fic: The Cuckoo -- Chapter 14

[readingrat]

 

A/N: In my AU Season 8 didn't take place, which means that all we know about House's birth father is that the most likely candidate is a family friend called Thomas Bell who is a preacher and the author of a book of sermons.

---

Part III
Chapter 14: DIY Chemo

Pete had to hand it to Wilson: the guy was an obstinate bastard. The chemo had hit hard and fast. Wilson had been puking his guts out the past two days, he'd lost all control over his bladder and sphincter, he was febrile, and he couldn't even move from the bed to the bathroom without support, but he resolutely refused to be transferred to a hospital.

Pete had hoped to get to the bottom of Wilson's dislike for hospitals once Wilson was weakened and his guard was down, but no luck so far. Wilson's reasoning remained as inchoate as it had been before the chemo, and Pete still had no idea why Wilson was opting for a suicidal strategy that was bound to get all his accomplices sent to jail for aiding and abetting him. Getting hold of Wilson's chemo and adjuvant medication without implicating Chase had cost a lot of time and effort.

"Try Cameron," Chase had suggested. "No one ever asks what Diagnostics needs meds for or why."

Allison Cameron? Pete hadn't forgotten her animosity towards him. Then again, she'd been very concerned about Wilson, touchingly concerned, in fact. He could work with that.

As Chase had predicted, she had agreed to meet him in a bar close to PPTH. More to the point, she had listened without blinking to his sob story of Wilson refusing treatment in hospital and how he now needed the medication for treatment at home.

She had looked at the list he'd slid over the table, her eyebrows rising. "I'm no oncologist, but this list makes no sense – unless you're getting additional meds from somewhere else. Are you?"

"No," he'd been able to answer honestly.

"This isn't enough for a normal course of six to eight cycles. How many cycles were you going to do?"

He had looked down at his hands. "One."

"One?"

"Wilson refuses to do more than one cycle, so …" He had trailed off, spreading his hands in a fatalistic gesture.

"You want to give him all of this in one cycle?"

"Yep."

"This is murder!" she'd declared.

"It's what Wilson wants."

She had read through the list again, smiling knowingly. "And you've come to me because Cuddy shot you down immediately."

"She's an administrator; she can't get at the meds without questions being asked," he'd explained.

"So it's okay for her to chicken out while I'm supposed to put my career on the line for your madness," she'd said.

"Not for my madness," he'd corrected. "For Wilson."

She'd put down the list and folded her hands above it, interlacing her fingers. "I get why Wilson might want this," she'd said, "but what I don't get is why you are going along with it."

He had looked off into the distance, out of the window into the dark night. "It's his call, not mine," he'd said quietly.

"He helped you to do something abysmally stupid. Is there some ridiculous code of honour that obliges you to do the same for him?" she'd asked.

He'd remained silent.

"House, no code or obligation can force you to go against your beliefs and convictions. If Wilson demands that of you, you have the right to refuse."

"He didn't demand it. I offered," he'd said.

"You can't possibly believe this to be the best treatment option for Wilson!" she'd cried.

"I believe that I have no other choice if I'm to save my patient's life," he'd said, looking her straight in the eye.

She had held his gaze for a full minute before she'd risen, tucking the list into her purse. "Very well," she'd said. "You'll get your meds. I hope you know what you're doing, House."

So do I, he had agreed silently.

---

On the afternoon of the fourth day Wilson said, "I'm feeling better. I think the worst is over."

"Hmm," Pete said noncommittally, reaching for the blood-pressure cuff that he kept on the bedside table along with Wilson's stethoscope and a thermometer. Wilson's ability to fool himself was phenomenal; as an oncologist he should know better than to believe that he could make an assessment of his actual medical status based on how he felt. But then, there was an unbridgeable chasm between what people knew to be objective truths and what they chose to believe.

"Vitals are okay," he said once he'd checked blood pressure, heart rate and temperature. "Your temperature is down to 101.3."

"See?" Wilson said triumphantly.

Idiot! Pete thought. "I need some blood. Gimme your arm."

Wilson did so with an expression that conveyed that he considered this a waste of time. "Where are you going to get it analysed?" he asked.

"I'm sending it to a private lab," he said. He'd have preferred to supervise the panel himself, but leaving Wilson wasn't an option, even if he found a lab that was prepared to have him hover in the background while they ran their tests.

He'd just finished drawing blood when Tanja poked her head through the bedroom door. "There's a woman at the door. I think she wants you. Shall I bring her in?" she said in Russian.

"No, I'm coming," Pete said. "Make her wait outside."

"What did she say?" Wilson said.

"Pizza delivery service wants money," Pete lied. "Here, press hard for another minute."

He grabbed the blood samples and levered himself off the edge off the bed. "Don't try to go to the bathroom by yourself; you're still too weak," he added as he went out. Hopefully that would keep Wilson from roaming around the apartment until he'd gotten rid of the intruder.

As expected, it was Lisa who stood in the hallway looking pissed, while Tanja barred the door, gesticulating in an attempt to explain to Lisa that he was coming any moment. Pushing past Tanja, he grabbed Lisa's arm and pulled her away from the door of the apartment.

"What took you so long to get here?" he asked. He'd been beginning to doubt his own estimation of her: he'd expected her to keep her distance for two days at the most before caving and coming to help him, but she'd held out twice as long.

"I'm sorry that I mistook your plea for help for a kick out the door!" she said irritably. Then, with a backward glance at Tanja, who was still hovering curiously in the doorway, she hissed, "Who is she?"

"Tatiana, but she prefers to be called Tanja."

"A hooker?" Lisa asked.

Pete obligingly translated Lisa's whispered question into very audible Russian. "Hey, Tanja, she thinks you look like a prostitute."

Looking Lisa up and down, Tanja used an expression that Pete had never heard before – a welcome addition to his Russian vocabulary – the gist of which, however, was perfectly clear even if you understood no Russian at all.

"I think the PG-13 version of that is, 'People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones'," he said to Lisa. "She's a fully qualified nurse."

"A RN who can't speak English?"

Pete wrinkled his forehead and scrunched up his eyes as if he was thinking. "That might explain why she's having problems getting her qualification recognised here," he said, as though he'd only just realised that. "But it sure is the reason why she hasn't asked stupid questions about the advisability of DIY chemo."

"Clever," Lisa said. "Can we … go inside?" She looked around the entrance hall, which admittedly wasn't the best place for a heart-to-heart. He hoped to God that her garrulous neighbour wouldn't pass by.

"Wilson had better not see you," he said. "If it gets out that you're involved …"

"But I want to help," Lisa said.

He rolled his eyes in annoyance. "I didn't think that you'd come here for small talk." He thrust the blood samples at her. "Here, take these. I need a complete blood panel. I need the results fast, so do it yourself." She looked at him in dismay. Chances were that she hadn't done lab work since lab classes in medical school. "On second thought, breathe down your technicians' necks while they do it. Text the results. Oh, and start off with the white blood count: it's bound to tank sooner rather than later."

She nodded and turned to go.

"What was that about?" Wilson asked when he returned to the bedroom.

"The idiots sent the wrong pizza," Pete replied.

"Too bad," Wilson said. "I was so looking forward to hurling prosciutto and anchovies."

---

He was watching a 'Star Trek: The Original Series' re-run with Wilson when Lisa texted him. He went to the bathroom when he felt his phone vibrate, looked at the screen and then phoned Lisa.

"The technicians ran the tests twice," Lisa said. "His ANC is still around 1000."

This was good news, although Wilson's white blood count would doubtless drop much lower over the next few days, with the risk of infections rising accordingly.

"Then what's the problem?" he asked testily. If he stayed in the bathroom much longer, Wilson would get suspicious.

"His AST and ALT levels are severely elevated. They're twenty times the UNL. Something is wrong with his liver."

Huh, that was quick. He'd thought he'd have more time to get everything organised, but it couldn't be helped. He'd have to move fast now. "Get the paperwork ready for his admission. Then get your ass back here."

"Has he agreed to be admitted?" she asked hopefully.

"Not yet," he muttered, "but I have a trump card." He disconnected the call.

Wilson didn't glance up when he came back. "What did the lab say?" he asked.

"The lab?" Pete parroted.

"You took my blood, you got a text message, you disappeared into the bathroom." Wilson enumerated wearily. "Just spit it out already."

"Your ANC is dropping," Pete said.

Wilson rolled his hand in a gesture demanding more information.

"It's around a thousand," Pete said, creasing his face into fake folds of worry.

Wilson looked relieved at the number and puzzled at Pete's demeanour. "That's – good!"

"It'll drop further," Pete said with his gravest facial expression.

"Yes, but it should remain manageable," Wilson said bracingly. "Even if it drops below five hundred, there's no need to worry. Did you get a broad-spectrum antibiotic?"

"Yep, meropenem," Pete said.

"Good! We'll start me on that when my ANC falls below 250. Can we watch TV now?"

"You're also dehydrated," Pete said, almost as an aside. "There were traces of ammonia in your blood. We should give you an infusion."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Alternately, you could stop hurling."

Wilson pretended to consider this. "And deny you the pleasure of watching me bow to the porcelain god? Not for the world!" He shifted uncomfortable. "Can we do it here? Then I can finish watching the episode."

Pete glanced at the clock. Lisa wouldn't be here for another hour or so. "Sure. We wouldn't want to curtail your enjoyment of guys in skin-tight tops and tights. We'll fix you up when the ads come on."

He went into his bedroom and dug around in the sock drawer, feeling through his socks. He found what he was looking for at the back of his drawer, a small bottle with a clear liquid stowed away in a pair of running socks. He took it back into the kitchen, where the supplies they'd needed for the chemo were all stacked, the perishables in the fridge and the rest in diverse kitchen cupboards.

"Can I help?" Tanja asked. She was seated at the kitchen table, knitting and reading a Russian magazine, neither of which occupation she seemed eager to interrupt.

Pete shook his head. "You'll never learn English if you keep reading Russian magazines," he remarked, hanging a bag of saline on the IV pole.

"Reading another language is strenuous," she said. "It takes all the fun out of reading."

He plunged a needle into the bottle from his sock drawer and drew the liquid into a syringe. "Consider English texts a puzzle," he suggested.

"I hate puzzles," she said. "Who cares about the answers?"

He could only roll his eyes. Her indifference to everything around her stumped him, but it did mean that she hadn't thought to question the strange goings-on so far. Doubtless she wouldn't ask why he was roofying his friend. She watched with incurious eyes as he peeled the label of the saline back half an inch and injected the liquid into the saline solution. After sticking the label back on, he tossed the syringe and the bottle into the trash.

"You can go now," he said to Tanja. Although it would be interesting to know how much she was prepared to put up with in the way of dubious medical practices before she opted out and called the police, he'd rather be safe than sorry. It would be better if she left before Wilson lost consciousness.

"Are you sure?" she asked perfunctorily, closing the magazine and letting the knitting slide into her bag.

He nodded. "Today's money is on the console table in the hall," he said.

She stuck her head into the living room to wave a cheerful goodbye to Wilson.

"Do svidaniya," Wilson said.

"Do svidaniya, Dr Wilson," she answered, giving him the thumbs-up.

As Wilson rolled up his right sleeve to bare the access port that Pete had laid for the chemo he said, "I wonder where you learned Russian. Your father can hardly have been posted there."

"Probably not," Pete agreed. His Russian wasn't as good as his Japanese or his German and Tanja had corrected his pronunciation a few times, but it was good enough to get by with. "Perhaps I learned it to piss him off."

"Or to impress him," Wilson said as Pete fixed up the infusion and adjusted its speed.

"Why would I have wanted to do that?" If the therapy notes that Nolan had made during his first stay at Mayfield were anything to go by, he and his father hadn't seen eye to eye.

"Because it would have made your mother happy?" Wilson hazarded. "She can't have enjoyed being stuck in the cross-fire between the two guys whom she loved."

Pete huffed. "She didn't love him," he said with certainty.

Wilson looked at him incredulously. "Where'd you get that from? Nolan's notes? Nolan's notes were based on what you told him, and as you know, everybody lies. Just because you wished that your mother hated your father, doesn't mean that she did."

The corner of his mouth twitched up in victory. "Her deeds speak loud and clear: she married another guy two months after my father died."

"What!" Wilson's eyes bulged with surprise.

Pete scrutinised him with interest. "You didn't know?" Wilson didn't know much about Pete's early life, but he knew more than enough about the past twenty years and he'd been in touch with Blythe House off and on.

"No," Wilson said. He waggled his raised forefinger. "Are you sure this wasn't a hallucination?" At Pete's expression he continued hurriedly, "Or a tale you invented to mess with Nolan?"

"I didn't get this from Nolan's notes. I got this from my mother's solicitor." He paused, wondering how far he wanted to confide in Wilson. But Wilson was the only person who might be able to solve the Mystery of the Second Marriage. "My 'step-dad' died a few months after my mother, leaving practically all his property to 'his beloved wife's only son, Gregory House'. Why would he leave everything to someone he didn't know?"

"Maybe he did know you," Wilson said.

"If he did, then he had even less reason to make me his heir," Pete said drily. "As a man of God he should have left his money to some charity instead of a rude, profligate atheist with a drug habit and criminal tendencies, a man to whom he wasn't even related."

"Man of God?" Wilson queried, a frown of concentration on his face.

"Someone called Thomas Bell."

"Oh," Wilson said.

"Does the name ring a bell?"

Wilson winced at the bad pun. "That's the name of the family friend whom you believed to be your biological father."

Pete considered this. "Seems he thought so too, I guess." He scratched his chin. "My mother must have been quite something."

"She was," Wilson said with feeling. "Now be quiet, or we'll miss the best part."

Pete returned his attention to the screen. "This doesn't make any sense," he muttered.

Wilson groaned and rubbed his face with his left hand. "Pete, we've had this discussion before, even though you don't remember it. TV shows aren't supposed to make sense; they're meant to entertain. Can't you just – enjoy this?"

"It defies logic," Pete said obstinately. "Why is Spock obeying Kirk's orders when he knows that Kirk is wrong?"

"It's known as 'loyalty'," Wilson said with the jaded air of someone explaining a basic truth for the umpteenth time. "And now you're going to tell me that it's not loyalty, but stupidity, to listen to your boss simply because he's your boss."

"It is stupidity, but that's not what …"

"Okay, then we'll argue about whether it is stupidity to do what your friend wants when it's clearly going to get both of you into trouble, and undoubtedly you'll treat me to a special Enterprise version of 'friends don't let friends die dumb'." Wilson waved his hand tiredly. "House, you're not going to get me to consent to hospitalisation by nitpicking over a TV series. If you want to get me into a hospital, you'll have to …"

Breaking off, he twisted his hand to and fro a few times, trying to focus on it. Then he looked up at Pete, realisation dawning slowly. "You – drugged me!"

Pete leaned forward to catch him before he tipped off the couch. "Seems we've had that conversation before, too," he muttered to himself as he settled Wilson into a more comfortable position with a cushion propping up his head before sitting back to watch the remainder of the episode.

	Chapter Index

Comments

[readingrat.livejournal.com]

drugging Wilson is apparently hard-wired into Pete's DNA - he just can't help himself given half an excuse.
He drugs people (not just Wilson) so often in the show that I can't help thinking that he considers it a standard medical procedure.

Tanja has obviously watched the show, as she calmly observes Pete doctoring up the IV with nary a concern
Tanja is a meta comment on how we, the audience, accept everything that House does without batting an eyelid. We excuse his deeds saying he's a genius who saves lives. If we, who don't even get paid for our indifference, refuse to condemn him, why should Tanja? (Besides, it would be kinda awkward for my story and for Wilson if House got chucked into jail without being able to save Wilson first, so she has to 'not care'. But unlike the show, I really didn't see House coping by himself for four days and nights and I couldn't believe he'd even try, not when he knew half the hookers in New Jersey.)