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Treating the Symptoms
by Miss Murchison
"We'd better get back." Foreman tossed his napkin on the table and started to stand up.
"Where's your rush?" House stirred his straw in his glass, which was apparently empty of everything but ice.
"Let's see." Foreman gestured at the crumbs on their trays. "We're done with lunch--"
"Speak for yourself." House put his lips to the straw and slurped noisily, sucking up more air than liquid. A well-dressed, middle-aged man sitting at a nearby table turned to glare at him over his shoulder.
Foreman hovered, feeling all the annoyance usually reserved for a mother trying to coax a recalcitrant child away from a fascinating game. House's latest power play wasn't to wait until they got the latest test results. It was going to take place right here, in the cafeteria of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. "--and we have a patient without a firm diagnosis." He was annoyed with himself for playing his role so perfectly, when House never followed any discernable script.
"It's either plain old arthritis or lupus causing the arthritic symptoms. The ANA test will tell us. Whatever. Either way, we treat the symptoms. Which we're already doing." House slurped on the straw some more, and the man behind him turned around from the waist this time. This maneuver seemed to make him uncomfortable; instead of snapping at House, he started to cough and leaned over his table.
"Hey!" yelled House. "Cover that cough. This is a hospital. We can't be making people sick around here." He stopped, and pretended to consider a new thought. "On the other hand, it would be a good way to drum up business."
"Very funny!" snapped the man, his coughing barely under control. He snatched up a glass of soda and drank so quickly the fizz went up his nose. This caused some sneezing into a napkin as a sheen of sweat appeared on the man's bald head.
Foreman noticed that although he was fully dressed, he was wearing a hospital bracelet. "Are you okay? I'm a doctor, I can have your physician paged if--"
"Doctors!" The man glared up at him through tears and sniffles. "You can't diagnose anything. Dozens of expensive tests, and what do they tell me? That there's nothing wrong with me and I can go home as soon as they finish with my paperwork. They didn't even order me lunch and I had to come down here and buy my own!"
House's satirical drawl responded before Foreman could think of anything to say to this outburst. "Yes, it's always a particularly tragic outcome when we have to tell a patient he's perfectly healthy. I know I always dread delivering that terrible message, 'You're going to live another fifty years.'"
"Except you never talk to patients," murmured Foreman.
But his comment was overpowered by the patient's rage. "I am not perfectly healthy! I cough all the time, I'm short of breath whenever I go up and down stairs, and I have terrible chest pains. But they keep telling me it's nothing, not pneumonia, or arrhythmia. They haven't even tested for half the things they should. Suppose it's turning into shingles or some kind of allergy that could send me into anapal--analeptic--some kind of anal shock, or MS, or--"
House interrupted this litany ruthlessly. "Hah! That's what you say. Do you know what doctors say? We say, 'Patients! They get a tummy ache, and they think their appendix has ruptured. They eat three helpings of chili and instead of taking some bicarb, they call for an ambulance because they're convinced they're having a heart attack.'"
Much put upon, the patient resorted to whining. "I just want someone to give me a decent diagnosis."
"Well you're in luck." House balanced his cane firmly on the floor between his legs and hauled himself to his feet. "I happen to be a diagnostician."
"Yeah, right," said the man. "You're not even wearing a white coat."
"I am too!" House looked down at his shirt. "A diagnostician, that is. I'll grant you the absence of the white coat."
"He is," said Foreman reluctantly. "He's the best. Even if does sound like a 5-year-old sometimes."
House limped closer to the patient and peered down at him. "See, there you go. Testimony from a guy who is wearing a white coat. I am not just a diagnostician, I am the best diagnostician there is, and I don't need a smorgasbord of fancy tests to tell what's wrong with you. You are suffering from Entenmann's Syndrome and a phenomenon known as BRIT, which in spite of its name, is far more epidemic in this country than in England."
"What?" Terror was replacing indignation in the man's expression.
"Don't listen to him. Those diseases don't exist." Foreman pointed significantly at litter on the table the man had been using.
The patient followed Foreman's gesture as House protested. "Foreman, how can you call yourself a doctor and say that? Look, there it is, right there." He waved his cane at a crumpled wrapper that was shedding crumbs all over a copy of The New York Post. Both Foreman and the hapless patient ducked reflexively. "'Entenmann's Cherry Snack Pie.' The FDA should list that lump of carbs as a controlled substance. Taken in excess with a bare minimum of exercise and supplemented by large quantities of fizzy drinks sweetened with corn syrups, I guarantee symptoms including indigestion, chest pains, stomach aches, constipation, exhaustion, and that not-so-fresh feeling."
"It's just a snack," objected the patient, but all his bluster was gone.
"Just a snack?" House leaned forward menacingly, and the man stumbled, falling back into his chair. "Just a snack? Have you ever thought about what's inside that wrapper? That thick sodden crust, layered with sugary frosting, covering that mass of sickly sweet red stuff?" He peeked at the label again. "On the other hand it is kosher, so it probably wasn't dipped in pork fat." He frowned as if in serious concentration. "Beef fat, maybe."
The patient seemed to have shrunk a few inches, but he attempted to defend himself. "There's fruit. It says so."
"Oh, yeah, right on the wrapper. 'Real fruit!' Kind of scary they'd think they needed to say that, isn't it? And have you ever noticed they don't tell you how much of it is real, or even promise it's actual cherries? They could be palming you off with some cheaper, less cherrific fruit. Are you sure you've got a cherry inside, instead of some apple bits cleverly malformed and injected with dye to make you think you're getting something else?"
"I don't have Entenmann's whatever!" The patient stood up, inching away from House. "Or that other thing, whatever it was."
"BRIT," said House relentlessly. "And you do so."
"There's no such thing," repeated Foreman who'd been following the whole discussion with his arms crossed. He was all too aware that a crowd had started to gather and was seriously considering leaving the patient to his fate. The only thing that kept him rooted to the spot was the knowledge that House would twit him mercilessly for the rest of the afternoon if he fled. He certainly wasn't staying because a part of him was enjoying this. No. No way.
"What's BRIT?" asked the patient, a quaver in his voice.
"BRIT?" House waved his cane again, and his listeners backed off to a safe distance, leaving him alone in the center of a circle whose radius was marked by the length of his cane. "It's a well established neurological disorder, first documented in the second half of the twentieth century. Brain Rot Induced by Television. Very sad. Precludes the patient having any kind of intellectual life or perspective on reality."
"You're crazy!" yelled the patient.
"It's taken you this long to figure that out?" House's head tilted to one side, as if he considered this mildly interesting. But not interesting enough. He shook his head dismissively and turned away.
As the man picked up his things and prepared to stalk off, trying to project an image of indignation rather than humiliation, Foreman leaned forward and slipped something into his hand.
"What's that?" House demanded, having turned again to watch his victim leave, the dignity of the man's stance considerably impeded by his squinting at something in his hand and a confused glance over his shoulder.
"What's what?" Foreman looked the opposite way, towards the kitchen.
House stepped up next to him, leaned forward on his cane and pointed in the direction of Foreman's gaze. "That!" he declared loudly.
Shocked to find his diversion working, Foreman stared in confusion at the several erstwhile members of House's audience, who were slinking away, probably out of fear of being the next victim of the insane doctor. He was so caught up in looking for a clue to House's interest that it took a moment for him to realize that House had thrust a hand into the pocket of his white coat. "Hey!"
Damn House. He'd used Foreman's diversion to divert Foreman. There was a brief scuffle, during which House played dirty by leaning into Foreman, who had to brace himself to keep them both upright. By the time they'd both regained their balance, House had had a good grope of both the pocket and Foreman's ass.
They pulled apart, Foreman breathing hard and House glaring at the small white cards he'd snatched from Foreman.
House read incredulously--and very loudly. "'I am studying the guy who just yelled at you. He suffers from Tourette's Syndrome. One symptom is coprolalia, which literally means that meaningless shit can emerge from his mouth at any moment. Please ignore him, or at least don't blame me for the things he says.'" He waved the card at Foreman. "You've been telling random strangers that I have Tourette's?"
Foreman wasn't going to let House stage another floor show. He started for the door, saying over his shoulder, "No. My criteria are not in the least random. They are very specific strangers. I only pass them out to the people you insult. Now, your criteria may be random--"
There were halting, tripedal steps just behind him, followed by the inevitable mock-outrage. "Do you have any idea how outrageous this is? In fact, it's probably a violation of medical ethics. Willful misdiagnosis."
"Can't be." Foreman passed through the door to the corridor, holding it so House could pass through. "You're not my patient and I'm not treating you. Besides, it's self defense. Do you have any idea how embarrassing you can be?"
"What--a cool black dude like you cares what all us honkies think?" House was several steps down the corridor now, going the opposite direction of Foreman. He waved his cane.
Foreman sighed, knowing exactly where House was going, literally and figuratively. He retraced his steps. "See, that's exactly what I mean. I have to deal with the fact that my boss does not follow any of the rules of civilized behavior."
House snorted. "Civilization? Yeah, we have lots of that in New Jersey." He stopped in front of a bank of elevators and pushed a button. "Besides, I refuse to be criticized by a man who would wear that tie."
Do not look down at your tie, Foreman thought. Whatever you do, do not-- He realized he was already looking down.
House was heading out of the elevator, on the wrong floor, going in the wrong direction to either visit their current patient or meet Cameron and Chase. Muttering curses under his breath, Foreman followed, knowing, among other things, that he would never be able to wear the damn tie again. "Why do I put up with your abuse?"
House turned onto a deserted corridor, past a partially dismantled nurses' station, limping towards the end of the hall. "You know." He stopped, turned, and cocked a wry eyebrow.
Yeah, Foreman did. He put up with it because House fascinated Foreman the way a schizophrenic patient or a tricky diagnosis fascinated House. How and why anyone's mind could become so twisted, how someone could hold himself so aloof from others' feelings, and yet have such a perfect understanding of others' motivations and emotions. House, man of mystery.
They were almost to the end of the hall now. House opened the door to one of the exam rooms.
Foreman had seen House change too. House had visited that last patient several times, sometimes even when the guy was awake. What was the differential diagnosis for this latest symptom? A new interest in connecting with others? Or a greater hardening of the wall between House and humanity that let him talk to those in pain without emotional connection? Or a sadistic enjoyment in watching the pain?
Foreman didn't really think it was the last option. Through intimate observation, he had determined that House was not addicted to pain, his own or other people's. He fled pain, sought relief from it. That's what he was doing right now, as he pushed Foreman up against the door they'd just closed behind them, their combined weight a guarantee against interruption.
Exam room 8, the one that that wasn't used now because the entire area was being remodeled in honor of all the money Dr. Terhark and his fellow plastic surgeons brought to the hospital, had become one of House's places to seek relief. Foreman had no illusions that it ranked higher than the bottle of Vicodin that was rubbing against his hip, but he had no real complaints either.
House leaned even harder into Foreman, hips against hips, moving from a rough kiss to sucking Foreman's lower lip, one hand reaching down between their bodies, with no preamble or request for permission.
House never asked permission, never needed to. House noticed everything: a new pair of sneakers, a different tie, a sidelong glance. House had surely noticed that Foreman's breath was coming a bit too fast for a healthy man who'd done nothing more strenuous recently than take part in an argument and a brief scuffle. House had certainly noticed other signs too, during that outrageous grope disguised as a semi-collapse in the cafeteria.
Yeah, House always noticed. And shortly afterwards, they'd wind up in a room like this one, treating each other's need for a few frantic gropings. They both knew they were only relieving symptoms, but they never spoke about it. Underlying causes were still off-limits.
But symptoms, those were easy. For bitter argument, probe gently, then more forcefully, tongue against tongue, quenching speech and stimulating nerve endings that drove all words from the mind.
Stress and tension responded to massage and pressure. House's strong hand against Foreman's cock, that grip that had been strengthened by years of helping support a tall man's weight on a wooden cane. Sometimes, Foreman would watch that hand grip House's cane, supporting that whole lean, taunt frame, a necessary and hated appendage.
The cane was on the floor now, as House leaned into Foreman again, taking support while seeming to dominate, probably thinking he was in charge even as his head dropped to Foreman's shoulder, as Foreman's free arm steadied him. Foreman reached for House's zipper and then both their cocks were getting attention, rubbing against each other, Foreman's hand helping House's, their fingers moving together, flexing and relaxing, setting a smooth rhythm that belied the constant discord that was their public means of intercourse.
It was over too soon, and House was crowing that Foreman had come first, and where was that vaunted Mandingo stamina?
Damn House for his immediate need to insist that what had just happened was meaningless, or at least over. Now the palliative was wearing off, and all the symptoms would return. At the thought, Foreman slumped against the door, just as House bent to reach for his cane. Foreman reached out to steady House as the tall man dropped to his knees, with a loud, "Fuck!"
"You okay?" asked Foreman.
"What?" Foreman could hear House stifle the pain in his voice. "Why? Oh, you thought that I fell?"
Foreman's hands were still on House's shoulders. "Well, yeah, the stumble and the swearing kind of gave me that impression."
House looked up at him, and although his mouth was still a line of hurt, and his bad leg was splayed out at an awkward angle, his eyes were at their most devilish. "Swearing? Who was swearing? That was a suggestion." He bent his head again.
Foreman's shoulders relaxed against the door. Cautiously, he slid to the floor, letting his hands move from supportive to guiding until they both lay on the floor, the pressure taken off House's leg at last. House shifted position, curling close, his forehead against Foreman's upper thigh.
Foreman moaned. His boss had certainly almost fallen, and was just as certainly covering for his weakness now. House was a pain in the ass, always having to prove the other guy wrong. But sometimes his ego could be Foreman's pleasure. And, for now, he'd settle for that. Who cared if it was a placebo if it worked?
_________________
Cameron was calibrating the centrifuge again. Chase wondered if that meant she was upset, or if she just couldn't bear to give the appearance of wasting time. If there was no work to do, she found something that looked like work to occupy herself, and since House had forbidden her to go through his mail that morning and she'd read their current patient's file fifteen times, she was reduced to pretending she was a lab tech.
Chase was doing a crossword puzzle. For a moment, it occurred to him that he could have more fun if Cameron would stop messing with the centrifuge and mess around with him instead, but then he remembered how Cameron freaked him out when she talked about sex. It turned him on too, but he'd decided not to risk following up on it. The way he looked at it, either she was just having him on, in which case she'd be no fun at all in bed, or she wasn't having him on, in which case she was probably a raging dominatrix and he'd wind up tied to the headboard and screaming while she wielded a whip. It wasn't like he was that hard up.
Chase went back to his crossword.
"Where are they?" Cameron's voice broke the silence.
"Lunch," said Chase. "What's a six-letter word for fruit, fifth letter R?"
"Cherry. They've been gone for almost two hours."
"Well, yeah. Twenty minutes to eat and an hour and forty minutes for arguing. Just be glad you're not listening to it."
Cameron shifted on her stool to look at him. "You really think they've been arguing this whole time?"
Chase gave his patented derisive snort. He'd worked hard at that snort, and he was proud of it. It wasn't as good as House's yet, but give him time. He was young. "Of course they're arguing. It's all they do when we're there, so why would it be any different when we're not? Let's face it. They're the gingham dog and the calico cat, and we're just the old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate."
Cameron turned to stare at him for a long moment. "Speak for yourself," she said at last, but her voice was uncertain.
Chase rolled his eyes, feeling a bit smug at having knocked Cameron off balance for once. "It's a poem. A kid's poem. And a song, I think. About the dog and cat who had a duel."
"Uh, huh." Cameron's tone was filled with sarcasm, but she sounded a bit relieved that there was some kind of rational explanation.
Chase was too bored to let the topic drop. "They had a fight and they ate each other up."
She looked up from the centrifuge again to throw him a derisive look.
Chase set down his coffee cup and sat up straighter. "Well, they did!"
Her smile became even more ironic. "House and Foreman are late because they're eating each other?"
Damn Cameron. She'd gotten the upper hand again. Because that image was suddenly ridiculous. And embarrassing. And, of course, there was no way it could be true.
He ducked his head down over his crossword again. If "cherry" was the right answer for 6 down, then 9 across could be "turgid..."
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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 Fox Television, 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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