Another collaborative effort between moi and Mrs.House from the DtH forums!
Disclaimer: I don't own House, MD---but wouldn't it be nice if I did?
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Maybe Cuddy's Baby Daddy
"Find me sperm who can beat up 613's kids!" Dr. Lisa Cuddy snapped as she dumped several file folders down his lap.
Dr. Gregory House winced as three thick folders made contact with his lap. The impact of the paperwork slightly intensified the worsening pain in his thigh, which has just recently become a bit resistant to his daily regimen of Vicodin.
"What am I, your man-pimp?" House muttered as Cuddy slammed her office door behind her. He made a mental note to "suggest" to Cuddy's face about the benefits of stud service—satisfaction both ways, straight from the source.
In the meantime, he had to see a moron about a teenage con artist—he'll look at the files later.
House has unbelievable powers of persuasion, coercion, and whatever else he had hidden up his sleeve. After the "interview" held in Cuddy's office with Mozart 613, he told her to choose someone she knows.
"Someone like you?" Cuddy asked in surprise.
House paused at that.
"No," he said. "Someone you trust."
House figured out how to find the man behind the sperm donor file 613, even went so far as to pose as a sperm donor himself in order to sneak into the fertility clinic's computer mainframe and hack for information. The thrill of the sneaky gives him a sense of high that superceded the pain in his leg, a kind of "drug" that has more benefits than Vicodin or morphine. Cuddy unconsciously gave him three more reasons to go back, and thus, three more reasons to make sure she doesn't get more loser donors. He hoped that the morphine would show up in his "little buddies", preventing an onslaught of little Houses that would surprise him on his doorstep or (God forbid) the free clinic one day…
Two days later…
James Wilson was surprised at the phone call he received at his new digs. Knowing House, Wilson mentally prepared himself for—whatever the hell it was that House planned for today.
"…looking for a new flat-warming gift," Wilson muttered to himself as he scanned both sides of the street for a red Corvette. "What a load of bull!"
However, he thought it was the better option than letting House have free rein. When he married Julie, House's wedding present was a barrel man knick knack from some province in the Philippines…
"In anticipation for the honeymoon" the note enclosed in the box said. Wilson opened the box and extracted a 5-inch tall wooden naked man standing on a pedestal and wearing a barrel. He didn't think much of it—he placed it on the coffee table and went upstairs to take a shower—until he heard Julie's shriek of outrage and horror (unusual mix). Wilson, fearing the worst and covered in shampoo, jumped out of the shower and ran downstairs in his birthday suit.
"Julie, what the hell happened!" he yelled.
"House sent that, didn't he?" she screeched as she pointed to the object of her indignation. Confused, Wilson bent down and picked up the barrel man, nodding mutely in answer to her question, then shrugging his bare, shampoo-sudded shoulders at her.
"Lift—the—barrel—James."
Wilson looked at the figurine as reality dawned, knowing what was "coming up" when he lifted the barrel from the—
"Well, if that's your way of expressing gratitude, Wilson, then no wonder you can't stay married to one woman," House said from behind him, eliciting a small squeak of surprise and a hop from the normally reserved Wilson. When he managed to compose himself and turned to glare at his friend, House was wearing a look of wide, blue-eyed innocence, his lanky frame leaning casually on his cane.
"New cane, House?" Wilson quipped, hoping to get even a bit. House gave him an owlish look.
"Why, yes, Dr. Wilson! Funny you noticed it—did you get the bill for it?" House quipped back.
Wilson grimaced—he did. Stupid of him to hope that House would forget about it, but nooo...
"So, House," Wilson said as he looked behind his friend at the Corvette, parked slightly out-of-place from the curb, "where are we going? I'll promise not to hurt your new cane if you'll let me drive the Corvette…"
"Oh, I bet you made that vow with all of your wives, you tease!" House interrupted with a smirk and a widening of those blue eyes. "But I need to exercise this bad leg; driving stick shift helps with the healing! Surely you won't take this opportunity for physical therapy driving away from me? What will the bald-headed Munchkins think?"
Wilson just rolled his eyes at that as he followed House to the car.
"Sweeney's Upholstered Paradise," Wilson murmured as he read the sign in front of the store, a look of horror fermenting on his chiseled, handsome face. "Gee, House—always thought your furniture came from Ikea or another store with a better-sounding name—like 'Knick Knacks for the Limping Twerps'."
"You and your hoity-toity oncologist's tastes," House fake-sneered as he parked the Corvette in the parking lot next to a squat, gray building—House's parking technique took up a fair amount of space from the neighboring slot. As Wilson got out, the oncologist was suddenly reminded of Boris Karloff's portrayal of The Monster in "Frankenstein", with the big protruding forehead, as his chocolate brown eyes squinted at the building.
"Geez, man, where'd you find this megastructure?" Wilson asked, revulsion and fascination lacing the undertones of his voice. "Ripley's Believe it or Not!"
"Internet," House replied offhandedly. Inwardly, he shared Wilson's sentiments—the place looked like, for some reason, it was forever stuck in an 80's time loop—the BAD FASHION SENSE part of the 80's. Wham! meets Culture Club and partied hard with Ferris Beuller. Good God.
Understandably, the store looked abandoned, and if House hadn't personally called up to inquire for directions, he'd gladly give Wilson his sofa—the one he peed on some months ago—to save face.
Surprisingly, when they entered the store, there were a few people browsing about, and the items on sale looked quite respectable and designed in the new millennium. Judging by the look on Wilson's face, House could tell that his friend found something (or things) that took his fancy.
Phase one complete—phase two: find the target. Search, interrogate and destroy, if necessary.
"The place looks big, Wilson," House muttered, delivering a steely blue scan around the area. "Divide and window shop for a knick knack."
"Sure thing," Wilson said softly, fixated on a spot on the far right corner of the establishment where the TV and home entertainment system were displayed. "See you back at the cashier!" he said, patting House's arm unconsciously before walking over to the display.
The moment Wilson was out of earshot, House continued his visual search, popping in a Vicodin without breaking his concentration until he found his quarry over at the section where they displayed chairs and sofas.
Move 'em out!
Next chapter: Sperm donor #286