Liars With Connections

Chapter III

“Thanks again,” Wilson smiled to another pretty stranger and made his way to Cuddy’s office, thinking about the past week. He has officially concluded that it has been a crazy week, what with House’s mood swings returning, Chase and Cameron fighting every single minute and Foreman begging him to get himself transferred somewhere else and the New York Police Department running around, fingerprinting this, examining that – thrice, last week, he found his lunch dripping with Luminol at the cafeteria. It seemed to him that Cuddy was the only one that could help him make sense out of everything.

He opened the door and stuck his head in.

“Not now, House,” Cuddy acknowledged without shifting her gaze from a piece of paper she was reading.

“Hey – can I talk to you for a minute?” He shrugged it off.

“Oh, Wilson, come in,” Cuddy blushed furiously, looking up from a document she was examining, among piles of other paperwork. Settling himself in an armchair, Wilson gazed at a worn-out Cuddy with much anticipation for a pinch of acknowledgement after failing to see what she was scribbling about, only catching the words “Taylor” and “plaintiff counsel”. Finally, she threw the black pen on the table and leaned back, staring at him with a deadly glare.

“What is it?” she murmured, and rubbed her temples.

“Are you sure this is a good time…I mean, I could come back later-“

“If this is about House, I seriously don’t know what’s been going on-“

“No, Cuddy,” Wilson admitted and if he squinted closely, he was sure he saw a sense relief overcoming Cuddy. “It’s about everything that’s been going on-“

“Wilson, tell me about your patient,” Cuddy broke in. Feeling quite surprised at the sudden question, he proceeded, and realised that Cuddy didn’t need any questioning. Immediately making a mental note to ask Brenda for more information after his shift ends, he started.

“We ran tests on her and found mutations in the GNAS1 gene. She’s also diagnosed with hyperthyroidism a.k.a. autonomous endocrine hyperfuction, adrenal abnormalities which would lead to polyostotic fibrous dysplasia, also known as…”

“My favourite, McCune-Albright syndrome,” Cuddy finished off for him, recalling a similar case she had a few years ago.

“Yes,” Wilson nodded sporadically, “We’re giving her testolactone to reduce estrogen production intermittently and monitoring for any bone deformities.”

After the little chat they had on his patient, Wilson could see Cuddy slowly unwind. It looked as if she was enjoying the influx of medical definitions coming at her, possibly to help her forget all the other problems she had had on her mind. Silence pervaded the air for a while, but Wilson shattered it with the question he’d been meaning to ask.

“So…what’s going on between you and House?”

“Nothing,” immediately came as the answer, but Wilson, as determined as ever, refrained from changing the subject.

“He’s been a lot moody lately, and neglecting his patients…but we can’t say the same about that police department operating everywhere in the hospital…not that they have any patients…it’s just them building up cases…you know, I really hope what they’re doing here is fruitful, because we can’t run tests with fingerprint dust all over their fingers…” Suddenly, his pager beeped and he jumped. Realising that he had been rambling, he looked up at Cuddy and found her staring at the doorway beyond him. He shifted her gaze to the spot she was so fixated at and furrowed his eyebrows. What was she staring at?

“Cuddy, I’ll just –“

“Oh yes, of course, yes, thanks Wilson,” Cuddy blinked and shuffled the abundant documents on her desk, pretending to be busy once more. As she looked up, she could make out Wilson’s white coat flying out of the door.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

---

Mac Taylor gazed at the sleeping lady opposite him, his face poker and hard, his hands clasped in front of him, his mind blank and his stature, silent. The recurring beeping of the heart monitor had become so familiar to him that he could feel it his heart beating alongside it, even when he slept, which was not a lot, ever since Peyton got admitted. He looked at her, and studied her face, her sharp features, her light brown hair, and her thick eyelashes, the serene look he gave him as her breaths, in, out, in, out, help put his mind at ease. As he contemplated the smoothness of her skin, he couldn’t shake off the thought of her hair getting curlier, her nose sharper, her eyes rounder…and wondered how he would have reacted if what had happened to Peyton had happened to Stella.

Suddenly, he heard the door to the ward open, then close.

“Detective Taylor, I’m Dr. Cameron. I’ll be the doctor in charge of Ms. Driscoll…” the voice trailed off as he nodded, not looking up from Peyton.

“What’s wrong with her?” he muttered, and Cameron had to concentrate clearly to hear what he had to say. Been there, done that, Cameron thought, and recounted the time where she had known exactly how Mac felt.

“We cannot tell what exactly she is suffering from, as all the tests that we had run on her came back negative. The seizure she had could have been a fatal one, but we cannot find anything that is wrong with her heart or any other organs in her body. However, we will have to wait for Ms. Driscoll to regain her consciousness so we can talk to her,” As Cameron finished, Mac looked up, his eyes red from the lack of sleep.

“If there’s anything I can do…”

“We will let you know, Mr. Taylor, but we suggest you get some rest and continue on your investigation,” she looked at him and smiled. He remained grim.

Cameron stole one more gaze at him, and walked out of the room, sighing, doubting if Chase would stay up day and night and care for her if she had been in such a position. As she walked down the hallway, looking for Foreman, a voice spoke up from behind her.

“Fifty dollars says patient would die under Cameron’s watch!”

An audible silence followed afterwards as almost everyone looked up from what they were doing - but Cameron had lots of work to do, and retorted, “Thanks, House, for the case!” before catching sight of Foreman’s large round eyes, doing what they do best: rolling.

“Certainly, a pleasure,” Stella whispered as she blew the coffee, familiar in her hands. As she sipped it, the affectionate warmth coursed through her veins, causing her eyes to close and enjoy it, albeit for simply half a second.

“Don’t worry, I’ve started looking for a hotel,” House intended express his intentions well and clear, as he gave Stella his signature puppy-dog look.

“This was not a date,” Stella told him. “If you wanted one, you’d have given me something more than just a cripple with an expensive cane,” she added, with a raise of an eyebrow.

“You know you want me, disability and all,” House replied with a wink as he limped his way to the cafeteria, looking for Wilson to tell him about “his date”. Stella shook her head and laughed at how adorable insensitivity can be.

“HOUSE. Where have you been?” Cuddy questioned firmly and gripped his collar hard, trying to instill some sense of fright in him, yet, knowing House, failing miserably.

“Celebrated Thanksgiving with my Mom. She says ‘hi’ to the Wicked Witch of Princeton Plainsboro, by the way,” he made sure to articulate the two zingers perfectly. She rolled her eyes, but wasn’t going to give up just yet.

“Your patients have been going in and out of comas, Foreman, Chase and Cameron have been running around looking after them, and all you do is simply go out?” There were no words to express how livid Cuddy was at that point of time.

“I was with a policewoman. I have an alibi,” he concluded and gripping his cane, limped off, leaving Cuddy dumbstruck.

---

“Mac, what are you still doing here?”

Mac looked up at Stella’s question and he sighed.

“Didn’t Dr. Cameron tell you yesterday to get some rest? You’re going to fall ill,” Stella walked in, a sympathetic look smeared on her face, as she placed an arm over Mac’s shoulders and squeezed him tightly. “It’s going to be okay. She’s going to be okay,” she assured him encouragingly, and he afforded a smile.

“Did you check with Flack the progress of our investigation?” he asked. Stella felt as if a ton of bricks fell on her.

“Um…not yet,” she relented.

“So what were you doing then?” Mac tried to convey the question jokingly when he was seriously concerned.

“I was…with House,” she hesitated the last bit and glanced at Mac to see how he felt about that, knowing Mac Taylor’s emotions regarding House. She regretted it immediately when she saw Mac’s face turning from a little contented to very well crestfallen. “Mac…” she continued but stopped when she heard Peyton stir. Mac turned his focus from Stella to Peyton, and was immediately overwhelmed when Peyton’s eyes fluttered open.

“Peyton!” he whispered and pulled her into a hug. Stella could see that Peyton was quite taken aback by the sudden gesture as she clearly was flummoxed as to where she was. Stella couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy when the fragile lady returned the hug and the two sat there, embracing each other. Eventually, her pager rang, and she thanked God for the diversion. The thankfulness didn’t last long for as she read the message paged to her, her face turned as white as sheet. She felt faint. Mac took a glance at her, and immediately felt worried.

“Stella…Stella…what’s wrong? Stella?” he repeated and went over to check the supposed memo given to her, leaving Peyton’s arms outstretched.

“D…D…Danny…stabbed…right here…dead.”