Gentle Knock - Chapter 77 by zeppomarx (house fanfic)

Title: A Gentle Knock at the Door, Chapter 77
Author: zeppomarx
Characters: House, Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase, and others.
Warnings and So On: Emotional issues. H/W friendship (perhaps slash if you wear those kind of goggles).
Summary: House is a physical and emotional mess, having been wrongly imprisoned and tortured and all sorts of nasty stuff. It's about what happens next, and how House deals with it. A sequel to Priority's Exigencies, which is a sequel to DIY Sheep's The Contract, which has spawned an incredible number of offshoots.
Timeline: Set nearly a year after the beginning of Exigencies.
Earlier chapters: Chapters 1-16 here. Chapters 18-43 here. Chapters 44-61 here. Chapters 62-67 here. Chapters 68-? here.

COMMENTS: If you'll keep commenting, I'll keep responding. I promise.

Oh, Yeah, the Disclaimer: Still don't own the characters (except the ones I created). I appreciate them, though, except when they wander around in my brain and won't let me sleep.

SUMMARY: A proposal too good to pass up. Visitors come a-calling. A crisis develops in the middle of the night.

TEASER: A Change in the Weather...

___________________________________________

A Gentle Knock at the Door
Chapter 77

“Yes, just a minute. Mr. Fields, it’s Sherry Corbett on line 2. I’ll put her through.”

Literary agent Sherry Corbett had a proposal she was pretty sure Fields & Marx were going to find very interesting. They did.

At a meeting the next day, they discussed it. It was a good proposal—an interesting idea well presented. But most of all, it had a hook.

“You know who this is, don’t you?” asked Corbett.

Fields certainly did. Marx wasn’t so sure. They enlightened him.

“Holy crap!” he said, grabbing the proposal and looking at it again.

“Now here’s the tricky part,” said Corbett. “She states explicitly in her proposal that she will not be available for any press tours or face-to-face interviews. A few phoners, maybe, but no guarantees, even on that.”

“Whoa. Can’t say that I blame her, given what’s happened,” said Marx. “But that puts us in a spot on publicity.”

Fields, who was the quicker of the two partners, had already come up with some ideas.

“Not necessarily. I think we’ve got a couple ways to go here, and it’s a win-win, no matter what we do. Either we don’t say a word, and figure the press might pick up on it by themselves—certainly the Times will, and the tabloids. She’s pretty direct in her introduction about what happened, and there may be even more in the book, so they should be able to put two and two together.

“The other way is to announce up front just exactly who she is and what happened to her—and that she will not speak to the press under any circumstances—she wants the work to speak for itself. Then, the less we say, the more interest it will generate. Kind of like Garbo.”

“Garbo’s good,” agreed Marx. “Who else is going after this, Sherry?”

Corbett named three other top publishers interested in A Question of Evil. The bidding war was fierce, but Fields & Marx won out. If she hadn’t been already, this would have made Maureen Adler a very wealthy woman.

* * * *

They finally met their client on a snowy Monday afternoon. Unwilling to repeat her New York Times fiasco by venturing out, she insisted they come to her place in Jersey. Sherry Corbett, who had already met Rainie Adler, had prepped them for the meeting.

After two knocks, the door was answered by a very tall, brown-haired woman, who introduced herself as Rainie’s nurse, Linda McAllister. She grudgingly let them in, hung up their coats on an antique coat rack by the door and got them settled on the long, comfortable sofa situated in the middle of an expensively furnished—if quirkily attractive—living room. Then she left them to their own devices.

A coffee pot, cups, plates, napkins and pastries sat attractively arranged on a tray in front of them. The tray was bright red, with colorful cartoon figures on it, which Will Fields recognized as the Astérix characters designed by Albert Uderzo. The blue coffee carafe was Rotpunkt, while the white cups and plates were some kind of hand-made ceramics, simple in design but somehow a little different from the norm. A travel mug sat next to the coffee service. Artie Marx, who had both a weight problem and a terrible sweet tooth, immediately reached for an enticing apple tart sprinkled with powdered sugar. Will Fields glared at him.

“They’re here,” the nurse said off in the distance. Fields thought he heard a soft voice say, “Okay,” but he wasn’t sure. Marx, whose hearing was better, heard a gentle “I’ll be right out” after the “okay.”

The two high-powered publishers were surprisingly apprehensive. There was something about this book, this client and this situation that was a little nerve-wracking. Maybe it was the suspense. Maybe it was not knowing what this woman was going to look like. It was obvious from her writing, and from her insistence that she not be interviewed, that the injuries had been pretty disastrous. If they responded badly, would they ruin the deal? What was the right way to act? Sherry Corbett had told them to act naturally… but if the injuries were that bad, how could they?

It didn’t help that the place was warm, really warm. Sherry Corbett had warned them about that, too. Rainie Adler chilled easily after being starved for three years and left to sleep on a cold concrete floor.

After what seemed to be forever, they heard an odd ka-thumping sound headed toward them, growing louder with each ka-thump. Strangely, the sound of the walker moving toward them seemed to mimic their own heartbeats.

This was ridiculous. They’d met with prime ministers and movie stars. Why would this one woman make them so uncomfortable? In a way, they recognized that their feelings actually boded well for the book. If they were this intrigued, how would the reading public react?

Don’t stand up. Move slowly. Speak quietly, Sherry Corbett had told them. Wait for her to make the first move before you do anything.

Rainie Adler entered the room, slowly maneuvering her way to a large, plump chair to the right of the sofa. Will Fields found that Corbett’s advice to act naturally was going to be hard to follow. He’d tried to prepare himself, tried to imagine what to expect, but nothing prepared him for what he saw.

The first thing he saw was the walker. Then he saw a small pair of soft suede boots under a blue woolen skirt topped by an oversized sweater and a long chiffon scarf. So far so good. But then he noticed that her right foot turned in at an unnatural angle, her foot bent so much that she was almost walking on her ankle. On the rest of her body, he could see very little skin, which he guessed was intentional.

The woman was undoubtedly damaged. After she eased herself into the chair and let go of the walker, her hands shook with tremors that continued up her arms. The tremors continued throughout her body, which shook slightly from the effort to walk the modest distance from the back of the apartment to the front. On what little skin showed, the scars and deformities were apparent. The left side of her face was bruised and swollen, her left eye nearly closed—they’d already been warned that she’d recently undergone the first of many plastic surgeries to repair the extensive injuries she had suffered. And yet her large hazel eyes were alert and intelligent.

It was so hard not to stare.

Her glance grazed them before she looked down as if embarrassed.

“Go ahead,” came the sad voice. “I know. I’m starting to get used to it.”

“I-I…” said Fields. Then he pulled himself together. “I’m Will Fields.” He had to suppress the automatic instinct to reach out for a handshake.

“Ah,” she said, smiling as she turned to his companion. “And you must be Artie Marx.”

Artie nodded, mute.

Suddenly, the phone rang and Rainie Adler jumped, her arms fluttering toward her head as she emitted a little cry. Pursing her lips, she forced her hands back to her sides.

“Damn it,” she said, clearly annoyed with herself for the reaction. She bit her lower lip and took a deep breath.

“Wh-who is it, Linda?” Her voice wavered.

The answer came from some distance off.

“It’s the doc, honey. Do you want to talk to him?”

She looked at her guests.

“Do you mind if I take this?”

“Go right ahead,” said Artie Marx, a little relieved by the distraction. Maybe while she was on the phone they could get acclimated.

Picking up the portable extension lying next to the tray on the coffee table, she clumsily pressed the talk button.

“Hi, Greg… mmm-hmm… just getting started… uh-huh… fine for now… a little swelling, but Linda says it’s normal… no, no fever… I’m good, thanks… it’ll be all right… no, it’s okay—you didn’t need to stay home for this… I’ll be fine… you know me—not much appetite… whatever you bring home is good… oooh—biscuits—that should make Linda happy… yes, I’m sure… everything’s groovy… you know you're a big goofball for calling to check up on me, don't you...? thought you had that figured out... see you around five…”

She smiled as she disconnected the phone.

Somehow the call broke the ice. By the time they left ninety minutes later, Will Fields and Artie Marx had almost forgotten their initial shock, finding in Rainie Adler a sharp mind, a pithy sense of humor and a forceful personality.

And interestingly—not to mention great from a PR perspective—Adler told them she intended to use the $10.6 million advance to start a nonprofit foundation to support people recovering from catastrophic injuries.

* * * *

Changes in the weather wreaked havoc on both of them; as each winter front threatened, they felt it vibrating through their bones and nerves. Some days, they seldom got out of bed. On such days, Linda often helped Rainie into the recliner in House’s room or gently positioned her among the pillows next to House, and the two of them rode it out together.

Sometimes, the pain was so intense, they moaned in harmony. No amount of Vicodin seemed to dull the ache or ease the throbbing. Synthia Little had recommended they each get a pain pump, which they could control up to a point, but on bad days that point was reached far too quickly.

One night in December, House awoke feeling particularly dreadful. Through the wall, he could hear Rainie. He felt pressure behind his eyes, and mentally ran over his body to catalogue what hurt the most. Today it was his feet and legs, his shoulders and the back of his head. And his thigh, of course. Always his thigh.

Her cries pierced him. Once again, he cursed himself that he hadn’t been able to find a decent treatment plan to ease her fibromyalgia symptoms, that she continued to suffer more than he thought she should.

He looked around for the Vicodin, but didn’t see the familiar bottle. He called for the night nurse.

“Marina!”

Maybe she was in with Rainie, because she didn’t respond.

He waited a while, breathing cautiously, hoping everything would settle down. No such luck.

He tried again.

“Marina!”

Still no response. Rainie’s cries got louder.

Against his better judgment, he reached for the walker and pulled himself up out of the bed, every nerve ending screaming at him that this was a very, very bad idea.

Somehow, he got himself out the door of his room and into the hall. His head was whirling, and he felt himself getting queasy from the pain. She’d better get to him soon, because he wasn’t going to last long like this.

“Marina!”

Nothing.

As he headed past Rainie’s room, he glanced in past the partially open door and saw her, eyes shut tight as she clutched the covers. At the sound of his walker, she turned her head toward the door. Their eyes met for a moment in complete understanding just before a pain spasm struck her and she flung her head back into the pillow with a gasp and a loud groan. Marina was nowhere to be seen.

He soldiered on toward the living room, and saw the nurse sound asleep on the couch.

Enraged, he stumbled toward her.

“Wake up!” He slammed the side of the walker into the back of the couch, causing her to start. “Wake up, damn you! Wake up!”

When she realized what had happened, she sniffled an apology.

“Oh, Dr. House. I’m so sorry. I must have dozed off for a minute.”

“Not acceptable, and it wasn’t a minute,” he said furiously. “I can’t have you here if you’re not going to be available when we need you. Get out! You’re fired!”

“But Dr. House…”

“No excuses. Get out! Now!”

Shocked, she grabbed her coat and bag from the closet and stumbled out the front door.

As the door closed behind her, he realized that in his anger he’d made a strategic mistake. Now there was no one here to help either one of them.

NEXT: A Very Very Bad Idea...

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