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Kisses Sweeter Than Wine - Chapter Three
by Evilida
Part Eleven
A Decision
Marta, Emily's nanny, met Wilson at the door wearing her coat, obviously anxious to leave.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Wilson said, for at least the fifth time that day. "I hope I haven't made you late for your class."
"There's no class this evening. I have a study date," Marta said. "We're going to go over anatomy flashcards together and quiz each other."
Wilson smiled. A "study date" made him think of nervous junior high school students. Marta was only in her early twenties, but she was so calm, serious and determined that it was difficult to picture her as a giggling teenager.
"Oh, Mrs. Kalman had a word with me when I went to pick Emily up from pre-school. She said Emily was acting up in class and wondered if there were any problems at home that might be bothering her."
Wilson nodded. "Emily's just a bit upset because Lisa's away on business," he said, although he knew that Lisa had taken short business trips before, and Emily had always coped well. He and Lisa had tried to hide the strain and tension in their relationship from Emily, but obviously she'd picked it up anyway.
Marta rushed out the door, and Wilson went to see Emily. She was in the living room, utterly absorbed in playing her toy xylophone. She'd shown musical talent at an early age, and could already play recognizable tunes. Cuddy had decided to enrol in her music lessons. Lisa wanted her to learn violin, but Wilson, who usually left parenting decisions to Lisa, argued persuasively for piano instead.
No one in Lisa's family could carry a tune. (The other wedding guests had winced and pleaded for mercy when the Cuddys tried to sing "Hava Nagila" at Lisa's wedding.) Emily must have inherited her musical gift from her father. Standing in the doorway, Wilson watched Emily play. Her absorption in the music was total and she did not see him. She reminded Wilson strongly of House at this moment; she had the same look of concentration that he had often seen on House's face as he grappled with a difficult diagnosis.
Wilson had first suspected that House was Emily's father even before Emily was born. He and House had been talking over lunch, and House had offered to tell him the father of Cuddy's baby if Wilson would do a month's clinic hours for him. Wilson hadn't taken House seriously; it seemed at the time to be another of House's ploys to avoid clinic rotation. Cuddy hadn't talked to anyone else in the hospital about the details of her pregnancy, and Wilson doubted that she had confided in House. Besides, even if he had wanted to take House up on his offer, Wilson had no time to do House's clinic hours on top of his own work. Still, somewhere in the back of Wilson's mind a seed had been planted. He already knew that House had been involved in Cuddy's decision to have a child. Wilson considered the possibility that House might know the identity of the child's father or even that House might be the father.
When he saw Cuddy's newborn daughter in House's arms, he knew for sure. It was not only the baby's resemblance to House, but also the way that House looked at her. Wilson had seen that a thousand times on the faces of his patients' fathers. It was the unmistakeable look of fatherly love. Wilson, who had never been a father and who knew that he was unlikely, at his stage of life, ever to become one, could hardly bear to witness it. To his discredit, Wilson had been overcome by jealousy. He'd felt it like a physical pain - something sharp and jagged in his chest. Then House had put Emily down and walked out of the room. Wilson was certain that nobody else had seen that look on House's face, but he would never forget it.
Since his argument with Lisa, Wilson had been trying to convince himself that he was wrong - that he'd been deluding himself all along and seeing only what he wanted to see. He hadn't succeeded. House was Emily's biological father; it was a fact. It had been demonstrated in a thousand different incidents. He could see House in Emily just as clearly as he could see Lisa. Wilson loved and respected Lisa, but even her obviously earnest protestations could not change the truth. It puzzled him. He believed that Lisa was telling the truth, or at least the truth to the best of her knowledge, when she said that House was not Emily's father. Yet he clearly was.
Emily even shared House's gift for languages. She had learned Spanish from Marta effortlessly, and now she was picking up French from one of her pre-school friends. The tune she was playing was a French children's song, "Le Carillon de Vendome". Emily sang as she played, and her voice was as clear and true as a church bell. When she finished her song, Emily looked up and finally noticed Wilson.
She got up from the floor and ran to him. This was unusual for her; she hugged and kissed her mother, but had never been very demonstrative with anyone else. Wilson picked her up and kissed her on the cheek. He wanted her to feel secure and happy and loved, no matter what happened between him and Lisa.
Halfway through Alan Andersen's reception speech, Cuddy left the room. Her exit was discrete, but did not escape Alan Andersen, who gave a dirty look to her departing back, before continuing with prepared remarks. Andersen was in the midst of an image makeover, but the makeover team still had a lot of work to do. Glimpses of his real self kept showing through his manufactured image.
The team had dressed him in "California business casual" rather than the severe bullet-grey suits he normally wore. His lupine grimace, all teeth and menace, had been transformed into the simulacrum of a warm smile. The speech he was delivering, with a smooth mechanical grace that was the product of countless hours of practice, had been written by the best speechwriter in the business. It contained a few self-deprecating comments to demonstrate Andersen's human qualities with a sprinkling of comfortable old jokes designed to put the audience at ease. Andersen hadn't been particularly impressed; he thought the anecdotes make him look like a bumbler and the jokes were inane.
The speechwriter explained, "The jokes don't have to be funny. It's better if they're not. They're there to establish your character. You're supposed to be an everyday Joe. You're supposed to be the guy who forgets the name of his boss's wife and drops his car keys down the elevator shaft. Someone relatable. Right now, everyone thinks you're Mr. Burns; we want you to be Homer Simpson."
The pop culture references meant nothing to Andersen, who never read a book or watched a television program that wasn't directly concerned with business, money or power. However, he had paid good money for the man's advice, so he followed it. It seemed to be working. His jokes had elicited a few smiles and polite chuckles. He'd won most of them over. He could easily spot the hold-outs: the woman who had rudely left during one of his anecdotes; the tall, thin man who had been sitting next to her; and, of course, Andrea Winstanley and his other employees, who knew him too well to be deceived.
When the tall man turned to follow his companion out of the room, Andersen had had enough. He couldn't tolerate this overt disrespect.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked.
"To the men's room. I'm feeling a bit queasy. I'm not sure whether it was the cold, greasy hors d'oeuvres or the pabulum you're serving up now, but something isn't agreeing with me," House said.
"I'm delivering a speech. Nobody leaves while I'm talking."
"Fine, "House said. "I'll wait." He turned around and gestured for Andersen to continue, an expression of polite interest on his face.
In his annoyance, Andersen had nearly forgotten everything his makeover team had drilled into him. He tried out the "friendly smile" they had taught him, but it looked more like the bared teeth of a threatened animal. An uncomfortable murmur arose from the audience, but Andersen didn't notice. His handlers groaned. They had noticed that the man Andersen had confronted walked with a cane. That was all they needed - Andersen dressing down a cripple!
Alan Andersen couldn't remember where he'd left off. He started to tell a joke, but a few nervous titters from the audience let him know that he'd told that one already. While Andersen tried to find his place, House looked at his watch. There were a few more titters from the audience. House began swinging his cane back and forth rhythmically. The regular motion seemed to have an hypnotic effect on the audience; they were paying more attention to House than to Andersen. Then House began to whistle. At first it was the tuneless whistle of a bored commuter waiting for the next bus, but it gradually become more elaborate. It was "Scarborough Fair", complete with elaborate flourishes and crescendos, in a performance that would have slaughtered the competition on America's Got Talent.
Andersen didn't know how to deal with this open insubordination while still maintaining his "Homer Simpson" persona. He froze. Andrea stepped up to rescue him.
"Thank you, Alan," she said, remembering to call him by his first name as the image team had recommended. "I'm sure we're all really excited by this project. Humankind is threatened by many problems that conventional wisdom hasn't been able to solve. I think we can all agree that "unconventional wisdom" deserves a shot!"
Andrea smiled up at her boss and began clapping; the image handlers and other Andersen functionaries joined in a second later, and finally, mercifully, the audience began to applaud.
House slipped out as soon as Andrea began to speak.
He spotted Cuddy down the hallway. Her back was to him and she was returning her cellphone to her purse. She'd been distracted at lunch, so that he and Andrea had been forced to talk to each other, which was awkward for both of them. Then she had said that she had a headache, and spent all afternoon resting in her bedroom. Through the closed door, he'd heard the murmur of her voice, and could tell she was talking to Wilson. There was a special tone she used when she was talking to her husband or to her daughter - a voice she used only for those closest to her.
"Phoning home again? Is Emily sick?"
Cuddy jumped. She had been lost in thought, and House's voice startled her.
"No," she said. "Just saying goodnight."
"It's ten o'clock in Princeton - well past her bedtime."
"Yes, James told me that. I must have got the time zones confused."
House looked sceptical. Cuddy was an experienced traveller and very well organized. She never got time zones confused.
"Something's up," he said. "Did you tell Wilson about last night?"
"Your kiss was wonderful. I'm sure that when I tell James, he's going to be upset, but I haven't told him yet."
"Kisses, plural, and you were kissing me back," House took in the implications of what she had said. "You said `when' you tell James, not 'if'."
"I'm going back home tomorrow."
"You're going back to tell Wilson that you're leaving him. You want to be with me instead." House said it because he wanted it to be true, but he already knew that wasn't what Cuddy had decided.
Cuddy shook her head. "If something was going to happen between us, it would have happened by now. If you and I were a good idea, we both would have tried harder twenty years ago."
"I was young." House said. "I didn't know what we had. Now I do."
"What we had was like a bolt of lightning - very hot and very intense. It wasn't lasting. It wasn't ever the kind of relationship that would keep us warm on winter evenings. "
"That's what blankets are for," House said flippantly.
Cuddy tried to smile.
"I'm not a cozy person, "House said. " I'm not easy to live with. We wouldn't live in perfect suburban bliss."
House kissed her on the lips forcefully, and his kiss was sweet and strong and passionate. It should have sent tingles up and down the length of her body, but this time Lisa did not respond. She did not withdraw, however. She let House kiss her, and she let him register her lack of reaction. When he had finished, she looked into his eyes. She knew that she had hurt him, and her voice was heavy with regret.
"I'm sorry, House. I didn't mean to stir up all these feelings. I thought we'd both left them far behind."
"I didn't leave them behind," House said quietly, but Cuddy had turned away, distracted by the noise of partygoers, and she didn't hear him.
The reception spilled out into the hallway. She spotted Andrea, who looked red-faced and angry. Cuddy had missed House's performance so she had no idea why Andrea was frowning. Cuddy waved in her direction, and turned back to House.
"I don't think it's a good idea for me to stay at the suite with you, so I've asked Andrea to put me up for the night. I would like to talk with you before I go. I really need an honest opinion about something, and you're the most honest person I know."
Part 12
Confession
"What do you think?" Cuddy asked, leaning over House's shoulder as he examined the sheets of paper. She'd had printed out a colour copy of the photo and a copy of the e-mail message that had accompanied it. They were sitting at a coffee shop a block away from the Andersen headquarters.
House wished he had a magnifying glass. Not that it would bring out any more detail to the blurry picture he was examining, but because it would be the perfect prop for the situation.
"It's a photo of Wilson and Julie in Wilson's office. It must have been taken from the balcony outside Wilson's office. It's a really crappy picture. Probably taken by an amateur using a cheap cellphone camera."
"I don't care about that," said Cuddy. "Do you think my husband is having an affair?"
House almost smiled. A half an hour ago, Cuddy had just officially told him that there was no hope for any kind of sexual or romantic relationship between them. Now she was asking him to decide the fate of her marriage. If he convinced her that Wilson was being unfaithful, she might decide to dump Wilson too. Then House would have company in his misery. He and Wilson could go out drinking or just sit in House's apartment watching sad movies. Wilson would try not to weep, (but he always cried at sad movies, even when his heart hadn't just been crushed by a hospital administrator) and House would experience the vicarious relief of watching someone else cry, and then the added pleasure of making fun of Wilson afterwards.
Unfortunately, Cuddy had asked him for an honest opinion.
"The photo is inconclusive," he said. "His arm is around her, but his pants are still on and his tongue's not down her throat. I think that if the photographer had a shot that showed something more incriminating, he would have sent it instead."
"Dr. Ghoreshi."
"What?"
"The photographer - Dr. Ghoreshi. The e-mail is from him."
"The e-mail came from someone who signed on using his name and password, but almost certainly not from Ghoreshi, whoever he is. I have a pretty good idea who did send it, but that's not important."
"Do you think Wilson loves her?"
"No. Of course, Wilson has been known to sleep with people he doesn't love or even like. Even marry them. He thinks it's impolite to refuse," House shook his head in mock commiseration. "You married a slut."
Cuddy snatched the picture from House and held it up close to her eyes, as if she might see some telling detail on closer examination.
"There's one sure way to find out," House said. "Ask him. When he cheats, he tells his wife. Always. Phone him. It's not even eleven o'clock in Princeton. He'll still be up."
"I can't ask him over the phone," Cuddy said.
"I don't see why not. It's what a phone is for," House argued.
He glanced at the second sheet. "Did you notice this? The sender cc'd this to the Ben Hur Land Development Company. Ben Hur for Bensonhurst. He sent this photo to Julie's husband, too."
Going through the e-mail sent to the company's general e-mail address was a pointless task, usually delegated to a new hire. Most were ads for discount pharmaceuticals or guaranteed cures for erectile dysfunction. The few half-way legitimate e-mails were from small-timers - nobodies who hoped to interest Ben Hur in developing their ten acres of mosquito infested swamp-front property. Small-timers were always bragging about their connections: their cousin who's an alderman, their neighbour on the town council. They were pathetic, but still the new boy had to read them all and answer each one with a polite form letter.
This particular new boy, whose name was Mike, had gone through twenty messages in less than a minute, when he came across the one from Dr. Ghoreshi. The message was pretty uninformative, almost suspiciously cagy, and the e-mail had an attachment. He had been told never to open unsolicited attachments. However, the e-mail was from a doctor and he recognized the name of the hospital where he worked. Mike did a quick visit to the hospital's website, which confirmed that Dr. Ghoreshi did work there. He was an emergency room doctor. That made sense to Mike. Everyone knew that Ben Hur cut a few corners, and Ben Hur's subcontractors cut a few more. There were bound to be a few workplace injuries. Maybe the attachment related to an injury or a death. The attachment was a JPEG too, and JPEGs were usually safe, weren't they?
Mike opened it up. It was an out-of-focus photograph. He thought at first that it might be a juicy piece of amateur porn, but it was nothing. Two people sitting on a sofa. Big deal. Mike was new to the company. He hadn't been a part of the firm when Julie made her star turn at the office Christmas party, and he hadn't seen her picture in the company's newsletter. He didn't recognize her.
He forwarded a copy of the e-mail (now titled "Why do people send me this shit?) to his friend Paul. Paul had been with the company longer, and he recognized Julie. He forwarded the e-mail (now titled Take a look at the boss's wife!) to a couple of his good friends. Within an hour everyone in the company but Carl Bensonhurst had seen the photo, and it had made its way across town to his competitors. Bensonhurst's secretary was too afraid to bring the matter to the great man's attention herself. She printed a paper copy of the photo, put in an inter-office envelope, and left the envelope in Bensonhurst's mail tray. Then she told everyone she had a dentist's appointment and left early.
She needed have bothered to leave early. Carl didn't open the envelope until eight p.m., when he decided to pop into the office after a quick visit at his girlfriend's dorm room.
The video is in black and white with a distracting date stamp in the corner. Sound and image quality are both no more than adequate. Two men sit across from each other at a table. There is a pad of paper and a pen on the table. One man is in uniform; the other is in shirt sleeves. His shirt is stained and splattered. The uniformed man is calm and business-like; the other is agitated. His speech is slightly slurred.
Julie went to a play with a group of her friends. They stopped for coffee and dessert after the play, so she didn't get home until after eleven. Carl was waiting for her. He had been drinking heavily. Julie had never seen Carl drunk before.
"Where were you?" he asked.
"I went to a play with my friends. I told you I was going, remember?"
"Your friends, huh? Which friends?"
"Diane and Sarah and Paul. The usual group."
"Uh-huh. What play?"
There was a minute hesitation before Julie named the play she had seen - Move Over, Mrs. Markham. It was a farce, full of slamming doors and mistaken identities, and Julie wished she could say something more dignified and serious, like Hamlet or A Doll's House. Carl noticed that hesitation, and he took it as an indication that Julie was lying.
"She made a fool of me. I phoned up a friend of mine, and he already knew. He'd seen the picture already. Someone sent it to his cellphone. Everybody knew."
The uniformed man nods. His manner is sympathetic. They are two men together, and they understand the perfidy of women.
"It's not like I kept her under lock and key. She went out almost every night. Plays, movies, even art galleries. She loves that cultural crap. I didn't even care if she had a guy with her. Most of the guys who like that stuff are fags, but even if the guy was straight I let her. I trusted her."
Carl advanced toward her, and Julie backed up until her back was against the door. Carl had a sheet of paper in one of his hands and he held it up in front of Julie's face.
"Uh-huh. Are you gonna stick with that story? Are you sure? What about this?"
The sheet was too close to Julie's face. She couldn't focus on it. It was just a black and white blur blocking out the rest of the world. She had to get away from Carl until he calmed down. She reached for the doorknob.
"I'm not gonna lie. I'm gonna be totally honest here. I've got a girlfriend. College girl. Julie doesn't mind. Saves her the effort. I know that nowadays you're not supposed to say it, but it's true - most women, nice women, don't like sex. Julie was always saying I was too rough. My girlfriend, she likes sex, but then she's not 'nice'. She's smart, but she's from peasant stock. I tell her she's a natural whore, and she just laughs.
I'm not the jealous type. You see what I did, and you think I'm jealous. I'm a Neanderthal. I'm not. Julie is free as a bird. She could have had sex with one of those "cultural" guys, and as long as she was quiet about it, and nobody found out, I wouldn't have been all that upset. Sauce for the goose, right?
Maybe I would have divorced her, but I wouldn't have been all that upset."
"You seem like a reasonable man to me," the uniformed man says.
The man in the blood-splattered shirt nods emphatically. "Too reasonable for my own good."
Carl dropped the paper and grabbed Julie's wrist. He grabbed her arm with his other hand and dragged her away from the door. Julie's high heels left marks on the smooth marble flooring of the foyer.
"You aren't running away! You owe me! I gave you the clothes you're wearing! I gave you the house you're living in, you ungrateful bitch! You think you can get away with humiliating me! You think you can make me look like a fool!"
"You're not a fool, Carl. I don't think that. Nobody thinks that."
"They're laughing at me!" Carl roared, and Julie was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. There was something primitive and irrational in Carl's voice that chilled her soul.
"I only hit her once," Carl says.
The policeman nods, but he knows the suspect is lying. The doctors say there were multiple blows.
"It was the way she landed on the marble floor. Marble's slippery and very hard. It was an accident."
"But you did hit her?"
"Once. She got me so mad. She provoked me. There was provocation. Put that in your report. Provocation." Carl pronounces the word slowly and carefully.
"Everything goes in your report."
"Good." Carl leans forward and watches the policeman make a note on his pad. "I made a mistake. I waited for her. I should have gone after her boyfriend first. Settled him fair and square first."
There is a knock at the door and another uniformed figure comes to take Carl away. The uniformed officer picks up the pad and pen and leaves the room. There is a brief shot of an empty room, and then there is nothing but static.
Part Thirteen
Early Morning Phone Calls
After Cuddy left, House went back to his suite. Cuddy's rejection had hurt him deeply, so he tried the traditional male remedy for emotional pain - alcohol. Alan Andersen used the suite for corporate events and hospitality, so it was well stocked with a variety of wines and spirits. House found a bottle of very expensive 20-year-old single malt whisky. There was only an inch or two left in the bottle. He poured himself a glass. It was a bit too peaty for his taste, but it would have to do. He poured himself another.
After several drinks, House needed to talk to someone. His usual choice for the role of confidant, Wilson, was obviously out of the question. He decided to call Rosemary Lum instead. He listened to the phone ring several times. When he reached voice mail, he hung up and redialled. Finally, after his fourth try, he got her in person. He didn't bother to say hello.
"I think you should reconsider your wedding," he said seriously.
"Dr. House, is that you?"
"Henry says he loves you, but you can't know for sure. Maybe he's lying."
"It's three o'clock in the morning here. Unless you have something work-related to say, I'm going to hang up now."
"Even if he does love you," House said, "that doesn't mean he won't hurt you. He'll break your heart. People are fickle. He'll have sex with your best friend, or he'll run off to Barbados with your personal trainer."
"I don't have a personal trainer," Lum said. "Good-bye."
He heard Lum call him a nasty name in gutter Cantonese just before she hung up.
House put down the phone and picked up the nearly empty bottle of whisky and upturned it to get the last few drops. Then he went to the refrigerator for the half bottle of Dom Perignon he'd noticed earlier. To hell with the rules about never mixing grain and grape, House was a born rule-breaker. He'd drink himself into oblivion with style.
Wilson received the phone call at three thirty. It was one of the emergency room doctors, who had recognized Wilson's ex-wife from her driver's license photo.
"There was internal bleeding," the doctor said, "and the surgeons had to remove her spleen, but she's stable for now. Technically, I shouldn't be calling you," he said, " but I thought you'd want to know. She's in post-op, but it's touch and go. I've seen people in head-on collisions in better shape."
"Is there anyone with her?" Wilson asked.
"Just the police. The husband's been arrested and we don't know how to contact the family. Maybe you know how to get in touch with her next of kin?"
"She doesn't have any family," Wilson lied.
Julie had spent much of her life trying to escape her family; Wilson wasn't going to give them power over her when she was at her most vulnerable.
"I'm coming to the hospital. I'll be there as soon as I can."
Wilson phoned Marta, Emily's nanny, to see if she could babysit, but there was no answer. He left her a voice mail, asking her to phone him at the hospital as soon as she woke up. Wilson pulled on some clothes and then went to get Emily. She was in her pyjamas, and he didn't bother getting her dressed. He picked her up gently, took her to the car, and buckled her in. Her eyelids fluttered as he covered her, using his coat as a blanket.
By the time he reached the hospital, Emily was awake. It was dark, and she had no idea where they were. The last thing she remembered was her cozy bed and now she was in a strange place she didn't recognize. She was frightened and confused.
Wilson parked his car in the staff parking lot. He turned around and smiled reassuringly at Emily.
"Hi, Emily," he said. "I'm sorry I had to wake you up so early."
"It's still dark out."
"Yes, it's still night-time," Wilson said, stepping out of the car and going to the rear door of the car to unbuckle his stepdaughter.
"Where are we?"
"We're at the hospital," Wilson said. "It looks different in the dark, doesn't it? See, there's the door that opens by itself. Do you recognize where we are now?"
Emily nodded.
"I have to go to the hospital because a friend of mine is very sick," Wilson said, picking Emily up and carrying her towards the lighted entrance. Now that Emily was no longer afraid, she was falling back to sleep. Her voice was slurred and her eyes were half-shut.
"Are you going to make her better?"
"The other doctors are looking after her," Wilson said.
He headed up to post-op stopping at the nurses' station to ask for her room number.
"She's in the second room on the left, Dr. Wilson, but you don't want to take your little girl in there. It's pretty ugly. You don't want her to see that. She shouldn't be here at all."
"I couldn't find a sitter," Wilson said. "Could you watch Emily for a bit for me, while I see Julie?"
"I've got patients to look after. I'm not a babysitter," she said.
Wilson shifted Emily from one shoulder to another. "She's asleep," he said. "She won't be any trouble and I won't be long. I just want Julie to know that someone who cares about her is here. Please."
The nurse relented. Before she could change her mind again, Wilson set Emily down in one of the chairs at the nurse's station and headed for Julie's room.
Wilson's colleague had listed her injuries. In addition to her ruptured spleen, she had suffered a broken cheekbone, broken jaw, broken nose, fractured skull, broken wrist, broken arm, and several broken and cracked ribs. Even though he knew exactly what to expect, Wilson was still taken aback. Julie was unrecognizable; her face was swollen and discoloured and her beautiful red hair was gone; they'd had to shave her to treat her head injuries.
"Julie," he said. "It's James. I'm here. "
Wilson held her bruised hand as gently as if it were a newly-hatched bird. He wanted her to feel the warmth of human contact, but he didn't want to cause her any more pain.
"I let you down. You said you were afraid; you said Carl had been violent before. I didn't listen. I knew that you were desperate and unhappy, but I didn't do anything to help you.
I haven't been a good friend to you, and I know that I wasn't a good husband. I've never been what you needed me to be. I'm so sorry, Julie. You deserve so much better.
Julie, honey, I'm going to try to make it up to you. I'm going to listen to you. Please, Julie, just get better, and I promise that I'll help you get the kind of life you want."
Wilson heard footsteps and turned around. A police officer entered the room.
"Dr. Wilson? I'm Detective Karen Little. I'm going to need to ask you a few questions."
"Right now? My stepdaughter is waiting for me at the nurse's station. I can't leave her long."
"That's fine. Go get your stepdaughter and then we'll talk. You're a doctor here, right? A departmental head. So we'll go talk in your office, if that's okay."
"Fine." Wilson turned back to his ex-wife. "Good-bye, Julie. I'll be back soon."
He and the police officer headed toward the nurse's station.
"You were talking to her. Do you think she can hear you?"
"I know she can't. She's under anaesthesia. But there were some things I had to say to her, and I might not get another chance."
"So I guess it's more for your benefit than for her."
"I guess so," Wilson admitted. They'd reached the nurse's station. Emily opened her eyes briefly as Wilson picked her up.
"Is it morning yet?"
"Almost," he said.
Wilson put Emily down on the office couch. He winced as he got up. Either Emily was getting too heavy to be carried, or Wilson was getting too old. Wilson didn't want Emily to overhear their conversation, so he and the detective talked on the balcony.
Det. Little had seen the photograph that Carl Bensonhurst had received, and realized immediately that it must have been taken from this balcony. She noticed the low wall that separated it from the balcony of another office. She decided not to mention the photograph immediately. She'd wait to see if Wilson brought it up himself.
While she asked the usual questions about his relationship to the victim and her husband, Det. Little was assessing Wilson. He was nervous in the presence of a police officer, which was common enough, but he confined his answers strictly to what was asked and did not elaborate. This was unusual among civilians, and especially among the nervous ones. It argued that he must have prior experience dealing with the police, and had learned to be cautious.
She asked if he could give her the names and addresses of Julie's family, so that they could be informed. Wilson said that he had never met any family, and did not know whether Julie had any relatives. This was so implausible - since he and Julie had been married for several years and surely Julie must have talked about her past - that it drew Little's attention. Wilson was almost certainly lying, but she could not tell. His voice and demeanour did not change and he did not hesitate. The lie itself was probably unimportant - she had no reason to believe that Julie's family had anything to do with her assault - but it was interesting that this apparently law-abiding citizen was such a skilled liar.
"What are you going to charge him with?" Wilson asked.
"That's not up to us. It's up to the D.A.'s office. Probably aggravated assault."
"It should be attempted murder," Wilson said. "The emergency room doctor told me that she fractured her skull falling to the floor. She would have been unconscious at that point, but he kept on. He kicked her until he ruptured her spleen and broke her ribs, while she was lying there unconscious and unable to defend herself. She nearly died. She could still die."
Wilson's voice broke, and he started to cry. Det. Little was used to the emotional responses of witnesses and victims. There were times when an emotional reaction had been useful to her - when it had brought to light information that would otherwise have been buried - but most of the time it was an inconvenience. She did not think that offering people comfort was part of her job.
"So you said your relationship with Julie Bensonhurst was `cordial' and "civilized' after your divorce, and that you would occasionally run into each other at movies and plays."
"Yes, we had similar interests," Wilson said. He had turned away from Det. Little and was looking out over the city. He kept his voice steady.
"Would you call yourself her friend?"
"Yes, I suppose. Anyway, I wished her well. I wanted her to be happy."
"Were you anything more than friends?"
"No, of course not."
Det. Little took a piece of paper from her jacket pocket. She unfolded a photocopy of the photograph that had triggered Carl Bensonhurst's violent attack on his wife and showed it to Wilson. Dawn was still some time away, although the sky had begun to lighten. It took a minute for Wilson to make out the photograph, and to register what it depicted.
"That's Julie and me in my office, yesterday afternoon. She was upset because a close friend of hers had recently died, and she missed her. How did you get this picture? We were the only two people there."
"This is a photocopy of a digital photograph someone sent Carl Bensonhurst by e-mail. He got this photo, had a couple of drinks, and then beat up and nearly killed his wife. Because of this photo, he says."
Wilson looked pale and sick.
"Were you and Mrs. Bensonhurst having an affair? Because if you were, you'd better tell me now. It's all going to come out in the investigation."
Wilson shook his head.
"We're interested in whoever took this photo and sent it to Bensonhurst. Do you know who that person is?"
Wilson shook his head again, still unable to speak.
"Someone who would want to hurt Julie or hurt you? An unhappy patient, maybe, or the husband or wife of someone who had died while you were treating them?"
"I'm an oncologist," Wilson said, after a pause to compose himself. "A certain percentage of my patients are going to die. I try to give them the best possible chance, but that's all I can do.
My patients are amazing, especially the children. A lot of the treatments are painful and unpleasant, but they don't blame me. Even when I can't help them anymore - all I can do is make the end a little more comfortable - they still don't blame me."
"What about Julie's enemies?"
"I don't know. We've been divorced a long time, and I don't know her social circle anymore. Recently, I'd been seeing more of her, because she was unhappy with Bensonhurst and she needed someone to talk to, but I really don't know a lot about her current friends and enemies. I'm sorry I can't help you."
"I'll probably be phoning you later to ask you to sign a statement. Will that be okay with you?"
"Yes, of course."
As soon as the detective left, Wilson sank down to the floor. He was shaking, shocked by the realization that he was responsible for Julie's condition. House had been right when he'd accused Wilson of being more interested in playing the part of the white knight than in Julie's welfare. All along, he'd never taken Julie entirely seriously; he'd thought that she was exaggerating her situation to gain his sympathy and his attention. He'd been flattered that she was still attracted to him, and he'd never considered that spending time with Julie might make her brutal husband angry and put her in danger. He'd been selfish and thoughtless.
The light of dawn had woken Emily. Wilson looked up, tears streaming down his face, and saw her watching him through the glass of the balcony door. Wilson knew that she needed a strong, confident father figure, not someone weak and emotional, but he couldn't stop crying. The glass door was heavy, and Emily really had to tug before she could open it. She sat down next to Wilson.
"It's okay," she said. "Mommy will be back soon."
Part Fourteen
The Journey Back Home
Lisa's evening at Andrea's house had been very uncomfortable. Andrea was outraged at House for embarrassing her employer. As Andrea had recommended House for the project, his behaviour reflected badly on her. She held Lisa responsible for House's actions, but Lisa had refused to apologize.
"According to what I heard, House was just trying to leave quietly, but Andersen decided to make a public example of him. If anyone should apologize, it should be Andersen," she said.
That was not a point of view that Andrea could appreciate.
Andrea was still angry the next morning, when she drove Lisa to the airport. Lisa shut her eyes as Andrea sped up to catch the dying seconds of a yellow light and then changed lanes abruptly to avoid a slow-moving garbage truck. Andrea's driving habits reflected her emotional state. Most of the time she was a safe and careful driver, but when she was angry, she was a menace to everyone on the road.
"There was no justification for House to insult Mr. Andersen that way," Andrea said. "I thought you were there to keep an eye on him."
"I stepped out of the room to make a phone call. I'm not sure what you think I could have done to stop House, anyway. You were there, and you couldn't stop him," Lisa said.
She was tired of talking about what she considered a very minor incident, but Andrea refused to drop the subject.
"And now that there's a mess to clean up, and you go running back to Princeton."
"That's not why I'm leaving. I'm going back because I've had some time to think, and I've decided to go home and try to make my marriage work."
Andrea spotted her exit, and whipped across two lanes of traffic to make it, forcing the driver of a school bus to slam on his brakes. In her side view mirror, Lisa caught a brief glimpse of a half-dozen middle-schoolers making obscene gestures, and then they were gone. Lisa looked at the speedometer and blanched.
"The whole incident makes me look very bad," Andrea continued. "Inviting House into the Brain Trust might be my career-ending mistake. Andersen doesn't give second chances. He's famous for showing no mercy."
"If he fired you, would that be so bad? I know he's paying you excellent money, and your job is much more prestigious than your old one, but I've never seen you so nervous and unhappy before. Maybe it's time for you to leave Andersen anyway."
"Easy for someone to say who has a fabulous job and a fully-paid-for house." Andrea said bitterly. "I can't afford to leave. After Peter and I split up, I got half of nothing. We were already mortgaged to the hilt and living on credit cards. Now he's in England with Zachary, his former p.a. You try collecting child support when your ex-husband and his twenty-two-year-old boy toy are living on another continent!"
"You didn't tell me. I had no idea."
"Well, it doesn't make me look very bright, does it? I'm the Dozy Dora who never realized my husband was gay. I'm trying not to be cynical. I'm trying to be positive for Leonie's sake, but I swear it's true, Lisa: all men are lying, cheating pigs."
"Not all men," Lisa protested.
"99.9 percent, and I'm being generous. "
Andrea pulled up in front of the terminal, and Cuddy collected her bag and laptop from the back seat and opened the car door. Andrea did not help her, and she left the motor running.
"I've got to get to work - assuming I still have a job," she said. "Good-bye."
Andrea pulled out, cutting off a rental car crammed full of Australian tourists.
"Good-bye," Lisa said. She waved half-heartedly, but she pretty sure that Andrea did not look back.
The buzzing of the suite's intercom woke House. His eyes opened briefly, but he shut them against the glare of sunlight bouncing off the white walls. Actually getting up and answering the intercom was a complex task that seemed beyond his abilities at the moment, but the sound of the buzzer sent painful spikes into his skull and shredded his nerves, until he had no alternative but to silence it somehow. Eyes still shut against the light, he got up slowly. Holding his cane in one hand and feeling his way along the wall with the other, he headed for the intercom. He opened his eyes just enough to make out the buttons on the intercom, and pressed the button that allowed him to speak with his caller.
"Go away," he said.
"It's the driver. I'm here to pick you up and take you to the Andersen building."
House groaned. In his misery, he'd forgotten all about the Billionaire's Brain Trust and Alan Andersen. Unfortunately, Alan Andersen hadn't forgotten him.
House pressed the button that would let the driver into the building. He thought the driver would be easier to cope with than the noise of the buzzer. When he heard a knock at his door, House opened the door but did not let his visitor in.
"You're not even dressed," the driver said.
"And I have no plans for getting dressed," House said. "Today I plan to lie in bed groaning and wishing I was dead. I also plan to take plenty of Vicodin, and to make occasional trips to the bathroom to relieve myself or throw up. My schedule might stretch to watching General Hospital in the afternoon, but frankly I think that may be too ambitious."
"You sick?"
House shook his head, and immediately wished he hadn't. "Hung-over."
"I don't think Mr. Andersen's going to like that."
"I don't like it either."
He shut the door and went back to bed.
The contrast between the luxury of Lisa's journey down to L.A. and the discomfort of her return flight could scarcely have been greater. As Lisa had taken the first seat available on short notice, she was in the unpopular middle seat. On one side of her was a tall fidgety man who constantly threatened to jab her with his bony knees and sharp elbows. On the other was a rumpled man in a business suit, who had three Bloody Marys one after the other, fell asleep, and snored loudly into her ear for the rest of the trip. The person in front of her had reclined her seat so far back that her head rest was in Lisa's lap, and the family with young children behind her constantly kicked and bumped her seat.
The conditions on the airplane were not conducive to either clear thought or rest, and Lisa Cuddy needed both. She found herself trudging down the same mental pathways over and over again, as if she were lost in a maze, returning each time to the photograph of James and Julie. Lisa Cuddy had never doubted her husband's fidelity before. Her instinct was to trust him, but Andrea and House, in their different ways, had urged her to look at her marriage from another perspective. She was forced to consider for the first time that her faith in James might be misplaced. Was she naive to believe in him still, despite the evidence of the photograph and his spotty sexual history?
When she had taken the trip to Los Angeles, her intention had been to sort out her own feelings. While she was dating, she had been drawn to the excitement of an instant sexual attraction. The relationships that followed had never been particularly fulfilling - had usually been downright disastrous if she were going to be totally honest - but that had not deterred her. That initial thrill was addictive and almost made up for her inevitable disappointment later.
She had never experienced that thrill of discovery with James. Their love had grown slowly out of friendship, so slowly that she had been unsure whether what she felt was love at all. She had even doubted her own motives in marrying James. She wondered whether she had married him only because he would make a good father for Emily and because he so obviously loved her. Every minor disagreement or petty annoyance had seemed a sign to her that she had made a mistake.
If the trip with House had accomplished anything, it had at least clarified her feelings for her husband. What she felt for him was utterly unlike what she had felt for House or for any other of the other men she had dated, but it was love. It was a different kind of love - a deep and steady warmth that radiated through her body and her soul - and now that she knew what she had, she didn't want to lose it.
Emily loved airports. They were busy and exciting. There was a lot to see and explore, but James had a firm grip on her hand. He walked past the brightly lit stores and restaurants and the interesting people without stopping or slowing down. He even ignored the motorized carts that ferried passengers and luggage to distant parts of the terminal. Emily had been on an airplane (which was exciting and scary during take-off and landing but very dull in between), but for her the real attraction of the airport was the prospect of one day riding in one of those carts. She looked up at James, to see if he'd noticed this enticing alternative to dull, ordinary walking, but he was preoccupied with his own thoughts.
Lisa saw Emily and James before they saw her. Her flight had arrived a bit early, and she was one of the first people off the plane, so they weren't expecting her quite yet. Emily had spotted a little boy about her own age a few seats away, and both of them were warily sizing each other up. James had marked out his territory, as people do in airports, with coat jacket, newspaper and cup of coffee, and was talking on his cellphone. With his free hand, he rubbed the back of his neck, a characteristic gesture which meant that he was stressed or upset.
At that moment, Emily spotted her mother and ran towards her, heedless of the steady stream of foot traffic. Wilson dropped the cellphone and grabbed his stepdaughter just before she collided with a woman pushing a stroller, and then looked up and saw Lisa. Lisa noticed how tired and worried he looked.
James looked at his wife uncertainly, searching for some indication of her feelings towards him. He wasn't sure whether her decision to return home early was a positive sign or not.
Emily hugged and kissed her mother, and James followed at a more sedate pace. The kiss he gave Lisa was tentative, reflecting the distance that had grown between them since their argument in the school parking lot. Lisa wanted more than a polite peck though. She put down her laptop and let go of her carry-on bag so that she could hold her husband close. James realized that Lisa had decided to give him and their marriage another chance, and Lisa felt the tension in her husband's muscles ease. He put his arms around her and kissed her again - a lover's kiss this time, serious and heartfelt and passionate.
"We've both missed you so much," he said.
"I've only been away a couple of days."
"It seemed much longer," Wilson said, and he kissed her a third time.
He took the laptop she had and wheeled her carry-on bag toward the seat where he'd left his cellphone and jacket. Emily held her mother's hand, jumping and skipping in the pure delight of having her back home again.
"Something happened while you were gone, but I can't talk to you about it in front of Emily," James said quietly. "It's about Julie."
Lisa nodded without saying anything, but the light of happiness in her eyes flickered out. She already knew what he was going to say. James was going to confess that he had had an affair with his ex-wife.
Part Fifteen
The Exile
".. so little Lucy hid the golden key in a little box in the very back of the cupboard, where the wicked Fox King would never find it,'" Lisa read aloud.
She looked up from the page, and noticed that Emily had fallen asleep. She put the book down and kissed her sleeping daughter lightly on the forehead. Then she got up, closed the bedroom door behind her, and headed downstairs.
When Lisa entered the living room, James was talking on his cellphone again. He looked up and smiled at her from his place on the couch, but Lisa sat in an armchair on the other side of the room. She maintained a careful expression of neutrality.
When he had finished his call, she said, "You were going to tell me something about Julie."
"Yes, James said nervously. "Julie came to see at the hospital while you were in L.A."
"I suppose she wanted to talk about her marriage problems again."
James nodded. "I was annoyed with her because she picked a fight in public with my secretary and because she thought I should drop everything and take her out to lunch. I wasn't very understanding, and I'm afraid that I thought that she was exaggerating her problems to get attention. Then she told me that one of her best friends had recently died and she had no one else to talk to."
"Which one of her friends?" asked Lisa, who was already searching her husband's story for flaws. She could confirm Julie's argument with James's secretary and she could check the obituaries for notice of her friend's death.
"Claire...I think her last is Vickers. She used to be head of a committee to raise funds for a new MRI. You remember her."
"She's not dead."
"Yes, she is, unfortunately. She died three months ago. Ovarian cancer."
"She's not dead. She moved to Connecticut," Lisa's voice was cold and angry. "Unless she's been struck by lightning in the past couple of weeks, she's perfectly fine."
"Oh," Wilson said. "Julie told me that she was dead. I guess she thought she had to make her loss of a friend more dramatic."
"So she was lying, not you," Lisa said sceptically.
"Exaggerating," Wilson said. With the pitiful image of Julie in her hospital bed still vivid in his memory, he did not feel inclined to judge her harshly.
"Julie was very upset and started crying, and I gave her a tissue. She just seemed so desolate and lost. I should have realized then how bad things were in her marriage - I should have insisted that she go to a woman's shelter right that minute - but I didn't. I just let her cry on my shoulder, as if that was good enough. I think I just wanted to get rid of her so I wouldn't be late for my consult with Birnbaum.
Someone took a photo of Julie and me in my office. Julie's crying and I have my arm around her, trying to comfort her. It's blurry and out of focus, and it makes things look ...sleazy. Like one of those candid shots in the National Enquirer. Anyway, they sent the shot to Julie's husband anonymously. He probably received it yesterday afternoon or evening."
"They sent me a copy too," Lisa said. "I printed it out."
She went to her purse and took out the photo. She looked closely at Julie's hand and saw that Julie was holding something white. That blurry white object could be a tissue. Andrea would have scoffed at such meagre supporting evidence, but Lisa was relieved.
Wilson looked at the photo over her shoulder. It was his first clear look at it, since the light had been poor when the policewoman had shown it to him. The photo was worse that he had imagined. There was something furtive and unwholesome about it, as if the photographer's malicious intentions had tainted the image he produced.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Wilson asked. "I'm sorry. It must have been awful to receive this. It's so spiteful and deliberately cruel."
They sat down again, and Wilson took a deep breath. The next bit was going to be difficult and he had to remain calm. He avoided his wife's eyes, knowing that any expression of sympathy or concern might make it impossible for him to continue his story.
"The police told me that Julie's husband was waiting for her when she came home last night. She tried to defend herself but he attacked her. It must have been brutal. She had a ruptured spleen and a skull fracture and multiple defensive injuries. She's in PPTH right now. She hasn't regained consciousness after her splenectomy. I was just talking to Ortega and he's not very optimistic about her chances. She's not getting better. He's afraid of sepsis.
She's dying, Lisa, and I'm responsible."
After two days with very little sleep, Wilson was exhausted. He fell asleep almost at once, but Lisa was still awake at midnight. She had not told her husband about the kisses she had shared with House. It would have been self-indulgent to relieve her own feelings of guilt at the cost of Wilson's peace of mind, especially since her husband was obviously under a great deal of stress already. Carefully, trying not to disturb him, she got out of bed, and went downstairs to call House.
House was not pleased to hear Lisa's voice. He thought that she was calling to offer him unwelcome sympathy. He even suspected that some tiny ignoble part of her might actually rejoice at the pain her rejection had caused him. House wouldn't allow Cuddy to pity him. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing that she could make him suffer.
"I talked to James about the photograph," Cuddy said.
"So was he doing the nasty with his ex?" House asked.
"No, he says he was comforting her."
House snorted, but his disbelief was partly feigned. House knew that half of the hospital staff (the female half) went to talk to Wilson whenever they broke up with their boyfriends or fought with their families. A bit of manly comfort from a handsome doctor was just the thing they needed when they felt depressed or lonely. Wilson listened, was a lot cheaper than a therapist, and he didn't take advantage.
In House's opinion, Julie was a conniving gold-digger and a cheat. However, her past deceptions wouldn't disqualify her from being the beneficiary of Wilson's pathological need to help people.
"Did you tell Wilson what happened between us?" he asked.
"Not yet. I will, but right now something terrible has happened. Julie's husband saw the photo and went crazy. He beat her very badly. Julie's in the hospital right now, but she's not doing well. James feels responsible for her condition. If she dies ... I don't think he can handle any more bad news right now."
"Maybe Wilson's stronger than you think," House argued. "Maybe you're trying to protect yourself not Wilson. You don't want to have to step off your pedestal and admit to Wilson that you're human and you can be tempted."
"You actually want me to tell James?"
"No, I don't. But I'm honest about my own motives. I don't want you to tell Wilson because it would affect me. I want Wilson to be around to prescribe my Vicodin, and go bowling with me, and watch movies with me, and he won't do any of those things if he knows that I tried to steal you away from him. At least I don't say that I'm hiding what happened for Wilson's benefit. I don't claim to be altruistic."
"If you did, no one would believe you anyway," Cuddy said. Then she realized that it was a rather cruel comment to make. House had loved her for years and she had just rejected him. He was entitled to be a little disagreeable.
House was actually pleased by Cuddy's little jab. It showed a reassuring lack of pity.
"If you're afraid that Wilson is going to go off the deep end if Julie dies, why don't you just make sure that Julie doesn't die?"
"That's not under my control, House," Cuddy said. "I think if I had been appointed God, I would know it by now."
Sarcasm now. Better and better. House almost smiled. "Who's Julie's doctor?"
"Ortega."
"He's competent enough," House admitted. "Kelly White should be in charge of her nursing care. She's reasonably bright and she pays attention."
"She in the neonatal unit right now."
"Move her," House directed.
Cuddy was a little annoyed. The organization of hospital staff was her job, not House's. Unfortunately, House was right as usual. Kelly White was the best nurse on staff, and Julie's best hope for surviving her injuries.
"When are you coming back to Princeton Plainsboro?" Cuddy asked, changing the subject. "Have they kicked you off the Billionaire's Brain Trust yet? Andrea said that you were a goner after your little contretemps with her boss. She was just afraid that you'd take her with you."
"Do you know that the video of my argument with Andersen is on Youtube?" House said. "There's a poll, too: which one of us in the bigger jerk. I was winning at first, but then Andersen surged ahead. I think some of his employees are rigging the results."
"Andrea would have a hard time deciding who to vote for. She's not very fond of either of you at the moment."
"She phoned me about an hour ago. I skipped the Brain Trust today, and she warned me that tomorrow she's going to pick me up and drive me to the Anderson Headquarters personally. She told me that I don't get to duck out of my contract. Apparently their expert on military strategy is actually a middle-aged fantasist with an extensive collection of back issues of Soldier of Fortune. His only military experience is playing laser tag. He's out. Then the celebrity chef jumped ship when he was offered a show on the Food Network. Now, there's only me, Andersen and the teacher left, so they can't afford to lose me."
"I really wish you were here," Cuddy said. "James needs to talk to someone. He needs a friend."
"Do you think Wilson actually talks to me?" House asked incredulously. "About Wilson's life? I talk about myself and Wilson talks about me, too. Once in a while we talk about movies or sports, or argue over which takeout place makes the best spring rolls. Wilson doesn't share secrets and giggle, like a twelve-year-old at a sleepover. We aren't girls."
"I need you too," Cuddy admitted.
"If you need me so much," House demanded, "why did you choose Wilson over me? "
He paused, waiting for her to explain or apologize, but there was only silence. Finally, House relented.
"If you want me back, come up with a case for me. My contract says that I can leave if there's a genuine medical emergency and you need my expertise. Find me a diagnostic mystery and bring me back from exile. I'm sick of California sunshine anyway."
The next morning, Cuddy met with Rosemary Lum, a fellow in House's department.
"Tell me about the cases the Department of Diagnostics is dealing with at the moment," she requested.
"There's really only one right now," Lum said. "I'm waiting for the test results to confirm it, but I'm pretty sure it's hemochromatosis."
"Does Dr. Crane agree with your diagnosis?" she asked.
"He's off sick right now," Lum said. "He came in yesterday morning, but he said he felt ill and had to leave. He didn't come in today."
"I think you need a second opinion," Cuddy said.
"I don't think so," Lum protested, angry at this slur on her professional competence. "I'm almost one hundred percent certain of my diagnosis, and the tests are going to confirm it shortly."
"Okay," Cuddy said, "let me be very candid with you, Dr. Lum. House is contractually obliged to stay in California until he finishes all the tests and questionnaires that Andersen's researchers can throw at him. The only exception is if his Department needs him to diagnose an urgent case. Then he can come back to Princeton Plainsboro. Only then."
"I understand."
"Now, I'm going to suggest that this case of possible hemochromatosis may be much more complicated than you thought originally. I'm going to suggest that you need a second opinion from a more senior member of the Department of Diagnostics."
"I've reconsidered, Dr. Cuddy. I'm almost sure my diagnosis is correct, but I agree with you that a second opinion from Dr. House is a medical necessity."
"Good. I've already had my assistant write up a document to that effect. Would you mind signing it right here? I want to fax it to L.A. as soon as possible."
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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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