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Season's Grace
by Topaz Eyes
A/N: Inspired by "The Atheist Christmas Carol" by Vienna Teng. Title and epigraphs taken from same. Thank you to the readers on my f-list who encouraged and helped improve this immeasurably!
~~~~~
It's the season of grace coming out of the void,
Where man is saved by a voice in the distance...
Small white flakes swirled in the midnight air as Chase shuffled down the wet sidewalk, heading away from the hospital. Though he stepped gingerly, several times he slid on slick patches on the concrete; the snow, tiny icicles driving into his face, was already accumulating and freezing on the ground. Hazy rainbows surrounded the street lamps ahead, giving the night sky a glowing fog-like cast, in counterpoint to the garish Christmas displays in the store windows.
With his bare head bowed against the wind in a vain attempt to keep out the cold, Chase thought that after all this time in Princeton, he should have been well used to the damp and bitter Northeastern winters. He tried not to think of his old mates in Melbourne, who would be surfing at the beach down the coast tomorrow. He and Cameron were supposed to go to Australia for Christmas holidays this year. They'd been only three hours away from boarding their flight to LAX, only another twenty-four from scrunching their toes in the sand at St. Kilda.
Then all hell broke loose.
All he could think of at the time, was that thank God Cameron had insisted on trip cancellation insurance.
Looking up, he squinted against the snow, to see his destination sitting squat in the distance. Nestled in between two strip malls, the old stone church was, in reality, a street mission. But it still had a chapel, it was open twenty-four hours, and it wasn't the hospital. Not that Chase came here often; but when he did, at least it was a respite when he needed it.
Oddly enough, there was no one inside the chapel when Chase entered. It was past midnight, so he knew he'd missed the Mass, but it was cold enough outside that there should have been at least a handful of street people lingering in the warmth of the vestibule. He was grateful for the emptiness, but still, he hesitated a few seconds on the threshold before entering the chapel.
He chose a pew, knelt and made the sign of the Cross. But instead of bowing his head to genuflect, he stared up at the stained glass triptych above the altar. On the left, Jesus born, the Star of Bethlehem glowing above as Mary and Joseph gazed adoringly below; on the right, Jesus ministering to the little children, a lamb cradled in His arms; and Jesus crucified in the middle panel, shining drops of blood falling from His crown of thorns.
How ironic that he was here, for someone he knew wouldn't give a damn.
Still, old habits. After a few minutes of staring and thinking of nothing, he rose and approached the altar with two of its three candles still flickering in the half-gloom. He took the third, unlit candle from the altar and held its wick in the flame to light it.
"Please, God, release him from his pain," Chase whispered as he set the lit taper into the candelabrum, wondering, as he did so, just for whom he was uttering the prayer.
~~~~~
By the time Chase returned to the hospital room, the snow was falling so heavily he had a gossamer layer of flakes still remaining on his hair and lashes. He set down a bag and a tray of take-out coffee on the counter by the wall, shivering as he did so. When he straightened, he frowned at the uneven breathing coming from the bed.
"When did he start Cheyne-Stoking? And where's Foreman?"
"Just a couple minutes ago," Cameron replied, looking up from the medical journal in her lap. "And Foreman left to catch the red-eye back home to visit his mom. He said to call him if anything changed, and to have a Merry Christmas."
"At least one of us is going to have one," Chase muttered under his breath.
"Chase!" Cameron hissed, scowling. She angled her head towards the other occupants in the room.
Cuddy sat curled in the chair at the bedside, her hair scraped back into a messy ponytail. She held one of House's hands between her own. Wilson stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Neither seemed to have heard Chase.
"There's coffee and sandwiches for you on the counter," Chase said to Wilson's back. "You should eat."
Wilson nodded, but didn't turn around. "Later," he said, squeezing Cuddy's shoulders.
Cameron stood up. "My break's over. I have to go back to the ER." She went around to the opposite side of the bed and took House's other hand. "Hey, House," she called. "I have to go back to work now."
House's mouth twitched, but he did not open his eyes. Cameron leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I'll see you later, OK?"
House did not seem to respond. Cameron straightened, sighing, and wiped her eyes with her fist before fleeing the room. Chase knew better than to follow.
Cuddy leaned over to stroke House's forehead, trying to smooth the furrows. "He's in pain," she murmured.
"We need to up his morphine to stop the breakthrough," Wilson said, his voice barely audible.
Cuddy looked up at him with tired eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but Wilson added, "It doesn't matter if it affects his breathing now."
~~~~~
House's health, such as it was, had been on a downward spiral for months, but he stubbornly had refused to be checked over, spending more and more time holed up in his apartment instead, running cases by phone. Only when Wilson had found him collapsed in the hallway by the bathroom, two weeks before Christmas, did House submit; by then House's liver cancer had been so advanced at diagnosis that there were no curative options left.
Wilson had wanted to start House on Nexavar right away. Chase, who had run the liver biopsy, had been present when House flatly refused it.
"I like my cellular kinases uninhibited, thanks," he had said from the hospital bed, not even looking up from his Game Boy.
"It can give you three more months," Wilson had pressed.
Chase had stared at him, startled; Wilson was usually a paragon of self-control, but this time, no one could possibly miss the underlying tremor in his voice.
"Three months, House."
House certainly didn't; he had looked up at Wilson, pinning his gaze for a long moment. Chase had always marveled at their peculiar ability to hold entire conversations in a look. This was no exception. Mesmerized, he watched their expressions volley back and forth for at least a minute.
Wilson broke away first, hands on his hips and blinking rapidly as he re-fixed his gaze on the blood pressure cuff behind the bed. House bowed his head. "I'm sorry," House had muttered to his hands.
Wilson's heavy answering sigh had reverberated through the room. Chase himself had to look away at the rawness in House's voice.
That had been just two weeks ago. House had been released from hospital the next day, and the last Chase had heard, Wilson and Cuddy had moved back into House's apartment to care for him.
Two days ago, House had been brought to Princeton-Plainsboro by ambulance.
Cameron had admitted him immediately from the ER. In just two weeks he'd become almost unrecognizable: emaciated, belly swollen to seven-months-pregnant size, legs the size of tree trunks, eyes sunken and yellow. His breathing came in short gasps, and there was no question he was dehydrated. The dark tinge to his skin was definitely not a tan. Chase needed only one look at him to know House had paralytic ileus from the weight of ascites fluid pushing on his bowels.
But House had refused a belly tap to relieve the pressure.
"You'll die from bowel obstruction or peritoneal infection if we don't do this," Foreman had said as he held the needle and catheter in their sterile bag. Chase and Cameron had stood on either side, in a small half-circle; just like the old days, Chase had thought randomly.
The yellow sclera had only intensified the color of House's bright blue irises, the effect oddly reminiscent of a 1960s science fiction B movie. "I'm dying anyway," he had retorted between gasps. "Like it matters."
The three of them had glanced at each other, and Chase knew he and Cameron weren't going to Australia this year.
"It will make your breathing more comfortable," Wilson had said, rubbing his brow. Chase winced at the plea evident in his voice.
This time, there was no silent conversation; House had simply nodded weakly, waving his hand. "Fine. Whatever." As Foreman started the sterile prep, House turned his head away. Wilson had stood and squeezed House's shoulder, but left the room before Foreman inserted the needle into House's flank. Chase busied himself by adjusting the IV flow, feeling House's gaze bore into his back.
After three liters of fluid had been drained and House's breathing had eased, Chase found Wilson in the men's room, splashing cold water on his face. When Wilson straightened up to reach for a paper towel, Chase noticed his reddened eyes, with their purplish-dark bruises beneath.
"How much sleep have you gotten in the past week?"
"Maybe a couple of hours a night," Wilson mumbled into the paper towel. When he looked up, he stared past Chase, into some point behind the mirror.
"Go home, Wilson," Chase said gently. "We'll call--"
He shook his head. "It's any time now," he said hollowly. "I can't leave."
"Wilson--"
One corner of Wilson's mouth turned up. "It's funny, I always thought he'd die from an overdose, or a motorcycle accident, or some stupid experiment. I never thought he'd just--fade away like this. It doesn't seem right. It's House."
House certainly had been larger than life, Chase agreed silently. He thought of his own father, wasting away from lung cancer in Melbourne. He'd believed then that it was a fitting way for bastards to go--not in a blaze of glory, but ignobly, slinking away in shadow. House had messed with all their minds enough to last several lifetimes. He grit his teeth thinking of the fake brain tumor.
Of all the people House had wronged, Wilson had probably suffered most. Yet here Wilson was, despite everything, loyal to the end. That had to be worth something.
"I'm sorry," Chase said sincerely.
That had been a day and a half ago.
The next morning, House started to drift in and out of consciousness. Wilson, as his medical proxy, signed the DNR order. Cuddy took up residence in the chair by the bed. They alternated reading aloud, Cuddy from the latest medical journals, Wilson from the last issue of the National Enquirer. When Chase came in during a lucid moment, early in the afternoon, he distinctly heard House's "Those idiots!" in his raspy voice as Cuddy read.
Chase had to grin. Leave it to House to attack right to the end.
As it turned out, those had been House's last words. He had already fallen into a coma by the next time Chase made his rounds.
~~~~~
The hours dragged on, the nighttime sky nearly white with snow outside the window. Chase, being on-call, left to attend other patients on the floor, dropping in every hour to check on House. He noted with sadness that the coffee and sandwiches remained untouched on the counter, but he didn't press the issue. He saw Cameron enter House's room twice, at two and at four-thirty, wiping her eyes each time she left. After the second time, he took her to the ER on-call room, lay with her on the narrow bed, and held her close until she fell asleep.
After that he came around every half hour, to give atropine and check for pain; each time he fully expected House to have already passed away. In the past few hours House's breathing had gone beyond Cheyne-Stokes, to Biot and then ataxic respirations. Yet House was still stubbornly clinging to life. Wilson was now sitting in the chair that Cameron had occupied, holding House's other hand and stroking House's forehead.
By six forty-five, Cuddy was dozing, still clutching House's hand, her head leaning on the mattress. Wilson looked about to drop as well, snapping up whenever his eyes drifted closed. House's breathing was fully agonal, with lapses of thirty seconds or more between breaths; it had been since Chase's last check at six-fifteen. Now Chase wondered if House was waiting for something to happen before he let go. That happened sometimes, he knew. Though what House would wait for, was beyond him.
"Dr. Cuddy. Dr. Wilson."
"What?" Cuddy's voice was muffled. Wilson looked up blearily.
"You're both exhausted," Chase said firmly. "You've both been up for almost forty-eight hours straight. Go to the lounge and try to get some sleep. I'll stay with him."
Cuddy shook her head, but Wilson nodded. "Come on, Lisa," Wilson murmured. He rounded the bed, grasped her elbow and pulled her up gently from her chair.
Cuddy wrapped her arm around Wilson's waist, resting her head on his shoulder. "Call us if anything happens," she said.
"He will," Wilson said, propelling her forward and out of the room.
Chase followed them to the doorway, watching their retreating backs as they shuffled down the dim hallway. They leaned against each other so heavily that from his vantage point, Chase couldn't tell just who was supporting whom.
Only when they entered the visitors' lounge did Chase turn back toward House's bed. His gaze caught the silenced monitor first; the line following House's heartbeat traced a straight, flat line.
"Dammit," Chase whispered, closing his eyes against the sight. "House."
He opened them after a long moment, and slowly approached the bed. House lay motionless under the covers, his jaw slack and eyes clouded, staring at nothing. The sallow skin, stretched tight like coarse parchment over his bony cheeks and skull, emphasized the white in his beard. The protuberance of rib and clavicle, his bloated belly, were visible through the thin cotton of his gown; his hands, with those long slender fingers, curled into claws at either side.
Chase sighed as he stared down at the body. House had always had impeccable timing. What better time than dawn on Christmas morning? After the two people who cared about him most had left his side--
With a shock, Chase suddenly knew why House had waited.
Reaching up to snap off the monitor, he wondered if he should fetch Wilson and Cuddy right away, or page Cameron. No, he thought. Wilson and Cuddy had been almost asleep on their feet when they left the room. He'd let them sleep. Waiting a few more minutes, an hour, wouldn't matter now.
A nurse stepped into the doorway but he didn't turn to acknowledge her; instead he looked out of the window for a minute, where the pre-dawn gray was just beginning to merge with wisps of pink. Then he glanced at his watch, the digital display an eerie green against his wrist. "Time of death, six forty-seven," he said to her, the loudness of his voice startling him.
He fixed his gaze again on the body in the bed. This yellow, withered husk was not the House he remembered. He didn't know where that House was; whether he just disappeared at the moment of death, as he had always posited, or if he moved on to annoy those in the afterlife.
With his thumb, Chase closed House's eyelids, shutting out the brilliant blue forever, and hoping that for once, just this once, House was wrong.
The nurse's voice from behind startled him. "I have to clean him up now, Dr. Chase."
"Yeah. Just give me a minute?"
Chase couldn't just leave House's body like that--not without some acknowledgment on this holy morning. He laid his hand on the still-warm forehead, his seminary training kicking in by instinct. "Dear God, accept Thy servant Gregory House into Thy Heavenly Kingdom," he murmured, "that he may be freed from sorrow and pain, and know everlasting peace in Thy Grace." Chase drew the sign of the cross on House's forehead. "In the name of the Father, The Son and the Holy Spirit, through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen."
He straightened and looked up towards the window, where the pink glimmer of dawn rose along the skyline, and thought he heard House admonishing him from somewhere over his right shoulder.
"You idiot."
Despite himself, Chase grinned. "Happy Christmas to you too, House."
"Merry Christmas, Dr. Chase," the nurse said, puzzled.
He turned towards the petite brunette nurse, standing in the doorway holding a basin and towels. "Merry Christmas, Chuny," he replied. "You can come in now."
He left the room as Chuny set up. Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, he listened to the carols chiming through the hospital speakers, watched the flashing lights on the small Christmas tree at the counter by the nursing station. House's absence was probably already making itself known, he thought, hearing the hushed voices of gossiping nurses. He knew it when Cameron appeared on the floor; when she came up to him and hugged him silently, her tears soaking his shoulder.
Chuny appeared at the doorway at five minutes past seven. "Dr. House is cleaned up now, Dr. Chase. Shall I get Drs. Cuddy and Wilson?"
"No, I will," he said. "Thanks." To Cameron he said huskily, "I need to tell Wilson and Cuddy now."
She drew back and nodded. "I know. I'll come with you."
"Thanks."
He put his arm around her shoulder as they headed toward the lounge. House's last act--dying alone--had been typically selfish and defiant, Chase thought. Typically House. And yet it had been, oddly enough, an act of grace.
They should know that, he decided. How House redeemed himself after all.
It's the season of possible miracle cures,
Where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown.
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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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