Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even in his jet, he could just about hear the roar of the stadium underneath, and smiled to himself a little inside his mask. It was just a flyover, practically routine at this point, but something in it reminded him of the Army-Navy game on at the Kazanskys’, of Slider yelling at the TV, Mav yanking the beer he had snuck out of the fridge out of his hand and replacing it with a Coke. And maybe they couldn’t have that back, but Slider and Hondo had decided to make a trip out of it, were in that stadium somewhere with Hollywood and Wolfman, and Maverick and Viper had been in the commemorative WWII flyover only a few minutes ago. Maybe going forward wasn’t so bad. 

He was still grinning to himself as they landed back at the small airstrip outside of Princeton, lining his jet up neatly in a line of bright blue planes. He was going down his checklist, listening idly to Catbox and Tink discuss where to get a drink after the game, when he heard the faint noise of a siren. 

Something prickled up the back of his neck, and he yanked off his helmet. There wasn’t much else near the airstrip. He could see one of the mechanics looking curiously around, but the whole Blue Angels crew looked to be upright, talking, going through checklists. 

Then the siren got louder as an ambulance rounded the end of the building and made a beeline towards the neat row of Mustangs on the opposite side of the airstrip, and his heart leapt into his throat as he spotted a tall, graying figure waving at it.

He wasn’t fully aware of having safed his aircraft, of dropping his helmet, or of sprinting across the tarmac, but he found himself skidding to a halt in front of Viper, who was crouchednext to a huddled figure as he waved over the paramedics.

“Over here! No, not me, I’m old, not unconscious -”

Bradley could feel his throat tightening, his heart hammering against his ribs as the paramedics swarmed around Mav, and he felt an arm around his chest pulling him back even as he craned his neck, trying to see his face -

“C’mon, son, let ‘em do their jobs.” 

Dazed, he looked around into Viper’s face, his eyebrows flecked with gray and furrowed together. His expression must have matched the tightness in his chest and his throat, because it only took a second before Viper answered his unspoken plea for information. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Viper started, his voice calm, holding up a hand, “said something was off in the air, then he fell climbing out of the Mustang -” Bradley inhaled sharply “- I caught him, don’t panic yet, but it looked like he blacked out. You know if anything’s been up with him lately?”

Bradley shook his head dumbly, pulling out of Viper’s grip and turning around; the sliver he could see of Mav’s face between the paramedics was ashen, blood flowing from his nose. He could feel his own chest heaving; he seemed to be having a lot of trouble catching his breath. 

“No point in getting worked up yet,” he heard Viper mutter, as a hand clapped him on the shoulder, but Viper, too, had turned towards the gurney, the lines on his face deepening. “Gotta figure if they’re having the Army-Navy game at Princeton that they got a decent medical school here.”

Bradley wasn’t sure if Viper was trying to reassure himself or him, but nodded anyway, trying to control his breathing, then jumped as one of the EMTs yelled over to them. 

“Hey! Anyone coming with? Are you family?”

“He is,” came Viper’s gruff voice, and he felt himself being shoved forward. The EMT raised one eyebrow at him, but tipped her head in the direction of the ambulance anyway. 

“But I -”

“Get in the meat wagon, kid, he doesn’t need to go alone. I’ll talk to your CO.”

At this, he nodded silently again, climbing clumsily up into the back of the ambulance as Viper called after them. 

“Where’re you taking him?”

“Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital’s closest,” said the EMT, snapping one of the doors shut, then her face softened a little as she looked between Bradley, frozen on his seat, and Viper, alone on the tarmac. “They’re good there,” she added, “he’s in good hands.” 

Bradley swallowed, hard, nodding in turn with Viper, and they pulled away before the other door had even fully closed. 

Despite the activity in the ambulance, the EMTs barely spoke over the sirens, moving as if they could read each others’ minds. Mav’s face looked paler still in the flat lighting, the blood from his nose drying now around the oxygen mask. On impulse, he reached out, taking his hand where it was hanging just off the edge of the gurney, gripping it for a second; it felt cold. 

“You have to let go,” someone said, and he jumped a little, dropping his hand. 

“Sorry,” added the paramedic over his shoulder as he edged past, “we need to move around in here, it’s best if you just stay put.” 

He nodded dumbly, moving his hands to his knees, trying not to think too hard about exactly how fast they seemed to be going.

He hadn’t even registered that they had stopped until someone pushed past him to fling open the doors.

“Male, fifties or sixties -“

“Sixty-two,” Bradley heard himself say automatically.

“Sixty-two year old male, then, unexplained syncope, shortness of breath -“

They had unloaded the gurney before he had even had a chance to get up, and he climbed clumsily out, staring uncertainly at the flurry of scrubs coming out of the hospital doors.

“You with him?”

“Huh?”

He shook himself a little.

“Sir? Is this your father? Are you coming in with him?”

“Uh -“ he froze a second, his eyes dropping down to the gurney again; Mav’s eyelashes were fluttering.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing, “yeah, I’m coming.”

The ER was even busier, scrub-clad doctors and nurses in every direction, but somehow, they were steered inside within seconds. Mav’s eyelids were still fluttering, then one blinked open, just for a second.

“Mav - “ he started, his voice rough, then jumped as Maverick’s hand reached for his, and he grabbed hold of it reflexively, gripping so tightly he could see his own knuckles turn white. 

“Mav, are you - it’s okay, we’re at the hospital -“ 

There was a very slight answering pressure on his hand, and he could see Mav reaching for the oxygen mask.

“Bradley -“ 

His voice was faint and ragged, but he was looking at him, his gaze sharp, and Bradley tightened his grip still further.

“Sir,” came the firm voice of one of the nurses, “we need you to keep the mask on for your oxygen levels.” The monitor clipped to Mav’s finger was flashing red. “And you, sir, you can stay with your dad but we’re going to need you to fill this out, please.”

Bradley nodded, trying to force his fingers to let go before he reached for the clipboard. Mav was trying to push himself up, now, but his face was contorted in pain, and something in him lurched a little.

“Mav, it’s okay, it’ll be okay - let them help you -“

The nurse thrust the clipboard at him, nudging him out of the way as the monitor on Mav’s finger started beeping in earnest now.

“He’s going into shock,” he heard him say, “sir, let us through, we’ll need to get some fluids into him.” 

“He hates needles,” said Bradley pointlessly, feeling a slight squeeze from Mav’s fingers again, but they pulled his hand away without an answer before swabbing his arm and inserting the IV so quickly he rather wondered if Mav had even noticed.

“Sir.” Someone else was now gesturing at him. “If you could fill that out, please -“

He looked down. The clipboard was still in his hand. 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” 

He tried to focus on the form, but after the “name” and “date of birth” blocks, he found himself staring blankly at the sheet.

Past surgeries 

Past hospitalizations 

Current medications, if any

Something sank in him; he scanned down the form, trying to see if there was anything he could reasonably answer, then gave up, pulling up Slider’s number, but it went to voicemail. So did Hondo’s. Viper, mercifully, answered on the third ring.

“Keep it quick, I’m driving, gotta pick up the others.”

“Viper, I - I gotta fill out these forms, and I don’t know - uh - I know Mav’s got new scars, when did those -“

“Kid, I don’t have everything, just call the VA, okay?”

There was a click before he could answer, and he stared at the phone for a second before hurriedly googling the VA information number.

“All our operators are busy assisting others. Please hold. Your wait time is -seventeen- minutes.”

He stabbed the button angrily, shoving the phone back into the pocket of his flight suit. He scrawled Mav’s full name, service number, and “call VA for medical records” across the top of the form, and shoved it irritably back at the nurse, just as a shout rang across the ER. 

“Who’s gonna explain why this guy was triaged to the clinic?” 

There was a graying, unshaven man leaning heavily on a cane in one of the doorways, gesturing at a man with a bloodstained shirt and face. “One of you morons assess him for TBI. Now!” His voice was irritable, and his eyes bloodshot, but everyone in the room looked up at the gravelly shout, and a nurse in pink scrubs darted forward, steering the man gently away to a bed. 

Bradley had just turned back to Mav, who had now pushed himself halfway up on one elbow. 

“Okay, sir, I’m sorry you’re still in pain, but the meds should kick in soon, and we got your oxygen levels stable now, you can take the mask off. You’re sure it’s not localized anywhere?”

“No, just - everywhere, I guess,” he heard Mav say through gritted teeth, and the nurse raised an eyebrow as he scanned the form. 

“Oh-kay, guess we gotta call the VA for your medical history, sir, but in the meantime, have you had any surgeries or injuries requiring hospitalization in the last ten years?”

Mav met Bradley’s eye for a second, his expression a little uncomfortable, then turned back to look at the nurse.

“Uh, last year I was in, um, an incident my last mission in the Navy, some internal bleeding and broken ribs,” he started, and Bradley kicked himself internally for forgetting to put that down “- and a couple years back I had my appendix taken out, but that healed up okay.” 

“Okay, ruling that out,” he heard the nurse mutter as he snapped his head down to look Mav in the eye.

“Mav, what -“

“There was also - guess it had to be ten years ago now - I broke my arm, had to have surgery on my elbow.” 

“You what -“ the nurse shot him a suspicious look, and Bradley stopped.

“Anything else?”

“Grade one concussion,” Mav said with a slight nod, “five years ago, minor motorcycle accident.” 

“Mav -“ 

“Okay, sir, well, we can’t find anything wrong yet, just hang tight here. I’m going to see if we can get some tests ordered for you.”

He had barely turned away before Mav looked up, reluctantly meeting his eye.

“What the fuck, Mav -“

“Didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that,” he said, the lines of his face still tight, “but I swear, Ice tried to call when most of those happened, spent a lot of time trying to get through to you. Well, except the bike accident, I guess, that one I wound up at a civilian hospital.”

“It’s okay,” he said reflexively, then took a breath. “No, really, don’t - it’s not your fault -“ he felt like the guilt was pressing down on his shoulders, and he slumped into the uncomfortable seat next to the angled bed. 

“You don’t know that,” Mav answered, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly, “well, except for the appendix thing, pretty sure that wasn’t my fault  -“ he drew in a sharp breath “- ah, fuck, didn’t think anything could hurt that bad again but I mighta been wrong.” He screwed his eyes shut, curling in on himself a little, and something caught in Bradley’s throat, watching him try to control his breathing through his nose. It was a long moment before he took in a slow breath, his face relaxing just a hair.

“Pain meds kick in?”

“Already did a few minutes ago,” he muttered, “still hurts like hell, just took the edge off a little. Think that’s what took me out earlier, it was all I could do to land - oh, shit, I forgot Viper -“

“He’s picking up Slider ‘n Hondo,” said Bradley quickly, “he called 911, he’s coming.”

“They don’t have to - hell, you don’t have to stay here, you had plans, it’s okay.”

The knot in his throat tightened a little more.

“You stayed with me that time I got hit by a car in college. Even though I didn’t - didn’t ask ‘em to call you,” he added, looking away, the heat creeping back up his collar.

“I know,” he heard Mav say, a little roughly, “and I’m sorry about that, you didn’t want me there, I shouldn’t’ve -“

“I did.” He had blurted out the words without really thinking, and Mav turned back to him, his eyes wide.

“What?”

“I mean, I was still mad,” he added hastily, “but I was really freaked out, and - and I’m glad someone was there when I woke up, I guess,” he finished lamely, picking at the sleeve of his flight suit. His face felt warm. It had been twelve years now, but he could still remember the rush of warmth when he had realized that Mav was there, before he had buried it in anger again. 

He heard Mav let out a long breath, then mutter softly, “Anytime, kid.”

“Okay, sir,” came a sharp voice from over Bradley’s shoulder, and he jumped. It was another scrub-clad nurse from before. “We’re still trying to get through to the VA for your medical records, and your bloodwork isn’t back yet, so I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to wait. We’re a little short on ER doctors -”

“Not anymore,” came a gravelly voice, and Bradley watched as the gray-haired man who had yelled at the whole room swiped the chart out of the surprised hands of the nurse.

“Uh, Dr. House, aren’t you supposed to be -“

“Once we got all the cases that were supposed to have gone to the ER out of the clinic, turns out I found way more time in my schedule,” he answered drily, flipping over a page on the chart. The nurse rolled her eyes and raised both hands in defeat.

“Fine, but we’re admitting him.”

“Oh, of course you’re going to admit him,” Dr. House countered. “This looks like fun, too many compounding factors to count, incomplete records, nonspecific symptoms, what is it, my birthday?”

“You’re letting him into the hospital because it’s fun?” Bradley could hear the indignant note in his own voice, and Dr. House looked down at him with raised eyebrows.

“Well, yeah,” he said, exaggerating the last word, “why does anyone do anything?”

Bradley could feel his eyes narrow, but from the bed, Mav gave a weak chuckle. 

“Fair enough, I had a pretty fun career too.”

“See, he gets it,” said Dr. House with an airy gesture. “Find him a room, will you, and keep him stable, I’ll get Chase on the phone with the VA.”

He limped away, leaning heavily on a cane, and Bradley watched, his brow still furrowed, but the nurse just sighed. 

“Sirs, Dr. House can be, ah, a tad abrasive, but I can assure you he’s probably the best diagnostician in the country.”

“You sure about that?”

He hadn’t meant to sound quite that skeptical, but Mav snorted a little next to him.

“This’ll only be the second time I’ve had a civilian doc, let’s see how it goes.”

Chapter Text

It had taken nearly an hour and two phone calls before Chase had been able to get hold of someone at the VA to issue him the patient records from the ER chart that House had unceremoniously shoved into his chest. He was standing awkwardly by the fax machine, watching it spit out page after page when there was a shout from down the hall. 

“Chase! Get your ass upstairs.” 

He rolled his eyes and waved a hand to show he had heard. The elevator doors opened and shut down the hall, and he drummed his fingers on the fax machine. It was ridiculous, stupid beyond belief that Carrie from IT had to keep the ancient fax machine running, and he privately thought it was only secure because no one could be bothered to hack the things, but scooped the sheaf of pages from the tray anyway. They kept coming. He pulled them out again, and the machine spat out a few more in response. 

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, hefting the stack of paper in his hand; Pete Mitchell, whoever he was, had to have a colorful medical history. He stood there a few more seconds, just to be sure that it really was over this time, then shuffled the stack of paper together and made his way upstairs. 

“Nice of you to join us,” commented Foreman acidly as he pushed open the door. 

“Not my fault,” he shot back, “House just had me waiting on hold for an hour. Apparently we got a new case.”

“What?” Taub had looked up from his coffee, just as House shoved his way in, accompanied by Wilson, clearing his throat loudly. 

“Yep, exciting day, chucklefucks, we got a sixty-two-year-old man, severe intermittent abdominal pain, dizziness, syncope -“

“Hold on a sec,” interrupted Foreman. “What about the girl? Weren’t we still -”

“Leukemia. Hairy cell, it was hiding from us. She’s done, she’s diagnosed. Why d’you think I brought Wilson along?”

Wilson choked on his coffee. “You - what - goddammit, House, we need to start her chemo - is that why you bought me coffee?”

“ You need to start her chemo,” corrected House with a shrug, and Chase stifled a laugh into his armload of papers at Wilson’s dramatic eye roll. 

“Anyway. New topic! Back to our sixty-two-year-old retired Navy Captain -”

“Oh, I see,” came Wilson’s voice from over Chase’s shoulder, “this is about your daddy issues.” 

Chase snapped his head around to look at Wilson, who was smirking into his coffee.

“Or it could be about his daddy issues,” House shot back. “We got no family history on this guy, his daddy was shot down in ‘Nam before he was thirty. No body.”

“Were you really going to exhume him if there was?” Wilson had stopped halfway through pushing open the door. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” muttered Chase under his breath, and Wilson sighed. 

“I don’t wanna know. I’ll keep you posted about the other patient.”

Taub, his eyes following Wilson as he left, made a gesture at the papers Chase was holding. “If onset’s at sixty-two, it’s probably not genetic. Appendicitis?”

“Swing and a miss! You really think the ER can’t diagnose that? They at least had the sense to ask, he had it a few years ago, appendix is already gone.”

Taub sighed, gesturing again at Chase’s stack of paper. “Fine. What do we have from his records?”

“Yeah, at sixty-two, he’s gotta have some other shit going on, right?” Foreman had also reached for the papers, and Chase set them carefully down on the table, suddenly aware that none of them had page numbers. 

“Wrong!” House was grinning at them. “Take a look at the ER report.” He had produced another ER chart, this one with a great deal more written on it than the one he had handed Chase. Taub managed to grab it first. 

“Okay, the ER didn’t find anything, that doesn’t mean there’s nothing - ”

“Keep looking.” House’s voice was exaggeratedly relaxed. Chase leaned over Taub’s shoulder, reading down the chart. 

“Okay, liver enzymes, tox screen, glucose, kidney function, blood pressure -”

“Normal,” muttered Taub, as Foreman got up to go to the other side of the table. 

“Not just normal,” said House. “ Dead normal. This is the healthiest man of his age anyone in that ER has ever seen.”

“Sure, he was in the Navy, he kept in shape,” shrugged Foreman, reaching for the first few pages of the VA records. 

“Sure he did. Keep going,” said House lazily, tipping back in his chair. Chase looked up at Foreman, who was now flipping through the sheets of paper.

“Holy shit. Okay, that time we had that Air Force F-16 astronaut woman in, her neck was fucked up and she didn’t have a single ejection, how is this guy walking around? I tried starting at the beginning, we’re up to two ejections before he’s halfway through his Navy career.” 

“Well, he’s not walking around right now, ” answered House with an eye roll. 

“He came in from doing a flyover at that Army-Navy game,” Chase said quickly; he had lost count of how many times he had read over the intake summary while on hold. “Means yesterday he was in good enough shape to fly a plane.” He glanced up; an orderly had hesitantly knocked on the door, and House pushed himself away from the table hard enough that the wheeled office chair rolled neatly over to it. 

“Huh,” he said, taking an X-ray film from the orderly and holding it up to the light, “guess we got something to work with, got a lot more going on under the surface.” He gestured impatiently at Chase with the film, and he took it, shoving it into the clips over the light. He could see the light glinting off Foreman’s face as he tilted his head to look at it. 

“Once again,” Foreman started, and now Chase could see his brow furrowing, “ how is this guy walking around? With no opiates on his tox screen? Look at all those healed contusions, he’s broken these two ribs at least twice, and that one in two places.”

“Looks like a healed skull fracture there,” added Taub with a gesture. 

“Some narrowing, too, on the spinal discs -”

“Just compression from the ejections,” said House, waving a hand, “pain’s not localized to the spine, probably not a slipped disc. Thanks for gracing us with your presence, Park,” he added with an exaggerated gesture at the door as she pushed through it and slid into a seat.

“Still seems like a lot of compression, though -”

“You briefly experience fourteen to fifteen Gs when ejecting out of a modern fighter aircraft,” interrupted Park, now also reaching for the papers that were getting to be very scattered across the table. 

“What are you talking about - also, watch it, none of those have page numbers, we’ll never get them back in order if you’re not careful.”

“Park is correct,” interjected House, “you go through that many Gs straight upwards, you’re gonna walk away shorter, if you walk at all. Forget the discs.”

“Fine, forget the discs,” said Chase, looking back at the X-ray film at a cloudy spot just under the right side of his ribcage. “What’s that?” 

“Shadow on the film,” shrugged Taub. “Undefined edges. Now, that -” he gestured at something close to the right hip, not far below the shadow. “What is that, shrapnel?”

“Apparently there was some crap they couldn’t fish out, in the second ejection, first time he broke these ribs,” said Foreman, pointing at them with a brief glance up from the paper. “This is from 2003, says it was probably from the charges that separate the ejection seat from the plane.”

“What, 2003? What was he flying? Three F/A-18s got shot down by friendly Patriot missiles that year, it was a disaster -”

“Calm down, Park, I kinda doubt that shrapnel that’s been in there that long is an issue now,” muttered Chase, squinting. “I’m just wondering if all those bits are metallic.”

“Well, those sure are,” interrupted House, jabbing his cane at the left of the X-ray. 

There were two half-concealed surgical pins by the left elbow joint, and he kicked himself for missing them as Foreman turned back to the pile of papers.

“Uh, looks like - okay, ‘02, there’s a page that mentions an elbow surgery, but no explanation of how - Jesus, they redacted most all the intake documents from the surgery -”

“Doesn’t matter how, abdominal pain probably isn’t originating in his elbow,” interrupted Taub. “What matters is that we can’t give him an MRI.”

“Correctamundo!” House’s tone was positively gleeful now as he stumped back to his seat, and Chase felt himself let out an involuntary sigh, dropping back into his own chair. 

“Did you take this case just to see if it’s even possible to diagnose him?”

“I thought we should at least find out,” answered House, shrugging exaggeratedly, and Chase rolled his eyes, turning back to the papers on the table. 

“Anyone got anything from the last year? May as well start with the most recent and work our way back.”

“I got the ER report,” said Taub, “but Park should get a look, too.” He was holding it out to Park. 

“This is from the VA, it’s a physical from a couple years ago, but it’s not a discharge physical,” said Foreman slowly, “says this was routine checks for the, uh, ‘unique stresses of test pilot duties’.”

“He was a test pilot? ” Park looked excitedly up from the ER report. “What did he fly? What’d he test? Was it experimental?”

“Yeah, Foreman, does he have the right stuff? ” chipped in House, and Park rolled her eyes before looking back at Foreman. 

“Doesn’t say,” he said with a shrug, “in fact, they barely say anything here except that he was fit to fly, and the name of the on-site medical POC’s been redacted.”

“Where’s that? Edwards?”

“Read the file, Park, he’s Navy, not Chair Force,” interjected House. 

“This one’s from…” Foreman was scanning the page “- Naval Air Station China Lake, wherever the fuck that is.”

“They got a Skunkworks facility out there,” breathed Park, her tone awestruck. “He was testing something cool out in the desert.”

“Wait,” Chase interrupted, something tingling in his memory as he sat up straighter, “isn’t that near Area 51?”

“It’s near if you fly,” said Park with a shrug, “hard to get anywhere near either of those otherwise.” 

Chase fumbled eagerly at the page Foreman was holding. “If it’s secret what he was doing -” 

“Can we start with actual earth-based medical conditions, please?” House had tipped his chair back again, his fingers steepled together. 

“I’m just saying, we never really do know what they’re up to out there - maybe it’s related -”

Taub made an impatient gesture. “C’mon, Chase, back to reality. He’s retired, he had to have a discharge physical more recently than that.”

Chase sighed, turning back to the papers now scattered haphazardly across the table. “There’s a few dozen pages here, I lost count at the fax machine.” 

“While you’re at it,” said House, getting to his feet with a grunt and pulling the whiteboard towards the table, “call stuff out so I can actually get started.” He drew a line down the middle of the board, and scrawled “SYMPTOMS” on one side and “O.M.D.D.” on the other. 

“What’s ‘O.M.D.D.’?” asked Park, tilting her head to the side.

“Old Military Dude Diseases,” answered House, leaning heavily on his cane. “Any takers?”

“Syphilis,” called out Taub from the table, not looking up from the papers. 

“Not just for men who cheat on their wives!” House said with satisfaction, writing it down. 

“ Is he married?” Foreman was looking over Park’s shoulder at the ER report.

“He’s too old for you, Foreman,” shot back House, “but does make him the right age to have picked up a whole rainbow of STDs in the course of his service.”

“Not married,” called Chase, waving the page on top of the ones he had gathered, “at least, as of about three years ago when he had the appendectomy. No family to contact, they called two emergency contact numbers, no names.” 

“ER report says he has a son who accompanied him in, but no name on that either.”

“You sure about that?” Taub was holding a page that looked like it had been clumsily photocopied from an older document. “VD screening a while back, they noted a reduced sperm count, possibly attributable to having the mumps at fourteen.” 

“VD?”

“Old Military Dude speak for STDs, Park,” muttered House, scrawling “childhood mumps” at the top of the board. “Might’ve been clean in the past, doesn’t mean he’s clean now, and reduced sperm count doesn’t mean he’s totally sterile.”

“Doesn’t mean the son is his, either,” commented Foreman. 

“Well, adoption agencies don’t usually like single men with stupidly dangerous jobs,” muttered House, tapping the marker on his chin, “but fertile women at ports around the world just love those when they’re packaged in a shiny uniform.”

Chase looked uncomfortably at House for a second, trying to work out if a response was warranted, before Foreman’s voice cut across his thoughts. 

“Okay, we’ve gone over all the papers here, there’s nothing more recent than the physical two years ago at China Lake, other than a flu shot. We’re missing something.”

“We’re missing a lot, ” added Park, “ER report says he mentioned broken ribs and internal bleeding from an ‘incident’ at his last posting a year ago, not a word in any of these papers."

“Bleeding of what?” 

“Gee, Chase, if only someone was in charge of getting all his medical records from the VA,” said House in a mocking tone, gesturing with his cane. 

“I thought I did!” he answered indignantly, feeling his face warm. “Took me an hour just to get the right person who could approve their release!”

“Are you sure the fax machine -”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Chase answered with a sigh. House cleared his throat.

“Well, whaddaya say, boys and girls? Wanna take a field trip and actually talk to our patient? Hell, we get lucky and we might get something from his son, too.”

Chapter Text

Dr. House, apparently, held enough sway that the ER staff had wasted no time in admitting Mav to the hospital, whisking him into a hospital gown and into a room with a bed and a lot of intimidating-looking equipment. Bradley was looking at it with some concern before the nurses hooked up a nearly-asleep Maverick to an IV with some saline, gave him a few sympathetic words that he barely heard, and eventually left him there, Mav apparently fully asleep now under the influence of the painkillers. He felt strangely alone; the room was quiet enough that he could hear Mav’s light breathing over the more distant noise of beeping monitors and the crackle of the hospital PA system. He took a breath, fighting down the memory of his mom in the hospital; this wasn’t like that, this was nothing like that. It wasn’t a cancer ward, there was no sharp smell of disinfectant that didn’t quite cover the tang of chemo vomit, none of the doctors or nurses were wearing that awkward-sympathy expression reserved for the families of the dying. He breathed in, then let it out, slowly, gripping his knees, closing his eyes for a second. 

The buzz of his phone seemed jarringly abrupt against his leg, and he pulled it out, almost grateful for something else to look at. 

nice job with the flyover

thought you were coming out with us tonight

He looked for a second at Jake’s message, a dull pang in his chest, trying to figure out what to say.

Can’t, sorry

He started typing again

Mav’s -

I’m at the hosp -

Mav passed out and it scared the shit out of -

He hesitated, then deleted the message again, glancing uncomfortably at Mav’s sleeping face on the pillow. Jake had invited him out after the game, with his Academy buddies, coming right off a seven-month deployment, and he wasn’t reading anything into it, he wasn’t, but still -

I’m with Mav at the hospital

He sent it before he could think too hard about it. Jake had to know he wasn’t blowing him off on purpose. He flipped his phone over on his knee, trying to stop bouncing his foot, when there was an answering buzz, sooner than he had expected. 

Holy shit

Is he ok

His thumbs felt numb as he typed out an answer.

Don’t know

Passed out on the tarmac after the flyover

asleep now, they gave him serious pain meds

He paused again, thinking for a second. 

Sorry about-

Wish i could-

Before he had made up his mind, though, his phone started buzzing, insistently this time. 

Call from: Bagman

He picked up before he had really thought about it, clearing his throat uncertainly. 

“Rooster,” he heard Jake say, his voice warm and familiar and oddly strange to hear after months, “you doin’ okay?”

“Uh -“ thrown, he fought with himself for a second - “I - I think so?”

“You lost your shit last time the old man pulled this crap,” he heard him say, and Bradley could feel his face getting warm, “you don’t gotta keep it together for me.” 

The warmth was creeping up his collar, now, but there was something pleasant about it, and Bradley swallowed. 

“If you say so,” he muttered, “but - look, I can’t come out -”

“Oh, make no mistake, you leave Pops alone in the hospital and I’ll kick your ass, Bradshaw, that’s a promise.”

“I just - I did want to come -”

“You’re the one says the service academy grads’re insufferable,” he heard Jake say, and this time, in spite of himself, Bradley managed a watery chuckle. 

“And you’re the worst of ‘em.”

“We all got our stupid little clubs, Rooster.” 

“‘Kay, well,” he said, spotting movement through the glass door down the hall, “I think Mav’s stupid little club’s getting here now.”

“His posse of Admirals?”

“Something like that,” muttered Bradley, “and Hondo -”

“Hondo’s worth more to the Navy than half the brass, he counts. Listen, what d’you need right now?”

“I -“ he stopped. “I can’t think of anything,” he said, “but don’t worry ‘bout me -“

“Too bad,” he heard Jake counter, “you’re stuck with me.”

“I -“ something stuck in his throat; he doesn’t mean it like that, he reminded himself, it was just casual, he’s your friend now, then he managed to clear his throat. “Just - just go have fun.”

“Won’t be as much fun now,” he heard him say, and his heart rate absolutely, definitely did not speed up just a bit, “you take care, ‘kay? I’m sure Mav’ll be fine soon.” His tone was gentler than Bradley thought he had ever heard before, and he swallowed, nodding before he realized Jake couldn’t see him. 

“Yeah. Thanks.” It sounded fantastically lame, even to his own ears, but Jake had already hung up. 

“Hey, kid,” Slider’s voice cut across his thoughts, “what’s the latest?”

He shoved the phone awkwardly back into his pocket, feeling the blood slowly recede from his face. 

“Uh, I don’t - I don’t really know,” he said uncomfortably, watching Slider’s gaze soften as he looked over at Mav’s bed. “They were doing tests, didn’t find anything yet, but the painkillers really knocked him out.” 

“Happens,” grunted Hondo, installing himself in a chair on the other side of the bed, “he slept for the better part of two days when they took his appendix out.” 

The heat was creeping back up Bradley’s collar again, but the pleasurable warmth was gone, the guilt rising. 

“I didn’t know.”

Slider met his eye, giving him a small smile. 

“Don’t beat yourself up, if Ice couldn’t get through to you on the carrier no one could. This have anything to do with that?”

He shrugged aimlessly. “No idea.” There was a rapping at the door, and he looked up; Viper was there, shoving his car keys into the pocket of his bomber jacket. 

“Pete doing okay?”

Bradley shrugged again, wishing people would stop asking him that. Viper, thankfully, seemed to take it as enough of an answer, and sat down next to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders in a way that felt strangely familiar. It should have been awkward, but somehow it wasn’t, the four of them crammed into the small room. There was a small crease between Mav’s eyebrows, as if he were still in pain, but other than that, it was oddly peaceful. 

That was, until a gaggle of white-coated doctors appeared outside the door, and Bradley strained his ears to hear what they were discussing; Viper, too, had cocked his head towards them. 

“- you can’t just ask that -”

“- they repealed Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell -”

“- it’s privileged medical information -”

“- what about the son?”

There were a few other unintelligible comments, then Dr. House appeared to have ended the discussion, holding up a hand before he pushed open the door and limped into the room, his eyes scanning over the four extra people. 

“Anyone here who’s not a blood relative of -” he glanced down at the chart a black doctor next to him was holding “- Peter Mitchell, get out, now -” 

There was a hoarse throat-clearing noise from the bed, and Bradley glanced around; Mav had, apparently, chosen this moment to regain consciousness.  

“Uh, Doc, actually, I don’t have any of those.”

“Okay,” he said, “anyone who’s not a legal relative, get out.”

Bradley watched as Hondo raised both hands in defeat and made his way to the door, while Slider gripped Mav’s shoulder for a second and turned to follow him along with Viper. 

“We’ll go get some coffee,” he said quietly, with a nod at Bradley, and Bradley swallowed and nodded back. The room felt oddly empty. 

“Lieutenant Commander Bradley Bradshaw,” he heard House say, leaning against the door with his cane over his arm, and Bradley jumped.

“I - how’d you know my -”

He made a vague gesture at his flight suit, and Bradley uncomfortably ran a finger over his nametape. 

“Uncle Sam labeled his property for me. You’re down in the ER chart saying you’re his son.” His tone was skeptical. 

“Foster - uh, adopted,” said Bradley, awkwardly, but the doctor had flipped open the other file. 

“I’d believe that if the records the VA faxed over didn’t say he had no living relatives at all.”

Bradley felt something like the bottom dropping out of his stomach as the doctor continued. 

“- no siblings, parents died back in the sixties, no wife, no kids,” he said, pointedly looking at Bradley, who swallowed hard, glancing down at Maverick. 

“Mav -”

“Ah, shit,” grunted Mav from the bed, putting a hand over his eyes, “where’s the VA say my last post was?”

“China Lake Naval Air Station,” volunteered the shortest doctor, a small woman who was eyeing Bradley’s flight suit so keenly it almost made him uncomfortable. Mav let out a sigh. 

“Yeah, that’ll do it, clowns at the VA fucked up.”

“When do they not?” Dr. House rolled his eyes at him. “Gonna need to be more specific, Cap’n.” He exaggerated the last word more than Bradley really thought was necessary, raising his eyebrows, but Mav just chuckled.

“Those records’re out of date, I had one more posting after that. You’ll have to call Balboa for the most recent ones. Hold on a sec -” 

Mav gestured at the chart, which the black doctor yanked out of House’s grip and handed over to a yelp of “hey!” Mav took it with a nod and scribbled something down. 

“That’s the number for Senior Chief Petty Officer Maria Jimenez. She’s a corpsman, she can help you out.”

“Yes sir,” answered House with an eye roll, then opened the door and thrust the file into the hands of another doctor who had just pulled open the door. “Chase, call Balboa Naval Hospital, get anything we don’t have in here.” Chase retreated, looking a little startled, clutching the file, and Mav cleared his throat again. 

“Don’t bother calling the 619 number on my old records, he’s…he’s been gone a little while.” 

Something inside Bradley tightened a little; he hadn’t removed Ice as an emergency contact from his own list either. Dr. Chase nodded, making a small note on the clipboard. 

“And Dr. Chase,” said House in an exaggeratedly polite tone, “do try to get all the documentation this time, would you?”

House turned back to the clipboard from the ER. “Anything you wanna tell me about while we’re waiting? Like the “son”?” He made an exaggerated air quote gesture. “Your little boy blue here?”

Bradley shifted self-consciously in his seat, but Mav just rolled his eyes.

“Is this medically relevant?”

“No, sir, it’s not,” interjected the black doctor, “Dr. House, we can probably stop the probing -“

“I’m curious,” retorted House. “You obviously didn’t make him yourself, unless his mother’s some kind of Amazon that you had to scale like a tree -” 

Mav let out a snort of laughter. “Nope, not my handiwork. It’s, uh, kind of a long story, almost adopted him once -” 

Bradley could see him glance over at him, felt his own insides squirm uncomfortably, but Mav continued. “- but he was still - is still my NOK, he can stay.” He ended his sentence with a tone that expected to be obeyed, but something about House’s smirk told Bradley that the Captain Mitchell voice was unlikely to make him back down. 

“NOK?” A short, balding doctor had raised a hand from behind House. 

“Military talk for ‘next of kin’,” answered House, flipping another piece of paper over. “‘Course, that’s meaningless in this context.”

Mav pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing a little. 

“Now wait just a sec, I filed a new adoption petition when I was getting ready to retire, make my will easier, we’re just waiting on a court date from San Diego County, he should be back on my Navy paperwork -”

“House!” A dark-haired woman had pushed open the door, and Bradley could distinctly see most of the doctors flinch at her sharp tone. “What the hell are you doing? The ER just admitted this guy, I never said - I’m sorry, sir,” she interrupted herself, turning to Mav, “Dr. House is supposed to have me assign him cases - “

“I finished my clinic hours!”

“And instead of treating yourself to coffee, or a drink, or a bucket of Vicodin, you thought you’d just help yourself to a random patient?”

It was the first time Bradley had heard anyone at the hospital push back at Dr. House, and he looked up. House had turned towards her, a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Give me some credit, Cuddy, I didn’t pick him at random, this one’s actually interesting! There’s just a lot missing from the records -”

“Yeah, but since when do you give a damn who is and is not allowed to stay with a patient? And what the hell does that have to do with his condition?”

“Well, excuse me for trying to get a complete family history here -“

Bradley felt a light tap on his arm, and tipped his head; Mav caught his eye, looking vaguely amused.

“You think they’re sleeping together?” he asked, under his breath. 

He repressed an involuntary chuckle. “Probably not the time, Mav -”

“Let me have this,” Mav muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching, “hospitals suck.”

This time, he let the snort escape him as he glanced up. Cuddy had her hands on her hips, now, glaring up at House with a ferocity that would have made Bradley quail, but he still appeared to be smirking. 

“You just wanted to prove a point about how I manage you - and I just saw Chase still trying to get hold of someone at the VA, so don’t tell me this is organized -”

“It isn’t, but the ER was gonna turf him to my team anyway! Look at this -” House flipped over a few sheets “- you think anyone else here’s gonna try and figure this out?”

Cuddy folded her arms, peering at the chart, and Bradley distinctly saw House sneak a look down her top. 

“Okay,” he whispered reluctantly to Mav, “yeah, they got something going on.” Mav smirked, then looked back over at Cuddy, who had just shoved the chart back at Dr. House.

“Fair point,” Cuddy was saying grudgingly, “he shouldn’t be within ten yards of an MRI, but I can’t have you stealing people out of the ER, they’ve got enough chaos as it is.”

“As God is my witness,” said House dramatically, raising his right hand without letting go of his cane, “I’ll never mess up your ER again.”

Cuddy looked abashed, as if she hadn’t expected him to give in, then gave a brief nod.

“Oh…kay then. Mr. -“ she pulled the chart back toward her for a second “- Mitchell, I apologize for the interruption. You can have whomever you want in here during visiting hours.”

“Uh, thank you, ma’am,” he said politely, looking a little like he was stifling a grin. Cuddy nodded, then swept out of the room.

“Boss lady caught me,” House started again, “I don’t really give a fuck who you have in here unless you do -“

“We only allow family members if we’re doing a procedure,” chipped in the shortest doctor, and House rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t jump the gun, Park, no one’s cutting you open just yet. In the meantime, about the rest of this. Any current medications?”

Mav shook his head. “Not since I ran out of the methocarbamol scrip after my last post with the Navy.”

“Methocarbamol,” muttered House, nodding at Dr. Park, who was scribbling something on the chart, “for what?”

“Back spasms. I had - uh - a rough ejection and a hard landing.”

“Ejection from what?” Park was looking keenly between them, and Bradley looked up at her, his eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry, I just - I like Naval stuff,” she added. 

“Fair enough, so do I,” said Mav with a slight smile, “an F/A-18.” 

“Cool. You fly those too?” She was looking at Bradley now, and he nodded awkwardly. 

“Park, focus. How long ago was that?”

“Uh, last refill on that one ran out, uh…nine months ago? Oh, and I was on some antibiotics after I had surgery from that ejection.”

“Do you know which ones?”

Mav shook his head, and the black doctor made a note. “Probably not a big deal, do you know if there’s any drugs you’re allergic to?”

“Nope. Blueberries make my mouth itch, though.”

“And no drug use?”

Mav raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“We have to ask, sir,” shrugged the black doctor. 

“Trust me, the Navy would’ve had me out in seconds if I ever did. No. Vitamin I for your usual aches and pains, left knee hurts when it rains, that’s it.”

“Do you drink?”

“Socially. Couple drinks a week, maybe.”

Bradley raised an eyebrow. “Thought Penny had you doing shifts at the Hard Deck?”

“You can’t drink if you’re tending bar - ‘least, I can’t get away with that.” 

“And do you smoke? Including marijuana?”

“No, never smoked. I - I did try a joint once, few months ago, didn’t like it -“

“You what -“ Bradley felt his eyebrows go up his forehead, but Mav held up a hand.

“Used to use the occasional Zyn - y’know, those nicotine things - but we’re talking, like, two a month, and I haven’t touched ‘em in over a year.”

“‘Kay,” said House, scribbling it down. “Are you sexually active?”

“Uh, Mav, I can step out,” said Bradley, getting uncomfortably to his feet, and Mav rolled his eyes, but nodded.

He heard Mav answer “yes”, just as he ran headlong into Slider & Hondo, approaching the door with coffee cups in their hands. 

“ - female partners? Male partners?”

“One female partner, currently, we both got tested -” he heard Mav say, and he turned determinedly back to Slider and Hondo, trying not to listen.

“They getting done yet?”

“No,” sighed Bradley, taking the cup of coffee Slider was holding out for him, “I just didn’t exactly need to hear -“

Hondo, apparently not listening, had pushed the door open again.

“- and one male partner about a year ago, it was casual, we used protection.”

Bradley could feel his shoulders rising up around his ears, and quickly took a long sip of his coffee, trying to pretend he hadn’t heard. Hondo seemed to have no such qualms.

“Were you sleeping with Joe? From Avionics?”

“Uh,” and he could hear the note of embarrassment in Mav’s voice, “only a few times, like I said, it was casual.”

“I knew it! Hold on, Simon owes me ten bucks -“

Slider had taken Hondo’s coffee cup while he furiously typed out a message, chortling a little. 

“Nice, Mav, sleeping with the engineers on that project?”

“It was a year ago,” groaned Mav, covering his face with his hand, “leave it alone -“

“We do have to finish our anamnesis here,” interrupted the black doctor, who was shooting serious looks between House, Park and the short balding doctor, all of whom seemed to be stifling a laugh.

“I take it you don’t mind these folks sticking around, then?” said the balding doctor, who seemed to be recovering himself somewhat.

“No,” grunted Mav, shooting Slider a dark look, “they’ve all seen worse, they can stay.”

“Okay,” interjected Dr. Park, “about the methocarbamol and the surgery - is that usual? Your records indicate that wasn’t your first ejection.”

Mav looked up for a second, and Bradley watched him meet Hondo’s eye. Hondo gave a brief nod, and Mav cleared his throat. 

“Uh, no, it’s not usual, but about three weeks before that, I had another ejection.” 

“Another one? Besides the one in -” Park had flipped over her notebook “- ‘86? And the other one in ’03?”

“It - it won’t be in the updated records, either, that one’s - well, all the incidents are classified, that one’s just for a higher clearance level.”

Park’s eyes widened as she made a note; the balding doctor cleared his throat. 

“So, whatever happened in the first ejection led to worse injuries in the second one?”

“That’s about the size of it, yeah,” nodded Mav. “The ejection conops was, uh, not fully tested in the first incident -“

“What was that you were testing?” Park had interrupted eagerly. “Was that at your posting to China Lake?”

Mav exchanged another look with Hondo, then looked back at Park, a small smile at the corners of his mouth.

“It was, but I’m sorry, Dr., uh, Park, that’s all I can say, wish I could tell you more. Anyway, by the time of the second ejection I had suffered three broken ribs, a ruptured spleen and some internal bleeding. Couldn’t tell you that much about the bleeding, I wasn’t exactly conscious for that, but the medical folks will’ve gotten all that into the records, I had to have surgery on the carrier to clean it all up. And a concussion and whiplash. Oh, and a broken toe.”

Viper had appeared in the doorway again, holding a package of sunflower seeds; Bradley could see his eyes widen at Mav’s last words, and distinctly heard him mutter “Jesus Christ”. Dr. Park was nodding her assent, scribbling something busily. 

“Well? Is that all?” House looked impatient.

“Enough for you, Doc?”

“Oh, that’s plenty,” countered House. “Foreman? Resident stickler? We forget to ask anything?”

“Sir, I’m sorry to have to ask this,” the black doctor - Dr. Foreman - began, “but - how did your mother die? It..it doesn’t look like old age.” 

Bradley could see something a little bitter flash across Mav’s face as he glanced in Viper’s direction.

“Nothing medically relevant.”

“Sir?” Dr. Foreman looked apologetic, but persistent.

“She took her own life not too long after my father died.” Something tightened in Bradley’s chest; he could feel Viper squeeze him a little around the shoulders. Mav was picking at the corner of his sheet.

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” said Dr. Foreman, looking down at his clipboard and making a note. “We’ll just, uh -”

He was interrupted by the door opening again and another doctor sticking his head in. 

“House? What the hell, are you not ready yet? You bought me these tickets to the monster truck rally, if we don’t leave soon we’ll never get good seats.” He straightened up, sliding sideways into the room. “C’mon, let the team go, it’s a Saturday, for Chrissakes.”

“Monster truck rally?” muttered Bradley, under his breath, looking at the new addition with his blue shirt and striped tie, then back at House, just as Mav nudged his hand. 

“Now I gotta know if they’re sleeping together,” he whispered under his breath, nodding at the new doctor with a slight quirk of his mouth. House had turned towards him, holding his hands up. 

“Wilson, five minutes, okay, I got a case!”

“You’ve got half a case, until Chase actually gets hold of the rest of the records - don’t argue, I already talked to him while he was on hold - and your patient’s stable. I am not missing Maximum Destruction, you hear me?”

“‘Maximum Destruction’?” Bradley felt his eyebrows go up, and he exchanged a doubtful glance with Mav. 

“It’s the first monster truck to complete a backflip,” said Foreman with a sigh, not looking up from his chart. “Look, Mr. Mitchell, not that I like giving Dr. House what he wants, but Dr. Wilson has a point. We’re going to have a lot of trouble piecing together what’s going on tonight, and if you’re comfortable enough, we may have to come revisit this in the morning. You’re not in any pain right now?”

Mav shrugged. “It’s not gone, but it’s manageable. Four out of ten, maybe?”

“Four?” Slider looked almost indignant, and Bradley, too, felt his jaw tighten as he looked at Mav. 

“They gave you morphine, it shouldn’t be that bad,” muttered Dr. Foreman, flipping over a page, “I’ll have ‘em up your dosage a little. As long as you’re able to sleep -”

“Oh, I can do that on pain meds, don’t worry,” interrupted Mav with a short laugh. “Thanks, docs, appreciate it, I probably don’t need all of you on this, aren’t there other patients here?”

Wilson snorted. “Don’t let Dr. Cuddy hear you say that, or we’ll all have to deal with him -” he gestured at Dr. House “- a lot crankier’n usual.”

House rolled his eyes dramatically, then handed the chart he was holding to the stack in Foreman’s arms before leaning on his cane. “Wilson, if you’re done insulting me in front of my patient, we can go now.” He looked back at Maverick. “We’ll be back tomorrow first thing. The rest of you, count yourselves lucky Wilson’s giving you the night off.” 

The collection of white coats filtered out of the room, Park still looking curiously at Bradley’s flight suit on her way out, leaving the room feeling strangely empty again. 

“Y’all should leave,” said Mav with a yawn and a slight groan, “I’ll be fine, ‘m about to fall back asleep anyway.” He looked around the room. “I’m sorry, I know you had plans -“

“Quit apologizing, son,” cut in Viper, his voice gravelly, getting up with a small grunt. “You’re not gonna get us to regret showing up. We’ll be back.”

“C’mere, shortstack -“ Slider had reached an arm around Mav and kissed the top of his head “- if you’re really fine for now, we’ll go, but like Viper said, we’ll be back. I can’t really take sleeping in one of these chairs, though.”

“Me neither,” said Hondo, getting to his feet, “I warned you last time, I need a longer break between incidents.”

“You did warn me,” muttered Mav, now lying back again, his forehead still creased. “S’okay -“

“I’ll stay,” interrupted Bradley, a little impulsively, feeling his phone in his pocket against his leg. “You - I know the policy about waking up in hospitals,” he added, looking down at the floor, but not before he saw Hondo looking at him. 

“You don’t have to,” said Mav hurriedly, “I’ll be fine -“

“Let him stay, Pete,” interrupted Viper, “his back can still handle it.”

Mav snorted a little. “If you’re sure,” he said quietly, looking at Bradley, who nodded tightly. “Yeah,” he said, a little awkwardly, “yeah, I’m staying.”

“I’ll swing by with some food,” said Slider, yawning slightly as he clapped Bradley on the back, “anything else?”

“Phone charger?”

“You got it.” Bradley watched them leave the room, a little reluctantly, and he swallowed; someone should stay, he knew that. At least this hospital was a lot more comfortable than the cramped carrier sickbay. Something caught a little bit in his throat, but he busied himself unzipping his flight suit and rearranging himself to lean back in his chair, when he felt Mav’s hand on his shoulder again.

“Thanks, kid,” he heard him say, a little hoarsely, and his throat tightened further. He nodded, and Mav’s eyes fluttered shut again just as he managed to swallow past the knot and add a strangled “Any time.”

”These doctors,” started Mav, his voice now barely audible, “is it just me, or do they seem to be having a lot more fun than the Navy ones?”

Bradley snorted a little. “Maybe, but you’re not one to talk about having fun on the job. Go to sleep.”

Chapter Text

“Chase.”

He looked up. 

“Chase, go home. Get outta here, it’s the weekend. House left already.”

He had been standing by the fax machine after another stint on hold with the VA, watching it creakily spit out more pages.
“What?”

“Wilson had tickets for, I don’t know, some monster truck thing, the team started heading out after House. They were kinda giving up on you getting whatever it is you’re supposed to get from the VA -” Cuddy cut herself off abruptly, looking over his shoulder at the growing stack of paper. “What is going on -”

She snatched up one of the sheets and flipped it over; Chase had stopped paying attention, but her eyes narrowed as she looked down the page. Nearly every line was redacted, and something sank in him as Cuddy started flipping through more of the pages. 

“Oh, they can’t be serious,” muttered Cuddy, now holding another sheet, this one completely blacked out except for the name “PETER MITCHELL” at the top, and he stared blankly at it for a second before feeling a dark chuckle bubble up.

“Can’t believe I spent all that time on hold just to get this nonsense.”

Cuddy made a noise of assent, dropping the page back onto the pile. “ And the admin people’ve been complaining about toner costing more - when did that become another subscription service, really -” she cut herself off again, meeting his eye now as he shuffled the papers into a stack. “Anyway, Chase, go home, go do, uh, whatever - or whoever - it is you do when you’re not here. He’ll still be here in the morning.” 

“ You’re still here,” he muttered, then regretted it almost instantly, but the corner of her mouth quirked and she shrugged. 

“Wilson’s got House occupied, and Rachel’s at my mom’s getting spoiled to death. I got sidetracked, but now I’m going home and taking a bath.” She laid emphasis on the last word as if it were the most luxurious idea in the world, and Chase let out a small snort in response. 

“Sounds lovely. If House is gone, s’pose I might as well follow your lead.” 

She nodded approvingly as he started down the hall, idly flipping through the sheets of paper. She might have a point about the toner costs, he thought absently; nearly every page had something redacted on it. 

Foreman was still in the office, and Adams, for some reason, in street clothes, a discarded rucksack on one of the chairs.

“What are you still doing here?” Foreman asked as he dumped the stack of paper onto the table. 

“Could ask you the same thing,” he grunted, “took me this long to get through to the VA.” He glanced around at Adams, who was rubbing her eyes tiredly. “Take it your trip went well?”

Adams shrugged.

“Cuts to Doctors Without Borders kinda fucked things.”

“Yeah, well, cuts to the VA fucked us too, it’s taken two calls and ages on hold to get all this -” there was a rustling in the corner; Park was still there too, looking up eagerly from her laptop “- don’t get excited, Park, half of it’s still redacted.”

“Cool,” she answered with relish, pulling the stack towards her. “I told you, he had to have been working on something insane out there. The SR-71 was an Air Force bird, but the Navy wanted in on the action with Skunkworks for some new projects when they got started on the SR-72, I bet that’s where it happened.”

“She’s been on the Reddit aerospace forums for an hour,” grunted Foreman, tipping his head towards her, “and Chase, if you say one word about storming Area 51 -”

“I wasn’t going to say anything!” said Chase defensively, holding up his hands, “though, you have to admit, it’s a bit weird that they won’t even say anything in his medical records.”

“Not weird at all,” shrugged Park, “if there were injuries from specific loads and stresses on the body, you could infer some of the capabilities of whatever he was testing. He was definitely still a test pilot then.” 

“ You could infer them. Who the hell else could?”

“Aha,” said Foreman, holding up a sheet of paper that, miraculously, seemed not to have any blacked-out sections. “He did have appendicitis. Perforated. And he reacted to anesthesia on the table, ran a fever above one-oh-five for the better part of a day. Whatever’s up now could be neurological after that.”

“Not to argue with the neuro guy while I’m jetlagged,” said Adams with a yawn, “but if he was a test pilot, they’d’ve checked him out, no? Could he be flying with a neuro issue?”

“Something latent? He said there was another incident a year ago, maybe it triggered it.”

“Shingles, then, triggered by stress, gave him neuralgia?” Adams had looked up. “You said he was sixty-two, he probably had chickenpox.” 

“I know you’ve been in the third world, Adams, but over here he’s got access to Shingrix,” muttered Chase, “unless he’s one of the wackos -”

“Nope,” said Foreman, “Shingrix vaccine administered with his separation physical. Says he’s never had shingles.”

“Wait, you got his discharge exam? Where - ”

“I got half of it,” said Foreman grimly, “this is the part where they report all the boilerplate. Flu shot, shingles vaccination, final post-surgical exam.”

“What surgery?”

Park held up a half-blacked out sheet of paper.

“Repaired a ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, three broken ribs tacked into place. It also says he had two broken toes, a broken finger, spinal compression, sprained left knee, and whiplash.” Chase could feel his eyebrows climbing up his forehead.

“Jesus fuck . That’s a lot.” 

“Took ‘em the better part of the last year to actually discharge him,” muttered Foreman, “long-ass recovery from that.”

“Everything you just described is consistent with the loads of ejecting from an F/A-18,” said Park, the glow of her laptop screen glinting off her glasses, “guess he was telling the truth about that.”

“Everybody lies,” shrugged Chase, “but I guess the Department of Defense is doing all the lying for him. Though, the woman - Jimenez - that I got on the phone, she had loads to say. Apparently our Captain Mitchell was a bit of a frequent flyer in her infirmary, but some of it doesn’t show up. He wouldn’t make appointments, just come ask her for physio tape, stronger versions of OTC painkillers, lidocaine cream, all sorts of things -“ 

“Said his knee hurts when it rains,” muttered Foreman.

“Lingering aches,” shrugged Park, “seems like most fighter pilots and test pilots got a shorter shelf life than his career, it’s rough on your body.” He could see the Reddit page scrolling so fast it looked blurred in its reflection on her glasses. “She say anything else?”

“Said he was already hurt before the last mission he was on, bruised to shit, cracked ribs, sweet-talked her into taping them and giving him lidocaine cream without reporting it.”

“That tracks,” nodded Park, “he said there was another incident before the F/A-18 ejection. Something secret enough he couldn’t talk about it, but he did say the ejection conops - that means “concept of operations” - hadn’t been tested in whatever incident it was.”

Something prickled up the back of Chase’s neck as he met her eye. “Wait, what? You don’t think it could be -”

“Something uber-classified, gotta be,” she said, “probably not a spacecraft, I don’t think that’s what they got out at China Lake - but who knows, depends on your definition of "space", probably something approaching the von Kármán line, and definitely not something you wanna have an incident with.”

He felt his eyes widen. “And he walked away from it? With just cracked ribs? And the Navy sent him on another mission?”

“From what you said,” cut in Foreman, “he knew they wouldn’t send him if what’s-her-name -”

“Jimenez,” he supplied.

“- yes, her - if she’d spilled that he was walking around held together with physio tape then they probably would’ve grounded him.” 

Chase shrugged. “Yeah, probably true. She did say he was all kinds of hurt after the mission, though. Apparently he, and I quote, “didn’t even try to escape the base hospital”.”

“Escape? He’s been pretty agreeable to medical help.”

“He seemed like he’d behave himself with his son and whoever all those other people -“

A pager went off on the table, the noise shrill in the half-darkened room. 

“What the -” Foreman made a grab at it. “His BP’s dropping, c’mon, let’s go -”

There was a muttered “goddammit”, from Adams or Park he wasn’t sure, but he pushed the door open anyway, Foreman pushing past him and jabbing at the elevator button. 

A nurse was in the room already when they skidded to a halt at the door, BP monitor beeping, and Mitchell looked pale and sweaty, his breathing rapid. Adams still looked tired, but had sprung into action almost reflexively, holding his wrist. 

“Pulse is rapid, thready,” she said, glancing at her watch; he was stirring a little now, then sat up, making a retching noise, and the nurse seized an emesis basin and held it in front of him. He retched again, but nothing came up; a bead of sweat rolled down his nose and landed in the basin, and Chase winced a little.

“Push epi, let’s go -“

Park was frantically ripping the plastic off a syringe, and Mitchell drew in a deep, shuddering breath, obviously trying to slow his breathing down, his pupils blown wide as Park depressed the plunger. 

“BP’s stabilizing,” he heard himself say, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “Sir, have you had any adverse reactions to morphine before?”

“Not - not really,” Mitchell said, gulping, swiping a hand over his face, then taking the paper towel the nurse handed to him with a muttered word of thanks. “A little nauseous, sometimes - I didn’t really eat today -”

“Foreman, did you up his morphine without any food in him?” Chase huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

“Sugar’s probably low,” acquiesced Park, a little apologetically, “morphine really dropped his BP.” She was looking awkwardly between them, even as Foreman groaned and tipped his head back. 

“Dammit, that’s on me. Guess by the time he was admitted they’d finished feeding the patients. I’m sorry, sir, we’ll get you something to eat - or if you’re not feeling up to it, we can get you an IV -”

“What happened?”

The man who had been in the room before had reappeared in the doorway, his blue flight suit tied around his waist so that Chase couldn’t look at his nametape, his expression panicked, a sandwich in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. 

“Mav? You okay? Why are you all back in here?”

“Sorry, Mr. -” Chase fought for the name.

“Bradshaw,” supplied Mitchell croakily from the bed, and Chase could see Bradshaw’s eyes drifting over to him, narrowing at his pale, sweaty face. 

“We’re sorry, Mr. Bradshaw,” Chase went on, “the increased dosage of morphine dropped your - erm - father’s blood pressure a bit more than expected. We didn’t realize he’d not eaten most of today.”

“Shit, Mav, did you skip lunch?” 

Bradshaw had hurriedly set down his sandwich and cup and pushed his way to the side of Mitchell’s bed. 

“I’m fine, kid, I wasn’t all that hungry, stomach hurt. S’just the morphine and low blood sugar.”

Chase caught Bradshaw’s eye; he was nodding, though he didn’t exactly look reassured, and something tightened a little in his chest.

“We’ll get you some food, sir, probably just something light for now - and hang a banana bag, would you -“ 

The nurse nodded, pulling another IV pole over to the bed, and Bradshaw fell heavily into the chair he had been in before, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

“House is gonna make fun of me forever,” grunted Foreman, pulling the chart out of the foot of the bed and adding a note, and Chase failed to suppress a chuckle. 

“Not forever, only for a bit, he’ll move on as soon as someone else does something stupid, and all of us missed it.” 

Foreman nodded awkwardly. “I really am sorry, sir,” he said, turning to the bed, “I should’ve checked when you last ate before changing the dosage.” 

“Ya think?” The acerbic comment belied how tired Bradshaw looked as he straightened up in his seat. 

“Lay off, Bradley, they’re fixing their mistake,” cut in Mitchell, his voice hoarse but with a stern note in it, and though Bradshaw had to be well into his thirties, he acquiesced with a nod, looking down like a schoolboy who’d been admonished. The nurse reappeared with a surly expression on his face and a package of crackers in his hand, which Chase took gratefully from him and handed to Mitchell, who clumsily tore them open and gingerly took a bite. 

“Water, sir?”

“Thank you,” Mitchell said, swallowing and taking the cup from Adams. “You weren’t in here before.” His eyes raked over her rumpled clothing, but as Chase watched, she did not flinch. 

“I’m Dr. Adams, I work for Dr. House, but I’m just coming back from travel, got caught up on the case when I came to check in at the hospital.”

“Nice to meet you, doc, mind if I ask that you get some sleep? No one would’ve let me in a cockpit if I looked that tired.” 

“Mav, that is rich coming from you,” came Bradshaw’s voice again, and something quirked at the corner of Mitchell’s mouth. He seemed to be regaining some color. 

“I’m afraid your Petty Officer Jimenez would agree,” said Chase, and the slightly guilty smile on Mitchell’s face widened, “won’t make our job any easier, having to disentangle the effects of the previous ejections to see if they could be linked to your current symptoms, without proper documentation so you wouldn’t get grounded.”

“Yeah, you -”

“Kid, we talked about this already,” Mitchell cut Bradshaw off with a sigh, “and yes, fine, Dr., uh, Chase,” he added, glancing at the name on his lab coat, “I gave you Jimenez’s number ‘cause she’s got all the gory details. I didn’t mean to be rude, Dr. Adams, I just know I’m not at my best when I’m jetlagged, they even gave us a couple days to sleep before this last mission that we could hardly afford to spare.”

“Be grateful you’re not being treated by residents, then,” huffed Foreman, “none of ‘em sleep enough when they’re on call. Are you feeling better now, sir?”

“Yeah - well, I don’t think I’m gonna pass out or throw up,” said Mitchell with a nod, his expression confused in a way that set off an alarm bell in Chase’s brain, “and the morphine did the job, just - it’s not normal to start going all numb and tingly, is it?”

“What?” Chase’s voice came out sharper than he had intended, then Mitchell tipped to the side a bit, grabbing the rail of the bed to steady himself.

“ Unh - well - kinda from here down -” he gestured somewhere at the height of his floating ribs “- I can only feel some tingles, everything’s numb.”

“No,” said Foreman, his brow furrowing as Chase glanced between the bed and where Bradshaw was in the chair, “no, that’s not normal, the morphine wouldn’t do that -”

“Then what would?”

“We don’t know, Mr. Bradshaw,” cut in Park, who apparently had the presence of mind to raise the angled bed so that Mitchell could lean onto it, “but we’ll find out.”

Chase could see Bradshaw’s throat click in a swallow as he guided Mitchell’s shoulder back onto the pillow with a shaking hand, and something about his tense expression made him suddenly grateful at Park’s assured tone, even as Foreman nudged him, holding the chart.