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System Failure: Part Six
by phineyj and snarkbait
Chapter 16: House
I like the sound of the bike when there's no one else on the roads. The idea that I'm waking everyone up as I squeal past their homes amuses me.
No red lights, no Hummers to dice with death over as I cut around them.
Just me, the bike and the roads, coupled with the knowledge that the streets at this time of night are mine.
My mind wanders, which is a dangerous thing on a bike.
I know she'll blame me, somehow. It will be my fault. It always is. She's probably doing it right now.
She'll be taking all of the internal anger that's now eating away at her for doing something stupid and turning it into something else. Trying to find words for it so she can throw it at me, stacking the blame up like chips in a poker game.
And she'll probably win that argument when we have it, because I don't regret anything. My reactions won't be motivated by my own angry self loathing.
Life's far too short to regret having sex with someone like Lisa Cuddy. Even if she is already disappointed in herself, even if she couldn't look at me as I was leaving.
She couldn't possibly take it for what it was.
It's not like we haven't done it before; on more than one occasion, in fact.
I ease off the gas a little; there are no cops around but I can't risk getting another speeding ticket.
It's so easy to do 80 or more when the roads are empty. It's so easy to let the bike race as my mind does.
---
I almost head to the locker rooms to get a shower, but my pager starts off again, so I quickly decide there is no point.
Cameron will hunt me down now I'm in the building, and her finding me in the shower at one in the morning will only raise questions.
I enter the office and wake Chase up. He almost tips out of his chair.
That's it sweetie pie, pull your beautiful hair out of your face and drag your brain back into the office for five minutes, would you.
Cameron starts filling me in on the patient; I'm half listening to her but the other half of my attention is somewhere else completely.
I don't know why - it's ridiculous - but I'm starting to feel guilty. I suddenly feel like I've done something wrong.
Obviously more than just Cuddy's perfume has rubbed off on me tonight.
Christ, I reek of it.
It's on my clothes, on me and embedded in my nostrils.
I move away from Chase and Cameron so the odor clinging to me doesn't put any ideas into their heads.
I open the fridge and instantly spot the dint in my Red Bull stash as I take one out. You can't leave anything in this fucking place without it getting stolen.
Kids.
Well it wasn't Chase, because he looks like he's about to fall asleep again. Cameron doesn't `do' theft. She'd be far too racked with guilt right now to have a conversation. Or she'd be apologizing and telling me she'll replace them.
Just then, Foreman catapults himself into the office with a nervous energy normally only seen in children who've eaten way too much ice-cream and are running out the sugar rush, before things turn nasty and they upchuck all over mom's Persian rug.
My money is on the ex-car thief.
---
I've not eaten since lunchtime, and I'm almost starting to get hungry, until we watch the laparoscopy.
My appetite is conquered very quickly by the sight of the necrotic bowel Chen needs to remove.
No surprise the kid hasn't been able to stand up for three days.
I still can't shake the idea of some sort of parasite, but the tests brought nothing conclusive back. And even a nasty foreign tapeworm wouldn't have done this much damage.
Unless he had it before; Foreman did say he'd been off his food. I think his illness just put four more people off their food.
If it's not a tapeworm, what the hell else would eat away at his intestines like that?
It can't be any other sort of worm, because the oxygen concentration in that part of the body is too low for it to survive.
Auto-immune seems to be the next best guess, and it is a guess.
I don't like pinning the Coyote's life on a diagnosis that has multiple choices to pick from, when time is of the essence. But we need to head in some direction.
Even the wrong direction will kick up diagnostic dust we can use.
This kid needs surgery now; dangerous or not, he's dead without it.
The lack of argument from Foreman when I push for surgery confirms how bad the kid's chances are now.
It's always bad when we start agreeing with each other.
---
It's just gone seven and the hospital is slowly waking up.
I rub my face tiredly and wonder where the best place to steal a quick nap would be.
And then I think better of it.
I'd be a fool to give Cuddy any sort of an excuse to bitch at me today; she barely needs one, she'll be fortified by her double barreled loathing of me and herself.
I'm too tired to fight with her just yet; she'd either shoot me down quickly for lack of effort, or I'd have to really overstep the mark to shut her up.
Neither of those argumentative strategies appeals, so I think avoidance is the best plan of action today.
I really should shower, considering I haven't yet since screwing Cuddy.
Or is that, since she screwed me?
Like it matters; God, I'm tired. I'm not used to physical exercise, of any kind.
I get up from the desk and head into the office; I take another can of Red Bull out of the fridge, and then I make my way to the locker room.
---
The warmth of the water feels good, especially on my leg. It's really feeling sorry for itself today after the slight bit of exercise it had to endure.
It could give me a break, considering I got us laid.
With Cuddy, which isn't just getting laid; it's a whole other thing, if I'm really honest.
I don't regret what we did last night, whatever happens; it was just sex, pretty good fucking sex too, and it's not like either of us are getting any elsewhere.
Regardless of the fact that Cuddy dresses like a 20 year old and likes to use her cleavage as something for people to look at when she's hanging around the clinic, instead of just investing in some bad artwork.
I close my eyes and think back to the last time I spent the night with her. It's not a comfortable set of images, but I can't stop myself from going to a place I've not been in a long time.
---
I'm slumped on my sofa.
Partly because I don't have the energy to hold myself up, and partly because I don't want to find the energy to hold myself up.
Besides, slumped is an accurate description of how I feel, mind, body and soul.
It went dark about an hour ago, but the lights are still off in my living room.
I've only just realized I've been sitting in the dark since then.
I haven't turned the lights on for over a week.
The glow from the TV that I'm not watching is enough.
It's all I need.
I've barely moved from the sofa in that time either.
Wilson says I'm moping. I wish it were as trivial as that; the reality is, I feel numb.
I feel detached, like I've been suspended above my own life, and forced to watch as a handful of people come in, take over, fuck everything up and then leave me with the fallout.
Moping is dragging your ass about for a few days, because you can't have something you want.
Like wanting a new motorbike and finding out you can't have it, because when you ask your girlfriend, she's afraid you'll kill yourself on it.
So you don't get one, because you love her, and you don't want her to worry about you.
There are a few days of moping to be had there, but it's not life changing.
The monumental shit I've had to put up with over the past month is.
It's not moping if you feel dead inside. I think that's closer to something called clinical depression, Wilson, but thanks for playing.
I couldn't care less what name you call it; just don't call it fucking moping.
I stare at the unopened prescription bottle in front of me on the coffee table, and grit my teeth.
I realize I've started to sweat.
Stacy left over a month ago now, and I don't know if I care or not.
I do and I don't.
I love her and I hate her.
Things have become very black and white since I had the infarction.
My right leg burns, and right now, for some reason, I want it to hurt more.
I stopped taking the pain medication yesterday, so I could feel it; I wanted to know how my leg was going to feel for the rest of my life.
Well I have mind-numbing pain in my right thigh to look forward to - forever.
I'm so lucky to be alive; praise be to fucking Jesus.
My boss chose to come and see me the third night of my 60-hour drinking session.
I woke up the next day and I didn't have a job.
I don't remember what I said to the Dean of Medicine over at Princeton General; I just have the outraged answer message to confirm I did indeed say something.
Fuck him; I was going to leave anyway.
No one wants to be treated by a crippled doctor.
Lisa Cuddy had to offer three times before I accepted a job with her, and that was after Wilson came around and put a few things into perspective.
Like how the fuck was I going to sustain a life NOW if I didn't even have a job.
I think it might be the first time I've ever heard him cuss. I suppose he figured it was the only way to get through to me.
It's the first time I've had a job offer motivated entirely by guilt.
If I had a dollar for every time she's apologized since I came out of the coma, I wouldn't need to take her job.
I accepted thirty minutes ago.
She's still here; she's cooking something in the kitchen and is refusing to leave until she sees me eat something.
Apparently I've lost weight since the infarction. I wouldn't know; I've stopped looking in the mirror.
Part of me wants her gone now, part of me is secretly glad for the distraction. Part of me is aware that she's the only reason the bottle of scotch on the table in front of me is unopened.
I feel sick at the thought of food, but she's almost as stubborn as me, so I think I'm going to have to eat something or she'll never leave.
I start thinking about the time I fucked her in college.
She's come a long way since then; further than I ever thought she would. She was always determined and ambitious - but I never figured she'd make Chief of Medicine well before her 35th birthday.
That's nothing short of incredible.
Cuddy comes into the living room from the kitchen and flicks the lights on.
It makes me squint and I sit up slightly, which sends a sickening jolt of pain along my thigh.
I close my eyes and groan, and just about refrain from grabbing hold of it; that would only make it hurt more, and the feel of the dint that shouldn't be there makes me feel nauseous.
When I open my eyes again, Cuddy has switched the TV off, and placed a bowl of pasta mixed with...something, in front of me.
"Why have you stopped taking your medication?" she says fiercely, looking at the unopened bottle.
"Why are you still here?" I counter.
"You're an idiot," she says, gently, and hands me the pills.
"And you're encouraging your new Head of Diagnostic Medicine to become dependent on opiates; you know how addictive this stuff is," I say distastefully, shaking the bottle.
"I offered you a range of medication, you picked Vicodin," she says, placing a hand on her hip.
I look away from her; she's exhausting.
"Please take one, you look awful," she eventually offers, in a more sympathetic tone. Then she goes over to my record collection and starts flicking through it.
"What are you doing?" I say, shortly.
"Filling the awkward silence until you stop being stubborn and eat something," she replies.
"Don't touch the vinyl," I bitch, as she picks up a rare and expensive Duke Ellington record.
She shakes her head but doesn't say anything until she pulls out another record and holds it up so I can see it.
"How about some Chet Baker? I think you could relate to a heroin-addicted manic depressive right about now," she says, sarcastically.
"You're wasted in medicine; you should take to the stage," I reply, finally relenting on the no-medication rule and popping two pills at once.
I almost reach for the scotch to wash them down with, but I decide against it because I can do without the lecture, so instead I reach for the glass of water she's placed next to the food.
She settles for a CD of Nina Simone. The plodding melody of "My baby just cares for me" drifts out of the speakers.
And it's impossible not to feel slightly lifted by the optimism of the song.
She made me play it to her once in college, when she found out I was a pianist.
I grab the food and sit back carefully. I'm on the far right side of the sofa; she comes and sits down on the far left of it.
"You've not done one for yourself," I say, nodding to the plate in my hands. "Can't stand your own cooking?" I ask suspiciously, before I try it.
"You've had my cooking before and from what I remember you had no complaints, so you're not getting out of eating with that excuse."
We fall silent whilst I eat. It does taste very good and I eat the whole thing. It's the first meal I've been able to stomach in about a week.
She doesn't speak to me until I place the plate back down on the coffee table.
I notice the Vicodin has kicked in then; maybe I shouldn't have taken two. I'm high as a kite now.
"Wilson's worried about you," Cuddy says.
I glance at her.
"Wilson is emotionally unstable, take no notice," I say; my words are verging on being slurred.
"I need to know you can handle this position; I need you to start next month and I want it to work out, but if you go and lose it on me..."
I frown at her.
"You see, this is what happens when you give people jobs based solely on the fact that you're wracked with guilt for helping to ruin their lives," I say groggily.
"I do not feel guilty I saved your life. I have nothing to feel guilty for," she says stoutly.
"Just because you keep telling yourself that, it won't make you believe it," I reply.
"Are you sure you can handle it?" she says, softly. "I need to know."
I don't answer for a while: I'm a fucking mess, and no, I don't think I can handle going back to the real world in one month. But I have to do it at some point. Two weeks, three weeks, two months... it doesn't matter.
This is how life is now.
"I can handle it," I say, eventually.
She nods her head, then she gets up and takes my plate; she also takes the un-opened bottle of scotch and disappears into the kitchen again.
"You're finished, so do you want me to go now?" she asks, when she comes back in.
I shrug like I don't care one way or the other; I've just turned the TV back on, so I pretend I'm engrossed in a baseball game I'm watching. The sound of the game is conflicting annoyingly with Nina, so Cuddy turns the stereo off again.
She comes back to the sofa and stands by it, watching the TV, like she's not quite sure if she's staying or leaving.
She looks at me quickly, and then sits down again.
"Don't you have a date tonight?" I say, not taking my eyes from the TV screen.
"No, what makes you say that?"
"You've got your puppies all puffed up and on show, thought there must be a reason," I explain.
She looks down at her obvious cleavage as I glance at her.
"You shouldn't be looking at my, `puppies'" she says, slightly annoyed.
"They're kind of hard to miss," I comment.
I doze off before the baseball finishes. Cuddy must have dozed off too, because when she wakes me up, it's late.
"You should go to bed," she says.
I still feel out of it. I really shouldn't have taken two Vicodin after not taking any for a day.
I grab the crutches that are by the side of the sofa and get up; I feel really dizzy, and I sway slightly.
Cuddy is wearing a look of concern when I glance at her.
"Stop looking at me like that," I say.
"Like what?"
"Like a doctor," I finish, and head for the door of the living room.
I can't help but wonder how much more fucked I'd be if Stacy and I had bought a house instead of an apartment.
Sleeping on the sofa, I guess, because there is no way I'd be able to tackle any stairs at the moment.
I get to my bed; by the time I've eased myself down Cuddy is standing in the doorway.
"I'm sorry I'm in too much pain to service you tonight," I say, with as much gusto as I can muster.
It sounds weak.
"You look like crap; I'm worried about you."
"I don't need anyone to worry about me, all right; go home," I say, and drop the crutches by the bed, lie down and close my eyes.
"Turn the lights off on your way out," I tell her.
I hear her go back into the living room and turn the lights out; I can feel sleep welcoming me into its arms. I'm almost away again when I hear the lights click off in my bedroom, and then a few seconds later I feel the bed shift.
"I told you..." I begin, but she cuts me off.
"Shut up and go to sleep. I'm not leaving now just to come all the way back again to see if you're still alive in two hours."
"Oh god, you're so melodramatic. I've taken too much Vicodin; I'll be fine in two hours."
I wish that were true.
We're lying on the top of the covers and I'm too tired to get in; in fact I'm over tired, and I lie for a long time wishing I could get to sleep.
"What's wrong?" she asks, about an hour later.
"How did I know you know I was still awake?"
"I can hear you thinking," she offers softly.
"You crack me up," I slur tiredly.
It doesn't stop me making a bold move and I ease over to her, placing my head on her chest.
She doesn't seem to mind; I can feel her chin rest against the top of my head.
Our breathing falls into a comfortable rhythm and a few minutes later I'm out like a light.
When I wake in the morning, she's gone.
I realize the reason I've been finding it hard to sleep is because it's weird not having someone beside me, after living with Stacy for five years.
I realize something else; things have changed between Cuddy and me, and they'll never be the same again.
Chapter 17: Cuddy
I get halfway to the lecture hall before I realize how completely ridiculous I'm being. So I slept with House. So I wish I hadn't. No amount of wishing's going to undo what we did, and in the meantime I'm wasting time worrying.
I'll go and talk to him at lunchtime, and tell him...okay, I have no idea what I'll tell him, but I've got all morning to work something out.
And I have actual work to do, so I may as well stop behaving like a sixteen year old.
---
I'm thinking about it all the time as I field a pile more press calls, at the same time as trying to look through the budget report the auditor's just sent me, and wondering if I ought to hire a new Head of Communications if we're going to admit any more celebrities. Although, I reflect sadly, the way this one is going, famous people aren't going to be waiting in line for PPTH to treat them.
I ponder the state the guitarist's wife must be in by now, and hope Cameron's looking out for her. It occurs to me that it's been ages since I've allowed myself to have a relationship. I expected to have to work extremely hard when I took the post here, but I suppose at the back of my mind, I thought I might reach a point where it was all going smoothly enough that I could actually take the occasional evening off.
It does seem though, that there are no men who want a partner on that sort of basis; it's a double standard; I can't help but notice that all my married friends spend a significant amount of their `free' time hosting dinner parties, going to tedious work functions and generally helping their other half's career along, whether or not they're successful themselves.
Realistically, who outside of medicine is going to understand that you can genuinely have a crisis is a large teaching hospital several times a week, in the middle of the night? And even if they do understand, what's to say they won't end up consoling themselves elsewhere? I don't have the numbers on the divorce rate among my staff here, but Wilson's hardly an isolated example.
I briefly miss Stacy, because stressful as it was when she was here, she got this sort of stuff and I could discuss it with her without feeling like I was being weak in some way.
But then, I remember how angry I was with her after she left House. From his infarction right up until that point, I felt we'd done something necessary, if morally unpleasant, but at least it was something we'd both done. Seeing the state he was in when she'd gone made me realize that I was never going to be able to walk away. I didn't want to. Wilson and I were the only ones he'd talk to, because we were the only ones who would put up with his crap.
Chapter 17: House
My appetite doesn't surface until lunchtime.
Chen is still in surgery, Chase is assisting, Cameron is doing some form of hand holding and Foreman is...actually I have no idea what he's doing.
I grab a Reuben and sit outside whilst I wait for it to go cold.
I figure the air might wake me up; I've felt fuzzy and not with it all day.
It doesn't do much to clear my head.
I'm just about to open up my sandwich when my appetite is cruelly stolen again; Cuddy is heading over to me with a determined look in her eyes, as if she's had to psych herself up to march over here.
Her heels click loudly on the courtyard paving; my eyes roll up to observe her as she comes to a halt by my side and places her hands on her hips
"How's the patient?" she asks.
"You don't have to talk in code, you didn't injure you know who," I say, nodding at my groin. "He did enjoy himself though," I continue.
Mistake.
She makes a sound close to something horses make when they're breathing out through their nostrils.
I look away quickly, so I'm not sure, but I think she might have just blushed.
"Could you please act like a grown man for five minutes? I've got the British press hounding me, and Rolling Stone the magazine, not the website want an update, because they're going to do a story," she snaps.
"Cuddy, I couldn't give a crap who's calling: the kid's in surgery, we don't know why his bowel is rotting inside of him, and last time I checked he was pretty close to death. Now you can tell Rolling Stone that, or tell them to bite your ass, it's your call."
I open up my sandwich.
"We need to talk," she says, suddenly very quiet.
"No, we don't," I reply.
All she had to do was stay away from me for one week; it would be awkward the week after when she started bitching at me again, but we'd both be absolutely determined to pretend `IT' hadn't happened.
And life would be normal again.
Talking suggests we're not going to pretend it didn't happen.
"I'm not going to indulge you in your self loathing; if you feel bad about sleeping with the jerk you work with, why not go grab a tub of frozen yoghurt and eat yourself out of your reverie, like every other woman on the planet does," I suggest, pointing inside the cafeteria with my cane.
I finally find the courage to look up and meet the anger, but she doesn't look angry, she just looks tired.
"I want a complete update in one hour; get it done," she says and then heads away.
Chapter 17: Cuddy
It's nearly midday. I decide I'm going to find House right now. I want a patient update, and talking to him isn't going to get any more pleasant if I leave it until I bump into him accidentally.
I'm not as angry as I was last night when he brought David's file round. I'm not that upset any more, either. Now I've got over the shock of being confronted with it, I actually feel kind of...relieved that I've talked to someone about it. None of my family will speak about my brother; I know they haven't forgotten him, but it suddenly seems important to me that I don't let him fade any more in my mind. I decide I'm going to look at the file again later; try to see it with a doctor's eye.
House isn't in his office, he's not watching the surgery, and he's not with Wilson either. Finally, I find him in the cafeteria. He doesn't notice me until I'm a few steps away from him; he's glaring down at his sandwich as though it's just dared to contradict his diagnosis, and I'm shocked by how tired and old he looks.
It's back to business as usual; the sexual comments, I get angry with him, he gets aggressive back. I can't believe he just accused me of self loathing, when it's coming off him in waves. He clearly wants to pretend last night never happened. Which is pretty convenient, all things considered.
So why do I feel disappointed?
Chapter 18: Chase
I'm getting really sick of House looking at me like I'm taking up precious space he could use for something else, like a new set of table football. He makes no secret of the fact he's got absolutely no respect for me. Well, fair enough, he's got no respect for anyone, but I can't seem to do anything right lately.
The surgery's going reasonably well, considering: Chen's taken out nearly ten feet of the diseased bowel. I can see why House was so insistent we used him; I would have panicked and taken the whole lot out, given the state of it, but Chen's looking over every inch, saving every bit of tissue he can.
It's taking a long time, though; Sam's stats keep dropping and his chances of surviving this operation are getting worse and worse. And that's before he even gets to the possibility of recovering, which to be perfectly straight, is unlikely.
I consider briefly for a moment whether I'd actually want to come round to hideous abdominal pain and a good chance of abscesses and septicemia, just so I could face a life on artificial nutritition, or if I'd prefer to die right here on the table.
Chen looks up at me and nods, tensely, "I'm going to close," he says, and continues, "I may have to go back in tomorrow, but I'm not risking anything more today; he's too weak."
I look up at Cameron, where she's sitting in the observation gallery with Sam's wife, and give them the thumbs up. After all, it's gone better than anyone could have expected on the basis of the laparoscopy. The poor wife is a wreck. It's a shame they're so far from home.
While Chen closes, I go to wash up, because House has just appeared at Cameron's shoulder, paged by her, no doubt, and he's going to want a report.
I'm thinking over what I've been looking at for the last four hours. What kind of auto-immune disease causes this sort of damage?
---
Which, of course, is exactly what House is asking when I walk through the door into Diagnostics.
"Cuddy wants an update in half an hour," he says, "Shoot."
Foreman's been researching auto-immune diseases the whole time I've been in surgery, and Cameron's just run up to the lab to collect the results from the tissue tests she ran first thing this morning.
"My money's on one of the vascultic syndromes," she says, breathlessly, "He's positive for ANCAs, and we know there's extensive vessel damage."
"Cameron, it's always a pleasure to take your money," House replies, writing `ANCA-present vasculitis' on the board.
"Any particular sort?" he asks.
"Could be Wegener's; could be Churg-Strauss; test for GBM was negative which rules out Goodpasture's, but it could still be Microscopic polyangitis, which would explain the anemia," she offers.
"Or it's much more likely to be lupus," I say, "The incidence of Wegener's is only about eight cases a million; Churg-Strauss is even rarer; about one per million, and not a single one of the US cases settled around the small intestine."
House looks at me in undisguised amazement, and I'm glad I skimmed that article of my dad's last night while we were waiting for him to get back to the hospital.
"But there aren't any dermatological manifestations, and no cardiac problems, either," puts in Foreman, frowning, "I say it's Guillain-Barr."
House looks over at him, "I'm interested to know how you plan to prove he's paralyzed, while he's in a coma," he states, sardonically.
"Don't need to," says Foreman, firmly, "It'll be what caused the respiratory failure, the constipation; it's associated with recent trauma and viral infections...it fits perfectly."
House is nodding, but then he says, "Seems simple enough. We've only got one tiny problem then, haven't we? If it's Guillain-Barr, the steroids will probably kill him; if it's one of the others, he's dead without them."
Continues in Part 7
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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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