A/N: Drabble. Nameless, faceless, kind of characteristic-less. Trying to decide if this would be worth developing a bigger plot line. I would love feedback. Even if it's "Cool!" or "Lame."
I don't own House or anything/anyone associated with it.
"Did you kiss me because I'm dying?"
It's an easy question. IV pump in hand, she walks into his office. The bland gown washes her out, makes her look more pale than she already is. If it were up to House, he'd have bright green gowns, because he likes the alliteration and green begins with a G, just like his name. Gregory. Gregory House. Doctor House. Doctor Gregory House.
"No."
"Then why?" She shuts the door to his office and closes the blinds, greatly decreasing the amount of light in the room and greatly increasing his agitation.
Truthfully, House kissed her because she was dying. But, then again, everyone lies.
"Because I thought you were the evil witch that had stolen my nice, white Hansel and Gretel," House shakes his Vicodin bottle, and sarcastically frowns when no noise is made.
"So you decided to check my lips?"
"So I decided to check your lips. Any further questions?"
She ribs the IV out of her arm and leaves it at the door, stampeding towards him like cattle at sheep, and, before he knows it, is on her knees in front of him.
"Take your pants off." Bossy. Arrogant. Him, with tits and a vagina.
With a typical House grin, he jests, "You first."
"When my parents thought I had leukemia, they started treating me like Jesus fresh off the cross..." she begins the conversation with undoing his belt and ripping it out of the loops, "A toy here, candy there...and because of their treatment, I felt like everyone should pity me," his button and zipper follow the belt, and if it were Wilson and not House in the chair, he'd propose.
But, this is House, and things like this are just too strange.
He stands, and she smirks.
"Thought you'd do that."
And with a quick tug, his pants are at his feet, and the young woman is face to face with Scar. She pushes him roughly in the stomach, and he falls back in the seat, "Umph!"-ing his way down.
"I started treating everyone around me like shit, and then, one day, the doctor realized I wasn't going to die, and I didn't need people to pity me anymore. I didn't have to justify their respect."
"Ah, but you see, grasshopper, you had a life-threatening chronic illness that turned you into a stuck-up brat whereas I have a very painful lack of nerve and muscle that makes me cranky if I don't take my happy pills. There's a pretty thick line there. I could show you if you take my boxers off for me."
Then it all makes sense.
It's crazy, how House's brain works. First, it's a completely unrelated statement that sounds like it should be on Oprah. Then House has to figure out a clever come back, and, in doing so, has to think about what is said. Then comes the answer.
Go figure. Thinking to get an answer.
"You never told us you had leukemia."
"I figured it'd already be in my file..." She mumbles as she traces the scar. Any other time, he'd kick her away and tell her to back off, but now he's on to something.
"The file that was left with your pediatric doctor since you were five? Good thinking." Grabbing the phone off his desk, House presses one number and send. "Get me 10 cc's of methotrexate."
"Your scar is shaped like Florida."
"And the birth mark on your ass looks like Germany. Who are you to judge?"
She tilts her head in confusion, "How did you know about that?"
"Lumbar puncture. Chase did one, remember? Doctor's talk. Weird, I know." Recoiling, House knocks her away and she tumbles back, hitting her head on the desk.
With a sharp intake of breath, she grabs the back of her head, "What the hell were you thinking?!"
"The same thing you were thinking when you pulled my pants down: what's in there?"
"Excuse me?"
Let the pants pulling up, fly zipping, button buttoning, and belting begin.
"We thought you had a brain tumor because we found a mass in a lobe we couldn't biopsy and you responded to the typical brain cancer treatment of rounds of cyclophosphamide chemotherapy. What we didn't take into consideration was that you once had leukemia. Why? Oh, that's right, because you never told us. Cyclophosphamide also treats autoimmune disorders, like the one you happen to have. You see, when you got a bone marrow transplant for leukemia, there were too many T-cells in the marrow, which turned into sarcoidosis and a granuloma in your brain, not a tumor. Too many T-cells means Graft-versus-host disease, and Graft-versus-host disease plus sarcoidosis equals Sjögren's syndrome, an autoimmune disease that was calmed by the cyclophosphamide. Your body, in order to try to help the Sjögren's syndrome, has been making alpha-Fodrin, which lowered your autoimmunity and therefore protected your body against the cancerous cells not treated due to your Graft-versus-host disease. Methotrexate, low T-cell bone marrow, and some eye drops and you're cured."
Viola.
She stands, a mix between confusion and amazement on her face, "So I'm not dying?"
"No. Just really sick," he makes a face of disgust, "And grody."
She kisses him. Quickly, stealthily, and before he can enjoy it, she pulls away.
"Did you kiss me because I'm dying?" He mocks, starring her hard in the eye.
"No," She stares back, blue on blue, "I thought you might have been the giant that chopped down my exocrine gland beanstalk."
A/N: 100 hits and ONE review? C'mon, I know you can do better than that.