House was in the middle of what he considered to be a relatively normal day when someone stumbled into the clinic who would change his life forever.
"Next idiot," he called from his position atop the examining bench itself, eyes never straying from the fascinating drama of General Hospital, and the door opened. Which, of course, had been what he expected. But then there was nothing but silence, and that had not been what he expected. He waited long enough to see the results of the pregnancy test—right, like those cheap things were even remotely accurate anyway—his curiosity got the best of him, and he spun around as gracefully as his leg permitted—which, all told, was not very gracefully at all. If he hadn't expected the silence, he definitely hadn't expected what he saw next.
There was someone perched on the doctor's stool, and it was not Wilson.
It was also not Cuddy, which was rather disappointing because she had worn her "I don't have any panties on" top that day.
Instead, this someone was not an adult at all but a teenager, and its eyes were currently fixed on the television much as House's own had been just moments ago. It did not make the slightest sound—not a murmur, not an "Excuse me, Doctor, I'm over here," not a peep, not even an exhale. House was tempted to see if It was still breathing, but he resisted the impulse. He said "Hey," for lack of anything better.
The someone turned around and studied him. Its eyes were a startlingly deep green, and they peered at him from beneath a fringe of thick black hair which desperately needed a trim and still remained oddly cute. House realized the somone was a female of Its species; then he thought that was strange because it was unadorned—not a spiky wristband, hideous bow, or tube of pink lip gloss in sight, just a cheap silver watch, a cross on a chain around Its neck, and a wary grass-green gaze. "So you like this show?" he said, surprising himself. Small talk he did not make with patients. He did not even make it with Cameron, and if anybody deserved small talk she did.
"Never seen it before," It said. "What's it called?"
"General Hospital," said House, and ignored the temptation to ask It if Its head had been under a rock for the past decade.
"Don't they know you can't trust those things?" said It, indicating the stick, which was now being cried over and handled as though it hadn't just been peed on. "Probably couldn't detect fertilization in a cloning factory."
House began thinking something very out-of-the-ordinary. He wondered how it felt to like someone again.
"What's your poison?" he asked instead.
"Feeling a bit woozy," It said, suddenly shy and standing up. House noticed It was careful not to put weight on Its right leg. "Got worse lately."
"Let me guess—you sprained your ankle getting drunk with your pals and couldn't bring yourself to tell your Mum," House said, feeling rude.
"Huh?" said It, honestly surprised, and glanced down. It looked as though It was seeing Its injury for the first time. "Oh, no," It said, "that's nothing, that's not the problem."
House snickered. "Then stand on it," he said.
"Why?" It asked, paling rather abruptly.
"Because I want you to prove that you're not lying. Everybody lies, you know."
"Sure," It said, white as Dracula. House waited patiently and watched, settling in for some prime entertainment. After sucking in a very dramatic deep breath, It lowered Its foot even more dramatically to the disgustingly grimy floor. Then It clenched Its teeth and shifted Its weight to the injured limb. House knew what was going to happen, but regardless, he hadn't been fully prepared. Its eyes clouded with pain; House understood that; Its knee bent at an unnatural angle, and It fell forward. It hit Its head on the counter and was unconscious. Just like that.
Well, there was a sickening crack too, but House couldn't really hear that over the soap.
The chain broke and the cross skittered like a drunken cockroach across the tile. House stared until it came to rest facedown beneath the stool. There was something wrong, he thought. Something wrong about the situation. For a moment, this bothered him.
Then he remembered this was just a wasted teenager and it was Cameron's job to care. He turned back to the TV and, as an afterthought, punched the call button by the bed with one finger. The fat nurse on duty came in a few minutes later, all fluttering hands and exaggerated sympathy; It was carted away before the end of the show. House figured he'd never lay eyes on the layabout again, called "Next idiot!" and wondered about the sex of the kid that would probably be stillborn anyway.
But he was wrong. Oh boy, was he wrong.
Not about the stillbirth, though—about the other part.