Five times the past came back to bother them, and once it gave them happiness
Part 3 of The Lies We Told Each Other
Fandoms: Top Gun (Movies), House M.D.
Relationships:
Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Gregory House/James Wilson
Characters:
Tom "Iceman" Kazansky, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Ron "Slider" Kerner, Gregory House, James Wilson (House M.D.)
Additional Tags:
Crossover, 5+1 Things
INDEX: https://palabraspulsares.blogspot.com/p/the-lies-we-told-each-other-3-five.html
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Chapter 5: When Dr. James Wilson saw a killer bunny tattoo up close
Summary:
Fall 2015: When Ice's cough doesn't disappear after three weeks, Sarah and Maverick draw attention to his other strange symptoms for almost six months. Concerned, Kazansky contacts the only doctor he trusts: Gregory House.
House asks his colleague Wilson for an expert opinion.
Wilson knows that chest with a killer bunny tattoo belongs to...
Princeton-Plainsboro University Hospital, New Jersey, September 2015
"I need your help," House announces as he drops into the side seat in Wilson's office.
It
is not a seat for patients or family members. Wilson reserves it when
he invites another team member to give their opinion. It's pressed
against the wall, closer to his desk than the other three seats in the
office.
The oncologist does not take his eyes off his computer screen, where he is transcribing the latest notes of a case.
"Good morning to you, too, darling. How did you sleep? My guard was excellent. Thanks for asking."
House grimaces and taps the table with the tip of his cane.
"I
thought a thing about having a stable relationship was skipping all the
bullshit of empty formalities" -and he raises his damaged leg over the
arm of Wilson's chair.
The brunette looks at the sports shoe out of the corner of his eye and nudges it with his elbow.
"It
doesn't include not saying hello to your husband when you see him for
the first time that day at…" -he briefly looks at the corner of his
laptop screen- "two in the afternoon."
"I sent you a text message at eight o'clock."
"You sent me three emojis!" -Wilson corrects- "A tongue, an eggplant and a smiling face."
"Evidence that my passion for you has not waned in… how long have we been together again?"
"Sometimes it seems too much, sometimes too little," Wilson complains as he saves the report and closes the hospital's MyChart.
He gets up and goes around the opposite side of the table from where House is to look for his coat.
"Where are you going?" -asks the other as he hurries to leave the chair to approach.
"I want what you promised me in that text message before I help you with anything."
House raises his eyebrows and smiles.
"Delighted."
A
couple of hours later, while Greg is showering, Wilson feels his
husband's text message alarm. Fearing that it is some emergency, he
picks up the phone. If it's not from Princeton-Plainsboro, he will
return the device to its place. What he sees makes him raise his
eyebrows and keep the cell phone between his fingers.
"Honey," he smiles at House when he returns to his room with a towel tied around his waist, "who is Bad Bunny 1982?"
But
his face shows none of the emotions he expected: amusement, mischief,
even discomfort. House opens his eyes wide and rushes towards the bed to
take the phone from him, with his face distorted by fear.
"You read it!?"
"But…"
House snatches the phone and pins him to the bed. Their faces are very close together, but nothing is sensual about it.
"Did you read the message?"
"No, no. Of course not."
House sighs, steps away, and unlocks the phone.
"What the hell is happening?"
"He's a patient," House answers while typing something.
"A patient? You never give your personal number to patients."
"He is a special patient."
He leaves the phone on the nightstand and turns slowly to Wilson. He looks at him with a calculating expression.
"My patient needs a private consultation. That is the favor I wanted to ask of you.
"A private consultation… with me?"
"Well,
I only have one oncologist at home. I could call Chase, Ausies are
multi-purpose, you know, but since you don't let me blackmail people
into keeping secrets for me anymore," he shrugs.
"Do you mean that you need an appointment as quickly as possible?" -He is already mentally reviewing his agenda.
"No.
When I say private, I mean outside the hospital. No nurses, no records.
Just you and me, in a private place that the patient would choose."
Wilson
looks at him carefully. They know that there are dark stages in their
partner's life, which they prefer not to talk about. Most of the time,
they pretend that House went on sabbatical during 2011. They also
pretend that in the years between his expulsion from Johns Hopkins and
medical school at the University of Michigan, he was not in California
working in illegal clinics -for people without access to the system, he
insists- facing the police and using soft drugs.
The problem is
that House's past sometimes comes back to bite them. It may be something
easy to handle, like a sudden, painful memory. It could be something
potentially criminal, like a gang member demanding Vicodin without a
prescription, of course.
"This patient of yours, do you know him well?"
"Since 1982."
Wilson
holds his breath because, in 1982, House was in California. He has
never told him what the clinic where he was an assistant did, but he
understands that the people who went there were... not in good standing
with the law, to put it kindly.
"Clinic patient?"
House shakes his head as he plays with the edge of the sheet.
"Surgery. Cardiothoracic trauma. He left after three days."
"What!? Did they let him go?"
House shrugs.
"His
brother came for him. He explained that he had business to attend to.
What were we going to do? To call the police? To his mommy? Besides, he
survived, right?"
Wilson grimaces and gets up to look for his pants.
"Obviously, but no thanks to you."
He
feels uncomfortable with this conversation. A guy whose chest was
littered with bullets had to leave the illegal clinic, where they saved
his life three days later. Oh my God!
"Hey! May I inform you the stitching was very nice."
"I'm sure he thanked you," he responds sarcastically while taking the socks out from under the bed.
"If you knew it was. He even laughed at my jokes."
"It is definitive, then, the man was up to his eyebrows on morphine."
"He was one of the most rational guys I saw pass by. He barely lied, but he did it very well when he lied."
That
pauses Wilson because House doesn't give away that kind of comment. He
sits on the opposite edge of the bed to put on his pants. He feels blue
eyes dull into the back of his neck.
"And you kept in touch all these years?" -It's disturbing to think of House solving puzzles for the mob.
"No,
no. It was more like… he was letting me know he was alive. He sent me a
card when I graduated from Michigan. Another one that said, "Get well,
idiot," when the thing with my leg. It has been this way for more than
thirty years."
"How do you know that the person sending you the messages is him, then?"
"Oh!
That's easy. In the first text, he quoted something I told him when we
changed his bandages for the first time - he reaches for his cell phone,
looks up the message, and shows it to Wilson.
"I've been told that having a Buick's chassis printed on your chest is very sexy."
"A Buick's chassis?"
"Yes, that's what happened to him. He was hit by a car."
Wilson snorts in disbelief.
"It ran over him, yes, of course."
He moves across the bed until he is facing House again. Looks him in the eyes.
"Does this Bad Bunny think he has cancer?"
His husband tilts his head to the side.
"He knows it could be something else but wants to start by ruling out the worst. I told you, a smart guy."
Wilson sighs, defeated. He's sure he'll regret it, but that's always the case with Gregory House.
"Okay. Make the appointment."
Wilson
always wondered what it would be like to cross the line, but it turns
out it's hard to tell the difference. Nothing happens after he agrees to
see this mysterious - and hard-to-kill - unique patient of House. Not
immediately, not the next day, not the next. He finds himself anxious.
"Still nothing?" -he asks at the end of the week while they have dinner at home.
Greg,
the bastard, only has to look at him to know that he's not referring to
the most recent Amazon purchase they bought with the other account and
sent to his PO box.
"No. He is setting up the place."
"Do you know if he lives in the area?"
"I don't know. I don't want to know. And you shouldn't care."
Wilson
nods, uncomfortable. He's usually the one who reminds House that he
shouldn't interfere in the lives of the people around him.
The
following Tuesday, almost ten days after learning about Bad Bunny 1982,
House goes to lunch in Wilson's office. He carries a package with the
logo of the Korean site they like - they get a discount because House
diagnosed the owner's father with rheumatism - and his eyes have a
mischievous gleam.
"Ready to go to the dark side, love?" -he asks while he sits down slowly.
Wilson delays responding with the excuse of clearing the table, opening the bag, and removing the food containers.
"I think that happened when I left your funeral to go on a motorcycle to tour the country."
"And look, it cured you of your awful thynoma."
Wilson
grimaces. He doesn't like to think about it. One day, he had only five
months more to live, so Greg pretended to be dead so he could be with
him at that time. Two months later, his tumor had mysteriously
disappeared. He had a life ahead of him and a husband - what happens in
Las Vegas does not stay in Las Vegas - who was a fugitive from justice
and officially dead. The economic, legal, and social consequences were…
intense.
"So?"
"On Saturday, they will pick us up to go see him. How many diagnostic artifacts can we take without Foreman finding out?"
Wilson
raises an eyebrow, amazed. Generally, House's limit is to jeopardize
his access to the case he works on or his employment. He's never seen
him interested in being discreet. Without a doubt, this Bunny is quite a
character. It doesn't look like fear but rather admiration and concern.
He sighs.
"Let me think. A few things are portable, and we can take them in the car's trunk."
During
the rest of the week, they stay late and take advantage of the downtime
to take what amounts to a reasonably complete, non-invasive oncology
check-up team via the service elevator.
"You know," Wilson comments on Friday night when they finish packing everything, "this is a good idea."
House looks at him blankly from the floor, where he finishes taping two polyfoam pieces to protect the endoscopy equipment.
"Have a portable oncology kit," he explains.
House finishes securing the case and leans against the wall to get up.
"I'm
sorry to wake you from your latest white savior dream, honey, but the
people in Africa, A, have excellent doctors and, B, what they need is
peace and control over their own natural resources. -he wipes his hands
on his pants- Leftover pizza and sex before bed?"
"Oh, my good sir, that's just what the doctor ordered."
The next morning, a beige SUV parks in front of their door, and a guy
in his fifties gets out, tall, with graying blonde hair, wearing pants
with side pockets, a tight T-shirt - which reveals incredible abs - and a
black and red checkered shirt. He's an average guy in an average car,
yet his mannerisms and the way he looks around - calculating, alert -
scream of a military background.
"They told me you will bring the beers to the football game watch party?"
House nods and instructs Wilson to help load the devices into the SUV trunk while he settles into the passenger seat.
"I'm a poor sick man, darling," says the fucker by way of justification.
The
driver says his name is Rick but doesn't say anything else about
himself. He puts music, and Wilson has to admit it's a good selection of
'80s rock. After almost an hour of traveling south, they stop at a
housing development on the outskirts of Allentown. All the houses are
the same; in front of most of them, there is a nondescript-colored SUV,
and no one is on the street.
It's a suburban nightmare, the kind
of setting where Wilson imagines the sordid stories of Stephen King or
VC Andrews taking place.
Rick opens the garage door with a remote
control so they don't stop outside the house. There's a sports car
inside, but Rick maneuvers the SUV into what's left of space without a
problem. The door closes behind them immediately.
Through the door
that connects the garage to the house enters a man with graying black
hair and bright green eyes. He is wearing jeans and a very tight white
T-shirt.
"Hey, Rick."
"Tommy," the driver greets.
As Rick goes to take out the bags, Tommy gives them a calculating look.
"I suppose you are the famous Dr. House."
To Wilson's surprise, Greg just nods.
"And he?"
"The oncologist I promised, James Wilson, my husband."
Tommy does not hide his surprise.
"We have a problem?" -Greg asks and takes a step back- "Because if he starts making a fuss about it now..."
"No, no." -Tommy assures them- "Not at all."
Behind him, Rick lets out a mocking chuckle.
"It would be the height of hypocrisy at this point."
Oh! Wilson understands. That's an additional reason to prefer trusted doctors, right?
"Let's go" -Tommy gestures for them to follow him into the House.
Behind them, they hear Rick following them with the oncology kit on a portable forklift.
"He
is waiting for you in the studio. He said your equipment could be
sensitive, and we shouldn't take any chances with the stairs.
Additionally, it has an attached bathroom."
It is obvious that the
house was rented. It is deliberately decorated to have no personality,
with sparse and bland furniture. There are no portraits or scattered
coffee cups, nothing to indicate that they want to make it their own.
All the windows have shutters down, so no one can't see anything from
the outside, even if someone wanders into the backyard. To balance, all
the lights are on. The intense halogen light makes furniture with cold,
dull colors look even more faded.
The study has a double sliding
door. It contains a massive bureau, three wide armchairs, and three
bookcases with hundreds of encyclopedia volumes bound in red and
gold—the kind of flashy, useless thing that goes with a rented house.
A
man is sitting on the edge of the bureau. He is tall, has blonde hair,
is still shiny, and must be over fifty years old, from what House told
him. His face has wide cheekbones and full lips, but his cheeks are
flaccid, and his skin color is a little grayish. He wears a green
sweatshirt with a zipper on the front, gray gym pants, and sneakers. The
clothes look used, although not worn, but they seem to hang from his
shoulders. Another sign that he has lost weight quickly.
Greg
stops a few steps from their patient and rests his weight on the cane.
Wilson stays by his side. Tommy keeps walking until he is behind the
man, leaving room to allow them to work but close enough to intervene.
Yes, James decides, definitely a bodyguard.
Rick
puts the boxes in the studio's corner, leaves, and closes the door
behind him. He can't hear footsteps going away, so he assumes he will
stand guard by the door.
"Greg," Bad Bunny 1982 greets in a hoarse
voice, and the tension in his neck tells Wilson it hurts to talk. His
eyes remain severe, and there is a slight glint of fear in the depths of
his blue-gray irises.
"Edward," -Greg bows slightly- "How's business going? The family?"
"Good. It's been a good year. The Serbs did not cause many problems."
The bodyguard lets out a mocking laugh. Wilson feels his stomach clench.
"The family is fine, too. My youngest son is in senior year of college," he adds with evident pride.
"Oh!" -his husband sounds genuinely surprised- "Congratulations?"
"You're not doing too badly either, from what I see," and he jerks his chin at Wilson.
"No, not bad. Meet my husband, James Wilson."
Edward looks him up and down without concealment.
"He's cute," he says with a smile.
"He also has both healthy legs, so he will take the instruments out of their boxes while I ask you some questions. Okay?"
After
Edward's nod, House drops into one of the armchairs, takes out a
notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and gets to work.
Wilson
listens to the interview as he opens the boxes and organizes the
devices. At one point, Edward's voice fails, and his bodyguard begins to
answer in his place. He's a quiet guy, Tommy. He speaks mostly in
monosyllables and numbers. But the confidence with which he says all
indicates that he knows his boss well. When Edward grunts in doubt or
disbelief, Tommy responds, "That's what Sarah said," and that's the end
of the questioning. He deduces that Sarah is his wife.
Of course,
he has a wife! Mafia bosses are not gay. And it is clear that this man
is used to being obeyed, even if his voice fails him now.
From the picture the symptoms paint, the oncologist understands why they fear it may be throat cancer.
"Let's
see if I got the information right between your excellent imitation of a
racing car engine and the mini Terminator codes. -House summarizes- Six
months ago, in March, you started losing weight for no apparent reason,
accompanied by fatigue and migraines. By May dizziness and nausea
started. Finally, you have had a persistent cough for almost two months,
which appeared without any other cold symptoms. You have no idea if
there is a history of cancer in your family. You were exposed to
internal combustion engine exhaust almost daily between 1982 and 1998.
You do one hour of high-intensity exercise every day except Sundays. You
were a social smoker between 1983 and 1990. You drink alcohol
approximately once a month."
"Yeah," -Edward confirms in his raspy voice.
Wilson
exchanges a look with Greg. It certainly could be. But there is
something in her husband's eyes as if he doubted the answers he
received.
"What about your... medicines?"
"My medicines?" -Edward repeats with undeniable mockery in his voice.
"Yes," House insists with a dry voice, "the ones you took every day and they made you so happy."
James
can't see them because he's in the attached bathroom washing his hands,
but he stays very still, and he's afraid to even breathe. How long has
this man been taking drugs?
"I had to stop taking it at the
beginning of the year." -Edward informs with a clear tone of longing-
"Do you think that could be it?"
"Unlikely. You would have noticed the adverse reactions much faster. And nothing else has changed recently in your life?"
The patient grunts, reflective.
"The office changed," Tommy reminds him.
"How did it change?" -Greg asks.
Edward is slow to respond.
"My…
mm… organization changed my place of operations. I have been in
Washington, DC, for two months. Before it was by the sea, with a dry
climate."
Wilson feels his heart sink. This is worse than he
imagined! It is a national organization. Next to the sea and dry
climate? What crime syndicate has agents in California and DC?
He takes a deep breath and returns to the office.
"The air in DC stinks." -Tommy complains with a revolted expression.
Edward gives him an amused, exasperated look.
"Stop it," he says with the tone of someone continuing a long and useless discussion.
"Certainly, the level of air pollution in DC could have triggered the cough," James says, still clutching a disposable towel.
The
boss and his bodyguard look at him in surprise. Tommy's eyes are
slightly satisfied, as if Wilson's opinion vindicates his displeasure
with the city.
Greg purses his lips, not looking very convinced.
"Let's move on to the clinical examination. James?"
He puts the stethoscope around his neck and walks over, but Edward looks at him with a panicked expression.
"He?"
"Of
course he." -House replies impatient- "Didn't you want an oncologist?
There you go. I did a lot of sexy things to him to get him to agree.
You're not going to make my oral talent go to waste."
"But…"
"Mr.
Edward, I assure you that everything that happens in this exchange is
protected by confidentiality between doctor and patient."
The man
remains hesitant, but Tommy puts a hand on his shoulder and leans toward
his ear. Wilson doesn't try to listen. Just watch the man's expression
go from anxious to guilty. Finally, he nods.
"Take off your sweatshirt and shoes, please."
Underneath,
he wears a gray Henley shirt whose flap reaches his sternum. It's
completely buttoned up, but it's evident that Edward feels almost naked.
He's probably used to formal suits, maybe even a bulletproof vest?
Wilson
begins the ritual he knows by heart. Posture, height, weight (with a
note about the previous register), and body temperature. It's clear that
this man won't take off his pants, so he settles for studying the skin
of his face, neck, hands, arms, and feet. He is sure that he had any
bruises or other skin irregularities, they would have told.
"Open your shirt to auscultate."
He automatically brings a hand to his chest and clutches the opening. What little relaxation they had achieved evaporates.
"I have some scars."
"Yes, Greg told me you were hit by a car."
Edward turns to House with a raised eyebrow and curious eyes.
"Did a car hit me?"
House, who is watching them with great attention, nods.
"You crashed into the chassis of a Buick, didn't you?"
"Yes," the patient confirms.
Tommy
lets out a mocking laugh. James rolls his eyes. Whatever brought Edward
to the operating table in San Francisco over thirty years ago is
irrelevant now. Furthermore, he already assured him that he is obliged
by law to keep his secrets, and House vouches for him. What more
guarantees can he ask for? The man seems to come to the same conclusion
because he purses his lips, sighs, and begins to open the buttons.
Very
slowly, he separates the flaps. Expires. Puts his hands away. Wilson
looks at the skin twisted by old scars and the thick lines of a tattoo
covering them. In a flash, he remembers one morning in the summer of
2008 when he told a teenager, "Your mother was a breast cancer
survivor." He steps back, looks at the man's features again, and can
see…
"Oh God! You are Jake Mitchell's mo... father."
Blue eyes widen in surprise, then tinge with panic.
Wilson is dragged by an unexpected force, and suddenly, his back and skull collide against one of the walls of the office.
"Tell me how you know that!"
The
bodyguard has him immobilized with a forearm stuck in his neck and a
gun against his temple. His green eyes - like Jake's, he notes - flash
with a murderous shine.
He sees Greg advancing toward them from
behind the man with his cane raised, but Edward hasn't stayed still.
With one blow, he disarms Greg and pushes him back to his seat.
"Mav."
What is Mav?
"Answer to me!" -Tommy insists without noticing that the pressure on his neck prevents Wilson from speaking.
"Maverick!" -the boss shouts again- "Let Dr. Wilson go, please."
His voice is like a broken bell ringing with a rusty clapper but standing on a tall, hard tower.
This time, the bodyguard reacts.
"Not until he tells me how does he knows about Jake."
"Wilson
knows Jake from when he went to hide in Bradley's apartment, Mav." -the
boss explains calmly- "He can't say it himself because you're choking
him. Now let it go!"
With an angry growl, the man finally lets him
go. Wilson falls to the ground, coughing. After a cautious glance at
Edward, Greg approaches him.
"Are you okay, honey?"
He just
nods, knowing not to strain his vocal cords. They hug. What the hell is
going on? That man knows where he lived eight years ago, how? More
importantly, if he is Jake's father... Bradley said they were from a
military family. That's the great mystery? A trans man walking the halls
of power? Yes, he can understand the secrecy.
Edward is coughing
from the effort. It is a dry and agonizing sound. Maverick (what kind of
name is that?) hands him a glass of water. When he recovers, he looks
at them again.
"You didn't tell him," he claims accusingly to House.
"I didn't think it was relevant!" -his husband defends himself, still from the ground.
The man snorts and turns to his bodyguard, who looks at him, tense as a wire.
"What does that mean?" Edward asks softly and points to the gun still in his hand.
"We
are in New Jersey." -from the tone of his voice, he could refer to the
Wild West- "You are weak. I took it to feel protected." -sighs- "I got
carried away." -he admits, embarrassed, then looks at Wilson- "I'm
sorry, doctor."
He forces a mollifying smile and leans on a bookcase to get up. He extends a hand to Greg to do the same.
"Edward, I like you, but trying to kill my husband is where I draw the line."
The
boss nods. He turns to Mav and extends a hand in an imperative gesture.
The other man pouts but hands him the gun. Edward walks to the other
side of the bureau. With deliberately large gestures, he opens a drawer,
puts the gun inside, and closes it. Then he returns to face them and
sits on the table's edge again, like when they arrived.
"Better?"
Greg
looks at him questioningly. James knows that if he says, "I'm done,"
his husband will follow his wishes. But now he feels huge curiosity,
besides his responsibility as a doctor. He sees both men with a new
perspective. He pulls House's hand, and they return to the armchairs in
front of the bureau.
"You are Jake's parents," he doesn't bother to phrase it as a question.
Edward crosses his arms over his chest, curls his lips, and nods.
"How did you knew?"
"Jake
had a beautiful photo of when he was a newborn, sleeping on your
chest." -he points in the general direction of the area with his index
finger- "The tattoo is unmistakable." -he looks at Maverick- "And he
inherited your green eyes."
The couple exchanges an intense, brief
look, oscillating between pride and bitterness. The feeling is gone
when Edward looks back at them, and only a dark resolution remains.
"Did you talk about the photo?"
"Yeah.
I told him..." -he stops to collect his thoughts, he doesn't want to
hurt him more- "What I believed at that moment, that you were a cancer
survivor. That he was a miracle baby."
Maverick emits a low, mocking laugh.
"Yes, he was definitely a miracle."
"I never took you for the motherly type, Edward." -Greg intervenes.
Wilson kicks him.
"Ouch!"
"I
don't have a maternal bone in my body, House." -answers with a harsh
inflection- "Jake was an accident, things that happen when you don't
have regular access to testosterone."
Then Wilson understands something else.
"Those medicines that Greg referred to earlier, were they your hormone replacement injections?"
"Yeah. It became to complicated to obtain them without leaving a trace. I thought fifty-four was as good an age as any to quit."
"But then, are you menstruating again?"
"No, no. I had a radical hysterectomy in ninety-three."
"A carnage, you'll mean," Maverick corrects.
"Yes,
well, I couldn't go to my family doctor," -he responds irritatedly and
explains to the doctors- "It was in an illegal clinic that performed
abortions and other services. He's still upset because he couldn't
accompany me."
"Were there no complications?" -insists Wilson.
"No. I left two days later and rested at home for a week. I went back to work. I reduced the dose of testosterone from then on."
"On your own?" -James is scandalized.
"Well done," -Greg congratulates him at the same time.
He earns a recriminating look from his husband.
"You
must understand, Dr. Wilson, that I have pretended to be a biological
man since I was seventeen. The last time my doctors knew my true
identity was when I had Jake. Besides, I'm here, right?"
Yes, the
man survived self-dosing hormones for decades without giving himself a
heart attack, developing diabetes, or going bald. Although it sounds
barbaric and frustrating, he has to grudgingly admit that Edward was
able to handle himself well without professional help.
He admits his mistake with a reluctant grunt.
"Oh! Look at you, love, all grumpy and unable to express your feelings. We'll still make a man out of you," Greg mocks.
"Let's get back to the exam," he says, standing up.
Now,
Wilson can notice how tense Edward was during the first part of the
appointment. He supposes It's no wonder if the last time he went to a
check-up without having to play hide-and-seek with his own doctor was
more than twenty years ago. He proceeds to auscultate, palpate and
percuss without further surprises. The man is, indeed, in excellent
physical shape.
"I had to focus on never getting sick," he explains sadly.
"Just imagining that diet makes me want to die," House comments in a horrified voice.
"Imagine what it's been like to live with him all these years," Maverick responds, wiping away an imaginary tear.
Edward and James exchange exasperated glances.
Although
careful examination of the head and neck reveals no abnormal areas or
swollen lymph nodes, Wilson decides to go all the way.
"I want to take a blood sample and do a laryngoscopy."
"Will the blood results be ready that quickly?" -the bodyguard is amazed.
"For what we are looking for, yes."
He
extracts the blood and starts the laser scanner. Then, House helps him
put the monitor on the desk and connect the cables to the endoscope. He
takes out a spray bottle and shows it to the patient.
"It's 10% lidocaine. I want to numb your tongue slightly so that the gag reflex doesn't trigger when I watch.·
Edward looks at the drug with slight suspicion but eventually nods.
The
laryngoscopy goes uneventfully, although it reveals nothing that links
the man's symptoms to cancer. The throat is very irritated, it is true,
but the vocal cords seem more overused than injured.
Wilson sets
the endoscope on the table and removes his gloves with a frown. He sees
that House is also baffled. He opens his mouth to suggest another test
but is interrupted by the hematology scanner's alarm. The small screen
begins to display figures. Annoyed as always by the small font size, he
presses a button so that the information appears on the monitor they
have on the desk.
Maverick whistles, admiring.
"Did you steal that from the hospital where you work?"
"We borrowed," House corrects, without taking his eyes away from the results.
"I want one of those," he begs his boss.
"What for?" -Edward snaps- "I don't need a device to know your adrenaline levels. They are always over the roof."
James
finds this innocent exchange amusing. Now that Edward and Maverick
don't try to hide it in front of them, they treat each other like an old
married couple. He aspires to have that with House now that the specter
of his own cancer has disappeared. Cross the andropause curve and…
Oh! He turns to his patient.
"When, exactly, did you stop testosterone?"
"February."
"But you said you hadn't planned, right? You decided to leave it because it was too dangerous."
"Yeah."
"And when did you move to DC?"
"End of July."
"And what happened four months ago? Around April or May."
Edward looks at him, surprised and angry. Bingo!
"Nothing important."
"It's evident that your body believed it was."
"Honey?"
Wilson turns to his husband.
"I think we are looking with the wrong perspective. We got very complicated."
"You know I love complications," Greg admits, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes,
but life is not always complex. Tell me, if it were just the weight
loss, fatigue, and migraines, knowing that he cut his testosterone
suddenly, what would you have told him?"
"Ah! Yeah. That he should not cry because andropause passed over him like a freight train."
"Exactly."
-he looks back at Edward- "The throat problems didn't start until you
came to DC. It is fall. I'm almost sure it's a seasonal allergy. What
doesn't add up is that four months ago, you started having dizziness and
nausea. So I repeat my question, Mr. Edward, what happened four months
ago?"
"Yes, honey," Maverick intervenes with an irritated voice. "Can you tell us what happened?"
After thinking about it a little, the man begins to speak slowly without looking at them.
"Four
months ago, I learned that certain adjustments were necessary in our
organization's human resource allocation. Technically, it is not my area
of action, but I knew my solution would be better than the one being
considered. It was an urgent matter. It was complicated to implement my
idea anonymously. Yes, I admit it stressed me out."
"Was it a life or death situation?" -Maverick asks in a soft voice.
Edward bites his lip. When he finally looks at his partner, the anxiety is clear in his eyes.
"It was."
"Ah," is all the other says.
There
is something implicit in the question and its answer. Wilson realizes
those two know perfectly well what "human resources" is about. There is
an air of melancholy and weariness between the two as if this were a
topic they regularly discuss. The atmosphere is cut with House's
intervention.
"But if the dizziness and nausea were psychosomatic, they would have disappeared when the problem was resolved."
"Well,"
Edward admits, "then I was afraid my intervention would be discovered.
The move to DC made everything worse. It was one stress on top of
another."
"Oh! I never took you for the sentimental type, Edward."
-Greg adds with amusement- "So we've solved it." -he starts typing on
his phone- "I'm sending you a list of several antihistamines that don't
tend to cause drowsiness since you're a busy guy. Although I think you
can go to your family doctor without the danger of him discovering your
secret."
James turns to Maverick.
"Can you help me dismantle all this?"
With
Slider leading the quirky doctor duo away with their fascinating
diagnostic equipment, Maverick returns to the living room, where Ice has
sprawled out on a couch. He covers his face with one arm and seems
relaxed for the first time in months.
He kneels next to him.
"Do you want an herbal tea before we go?"
Blue
eyes watch him carefully. Mav knows he's afraid of his reaction, so he
tries to project the most reassuring expression possible. His husband
nods but doesn't let him go; instead, he takes his hand, gets up, and
follows him to the kitchen.
He leaves Ice drinking and rushes to
erase the last traces of their presence on the property. With the
practice of managing a house with four children, he scrubs the bathroom
and cleans up the office. When he returns, Ice is washing the cup and
spoon he used.
They don't say anything until their sports car has
left Allentown behind and merges into traffic on the Turnpike. The air
is thick between them, with the enormity of what Tom admitted like a
third passenger. Maverick decides he can't travel like this for the next
three hours.
"Regarding what you did..." -he begins.
"Don't scold me, please." -Ice stops him, clearly on the defensive- "I've had enough of the twists and turns my head has taken."
"I
don't want to scold you," Mav responds in a conciliatory tone and puts a
hand on his thigh to calm him down. "Just explain to me what happened,
okay?"
"It started in April. One of the many ceremonies to
celebrate the new facilities at the Bahrain Base. Among the guests was
the commander of the USS Eisenhower, the insufferable Koehler. You know
people are already talking about Jake, right?"
"Yeah. Brad told me that the most recent theory is that it is a product of genetic engineering." -he chuckles.
Ice makes a face.
"At
the reception, everyone was around Koehler asking him about his star
aviator. I noticed several commanders looking at him with envy. The
truth is, I was proud until that idiot opened his mouth. He said yes,
Lieutenant Junior Seresin was good, but would be better when he finished
hardening. They were working on cutting the wires he brought from the
USNA between him and his squadron commander.
"Did he say that?" -knowing Jake's career, it is not difficult to realize that he refers to his relationship with Brig.
"I
thought it was paranoia, so I managed to talk to him directly. As I
expected, he started complaining that Harvard had no shame and was
affecting his ship's morale. That in the days of DADT, he would have
thrown him off head first for half of the things he does and says. I
played my rule-freak card and asked if he had anything concrete. He
admitted he didn't but tried to appeal to my strategist side. He had
plans for Jake, he told me, and Brig was always in the middle. He
complained that Harvard protects him from other sailors when that should
be the squadron commander's job."
"That guy allows bullying on his ship to reinforce the importance of his officers?!"
"So
it seems. Anyway, for Koehler, the relationship between Jake and Brig
was either faggot or childishness, and he wouldn't allow either on his
boat. That night, I decided I had to get him out of there."
"Jake warned you..."
"Jake
is my son!" -Ice cuts him off forcefully- "I wasn't going to let that
homophobic piece of shit gaslight him just to cover himself in glory."
"He could have solved it himself."
"He
could," -he admits- "but only in a reactive way, after losing Brig.
Excuse me if I don't want to sit and watch him suffer," -he concludes
sarcastically.
"You could have also told us something."
Ice lowers his head because that's a reasonable claim despite Maverick's conciliatory tone.
"I was afraid."
"Afraid?"
"Tell me, what would you have done if you knew?"
Maverick
tries to think of a scenario where he wouldn't try to confront Stephen
"Web" Koehler or warn Brig of the danger through his parents. Either
move would have drawn Jake's ire.
"Yes..." -he admits, defeated- "Intrigue is not my thing."
"So
I got to work. But I had to do it before I took office in Washington,
or there was a possibility that Jake would become suspicious and reject
the offer just on principle."
"I thought Jake was happy on the Eisenhower," Maverick says.
"Well,
he was lying, or he didn't know he wanted more until he had it in front
of his eyes. A single mention in the Navy News Bulletin of openings on
the USS John C. Stennis was enough for him and Brig to submit their
availability forms. And, of course, Gregory Huffman wanted him. Who
doesn't wish to have Jake Hangman Seresin on their aircraft carrier? The
problem was Koehler and VFA-32 commander Munchkin, who wanted the glory
of the new Iceman without the hassle of his nanny. They started putting
off getting Jake's paperwork, and I had to send them an audit to get
them to let go of their prey."
"But then, do they know it was because of him?"
"Nah.
The audit was scheduled. I only ensured the team had the Navy's most
rule-abiding, perfectionist people. They couldn't justify keeping Jake.
It was exhausting. I used a few favors, but I managed not to let anyone
see my final move, so my prestige has grown. And Huffman feels indebted
to me now."
"Happy ending?"
Ice gives him a shy smile.
"Something like that, yes."
INDEX: https://palabraspulsares.blogspot.com/p/the-lies-we-told-each-other-3-five.html
