. He'd always be sarcastic. But happy in the way that he'd be freed from constraint, emancipated from crippledom. And maybe, just maybe, that would allow him to help someone a little bit more. To not see pity in their eyes every time he staggered into the room. To instead, turn care in the opposite direction and alleviate someone else's pain instead of being focused on rising above his own by sheer deductive power. He could do this. It made sense to do this.
House found himself tangled in his thought, lingering between spilling his innermost fears and driving his parents away with some sarcastic snap or a claim that he needed sleep. Resolving to do neither, he sighed. "I have to try this."
House looked to his mother for a half second and then his attention was drawn to the door. Wilson was knocking and he was looking out into the hallway like someone was behind him. Guererro. The orthopedic guy.
"Are we interrupting?" Wilson asked, walking into the room.
"No," the elder House responded. "We were just talking."
"You sure? We can do this later…"
"No no." His mother rose from her position near him and looked at her husband. House watched as effortless and wordless communication flowed between them. "We should be going. Things to pack up. And Greg needs to get ready for tomorrow."
"You're leaving?" Wilson asked, confused. House's eyes rolled back in his head. Wilson would never get it.
"We've got the neighborhood association meeting day after tomorrow. John's the president, so he should be there."
"Um. Okay," Wilson responded. His mouth was turned into the characteristic frown, his eyes dark. House figured that Wilson probably thought his parents were ditching him instead of the other way around. Let him think it. Guerrero stood behind him, pamphlets in hand, oblivious to the conversation. What did he know… or care?
His mother turned once more to House, touched his chest. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"
"I'm fine mom."
"Okay. Call us."
House nodded, watched them leave. Guerrero moved to stand next to the bed, shrouding his view of his parents exiting. House looked up to him, determined.
"I've been over your file, House," he started. He started pulling out images, old ones, and putting them up next to each other in the air. "Tendon lengthening will reduce your pain, give you more mobility. But there is considerable risk- too long, too short… and rehab time…"
"Then I guess you'll have to get it right."
It was almost dinner when Wilson and Cuddy outlined the full treatment plan to him. He read through their plan, drawn up between Cuddy and Guerrero. Cuddy would be in charge of monitoring the coma; Guerrero in charge of the orthopedic side. It took him thirty minutes to read through the plan while Cuddy waited in the plastic chair. Remarkedly, House didn't say anything. He didn't even make notations. He glanced at Cuddy once, gave her a satisfactory nod and handed it back to her. "Looks good."
Later, after they left, House couldn't stop the tirade echoing in his head. When he shut his eyes that night, he saw the black muzzle of a semiautomatic gun pointed at his face, a blurry image of the man wielding it, felt the pinch in his stomach. It was terrifying. Terrifying to try to rationalize it. But then it did make sense, in some nearly inconceivable cosmic way. House realized then, drifting off to the feel of a morphine buzz, that the black muzzle of that gun didn't look or sound like death anymore. The universe supposedly started with a bang. He'd try it that way.
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