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Chapter Two:

An hour later, I am safe in the Department of Diagnostics, briefing my beloved medical team on the situation. The twins are in the ICU with their mother, waiting for answers, surviving solely on hope. "15-year-old female comes in with the P-word on her mind –" I begin.

"What's the P-word?" Cameron asks. "Pancreatic cancer?"

"Penicillin?" Foreman guesses.

"Parainfluenza virus?" Chase contributes.

I am sorely disappointed. "That's all you can come up with? I don't think she even knows she has a pancreas. Try again."

"Paralysis?"

"Polycystic ovary?"

"Photophobia?"

"Pregnancy," I tell them irritably. "Duh."

Chase and Foreman are appropriately embarrassed, but Cameron is having none of it. She looks confused, unable to decide whether she should gasp in horror at Becca's predicament or scold me for implying that teenage girls get pregnant all the time…even though they do. I open my mouth to speak, but I am interrupted by Cameron's abnormally loud inhale. "Oh no," she says. "That's awful."

"Don't worry about it," I instruct her firmly. "First, let's focus on making sure she can breathe." They stare at me disbelievingly. "She, more or less, had a heart attack right there in front of me," I mutter, knowing what's coming.

Foreman sighs exasperatedly. "You just never know when to shut up, do you? What did you do to her?"

After fielding this question from three nurses, Cuddy, and Mrs. Donahue, I am just slightly bored of justifying myself. "I yelled at her," I say sarcastically. "Then I smacked her around with my cane a couple times and threw her out. What do you expect?" They shake their heads. "What did you want me to do, tell her men are pigs and help her surf eBay for baby clothes?"

Cameron makes the switch from sympathy to righteous indignation in the wake of Foreman's venture. "You don't reproach a teenage girl for getting pregnant," she tells me.

"Of course not," I agree mockingly. "You're supposed to give them a medal and tell them what good little girls they are."

"You don't know the whole story," she insists. "Anything could have happened. She probably thought she was in love, and they'd be together forever, and –"

"Oh, so I suppose the fact that she's slept with four guys in approximately six months proves nothing to you."

Chase raises an eyebrow. "That's impressive," he comments dryly, then hurriedly adds, "the fact that you took a patient history, I mean."

"It's hard not to when they start rambling about their sex life like there's nothing better to talk about," I reply, mentally wincing at the memory. "Speaking of which, I'm so proud of you and Cameron for -"

"What else happened?" Foreman interrupts, ever the peacemaker. Cameron shoots him an appreciative smile; Chase bounces up and down on his heels, thankful for dodging the bullet.

I could continue anyway, but I haven't got the energy. "In the middle of her high school mating saga, she just…stopped breathing."

"Far out," says a voice behind me. Dr. Wilson has come to join the party. "You have that effect, don't you?"

"I'm a hottie," I reply modestly. "I can't help it."

"I was going for the fact that you scare the hell out of people, but whatever helps you sleep at night…" He helps himself to some coffee, and I notice he takes my favorite fire-engine red mug. I wonder how I came to be friends with such a selfish, callous jerk.

I turn to the doctors that are actually supposed to be here and continue. "CPR got her breathing again. She's in the ICU with her sister and mom, waiting breathlessly, in the most literal sense, for our magic healing touch." I stare at them intently, holding the gaze for a long moment. "Alright, impress me. What's wrong with her?"

They all just look at me as if it's my job to answer the question. "Is she heavy?" Chase finally asks, a query, not the genius conclusion I was hoping for.

Cameron rolls her eyes. Of course that's the first thing he'd assume, I can hear her thinking.

"She makes Karen Carpenter look like Kristie Allie," I say. "Of course, we don't know if she's going to have a baby yet, either. Give her a few months and her belly button could dip as low as the Grand Canyon."

"If she's pregnant, that could mean a whole host of complications," Foreman observes, blatantly ignoring my artful simile.

"If she's not…who knows?" Chase ponders aloud.

"That's what I love about you, Chase," I tell him. "You're so articulate, so well-read and insightful. 'Who knows?' Breathtaking."

"I'm going to run some tests," Cameron says, glaring at me. She gathers up her paperwork and leaves.

"I'm…going with her," Chase tells us, starting after her.

"This is a man's world anyway," I call as I sit down with Wilson and Foreman. "So, you guys. What sort of manly, masculine, man-like activity should we do now that we've weeded out the girls?"

Foreman chuckles humorlessly. "How about if we save this girl's life?" he asks, standing up. "That's pretty manly."

"Noble, yes. Heroic, yes. But the real men are too busy drinking coffee and gossiping for that stuff." I turn to Wilson. "Did you see that shirt on Cuddy today?"

Normally, Jimmy's not one to talk about the boss behind her back, but the shirt was extraordinary enough to even start his tongue wagging. "Did I ever."

"How many square inches of cloth do you think went into that rag?"

"I don't care how small the numbers are; it was exquisite."

"There wasn't enough fabric there to cover a Chihuahua."

"You two are disgusting," Foreman tells us, pausing at the door. "What would Cuddy say if she were standing here listening to you?"

"Probably the exact same thing you did," I tell him, "considering that it was about her sentiment when I told her this myself."

"You have all the fun," Jimmy whines. "If I said that to her, do you realize how fast I'd be out of here?"

"Light speed," I concur. "Maybe faster."

"Will you teach me the ways? I wish I could talk about people behind their backs in front of them." He pauses, wondering if he's even made any sense. "It's a gift, you know, insulting people the way you do. Is it some sort of innate ability, or did you learn it over time?"

"Please," I scoff. "You couldn't learn to be like me if I wrote a how-to book for you. I'm far too advanced for you to catch up to."

"God, you are so egotistical," Jimmy mutters.

"Most people call me House."

"Good-bye," Foreman says in his eagerness to be loved.

I glance at him. "Oh, you're still here?"

He leaves, exasperated. As soon as he is gone, I take my favorite fire-engine red mug from Jimmy's side of the table and dump three packets of Splenda into it. He stares at me in disbelief. "I guess you missed a little time in pre-school," he comments wistfully, "especially the part where they taught you to share."

"This is my mug," I remind him before taking a long, satisfying chug of coffee. "I have every right to it, and you missed the part of church –"

"Synagogue. I'm Jewish."

"Yeah, that," I say, "where you learned that you shouldn't steal."

"To be honest, I haven't been since I was fourteen anyway."

"Therefore, I skipped out on school. You skipped out on God. Which one of us do you think is going to hell the next time the Alpha and the Omega gets in a mood?"

He searches his mind for the commandment I have most frequently broken. "You lie a lot," he accuses lamely.

"You commit adultery. While you're ignoring the Sabbath. I think that counts as a double sin."

"You worship graven images."

"Of what?"

"I don't know…Do monster trucks count?"

"You said God a couple minutes ago, not in the context of a prayer."

"You called yourself God!"

"I am God."

"You don't have a big enough t.v. to be God."

"What does my t.v. have to do with this?"

"God has to have a big screen t.v. What do you think he does when he's bored?"

"God doesn't need a t.v. He gets enough fun out of watching all the stupid people in the world."

"Then he probably gets a kick out of you."

"Maybe you didn't hear me the first time. I am God, and you just happen to be my favorite. Not everybody has such a comical history of marital difficulties as you do."

"The comical part is a matter of opinion," Jimmy observes dryly. "I don't find it very funny. Neither does Julie."

"Just how is she, anyway? Does her mouth still run like it's the Energizer Bunny?"

"Well, believe it or not, she's thrilled," he says. "She can't get enough of this divorce stuff. When I moved out, she actually kissed me good-bye. I don't think she's gotten that close to me since the day we got married."

"I had no idea things were going so well for the two of you."

He buries his face in his hands, suddenly appearing ten years older. I have a sneaking suspicion that bringing this up wasn't the best idea. "Back to square zero," he grumbles. "I'm a failure."

"You'll find someone," I say awkwardly. I'm not much for this encouragement, being-a-friend stuff. "Women love you."

"No, they don't," he replies. "Everyone knows I'm a relationship disaster. When they find out I'm single again, they'll avoid me like the plague."

"You have money, and you're not even that bad-looking," I tell him. "Somewhere in the world, there's got to be someone who hasn't heard about all your other faults from those three nightmares you called your wives."

"I don't know. I think Julie's looking into making 'Do Not Date' posters with my picture on them."

"There's always illiteracy," I remind him. "Find a woman who can't read the damn things. That way she can't even hack into your emails or find phone numbers in your pockets when she does the laundry. You could cheat as much as you want and she'd never know."

He laughs humorlessly. "Perfect. I can only make a marriage work if I marry a woman too dumb to keep track of me. Have you ever considered that maybe lying isn't the best way to nurture a relationship?"

"As I've always said, the most successful marriages are based on lies."

Cameron enters, looking frazzled. "We're running a pregnancy test right now," she reports. "I see what you mean, though, about her…umm…promiscuity. I thought Chase was going to hurl when we took the complete medical history, not to mention her poor mom. The other sister had to take her to the cafeteria and calm her down so we could finish. And," she adds accusingly, "you didn't mention she had a twin."

"I didn't think it was relevant."

"Everything is relevant when teenage girls start having heart attacks for no reason," she informs me.

"The other one is perfectly fine," I remind her. "Other than the fact that she's emo, I mean."

"She's not emo," Cameron says. "She's a depressed artist, if I'm not mistaken." She gazes at me curiously. "It's been a long time since you were in high school, hasn't it?"

Jimmy snorts loudly.

"See if I ever listen to you ramble about your crappy marriage again," I tell him irritably, rising from my seat. "I feel like some coffee."

"There's coffee here," they remind me in unison.

"I feel like intelligent conversation, then. And don't tell me I can find that in this room." I head off for the cafeteria, smirking to myself. Avoid you like the plague, huh? I think, glancing back as Cameron sits down beside him and begins to make conversation. In a week or two, you'll be wishing you were the plague so she'd leave you alone.

I ride down the elevator and follow the aroma of overcooked veggies and leather-tough slabs of steak to the cafeteria. As I enter the Petri dish of staff members on break and worried family members pretending they're anything but that, I wonder why I didn't just keep walking straight out the door and go home. I've saved someone's life today; my work here is done.

Because I have nothing better to do and it's almost lunch time anyway, I get into the food line. I wave past the lady serving the limp green leaves supposedly abundant in Vitamin K and the rock-hard squares of meatloaf and instead go straight to the dessert. Chocolate cake or apple pie? I debate internally. Finally, I choose the pie, because I'm behind on my fruit intake for the day.

Isabelle steps in line behind me. She glares at me. "You took the last piece of pie," she says accusingly.

It's a sign from God, I think. He wants me to have the cake. I wordlessly set the pie on her tray and reach for the cake. She blinks at me, surprised. "I can be generous, sometimes," I say. "When I'm not too busy practicing the other fruits of the spirit, that is."

She nods, humoring me. "Right…"

"In my spare time, though, when I'm not doing good deeds, I practice medicine." I approach the cash register and pull out my wallet. It's empty. Perfect. "I'll pay you tomorrow," I suggest, picking up my tray and getting ready to go slinking off to the most inconspicuous corner of the cafeteria.

"You've exceeded your borrowing limit, Dr. House," says Laverne Lurch, a whale of a woman that recently quit her job as a lunch monitor at the local middle school in favor of her new position here at PPTH. It has been rumored that she was driven out of school by a pack of sixth graders that taunted her mercilessly, saying that she was so fat she made Free Willy look like a tic-tac. "Until you give us the other fifty dollars you owe, no more borrowing."

I'm barely able to keep my mouth from falling open. Is she denying me my lunch? "Try squeezing money out of a dead man," I grumble, begrudgingly turning over my cake. "You starve me, and you'll never see that money."

"Hold on," Isabelle sighs, pulling a wallet with a skull on it out of her similarly patterned purse. "I'll buy it." I am mesmerized as she bequeaths a whole dollar to Laverne just so I can have my cake, and then another for her pie. Similarly, I can almost see Laverne's arteries finally squeezing shut in pure amazement after all these years of cholesterol build-up. "What?" she asks defensively as she grabs a couple napkins. "I can be generous, too, when I'm not busy cheerleading and organizing prom." She picks up her tray and begins to wade through the tables.

I follow her, because while she's probably not the most pleasant person in the room, she is certainly one of the most interesting. "This may surprise you, but you don't seem like the student-government, cheerleader type," I tell her.

If she's angry at me for following her, she's putting up a tolerant front. "Then I guess we're both pretending to be something we're not," she says as she sits down at her table. "He took the last piece of cake, so I got you some apple pie," she informs her mother, motioning at me.

Mrs. Donahue sighs and gives me a scornful look, but takes a fork and starts cutting into the pie.

Isabelle glances at me, daring me to say something. I don't. Instead, I sit down and start eating, making up my mind that I don't care about this little game of defiance she's playing with her mother. Let them make each other miserable.

"Do you know what's wrong with Becca yet?" Mrs. Donahue asks me, willing herself not to lunge for the cake.

"No idea," I report, my mouth full. "My staff is running tests on her as we speak."

"Shouldn't you be with them?"

"Shouldn't you be with her?" I ask in a measured tone. She blinks guiltily. "No one can do their job 24/7. That includes you and me."

Isabelle turns to her mother. "Where's Dad?"

"He's coming," Mrs. Donahue tells her. "He'll be here soon."

"How soon?"

She shrugs. "Five minutes."

Isabelle stands up. "I'm going to go visit Becca," she says, too casually for me to believe this is a spontaneous decision.

"Tell her that Dad's coming," she calls after her.

I wait until she is gone. "They must have such a loving relationship," I comment.

Mrs. Donahue scoffs. "Please," she says. "Isabelle and her father can't stand each other. I think if one got run over by a bus, the other wouldn't even care. Can't say that I blame her, though. He's…difficult."

"I was actually talking about Isabelle and Rebecca," I say.

"Oh." She blushes. "They do have a good relationship. They're always looking out for each other. Or trying to, anyway. Isabelle's gotten so out of hand…"

"That depressed artist complex can do that to a kid." I hope I've gotten her high school stereotype right this time.

"She's so angry. She's always making snide comments and writing poetry fraught with teenage angst, and I'm almost sure she smokes…" Mrs. Donahue breaks off and swipes furiously at her eyes. "I keep hoping that someday her sister will rub off on her. Becca's such a good girl, such a nice girl."

"From what I know of her, she's very…" I grope for the right word. "…Affectionate."

"She's a cheerleader, and she writes for the school paper, and she's in all the service clubs and has a 4.0," she gushes. "I'm so proud of her. She's going to make something of herself, you know?"

Someone's in serious denial, I think, wondering if Cameron avoided mentioning to her that not only is her daughter concerned that she might be pregnant, but we think she may be right. "Yes, well, if only Isabelle could be that way."

"It's not that she's a bad kid," she explains hurriedly. "She gets reasonable grades, and has a job, and has her reading and writing and all, but she's so insolent. I don't know how she manages to keep any friends."

"It's a mystery," I concede, wondering what kind of mother can say this about her own child with such ease.

Mrs. Donahue looks like she's about to go on, but she sees something behind me and her lips curve slightly upward. "Finally," she breathes in relief. "Where have you been?"

"Some of us work for a living." A man, presumably Mr. Donahue, sits down beside me and continues gruffly. "How is she?"

"She's stable," I reply, even though the question wasn't directed at me. "Her heart is functioning at the moment, she's awake and alert, and we're running tests right now."

"Who is this?" he asks. I can tell, in the few words he's spoken, that I'm not going to like him. He's rude, insensitive, acerbic. All of those things that I'm just not.

"This is Dr. House," she says. "He's the attending physician."

He watches as I shovel the last bite of chocolate cake into my mouth and dab at my face with a napkin. "Are you sure?" he asks carefully, no doubt noticing my lack of lab coat.

"I'm undercover," I admit. "People aren't supposed to know I'm a doctor. Makes me more susceptible to lawsuits. Insurance thing." Before he can reply, I stand up. "I should go see how the tests are going," I say. By this, I mean go hide in the clinic and play my Game Boy.

"You'll let us know what the results are, right?" Mrs. Donahue asks anxiously.

"It depends," I reply coolly. "The results I'm expecting are not the ones you'll want to hear." We lock gazes for a moment, and when I see that realization has come over her, I walk away. I see she has fallen into the trap of believing that she can tell doctors anything she wants and expect us to remain objective and neutral. We don't. All doctors have opinions about their patients. It's just hard to find one that will be honest about them.

Whew! Thanks for giving that long thing a read. May I make a last humble request before you go on your merry way?

Please review.