Unlucky Thirteen

By Carnifax
House M.D.
House/Thirteen (Not as a romantic pair…)
Rated T
General/Humor
Remy Hadley thought she was fired. That was before she got kidnapped. ("Thirteen"-centric) (One-shot)

What would House/Thirteen be anyway? Gremy? Gradley? Hemy? Rouse? Regory? (That sounds like Scooby-Doo…!) I like Gremy.

This is one version of the "how House tells Thirteen she's rehired" scene. I have a few more ideas, so there may be another one-shot with this premise. But anyway…

Thirteen has a cat and his name is Burnaby. She calls him Burns. Shut up, I don't care if it's not canon, she's lonely.

Presenting, Unlucky Thirteen:

The penetrating noise of an alarm clock set on full volume echoed through Remy Hadley's apartment, mocking her sleepless form until finally a firm palm slammed into the snooze button. That hand then drifted two inches left of the clock, reaching for the patient file she'd put there the previous night. She couldn't remember which case it was exactly—after a while, all of the patients blurred together, along with House's criticisms and ideas for each one—but, as became her custom, the patient files were her bedtime stories.

When her hand hit the cold wood of the nightstand, Remy grunted, turning her face into the pillow. Her hand reached farther and yet the file wasn't there.

S'there, I know… She blinked, propping herself onto her elbows, peering against the sunlight at the surface of her nightstand. It was cleared off, with only the mismatched lamp and clock.

Remy sighed. That idiot cat probably knocked it off… But it wasn't on the floor, on the chair or spilled into a drawer. Nowhere, nada.

Groaning, she sat up, leaning over the side of the mattress to look under the bed—or at least meaning to, before her reflection caught her eye.

"Oh…" she mumbled, staring at her face, fingering the area around one eye. It was red and puffy, as if… as if she'd been crying.

Crying about a job.

Crying about losing a job.

She didn't see the reflection's face fall—her eyes blurred, stung with tears again as the lecture hall came back to her memory, along with House and his voice, telling her without explanation that she was no longer needed. No longer wanted. No longer welcomed.

She wasn't a bad doctor, just not good enough.

She turned her alarm clock off and climbed out of bed in spite of her tears, trying to push the loss out of her head. A tiny voice kept prodding the wound, whispering about the patient file she didn't have and would never acquire.

The shower knobs squeaked when she turned them, undressing as the hot water steamed up the room. The warmth felt blissfully scalding; she shivered under it, an unintentional smile forming across her face. It was some amount of comfort that even if Princeton-Plainsboro didn't need her and even if she had just lost the only thing she truly wanted, showers would still be hot, soap would still be smooth, towels would still be soft and normal would still be normal.

She could be normal. She would be normal.

Getting dressed, her reflection looked slightly less miserable. The red of her eyes was almost hidden by the red flush on her face, the warmth of the shower still keeping fire in her veins. Once she had brushed her hair, she looked like the typical, albeit somber, Thirteen.

"Remy," she corrected aloud. "Remy."

Vaguely, she wondered if House had ever known her name. She'd once told him it was in the file, but had he ever checked? Had he ever connected a name and a face? If she'd been hired, would she still only be a number?

And then she laughed, taking a sip of her coffee. The big 'if' hadn't happened, so what did it matter 'if' House would've still brushed her aside as three more than ten?

Down the hallway, the hiss of a cat suddenly broke the solemn silence. "Burnaby," Remy called, standing. "Burns, what're you…"

The entire room suddenly turned into a tiny clear circle surrounded by a frame of fog. Somewhere in her mind, a logical diagnosis was forming, but she couldn't think of it before her knees gave way to the weakness and she saw black.

When she came to a moment later, she was moving. Air was pushing into her face and she was seated upright in complete darkness, moving forward in what had to be a car. Judging by the wind, she was in a roofless something-or-another.

She tried to make a sound but her mouth was covered by tape. Remy made a noise, a muffled grunt, because not only was her mouth covered but her hands were tied and her feet were tied and suddenly, she realized that it wasn't just dark—she was blindfolded.

The noise she made now was a high-pitched mm! of alarm. She twisted in the seat, wriggling. Her hands were in front of her but the ties wrapped around her waist, giving her all of three inches of space to move them. She made another noise and the driver still didn't answer.

You lost your job yesterday and now you've been kidnapped. She froze at the word her mind had produced. 'Kidnapped' meant being tied up, raped, killed… and drugged. She'd been drugged—someone had drugged her coffee! Burnaby had hissed at the intruder, and if she hadn't taken a sip of coffee—

"Mmmm!" she near-screamed, pitching herself forward. The seatbelt caught and she jerked back into the seat, blinking back angry tears. "Mm-mm-mm!"

'Let me go!'

And still the driver didn't answer. The car slowed, changed direction, stopped once or twice and all the while Remy was rocking forward and backward, fighting to control the tears that were soaking the blindfold, trying to work her hands out of the knots.

When the car finally stopped, she was shaking and having trouble breathing and her imagination had taken over reality and gory scene after gory scene was playing on a loop and when the engine died, her heart cut off for a moment and then restarted double-time.

"Mmm," she whimpered as the driver got out of the car. "Mmm, mm-mm-mmm… Mm-mm!"

Her own door opened and an arm reached across to unbuckle the seatbelt. She winced as someone's breath hit her face, even though it was only for a moment. Then the driver grabbed a rope and bodily hauled her to her feet. She hopped twice, trying to catch her balance, until the snap of a switchblade made her go cold.

A soft twang at her feet and she was free to walk; the knife clicked back into its holder once her ankles' ties had been cut free.

And then the driver was walking, pushing her, leading her up a ramp and through a door and into a loud building. The noise of a hundred voices was calming—someone would notice and help her, wouldn't they? Or if not, because there were so many witnesses she at least wouldn't be killed or raped or—

Or maybe they were in a mall, and the driver just was taking her to a different location. Or maybe the voices belonged to other minions of the driver's boss, and she was just another victim in a line of crimes…

She was in an elevator now and there were no voices. She felt alone, now that the driver had let go of her, and even more alarming than the idea of being kidnapped was the idea of being alone, tied up, helpless.

She prodded a foot out in one direction, hopping slightly. There was nothing there. She tried another direction and this time found a pant leg and a shoe that actually pushed her slight touch away from it. She put her leg down, sniffed in a breath. "Mm."

The elevator stopped and the doors opened; she was succinctly herded out of them, around a corner and forward. The jumble of voices was back.

A final shove through a doorway and her kidnapper made it clear that she was to sit in a chair. She obliged, sniffing again, only jumping slightly when the switchblade made another sound.

The tie around her waist went slack and soon her hands were free as well, leaving her absolutely free to move about. Slowly, she pulled the piece of tape off her mouth and the blindfold from her eyes, and then jumped as a green folder slapped against the glass table in front of her.

"New patient," jutted House's voice, and Remy choked out a disbelieving gasp. House ignored her and stuffed his keys into his pocket, yanking the marker from Foreman and erasing the words 'stroke' and 'aorta?' from the board. "Twenty-two, recovering from cancer, still has funny symptoms."

Remy swallowed the lump in her throat, looking around the room. Foreman set a cup of coffee in front of her as Kutner and Taub tried to remember how to close their mouths.

"Yoo-hoo, minions," House tried again, smacking his cane against the table. "Got a patient here."

"But—she's—" Taub fumbled for words.

"You tied her up?" Kutner chuckled.

"Does this mean the game's still on?" Taub finally managed.

"Of course not," House answered sharply as he finished writing 'cancer' on the board. Slashing two strokes across it, he straightened and capped the marker. "That weird cleavage woman who wants to do me said I could hire three of you and Foreman about two hours after you newbies left. So, gentlemen," he waved an arm toward Remy, "I take utmost pleasure in introducing to you Dr. Remy Hadley."

"Remy?" Kutner said.

"Hadley?" Taub said.

"I like that name," Foreman chuckled. "It's… unique."

"I'm sure that's what you say to all potential homewreckers," House sneered, and then acknowledged Remy for the first time. "So, Dr. Hadley, are you more into saving patients than your three dangly-equipped companions are?"

For a moment, she was silent, and then she both sighed and smiled simultaneously. "I'm still just Thirteen," she corrected, reaching shakily for the patient file. "And has anyone run a tox screen yet?"