by Mara

Summary: “The call telling him to get his butt into Cuddy’s office *immediately*
came not from Cuddy, but from her secretary. Crap, House thought. That was a bad
sign.”

The call telling him to get his butt into Cuddy’s office *immediately* came not
from Cuddy, but from her secretary. Crap, House thought. That was a bad sign.

When he arrived in her office, she wasn’t there. Shit. That was an even worse
sign, because it meant she was so mad she felt the need to cool off before
talking to him. That rarely ever happened. Slumping into a chair, House began to
marshal his defenses and prepare himself.

But when she stalked into the room, face set and cold, he found he wasn’t
prepared at all.

“I should fire you right now,” she said.

“Really? We–”

“Failing that, I should report you to the ethics board.” She went behind her
desk and sat down.

“I–”

“Be quiet, House.” Her tone was soft, but venomous, and he closed his mouth.
“Failing *that*, I should knock you on your ass.”

He couldn’t help it. “Bet you can’t.”

“Bet you’re wrong. Don’t tempt me.”

He opened his mouth, then realized she wasn’t joking, and shut it again.

“The only reason I’m not doing any of those things is because Wilson asked me
not to.” Fingernails clicked on the edge of her desk as she studied him like a
particularly nasty insect she’d found crawling on her kitchen floor. “He begged,
actually. I don’t know what hold you have on him, but whatever it is, it’s damn
good, because after the way you’ve treated us…”

“I didn’t–”

“Did I tell you it was your turn to talk?”

He closed his mouth again.

“I’ve taken a lot of shit from you over the years, House. And for once I’m not
talking about the sexual harassment.”

Her tone went from angry to simply uncaring and he found he missed the anger.

“And do you know,” she said, staring at him, “despite every time you’ve lied to
me and circumvented my authority and basically treated me like a spoilsport,
I’ve defended you to the board, I’ve defended you to your peers, I’ve defended
you to the cops, and I’ve defended you to the *patients* you treat like shit
even as you cure them.”

She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head slightly. “But this really takes
the cake, even for you. Faking cancer? That’s amateur. That’s running up to your
mommy and telling her you have a boo-boo so can get a bandage.”

House stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the sting of her words.

“House, *look at me*.”

“Are you done lecturing?” His tone came out harsher than he’d planned, making it
hard to play this the way he wanted.

“Not by a long shot. Wilson thinks this is some passive-aggressive thing. I
think he gives you too much credit. You know, I thought we were finally
connecting a little. I thought you finally understood that I was trying to help
you. But it turns out I was wrong and you’ve been playing me like a piano. And
I’m tired of it.”

“And I’m tired of my leg hurting, but nobody seems to care about that.”

Cuddy slammed her hand down on the desk. “Stop that! Stop trying to make
everything about poor baby you. I’m not impressed. You *lied* to the doctors at
Mass General and you let all of us think you were dying. You’re only here
because of Wilson, so maybe you can go tell him your sob story, because I don’t
care. Now get out of my office and try not to get in my way.”

He stood slowly, playing for time, trying to think of something to say,
something funny, something sarcastic, anything to show he was the same as
always. But for once, his quick wit had deserted him. “I…”

“Don’t say you’re sorry unless you mean it.”

“I didn’t intend for anyone to find out.” Leaning on the cane, he felt himself
sagging.

Her face didn’t change. “Get out. Don’t say another word. Just get out before I
change my mind and fire you.”

Staring at her for a long moment, he was tempted to say something, anything,
just to see what she’d do. But he turned and stomped out, the cane sounding very
loud in the silence.

As he closed her office door behind him, he risked a glance at Cuddy, just to
see her expression. She was flipping through her calendar, phone already in her
hand. She wasn’t even looking in his direction.

Oddly, that hurt more than anything she’d said. Taking a ragged breath, House
went back to his office, wondering how the pain in his leg had migrated to his
chest.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Hey, even House has his off days, right?

Author’s Chapter Notes:

This is a birthday present for DebC. It’s a suggested title I gave to
her, but I’m borrowing it back

“I can’t believe it,” Cuddy said, leaning back in her chair, trying to keep her
jaw from dropping.

“It’s true,” Wilson said, grinning madly.

“You’re not just saying this to make me feel better?”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, you’re right.” Wilson shrugged. “But I’m telling the absolute unvarnished
truth.”

“Wow.”

“House not only made it through the case without pissing anyone off, the patient
and his family have sent a thank you for his care.”

“Unbelievable.” Cuddy paused. “Wait, what’s the catch?”

Wilson’s lips twitched. “Well…”

“Tell me.”

“The patient and the family don’t speak a word of English. Everything was done
through a translator.”

Cuddy took a deep breath. “You had me worried there for a minute.”

* * * * *

Cuddy generally kept ahead of her paperwork. In the back of her mind, she felt
as if letting her desk get too crowded meant that she was out of control–and
control was more important than just about anything else.

So woe betide the person who kept her from clearing her desk when it started to
pile up. Staff at Princeton-Plainsboro learned early on that when the Dean of
Medicine was tearing through piles of folders, the only reasons to interrupt her
were fire, flood, famine, or plague.

Which was why Cuddy couldn’t understand why a shame-faced Chase was spinning a
patently false tale about needing her help with something. Halfway through the
story, she stopped listening because it had House’s fingerprints all over it.

She considered sending Chase away with a lecture about not letting House send
him off to find a left-handed board stretcher, but as Chase’s sorry tale wound
to a close, she decided it was time for a break anyway.

While she was out of her office, several *actual* crises occurred, which made
her forget the original distraction entirely.

To Cuddy’s surprise, when she returned to her office, the pile of folders had
been greatly reduced, and her eyebrows went up in surprise. Could it be that
some of her department heads had actually taken responsibility for things?
Miracles did happen, she decided.

She never did look at the neat stack of folders in her secretary’s outbox, each
with House’s scrawled notes telling the doctors in question how to fix their
problems.

House did look entirely too pleased with himself for a week, but she chalked
that up to getting laid and didn’t ask.

* * * * *

The vase sat on her desk looking entirely harmless, but Cuddy frowned at it
anyway. There was a *reason* she kept her birthday a closely guarded secret, and
her family and friends knew to send everything birthday-related to her home.

So who in the world would send her a gigantic bouquet of flowers today of all
days?

She stepped closer and realized that not only were they flowers, they were her
favorite roses, an obscure variety called Fire and Ice. Even her *father* could
never remember to get her those.

Taking a deep breath, she searched the bouquet for a card, but found nothing.
There wasn’t even a note as to whom they’d been ordered from.

With a scowl, she stepped back. Who knew that–

A memory surfaced and Cuddy blinked. No. Absolutely not.

True, House had been present when Max had given her those flowers. And she might
very well have said they were her favorites. But he…

He wouldn’t…

He’d been so scornful of Max and caused such a scene that she’d blotted out the
memory. So he couldn’t…

Cuddy sat down heavily in her chair. Absolutely not. House must have…told
Wilson about the flowers.

Right.

* * * * *

As they continued down the hallway, Cuddy pointed toward an open doorway. “And
over here–”

“Did that man just say what I thought he said?” Leslie Arminh, the prospective
head of Radiology asked, craning her head around to watch House walk away.

Cuddy rolled the conversation back in her head. Oh. That. “Yes, he did. Don’t
pay him any mind. Dr. House is, ah, not one of our more conventional staff
members.”

“Oh. I see.”

“No, you really don’t.” Cuddy suppressed a sigh. “But he’s a really good doctor,
believe me. One of the best.”

“And when he says things like that…?”

“The best thing to do is ignore him. I know I do.”

* * * * *

Under the warm covers, Cuddy felt content and sleepy, obscurely comforted by the
way House’s fingers softly traced the path of her circulatory system.
Surprisingly, he’d managed to avoid saying anything annoying the entire time,
keeping his mouth busy with…better pastimes.

It had been a long road that got them to this point, but she couldn’t find it in
herself to regret it.

He grinned. “So, not half bad in the sack, huh?”

“Don’t push it, buster,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

When he laughed, she tackled him with a kiss bold enough that he forgot what he
was doing.

Yep, Cuddy thought, as she straddled him, there was *one* thing always
guaranteed to shut House up. And it was remarkably pleasant to boot.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Henry McCoy brings a patient to Gregory House with a mysterious illness.

The young Asian woman lying in the bed looked healthy, House thought, just before she looked up at him. Then her eyes met his and he changed his mind. Her eyes were *old* and her expression said–

“Go to hell.”

“Usually it takes at least five minutes before my patients tell me that.”

“You’re a doctor?”

House looked around. “Wait, is this a test? The answer is…tachycardia. Right? How about bubonic plague? C’mon, tell me, did I pass?” He fluttered his eyelashes.

Jubilee rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be that friend of McCoy’s. You’re just the way he described you.” Waving a hand at the chair, she closed the copy of Vogue she’d been reading. “Sorry about telling you to go to hell. I thought you were another social worker.”

“Another social worker?” House slumped into a chair, prepared to be entertained.

“Yeah, they keep coming by all earnest and trying to convince me that the school mistreated me somehow. The school didn’t do anything wrong, and if they take me away, I’ll run away again.”

House shrugged. “Okay. If you wanna stay at the school, that’s fine with me. I’m only here for the medicine.”

Frowning, Jubilee eyed him. “I guess you’re okay if Big Blue says you are.”

“Gee, thanks. I’m touched. So, what happened?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t know. I got the same headache every mutant did. Everybody was all freaked out, but we were basically okay. Then the next day I suddenly felt like crap and fell over and everyone was running around. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the lab with everyone hovering over me like I was dying or something.”

“You were.” House studied her. “I assume they’ve told you that you had all the hallmarks of a heart attack, right?”

“Yeah, but everyone says I’m too young for that.”

“What drugs did you do?”

“What?” She sat up straight and glared at him.

“Drugs. On the street. When you ran away the first time.” When she just stared at him, he rolled his eyes. “You said you’d ‘run away again,’ which implies that you did so a first time. So, tell me what drugs you did the first time you ran away.”

“I didn’t do any drugs!” She threw her magazine at him, and he batted it away with the cane.

“Prostitution?” he asked in his most bored tone.

“No way!” Her glare looked like it could bore a hole in his head.

“What’d you do on the streets, then?”

Her breathing was heavy as she continued to glare at him for a long moment. Then she held up her hands. “This,” she said. And a shower of fireworks erupted from her hands, filling the room.

“Nice,” House said, watching them in appreciation.

The door closed with a bit more than necessary force as McCoy entered.

“Jubilee.”

“Sorry,” she responded, not looking at all sorry. “But he got me mad ’cause he wanted to know what my mutation was and he figured I wouldn’t tell him.”

House’s eyebrows went up and he studied Jubilee, ignoring whatever McCoy was saying. It wasn’t often that a patient interested him as a person, but this Jubilee looked like she might manage it.

“Gregory!” McCoy said firmly.

“Hmm?” House refocused. “Oh, there you are. I was just asking some questions.”

“I’m sure you were.” McCoy gave him an especially long-suffering look. “I think perhaps I’ll stay here for the rest of them.”

“Whatever.” House shrugged. “Okay, so you were on the streets but not doing anything fun. And then you…”

* * * * *

The history took two hours, and House found himself vastly amused by the biting sarcasm of his patient. Jubilee was going to drive his team *insane* and it would be *fun*.

After the history was done, House dragged McCoy to the cafeteria and made him buy them both lunch. The cafeteria was full, which meant that the noise was bouncing off the acoustic tiles more than the designers had intended.

“What’s really going on?” House took a bite of his sandwich.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you know damned well she didn’t have a heart attack.”

“I know, Greg. That’s why I’m here.” McCoy spoke with exaggerated care. “So your famed diagnostic skill can determine why my young friend collapsed so precipitously and alarmingly.”

“Uh huh.” House took some french fries off McCoy’s plate. “And you came here without a single theory in your furry blue head.”

“If I knew what was wrong, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Right. So, what don’t I know about my patient that might help me diagnose her?”

“I–”

“Don’t bother. Everybody lies. My first job is to figure out what they’re lying about. And *you*,” he pointed one of the stolen fries at McCoy, “are lying about the circumstances of her illness. So is she. She might have gotten away with it, but you’re a terrible liar. Always have been.”

McCoy was thinking, so House went back to eating his fries, knowing the battle was half won.

McCoy opened his mouth, but House beat him to it. “I can’t diagnose her without all the data. You know that. You knew it before you got here or you wouldn’t have brought the highly anonymous data you did.”

Closing his eyes, McCoy was silent again. When he opened them, all he said was, “Not here.” He stood.

Grinning, House snagged one last fry and picked up his cane.

Without speaking, McCoy led the way to the elevator. The door shut behind them–empty, as the doctor, two nurses, and two family members about to board all stepped back at the grim look on McCoy’s face.

McCoy lifted his watch to his mouth and tapped a button. House was about to make a sarcastic comment when McCoy spoke. “Scott? I need clearance on the roof.”

“You’ll have it in two,” the voice of the man with the red shades said from McCoy’s watch.

House blinked. Okay, *that* was unexpected.

The elevator dinged while House was staring and he followed McCoy out into the nondescript blue-gray corridor that led to the roof.

McCoy strode onto the roof without even checking that House was following, and House’s surprise hit stratospheric levels. McCoy was the kind of guy who held doors for cripples even during an earthquake, so this was really serious.

His surprise entered orbit as he watched the way McCoy’s eyes swept the seating area. It was almost…military.

House opened his mouth to ask a question, but the look McCoy gave him…well, for once, it seemed like a good time to discover the wonders of discretion. So they stood just beyond the door and waited, kept company by the sounds of an approaching ambulance and the pigeons that nested in the corner.

Eventually, McCoy’s watch beeped and he hit a button. “Hank?” the voice said. “The Professor and Logan report you’re clear. Are you sure…?”

“Thank you, Scott. Yes, I’m sure.” He hit another button.

House limped over to a bench and lowered himself onto it. “This is going to be *good*,” he said with relish.

But McCoy remained unsmiling as he sank down on the bench next to him.

“Two weeks ago,” McCoy said, “agents of the U.S. government stormed the school and kidnapped several of our students. At the same time, they took Scott Summers and Professor Xavier prisoner. They would have taken everyone, save for our contingency plans.”

House sat up straight, all amusement fled. “One of the kids was Jubilee.” It wasn’t a question. McCoy’s strange behavior made sense now: He was angry. Angrier than House had ever seen him.

“Their ultimate plan involved using…” McCoy paused. “Using something stolen from us to destroy all mutants. The plan was discovered by a very powerful and dangerous man.”

“A mutant.”

“Yes.” McCoy scowled. “He also planned to use this item–”

“Which you’re not going to identify.”

“Which I will not identify,” McCoy affirmed, nodding his head, “to kill non-mutants instead.”

House waved a hand. “That part’s irrelevant. What happened to the kids?”

“We don’t know for certain.”

“What do you mean? She seemed verbal enough to me.”

McCoy’s expression got bleaker. “Jubilee is the oldest child who was taken. The others were substantially younger. They tell a jumbled tale of threats and guns and a cell, but we can’t be sure that their memories haven’t been tampered with.”

House started to ask if someone could *do* that, but changed his mind. The Henry McCoy he knew wouldn’t say it unless it was at least a possibility. His mind raced. “So for all you know, they turned her into a lab rat.”

“Yes.” McCoy sighed. “I’ve tested everything I can think of, but I can’t be certain.”

Bastards experimenting on *his* patient. “I didn’t even vote for this president,” House said as he considered how to move forward.

McCoy knew him well enough to ignore the non sequitur.

House banged his cane on the ground a few times. “Why you? I mean, why has your school got this *thing* that the government came after?”

McCoy shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything further, but I can assure you it’s not germane to this case.” He held up a hand. “And don’t presume you can lecture me twice on what you need to know.”

House shrugged, knowing he’d reached McCoy’s limit. “Tell me everything about the conditions of this cell. Everything. Mold? Spores? Were any of the other kids sick?”

McCoy took a deep breath. “I’ll do my best.”

* * * * *

Cameron, Chase, and Foreman found House deep in thought in his office six hours later. “What’ve you got for me?” he asked as they stopped in front of his desk. He didn’t look away from the rubber ball he was tossing repetitively against the wall.

“Everything Dr. McCoy told us is confirmed,” Cameron said. “There’s no damage to the heart, no evidence that anything was wrong.”

“Except?” He grabbed the ball out of the air and threw it at Chase, who caught it. “Nice catch. Now tell me what you *did* find.”

“How do you know we found something?”

“Because a healthy kid keeled over with an apparent heart attack that promptly disappeared. You’d better have something or we’re all going to be consulting ouija boards.”

Cameron shrugged. “We’ve still got some blood tests outstanding, but so far, we’ve got nothing. No viruses, her heart looks good, all scans are clean and normal.”

Foreman broke in. “She has slightly elevated catecholamines, neuropeptide Y, brain natriuretic peptide, and serotonin, but that’s it, House.”

House frowned. “Catecholamines?”

“So she’s under stress. Big deal.” Foreman scowled. “It doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure we all have elevated levels these days.”

“You still think she had a heart attack?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What about pheochromocytoma?” Chase asked.

House paused. “Vascular tumor of the adrenal gland? Nice. And it certainly would explain the catecholamines.”

“Should I look for a tumor?”

“No.” House didn’t even pause to think. “It doesn’t explain any of her earlier symptoms.” Chase threw the ball back at House and he caught it, bouncing it off the ceiling a few times. “Get me some of the other students and teachers. I want to know what’s different about her.”

* * * * *

Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital had witnessed many strange things, especially since the arrival of one Gregory House, but the testing of a selected sample of teachers and students from the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters definitely ranked up there.

Not that most people in the hospital even knew anything out of the ordinary was happening, as one of the school’s requirements was secrecy.

Professor Xavier arrived first, masquerading as a wealthy donor. (McCoy pointed out later that the Professor *was* a wealthy donor, and Cuddy said she was glad House hadn’t known that in advance or he would have been rude. House stuck his tongue out at her.)

Summers of the red shades arrived later with a hulking youngster who House figured could probably heave all of them through a window. He made a note to have Chase draw their blood.

A striking woman with purple hair herded three young children in front of her a few minutes later. House eyed her low-cut blouse with appreciation until she turned and glared at him from across the crowded lobby. “I certainly appreciate the thought, but we’re a tad busy at the moment,” a sharp British voice said in his head.

House’s good leg slipped on the tile floor and he nearly slid off his perch. He imagined a row of fluffy bunnies hopping across a lawn. Foreman was getting her.

House was picturing bunnies so hard, he nearly missed the last contingent. At the last minute he glimpsed a man in a plaid shirt with odd hair and the kind of sideburns that went out of fashion in the ’70s, accompanied by two teenagers–one with a white streak in her hair, wrapped in a cloak. Huh, House thought as he mentally assigned them to himself. They looked intriguing.

* * * * *

With his usual blithe assurance, House appropriated a few temporarily empty rooms for the exams and he sent his fellows off–Cameron to continue testing Jubilee for everything he could think of, Chase and Foreman to test the new vict–er, subjects.

The paperwork they’d given him said his first patient was named Marie. “Okay, give me some blood,” he said as she slid into the room, gloved fingers plucking at the edge of her cloak.

She shrank back. “Pardon me?”

“Blood.” He waved peremptorily at the exam table. “That *is* why you’re here, unless you’re actually a candystriper taking a tour.”

“I was supposed to explain, my skin–”

“Is only of interest to me in a perverted sense. I’m not asking you to strip.”

“Glad to hear it,” a voice said from behind him, accompanied by a sound that sounded remarkably like a sword being removed from a scabbard.

House’s eyebrows shot up and he turned toward the now-open door. The man with the sideburns was leaning in the doorway, but nobody could have confused his pose with actual relaxation…especially since his hands had very shiny, sharp-looking metal peeking out of the knuckles.

“And you are…?” House asked.

The man stepped in and shut the door behind him, the metal sliding back into his knuckles. “I’m the guy that’s gonna kick your ass.”

“I’m so scared.” House rolled his eyes and glanced at the charts. “Since you’re here, you can give me your blood too. You must be Logan. Although I suppose Kitty wouldn’t be a bad name for you, what with the claws and everything.”

Behind him, the girl snorted.

Logan glared at both of them. “Oh yeah, laugh it up, Rogue.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still snickering, “but you have to admit it was funny.”

Logan actually *growled*.

“Good kitty kitty,” House said, waving a syringe. “Now c’mere and give me some blood.”

* * * * *

House was glaring at his computer, which was being exceedingly unhelpful, when Wilson ducked his head in.

“What’d it do to you?” Wilson asked.

“Huh?” House looked up. “What do you want?”

“I was going to buy you lunch, but if you’d rather commune with your computer, I could ask Cameron instead.”

“She’s busy running bloodwork. Or batting her cleavage at the lab to finish it faster.” House heaved himself out of the chair with a stifled groan. “Don’t think you’ll get out of feeding me that easily.”

Wilson coughed. “Never,” he said, holding the door open.

As House stepped past, he said, “But you owe me something better than cafeteria food.”

“I owe you? I know your logic is not like our crazy Earth logic, but how exactly do *I* owe *you*?”

House snorted as he ogled the buxom blonde walking past. “Well, you’re about to ask me about my latest patient, so I figure I at *least* deserve Chinese.”

Wilson shook his head as the blonde glared at House. “Why would you think I would ask about your patient? You usually talk about them no matter what I want.”

“No, I talk about the case, not the patient.” House glanced at him sideways. “*You* talk about the patients.”

“So why would I be particularly interested in your patient?” Wilson smiled at a gaggle of pretty nurses huddled around the nursing station.

“Keep it in your pants,” House said, pushing the elevator button.

“Stuff it, House.”

“Back to our original topic, you think my patient is right up your alley: plucky young girl, bravely facing an unknown fate, a mutant, sick and alone in a world that hates and fears her.” His voice lowered, turning into a parody of the 11 o’clock news.

“Assuming that those things interest me, what’s the problem?” Wilson’s smile was ironic and charmingly self-deprecating.

The elevator door opened and House pushed past the people trying to exit. “Cripple here, get out of my way.” Once Wilson had managed to sidle his way in and the elevator was descending, House told him, “The problem is that I, to my deep surprise, find I rather like the patient.”

Wilson grabbed at the elevator wall. “What? Quick, somebody call Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

“She’s intelligent, cranky, and a smartass. It’s refreshing.”

Wilson politely refrained from making any of the obvious replies.

“So I won’t–” House stopped as the elevator door opened and they were assaulted by noise. “What the hell is that?” He smacked his cane against the door as it started to close again. Gesturing grandly at Wilson, he said, “After you.”

“What a gentleman.” Wilson stepped out and House followed.

“Huh,” House said as he stared at the lobby full of milling reporters and the crowds gathering outside the glass doors.

“What are you doing here?” Cuddy said as she grabbed their arms and dragged them toward her office.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t know you cared.” House fluttered his eyelashes. “But do we have to bring Jimmy along? He’s such a spoilsport.”

Cuddy pushed them both into her office, slammed the doors shut, and lowered the blinds so fast, House was ready to ask if she had the X gene herself.

Cuddy whirled and glared. “You were supposed to stay in your office. You didn’t answer your pager or your phone.”

“I saw it was you, so I ignored it.” House slumped down on the couch. “I take it this means I don’t get Chinese for lunch.”

“I think so,” Wilson said, sitting next to him.

“Lunch is the least of your worries,” Cuddy said as she dialed her phone. “Right now, we’re going to figure out what we’re going to tell the press.”

“Nothing,” House said, head leaned back as he stared at the ceiling.

“Nothing?” Cuddy hung up the phone. “You’re seen what’s going on and–”

“We’re not going to tell them anything.” House sat up, focusing all his attention on Cuddy. “There’s a kid upstairs who was kidnapped from her school by the U.S. military, stripped, and dumped in a cell. We don’t know what else happened, but now she’s sick and she’s my patient. And nobody’s going to get near her or invade her privacy until she’s no longer my patient.”

Cuddy and Wilson were frozen in place.

“As far as I’m concerned, the reporters and the demonstrators and the morons can all go fuck themselves. We’re not telling them a goddamn thing about Jubilation Lee.”

Cuddy let out a slow breath, putting the phone carefully back in its cradle. “Are you done?”

House slumped back in the sofa, feeling drained and a little stupid. “Yeah.”

Wilson and Cuddy exchanged meaningful glances and House groaned to himself. Great. Now they were going to expect him to give a shit about every snot-nosed kid who came through the clinic. Like *that* was going to happen.

“So,” Wilson said, “how are we going to deal with the press?”

Cuddy smile was evil and sexy. “Oh, I have a few ideas about that.”

House fought down a wave of lust. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I could go out and self-righteously explain that HIPAA prevents us from giving details about our patient’s health.”

House snorted. “If that’s your plan–”

“Please.” She gave him a disgusted look. “I was actually thinking of that congressman who caused a stink over his daughter’s care, when it was actually his own idiocy that didn’t get her treated.”

House started to grin and Wilson covered his face with his hands.

“A leak in just the right place…” Cuddy smiled. “Now sit tight while I clear the lobby and get things rolling.” She strode out, heels clicking and gorgeous ass wagging with excitement.

“You’ve had a bad effect on her,” Wilson said.

“Oh no,” House said reverently, “she was always like this. You just didn’t notice. It’s what makes her so hot.” He sighed happily.

* * * * *

Leaning against the wall eight hours later, House balanced on his good leg, absently rubbing at his other thigh. He mentally ran through the test results for the eighty-fifth time, coming up, as always, with a big fat nothing.

Across the hallway, on the other side of the nurse’s station, he could see Jubilee leaning back against her pillows, idly using the remote to change stations.

“Where are the others?” Wilson asked, leaning against the wall next to him.

“I sent them home.”

Wilson nearly fell over. “You *what*?”

House glared at him for a long moment, found he couldn’t come up with a single plausible lie, and shrugged. “I ran out of ideas for tests. When I suggested a third 24-hour catecholamine urine sample, Cameron told me I was full of shit and walked out. Chase and Foreman followed her.”

“So you didn’t *send* them home. They left.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t stop them.”

“How generous of you.”

House ignored him, staring across the hall at his patient, willing his brain to come up with something new.

“Why don’t you go talk to her?” Wilson asked quietly.

“What?” House turned to stare at him.

“Go talk to Jubilee. Standing around outside her room is stalkerish, even for her doctor.”

“I’m not stalking her. I’m…waiting for inspiration to strike.” Scowling, House stared at his recalcitrant patient.

“Uh-huh.” Wilson’s eye-roll was practically audible. “Look, the world won’t come to an end just because you don’t despise your patient. Some of us even manage to survive while *liking* most of our patients.”

“And see where *that* got you,” House replied automatically.

Wilson threw his hands in the air. “There’s no talking to you in this mood. Stand here and mope if that’s what you want, but your patient looks bored. Maybe giving your brain a rest will jar something loose.” And he strode off down the hallway, muttering something that sounded profane.

Tapping fingers on the wall, House looked at Jubilee. She *did* look bored. With a shrug, he pushed off the wall and headed toward her room. When he slid the door open, Jubilee grinned at him as she turned the TV off. “Finally decided to join us?”

He couldn’t help grinning back. “Guess so.”

“Yay,” muttered the room’s other occupant, the guy with red sunglasses. What was his name again? Oh, Summers. The one with the hot dead fiancée.

“And a good evening to you,” House said, bowing ironically. The other man just sighed.

Jubilee hid a grin as House slid into a chair next to her bed. “So,” she said, “I’m assuming you’re not here to tell me I can go home.”

“Not a chance. Not until I know what’s wrong.”

She sighed. “That’s what I figured.” She turned off the TV. “So, what’s next?”

“I have no idea,” House said, tapping the cane on the floor irritably. At a strangled sound from the other side of the room, he turned and glared. “What? You want me to lie to her?”

“No,” Summers said with a sigh. “But it might be a bit more inspirational if you didn’t admit you had no idea what was going on.”

“Do you want to be inspired?” House asked Jubilee.

She grinned. “Oh, I’m not getting in between you two. Fight it out yourselves. Entertain me.”

Summers’ look was long-suffering, but House got the impression that he’d kill anyone who got near her with bad intent, so that made the Summers kid not a total waste.

“What do you think is wrong?” House asked her.

“Me?” She blinked. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who’s experiencing the symptoms. What do you think is wrong?”

“I don’t know.” She stared down at her hands for a little while. “I just want to go back to the school and have things get back to normal, you know? Arguing with Bobby, and trying new nail polish with Marie and stuff.” She grinned and looked at Summers. “Hell, I’m even ready to go back to class.”

“You won’t say that when you see my midterm,” Summers said with a ghost of a smile.

Jubilee glowed under his regard and House upgraded his opinion of Summers once again. “We’re missing something,” House said, leaning on his cane. “And that pisses me off.”

“Yeah, Hank’s like that too. Not that he’d say it pisses him off. He’d say–”

“That he finds his inability to access the correct answer to be indubitably frustrating.” House grinned.

“Yeah, that.”

“Tell me about the school,” House said. “Maybe there’s something there.” Summers opened his mouth, but House beat him to it. “I already know it’s a school for mutants, remember? What else could she give away?”

Summers’ mouth twitched in what House would swear was amusement, before he leaned back in his chair and waved at Jubilee. “Go ahead,” he said.

Jubilee was stifling a giggle when House looked at her and he wondered what he was missing. Maybe he could get it out of McCoy later…

House took a nap in Coma Guy’s room, grabbed yogurt in the cafeteria, and was back in his office before the others arrived. He didn’t bother to shave, figuring making them feel a little guilt about leaving him alone was never a bad thing.

They didn’t look particularly guilty, but they did look discouraged as they filed in and grabbed coffee. Conversation was stifled.

House limped from one end of the room to the other, feeling their eyes on him.

“We’re missing something,” he said when they’d stopped trying to discuss the weather.

“Maybe she’s perfectly healthy,” Foreman said. “That’s what all our tests say. Maybe this once they’re right.”

“Then what about the apparent heart attack?” Chase asked.

“Maybe it doesn’t exist. There weren’t any of the tell-tales, so maybe she just fainted.”

Chase snorted. “You think *Dr. Henry McCoy* misdiagnosed a fainting teenager as something more serious?”

“He *was* under a lot of stress, what with everybody keeling over,” Foreman said, dropping his pen on the table with a final-sounding thunk.

“McCoy knows a faint,” House said, kicking Foreman’s chair as he walked by. “If he says there was fluid in her lungs and suppressed breathing, it was there.”

“I’ve gone over the results from the other students and teachers with a fine-tooth comb.” Foreman shook his head. “I’m not seeing anything different.”

“What about Jubilee’s catecholamines?” Cameron asked.

“That,” House said, stopping in his tracks, “is the question. There’s something about them…” He trailed off as his beeper chirped and he grabbed it, barely noticing as his three fellows looked at their own pagers. “Damn it,” he said.

Cursing his slow speed, he stomped after them, each twinge of his leg a personal affront.

By the time House reached Jubilee’s room, the area around it looked nearly as bad as the front of the hospital. But because he could see Jubilee through the glass sitting up in bed and talking to someone, he decided he had a moment to stop and take stock.

Okay, those nurses in the corner he could ignore–they were in the middle of hubbub to watch the new hunky guy from Security. And the two doctors from Radiology were here to watch the nurses.

Which left some random bystanders, gaping like hungry baby birds, the head nurse, three guys from Security, Cameron, Chase, Foreman, the mutant named Logan, and several of the morons who’d been hanging around outside the hospital. (Somehow House doubted they were on this floor to get Jubilee’s autograph.)

The morons were doing a lot of yelling and one was bleeding from a small laceration in his shoulder.

The shouting escalated and House strode forward until he stood directly between the security guards and the unwashed rabble. Before anyone could move, he smacked the idiots on the knees with his cane, turning their shouts into yelps of pain. “Shut up,” he said to them.

Turning to the head nurse–Irma, an older woman who was tougher and more sensible than any three doctors he knew combined, not that he’d admit it to her–and asked, “What the hell is going on?”

She gave him a look that he suspected meant trouble later, but crossed her arms and answered. “Those three yahoos snuck up here and–”

One of the yahoos opened his mouth, but when everyone glared at him and House thumped his cane meaningfully, the man shut up.

Irma sniffed. “They got past me while I was dealing with a crisis down the hall. Next thing I knew, they were hollering and shouting and this guy,” she pointed at Logan, “was waving knives at them. And who gave him permission to have knives on *my* ward?” She glared at House, assuming (with some justification) that it was somehow his fault.

The security guys shifted restlessly. “Uh, shouldn’t we–”

“You,” House said, turning to the yahoos. “What the hell were you doing bothering my patient?”

The two men and a woman exchanged wide-eyed looks. “We’re–” one started.

“Leaving right now,” Cuddy said from behind House, “before I have you arrested for trespassing.” House turned to watch her as she stalked down the hallway, looking seriously hot as she scowled at everyone indiscriminately.

Everyone except Irma looked abashed.

Cuddy crossed her arms and said very quietly and very seriously. “Leave. Now.”

The three people took off at a dead run for the stairs, with the security people following at a more sedate pace.

House tried to decide whether to be amused at their reaction, or annoyed that he didn’t get to interrogate them. When Cuddy turned her glare on him, he settled for looking innocent.

“Better you than me, buddy,” Logan muttered as he walked by, back toward Jubilee’s room.

House started to lean nonchalantly against the nurse’s station, but when Irma took a step toward him, he changed trajectory and followed Logan toward Jubilee’s room, calling to Cuddy over his shoulder. “Must check on my patient.”

Behind him, the crowd began to disperse. Cuddy stopped Cameron, Chase, and Foreman, and House wondered what she was saying to them, but not enough to tangle with her in this foul a mood.

He ducked into the room and slid the door closed behind him with a thunk. Logan smirked at him and House shrugged. “Hell hath no fury,” he said.

“She didn’t look scorned to me,” Logan said. “She looked pissed off and ready to take it out on you.”

“Well, it’s only because she loves me so.”

“Uh-huh.” Logan leaned against the wall next to Jubilee’s bed, watching the goings-on through the glass. He looked entirely relaxed, but House was sure that any aggressive move made in their direction would dispel that illusion pretty quickly.

House turned to Jubilee and Kitty (who he hadn’t seen since drawing her blood), who were watching them with some amusement. But there were definite signs of strain on Jubilee’s face, he thought, and he cursed Cuddy for chasing the morons off before he could castigate them. It would have been nice to get some vitriol out on a truly *deserving* target.

“So, what’d those refugees from the circus want?”

Jubilee glared and crossed her arms. “Don’t say anything mean about the circus. We’ve got a friend who was in the circus.”

House opened his mouth to say something snarky, but he noticed Logan using one of his claws to clean under a fingernail, and he reconsidered. “Riiight,” he said. “Getting back to the point…what did they want?”

“They wanted to preach,” Kitty said, scowling with an expression nearly identical to Jubilee’s.

“Mutants are against their religion,” Jubilee said, leaning her head back against her pillows.

Kitty was looking at Jubilee now. “Well, people like that are against *my* religion. So there.”

“I’m sure that argument was very convincing,” House said absently, watching Jubilee as well. He flicked a glance at the monitors beside her bed and took a step closer.

“You,” he said, waving a hand at Logan. “Get out there and get my lackeys in here.”

“Why?” Logan said, looking suspicious.

“Well, I thought it might be helpful to have some other doctors in the room when the kid collapses.” House was beside the bed, hand on Jubilee’s arm.

“What? What are–”

The alarms in the room were loud enough that Logan’s claws shot out of his hands and he snarled.

“Clear the room,” House snarled back. “And get my team in here. Now!”

Jubilee was gray and unresponsive, looking like any heart attack victim he’d ever seen, except that that was *impossible*.

Foreman, Cameron, Chase, and Cuddy ran in, and House handed the oxygen mask in his hand to Cameron.

“Chase, get the ECG in here. I want to see what the hell’s going on while the rest of you keep her alive.” He looked at Kitty, who seemed frozen in shock. “And get the kid out of here.”

House stepped back and allowed the more fleet-of-foot to take over, although it galled him as much as ever, and he gritted his teeth. Cuddy came to stand next to him. “House,” she said, her expression softening.

“Quiet.” He wanted to listen to what was going on.

“Right.” She sighed, patting his arm and stepping out just ahead of Chase, who was barreling in with an ECG machine, followed by McCoy.

House slapped on the leads, ignoring yelps from his team as they tried to work. He flipped on the ECG, and he and McCoy hovered over the paper as it scrolled out of the machine, expecting…well, expecting useful data.

“What’s *that*?” Foreman muttered, peering over his shoulder.

McCoy growled quietly. “I don’t know. Greg?”

“I have no idea.” Scowling, House stared at the pattern he was seeing, trying to figure out why it looked familiar. It wasn’t normal, but it sure as hell wasn’t a heart attack.

“That’s not an MI,” Chase said, standing on tiptoes to look at the paper.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” House elbowed Cameron. “I’m assuming our patient is stable, so take this and get everyone in the hospital to look at it. Someone must recognize this pattern.”

“On it.” She tore off a lengthy section and jogged out of the room.

“Foreman, I want a TTE. I want data while it’s fresh.”

Foreman nodded and grabbed the phone to get the necessary equipment.

Chase raised his eyebrows. “What about me?”

“Stay here and help McCoy talk to her friends. They’re going to want someone to be reassuring or something. Oh, and if she wakes up, find out what symptoms she had before she collapsed.” House didn’t wait for a response, just turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” McCoy asked, already seated at Jubilee’s bedside and holding her hand.

“To think, damn it.”

* * * * *

Cameron found him an hour later in his office, sitting with his leg up on a stool, accompanied by a tired-looking Chase and Foreman. She tossed the now-crumpled EKG strip at them and leaned against the glass wall.

“Well?”

“Most people had no idea what it was, but five said it looked familiar, although they couldn’t place it.”

House asked, “Which five?”

Blinking, Cameron thought for a second. “Chin, Reilly, Gifford, Feiler, and Weiss.”

“You went to Psychiatry?”

“You said to ask everyone.”

“True.” He pondered. “Three cardiologists, one intensivist, and one psychiatrist.”

Foreman shrugged. “We’re still nowhere. We’ve got an EKG result that nobody recognizes and that disappeared almost as soon as we saw it, the TTE showed a perfectly normal left ventricle and a weakened contraction in the middle and upper portions, which *also* disappeared. And we’ve got a patient who went from mostly dead to healthy almost as quickly.”

“Mostly dead isn’t totally dead,” House said. “That’s something.”

“Not unless you’ve got Miracle Max on speed dial,” Chase said. When House raised his eyebrows, he shrugged. “You started it.”

House tapped his cane on the floor. “I’m going for a walk. I need to think. Somebody get me the heart biopsy results.”

They scurried around him and he stomped off down the hall, turning the data over in his mind one more time.

“A perfectly healthy mutant teenage girl is kidnapped and held by the military,” he mumbled. “She’s fine when released, doesn’t collapse until later, *after* everyone else.”

House turned the corner, nearly tripping over a little old lady using a walker. They exchanged nasty looks and he kept going.

“She and the other kids who were held show nothing abnormal, no signs anything was done to them. She’s been a mutant for years, so that can’t be it.”

In his reverie, he missed the man striding down the hall toward him until he grabbed House’s shoulder. “Dr. House!” Summers said, “I’ve been calling you.”

“Well, I’ve been trying to cure the patient, so go away.” Only after he’d spoken did he remember that he’d promised McCoy he’d be nice to the kid, since…His thought trailed off.

“Dr. House?” Summers looked worried.

“Your fiancée died.”

“Yes.” His face was blank now and he took a step back.

“Died saving Jubilee.” Summers scowled at him, but House ignored that. Lost a mother figure. There was something there, a memory, if only he could remember what it was.

The EKG results. The TTE. Death of someone close. An apparent heart attack.

Summers was saying something, but House ignored him. There was something else.

There was something about the catecholamines.

“House?” Cuddy was there, brows drawn in concern.

“Catecholamines,” he said, turning on his good heel and striding back toward his office at top speed. He could hear Summers and Cuddy behind him and confused questions, but he was too busy turning the diagnosis over in his mind to answer them.

He pushed open the door and said dramatically. “The heart biopsy shows catecholamine damage, not a heart attack.”

Foreman, who held a folder in his hand, turned to stare at him. “I hate when you do that. How’d you know?”

“Because I know what’s wrong with her.”

“What?” Cameron asked.

McCoy strode in. “What’s going on?”

Cuddy said, “Dr. House was about to reveal all.”

Everyone stared at him and House tried to look like he’d known the answer all along. “Broken heart syndrome.”

“What?” nearly everyone in the room said.

“Stress cardiomyopathy. There was an article in NEJM a few years ago. It’s the result of a prolonged surge in catecholamines that stun the heart. The catecholamines are the response to overwhelming emotional stress. You know, like being kidnapped and imprisoned and having your teacher die. Stuff like that. It mimics a heart attack, except that there’s no heart damage.”

McCoy said urgently, “What’s the prognosis?”

“Complete recovery, and a relapse after recovery is incredibly unlikely.” House shrugged. “Kind of a boring diagnosis now that I’ve made it.”

McCoy gave him a broad grin. “You’re a wonder, Greg. I’m going to give Jubilee the good news.”

House watched him go, while the others talked excitedly. “You could go with him, you know,” Cuddy said.

“Nah,” House shrugged. “I’m terrible at giving good news.”

Cuddy shook her head, a small smile on her face, but she didn’t say anything else.

* * * * *

House stopped by Jubilee’s room as she was getting ready to go home, but she had a bunch of students and Logan and Summers helping, so he watched for a few seconds, then went back to his office.

McCoy and Wilson were waiting for him, already comfortably ensconced with good coffee and doughnuts. House grabbed a chocolate doughnut out of Wilson’s hand just before he took a bite, then settled down in his chair, grinning.

Wilson rolled his eyes and grabbed another doughnut out of the box. “So, another case resolved.”

House shrugged. “Yeah.”

“C’mon, you’ve gotta feel good about this one,” Wilson said. “You liked the patient for once, and she’s going to be fine.”

“Whatever.” House took a big bite of doughnut as Wilson sighed in a long-suffering fashion.

“Well,” McCoy said. “I’m thrilled that Jubilee will be fine. The school has had enough stress without any additional problems.”

“Yeah, about what’shername–”

“Greg.” McCoy’s tone said ‘Top secret, remember?’

“I was just wondering.” House shrugged, drinking some coffee. “Anyway, Jubilee will live to chew bubblegum and buy outrageously short miniskirts again. But the diagnosis…”

“What about it?” McCoy asked.

“Broken heart syndrome,” House said with a sniff. “It’s a dumb name. Who came up with it anyway?”

“I think it was–” McCoy began.

“Rhetorical question,” House said quickly. “Anyway, it makes it sound sentimental and beautiful when it’s really the body going haywire. But ‘Body Going Haywire Syndrome’ doesn’t have the same ring.”

Wilson sighed. “You don’t have a sentimental bone in your body, do you?”

“Well, there’s–”

“Stop!” Wilson put up a hand. “Whatever you were going to say…don’t.”

House gave him an innocent look, but neither McCoy nor Wilson seemed to believe it.

“What’s important,” McCoy said, “is that we know that Jubilee is going to be all right, thanks to you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” House waved a hand. “And the world is still full of puppies and kittens and flowers. Go away now. Come back when you have another interesting case.”

McCoy was undeterred, sticking out his hand and leaving it there until House grudgingly shook it. “Thank you, Greg. I appreciate your help, and so does Jubilee.”

“Whatever.” House waved them away, and Wilson and McCoy grinned at each other before departing.

When they were gone, House looked down at his desk drawer. He opened it for a moment, looking at the handwritten note lying under a pile of paperclips and sticking out of a copy of People: “Thank you, Dr. House. I hope you get lots of interesting dying people to talk to. Love, Jubilee.”

He dropped a copy of JAMA on top of it and shoved the drawer closed again.

Then he propped his leg up on a stool and pulled out his Gameboy. Somebody would be dying soon enough and he had a few more games to lose before they showed up on his doorstep.

–end–

Final author’s note: “Broken heart syndrome” is real. For more information on stress cardiomyopathy, check out Johns Hopkins University Hospital at http://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/asc/faqs.html. I read an article about it in the Washington Post Magazine about three years ago and *knew* I would find a use for it in a House fic someday.

by Mara

Summary: The title says it all, I should think.

Story Notes:

House getting shot was almost anticlimactic, Cuddy thought with a distant part of her brain as the surgery went on. She’d always assumed someone would shoot him eventually, when he pushed a patient or a family member or a clinic visitor one step too far.

But she hadn’t thought about what it would be like to stand and watch while someone else did the surgery. For some reason, she’d always imagined herself as the surgeon, which was utterly ridiculous.

But here she was, standing in the gallery with Wilson and watching the monitors. And when the surgery was done, she followed his gurney down to Recovery. Nobody questioned her presence, and eventually everyone else went away, leaving her with House and a lot of beeping machines.

She sat for a very long time, just watching his chest rise and fall with slow breaths and thinking about how oddly relaxed he looked. She tucked the blanket more firmly around him and brushed a hand across his stubbly cheek.

If this was a romance novel, she would lean over and kiss his forehead and he would wake up and smile at her and they’d live happily ever after.

Eventually, Cuddy turned to leave. “Heal quickly so I can kick your ass,” she said over her shoulder.

3.

“So, there we were in the meeting,” the handsome man in the blue suit said, leaning forward in his seat. “Me with my hangover, David with his shirt with the scorch mark, and Naomi with the slip gradually sliding down her waist.”

“Oh no,” Cuddy said, laughing already.

“And then the client asks–”

“I hate to interrupt this cozy chat,” a voice said from behind her.

Cuddy covered her eyes for an instant before twisting in her chair. “What do you *want*?”

House put a hand to his heart. “I’m hurt that you would think I wanted something from you. Out of the goodness of my heart, I seek you out to ask your permission before I begin treating my patient with a potentially dangerous drug cocktail and–”

“Shut up.”

His eyebrows shot up in almost comically overdone alarm. “I–”

“Shut. Up.”

He mimed zipping his lips shut and Cuddy shot a quelling look at her dinner companion, who was hiding a grin.

“House. Let me start by saying that there is a *reason* I decided to have dinner a full hour away from the hospital. And if you spent *half* as much energy on being happy as you do on stalking me, you’d be Pollyanna. Not to mention the fact that if you wanted to talk to me, I carry both a *pager and a cell phone*!”

Her voice was rising and House wasn’t hiding his smirk very well.

“And lastly, I would like to note that you have trekked an hour on your motorcycle in order to interrupt dinner with my *brother-in-law.*”

House’s smirk disappeared and for an instant he looked utterly astonished.

“Gregory House, this is Andrew Cotone, who is married to my younger sister.”

Andrew stood, openly grinning now, and held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Pulling himself together, House shook Andrew’s hand. “I can just imagine what she says about me, considering what she says in bed. Does she tell you I’m a stud? And that she lusts after me all the time?”

Cuddy rolled her eyes. “No.” The two men exchanged manly grins and Cuddy wondered what they’d do if she grabbed House’s t-shirt and kissed him right there in front of God and everyone.

Then with a sigh she waved at House. “Now that we’ve established there’s no date for you to interrupt, go away so we can eat in peace.”

“You’ve come all this way,” Andrew said. “Why don’t you join us?”

Cuddy changed her mind. She didn’t want to kiss House, she wanted to smack her brother-in-law.

“I’d be *delighted*,” House said, grabbing a chair from a nearby table.

Cuddy picked up her purse and began to rummage for an Advil. Maybe she’d bum a Vicodin off House, because the headache was shaping up to be a monster.

4.

When House kicked the new fellows out of his office, they went, scattering like leaves in the wind. Cuddy caught sight of them and nabbed Kutner, like a lioness catching the weakest zebra in the herd.

“Don’t you have a patient to be treating?” she asked.

“We lost her,” Kutner said, practically shuffling his feet. “House finally figured out it was acute promyelocytic leukemia, but her heart gave out before we even started a round of chemo.”

“She died.” It wasn’t a question. Even as she said it, Cuddy knew it was stupid. She’d had a bad feeling about this case and how House was going to react ever since he’d stampeded into her office, ranting more than usual about the patient’s parents.

She almost flew down the hallway to House’s office.

It was empty.

“Where is he?” she demanded, whirling to glare at Kutner.

“I–”

“Never mind.” She took off, leaving a stunned fellow in the hallway. She ran into Wilson moments later, his coat and briefcase in hand. “Good, you’re still here.”

“I was just–”

“The baby died.”

Wilson changed course and followed her toward her office, waiting while she grabbed her own coat. They strode quickly down the street, turning right three blocks down.

“Where’s Foreman?” Wilson asked, breaking the silence.

“Conference.”

“Oh. Right.”

The Plainsboro Grill was a hole in the wall which survived on traffic from the hospital, and Wilson held the door for Cuddy as they entered.

As they’d expected, House was in a booth in the back corner and from the looks of the table, he’d already managed to get through a couple of glasses of whiskey. He didn’t look up when they slid into the booth on either side of them or acknowledge the waitress who brought an apparently endless stream of booze.

Every once in a while, House would look up from his drinking and insult their ancestry, clothing, or personal habits. Or all of the above. Cuddy sipped at a glass of Sam Adams (the only decent thing the place had) and then switched to a diet Coke.

Occasionally, she and Wilson would chat, but mainly they waited, glancing at the TV showing CNN or watching House. There were plenty of doctors and nurses scattered through the crowd, but after a single glance at the table, everyone steered away. Cuddy sighed and took another sip of Coke.

It took two hours, but finally House picked up a glass and looked like he was about to throw it. Wilson grabbed his arm and Cuddy snatched the glass out of his hand.

House resisted for a second, then slumped, his long body bending over like an old man’s. Wilson threw one of House’s arms over his shoulder and the two of them dragged him out the door and into the chilly air.

Cuddy sat on the bench, shivering at the cold even through her jacket, and Wilson propped House next to her while he went to get his car.

House leaned against her unashamedly and she smacked a wandering hand out of habit, making him chuckle.

Slinging an arm over her shoulder, House propped his head on top of hers, and Cuddy steadied herself with a hand on the wooden bench.

“She wasn’t bad. Y’know, for a baby.” House’s words were barely slurred, which was impressive, considering how much alcohol he’d consumed.

“I know.”

“I shoulda figured it out sooner.”

Cuddy didn’t bother to respond. She’d tried, the last few times it got this bad, and it made him more upset, so she’d stopped trying. Slipping her other arm around his waist, she just held on tightly.

“You should have one.” His voice was distant, wondering.

“What?”

“A baby.”

Cuddy’s hand slipped on the wood and they nearly toppled over, but she wasn’t sure House even noticed.

Lifting his head, he looked down at her and for a moment she thought he looked entirely sober. “You’d be a good mother.”

Through the lump in her throat, Cuddy managed to speak. “Thank you.”

House leaned back against her and started to snore.

Shaking her head, Cuddy sighed and a smile crept across her face. “You wouldn’t be a half-bad father,” she said softly.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Just when Jack Carter thought his life couldn’t get any worse…

by Mara

Summary: What if Cuddy had talked to House instead of Wilson at the end of “Painless”?

by Mara

Summary: “It’s not a joke. Bruce Wayne is Batman and I used to be Robin.” (Sequel to “Change is the Only Constant”)

“What?” Wilson repeated, his voice cracking slightly. House had said a lot of
outrageous and downright bizarre things in his time, but this one…it was
unparalleled.

Raising an eyebrow, House looked at Bruce Wayne lying in the bed beside his
chair. “I thought I was pretty clear, didn’t you?”

Wayne frowned at him. “Don’t tease him, Tim.”

“Oh, but it’s such fun. Look how nicely he blushes.”

Wilson stared at the two of them, then shook his head. “Very funny. You brought
me down here to make a joke? You do know I have actual *patients* to see,
right?” Turning, he took a step toward the door, wondering why he put up with
House at all.

“Wait!” House called.

Wilson stopped, closing his eyes for a long moment before turning back. “Yes?”

House sighed a long-suffering sigh. “It’s not a joke. Bruce Wayne is Batman and
I used to be Robin.”

“Uh huh.” Wilson crossed his arms, glaring. “And I’m secretly Superman. I
commute between here and Metropolis.”

Wayne snorted. “Nope, you can’t be Superman. No spitcurl.”

“He *is* nearly as much of a boy scout as Big Blue, though.” House leaned on his
cane, head tilted. “If I didn’t know the truth, I might even believe it.”

Wilson ignored that, looking at Wayne. “Wait, you called him Tim.”

“It *is* his real name.”

“And we’re all about telling the whole truth, aren’t we, Bruce?” House scowled,
but it didn’t have nearly enough venom in it to be serious. “Yes, my name was
Tim Drake, but I gave that up when I was 16. I’ve been Greg House since then.”

“You’re insane.” Wilson stared at them, waiting for the punchline. “Utterly
insane.”

House and Bruce Wayne simply stared back, not backing down, and most certainly
not smiling. House didn’t even have on his sardonic grin, the one he always used
when he wanted you uncertain if he was telling the truth.

“Oh my god, you’re serious.” Wilson groped around for a chair and sat down. “I’m
not on Candid Camera or something?”

House shook his head. “Candid Camera hasn’t been on the air in decades. Keep up
with pop culture.”

“Don’t distract me! You’re trying to tell me that you used to be *Robin*–an
urban legend, for Christ’s sake.”

“No more an urban legend than Superman,” Wayne said, one corner of his mouth
tilting up.

“But…Robin?” Wilson stared at his friend, the cranky, misanthropic, goddamn
*bastard* who stiffed him when they ordered in the cafeteria just because he
could.

House shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” For a moment, Wilson closed his eyes and waited for the world to make
sense again. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. He opened them again. “You spring
something like this on me and all you can say is ‘Yeah’?”

“Yeah.” *There* was the sardonic grin, a little late, but familiar territory at
least.

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

House fluttered his eyelashes. “Say you’ll still marry me now that you know the
truth.”

Wilson studied House. “Why did you tell me this? I know you didn’t have to.”

House looked away and Wilson nodded, knowing he’d hit the crucial point. “It’s
old news,” House said, “but I thought you should know.”

Wayne’s mouth twitched in obvious amusement. “And you told Dick years ago that
you didn’t want to be like me.”

House glared at him. “Stay out of this.”

Turning to Wilson, Wayne leaned forward, expression much more serious. “He’s
never willingly told anyone this before.”

Wilson looked at House, who was twitching in annoyance. “Really?”

“Yes, you’re my first, now can we get on with this? I’ve had my fill of touchy
feely for the day and I didn’t even get a hand on Cuddy.” House stood. “Well, I
guess we’re done here.”

Wilson looked at Bruce Wayne, who said, “He’s changed.”

“What was he like before?”

House froze, barely breathing, before looking at the man he claimed was Batman.
“Bruce…”

“You started this, Tim.” He turned to Wilson. “He was idealistic. Told us all
that Batman needed a Robin and when Robin…couldn’t be there, he made himself
into Robin.”

Wilson blinked a few times. “Made himself?”

House turned away, tension in every line of his body.

“He wasn’t the last to do so, but he was the first. And the most successful. He
*believed* in the mission. Certainly more than I did at the time.”

Wilson recognized the look on Bruce Wayne’s face, because he saw it all the
time: It was the look of a man who’d lost family. House’s white-knuckle grip on
the cane said something similar. “Why did he leave?” Wilson asked.

“Hello!” House said, waving his hand. “Standing right here!”

Wayne took a deep breath. “He left because I screwed up.”

House froze again. He obviously hadn’t been expecting that. Slowly, he turned
back.

Wayne looked at Wilson, the pain more buttoned up than before, but still
obvious. “Tim left because…” He gritted his teeth. “I let someone he cared
about out before she was ready.”

Wilson blinked. “Out…you mean, in the vigilante sense.”

House snorted quietly, but let Wayne answer. “She was Robin for a short while. I
kicked her out. And when she tried to prove herself to me by going out on her
own, she was killed.”

“Steph should have known better,” House said, his voice hoarse.

“So should I.”

The two men stared at each other, and it was obvious at that moment that they
had once known each other extremely well, because there was some kind of
nonverbal communication going on. Wilson tried not to breathe, because he sensed
they’d reached a critical point and he didn’t want to interrupt.

House looked away first. “Yes, you should have, but I can’t keep punishing you
for that.”

Wayne looked at Wilson. “You might find it difficult to believe, but Tim had
quite a few friends in those days.”

House’s mouth tightened.

“Still has them, if he cared to call.”

“I left all of that behind me for a reason,” House said. Wilson noticed he
didn’t actually say what that reason *was*.

“Kon tells me that you once said you had friends and I had associates.” Wayne’s
voice was almost teasing.

“Friends are too much trouble,” House said. “Just ask Jimmy here how much
trouble I am.”

Wilson snorted. “Oh, he’s a lot of trouble.”

“I can believe that.” Wayne looked like he was suppressing a smile with great
effort.

House rolled his eyes. “Are we done torturing me yet? Maybe you’d like to try
poking my leg a few times for good measure?”

“No, I think we’re done,” Wayne said.

Wilson took a good look at him, noted definite lines of exhaustion, and stood.
“Well, you’ve certainly given me…food for thought.”

House raised a hand. “It goes without saying that this isn’t for public
consumption.”

Wilson blinked several times. “Are you kidding? Do you know how many laughs I’d
get if I tried to tell anyone you used to be *Robin*? It’d be easier to convince
them that you’re a melanin-challenged Mr. T.”

With that, he swept out of the room. Never let it be said, he thought, that
James Wilson didn’t know a great exit line when he found one.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: When Bruce Wayne becomes Dr. Gregory House’s latest patient, House’s hidden past might just be disclosed.

CONTINUITY: No spoilers for House. Some spoilers for DC big events Identity
Crisis and War Games, although this isn’t set in the same continuity. Clear as
mud? Righto. Just roll with me on this one, ‘kay?

NOTES: This is…an AU? A crossover? Elseworlds? Something like that. The idea
was originally Marcelo’s, but once I saw the show, I *had* to do this. Huge
thanks to Smitty, Marcelo, Euphiechan, and Smurf for the helpful betas and
telling me I wasn’t utterly insane to try this. I’m told that you can read this
without knowing DC comics, but I’m not certain if you have to know House, MD or
not.

* * * * *

House cursed under his breath as his leg twinged. Leaning on his cane, he walked
faster toward the hospital entrance, half his mind listening to Wilson’s
concerned lecture about something or other, the other half trying to remember
how many Vicodin he had left.

When his cell rang, he didn’t bother to look at the number. “What?”

He should have looked.

The voice sounded much older than the last time he’d heard it, but he would
always know the deep tones. “Tim, we need your help.”

“Right, like I’ve never heard *that* one before. And I told you not to call me
that.”

“There isn’t time for your attitude. I need your medical expertise.”

“Oh.” He stopped in front of the doors, not seeing his surroundings. “I’ll
pencil you in then.”

“Really?”

“For the tenth of never. Goodbye, Bruce. Don’t call me, I won’t call you.” He
snapped the phone shut and briefly considered throwing it, but Cuddy might take
exception to him breaking a window. She was so picky about those kinds of
things. Damn Bruce for trying to rope him in again with a stupid outbreak of the
bird flu in Vietnam or something. Whatever it was, other doctors could handle
it.

“House?”

Wilson’s agitated voice finally penetrated the red haze of his mind. “Yes?”

“What’s wrong?”

House glared at his forgotten companion, ignoring the stares from hospital
visitors and patients streaming by. “Just an old acquaintance presuming on a
nonexistent friendship. Don’t you have nurses you should be screwing now?”

He stomped through the sliding doors, leaving a stunned Wilson behind. You’d
think he’d never been rude to the man before.

* * * * *

Twenty years of practice and a pill enabled him to forget about the call as he
shuffled papers on his desk, wishing for an office that wasn’t quite so open and
well-lit during daylight hours. Even after all these years, he still craved the
dark.

He booted up the computer, burying himself in a case study JAMA had been
pestering him to write up for months, the jargon flowing automatically.

When his office door opened and shut, he didn’t bother to turn. “I gave at the
office.”

“I could name a dozen ways you’ve changed,” an amused voice said, “but letting
just anyone walk in on you is the most amazing.”

House’s head shot up and he found himself speechless as he spun in his chair.

“Hi, Tim.” Dick slid into a chair across from him, a small wince showing that
he, too, had aged. His hair was only lightly streaked with silver and his face
had somehow remained almost as boyish.

“I’m not Tim anymore.”

Dick crossed his arms. “Well, if you act like a sullen teenager, I’m going to
treat you like one.”

House slammed the book he’d been consulting onto the desk, wishing he could
break something. Dick’s head, maybe. Unfortunately, even if Dick was showing his
age, he’d continued to work out for all those years.

Which left House with the one weapon he’d continued to train: his mind. “I take
it Bruce sent you, thinking I’d be a softer touch for my ‘big brother.’ Well, it
won’t work.”

Dick’s eyebrows shot up. “I doubt very much he thought anything of the kind. No,
he sent me because he thought you needed to accept him as a patient before he
showed up.”

It hit like a jab to the diaphragm, stealing his breath and leaving him
speechless for the second time in five minutes. Irrelevantly, he almost wished
Cameron, Foreman, and Chase were there, because it was a sight they’d never
witnessed.

He was stalling, House noted. “He’s sick?” Damn it, all those years and he
sounded like that young boy again, the one who wanted to know why Dick wouldn’t
come back and be Robin, the one who took the job instead.

“Of course he’s sick.” Shaking his head, Dick frowned at him. “He told you so.”

“No, he didn’t.” Back on the solid ground of argument, House thumped his desk.
“In typical Bruce fashion, he said he needed my medical expertise, but he
carefully left out the minor fact that *he* was sick! I assumed it was some
problem for the Justice League, a pretext to talk since you’d found me.”

“Mmm, we found you several years ago, but it was a good thought hiding so close
to Gotham,” Dick said, watching him with that familiarly disturbing intensity.
“Fooled us for quite a while. What’d you do to Kon and Bart, by the way? They
actually turned white when I tried to convince them to tell me where you were.
And they’ve both gotten much better at eluding pursuit.”

“Kon had no right to tell you where I was last time.”

“Forget it.” Dick waved a hand. “The issue is still that Bruce is sick and the
only doctor he trusts is you, now that Leslie is gone.”

“Fine. I can tell you what’s wrong.”

“Without seeing him?”

“He’s old. Lesson over, next patient, goodbye, don’t let the door hit your ass
on the way out.”

Dick frowned, and House resisted the instinct to give in. He wasn’t that kid any
longer. “Ti–Greg, it’s not that. It’s more serious.”

House leaned back, grabbing the pill bottle from behind the monitor without even
looking, popping another pill just to watch Dick try not to flinch. “He’s Bruce
Wayne. He can pay for any medical care out there.”

“He wants you because he knows you’re the best.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Too bad. Now get out before I call security and have you thrown out.”

“You wouldn’t do that.” Dick stared at him, eyebrows narrowed.

“Just try me.”

Dick opened his mouth then closed it. Standing, he marched out of the office,
shoulders slumped, unable as always to hide his emotions.

House didn’t watch him through the glass door all the way down the hall.

* * * * *

Wandering into Cuddy’s office, House tried to look as if it was his idea to
visit. “Just couldn’t go a day without seeing me? Be careful, people might guess
about our torrid affair.”

She glared, but it was a half-hearted attempt. “Sit down, Dr. House.”

“Ooooh, if the principal makes me sit, it means I’m in *real* trouble. What is
it this time? Did some little old lady from the clinic complain that I told her
she was ugly? Because if that’s it, I can explain–”

“Shut up.”

“Ooookay.” He should have seen what was coming. In fact, only willful ignorance
could have kept him from seeing it coming a mile away. After all, his patients
played the same game with him practically weekly, and they were less-skilled
than Cuddy.

Cuddy looked at him with her usual long-suffering expression. “What’s this about
you refusing to treat Bruce Wayne? He’s offering the hospital a lot of money and
this time nobody’s asking you to endorse a drug.”

“Ah, but money is the root of all evil. I’m simply leading you away from
temptation.”

Folding her hands on her desk, she rolled her eyes. “The biblical quote, as you
know, is that the love of money is the root of all evil. I’m fairly certain that
curing the sick is considered a good use of money in most religions. Except
perhaps yours. What *is* your religion, anyway?”

“Religion? Don’t be ridiculous. Next thing you’ll be suggesting I try praying
for my patients.”

“Some people like that kind of thing.”

“And some people sacrifice chickens and goats, but that doesn’t mean you want me
to practice Santeria in the hospital cafeteria.”

Her expression turned pained and a twitch started above her left eye. “At this
point, chickens and goats are the least of my worries. Bruce Wayne is being
admitted this evening. I want your team on it.”

“So because he’s rich, we should drop everything and go cure his heart disease?”

“How do you know he’s got heart disease?”

“I don’t! That’s not the point! The point is that this hospital clearly only
cares about patients if they’re millionaires.”

“Just once, could you possibly look at a patient without giving me a hard time?”

“Oh, but that’s my special treat.” He made a face at her.

“Dr. House, what in the world do you have against Bruce Wayne?”

He’s an arrogant jerk. He fired me. He wouldn’t let me do the only thing that
ever mattered to me. “He’s rich.”

“I don’t care if he’s Donald Trump. He’s a patient. You will treat him.”

House opened his mouth to continue the argument, but suddenly imagined the
stream of superheroes that would haunt him until he did this. Not only would Kon
and Bart beg him to help, they’d probably send *Superman*. Clark would be
earnest. And noble. And caring. He’d probably say how much everyone missed him.
And he’d mean it, damn it. Better to give in before he had to deal with that.

“Fine.” On principle, he glared at her and pounded his cane extra hard as he
went out the door. As a bonus, she looked worried that he’d given in so easily.

* * * * *

House was thankful everybody was accustomed to him not bothering to visit
patients and nobody would think twice when he sent Cameron to do all the icky
work of actually talking to Bruce.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t make himself *completely* unavailable or people would
start to wonder. He stuck to his usual hiding places, where Wilson or his team
could find him if things got really dire.

He sent Cameron to get a complete history (good luck on that), Foreman to get
started on all the bloodwork, and Chase to do something or other useful, and was
preparing to hide out in the OB waiting room when he realized he was supposed to
be in the clinic.

Frowning, he ran through a couple of excuses, but couldn’t think of one that he
hadn’t already tried. Besides, anybody who thought he was hiding would assume
he’d run away from the clinic.

Strolling in, he waved grandly at the nurse. “Your finest waste of time, my good
woman.” She rolled her eyes and handed him a folder.

It was a perfect hiding place, he thought with a grin as he entered Exam 2.

He got the door halfway closed before looking at who awaited him in the room.
“Damn it,” he said, thumping his cane against the floor as he glared at Babs.

She rolled her wheelchair forward. “You know, most people say ‘hello’ when they
see me. Maybe they’re just more polite than you.”

“*Everyone* is more polite than me. What do you want? I agreed to take the
case.” He sat down in a chair with a thump.

“And you haven’t set foot in his room,” Babs said. “You haven’t even *looked* at
him.”

Babs had allowed her hair to gray rather than dyeing it, which didn’t surprise
him. And her argumentative expression was exactly the same as when she’d refused
to take him on as Oracle’s assistant 20 years before.

“I never look at patients if I can avoid it,” House said in his most bored tone.
“Patients only lie to me and make my job harder.”

Her eyes widened. “Jesus, Tim, what’s happened to you?”

“I’m not Tim!” He jumped to his feet, intent on escaping, forgetting for the
first time in years about his leg. It gave out under him and he staggered and
nearly fell, hissing in pain. “I’m not Tim,” he said again, clutching the edge
of the exam table to stay upright. “How many times do I need to tell you people?
I know you’re not stupid, so what part of ‘My name is Gregory House’ do you not
understand?” Knives shot up his leg all the way to the hip and he blinked back
tears. With one hand he held the table and with the other he fumbled open the
bottle and popped another pill.

Babs frowned at the bottle, but he ignored her.

“I’ve got my team working on Bruce’s case. They’re the best. I know, because I
trained them myself. If he can be cured or stabilized, we’ll do it. Don’t ask
for anything else because you’re decades too late.” He leaned over and grabbed
his cane, staggering toward the door.

“You know that the others give you some slack because of your leg,” she said,
almost shouting. “But I don’t. I think you hide behind your injury. I think you
hate the fact you weren’t injured on the job. And you might recall some of us
have it worse than you.”

“I don’t want to hear this,” he said, his hand on the door handle.

“Tough shit.” She rolled her wheelchair up behind him, bumping the back of his
ankles. “I wanted you to come work for me, but you weren’t ready, you were still
too angry. You needed to get away from the mess for a while and you did. I tried
to get in touch with you, but by that point you were running away too fast.”

House stared at the white door.

Her tone got sharper. “I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. We’ve told you that before.
Will you ever forgive us?”

“No.”

House expected her to come after him, but he made it safely to the elevator.

* * * * *

“Something about this case is bothering you,” Wilson said over the rim of his
coffee cup an hour later.

“Excuse me?” House lowered the issue of Teen People he’d stolen from the clinic
waiting room.

“Bruce Wayne. His case bothers you.”

Snorting, House went back to his examination of Britney Spears’ breasts. “All
patients bother me. Especially rich ones.”

“No, it’s something more than that.”

“Do I look like I’m especially bothered?” House looked pointedly at his feet,
propped up on a low cement wall, and his coffee and danish, which he’d been
enjoying in solitude before Wilson showed up.

“Yes.”

“I won’t bother to ask what tortured logic allowed you to reach that conclusion,
but I can assure you I’m no more disturbed than normal for a day in which I have
to spend two hours wiping the noses of obnoxious children and reassuring their
moronic parents it isn’t bubonic plague.” He snapped the magazine back up.

“Look, I wasn’t planning on eavesdropping, but I overheard a conversation.”

“Really. Imagine that. People in a hospital talking. What will they think of
next?”

“A conversation between Bruce Wayne and someone named Dick.”

House did not move a single muscle, but his mind raced.

“They were talking about how you’d refused to see him. How much they missed
you.”

Damn them. “Missed me?”

“I got the impression that you knew them. That you had known them for a long
time.”

“They said that?” House lowered the magazine again. “In front of you?”

Wilson recoiled from his expression. “Well, they didn’t know I was there, but–”

“Oh, they knew you were there, I’ll guarantee it. The day those two don’t know
who’s listening in, is the day I dig their graves. Strike that. I’m going to
kill them right now.”

Even at House’s top walking speed, it only took the shocked Wilson a few moments
to catch up to him and House cursed his leg for the millionth time. “I don’t
understand,” Wilson said. “How do you know Bruce Wayne? Why are you so mad that
I know it?”

“I worked for him. A long time ago.” He gritted the words out, knowing if he
didn’t answer, Wilson would keep asking.

“Then why hide the fact?”

“Because I hate his guts. Somehow I think that foolish idealistic doctors like,
say, Cuddy, might think this compromises his care.”

“Cuddy figures you hate everybody. I don’t think she’s worried about that.”

House scowled harder, a group of student nurses scattering out of his path like
bowling pins as he stomped toward the elevator. He wanted to go up the stairs,
but knew if he tried that, he wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. As he stared
at the elevator door, trying to develop Superman’s heat vision, he tried to
ignore Wilson, who’d begun to smirk. “What?” he finally snarled, unable to stand
it.

“It’s an actual emotion. I’m excited. We don’t get to see anything but annoyance
from you very often.” He cocked his head to one side, still smirking. “You
really hate this guy but you agreed to let your team treat him. What in the
world happened?”

“None of your business.”

The elevator dinged and House got on. Wilson followed, still studying him. “I’ve
never seen you like this.”

House ignored him, concentrating on twenty different ways to kill a man lying on
a bed. If Dick was there, he’d have to get through him first, but that was just
fine. Babs would have escrima sticks somewhere on her chair, but he was ready
for that. Cass might be a problem, though.

It took everything he had not to break the glass door opening it, but he
managed. Through the haze, he made sure no nurses were present and turned to
look at Wilson, who’d followed him. “Out.”

“House, I–”

“Out. I told you it’s none of your business, so get out, damn it.”

Wilson turned away without speaking; distantly, House realized he might have
gone too far, but it was too late to take it back. The other man paused, but
sighed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Smacking his cane on the floor, House turned to look at Bruce and Dick. “Just
what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I–” Dick started.

“And don’t even try to play innocent! You knew damn well he was listening. You
knew he’d talk to me. By now you probably know everything there is to know about
this place, so don’t even try to pretend.” He was shouting, which was probably a
bad thing, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

“It–” Bruce tried.

“You come into my hospital and interrupt my work and what the hell happened to
secrecy anyway? Did that fall by the wayside along with me? Maybe I should just
open the door and yell that I used to be–”

“Tim!” Bruce’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through his shouting in a way he
remembered he’d always hated.

“Don’t call me that.” His voice was quieter but Dick’s eyes widened at the tone.

Bruce looked as impassive as always, although House automatically catalogued
wrinkles, new visible scars, and a faint tremor in his left hand. “Fine. Dr.
House, you need to calm yourself so we can discuss this rationally.”

“You want to discuss this rationally? Let’s start with a rational discussion of
how the hell I’m supposed to treat you when I know you’re lying.”

A flash in Bruce’s eyes. “I’m not lying.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure when the lovely Dr. Cameron came in to take a medical history
you told her all about where you got that scar down your left side. Or did you
give her the usual crap about car accidents and skiing in Switzerland?”

“How I got that scar is not relevant.”

“Oh, so you’re a doctor now? I’m the doctor around here and *I* decide what’s
relevant, not you. If you know what’s wrong with you, you don’t belong here.”

Bruce right hand clenched in his blanket. “If you’d come to take the history, it
wouldn’t have mattered.”

Staring at the ceiling, House wished he could pray for patience. “That may be
the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, although it’s got some pretty stiff
competition.” He stepped closer, staring down at Bruce. “Do you think I’m some
lone vigilante doctor? I may be a maverick but I’ve got paperwork, a boss, three
sidekicks, and colleagues who read over my cases to try and catch me screwing
up. There’s no way I could hide that kind of information here.”

Bruce seemed startled, brow furrowing. “I didn’t–”

“Think of that? Obviously. Having Leslie around spoiled you. Welcome to the real
world.”

“But I did get you to come see me, even if it was only to yell.”

As House slammed the sliding door shut behind him, he thought he heard the clink
of glass breaking. He didn’t pause long enough to check. Let Maintenance worry
about it.

* * * * *

When the kids came back to report to him, they all looked like they were
marching to their doom–obviously reports of his tantrum had made it through the
gossip mill in record time. It was probably in the staff newsletter already, he
thought, tossing his GameBoy onto the table; the clatter made Cameron jump and
nearly drop the folders in her hand.

But–fortunately for them–they’d waited long enough for his temper to cool back
to its normal simmer. “What’ve you got?”

Nobody wanted to be first and a silent battle raged in twitching lips and
sidelong glances.

Sighing, House gave up, waving his cane at them. “I’m not going to bite your
heads off. At least today. Foreman, what’ve you got?”

Standing, he limped to the whiteboard to take them through the case. For the
moment it was The Case and not Bruce Wayne, because he couldn’t afford to think
about the patient right now.

“What’ve we got for symptoms?” he asked.

“Fever spiking at 104 and fatigue.” Foreman ticked them off on his fingers as
House scribbled down the list.

“Numbness and weakness in the fingers and toes, as well as some diffuse pains,”
Cameron added.

“Transient ischemia and severe headache,” Chase said. “Oh, and three separate
occasions of partial visual loss.”

“Memory problems not accounted for by age,” Cameron said, flipping through her
notes.

Fortunately, all three of them were looking elsewhere, so they missed House
starting when he heard that. He closed his eyes, imagining for a moment how
frightened Bruce must be by that particular symptom. “Give me possible
diagnoses,” he said, forcing himself to concentrate.

“Brain tumor,” Foreman said.

Cameron shook her head. “Maybe, but they scanned his brain twice.”

“Do it again.” House tapped his toes. “Chase?”

“Vasculitis,” Chase said with a sigh. Everyone just stared at him. “Never mind.”

“Some kind of nerve problem?” Cameron asked.

“Doesn’t explain the fever, does it?” House tapped the board.

“It could be anything,” Foreman said, slamming shut the book he’d been
consulting.

House rolled his eyes. “Oh good, maybe you’d like to tell the patient that.
‘Sorry, it could be anything, so I decided to play a round of golf instead.’”

“I didn’t say that.” Foreman scowled at him.

“What, did you think this fellowship was going to be easy? ‘I’ll work for Dr.
House. I’ve heard he takes all the *easy* patients.’”

“Dr. House…” Cameron looked like she was on the verge of a pout.

“Chase,” House snapped, “I want a CNS angiogram and a spinal tap.”

He blinked. “Right.”

“Foreman, besides the brain scan, I want you on the bloodwork. Gimme everything,
I don’t care how obscure.”

He nodded, scribbling notes to himself.

“Cameron, get on with the research. Focus on the nervous system. Tell me this
isn’t something obvious and boring everybody has missed so far.”

She scowled but nodded, picking up a notepad and a thick stack of books.

All three looked like they’d been through a major disaster: Chase drained his
coffee cup like it was the elixir of life, Foreman’s frown was permanently
etched, and Cameron had dark circles under her eyes.

“Go. Cause trouble,” he said, waving them out of the room. Chase and Foreman
couldn’t escape fast enough but Cameron hung back.

Damn, he thought. Not now.

“Dr. House?” she said.

“Don’t bother.”

“Excuse me?”

He sighed heavily. “You’ve heard that I yelled at our patient today, so there
are only a couple of possibilities: First, you want to be sympathetic about
whatever got me so upset; second, you want to give me a friendly lecture on
being nice to patients; or third, you’re fishing for information about what I
was yelling about.

“So, to get it out of the way: I don’t want sympathy, I hate patients, and I’m
not telling. Get to work.”

“Do I even need to be here for this conversation? You seem to have both parts
down.”

“Then go.” If there was one topic in this world he didn’t want to talk about,
Bruce Wayne was most certainly it, beating out his leg, his feelings, and his
nonexistent sex life.

“Dr. Wilson told me you know the patient.” Cameron crossed her arms.

Tapping his cane on the floor, House stared at her, but she held his gaze
steadily. On one hand, it was nice to see her toughening up, but he rather
wished she wouldn’t use her newfound toughness on him.

“What do you know about Bruce Wayne?”

He pretended to think. “He’s been number one on People’s Sexiest Rich Men list
seven times. He likes romantic walks on the beach and pretty girls, which you
most definitely are. Okay, he’s a bit old for you, but the money should
certainly make up for that. I won’t introduce you, though. You’re on your own
there.”

She even ignored that. “You always tell us we need to know everything about a
patient to treat them, but you’re not giving us all the information.”

“I know it. You don’t need to.”

She studied him for a moment. “You make it very difficult to be nice to you.”

He stood, leaning on his cane. “I do, don’t I?”

“I wonder why?” Her eyes widened and her mouth narrowed and he groaned–it was
her diagnostic expression, the one she got before she proposed a theory.

“I didn’t hire you for your psychiatric expertise.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond, stomping out of the room at his top speed.
For a moment, he remembered the burn in his thighs after running across the
rooftops, the muted thunk of a line launcher catching its target, the smell of
cordite on his clothing.

The squeaking of his shoes sounded louder than usual, an awkward counterpoint to
the tapping of the cane, noises he couldn’t disguise as he went down the hall.

* * * * *

The Gotham crowd seemed to have finally grasped his point and they avoided him
over the next few days. The hospital staff didn’t know what was wrong, but they
knew an extra-bad Dr. House mood when they saw it, so they avoided him too.
Cameron, Chase, and Foreman were all stuck with him, but they walked on
eggshells and he didn’t snap at them *too* much more than he would normally.

Wilson gave him a reproachful look later that day, but seemed resigned to his
rudeness and didn’t bother to try and get him to apologize.

House almost apologized just to see the look of confusion on his face, but
decided against it at the last minute, lest Wilson come to expect it.

They were narrowing in on Bru–the patient’s diagnosis and they’d even managed
to avoid any exciting infarctions and such. It was boring. Booooring.

House leaned back in his chair, shifting his foot on the footstool and wincing
as his leg protested. What should he do while his assistants were off
administering treatments and searching PubMed?

Well, there was an hour until General Hospital, but he could always make fun of
CNN, so he decided to turn on the television. He slid his leg carefully down and
reached for his cane.

“Hello,” Cass said from the doorway.

House cursed under his breath as he dropped his cane. Damn it, he hated being
out of practice, he thought. Cass had always been able to sneak up on him,
whether she was in costume as Batgirl or not, though.

Cass picked up the cane and handed it back to him before dropping back into a
relaxed stance. An untrained person would never notice, but to House’s eyes, it
was obvious that she was perfectly balanced and able to kick serious ass without
moving from her position.

“Unhappy,” she said with a frown.

House snorted. “Like *that* takes any expertise with body language. All you had
to do was ask anybody around here.”

A smile flitted across her face, which had a few lines he didn’t remember around
the eyes. “True. Love what you do, though.”

House turned his head, although he knew it wouldn’t stop her from reading
everything there was to know. “It’s important.”

“Yes.”

He kept staring out the window, watching the pitiful trees outside swaying in
the breeze even as he felt her step closer.

“It *is* important, Tim.” She put a hand on his cheek and he looked at her,
confused. Her face was intent, trying to communicate something to him, but he’d
never been as good at reading body language.

“Thanks for the inspiration. You can go back to being a faithful sidekick now.
Until Bruce decides *you’re* no longer useful.” Not that he was bitter or
anything.

Cass shook her head. “You don’t understand. Bruce is proud of you. Sorry for
what happened.”

House bowed his head, the memories visceral as ever: meaningless hymns echoing
off church walls, black clothing scratching his skin, food crumbling in his
mouth like ashes.

Knowing his dad’s murderer was alive in Arkham and Steph’s was still at-large.

* * * * *

The rain fell unheeded across his back as Tim slammed an informant against the
wall. “Where’s Black Mask?”

“I can’t–” The goon’s head made a hollow sound as it thudded against the brick,
and a few brick chips fell to the ground.

“Tell me or I’ll rip your arm out of its socket,” Tim hissed.

“No way!” The man spluttered as rain cascaded over his nose and mouth, but he
shook his head. “You don’t do that kind of stuff, kid. Everybody knows that.”

“Your boss killed a lot of people these past few days.” Tim was nose to nose
with the goon. “One was my girlfriend. Don’t tell me what I do.”

The man’s eyes rolled up in fear, then focused behind him.

Tim didn’t bother to turn. “Leave, Batman. This is my collar.”

“Robin, stop.”

“Stay out of this.”

“Stand down, Robin.”

The voice came closer, but Tim ignored it. “I’ve got to do this for her.”

“We’ll get Black Mask, I promise you, but not like this.” Batman was two feet
behind and to the right.

“I don’t believe you. You didn’t even tell me that she was dying. I didn’t get
to say goodbye.”

“This isn’t the way–”

Batman grabbed for his arm, but Tim was already moving, throwing his goon to the
opposite wall, hoping it would knock him out. Tim ducked under Batman’s hand,
rolling out of reach.

They faced each other in the dark of the alley, the rain dampening the garbage
that littered the ground.

“Don’t try and stop me, Batman.”

“I have to.”

“*We* have to,” Nightwing said, limping into view as Batgirl leaped down from a
fire escape overhead.

“To hell with all of you.”

“If you do this,” Batman said, “I’ll expect to find your uniform back in the
Cave by morning.”

Nightwing murmured a quiet protest, but Tim and Batman both ignored him as they
stared at each other.

Tim gritted his teeth. “So be it. You’ll have the uniform after I have justice.”
He threw down a handful of smoke pellets and was gone.

* * * * *

House put his head in his hands. He hated those memories. “Damn it, go away. I
don’t want to think about what I almost did.”

“No. Can’t run this time.” She knelt in front of him.

“Cass, I can’t forgive him.”

“For taking Robin. And for Steph.”

He nodded slowly. “She wasn’t ready to be Robin. He knew that.”

“Not your fault for leaving.”

He sat up quickly. “Of course not.”

“Not his either.”

“Bullshit. You’re making excuses for him the way everyone always has. I got
tired of it.”

Cass waited until he looked at her. “We miss you. Everyone is sorry. Time to
stop hating. She would want that.”

He didn’t know what she saw in his face, but she nodded. Leaning over, she
kissed his cheek and left.

* * * * *

When Wilson wandered in an hour later, House still sat with his forehead leaning
on his cane.

“Is something wrong?”

“Definitely,” House said without lifting his head. “Have you noticed that the
Republicans control the executive, legislative, *and* judicial branches of the
government? That’s wrong.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then you’ll need to be more specific.”

House could hear Wilson sigh and sit down. “You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine
at the best of times, but since Bruce Wayne showed up, you’ve been impossible.”

“So?” House stared at the vinyl floor, wondering why hospitals always had the
ugliest patterns. Did they get a discount on the stuff?

“I’m curious. For instance, why you never told me that you worked for him.”

“It was a long time ago.” House snorted. “But that was in another country and
besides, the wench is dead.” He’d never noticed how apropos that quote was.

“Speaking of wenches, who was the woman you were talking to when I passed by
before? I saw her with Bruce Wayne yesterday.”

“Cass. Her name is Cassandra.” She’s poetry in motion, House didn’t say. She
could kill you a hundred different ways with just the objects in this room. She
loved Steph as much as I did, but she stayed with Bruce.

“That’s it? No details?”

House looked up. “No.”

“Look, I know you don’t want advice from me–”

“Goodness, Doctor, how’d you get to be so smart?”

Wilson ignored him with the ease of long practice. “But it seems to me that
you’ve got some unfinished business with Bruce Wayne if he can get you angry
after so many years. I know you hate emotional stuff, but you need to deal with
this.”

House shook his head. “That’s what Cass came to say. Well, she used fewer
words.”

“And?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“I know you hold a grudge until it dies and then visit its grave, but what did
he do to you?”

The answer was automatic. “Took away the only thing that ever mattered to me.”

Wilson shook his head in confusion. “Medicine?”

House stared at him.

* * * * *

Bruce’s face looked almost as stern in repose as it did awake, House thought.
But he looked old. And tired. Nothing like the monster of his memories.

Although if he was going to be honest, Bruce had *never* been the monster of his
memories.

Bruce’s eyes opened. “Tim?”

“Hi, Bruce. Got a minute?”

“For you?” The smile spread across Bruce’s face. “Always.”

House limped over to the visitor’s chair, hiding the wince as he sat down. “I’ve
had a few visitors recently.”

Bruce frowned. “You know I didn’t tell them–”

“I know.” He shook his head. “I didn’t come to complain about that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I…” House took a deep breath. “It’s been pointed out to me that perhaps I
need to get over myself.”

Bruce coughed. “I don’t know that I would have put it precisely that way. We
both made mistakes.”

Staring at the floor, House took another breath. “Medicine is important to me.”

“I’m glad.”

House looked up into Bruce’s concerned expression and shrugged. “Life goes on.”

“That it does.” Bruce nodded slowly.

The silence was uncomfortable and House filled it. “So, how’s Gotham?”

“The usual. Poison Ivy’s mad at the Joker and we had to clean up half of
Robinson Park. The Penguin continues to make money illegally. Now that Two-Face
is–”

House sat upright so fast he nearly fell off the chair.

“What?” Bruce looked around for whatever had House so alarmed.

He grabbed the phone and paged his sidekicks. “If it was a snake,” he muttered,
“we’d all be dead from venom by now.”

“I wasn’t bitten by a snake,” Bruce said, obviously concerned for his sanity.

House gave him a withering glance. “Metaphor, Bruce.”

Cameron ran into the room and skidded to a stop, looking around for the
emergency.

House held up a finger. “Wait for it…”

Chase and Foreman piled into the room behind her, and all three stared at him.

“Vasculitis,” House said with satisfaction.

Foreman and Cameron stared at him, then stared at Chase, whose jaw had dropped.
“I always say vasculitis–”

“And I always tell you you’re wrong. Because you’re always wrong. But this time
you were right.”

“But we–”

House interrupted him again. “It’s hypersensitivity vasculitis caused by
exposure to a specific substance. Removal of the allergen plus a good round of
steroids should clear up all his symptoms.”

“What substance?” Cameron asked, eyes going unfocused as she mentally paged
through her notes.

House looked at Bruce, whose eyes were wide as he looked back. “Pamela?” Bruce
asked.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“What are you talking about?” Foreman asked.

“He knows. How many times have I told you that everybody lies?”

Cameron blinked. “Over five hundred, I think.”

“That was rhetorical.”

“I know.” She grinned at him.

“Smartass.”

“Better than a dumbass.”

House shook his head. “What are you standing around for? Order this man a course
of corticosteroids and then go home and get some sleep. I’ll monitor to make
sure I’m right.”

“You’ll–” Chase closed his mouth with a snap.

The three of them looked at each other and were out of the room in seconds.

“They’re good kids,” Bruce said into the silence.

“Yeah. They’ll get over that eventually.”

The room was silent again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable now. The dim lighting
felt familiar and for a moment House fell back in time to the dark of the Cave.

“What now?” Bruce said.

“Now you get better,” House said with a shrug. “You go home, back to kicking
supervillain ass and making the new Wonder Girl nervous.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t belong in your world anymore.” It twisted his guts to say it…but it
was true. “I belong here. I’m damn good at what I do.”

“I know you are. That’s why I’m here.”

Even after all these years, House still wanted to grin at the rare praise and
Bruce’s expression, the one that said ‘You got all the hostages out alive. Good
work.’

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “I know that look.”

“What look?”

“It’s the same one you had when you wished you could tell your father. Who do
you want to tell?”

House looked away.

“Do you trust this person?”

“Does it matter?” The anger was back.

Bruce didn’t rise to the bait of his tone. “Yes. This time you might convince
me.”

The floor tried to drop away and House gripped his cane for support. Another
shock like this, he thought distantly, and he’d be a patient in his own
hospital.

“Do you trust this person?”

“Yes.” He didn’t have to think about it. “With all of our lives.”

Bruce nodded once. “Okay.”

* * * * *

Wilson strode in, brow furrowed with concern. He stopped dead in his tracks when
he saw House sitting comfortably next to Bruce. “House? You paged me. Is there a
problem?”

“You’ll want to sit down for this.” House gestured at a chair. “I have…we have
something to tell you.”

Giving House an odd look, Wilson sat down. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“That depends, I suppose.”

“On what?”

“On how you feel about spandex. And capes.”

Wilson stared. “What?”

–end–