Chapter Text
i want happiness
“Things are going to change, my friend,” House grinned, raising his glass.
“You mean you’ll trade your addiction for alcoholism?” Wilson quipped, but still clinked his glass against House’s. House frowned at him; it was the quickest way to reproach him for raining on his parade.
“Do you mind?” They were celebrating, in one of House’s favorite but rarely visited bars, his renewed ability to walk on two legs. So far his bipedalism was limited to a mere two steps— left foot, right foot—before he collapsed in a heap and cried out bloody murder. But progress was progress, and House was just as proud of the movement as the fact that after the crash the only pain killer he wanted was paracetamol. It had been for the ache in his knee after he fell on it. Not for his thigh. “The one time in my life I try to be positive, you decide to take up the shackles of pessimism.”
Wilson shrugged. “Just being realistic. It’ll make the inevitable fall hurt less.”
“I know you’re out of practice, but could you, maybe, try being happy for me?”
“On the contrary, House. I’m thrilled.” Wilson raised his glass again. “To House, misanthropic doctor extraordinaire, and to a better life for him.” He downed a good half of his wine. “I just want… I want this stroke of luck to go right. In the right direction.”
“You think the minute I get rid of the cane, I’ll walk off a cliff?”
“It’s more than just physical, House. Everything is going to change. And not necessarily in ways that you want.”
“Stop fretting your eyebrows away! Enjoy the moment!”
Wilson raised one of said eyebrows. “If you insist.”
The next victory, of walking from one end to the room to the other without falling, House celebrated alone.
Part I
but let me just stress we’re both at our best in a tight spot
Oddly enough, the easiest part was getting him to the emergency room. Even through her shock she knew what to do: staunch the blood flow, call for a gurney, and attend to whatever complications arose. But once House was out of their hands, once there was nothing left to do but the waiting, they were at a loss.
They hung around the corridor, none of them wanting to look at each other, none of them knowing what to say. Chase, his hands in his pockets, stared intensely at the ground as if whatever it was he was he wanted could be found there. Foreman’s arms were crossed and his eyes darted all around, trying to keep track of everything.
Cameron pulled off her bloody latex gloves. The wet sound they made as she peeled them off her fingers was a familiar one, but it still made her uncomfortable.
“Who was that guy?” Chase was the first to speak.
“He had to be some ex-patient of House’s,” Foreman said.
“Did you recognize him? I sure as hell didn’t—“
“Does it matter?” Cameron interrupted. She was tried to keep the blood—there was so much of it— on the glove off her hands. Wasn’t there anywhere she could throw them away?
Chase gaped at her. “Does it matter? I don’t know, maybe, he only just shot House—“
“He’s gone.” Cameron found a trash can and threw out her gloves with relief. “And he won’t be back.”
“She has a point,” Foreman said. “Even if he wanted to finish killing off House—“ Cameron and Chase both winced—“he couldn’t get in. Security’s been hiked up, there’s no way he’s getting in now.”
“What if he comes back later?” Chase asked defiantly. “What if he shows up months from now, here at the hospital or at House’s place? What then, what’s to keep him from doing it right the next time?”
“For now, we have other priorities.” Cameron had wanted to say that the police would take care of the shooter, but she knew how Foreman felt about law enforcers and that bringing them up would only serve put him on Chase’s side. “There’s still that patient House admitted to the Diagnostics Department. We can’t forget about him.”
“The guy with a swollen tongue?” Foreman was incredulous. “The one House was abusing for his own amusement? That’s not a real case.”
“Maybe, but he’s been admitted to the department and we can’t just throw him aside. If it’s not a real problem, like you say, then we’ll be done with him before we know it.”
“And if it is a problem?” Chase asked. “What then?”
“Then it’s a real case and we better get on it quick, because we don’t have House to solve it for us.”
Neither Foreman nor Chase could disagree with that.
in times of crisis
Things, as Cuddy knew them, were coming apart at the seams. She was trying to sew it all back together when Wilson banged open her office door without so much as a knock, pale like he’d seen a ghost. But she knew it was no ghost he had seen; rather, he was fearful that he was about to see one.
She felt the same way.
“They’re saying House was shot. Is it--?” His hands kept twisting one over the other as though they were devouring each other.
“It’s true,” she said as calmly as she could. “One shot to his neck and another to his abdomen.” She marveled at how she could rattle off this information as if it had no relation to an infuriating but beloved colleague and friend. It had to be because of her years facing the worst as a doctor. “He went into surgery half an hour ago.”
Wilson had been turning paler and paler up until that last part. He reddened suddenly. “Half—why didn’t anybody tell me?”
“Bit busy,” she explained, not without a trace of sarcasm. “It’s been crazy ever since and I’ve been running all over the place. There’s been the police wanting witness reports and
—” she glanced nervously at the clock. “The press should come swarming in any moment now. They’ve been calling nonstop.”
Wilson took a deep, shuddering breath, and then straightened his shoulders. “What can I do? Right now, I mean. Call his parents, juggle reporters—”
Cuddy had pulled out a mirror she kept in her desk and was making sure that nothing had to be reapplied. Her lipstick was slightly faded and she should brush her hair before the media arrived. What a crazy thing to have to do while, in another wing, someone else saved House’s life. “His parents have been contacted and the fewer people who talk to the reporters, the better.”
“So I’m useless?” Wilson asked, tone bitter and self-deprecating.
“We will need you,” Cuddy said, applying the lipstick and pressing her lips against each other, “When House comes to. You can help him on a more personal level.” She started to root through her drawers; where had her hairbrush gone?
Already thinking ahead of what she had to do next, she had half-forgotten Wilson, so was surprised to hear his cold, dry bark of a laugh. He asked, “Tell me, what good could I do him? What good have I ever done him? If I were capable of doing any good for him, do you think he’d have been shot--“
This was unusual. Usually Wilson was level-headed, sensible, and steady, even in times of crisis. Cuddy eyed him critically. “How can you expect to protect him from other people’s insanity?”
“He drew it! He practically begged for it!” Wilson ranted, gesticulating. “He might as well have painted on a bull’s eye and handed out firearms! How many people have ever been shot in this hospital? None, absolutely none! This is no coincidence, it happened because House does this to people! He drives them to it.” He stopped, having either run out of steam or become aware of himself. With another deep breath, he said quietly, “Anything I could have done for him, I’ve already tried. Look where it’s gotten us.”
This was going too far. “Oh, boo hoo,” Cuddy snapped, and from Wilson’s shocked expression she knew she was going in the right direction, “you’re such a crappy friend, everything bad that ever happens to House is all your fault. Wilson, your best friend is dying and I sympathize, but I need you to get yourself together. I don’t care how crappy you are, you’re still the best caretaker we’ve got. Understand?”
“Y, yes,” Wilson stuttered, and for a moment Cuddy thought that he was going to add a ‘ma’aam.’
“Good.”
He nodded and then left her, having finally realized that the last thing she needed was an emotional breakdown in her office. In the two or so minutes of peace before she had to face whatever came next, Cuddy buried her face in her hands careful not to smudge her makeup, and just stayed like that, as if that would give her a firmer grasp on this hell-sent day.
The phone rang, and she snapped back to her job of keeping the hospital in one piece.
i just can’t sleep
Wilson wasn’t there—as usual—when House finally awoke from his surgery, but, according to hear-say, his first words were: “Did I get the Ketamine?”
Wilson was paged the news at once. Though it was at an unspeakable hour on a Sunday, Wilson threw on some outfit or other, ran out the door, broke all speeding limits on the way over.
House was fading in and out of consciousness, doped up on morphine and needing as much rest as possible. But he stayed awake long enough to pester Wilson. “Why didn’t I get Ketamine?” he half wheezed, half whined, and, because two halves weren’t enough for House, half demanded.
Wilson was not new to illness. He had seen people in some of the worst physical conditions possible. But seeing House naked with only a blanket to cover him, swollen like a newborn baby, various tubes connected to insert and remove liquids from his body, Wilson could barely find the voice to speak. “That wasn’t just death-bed ramblings?”
He didn’t answer immediately and Wilson wondered if he hadn’t fallen back asleep. “It was,” House said laboriously, “But I meant it.”
“We’ll talk about this later,” he promised, “when you’re not in the ICU.”
But the conversation only repeated itself when Cuddy rushed in. After more demands for Ketamine and promises to look into it, Cuddy and Wilson left to let House continue to recuperate.
“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Wilson asked.
“I didn’t, but I had Chase, Foreman, and Cameron look through his files. They found articles on how Ketamine-induced comas can reduce and, in some cases, eliminate chronic pain.”
“What?” It was too unlikely, too wonderful, to be true. “Does it work?”
“The results aren’t conclusive yet. Of course.”
“No wonder he’s fixated. This could change so much, Cuddy!”
“It might not do a thing! And what then? How much are you going to enjoy picking up the pieces?”
“You’re right.” He bit his lip. “If it went wrong, the consequences would be even worse. He’d be crushed—and even if it worked, what then? Would he still be addicted?”
Cuddy shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. How can we know? There are too many possibilities.”
“God.” Wilson started to think about all the things that could happen. If it didn’t work, House would become even more depressed, which was hard to imagine, but if anyone could do it, he was the one. And if it did work, would House necessarily be any happier? He’d find new reasons for misery, most likely. “The worst of it is, I don’t think anything could change his mind.”
“Yeah. There’s no stopping this.” She looked straight into his eyes. “These next few months are going to be hard, Wilson. Make no mistake about that.”
Part II
it’s strange, but it’s true
The next time Wilson visited House, he was less bloated, more aware of his surroundings, and equally demanding that he be placed into a Ketamine-induced coma as soon as possible. “It’s going to happen,” Wilson promised him.
House blinked a few times and took a couple of breaths. Conversations like this, post-surgery, took a long time. Wilson felt a whole new wave of pity and guilt, both of which he squashed as well as he could. Neither emotion would be welcome by House. “Not just pulling my leg?”
“We don’t pull on cripple’s legs.” Wilson didn’t realize he had been baiting him, hunting for a Housian wise-crack, until he didn’t get one. Again he felt guilty for what had happened, even though he knew, mentally, that it hadn’t been his fault.
“When?”
“In a month.”
As weak as he was, House could still pull of an indignant expression with full facial fluency. “That’s a long time.”
“You need to recover from your operation, first.”
“I want to get out of here. I hate it here.”
“I know. You won’t be in the ICU for much longer, and then we’ll start discussing the details, like why you decided on the Ketamine.”
“It’s a long story.” Another deep breath. “Basically, you and Cuddy were right.”
“Right about--?”
House shook his head. Either he didn’t want to tell or he was too tired to get into the explanation. That was all right by Wilson. He’d be out of here and better before long, and then Wilson could press him for all the answers he wanted.
Wilson started to walk away, and then remembered the other thing he wanted to tell House. “It was type II acquired angioedema, by the way.”
“What?”
“That patient you took in before—the patient with the swollen tongue. Your team figured it out. It was type II acquired angioedema.”
Wilson wouldn’t quite make out House’s expression. It might have been pride or disappointment or simple apathy. “Well. Not bad. Not bad at all,” he said, after some consideration.
i threw away my wings
The following weekday, Cuddy summoned House’s fellows to her office. They sat in the chairs in front of her desk with Cameron in the center and Chase and Foreman on either side. Cuddy herself sat behind the desk, hands clasped onto the table. “House won’t be back for a few months,” she said.
Cameron nodded intently, like she agreed and approved. Foreman and Chase nodded as well, but it was with more impatience, as if they knew this already and did not want to be told the obvious. In Cuddy’s opinion, they’d gotten too used to openly disapproving with their boss. Here it served them well, but it wasn’t a skill that would translate well elsewhere. They had to learn how to work without House.
“I need to figure out what to do with the Diagnostics department until then,” Cuddy continued.
Foreman wasted no time in suggesting, “we can run it ourselves.”
“Like you did when House was in Baltimore for less than twenty-four hours?” Foreman and Cameron shrank back at this reminder of their recent incompetence. Though Cuddy could tell that they got the point, she drove it in even further. “You were on the phone with him for most of the time he was gone!”
“We did, however, solve the last case,” Cameron sprang quickly back to their defense, “all on our own. We’ve improved since last year, since six months ago, since one month ago. And it’d be ridiculous, I think, to shut down the department down completely.”
Cuddy noticed that Chase, as usual, was keeping out of the fray. She shoved him right into it. “What do you think, Chase?”
Cameron, her comment ignored, looked like she wanted to blow a fuse but wasn’t anywhere near angry enough to do so. As for Chase, he shifted in his seat, uncrossing his legs and then crossing them again. “I think it’s risky. Someone might die.”
“Someone might die without us!” Cameron protested. “Without House, we might not be the best anymore, but we certainly won’t be the worst.” Chase simply uncrossed his legs again and looked in another direction.
“What else would we do until he got back?” Foreman asked.
Cuddy tapped her fingers against the table. “There’s always clinic duty. Or I could transfer you into other departments. We’re understaffed and all three of you would be welcome in other departments.”
“But how would it look like if we closed shop just because one of us was out?” Foreman argued. “Like Cameron said, it’d be ridiculous, and I know how much the hospital depends on the Diagnostic Department’s reputation.”
“I agree,” Cameron said. “It would undermine our image. It’d cause us more damage in the long run.”
“Everyone knows that House is the brain that runs this operation! We’re nothing without him.” Chase leaned forward towards Cuddy, “How about a nice rise in deaths, how great would that be for our ‘image’?”
Foreman turned to look at Chase. “Oh my god,” he said, “are you still sucking up? He’s not even here!”
“Enough!” Cuddy exclaimed. All three snapped to attention. She returned to a speaking-level of voice. “Both are valid points—that I’ve already taken into consideration. I’ve decided to let you keep working in Diagnostics, but at the first sign that you’re in over your heads, we’ll transfer the patient and close the department until House comes back. Oh, and you’re not allowed to ask him for help. The last thing he needs is to be chased by work.”
“…So who’s going to be in charge?” Foreman asked.
With her arms crossed, Cameron said, “I suppose you think you’re up to the task.”
“As do you,” Foreman retorted.
“I wasn’t the one who became a laughing-stock—“ Cameron said.
“This bickering,” Cuddy interrupted, “has got to stop. At the very least learn how not to do it in front of me. Did you think that that exchange would make me any more inclined to promote either one of you? At any rate,” Cuddy waved her hand at Foreman, “I’ve already chosen him. Laughing-stock or not, he has the experience, and the hardest part of his job was managing House. I suspect that that won’t be an issue this time. That’s all, you can go now.”
Only Foreman was pleased, Cuddy could tell, but she was glad that, this time, they refrained from fighting. They were probably waiting until she were out of her earshot starting up again. She could also tell that Cameron would come back to her office before long to complain about the unfairness of the situation and to argue that she should be the temporary department head. It was all a part of hospital politics, though, and Cuddy was more than used to it.
and if you can get it, won’t you tell me how
As Cuddy had predicted, Cameron was in her office a few short hours later. “I don’t get it,” she complained, “Foreman has not only shown poor leadership qualities in the past, he’s broken ethical guidelines—“
“You mean he stabbed you in the back and, from what I heard, you forgave him for that.”
“Yeah, but it still doesn’t change what he did.”
“Well.” Cuddy pursed her lips. “Then I’ll trust that his life-changing experience has turned him into a well-behaved boy that’ll play nicely with his peers.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Cameron asked, sitting up like she was getting ready to be attacked or to do the attacking herself.
“It’s a veiled insult. I don’t think you understood what I told you when Foreman stole your article, Cameron. This career? Isn’t about politeness and who’s nicest. You want to get ahead in this game, show me that you deserve it. Whining, by the way, is not deserving. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s good that you’re indignant over not getting the temporary head of staff. But your anger is misdirected. Do something.”
Cameron did not look any more pleased leaving her office than she had coming in.
there are places i remember
Time ceased to make sense to House; he lost track of entire days. People and their faces blurred. He might have seen his parents at one point, his mother anxiously filling the atmosphere with the most cheerful chatter she can supply. His father was grim, silent. Then again, he might have dreamt them up.
He has the impression that his employees also showed up, but that’s all it is, an impression.
Cuddy he sees many times, which pleased him more than he would have like.
Wilson, he seemed to be there constantly. It was as if, to summon him to his bedside, all House had to do was turn and there he would be, worried and martyred.
He thought it ridiculous of Wilson to come so often; his being there wouldn’t make a difference in the long run. It weren’t as if House were going to die if he were alone. On the other hand, his anxiety weakened when Wilson was there. Was it relief that he felt?
With or without the company, House just wanted leave the ICU. He did know not how he survived so long there. The only thing that kept him hanging going were the promises he made to himself about all the things he was going to change once he got out of there.
He dreamt of all the things he’d wanted to for the past seven years and all the things he never bothered to consider, barred by his deformation and pain.
He dreamt of a better life.