Notes: Thank you Maestro for kicking this baby into shape, and Sanj for looking it over as well; this was written for Kangeiko for the Yuletide 2006 challenge.

My Holiday Musical (1/2)

Sometimes I think...

"The chickens! The chickens! Somebody catch the goddamned chickens!"

Sometimes, I think—

"Bambi, either put on the suit, or get out of my way!"

Sometimes I think that Sacred Heart Hospital is not an entirely sane place to be.

"Who the hell put a stuffed dog on my desk? Dorian!"

"Dorian!"

"DORIAN!"

Most of the time, though, I'm sure of it.

Of course, it's not only in hospitals that Christmas-time marks a sharp increase in the craziness factor, but actually a worldwide phenomenon ("worldwide" in this case meaning "The United States of America".)

And yet, the sheer amount of people who seem to converge at the hospital when Santa fever begins is overwhelming even on the lightest of days. It's almost like some old Greek god has decided to crush planet Earth like a huge terrestrial orange, squeezing all the madness through a funnel that channels it into Sacred Heart's Admissions lobby. I... don't know why any ancient Greek god would do that. There are probably less misadoctoric ways of relieving boredom if you are a god, like counting mountaintops or seducing nymphs, or maybe directing a musical.

"Hey, Meredith," Dr. Cox popped out of nowhere, interrupting my thoughts. "I know McDreamy's, like, totally all that, but please note that if you impaled all the people waiting here on a pole you would in fact have a shish kebab the size of Texas. Now, you're welcome to try doing that, as it will certainly help dispose of them faster, but if you find yourself a little squeamish at the prospect of human-spearing I suggest you pick yourself a patient and treat them now."

His eyes did that thing where you instinctively want to fling your hands out to catch them, just in case they finally popped out.

"Aha, I wasn't thinking about McDreamy," I offered.

It was like his stare was boring a hole through my pupils and into my brain, and oh my god, my brain was on fire. "Scary man in a purple skirt!" I cried desperately, beckoning to the first patient I saw. Dr. Cox span with a grunt and stalked off, leaving me with the professional wrestler oddly clad in a fluffy tutu. "Follow me please, Mr..." I checked his chart. "Hulk."

As the day progressed, I had a strange feeling something was going to happen. Something dramatic that would cause upheaval in our lives and be resolved just in time for Christmas. Maybe I would meet three ghosts ("I am the ghost of Christmas past," Elliot would say. "Do you think this black robe makes me look fat?"; "Ghost of Christmas Present in the house, y'all!" Turk would swing in on a string of colored lights, flipping in the air and landing on his feet. "What? No applause?"; "I am the ghost of Christmas Future," Dr. Cox would grind out. "Do you... think... this black... robe... makes me look fat?"). Maybe I would discover what the world would have been like had I not been born (dozens of happy, sparkling, cured patients fill the hospital corridors; pharmacy shelves are stacked with anti-cancer and anti-AIDS pills; Dr. Kelso is strumming his guitar in front of an enchanted, cheering staff. "And that," explains Angel Cox smugly, "is why the world would have been far better off without you." A tiny splash is heard when I hit the water.)

What actually happened was far, far stranger.

"Is that a duck?" Elliot asked.

"Might be," I replied. "I'm not used to seeing ducks without delicious orange sauce and a side of mashed potatoes. Mmm..." I shook myself out of the duck-a-la-yum fantasy. "But yeah, it kinda looks like a duck."

"Hmm," she humfed. "I wonder what a duck is doing in the hospital."

"And I'm sure that wondering is taking up lots and lots of precious space in your teenie-weenie head," Dr. Cox retorted, appearing out of nowhere. He certainly had a gift for it. "But I still see more than fifty patients loitering around here, hey, almost like a bunch of useless doctors— so until they're all gone, safely tucked in their beds or their coffins, your wondering will have to wait."

Elliot's mouth gaped just a little. "But Dr. Cox! There's a—a—a duck!"

"Well," Dr. Cox picked a pear off the pear tree and took a bite, "in my experience, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and is waddling underneath a pear tree that magically appeared twelve days before Christmas, it's probably a... what?"

"A duck?" she guessed.

Dr. Cox looked like he was about to burst the vein on his forehead, and I really didn't want to get blood sprayed all over my clean scrubs. "It's from that song!" I hissed from the side of my mouth.

"What song?" Elliot hissed back.

"The 'partridge in a pear tree'."

"'Pear tree?'" She frowned. "I always thought it was 'partridge in a pantry'."

It was at this point that Dr. Cox turned to the person closest to him and growled, "oh for the love of Darwin, Muhammad, the carpenter from Bethlehem, my she-devil of an ex-wife or any other deity of your choice, somebody please hit me over the head with a blunt object."

The person closest to him happened to be Turk, who was leaning against the nurses' station ogling Carla, not paying very much attention to anything else, and therefore operating on automatic as he grabbed hold of a desk phone and absently smacked it on top of Dr. Cox's head.

The entire room stood stock still as Dr. Cox, in agonizingly slow motion, crumpled to the ground. You could hear a pin drop if it weren't for the smack his head made against the floor.

"Oh," Turk drew it out nice and long, "...shit."

No one spoke in return. I wanted to cry, imagining the sad music and the flowers and me and Carla, wearing identical lacy black veils, mourning together at the funeral.

"Can somebody please rewind that?" Turk begged nervously. "Like, click on a button and make that not have happened?"

The Greek god probably could.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, "what do we do now?"

"We should... probably take him to a hospital," Elliot said tentatively.

Another moment of stupefied silence, and suddenly the room came to life in a burst of activity, gurneys wheeling and charts flying and nurses juggling random medical apparatus. Elliot and I dived towards the prone body simultaneously. "Shotgun!" she yelled, grabbing Dr. Cox's sweater, but I was way ahead of her, stethoscope already in my ears and on his chest. "Sorry sport, doctor's already handling it," I breathed, listening to his pulse intently, examining his pupils, and helping heave him onto the bed.

Two things happened during the twenty-four hours Dr. Cox was unconscious.

The first was the mysterious appearance of a gilded cage that held two white doves in the middle of Admissions.

"Hey, look at the little birdies!" Carla cooed when she saw them.

"Shouldn't they be turtles?" Elliot wondered.

"No, I think the song is being metaphorical. I wonder who they're for."

Elliot tilted her head. "Don't you mean who they're from?"

"No, girl. Some lucky person here's got a secret admirer! A 'true love' who's sending them all these gifts for Christmas." Carla smiled dreamily. "It's so romantic. I know somebody who can learn from this," she emphasized, raising her voice just as Turk walked by.

Turk slowed down just enough to walk backwards and say, "Woman, I do not have time for this now! Dr. Cox will wake up some time and I have an escape route to plan."

Carla's face darkened, but before she could reply a page was announced on the hospital loudspeakers.

"Doctors Dorian, Reid, Turk, and Nurse Espinosa, please make your way to Dr. Kelso's office. Drs Dorian, Reid, Turk, and Nurse Espinosa, Please make your way to Dr. Kelso's office."

Which was the other thing that happened.

Congregating in front of the lion's den, I was the unlucky gladiator involuntarily pushed in first.

Dr. Kelso looked up from his paperwork in disdain. "In, the lot of you!"

The others entered warily, lining up in front of him. His eyes traveled slowly between each of our faces, deadly focused like mutant force rays.

"Well," he growled, "partridges. Turtle doves. I understand you funny folks are trying to turn my hospital into a poultry farm."

I widened my eyes. "Sir, it wasn't us—"

"Quiet!"

I suppressed a whimper.

Kelso narrowed his eyes. "It's always you four, every single time. And with Dr. Cox currently incapacitated and unable to make your lives miserable by being his charming self, it's up to me to make sure you don't cause any more trouble, though I'm not completely sure one can do that without supernatural powers."

Suddenly, his face broke into a wide smile. "We have sick children in this hospital."

What?

"Children with terminal illnesses," he continued sweetly. "Children who won't be celebrating Christmas at home. Children who might not live to celebrate another Christmas, ever."

I could feel my eyes welling up with tears. Oh, the children.

"Those children deserve a happy holiday. As of now, you four are in charge of putting on a Christmas play, to make sure all these sad little children are, even if only for a short time, merry."

I was so touched by the faith Dr. Kelso had in us to cure the spirits of the little angels, I didn't even care how absurdly illogical the task was. "We won't let you down, sir," I vowed fiercely.

Three heads whipped towards me with death glares.

"Excellent!" he replied, in that same sugary tone. "You can be in charge. And Dorian? I want elves."

My mind was spinning with ideas when we left the office. A musical! Directed by moi! Who needed Greek gods anyway?

I started brainstorming aloud, walking through the halls. "Okay, so I'm thinking costumes, Turk, I'm thinking props, Elliot, I'm thinking Santa suit, Carla, and jingle bells and oh, my god! Rudolf noses! So the rage this year. I can play the triangle and two notes on the harmonica, so I'll be the Head Elf, and I'll need two other Happy Helpers with me! Is anybody writing this down?" Turning around, I discovered that apparently, nobody was following me.

"Amateurs," I huffed.

Well, I'd have to deal with them later. More than a few hours had passed since Turk's tragic mistake, and it was time to check up on Dr. Cox.

Now, I know it seems like I absolutely hogged the position of being Dr. Cox's attending physician because I'm seeking his approval. But that's not true.

Well, not all true. If I took good care of him and proved I was an excellent doctor, he wouldn't approve.

He would totally love me forever and ever and ever.

Ultimately, that's all I ever wanted in life.

Dr. Cox was sharing a room with two coma patients. All in all it offered very little in terms of entertainment for your average vigil-sitting doctor. For a while I made up a game, the point of which was to guess which patient would wheeze next, but it... well, it got old pretty fast.

I tried thinking what could wake up Dr. Cox. I could try dumping a bucket of icy water on his face. Slapping him lightly. Lightly caressing his face. And then there was the Fairy Tale Classic technique of waking people up...

I shook myself out of my reverie. Kiss Dr. Cox? Oh, dear god, no. For one, he would kill me. For two, it would probably hurt. A lot. The murder, not the kiss. One would assume.

But now that it had penetrated my mind, the thought wouldn't leave. And… after all... what if my lips held magical wake-upping powers that I never knew about? I'd never actually tried it before. What if I were destined for this? My legs unfolded independently and started carrying me forward, and, mind still on overdrive with musical ideas, I could hear a gentle melody accompanying my steps in the background.

"Yeah, you see him..."

It was Turk crooning, except he was a small red lobster with a sexy Jamaican accent, scuttling across the bedrail.

"Lying there across the cot
He don' got a lot to say,
Dat's because he's unconscious"

Wow, lobster Turk was a good singer. And to the point.

"An' you know you'll die
But you're dyin' to try, you wanna
Kiss da doc..."

I took another step forward and puckered up my lips, as an entire offstage chorus erupted into song:

"SHALALALA-LA-LA MY OH—"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dr. Cox cut in irritably.

I jumped three feet in the air. "Gaah!"

Dr. Cox lifted his head from the pillow and winced, setting it back down again. He did not look like the happiest camper.

"Vitals," I blurted, grabbing for the closest explanation. "Yours. Checking. I was."

"Space," he mimicked. "Personal. My. You're standing in. Something or corner the in stand go." It took me a second to comprehend what he said, but apparently a second was too much. "Shoo!" he emphasized, trying to sit up again.

I took a step back, then another, just to be safe, and forced a wide smile onto my face. "Dr. Cox, you really shouldn't be getting up so soon, you've just suffered a severe head trauma—"

"Did I say shoo?" Dr. Cox mused. "I'm sorry, I meant shush. No, wait, both of them simultaneously would be… very close to heaven on earth." He looked around the room, almost as if he were trying to place himself. That was weird. Dr. Cox spent more than half of his time at the hospital — why wouldn't he recognize where he was?

With a grunt, he lifted himself up to stand, gripping the bedrail to stable himself.

"Are you sure you're feeling well enough to—"

"Shush!" he repeated. I shut up. "Do I have a chart?"

I silently handed it to him. That lovely chart, with Dr. Cox's name and my signature at the bottom. I wondered if I could have it framed.

"Good girl," he murmured, and I felt a momentary swell of pride. He approved of the treatment! Which, okay, mainly consisted of "bed rest until he wakes up", but still.

Dr. Cox rubbed his chin, which had grown a day's stubble, and slapped the chart against my chest. "Well, this looks like I've earned myself at least four sick days, wouldn't you say, Florence? As my doctor, you can notify the big boss. Toodles!"

To my surprise, he started making his way to the door, smiling with satisfaction. And for some reason, he was limping.

"Hey, wait!" I followed him. "You can't just leave once you're admitted! You're acting bizarrely. And is something wrong with your leg?"

Not stopping, he threw me a sidelong glance. "Heeey, you could tell that by the limp, couldn't you? What a shrewd deduction."

"But there's nothing wrong with your leg!" I protested, trying to keep up. The man was walking fast.

"That's what I try telling it too, but it just doesn't listen. I've been thinking of installing an eardrum on my knee."

I dashed in front of him and held up my hands, blocking his path. It was time I put my foot down. "Hey!" I shouted. "Look, you're not acting like yourself. I don't know what's wrong with your leg but I am keeping you here for observation, and that's that. And I'm not writing you any sick notes. And you can't leave against medical advice without signing the form anyway. And... and..." I stumbled for a big finish. "...yeah!"

Dr. Cox stared at me, gaze moving slowly from my face to my outstretched arms and back to my face. My heart quivered in my ribcage.

"Do you..." he said threateningly, "really... want to go there?"

I gulped. "Yes?"

He stared at me for another long minute. "Fine," he relented at last. Victory! He drew a pen from his pocket, grabbed my hand and scribbled something on it. "There you go, try not to drool all over it. I'm outta here." Pushing past me, he waddled towards the elevator and before I could blink he was gone.

Dumbfounded and curious, I checked my hand. In untidy black doctor's script, he had scrawled the words: Discharged AMA, will not sue. Signed: Dr. Gregory House.

Dr. Gregory House?

What the hell?

There was only one thing I knew for sure: I was probably not going to wash my hand for at least a month.

December continued doing its thing where it tripled my caseload by – well, by three, and I was so swamped I didn't see Turk and Carla until that night at the apartment. It was hard convincing them that I wanted to talk about Dr. Cox's strange behavior and not about the Christmas play, a discussion they were trying to avoid at all costs by physically fleeing whenever I came within hearing distance, which basically means, in our apartment, running around in circles between the kitchen and the bedrooms. In the end I resorted to the only way which would get them to listen to me.

"Ow!" Turk bellowed. Whoops. My knee may have been a bit too close to his groin.

"Bambi, are you crazy?" Carla yelled, puncturing my right eardrum, I'm sure.

I held fast, sprawled on top of my two friends as they struggled to get loose. "I was just— oof— trying to get your—" damn it, too many body parts— "attention."

"By pouncing on us?" Carla awkwardly twisted her head to look at Turk. "Did you put him up to this? Is this your perverse way of asking me for a threesome?"

Turk's eyes were wide as decorative china plates. "Wh—no! Baby, no! I—JD, tell her!" he ordered with panic.

"Okay, let's everybody take a deep breath and calm down," I suggested rationally. I was pinning them down with a large blanket and my strapping bod, which I was not afraid to use for biting and knee shoving in painful places. "Let's just talk about Dr. Cox for a second."

Carla's eyes softened in a minuscule way. "All right," she said testily. "Talk. What's wrong with Perry?"

Thank you, Carla. "Well, for starters, he doesn't seem to think he's Perry. He thinks he's Dr. Greg House."

Both of them looked confused. "What do you mean, House? Like on TV?" Carla asked.

"Yes!" I exclaimed, relieved that she understood the gravity of the situation.

Turk closed his eyes, thumping his head on the floor. "Oh, God," he groaned. "I hit him and now he thinks he's a TV character. I am so, so dead."

He so, so was.

"Wait a second," Carla said suddenly. "How do you know that's what he thinks?"

"Well," I started counting off, "he's all stubbled, he has a limp, and he told me so?" Talk to the hand, Carla, I thought, sticking my palm in front of her face.

She flinched and slapped it away. Ow. "Well," she said, "he was unconscious for the better part of the day. Did it ever occur to you that maybe he hasn't shaved, he's faking it, and he's messing with your mind?"

She looked at me expectantly. Turk raised his eyebrows. "No," I admitted. "But he... looked like he meant it."

"Listen, I know you care about Dr. Cox, but he's gonna be fine," she reassured me. "He's got a thick skull, and Turk here? Isn't that strong anyway. And before you start, baby—" she warned, just as Turk opened his mouth— "why don't you give your arm a good shake, and let us know when it stops?"

Turk promptly closed his mouth.

"I dunno," I sighed, resting my head on someone's random blanket-covered limb. It hurt to think that he would purposefully fool me like that, but it was starting to make sense. And it was better than the alternative. "Maybe you're right. Yeah, Dr. Cox probably just caught me by surprise. He'll be much better at work tomorrow, after a good night's sleep. Yeah."

"That's it, Bambi," Carla murmured, patting my head.

Ah, it was good to have friends. I was feeling much better about the Dr. Cox incident, and laying on top of the blanket and the world in general felt so comfortably warm and fuzzy.

"Guys?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we sleep like this tonight?"

They dashed to their bedroom so quickly that for a moment I was suspended in the air like Wile E. Coyote on the edge of a cliff, before crashing to the floor.

I've got to get me one of those little "HELP!" signs.

Having something as monumental on your mind as being given the responsibility of, essentially, Andrew Lloyd Webber, can really screw with your dreams – by which I mean they will become unusually melodic. But it's all worth it, because you wake up in an oh-so-chipper mood! The next day found me skipping to the hospital, where it seemed everyone was singing.

"Smile," I crooned at the mother of a three-year-old as I finished her exam, "though it might be kitschy. Smile," I winked at the little girl, "though your tush is itchy..."

In the next room, Elliot and a staff of nurses were reviving a patient who'd gone into v-fib. "One little, two little, three little shocks – CLEAR! Four little, five little, six little shocks – CLEAR! Seven little, eight little, nine little shocks – CLEAR!" Holding up the defibrillator paddles with satisfaction, "Heart rhythm back to nor-mal."

I could even hear the three hens that were waddling in the corridors singing. One of them was clucking:

"Allons enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrive!"

...in a slightly military manner, while the other two were singing the Mr. and Mrs. Thenardier duet from Les Mis, flaunting their Frenchness in our faces.

Speaking of the Master of the House, Dr. Cox hadn't arrived at work yet, and I was beginning to worry that maybe he had actually taken his own sick-day idea seriously after all. I left a note voicing my concerns with Dr. Kelso's favorite minio— um, assistant, confident that she would see to it that Dr. Cox came in.

Sure enough, only two hours later the hospital doors flung open with fury. Dr. Cox was on the warpath.

Like Paul Revere on his mission to warn the unaware, Lawyer Ted and his band of Tedettes scurried ahead to tip us off on his foul mood, except that instead of shouting slogans on horseback they did it in a pleasant, acapella manner:

"Dum… dadadadada dum… dadada-
I've got rain clouds on a sunny day
And when he passes by I wanna say- "oy vey"
(dadadadada dum... dadadadada-)
I (I) guess (guess) you (you) say (say)
What can make me feel this way?
My Cox! (my Cox! (my Cox!))
I'm talking 'bout — my Cox
My Cox!"

The Teds finished in an impressive falsetto to me clapping enthusiastically, and idily wondering if Ted might actually have two.

My enthusiasm was cut short.

"Well, Allison," I heard a snarl behind me. "You got me into work after all. Congratulations."

I turned around. "Dr. Cox!" I said brightly. "I was simply worried that— okay, I see you haven't had time to shave yet, and why are you carrying that cane?"

He gave me a look that said 'clearly, you're an idiot'.

"Clearly, you're an idiot," he said, thwacking my knee.

"Ow!"

He rolled his eyes impatiently. "Look, I'm gonna be in the lounge. My soap's on in five hours which is just enough time to mentally prepare myself for the drama, so do not bother me unless you find an interesting patient, meaning they're either a three headed midget or a vampire that nobody else was able to diagnose, and I cannot stress that part enough, please don't bother me with 'House, there's a midget here who's seeing triple, we think he has three heads, could you come take a look?' and I'll come and say 'well, yes, it appears he has three heads' end-of-diagnosis and I'll miss the part where Liz finds Ric with Lucky which I've been waiting for for ages. Do I make myself clear?"

Not waiting for a response, he scuttled away.

I have to admit; I was scared.

"No, big guy," I reassured myself. "Vampires aren't real."

Gathering myself, I knew that it was time to act. I blew my rape whistle and yelled. "EMERGENCY MUSICAL STAFF MEETING IN THE CAFETERIA! EMERGENCY MUSICAL STAFF MEETING IN THE CAFETERIA!"

It occurred to me that maybe paging them would have been the more subtle move, and also, people wouldn't be looking at me strangely.

In the cafeteria I was met by a pissed off Elliot, a sour looking Turk, and a distressed Carla. "We have a problem," I announced.

"You're right," Turk agreed immediately. "Right now the problem is me getting kicked out of surgery because, according to Dr. Wen, Dr. Kelso's orders are that the children are now my first priority. So this emergency better be quick enough for me to get back in time to touch that grandma's innards because otherwise, my friend, you owe me a 96-year-old pancreas."

"Lay off him," Carla said wearily, rubbing her forehead. "He was right about Perry. There's something wrong."

Elliot jumped in, outraged. "I should say there is! Do you know what he said when I started explaining the consult I asked him for? He said 'it's hard concentrating on your breasts when you speak so fast'!"

Carla sighed. "He told me white scrubs would look so much better on me when I won the wet scrubshirt contest he was planning for the holidays."

"He what?" Turk exclaimed, while I tried not to be offended that Dr. Cox hadn't commented about my breasts at all.

"Okay, here's the thing," I stated. "Dr. Cox still thinks he's House. His brain must have jiggled too much in his skull when Turk hit him."

"Thank you for that medical explanation, doctor," Carla remarked dryly.

I ignored her. "In any case, our best bet is to hit him on the head again. Any volunteers?"

All three of them stared at me, and I was creepily reminded of a three-headed oversized midget.

"You're out of your mind," Elliot pointed out.

I pulled out my trump card in a sing-song voice. "Last one to offer gets to be Mrs. Claus in my production."

"I'll do it," Turk said immediately, looking like he wanted to kill me. I wasn't scared; our friendship would persevere, unless Dr. Couse actually did kill him.

"Great!" I smiled. "Rehearsal's tonight after dinner, class dismissed."

We went our separate ways, and I looked forward to meeting Dr. Cox's regularly-but-not-overly cranky self after he was knocked out by Turk again.

Unfortunately, that did not happen.

The scary thing about having so many birds running amuck in the hospital is that suddenly a hypothetic expression like 'tarred and feathered' can have some very real, immediate implications.

"Did you drop that?" Janitor asked later that day.

I followed the direction of his finger to see that he was pointing at a reddish feather on the floor. "Um, no, I didn't."

"Then how do you explain how it got there?" he asked suspiciously.

I blinked. "Just a thought, but maybe a French Hen shed it?"

"Convenient coincidence, isn't it?" Janitor's eyes narrowed. "Hens in the hospital at the exact same time as you loitering conspicuously next to strewn feathers."

"It actually makes perfect sense..." I trailed off.

"You expect me to believe that? What, do you get your kicks from littering and then blaming it on birds?" He took a step towards me, looming ominously. God, he was huge. "I've got my eye on you. If I collect enough fallen feathers," he poked me in the chest, "you're first in line. I may not have tar, but I do have some buckets of stale vomit which would probably work."

He and his mop stalked off, leaving me standing alone and terrified. After a moment, I picked up the feather and threw it in the trash.

Well, it couldn't be that bad. So I'd pick up the occasional stray feather I found lying around. How many could there possibly be?

Between pillow fights in the Psych ward, The Todd organizing cockfights in the surgical lounge, and what I suspected was some random sadist scattering feathers around the hospital – the answer was apparently, a lot. And so, instead of spending the day sitting vigil by Dr. Cox's bedside once again, I spent it running around stuffing feathers in my scrubs (and hee! Those can tickle), and missing out on all the drama, which went as follows:

Turk, becoming more and more apprehensive about his appointed mission the closer he got to the lounge, finally gathered enough courage to knock meekly on the door. In return, Dr. Cox, deeply focused on the third act of General Hospital, ignored him.

Turk stepped in. "Uh, Dr. Cox."

Silence.

"Dr. Cox?" He took a step closer to the couch, hoisting a heavy textbook about head injuries and holding it behind his back.

Still no reply.

Turk raised his eyes heavenward and murmured a small prayer. "I am sooo dead," he concluded silently, and lifted the textbook high above his head for momentum—

—and set it down a moment later. "Shit, I can't do this," he muttered, finally drawing the attention of Dr. Cox, who craned his head back and said:

"For god's sake, if you want something say it, instead of making me miss the days when staff lounges were white-only."

Apparently despite the arm-jello Turk's biceps still had a considerable amount of strength in them, because his punch knocked Dr. Cox out cold.

"Oh, shit," he said again.

This time, Dr. Cox was re-admitted and re-discharged by the time I was finished with my afternoon rounds and feather collecting. Turk relayed the story for us during that night's rehearsal.

"So he's okay now?" Carla tried to confirm.

Turk flexed a muscle. "As okay as anybody who's been though The Turkinator." At Carla's glower he added in a small voice, "yeah'sokay."

"Excellent!" I cried, rubbing my hands together. "And now, my pretties, little pieces of clay for me to mold into something exciting and beautiful, my Cast du Sacre Coeur," as I'd privately dubbed our company, "the time has come for some real work to begin. Elliot, you're my props girl. Have I got a surprise for you!"

I dumped the load of feathers across her lap.

She looked like she was going to hurl. "Ohmigod, are these from real chickens? Did you pluck these? Did you wash these?"

I nodded with the sort of passion that only touched those of us with the soul of an artist. "I'm thinking angel wings, Nicole Kidman on top of a giant elephant,
One Day I'll Fly Away—"

I could see it in my mind so clearly: Elliot in a Head Elf suit with wings perched on the roof of the hospital, singing in a heartfelt warble:

"One day I'll fly a sleigh...
Leave the shop to Mrs. Claus
Toys are nice and all, I think
But reindeer always were my kink... "

And eureka! I had a plot!

By this time, four calling birds did little to disturb hospital routine, and when the five golden rings showed up, Carla, Elliot and I all called dibs, finally splitting them between us. Turk's lack of teasing caused Carla to suspect that maybe he was the hospital's Secret Santa after all, and despite him having bashed in Dr. Cox twice, he was definitely out of the doghouse.

Meanwhile, I was still a little concerned about Dr. Cox's personality, but Dr. Kelso had sent him to some medical conference in Chicago for a few days, so I could only assume he was back to normal. Not even Dr. Kelso would release a real-life Dr. House on the unsuspecting masses.

He returned a few days later. Sneaking up on me, as usual, from behind.

"Dorian, would you mind explaining—"

Dr. Cox continued speaking but I didn't hear a word he said after MY NAME! MY NAME! HE SAID MY NAME!

My heart lurched in my chest and I spun around to give him a hug, only to be confronted with— crap.

"You have a cane," I blurted.

His glare was ten times more menacing than usual. "That doesn't answer my question, but if it really bothers you you can look forward to being fired very soon."

"No, I mean — I mean — I mean —" I was like a human broken record, but I was simply too freaked to continue. "I mean—"

thwack!

I shut up. Well, at least that cane was good for something.

"Dorian, get a grip and do your job," Dr. Cox said scathingly. "But before that, explain to me why exactly seven geese are a-swimming in the women's bathroom on the first floor."

I tried to decide whether he was joking. "Uh, what were you doing in the women's bathroom in the first place?"

He gave me a blank look. "Where else do you expect me to go?"

"I—" ...had no idea what to answer. "Is that a trick question?"

"You know what, forget it," he said with disdain, signing a chart and putting it in the rack at the Nurse's Station. "I'll go look for somebody competent around this place. In the meantime, go practice your suturing or something equally harmless."

He limped away swiftly, leaving me speechless, disappointed, and contemplating his ass, which was – unless I was imagining things, which very rarely happened – swaying just a bit more than usual.

I cleared my throat. "Nurse Roberts? Could you hand me that chart?"

"You break your arms, your legs, and your eyes this morning?"

I reached for the chart myself, dreading reading whatever name I'd find written at the bottom – either 'Dr. Cox', which would mean that he honestly did spend his time in the women's bathroom and I would have to chew that over some more, or 'Dr. House', which would mean bad news all over the place.

The name I was definitely not expecting to see was Dr. Kerry Weaver.