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System Failure: Part Seven
by phineyj and snarkbait
Chapter 19: House
"It's not Guillain-Barr," I say confidently.
"Why not?" Foreman counters.
I blow out some air and look into the middle distance.
"I can just feel it in my water."
Foreman tilts his head and raises one of his eyebrows, adopting one of his many `That don't impress me much' stances.
He probably choreographs for Shania Twain in his spare time.
"Or..." I continue, holding my finger up then pointing it at Foreman.
"...Maybe I can remember what the kid's initial symptoms were when he got sick; tingling in his toes and fingers was not on the list."
"You're right; if only the first symptom had been some sort of respiratory problem," Foreman says sarcastically, shaking his head to sell it.
He then points back at me.
"Wait a minute; he did complain of chest pains first. Meaning it could just be a parasite doing the bowel damage and Guillain-Barr is doing everything else."
Cheeky little shit. I'll do the sarcasm. Guillain-Barr is a bad diagnosis.
"This isn't `just' anything. Whatever it is, it's declaring holy war on his digestive system. A good parasite does not kill its host."
"We should take him off the steroids," Foreman says strongly, ignoring my objections.
I hate it when he ignores me. Now I have to get his attention.
"Okay, but when you say take him off the steroids let's be clear that what you really mean is, let's end his life. So you're suggesting diagnosis by death here; it's original, I'll give you that. Who wants to try Foreman's idea?" I say to Chase and Cameron as I raise my hand.
I look from one to the next but they stay silent. They suddenly seem very comfortable about not getting involved.
Wimps.
"If it is Guillain-Barr, not taking him off the steroids could kill him," Foreman says to them.
"Chen just removed half of his bowel; after that sort of surgery his body won't be able to handle the shock if we're wrong," Cameron says to Foreman.
Way to get involved Cam, and she's on my side. Shock horror, it's like the good old days.
"Don't do anything until he comes around from the surgery," I say to Foreman.
"Chen has advised we keep him out for at least three days, to aid recovery," Chase informs me.
"Keep him on the steroids, and monitor any changes. There is nothing more we can do until we can assess how he's feeling now the dead bowel is no longer such an integral part of him. We'll know one way or another on Monday if the steroids are helping him or not."
"How?" Foreman says.
"Because he won't be alive on Monday if it's Guillain-Barr, but if you yank him off the steroids today and you're wrong, he won't make it to the evening repeat of General Hospital tonight."
Foreman finally shuts up.
"And by repeat I mean, the one I Tivo'd, and the one I'm going home to watch right now. Hands off him Foreman, let him recover, keep me informed," I say and start putting my things into my backpack.
---
The kids are going to take shifts over the weekend and call me if there is any change in the Coyote's condition.
His temperature was down a few degrees and he was stable when I left. At least he's not getting any worse.
Foreman had his nose buried in a gargantuan medical dictionary when I went. He was still fighting Guillain-Barr's corner so I told him if he was so sure, he needed to find me the parasite that was eating the kid's intestines.
Stubborn idiot; he must be taking the first shift. If it was the other way around and I was as sure as Foreman, I'd just go ahead and take the kid off the steroids anyway.
Foreman lacks conviction in his beliefs. This is good news for the Coyote.
I'm watching a fairly stale game of baseball when the inevitable knock comes.
I glance at my watch; it's seven forty-five.
I know it's Cuddy, because she's incapable of just leaving things alone. Unfortunately for her, talking about what happened isn't going to reverse time and prevent it.
I pull the door open and Cuddy is standing on the step. A gentle breeze blows some of her hair into her face and she quickly pulls it out of her eyes.
We remain silent for a few moments then I head silently back into the living room, leaving the door and her options open.
If there is something she needs to get off her chest - preferably her bra, but I don't think that's why she's here - then it may as well be now.
I don't want this thing stretching out for longer than it needs to.
It takes her a few moments but she follows me in. She takes a look around the room; I don't think she's been to this apartment yet.
I moved at the start of the year; I told Wilson I needed somewhere I could park the bike close by. In reality I needed a place with fewer steps when the elevator at my last place became treacherously unpredictable.
The living room is a mess but I could care less. I can't imagine she'd expect anything more from me.
I could have kept Wilson's cleaner on I suppose, but it frustrated the crap out of me when she moved all my stuff around so I couldn't find anything.
My mess is an organized one; I know where everything I need is.
"Didn't think you did house calls these days, Cuddy," I say lightly.
Then I realize the double meaning of what I said, and marvel at how our conversations turn to innuendo when I'm not even trying.
"I wanted to talk to you," she says quietly.
She looks drained, looks like someone who's been juggling too much for too long and has finally had to let everything drop.
"There's not a lot to say about..." I begin, but she cuts me off.
"I don't want to talk about - that. I just want to talk..."
It's then I notice she has her brother's file in her hand.
"...to someone," she finishes, unable to look at me.
I look at the file and then at her, realizing that she's been wearing pale like a cosmetic product for the past few days.
"Sit down," I say, offering her a spot on the sofa with a quick gesture of my hand.
"Want a beer?" I ask. I sure need one.
She breathes out loudly and nods, as if it's a really big decision.
"Why not," she replies.
I nod and go and collect two beers from the fridge.
I really could do without this tonight; I'm exhausted and her guilt is far less interesting now that I know where it's coming from.
That part of the puzzle is solved. It's up to Cuddy to either do something about the way she feels or continue to let it guide all of the important decisions in her life. What it isn't - is my problem.
But then, looking at her sitting on my sofa, I realize she must be in a really shitty place to come here on a Friday night.
Searching for some sort of conversation about the one thing she hasn't spoken to anyone about for a very long time.
I limp back in, not really sure what to expect. I'm clutching both of the bottles in my left hand.
I place one in front of her on my coffee table and then ease myself down onto the sofa beside her. I glance over but she doesn't look back at me.
She looks lost. I wonder how much of this is my fault? Annoying Cuddy is fun, antagonizing her and baiting her is too.
Seeing her quiet and despondent makes me realize there was a line to cross when it came to how far I could push her, and I should have known where it was.
Too late to worry about it now; it's done, and she does need to face up to this.
I did her a favor really.
Neither of us says anything, so we watch the baseball game.
How can Cuddy's life be so empty of real friends she has to come to me for this discussion?
We watch the game for about thirty minutes before she says anything.
"Why do you do it?" she says, distantly.
I glance at her with my half empty beer poised on my lips
"What?" I say, before taking a swig.
"Keep digging for buried information where you have no right or invitation to dig," she says, as her thumb slowly circles the top of her beer bottle.
I've pulled off half the label on mine; I brush the tattered debris of the Bud logo from my jeans onto the floor.
"Because it's the only information worth digging for," I offer, raising my eyebrows.
She shoots me a quick look then stares at her beer again.
"People normally dig around in other people's lives because they're worried about their friends or relatives and they want to make sure they're okay. You do it purely for selfish reasons."
I snort, loudly so she can hear.
"Which people, Cuddy? Everyone does it for a selfish reason; they just dress it up so it's masquerading as care and concern. People need to know the inner workings of their friends' and relatives' lives so they can control them better," I say then drain the rest of my beer.
"So cynical, so you," she says bitterly, and takes a swig of her own drink.
"No not cynical, just fact. Sugar coating crap does not make crap taste nice - it's still crap - so tell it like it is. You don't like people knowing anything about you because you have to be able to control every aspect of your world, or you think it will fall apart," I observe.
"You're right, I should just wear my heart on my sleeve like you," she counters sarcastically.
I continue to say my piece, undeterred by her snipe because her game is weak.
"The more people know about you, the less fake you can be, and the less bullshit you can project."
She gives me a quick angry look and then falls silent; we're running around in circles. It's all we ever do, as if agreeing with each other would physically hurt us both.
"People should keep their noses out and let other people do what the hell they want but it never works that way. Why should I play by the rules when no one else does?" I ask.
"Because you use the information to hurt people," she says strongly.
"Oh dear, I've hurt you by bringing this up, I'm sorry," I say mockingly.
"No you're not," she replies.
"No I'm not; you see, sugar coating shit does not work. You need to deal with this Cuddy," I say, pointing at the file she's placed on the coffee table.
"I want to know why someone as successful as you could be so entirely controlled by such an irrational motivation," I say.
"You know, you're right, being motivated by egotistical belief in oneself and obsession is far healthier," she says darkly.
"At least I'm consistent," I offer with a shrug.
Cuddy shakes her head slowly. "You know, some people think guilt helps them to realize they're human and accountable for their actions," she says.
"Stupid, weak people; you're neither," I counter.
She shakes her head again, as if I'm a frustrating little boy who won't do as he's told. But what does she expect from me? She's come to the wrong place if she wanted `touchy feely'.
I don't know why she came here; she probably doesn't know either.
She gets up and places her half drunken beer on the table.
"This was a mistake," she says and she goes to leave.
I get up and somehow make it to the living room door before she does.
"Don't bury this again, deal with it," I say, putting an end to her moody retreat.
She laughs humorlessly.
"Oh god, can you hear yourself?" she asks loudly, "Be an ass, be a jerk, and believe everything that comes out of your mouth, House, but don't be a hypocritical bastard when you've brought this on me, to sate your own intrusive obsessions."
"Yes, this is all about me," I offer.
"You can't deal with your leg, and you've made yourself progressively more miserable for five years, yet I shouldn't bury my feelings. Who the hell are you to tell me that?" she questions angrily.
"I don't blame myself for something I had no control over. In fact, I'm the one person I don't blame for this," I say, pointing at my leg.
It comes out stronger than I wanted it to sound; I'm not trying to suggest I blame her, it just sounds that way and she looks at the floor.
She can't seem to be emotional without anger being wrapped in somewhere.
I don't regret pushing this onto her; sometimes people need to be pushed.
I reach out and place my hand on her cheek. She closes her eyes.
Probably wishing that I were someone else.
I lean over and place my other hand in the collection of soft curls at the back of her head and pull her into a slow kiss.
It's almost rhythmic, and I was right yesterday when I realized I missed the sensation of kissing Lisa Cuddy.
It's not as innocent as it used to be, it's still soft and patient, but it is also slightly dangerous. Because the moment it stops we're the same people.
And she is angry and upset and she's supposed to hate me, and I'm supposed to hate her and we're supposed to take pot shots at each other until the other one retreats until they can think of something nastier to say.
We're not supposed to be ending arguments like this.
We break away and I'm finding it hard to want to choose words that might annoy her or...hurt her.
I know I'd rather we said nothing at all and do what we usually do when things get to this point.
Ignore them.
We're at an exhausted, emotional stalemate.
But as much as I would love to get another feel of that perfect behind of hers again, I know she's not herself at the moment, and she'd only hate herself even more if I encourage her into my bed tonight.
"We can't keep ending arguments this way," I say, pulling away.
"No, we can't," she says, unsurely - and then moves to kiss me again.
I stop her. "You'll only hate yourself again tomorrow," I say.
"I don't hate myself," she says, wiping her lip softly, the way she does when she's thinking deeply about something.
It makes me want to kiss her again, but I don't. This is a bad idea. Once every now and again is fine, it's two lonely people getting a release.
Doing it two days in a row, whilst she's so tangled in this tumult of unresolved feelings...
Is a dangerous thing.
Neither of us can afford for the relationship we have between us to change.
It works this way and we need it to work.
I need it to stay the same.
I can't afford to care for this woman.
She moves in and kisses me again, standing flush against my body; both of her hands are on my chest and my treacherous arms wrap themselves around her waist.
One of my hands dares to slide slowly along the fabric of her skirt and comes to a rest on the smooth curvature of her ass.
Why the fuck are we doing this again? Because it feels really good, is the helpful answer from my mind. I can't argue with logic like that.
The kiss breaks off; I can taste her lipstick smudged against my lips.
Something in her eyes says she needs this more than last night, suggests she won't regret it, because - despite herself - she enjoys this too.
---
My shirt hits the bedroom floor before I'm even in the bedroom.
It's dark but neither of us turns on the light.
She's reaching for the zipper on my jeans as I back her towards my bed but I stop her.
This is my place; we're going to do this my way.
She might get what she wants most of the time but she's not calling the shots now.
I push her down gently onto my bed. She swallows nervously and I can just make out the action in the light of the moon.
I stand in front of her, slide my hand behind her head and then lean in and kiss her a little more aggressively.
Then I ease myself down onto my knees in front of her.
I need to get this right, because I've got about ten minutes before my leg seizes up.
I slide my hands optimistically along her thighs and under her skirt.
The fabric hitches and ripples as my hands travel underneath it.
When I bring them back down, I have hold of her underwear, I steal it over her knees down to her ankles then over her bare feet, and then I toss it away.
I don't know where her shoes went.
I lift her skirt up further and she takes it from me. I place my tongue on her inner thigh and then gently lick along the length of it.
She lets go of some of the air she's been holding in since I kissed her.
My arms are resting either side of her on the bed.
I hear a rustling sound, and feel a gentle movement above me; I think she's taking off her blouse.
My tongue finds the coarse hair in between her legs and then I'm at her entrance and I invite myself in, I start to run my tongue up and down and I hold on to her hips as she starts to move with me.
I suck her clit and her left leg twitches beside my face, and then I feel one of her hands become buried in my hair, as I continue to run the length of my tongue up and down the sensitive folds of her entry.
She's not making much noise, which is unusual for Cuddy.
I need to fix that.
My tongue slides back out and I suck my index finger quickly then slide it in. I begin to apply some pressure to her most sensitive of areas as it continues what my tongue started and I get a chance to catch my breath.
I look up at her; she's lying flat against the bed.
She's naked from the waist up and her left arm is draped over her eyes, a slight moan creeps out of her as I slide my finger in and out.
I'm starting to get hard but I'm going to have to finish this manually, I don't think she'd appreciate me stopping now to take off my jeans, get myself harder and put on a condom.
I slide my finger out and put my tongue back in, moving it in and out, trying to make her come.
And my mind poses a strange question to me as the taste of her changes in the back of my throat and my tongue begins to ache.
Why is it we're only ever gentle with each other when we're doing this?
She comes before I can work out the answer.
When I feel the muscles inside relax, my tired tongue retreats and I pull myself up and flop down on the bed beside her while she gets her breath back.
A few moments later I feel the bed move and I watch as she stands and takes off her skirt.
She places her hand on the lump in my jeans and begins to rub her hand slowly against my groin. I close my eyes as her fingers yank down the zipper.
I don't stop her this time; instead I sit up and begin to give her erect nipples some attention. I roll my thumbs over them gently, then take one in my mouth and suck on it softly.
I ease my ass up slightly so she can yank my jeans down to my knees.
Then she palms my erection through my boxers and I lie back on the bed again as a light groan catches in my throat.
Next I feel her tugging at the waistband of my boxers. And then she has me in her hand, semi hard.
She jerks me off - slowly at first, stopping every now and then to lick the head of my cock, and then carrying on again.
I start to get harder and her other hand begins to stroke my balls, it feels wonderful and I close my eyes.
I feel the pain in my leg turn down to the minimum setting as the endorphins move from my brain all over my body
When I'm hard enough she starts sucking me. The pressure behind my balls starts to build and I start thrusting more, encouraging her to swallow me down. Which she dutifully does.
My hands are in her hair as I sit up slightly and thrust into her mouth.
It doesn't take long; it never does when she does this to me.
I feel warm and weak afterwards and flop back down on the bed.
When I have the strength I pull my boxers off and drop them on the floor. I move up and put my head onto a pillow as I climb into bed, dead beat.
She stands by the bed, looking at me.
"Are you staying?" I ask, tiredly.
She thinks about the question.
"Do you want me to?" she asks back; her voice sounds sore.
"Yeah," I reply.
She still isn't sure; she stands for a few moments more, then she moves slowly around to the other side of the bed and climbs in next to me.
I lift my arm up and she places her head on my chest. And I wrap my arm around her shoulders.
I have a handful of her hair in my hands, and I like the way it feels between my fingers as my mind wanders away from this room.
She doesn't say anything to me; I think we're both content to let the silence set in.
Ten minutes later I notice the rate of her breathing deepen and I know she's fallen asleep.
I place my chin on top of her head; I can smell the conditioner in her hair. Something peach I think.
I start to go through the various types of intestinal parasites alphabetically.
I hold on to her for an hour or so while I think about the case.
Nothing fits.
I really hope she doesn't regret this in the morning.
Chapter 19: Cuddy
House comes by my office to give me an update on Sam's condition. I agree with what he proposes to do, or rather, not do. He says he's going home, and I just nod, because I don't have the energy to argue with him, and anyway, he looks like he could use some sleep.
When he's gone, I lock the door, clear my calendar for the rest of the afternoon and tell my secretary to hold my calls. And as the sun moves westwards and the motes of light falling between the half-closed blinds grow longer and more golden, I read the whole of David's file; every note, every test, every film, finishing up with the death certificate I couldn't look at last night.
It was bad luck, that was all. Bad luck that he got ill; worse luck that my dad lost his job. Just one of those things that I was the one with him when there would have still been time to save him, if we'd known what to do. It happens to people every day; I think of all the people in the world who are dying unnecessarily at this moment, a few probably right here at PPTH.
The sheaf of papers blurs in front of my eyes and I realize I'm crying again. It's the second time in less than twenty four hours, and it hurts even more than it did yesterday. Oh, curse House for digging all this up. I learned very early on in my career that emotion like this in the workplace is a weakness; one no successful woman can afford. You have to give as good as you get, you have to be better prepared than anyone, and most of all, you can't let your feelings get the upper hand. And I think about another time when they did.
---
David's funeral is on Wednesday. My parents aren't particularly religious, but my aunt and uncle are, and so given the fact my mom can hardly string a sentence together and my dad's walking round like a sleepwalker, they get to call the shots.
I'm listening to the rabbi talk about my brother, haltingly, because he didn't really know him, and I'm looking at Ruth and Rachel in their matching black dresses. They were so excited about when they got them last month, because they thought they were grown up, even though they're all of ten years old. Now they're not going to want to wear them again.
Jenny's sitting on my dad's lap, sucking her thumb, which is something she hasn't done for ages. I suddenly feel fiercely envious of all of them; of the twins and my parents, because they have each other, and of Jenny, because she's still little enough that she can snuggle up to my dad, and cry, and she'll be comforted.
It's only then that it dawns on me that this is what it's going to be like now. I've always been the one who looks after the others and I've never minded, but my brother's always been there to ask for help. I don't want to be the oldest. I haven't cried since we left the hospital; I couldn't; the whole situation felt unreal. But now I realize I'm alone, and always will be and something rises up inside of me, like a torrent I can't control.
I'm howling, Jenny joins in and the rabbi clears his throat in an embarrassed way. My aunt springs to her feet and takes me outside into the dark, musty-smelling lobby, and as she takes out a clean tissue and passes it to me, she says, "Lisa, remember you're a big girl now." The disappointed way she says it makes it clear it's more of a hope than a statement.
---
I wait until it's past seven, when the hallways have started to empty and it's more likely I can get out to my car without talking to anyone. I can't face my colleagues feeling like this. And then I sit behind the wheel trying to convince myself I want to go home, but I really, really don't. So I drive aimlessly around Princeton, but it turns out it's not so aimless after all when I find myself parking outside House's place.
I need to talk to someone. The list of people I can talk to about important things is pretty short, these days, and right now it's down to one person. House.
He doesn't look too pleased to see me. I'm not surprised, really. He lets me in: we snipe at each other, we drink beer, we argue about whether what he did was selfish or not. It's business as usual. I think he's feeling a bit guilty, to be perfectly truthful. He's certainly on the defensive. And if I felt more like myself, I'd make use of that, but I can't bring myself to take him on right now.
Besides, as usual, he's right. I do want to deal with this, even if I didn't really want it shoved in my face at a time not of my choosing. We end up arguing about his leg; it always comes back to that. He's never really forgiven me. It's a shame, because we were friends, before, as well as occasional lovers, and neither of us makes friends very easily. We both enjoy the company of people we do things with. But I don't have time for anything much outside of work these days, and he can't do sports any more. I know all his friends before Wilson were people he played lacrosse with or went running with; they all drifted away after the infarction.
I'm just wondering whether to call it a night when he kisses me, and I realize in a sudden flood of painful emotion just why this whole thing has thrown me for a loop. It's not just David; it's David combined with having to deal with how I feel about Greg. I haven't even let myself call him that for so long; second names made it a little easier after the surgery; they gave us some measure of professional distance.
When he goes down on me, at first I'm not really responding, because my mind is too full of other things, not least the worry over how exactly we've managed to fall into bed together for the second time in as many days. But he's not an easy man to ignore, and at length the feel of his tongue on me and his insistent fingers in me drags me back into the moment. And I realize I really need this; this temporary reprieve from responsibility and consequences, and the general fucked-up nature of the world.
When I've come back down I'm very conscious that I'm half dressed, and bone tired, and slightly drunk from the beer I had before, but the expression in Greg's eyes pulls me up short. He looks a little lost, like he broke me and doesn't know how to fix me, and I think ruefully that I'm probably lucky he opened the door to me tonight at all.
So I get him off, because it seems only fair, and afterwards, I'm all set to go home, because I'm sure he's going to want to forget about this as quickly as he did before. But he surprises me by asking me to stay. And right at that moment, I can't muster the strength to question his motivations, so I do.
He smells like he always did; a mixture of soap and worn-out cotton and something else indefinably Greg, and it's a relief that this at least has stayed the same when so much else has changed. As I drift off to sleep, conscious that he's still wide awake and worrying over something, I realize we didn't really talk, but I feel better anyway. Greg House is not the world's cuddliest person, but right now, his scratchy, diffident embrace is exactly what I need.
---
I half wake up because he's muttering something about whipworm under his breath.
"What?"
"Nothing...just thinking about intestinal parasites," he says, matter-of-factly.
"Oh. That's...very you," I close my eyes again.
"Cuddy?" he says, after a moment.
"What?"
"Why does Sam remind you of David?"
I wake up properly and prop myself up on one elbow.
"He looks a bit like him. And David played the guitar."
He considers this for a moment, but says nothing.
"House?" There's something I need to know.
"What?"
"Is Sam going to die?" I know it's a stupid question, but all he says is,
"Not if I can help it."
And we both go to sleep.
Continues in Part 8
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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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