Cure- House, MD

chapter 14: craniopharyngioma

The blinds are half-closed in House's office, the late afternoon light filtering in with a faint glow that barely softens the tension in the air. I stand near the door, arms crossed, trying to summon the courage to say what I've been turning over in my mind all day. House is at his desk, lazily twirling his cane and glancing at me with an expectant smirk.

"So," he says, breaking the silence. "You planning to say something, or are you just here to perfect your sulking stance?"

I roll my eyes but step closer, my stomach knotting as I speak. "I need you to run some tests."

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by a look of curiosity. "Tests for what?"

"Lupus," I say, the word feeling heavy as it leaves my mouth.

House tilts his head, his sharp eyes locking onto mine. "You can go to any doctor for that, Moss. Why me?"

I shift uncomfortably, fidgeting with the hem of my white coat. "I don't want people to know. If it gets out that I'm testing for something like this, it'll spread like wildfire. Rumors, questions... I don't want to deal with it."

He leans back in his chair, twirling his cane once more. "So, instead, you want me to sneak you into an exam room, run the tests, and pretend it's no big deal?"

"Exactly," I reply, meeting his gaze with as much confidence as I can muster.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You know I'm not discreet, right? My middle name is 'Cause a Scene.'"

"I'll take my chances," I say firmly. "Can you just... help me with this?"

House sighs, the exasperation clear in his expression, but he nods. "Fine. But if this turns into a melodrama about me poking and prodding you, don't say I didn't warn you."

-

A few hours later, after the day's chaos of patients and cases, House leads me into an exam room, the harsh fluorescent lights humming overhead. He gestures toward the chair in the center of the room, and I sit, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Take off the coat," he says, grabbing a pair of gloves from the counter and snapping them on. "And the button-up, too."

I hesitate, glancing at him. "You could try saying that a little less clinically."

"Would you prefer, 'Strip for me, doc'?" he quips, smirking as he looks over his shoulder. "Because I'm not saying that. Not here, at least."

I roll my eyes but shrug off my white coat and unbutton my shirt, leaving me in my bra. The cool air of the room prickles against my skin as I cross my arms over my stomach.

"Relax," he says, stepping closer with his cane propped under his arm. His expression, for once, is focused and professional as he looks at the skin on my arms and shoulders, checking for rashes or discoloration. "Open your mouth."

I do as he says, feeling more exposed than I'd like as he peers inside, tilting my head slightly to get a better angle.

"Good news," he says, stepping back. "You don't have three heads. Bad news? I still need blood."

He sets up the equipment quickly, drawing a sample with precision, and places it aside. "Now," he says, grabbing a clipboard, "I'm going to ask you an annoying number of questions, and I expect honest answers. Got it?"

"Got it," I mutter.

For the next ten minutes, he fires off questions about everything—joint pain, fatigue, sensitivity to light, my family history, even my sleep patterns. By the time he's done, my nerves are frayed, but his expression remains unreadable.