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System Failure: Part Ten
by phineyj and snarkbait
Chapter 28: House
Cuddy climbs off my lap so I can get up from the sofa and grab my cane. Then I retrieve my jacket and pull out my cell phone.
It's incredible I didn't focus in on the asthma before this moment; it's the key to everything.
"I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner," I say as I scroll through the numbers in my phone.
"Think of what?" Cuddy asks.
"I need to go to the hospital," I reply, and then I call Cameron.
"Where are you?" I say, instead of `Hello.'
"At the hospital, like I'm supposed to be; it's my shift?" she replies. She sounds a little surprised to be getting a call from me.
"I need you to do some muscle and skin biopsies on our patient, then call Chase and Foreman and get them to meet us in the office when you're done," I say quickly, then hang up before she can reply.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Cuddy says seriously as she gets off her sofa.
"I know what's wrong with the patient; I need to go to the hospital," I say, then I shrug on my damp jacket and grab my helmet. I reach the door and realize she's not following me.
"Are you coming then, or what?"
She thinks about the question briefly, then finds her full-on administrator mode and disappears, returning a few moments later with a waterproof jacket. She puts it on and we leave.
---
I'm the first to arrive at the office, which isn't a surprise, although as I start to write on the whiteboard I get a page from Cameron telling me she's about to do the biopsies and will have the results in an hour.
I write three words on the board, and then circle them.
1. Asthma
2. Neuropathy
3. Eosinophilia
Then I write three more words underneath those and place a question mark by each of them.
4. Extravascular eosinophils
5. Paranasal sinus abnormality
6. Pulmonary infiltrates
I stare at the board and ease back and lean against the conference table, tapping the marker against my chin.
If I can confirm any of numbers 4, 5 or 6, I'll have my diagnosis. And it's at this point I realize Chase already suggested it to me a few days ago, albeit quick fire with a bunch of other ideas. I thought he was grasping at straws so he could get out of here and go home on time.
I can't believe I missed it; my head's been up my ass. This is why physical distractions are a bad idea; my priorities over the past few days have been lodged a little south of where they should have been.
Chase is the first to arrive, closely followed by Foreman, who raises his eyebrows expectantly, giving me his bad ass `This had better be good' look as he folds his arms in front of him.
"Take off asthma from this list and tell me what disease I have," I say to Chase.
He tilts his head and observes the board, but he offers nothing but a mild shrug.
"Come on, we've been playing this game all week; you had plenty of answers Thursday, give me some old ones if you can't find any new."
"Without the asthma, I'd say Guillain-Barr or Wegener's," Chase says assertively. Foreman nods his agreement.
I nod once, then look at the board. "Don't fall over, but I agree to now add the asthma," I say, looking from Foreman to Chase.
"How about...Guillain-Barr or Wegener's," Chase says sarcastically again, raising his eyebrows.
He's been here long enough to know only my sarcasm is funny, yet he still tries, poor little wombat.
"And that's why the kid is dying; now give me something special, clutch at one of those magical straws, Chase; this is about the time you start doing that normally."
Chase looks at Foreman, who shrugs.
"We've already ruled out Guillain-Barr and Wegener's anyway," Foreman says.
"For good reason, because it isn't either of those diseases, but if I'm right, then the disease our Coyote has mimics Guillain-Barr to the point that it rarely gets diagnosed before death."
"Like to share with the class?" Chase says; wow he's punchy today, he must have cancelled his yachting session for this.
"We've been overlooking the most obvious and vital clue the whole time, it's been staring us right in the face. Any guesses?
"Asthma?" Chase offers, uncertainly; he's only saying that because of what I asked him when he arrived.
"Asthma," I confirm. "But not just the fact that he has asthma, the thing we've been overlooking is that the onset of his other symptoms followed the first asthma attack."
I point at the board.
"Our sick Coyote has three points out of six. Now, what presents with asthma then moves through a progression of these symptoms and acts like Guillain-Barr?"
Both of them stare at the board. Chase comes a little bit closer and stuffs his hands into his pockets.
"It also does a pretty mean job of stopping you from breathing, erodes your gut and gives you my personal favorite, anal bleeding."
Their faces are still blank; I hate it when I have to spell everything out for them.
"Come on, think about it Chase; you already suggested it once," I say
He frowns and looks at me, then looks at the board again.
"Churg-Strauss?" he offers uncertainly.
"It would account for the respiratory failure, and the all out war declared on his gastrointestinal system. A diagnosis of Churg-Strauss can be made when our patient has four of these six conditions," I say, pointing to the symptoms on the board. "We only have three so far, so we need one more."
"He doesn't have paranasal sinus abnormality or any pulmonary infiltrates," Foreman helpfully informs me, like I'd have called them in if I wasn't ninety-nine percent sure about this.
Okay, I would call them in on a whim too, probably. But this isn't a whim. And it's at that point Cameron turns up holding a file of biopsy results in her hand.
"Find anything interesting?" I ask. We all stare expectantly at her. She gives us all a puzzled look and then pulls out a sheet of paper from the file she's holding and hands it to me
"Muscle and tissue biopsies demonstrate vascular infiltration with eosinophils," she says, as she hands me the sheet.
I smile at Foreman and he shakes his head; he hates it when I'm right, although you'd think he'd be used to it by now.
"Have I missed something?" Cameron asks.
I pull the lid off the marker and check off my fourth and final symptom for making my diagnosis.
"The patient is suffering from Churg-Strauss syndrome. I think someone should go and start him on glucocorticoids, stat, before our comatose Coyote croaks it," I say.
Foreman nods. "I'll do it right now," he says and leaves the room.
Chapter 29: Cameron
I'm smiling to myself as I enter Sam's biopsy results into my laptop. We've diagnosed the patient, so I feel happy about that, and I'm still on a high from last night. Nick texted me when he arrived at O'Hare, and then called this morning to invite me to go up and visit him next weekend.
I'm just wondering what it will be like to do more than kiss him, when a shadow falls over me. House. Who says, mockingly, "You're looking suspiciously cheerful at the moment, Dr Cameron; get lucky last night?"
It's too good an opportunity to pass up.
"I could ask you the same question, Dr House," I say, calmly, and he's actually speechless for a second, which gives me the chance to add, "I'll go check on the patient," and make a swift exit. I would have overlooked the perfume the other night, but honestly, if he wants to be stealthy, arriving with Cuddy on a Saturday afternoon is hardly the way to go.
When I get to Sam's room, Foreman is pushing the glucocorticoids, while Cathy looks on anxiously.
"So, you're sure about this?" she's asking, in a tone that suggests she wouldn't be surprised if we came up with another half dozen diagnoses before nightfall.
Foreman nods, and say, "Yeah, we're sure it's Churg-Strauss."
He finishes what he's doing, quickly checks Sam's stats, and gives me a look. I've worked with him long enough to interpret it as, `Would you do the touchy-feely stuff?" and I'm inclined to humor him today. I'm in a great mood, and House did drag him back here about three hours after he'd got off his shift.
I sit and talk to Cathy for an hour, while we wait for the meds to take effect. I don't know enough yet about Churg-Strauss to answer all her questions - I'm hoping Foreman and Chase are reading up on it right now - but I do know that now we've got him on the right medication, the potential for getting the disease into remission is pretty good. What we don't know yet, of course, is what effect the loss of bowel is going to have. He's going to have a long recovery period, and he'll have to be really careful about his diet, probably forever.
Cathy takes this reasonably well; in fact, she pulls a notebook and pen out of her bag and starts writing down all the things she needs to find out about and take care of. I'm reminded that she normally spends her waking hours trying to keep four rock musicians out of trouble.
While she writes, I make a mental note that I should double check Sam's file before we discharge him, to make sure his doctors in Britain will be clear on everything - the last thing we need is to set back his recovery because there's confusion over a drug name or something. And how amazing is it that we can think about his recovery now, considering what state he was in yesterday morning?
I tell Cathy that we'll probably be able to extubate him later on if he continues to improve, and go to look for Foreman and Chase, so we can work out a treatment plan. I'm going to avoid House as long as possible; he's had far too long now to think of revenge for me being cheeky to him earlier.
Chapter 30: Foreman
I'm hooking Sam up to a banana bag when he comes around. I feel bad for his wife; she's been waiting for him to regain consciousness all morning and she's just left to get a coffee.
I hear him groan a little and he looks over at me.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Shit," he croaks and then clears his throat, the simple action causing him to wince in pain.
He glances to the side of him.
"Where's Cathy?" he asks me worriedly.
"She just went to get some coffee; it's the first time she's left your side in about twenty-four hours."
"Is she okay?" he asks. It's hard not to find the question touching, seeing as he asks it before he asks about his condition.
"She's doing very well," I reply, reassuringly.
I carefully help him to sit up and then pull out my penlight. I check his eyes and reflexes; he's been out for a few days and I need to make sure there has been no neurological damage, but it doesn't look like there has been.
This is a good sign, because this poor guy really doesn't need any more problems.
The light seems to sting his eyes a little but he doesn't complain.
"So...I'm not dead then?" he observes when I pull away.
"No, but you are pretty damn lucky to be here. You have a condition called Churg-Strauss; Dr House made the diagnosis just in time. Your wife knows all about it and we've spoken to your doctor in England; he's setting up a recovery program for you for when you return."
"So I'm gonna be okay?" he asks. And there's no mistaking the hope in his voice.
I have to be honest with him; this disease is ruthless and deadly, he's very lucky to be alive and the survival rate post diagnosis, when one is made, is about fifty percent.
I place my light in my pocket.
"Churg-Strauss is a very rare disease and for it to present in the small intestine is rarer still. I think there have been about 30 cases in the past 25 years."
"Wow," he says shaking his head slightly.
"Yeah, your immune system became overactive and started attacking itself; that caused extensive cell damage to your small intestine. The drugs we used to combat the condition are cytoxic, which means they caused further cell damage. You're going to be feeling pretty crappy for the next few weeks."
"But I'll be okay?"
I look away from him briefly while I try and find the words to put this across to him.
"You lost a lot of your bowel Sam; it's going to be a slow recovery and there is no way to tell how the bowel damage is going to affect you in the weeks and months to come."
He nods. "I see," he says forlornly.
"But so far things are looking good; your body is responding very well to the treatment, and as long as you stick carefully to your treatment program there is a good chance you can make a full recovery, gastric problems aside."
He nods again. I hate to be so pessimistic and blunt but by rights this guy shouldn't even be alive; he's lucky to have made it this far. He needs to know he's not out of the woods yet.
At that point his wife returns. She doesn't quite know what to do with her coffee so I take it from her; she gives me a tired smile and I leave them to talk.
She's crying before I even leave the room and pulls her husband into a tentative hug.
He's going to have a really tough time, but he's clearly a fighter, and they seem to have such a strong bond between them. I'm sure with her help he can pull through it.
And I really hope he does.
Although, however bad I feel for the guy, I still don't like his music.
Chapter 31: House
I'm almost dreading Monday morning as I get ready for work. I've not spoken to Cuddy since Saturday. I figured we both needed a day apart to think about things, what we've done and how it's going to change our working lives, because I think we both know it's going to.
I'm not sure how I feel about that because any change in our behavior towards one another is going to be blatantly obvious to the people around us.
When Wilson enters my office about half an hour after I get to work, he's got that smug, knowing look on his face. I normally try not to care what he thinks he does or doesn't know about me.
But this isn't just about me.
I don't want him spreading this around; it's obvious he knows something, and he can usually tell if I'm lying when he has a good lead. Cuddy's car outside my apartment on a Friday night is about as good a lead as he could get.
I don't want anyone to know about this yet, though. It will come out eventually; this kind of thing always does. But it would have been nice to have a week or two to get my head around it, because despite his obvious lack of breasts and nursing qualifications, Wilson is the biggest gossip in this hospital.
I could tell him to back off I suppose, because it's none of his business. But he'd just call me a hypocrite. I could deny it, but he'd know I was lying, so I think I'm going with the silent defense. He can answer his own questions and come to his own conclusions because I'm not helping him pick me apart.
The truth is I don't know how I feel about what has happened, I do know I don't regret anything, and I think Cuddy feels the same way. How that's going to affect things from now on is an unknown, all I do know is that I could have done with a little bit of time before Wilson starts to analyze everything.
The truth of the matter is, his advice tends to worm into my head and stay in, and however much I try to block him out, his words soak into my subconscious. I would like to come to a conclusion on this without his bias clouding my decision.
Because he'll think it's a bad idea.
I look up from my PSP long enough to acknowledge his being in the room when he enters, then I carry on playing NFL Street.
He sits in the chair opposite me and I do my very best to ignore him. I know he's staring at me...waiting.
"Heard you solved the case," he offers eventually. "Think you'll get a name check on the next album?"
"Name check," I scoff. "I think concept album based on my medical abilities would be more acceptable, seeing as how I saved his life."
"Yes, now you mention it, I'm sure insufferably grouchy bastards are the muses of rock stars around the globe; forgive me for selling you short," Wilson offers sarcastically.
"I suppose you had an interesting weekend then?" he then asks curiously. I give him a quick look and watch as he takes a sip of coffee. I notice the cup bears the logo from the shop around the corner from the hospital. Selfish Wilson, could have brought me one.
"Not really, you?" I say.
"Nope," he replies quietly, and then he places his finger on his chin, looks into the corner of the room in thought and pretends to think.
Here it comes.
"Although I think I may have unearthed some really juicy gossip," he says.
I carry on playing the game, even though his distraction has enabled the computer team to score a touchdown.
Stupid Wilson.
He's going to try and screw with me; I can almost hear the malevolent little cogs inside his head turning with joy as he thinks of how to do this to get the maximum discomfort out of me.
And it occurs to me our friendship is all kinds of messed up.
Well, I'm not giving him an inch. Anything he gets out of me, he'll have to drag out kicking and screaming.
"What sort of gossip are we talking about?" I ask, making my reply sound as bored as I possibly can.
"Oh the best kind; it involves a doctor you and I know very well getting it on with another doctor," Wilson says carefully.
"Really; and how is this any of your business?" I say uncomfortably.
I glance at him quickly and then focus my attention back on the game. Even though I've lost the match and it's resetting itself, I tap the buttons like I'm still playing.
"It's not, but I thought you might like to know, because it does sort of involve you," he says.
"Leave it Wilson," I say dangerously; if he's not going to have the decency to come out and say something he can shut up and go away. I'm really not in the mood for playing games.
"Touchy, so you already know then? Are you going to talk to her about it?" Wilson says.
"If this is about Cuddy's car being at my place you're barking up the wrong tree, she was worried about the case..."
Wilson screws up his face as if he has no idea what I'm talking about.
"Ahh...I'm not talking about Cuddy or her car, I was referring to Cameron and Chen, and the fact that they hooked up recently."
"What?" I say slightly surprised, not quite expecting that.
That little shit Chen; how dare he tap someone on my team up, sneaky.
I try and gather myself a little. "I don't see how that involves me."
"He lives in Chicago, doesn't he? Didn't think you'd want her leaving your team,"
"She'll be leaving the team when her fellowship is up anyway, but she can't do it before because of that thing, what is it...hmmm a little piece of paper, I think they call it a contract," I say and glare at him.
Wilson gets up and I'm pleasantly surprised because I think he's actually going to leave without a lecture. He reaches the door, pulls it open and then almost leaves, but he just can't help himself.
"Oh, and as for offering Cuddy off the clock medical advice," Wilson says. I look up at him.
"I think that's the sort of thing you need to be really careful about," he says seriously. "Could become a habit, and if you piss her off, you'll never find another Dean of Medicine who puts up with your crap the way she does."
I nod, and I can't hold his gaze. "Noted," I offer uncomfortably. For all of his conceited little looks when he has something on me, the reason his advice sticks in my head is because he's normally right.
But then again, I reflect, when he's closed the door behind him; it's not like he practices what he preaches.
Two weeks later
Chapter 32: Cuddy
Sam comes to see me just before he's discharged. He's in a wheelchair, but he's pushing himself, his biceps standing out with the effort. The doors to my office aren't very wheelchair-friendly, so I jump up to let him in. He's looking pale and thin; he wasn't exactly fat when he was admitted, but now his skin looks as though it's been stretched tightly over the bones underneath, and his black jeans and faded green t-shirt are hanging loosely on him.
After I've asked how he's doing, and he's told me, Fine, which I suppose is true enough compared to how he was, he hands me an envelope. I turn it over curiously and open it. It's not sealed, and it holds precisely one piece of paper.
"This is very generous," I say, slowly, putting it back down on my desk. "Are you sure you can afford it?"
"Are you kidding?" he says, with a flash of his heartbreaking smile. "Do you know how many more people bought our CD after all that unsolicited press coverage? You can't buy that sort of publicity, my agent tells me."
"Well, normally, for this sort of amount you'd get a wing named after you, at least...do you have anything in mind?" I ask, still mentally reeling at just how much this is going to improve the look of my next board report.
"No, you're all right. Dr Chase tells me most of the defining features of Churg-Strauss were discovered at autopsy...I'm just glad to be alive. Do something useful with it," he says and it occurs to me that I know exactly what I'm going to spend it on.
I can't wait to tell House.
Chapter 33: Wilson
Cuddy and I are five minutes into our meeting to discuss oncology staffing when the phone rings. She says, "I'm in a meeting, can I call you back?" but the person obviously says no, because she glances up at me apologetically. I'm guessing donor, or maybe one of the older board members; it's definitely someone who likes the sound of their own voice, because Cuddy's hardly getting a word in.
She's now saying, "No, I don't think it would be fair to argue that at all!" in a tone which is equal parts emollient and aggressive, while she fiddles angrily with her pearls, and I'm starting to feel a bit uncomfortable about sitting in on an actual argument. I decide to retreat into the outer office until such time as it seems safe to come back in.
While I'm waiting out there, trying to decide which looks less boring, the Journal of Healthcare Management or Newsweek, a pretty girl in a smart black suit walks in. I don't know her name but I think she works in the press office. She looks through the glass doors, obviously figures it's not a great moment to interrupt and then turns to me.
"Are you about to go into a meeting with Dr Cuddy?" she asks, and when I nod, hands me the piece of paper she has in her hand, and says, "Would you be able to give her this then? She said she wanted to see it as soon as possible."
"No problem, Keira," I say, checking her name badge, and doing my level best not to check out anything else. She smiles gratefully, and clicks away quickly on her high heels.
I have a brief battle with myself over whether I ought to read it, but it's not even in an envelope, so I don't feel too bad.
It's a press release, marked "Draft: For Approval," and titled David Cuddy Teenage and Young Adult Health Center to be built at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
The new Teenage and Young Adult Health Center at Princeton-Plainsboro is designed to meet the total medical and health care needs of youths aged 12 to 21. Board-certified pediatricians and internists with specialized training in adolescent medicine focus both on immediate problems while also assessing future health risks. Also assisting teens as issues arise is a team of psychologists, psychiatrists, social workers, nurses, health educators and substance abuse specialists.
In addition to routine medical care, the Center offers such specialized services as the evaluation and treatment of eating disorders, puberty and growth concerns, menstrual and gynecologic disorders, attention deficit disorder and abdominal pain, headaches and fatigue.
The foundation of the Center has been made possible by a private donor who wishes to remain anonymous.
Well, I can guess who the private donor might be; I saw how happy Cuddy was just after we discharged the guitarist and it wasn't purely because House saved his life. I know she was really, genuinely glad he recovered, but I also know that particular relaxed look she gets when we're in the money.
Then it strikes me that I still don't know who David is; unlike House, I don't spend my whole time nosing about in my colleagues' private lives. Although, I guess, if the guy's getting a whole new building named after him, it would be all right to ask.
Cuddy puts the phone down and waves me back into her office. I notice her hands are shaking slightly and her face is flushed. The scarlet clashes unpleasantly with the sea-green suit she's got on today.
"Everything okay?" I ask, cheerfully, expecting her to say, "Fine."
"Not really," she replies, surprising me. "Would you say dating House is a career-limiting move?"
I choke and it takes me a minute to recover myself. When I do, Cuddy has regained some of her own composure.
"That was Nancy on the phone," she says, "She wanted to tell me that if I'm going to pursue a personal relationship with Dr House then she's resigning her seat on the board."
"Well, every cloud has its silver lining," I say, gravely, and look up at her. Her eyes are sparkling with mischief but she doesn't laugh. I know she's had a lot of practice at keeping a straight face, but I can't help it; the thought of Nancy Sidebotham, with her ridiculous curly blue rinse getting her panties in a bunch over who the Dean of Medicine is sleeping with cracks me up.
"Is there an actual rule against you having a personal relationship with one of your staff?" I inquire. It hadn't occurred to me to wonder, because, to be honest, I had assumed House would screw this up spectacularly, long before anyone got around to checking the fraternization policy.
"As it happens, no," Cuddy says, "Not as long as I declare it and absent myself from any meetings concerning the relevant person's employment."
Well, that should cut down on her meetings. Hang on a minute; I'm on the board, why didn't I know this already?
"I sent a note with next week's board papers," she says, reading my mind. I decide to ignore her look; there's no rule says you have to read meeting papers in advance, and I'm drowning in staffing paperwork at the moment.
"Nancy's the only one who's actually resigned," she continues, "Although Rod's secretary rang up to pass on his message that it was too late for an April Fool's joke."
"Well, you can count on my support," I say, softly, "Although I think you're both-"
I try to think of a nicer way of saying crazy.
"Crazy?" Cuddy suggests, and we both laugh this time.
I suddenly realize I'm still holding the press release, so I pass it over the desk to her.
She skims it, and I see the last of the tension from her phone call vanish from her shoulders.
"I read it," I say, cautiously, "I hope you don't mind?"
"No, of course not," she says, "It's going out later today anyway."
I decide I may as well chance it.
"Who's David?"
Cuddy looks at me, smiles in an odd way I can't quite interpret and says, "My brother. My older brother. He died when I was twelve."
You'd think, wouldn't you, that I would have had plenty of practice with useful platitudes for awkward, tragic situations by now. But I'm embarrassed about the conversation we had before, along with the fact my mind's now in overdrive wondering how the hell she and House are still speaking, never mind whatever else they're doing.
"It's okay," she says, picking up on my confusion, "There's no reason you would have known. I've never mentioned him to you."
"House-"
"Is an ass. What else is new? But he told me some things I needed to hear."
"Yeah. He does do that," I agree, and I sense that she doesn't want to discuss this much more, so I pick up the staffing file again, and say, "Back to business, then?"
And she wipes her eyes, and says, "Right, back to business."
Chapter 34: Chase
Things have been quiet since we discharged Sam; we've had a few patients, but nothing out of the ordinary. I'm still riding pretty high on the fact I got the right diagnosis, even if I was idiotic enough not to realize it. I thought of it, right? That means I can do it again.
At least House has stopped sighing every time he looks at me. In fact, he seems pretty cheerful altogether at the moment - he keeps singing to himself, and yesterday he told me I should write Sam's case up. All right, he did add, "Anything to stop Cameron and Foreman fighting over it," but he still said it. There's no way his good mood can last, so I'm going to make the most of it.
It's my day off and I'm doing a shift in Peds. I do need the cash, but I like it here. It sounds like an awful thing to say about sick kids, but I actually find it quite relaxing. Kids don't come with all the baggage adults do, and even when they've got serious things wrong with them, they're still kids. They want to play and mess about; they have fights with their sisters and brothers and someone's always got the latest gadget that everyone's after.
I'm just helping Ellie, a twelve year old with leukemia to make a playlist on her I-pod, while we wait for her tests to come back, when I notice a group of people enter the ward.
Cuddy's with them, so I assume they're donors. They always want to see the children's ward. Even with no hair, brows or lashes, Ellie's a strikingly pretty girl, and soon enough, they're headed our direction.
Now that they're closer though, I don't think they are donors. These three look to be in their thirties, and donors are usually much older. The two to Cuddy's left must be twins, they're so alike. Although one's dark and one has blonde highlights, their facial features are identical. And oddly familiar. They're both good-looking women, but the other is stunning; brunette, curvy - she's nearly bursting out of her cherry red dress - and with an engagingly mischievous expression.
"Dr Chase, I'd like you to meet my sisters," Cuddy says, and as soon as the words leave her mouth, the family resemblance is completely obvious, "Ruth and Rachel," she says, indicating the pair of twins, "And Jenny," waving at the other, younger one.
"So, how do you like our hospital?" I ask, politely, "Or have you been here before?"
"No, never," says Jenny, breathlessly. "It's very impressive," she glances at Cuddy, "And I had no idea Lisa was so important!"
Which makes me want to smile, although I don't. It's nice to know everyone goes home, gets patronized by their family and made to do the dishes, or whatever, however exalted they might be at work.
They stay a few more minutes, while Cuddy shows her twin sisters all the latest equipment and introduces them to a few more of the patients. Meanwhile, Jenny sits on the end of Ellie's bed and chats to her about the music she likes, and lets her try on her necklace, and asks me where I'm from in Australia - which makes a pleasant change from having to field random questions about Britain.
"I think she liked you," says Ellie, seriously, when they've all gone, fiddling with the flowery scarf she's wearing gypsy-style on her head.
"Oh really? Why?"
"Because she gave me this for you."
I look at the piece of paper Ellie's just handed me.
It's a cell phone number.
A year later
Epilogue
She would never get tired of this, Cathy decided, as she stood in the wings of the Continental Airlines Arena, watching as Sam played the final guitar break in `Don't stop now.' His black t-shirt was soaked through with sweat and his dark hair, which had been spiked up with gel earlier was now slicked flatly across his forehead.
Peter, the singer, was in a similar state, and as Cathy watched, he peeled his shirt off and threw it to an ecstatic fan, who immediately put it on. Ew, thought Cathy; the thrill of band members' used clothing had worn off for her around the time Peter had wanked into a sock and left it in her sleeping bag.
It was the third stadium concert the Coyotes had done in less than a week, and she'd heard all the songs dozens of times before, but this tour was special, and not just because they were playing 20,000-seater arenas this time. This was the tour no one thought would happen. Cathy doubted anyone could possibly tell just by looking at her husband that this time last year, he was as close to death as anyone could be.
The final chords of the song he'd written for her echoed around the stadium; the band had taken to playing it as their final encore. They claimed this was because it sent the crowd off in a good mood, which was true, but Cathy thought their superstitious dread of a repeat of last year's events had something to do with it as well. She'd noticed that they'd all been cutting back on the drink and drugs lately, even Peter. Evidently if Sam could keel over in the middle of a song, then anyone who smoked dope for breakfast, lunch and tea was just asking to pop his clogs.
She looked over to the wings on the other side of the stage, where their guests were. She'd put a chair there for Dr House earlier, but he'd spent most of the gig standing, although she noticed he was leaning a bit on Dr Cuddy now. Had they been a couple last year, when she and Sam were in the hospital? She didn't think so, but then, she'd had other things on her mind at the time.
Sam was calling them Greg and Lisa, but she just couldn't bring herself to do likewise. It was all right for him; he'd mostly been unconscious on a drip when the doctors were all that were standing between him and an early grave. She shivered; she completely understood Sam's hatred of hospitals now, although ironically, now he'd spent so much time in them, he didn't seem to mind them quite so much.
The two doctors had arrived around 6pm, by Sam's invitation, and had had dinner with the band, followed by a tour backstage in the arena. Dr House had got to play Sam's Gibson Les Paul, which had actually made him crack a smile. He'd played better than Cathy had expected him to; she had a feeling he probably did everything better than she expected him to.
She still hadn't forgiven him for the way he'd behaved to her in the hospital. She'd been scared, and alone, and thinking her husband was going to die. Considering the only reason he hadn't was because Dr House had figured out what was wrong with him in time, this was a wrong and ungrateful way to feel, she knew, but it was a fact.
And they were both coming for a drink after the gig; great. Never mind, she reflected, it wouldn't exactly be the first time she'd had to spend the night at a post-show party with an arrogant git she wanted to punch in the nose. She felt that way about Peter most of the time.
---
Obviously, because she didn't much want to chat to Dr House, he and Dr Cuddy were the first people Cathy saw when she walked into the party back at the hotel. She noticed the rest of his team were here too, keeping a careful distance from their boss - she'd sent them an e-mail as soon as the tour dates were confirmed, offering them as many tickets as they wanted - she'd had to draw the line at having the whole lot backstage, though. She made a note to say hello to Dr Cameron, because she honestly didn't think she would have got through the whole experience last year without her.
The band hadn't arrived yet; they were always last, because they had to shower and get changed, and Sam always signed a lot more autographs than Cathy privately thought was necessary.
"Hi, what did you think?" she asked Dr House, because she had to say something, seeing as he was standing right in front of her.
"They're better-looking than the Devils, but the amount of random violence was disappointingly low," he offered, and with that, he limped off toward the bar.
"It's okay if you still want to kill him," Dr Cuddy said, matter-of-factly, when he was out of earshot, and when Cathy was too embarrassed to respond, she added, "That's the effect he has on most people. It's normal."
"Really?" Cathy asked her. She had assumed she was being uptight and British; for all she knew, American doctors normally behaved like House did.
"Yeah. I want to kill him a lot of the time myself, but somehow he always gets the job done," Dr Cuddy admitted, "Doesn't Sam ever annoy you?"
"What, you mean, like when he has a song idea at three in the morning and he has to get up and try it out, right away?"
"Exactly. I've lost count of the number of times I've woken up alone because Greg's had an inspiration and rushed back to the hospital."
Cathy liked this woman. She couldn't imagine why anyone would want to date Dr House, but if someone had to, it should be someone who could keep him in line.
Suddenly, she remembered something.
"How's it going, that new building you were working on?"
"It's going really well. We broke ground last month. My parents are making the trip out next week to take a look," said Dr Cuddy, looking very happy about it.
---
It turned out to be a good party, despite Cathy's earlier misgivings. She talked to Dr Cameron - Allison - who seemed a lot more relaxed than she had last year; admired her engagement ring, privately thinking that American medics must earn a hell of a lot to afford rocks like that, and heard about her plans to move to Chicago when her fellowship was up. Her colleague, the Australian one, whose name she couldn't remember, told her he'd written Sam's case up as a paper, and said she could have a copy if she liked.
"I think I'll pass on that one," said Cathy, shuddering at the thought. It was odd what other people found interesting; even easy-going Sam was getting incredibly bored of having to talk more about his health than his latest release every time he did an interview, while she'd taken to carrying leaflets from the Churg-Strauss Syndrome Association around with her to avoid the constant explanations.
She managed to avoid Dr House for the rest of the evening, although that meant avoiding Sam, too, because there was obviously some sort of unwritten male rule that handing over your Gibson made you a friend for life. And as the hotel had a convenient grand piano, a jamming session was now in progress on the opposite side of the room.
Finally, around 3am the room began to empty, and she was thinking wistfully that it would be nice to get a few hours sleep before they had to pack up and move on to Toronto tomorrow.
She glanced around the room, wondering if it was safe to leave the hotel staff to get on with clearing up. It didn't look like anyone was going to be throwing their telly out of the window tonight: she could see three roadies playing a drinking game; House's other colleague, the sympathetic dark-haired one, chatting up the barmaid; one of the drivers having a row with his girlfriend on his mobile...and doctors House and Cuddy, snogging like teenagers in the corner behind the piano.
She watched as they drew away from each other; Dr Cuddy had her back to her, but she could see the expression on House's face.
Cathy recognized that look. It was the same one that had been on Sam's face the day they got married; it was one that said, I'm yours, and I always will be.
It was time to find Sam and tell him she loved him.
THE END
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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