A/N: In this story, Chase works in the ER, for some reason. It takes place in the fourth season of House and in the seventh season of Buffy.

Chapter One by Roberto
Strong

In the soft light, Chase gazed down at the goddess beneath him. He held her head in his hands and gently brought all his skill to bear. As he laid her down, cradling the body that lay limp in his arms, she sighed. His eyes met hers. Nothing. "Morphine," Chase whispered. The nurse quickly set an IV.

The Gameboy bleeped as House's formula one skid off the track. A solid rear-ending made him lose control and brought the game to an end.

"Damn it, Wilson." He barely mouthed the words to an empty office.

Cuddy burst in. "House I swear to god I'm going to take that Gameboy and—"

"Busy."

"You are supposed to be in the Clinic and—"

"Which god?"

Cuddy's flashing eyes blinked then narrowed. "What?" she hissed.

"Which god did you swear to... the god of bad home perms?"

Cuddy's hand instinctively shot up to her locks. House smiled slyly as Cuddy's hand balled into a fist then lowered to rest on her hip. "My hair is fine", she said evenly, "Get your ass to the clinic." She turned and walked out.

House frowned as he watched her go. Sighing, he searched his top drawer for his stash, downed a couple, and looked around for his cane. "Damn it, Wilson," he muttered again. His leg was beginning to hurt.

When the pain struck, House hated people, he hated being a doctor, and he hated Clinic duty. He popped two more pills. As he saw his first patient, a foggy indifference was taking hold.

"It seems like I'm hungry all the time, Doc." The patients thick British accent made House's addled brain take notice.

"I guess you've tried something other than Spotted Dick and Jelly Eels?" The sarcasm wasn't lost on the patient.

"Yeah, well, I don't crave your everyday fare..." A menacing tone made House hold his tongue, but only for a moment. He looked away.

"From the look of your skin, I'd say you need a healthy dose of B12 and a nice steak dinner." House turned to prepare a needle.

"Red meat's good... Doc." The menacing tone again.

Silence.

House slowly turned to find the patient smiling cheerily now. "Actually, I'm not here for my own health," he beamed. "A girl, I'm looking for a girl."

House threw the hypo down. "The bordellos down the street."

"Really? I'll make a note of it. But, no, a girl...came in here earlier..."

"Lots of girls come in here."

"Yeah, well, you would have remembered this one. Blond, yea high...," his voice lowered,"...strong...".

House stared at him. Then, getting his limey on, House said, "Yo, mate, I haven't seen your girlfriend, so go look for your tea and crumpets elsewhere." The patient sized House up. He looked at him straight on.

"Yeah," he said slowly. He turned to go, but paused at the door. "I like you, Doc... you've got a pair." He walked out and into the hall.

House regarded the retreating figure. He shook his head. "Fucking Clinic... Fucking Cuddy." House kicked a nearby cart. His leg revolted in pain. His mood soured even more when Chase paged him.

House entered the emergency room, and Chase waved him over. "You should look at this." House hobbled over.

"I've had all the cockney I can stand tonight. Make it quick."

Chase swept the curtains aside. Even House was taken by surprise. He quickly recovered. "Yeah a trauma patient, so what? Have you seen Wilson?"

"House, we need to run a battery of tests on this girl."

"Why? She'll be dead within the hour."

"She should have been dead hours ago... she's strong."

House stepped closer. He placed a hand on her matted hair. She was blond beneath the caked blood. He briefly scanned her vitals. "Well, it won't be long now," he said dryly. "I'm going home." His leg was barking pain. "Do what you want."

The dreadlocked phantom danced behind the fire. "...the penetrating wound..."

House was brutally jolted from his nightmare. He sat upright. His leg was on fire. He fumbled for his pills at his nightstand, knocking over the bottle of scotch. "Shit," he said. He quickly gulped six pills, grabbed his leg and screwed his eyes shut.

There would be no more sleep.

Eventually his pain sank down to a glow and House grew bored. He looked at the clock: 3:00 a.m. He called Chase at the ER. "What was the time of death for that trauma victim?"

"I didn't think you'd care," Chase replied matter-of-factly.

House's tone softened. "Look, her boyfriend was looking for her earlier . . . he should know."

"We're getting some labs back now . . . ."

"Idiot," House thought. "And what did the lab work say . . . she died from being run over by a Mac truckitis?"

"House, she's not dead . . . in fact, she's better."

House stood at the white board, brooding. Foreman scanned the files spread about the table, wondering which case House would take an interest in.

"A girl that should have died, doesn't," House said.

Foreman found the appropriate chart and read, "Neck trauma, arm partially severed, multiple lacerations, massive blood loss, coma . . . ." Foreman was puzzled by his boss taking this case on. The only odd thing was this girl's tenacity to live. Still, anything could happen. "She's pretty strong," Foreman offered. He instantly caught his mistake and braced himself for House's scathing insult. It didn't come.

"Yeah, she's strong," House said, lost in thought. He turned quickly. "But why?"

Cuddy appeared. "So, House, are you going to do any real work today?"

"Ah, you were in my dream last night!" Cuddy blushed imperceptibly but refused to be sucked in. She crossed her arms and waited.

"A trauma patient," House said, "that doesn't have the good sense to die."

Foreman handed the file to Cuddy. "Since when did trauma hold any interest for you?..." She appraised the situation and her voice trailed off. She looked up, "Why isn't this girl dead?"

House's pager interrupted them. It was Chase. The girl was awake.