House opened the door to exam room three, half expecting to find an Avril Lavigne-look-alike, impatiently swinging her pink and black skater shoes back and forth while crossly shooting him a 'what the hell took you so long?' glare. Instead, he closed the door and turned around to find a rather classy-looking, rather asleep-looking teenager girl, sitting up on the table and leaning against the wall.
Stepping closer, he quickly took in the white cowboy boots; close-fitting, fading blue jeans; and white, long-sleeved oxford, unbuttoned to mid-chest over a simple, white tee. Her light auburn hair was pulled into a loose ponytail behind her. There were no hair clips, no bright colors. No earrings - just a silver chain around her neck and a silver ring on her finger. Her nails weren't even painted. She had her arms crossed over her chest and her makeup-less eyelids peacefully closed over a makeup-less face. Even with the poor skin - the horrible, teenage acne - she was pretty, in a blatantly uncomplicated way.
But of course, Doctor Gregory House only noticed that she was asleep and wasting his precious Game Boy time. He skillfully chose his weapon - a pointing finger - and prepared to poke the pimply-faced time-waster in the shoulder. Right before the tip of his finger touched her arm, a hand shot up and caught the offending finger in a blood-squeezing death-grip. Mercilessly reeling his hand in towards the wall, she calmly opened her eyelids to find that she was peering into the shocked, confused face of an older gentleman. He didn't utter a word - didn't even open his mouth - only stared, as did she. Then, just like that, her violent grip released him and he stumbled backward, using his cane for support.
Sympathizing with his hand, House began shaking it out in midair from the unexpected, bone-crushing grip. He just stood there for a moment, and then remembered Foreman's words. "Different . . ." he mused, tilting his head at the puzzle before him.
She sat up and straightened her collar, offering no explanations or justifications for her what she'd just done. She understood that he should understand, and no further commentary was needed. She was almost expressionless: not proud, not ashamed, not intimidated, or intimidating . . . not excited or worried or concerned at the slightest bit. He would say she was relaxed, but that wasn't even it. She was comfortable, but not too comfortable; laid back, but still ever-aware of her surroundings - just enough to be confident yet maintain that all-important heir of nonchalance. And she waited. Waited for him to speak, to move, to do whatever he'd come there to do.
"The quiet type, I see." House finished shaking his hand around just as Dr. Foreman entered the exam room, stuffing his phone in his pocket.
"Oh. I see you two have met." Foreman took note of the speechless expressions staring back at him. "Or . . not?" He looked at House. "Tell me you introduced yourself."
"Okay. I introduced myself." House expected the girl to tattle on him, to tell Foreman that he'd tried to prod her to death in her sleep and then failed to explain who he even was. But she didn't. Didn't say a word. Though her face eased up a bit, and a hint of amusement shone in her eyes. She was subtly observing the sarcastic doctor before her.
"House," Foreman scolded, shaking his head. "Rachel, this is Dr. Gregory House. He'll be assisting me in finding out exactly what's wrong with you . . ."
"No," House corrected, pointing a thumb at Foreman, "he will be assisting me."
Ignoring House's supremacy issues, he continued, "I'd actually like to take some blood before I disappear this time." He scooted his way in front of House to stand before the girl, and the room became oddly silent; he got his equipment together and reached out for Rachel's arm.
She was so quiet. Just as House reopened her file to scan for the word 'mute' –
"Fifty cents an ounce," came the first words from Rachel's mouth. It was soft, but deep - her tone was welcoming and reassuring. "Plus tax - three cents on the half-dollar. You sure you wanna do that?" she gestured to Foreman's syringe. "Could get pretty pricey." The slight twinkle in her eyes was comforting; a casual smile formed across her lips. There was nothing loud or dramatic about it.
Rachel offered Foreman her right arm, despite the left one being closer, and he asked her to roll up her sleeve. She looked at him, hesitantly. "Uh oh," she said, sheepishly looking down, "not a good idea." Foreman looked at House for his reaction; both were intrigued, though neither knew quite why. They waited for an explanation. "Heroin addict. Four years. Massive bruising from this morning's screw up." Then, just like that, with Foreman and House staring on, she rolled up her sleeve and stuck her arm out for the pricking.
There was no bruising. No marks. No scarring whatsoever. Foreman stifled a quiet chortle and went on with the procedure, ruffling his brow at how odd the girl was. But House was amused. This sixteen-year-old had captured his interest; he felt a new jigsaw puzzle coming on - just one more for him to ponder over and solve and toss into the 'discard' pile. Yes, this was almost better than his precious attack-of-the-turtles time. Almost.
Foreman left with the blood sample after promising a quick return. Without saying a word, House hobbled over to an uncomfortable chair beside the exam table and plopped himself down, changing the game in his Game Boy to something less . . . Mario. It was a test. All his patients shot him dirty looks when he did that, or asked him stupid questions: Aren't you a doctor? Why aren't you paying attention to me? What are you doing? As if it wasn't obvious. I'm avoiding you, Mother Einstein. I thought it was obvious. But Rachel just sat there, content to be left alone as well.
She discreetly watched over his shoulder as he hammered away at the buttons with his thumbs. When he died for the fourth time straight, he cursed under his breath and angrily gazed at the screen, utterly defeated.
"You're depleting your energy crystals."
He looked up from his troubles. "Excuse me?" Like she would know.
"When you jump over the broken bridge after the patch of ice, point your lightning gun downward and wait until the fish start jumping. Then fire."
"Like it's that easy . . ." he mumbled. "That damn fish -"
"Grabs your leg. I know. Alternate between 'A' and 'B' while shaking rapidly left and right. He'll fall off," she stated matter-of-factly.
Eyebrows raised in surprise, he eyed her for a moment and then secretly swallowed the broken pride in his throat. He knew what he was doing. Why should he need a sixteen-year-old to tell him how to cross a broken bridge? Redirecting his attention to the screen, he muttered, "Kids," and started over again. When he got to the broken bridge, he took a running leap and alternated between 'A' and 'B', shaking the damn fish off his feet. "Ha!" he exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair; he made it across the bridge. "Who got told!" he yelled at the fish in very un-Greg-like manner. Then a bird thwacked him in the head and knocked him back into the water. "Great . . . " he looked up at Rachel, feeling more defeated than ever, "Game Over." He took out his Vicodin and popped a few back. Rubbing his forehead, he added, "Damn . . . I should have -"
"Saved," they finished together. She sympathized with him, "Bird thwack you in the head?"
Tossing his Game Boy aside, he stood up and limped to stand in front of her. "Okay, what's the story?" he leaned on his cane. "Who are you . . .? Why are you finishing my sentences?"
Her eyes were glazed with an understanding that went beyond words. She could hear unspoken things like thoughts and intentions, as could he. She could see through him, and his insides squirmed a bit under the realization. So young. So . . . young. And all she offered was a shrug. An entire minute of silence dragged by until House decided he wasn't going to figure her out by standing there.
He noticed, even through the shirt, how toned her biceps were - how toned she was. She was certainly in shape, to say the least. He stepped toward her. "Flex." She didn't do it. "Flex your muscle." He waited. She wasn't complying. "What's the problem?" he demanded.
"Don't have a problem."
"Then flex. Please. Humor me." House aloofly lifted her forearm to get her halfway there.
"Oh," she said, "You didn't specify which muscle. I guess the toe doesn't quite cut it?" Rachel shook free of his loose grip and flexed her muscle per his request, though she clearly counted the request as more than strange.
House hid the hint of a smirk from his face. "You can't flex your toe." He poked a cautious pinky finger into her biceps and then retreated, scrunching his expression into an amalgamation of confusing and subtle admiration.
"No, you can't flex your toe." Rachel lowered her arm and leaned back against the wall. "Is this an odd new procedure I'm unfamiliar with?"
"No. I just wanted to touch it." He formed a mental image of Rachel in gym class, whooping all the guys' asses and kicking them to the curb. Then, with a sarcastic edge to his voice, he wondered aloud, "How many people ask you that a day -"
"Yes, Doctor. I'm experiencing a runny nose, coughing, wheezing, sneezing, a bit of a loss of an appetite, and a perpetual existence of boredom, though you're helping with that last one - considerably," she assured.
"Ah. A smart ass." House squinted his eyes at her, more amused than before.
"Competitive by nature." She stared him down - a challenge - and this time, he couldn't help but display and erase a quick smirk from the corners of his mouth. He remembered those very words coming from his own mouth just recently. "Or maybe it's just the acne," she gazed toward the ceiling, feigning undecidedness.
"If you don't mind me asking -"
"I do," she cut him off. Her expression was still warm and welcoming, and if it were any more tender, she might have smiled.
He brought out his stethoscope, switching back into doctor mode, and ignored her very House-like response. Like I care if she minds . . . "How do you stay so fit?" He meant to ask her how she stayed so buff, but he figured that'd be a bit off-color for even him.
"Eat when I'm hungry, drink when I'm thirsty, sleep when I'm sleepy, and run around when I'm energetic." She said it like it was so simple. "I give my body what it needs. None of these schmaltzy ideas of indulgence for comfort - satisfaction for the soul the gourmand." House was temporarily speechless. He merely blinked. Suddenly pleased, Rachel tilted a nod to the side and finished with, "Damn that was poetic."
House was pleased as well. He didn't know why - and it was pathetic that he was - but somehow he was just as proud as if he had said it himself. "You a writer?" He almost shook himself upon asking. He could not possibly be having a sober, unsarcastic conversation with a . . . patient? A teenager? He checked her lymph nodes at her throat.
She was silent for a moment, then, "Sometimes." She tilted her head up to give him more access.
House noticed four, small, red marks scattered in some formation across her right forearm - right where his fingers had been a moment ago. Catching on, Rachel looked down to her forearm. "Dermagraphitis," she explained.
"Bad dermagraphitis . . ." he looked at it more closely. "How long have you had this?"
"Years," was her only reply. "Listen," she suddenly snatched her arm free and backed away from his doctorly attention, "we both know: the dermagraphitis has nothing to do with my cold; the cold has nothing to do with the fact that I fainted . . ." She bravely looked him in the eyes. She was unreadable, even to him.
"Then why are you here?" House backed away as well, faking irritation, impatience. "And why didn't you just tell Dr. Foreman about it? You dragged me out of my office."
"Dr. Foreman and I have about as much in common as Michael Jackson and . . . . Michael Jackson," she wrinkled her forehead at herself; it obviously wasn't what she'd planned to say, though it was oddly appropriate. They both had the mental image when Rachel broke in again, "Anyway, I didn't faint. And that man wasn't my father."
Ready to snap, House began, "Then why -"
"I payed him to lie. Look, since neither of us are here for the comfortable climate and friendly company, let's just get to the point. I need a second opinion." She pulled a plastic x-ray sheet from under a leather jacket beside her and handed it to House.
House wasn't one for stupid questions, but, "Where they hell did you get -"
"Don't ask unless you really want to know." She hopped off the table and started for the door.
Doctor House was thoroughly confused, but he did have one idea. "Wait."
