Hi everyone! This is my first House fanfic and that is my excuse for its copious amounts of both crap-ness and ooc-ness. Nonetheless, it is cheap therapy and the only thing keeping me sane. So, I hope you at least find one line in this vaguely amusing. R&R, y'all! (If you even do that in this fandom..?)
DISCLAIMER: I do not own House, I do not own Eminem. Please don't shoot me. Just for the record, a pie floater involves a meat pie floating in pea soup. No, I don't want to try one, either.
"35 year old male," Chase fired at House. "Bullet wound in chest, massive internal bleeding-"
"Gee," House said in a patronizing tone of sarcastic-bewilderment. "You don't think he might have been … er … what's the medical term for it? Oh, yeah, shot in the chest?" He took a handful of pills, swallowing them with a flourish of his cane. "Check the patient's skin. If it matches Foreman's, we got ourselves on of dem fully gangsta homies, yo!"
He made a complicated finger symbol at Foreman.
Foreman ground his teeth and sighed impatiently, sick to death of House's racial jibes.
House coughed slightly. "Er, I mean, a victim of a drive-by shooting. Duh."
Chase shook his head. "It's not that simple, mate," he told House, smoothing down the large Australia-shaped badge affixed to his pink and blue striped silk shirt.
Cameron sighed deeply. "Good point. It never is, is it?"
Foreman murmured his agreement.
House swallowed a handful of pills, simultaneously spinning a yo-yo, playing his gameboy and swallowing a handful of pills.
Oh, and listening to his hench-people debate the case.
He looked up briefly to find Chase and Foreman discussing their weekend while Cameron gave Chase a lap dance, occasionally interjecting psychologically probing questions into the conversation. Oh, and Wilson was there too. Wilson was always there.
House swallowed a handful of pills, going back to his game.
What patient?
"I have the results," Chase said, walking into the office. He waved a small piece of paper. "He's not black. He's Caucasian." As an afterthought he added, "Mate."
"Excuse me?" House reprimanded. "I believe the technical term is white."
"And the internal bleeding is getting worse," Cameron reminded them. "We have to do something!"
"We have to do something!" House mimicked. "What do you think we are – rabid hookers with uncontrollable sexual urges?" He swallowed a handful of pills. "Run the test again."
Cameron blinked in bewilderment. "What test?"
Didn't anyone listen anymore? House swallowed a handful of pills. "The pregnancy test. I mean, bullet hole in chest – we can't rule this out as a birth relating to some alien affair the guy's had."
For a few seconds, the only noise in the room was the clattering of House's pills as he swallowed a handful of them. Everyone was staring at him – except Chase, who was staring into his coffee cup.
"Starbucks?" Chase wondered out loud. He swilled it counter-clockwise, clock-wise, sniffed it then took a mouthful. "Definitely."
House crashed the car. Dammit. The game emitted a "Game Over" bleep and reset itself. House sighed. Never could perform under pressure.
"Okay," Wilson said, breaking the silence and cleverly deflecting attention back on the main plot of the story. "I don't know how you got through med school without being informed of this, but men can't have babies."
Okay, so it wasn't quite the main plot. So sue him.
"They can't?" Chase and House exclaimed in unison; one sarcastic, one confused.
"That explains a lot."
House took a handful of pills. "Extended metaphor, people." He turned to Foreman. "You re-do the test."
"And the bleeding?" Cameron queried.
House sighed impatiently. Bleeding, schmeeding. He was this close to getting a high score, his favourite soap was about to start, his yo-yo needed a walk and he needed more pills! "Give him a blood transfusion. Or a cup of tea. Actually, it depends on how bad the bleeding is … Just send him to the blood donor section. We don't want to waste blood!"
Cameron and Foreman left the room, leaving House and Chase alone.
Oh, and Wilson was there too.
Chase swallowed nervously and tried to surreptitiously smear some Vegemite around his mouth. The Australian government was suspicious that America was rubbing off on him … Something about his accent being tainted … and he needed his boss to be fully aware of the extent of his Australian-ness if he wanted that spot on the "So where the bloody hell are ya?" campaign.
"Are-ya," he muttered to himself, trying to inflict the emphasis on the vowels just right. "Are-ya. Ya."
House frowned suspiciously at him. "Did you mistake your mouthwash for your nail polish remover this morning?"
Chase jumped slightly. "What?"
House swallowed a handful of pills. "You're acting strange. Did you forget to put the disk in the hard drive this morning?"
Chase frowned. "I-"
House held up a hand, stopping him mid-word. "I don't have time for your nonsensical ramblings. I have a soap to watch." He swallowed some pills. "Chase, I need you to go to the library. There's a book there I think you'll find helpful. Just search on the catalogue under title for a book named 'Where Do Babies Come From?'"
Cameron and Foreman were examining skin samples from the patient in the lab. And, by that I mean that they were in the lab examining the skin. The patient was still in the operating theater, waiting for them to finish with his skin.
Cameron fiddled with the microscope. "Do you think Chase is acting strange?" she asked Foreman, with a hurried burst of emotion.
Foreman shrugged. "Kinda." To tell the truth, in his book anyone who was male and yet used a lemon juice rinse in their hair classified as weird.
"He offered me this thing called a 'pie floater,'" Cameron lamented. "It looked like vomit with blood in it. I was quite concerned for a while, then he told me it was some kind of edible goods from Australia. Once I'd finished dry-heaving I had to throw it out." She looked up. "He keeps calling me 'sheila', you know."
Foreman shrugged. "Australians," he said in a 'what-can-you-do' kind of voice.
They fiddled with their microscopes for a while longer, the air thick with companionship, concern and sexual tension.
"Hey," Foreman said, putting down the microscope and looking at the skin sample. "Chase was right about one thing, though. Look at this."
Cameron jumped up and had a look. Then she gasped.
Foreman nodded. "Uh-huh. The kid's as white as Eminem."
Coincidentally, at that very moment, House was jamming in his office to Without Me. Tapping his cane on the table in time to the drum beat and also tinkling an air piano, House was really getting in to it.
"Cause it feels so empty without me," he rapped passionately, swallowing a handful of pills.
Cuddy walked curtly down the hallway, feeling a slight tremor run through her stilettos. Probably some pumped up kid with a new set of subwoofers.
She reached House's office, curtly knocking on his door. In one fluid movement, House packed away his air piano, turned off the music, downed some pills, finished his playstation game, downed some pills and put on his happy face.
Wait – wrong occasion.
Just in time, he re-arranged his facial features into that nonchalant-yet-tortured-genius expression that made the girls and/or Wilson love him so much.
"How many pills have you taken today, House?" Cuddy asked him.
House swallowed another handful. "How much Hollywood tape is keeping that shirt down – er, I mean, up?"
Cuddy rolled her eyes, wondering how many packets of Hollywood tape she could buy with his salary, assuming he was no longer in need of one. "House, I asked you a question. How many pills?"
"Yeah, House," Wilson added.
House took a handful of pills. "General hospital is on. A little quiet would be nice." Suddenly his pager beeped. Dammit.
"Would you look at that?" House asked them rhetorically. "I'm needed." He winked at Cuddy. "Good luck getting the shirt off tonight."
As House slammed the door behind him, Wilson sighed and shook his head. "Now would be a really good time for me to say something thought-provoking, amusing and also emotion-charged to close this scene with," he said. He turned to Cuddy. "On a scale of one to ten, how lame is my 'the chicken crossed the road and ended up in a hospital' joke?"
"Very," Cuddy replied, leaving.
Wilson shook his head, looking into the distance. "Appropriate, though. I mean, we are in a hospital."
OOH SUSPENSE-FUL CLIFFHANGER!!!