Item One: Thank you for the reviews, as always!
Item Two: Sorry it's been so long since the last update. I went college visiting over spring break – an exhausting pastime, let me tell you – and I've been rather pre-occupied with all that stuff and bother.
Item Three: This chapter sucks, just so you know. Oh damn, I spoiled the surprise.

Chapter Five:

"House?" Chase says timidly as he strides into my office. It's six o'clock, and I've just concluded that there is nothing on Becca's MRI to call intriguing. "There's a problem."

"With what?" I ask. "A patient?" He nods somberly. "Becca?"

"I think you'd better come take a look at this," he suggests nervously.

I grab my cane and stand up, mystified. I've never seen such a perplexed look on Chase's face before. I follow him to room 211 and peer in. "What is this?" I ask in a disgusted voice.

"I think it might be a party," he says, sounding pained.

Unfortunately, he's right: Becca and her friends are the first people ever to succeed in having a good time at PPTH. Instead of just six girls, there are now eight girls and four boys. A radio is blasting "My Humps" so loudly it's a wonder the windows haven't shattered. A few of the kids are dancing – dancing! – and most of them are drinking beer, though only God knows how they got it into the hospital. One couple is making out on the foot of Becca's bed. I don't know what disgusts me more: the fact that they can't find a better place than a hospital to conduct their torrid love affair, or the fact that no one, including Becca, seems to mind.

"I'll fix this," I assure Chase, then push him aside and step into the room. I stride to the radio and change the station to oldies. To my delight, "Unchained Melody" is the song playing – it's perfect. "Now this is music," I say, beginning to sway with the music. I sidle up to one of the girls that had been dancing and ask, "May I have this dance?"

Someone cuts off the radio abruptly, and they stare at me with fearful looks on their faces. They all somberly set down their drinks. The kids on the bed even momentarily stops fondling each other to observe the change in mood. I try not to look at Chase, because I know he's doing his best not to laugh, and if I catch his eye we'll both dissolve into hysterical fits of snickering.

"Dude," one of the boys says disbelievingly. "Ewww."

I glance at him and read his rose-colored t-shirt in distaste. "'Real men wear pink,'" I say. "Real men don't need to tell everyone why they're taking the road less traveled." I point at Chase's shirt. "Case in point: while Dr. Chase's masculinity is disputed for other reasons, you can't knock the shirt he's wearing. It's pink, just like yours except not as obvious. He's even got a nice magenta tie to go with it. Now, how many of you fine, upstanding young ladies would rather hook up with Dr. Chase or…"

"Darin," the boy supplies.

Ah, I think. This be the baby daddy. "Thank you. Chase?" Every hand goes up. "Darin?" They fall abruptly.

"Becca, what the hell?" Darin asks. "I thought you liked me."

"I do like you, boo," she coos.

"Then why'd you raise your hand for Dr. Chase?"

Becca shrugs. "His shirt is prettier," she admits. "Like, it's nicer. And the tie is definitely hot."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my colleague growing slightly more antsy. Enough is enough. "Possibly even more important than this issue of whose shirt is prettier," I continue, "is the fact that there are twelve minors drinking beer in this hospital room, not to mention making out and disturbing our other patients with the noise."

"We're not being that loud," one girl protests. "Like, you should have heard what we sounded like when Krista's parents went away for the weekend."

Another girl, presumably Krista, shrugs modestly. "It was a pretty good party," she says.

"You do realize I have to report you for this," I say. "It's like a game of hot potato: the person who gets caught helping you guys break the law wins a ticket to jail and a huge-ass fine." Cries of "Awww, man!" and "No fair!" arise all around the room. I silence them with a simple outstretch of my hand. "I know, I know. Don't worry; if you haven't gotten caught before, I'm pretty sure you only have to do a little bit of community service. Of course, that's not including what your parents will do to you."

"You know, you don't have to report us," one of the other boys tries to reason. "You could hang out with us, teach us some of those moves you were busting. Those were pretty cool, right, guys?" They all nod, hesitantly playing along. I hear Chase release a snort and will him to keep it together. "See? You're a pretty awesome dude, Dr., uhhh…"

"House," Becca supplies.

"Yeah, Dr. House," he says. "Come on, man, what do you say? You want a beer?"

I feel my eyebrows knit together involuntarily. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" I ask. "It's sweet of you to include me in your little high school gathering, don't get me wrong, but I have this little thing called a medical license. I can lose it over something like this."

"I've got a car," he tells me exasperatedly. "My parents said if I get caught doing this one more time, they're going to sell it! I'll have to ride the bus to school until the end of time!"

"Car," I say, "or job? Which one's worth more?" I weigh the words in my hands, tilting them from one side to the other, until my right hand finally falls. I glance at it and tell him, "Sorry. Job trumps car every time."

"Dude, you're doing it all wrong," he says. "The big one – the right one's – supposed to come out on top."

"No, the right one weighs more, so it goes down," I inform him. "Think of it this way: put your brain and my brain on this scale. My brain, being extremely large and full of knowledge, weighs more than yours, which probably looks like a moldy piece of Swiss Cheese. My brain is heavier, therefore it goes down. Get it?" The vacant look in his eyes tells me he doesn't. "Less alcohol, more math homework."

He groans and runs his hands through his gnarled, matted hair in frustration. "Dude."

"Dr. Chase, go call security and inform Dr. Cuddy of this unfortunate mishap," I instruct him, not taking my eyes off of the Dirty Dozen. "I'll stay here and teach everyone those dance moves they seemed to like so much."

An hour later, Becca is all but tied to her bed, her parents are on their way, and Cuddy is having a coronary of her own in my office. "What were they thinking?" she asks me for the millionth time. "Did those little morons really think they weren't going to get caught?"

"There, there," I say, motioning at one of the comfy chairs in front of my desk. "It's all over now."

"Nobody's ever done this in my hospital before," she observes. "No one knows the protocol for this. We don't even have a protocol for this! What are we supposed to do?"

I stand up, put both of my hands on her shoulders, and bring my face so close to hers she can't help but look me straight in the eyes. "Stop pacing," I command, slowly and evenly. "Sit down. Relax. It's over." When I see that she isn't going to move, I steer her towards the chair. She sits obediently, but keeps ranting. I sigh and pour her a glass of water as I listen.

"When you go to a hospital you don't expect to find minors blasting their cacophonous music, dancing, and making out with each other."

"Not to mention the alcohol," I supply.

"I can't believe it," she says. "They even tried to get you drunk! Do they know what you're like when you're drunk?"

"How do you know what I'm like when I'm drunk?"

"You're nasty as hell when you're sober," she says. "I can only assume your crudity would increase with every point on the breathalyzer test."

"The last time I got drunk, I serenaded my Carmen Electra poster with love songs," I inform her, handing her the water. "Here, have a Vicodin. It'll do wonders for your nerves."

I expect her not to take it, seeing as it's illegal to exchange prescription drugs with other people, but she does. She knocks it back dry, which makes my heart swell with pride; imitation is, after all, the sincerest form of flattery. Either that, or she's mocking me. "Thank you," she mumbles, closing her eyes wearily. "What is my hospital coming to?"

"Your hospital isn't the problem," I assure her, taking a seat next to her. "It's the patients. If we didn't have any patients, things would run a lot more smoothly."

"That's the truth."

"And here you're supposed to want to help people," I comment.

"What can I say? I'm sick of this." She leans her head back, eyes still closed, and for a moment I think she's going to fall asleep. Her breathing evens, she stops digging her nails into the arms of my chair, and her left eye even stops twitching.

Then I see it. Her jaw clenches.

"Cuddy…" I warn her.

"I just don't understand," she cries. "These are the kids we're leaving the world to. When we get old, they're going to be the politicians, and the teachers, and the doctors. Christ, House, one of those kids is going to be treating us someday! Doesn't that scare the hell out of you?"

I think of Becca with a scalpel and stiffen. "Try not to think about it," I advise her, attempting to do the same.

Cuddy begins to wring her hands, unaware that she is doing so. A muscle in her jaw works. She blinks quickly, and there's fire in her eyes.

"Don't," I command. "You need to relax."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who's going to take the heat for this." Horror pollutes her otherwise mildly attractive features. "Do you realize that I could go to jail for this?"

"Stripes are a good look for you," I say.

"Not helping," she informs me forlornly, burying her head in her hands. "I hate this. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it…"

"Cuddy, shut up." Ah. So I've finally found my breaking point. "Your little ploy isn't working."

She glares at me. "What little ploy?"

"You and I both know I'm not the comforting type, so give the damsel-in-distress routine a rest."

"You think that's what I'm doing? That I'm looking for a shoulder to cry on?"

"No, I think you're really concerned about the stupid kids," I say sarcastically. "Feel better, by all means. Just don't get any of those fake tears on my jacket." Cuddy takes her water glass and pours it over my head. "That's…refreshing," I comment, trying to sound understanding.

"Therapeutic," she corrects me. "I hope your jacket shrinks so much you can't get it over one arm."

"Hmmm, not unlike your shirt," I reply. "I'm considering purchasing a cannon. Tell me, does being blasted into your clothes every morning do the trick, or would it be easier to buy something that actually fits once in a while?"

Her mouth opens so wide she could swallow a golf ball. "You son of a –"

"House?"

"Dr. Foreman, apologize for interrupting Dr. Cuddy immediately," I command.

"Sorry," he says. "The parents are here. They want to talk to you."

"Imagine that," I say. "Tell them to take a number and get in line. Dr. Cuddy's still not through with me yet."

"I can spare you a few moments to go out there and talk to the parents," she replies a bit too sweetly.

"I'm scared of them," I admit. "Will you hold my hand?"

"You're on your own, hand and all."

"This is your territory. It comes with the sitting-in-the-office-looking-pretty-but-not-really-doing-anything part of hospital administration. I save lives, you do everything else."

"You're the attending physician," she reminds me. "You're the one who found them drinking."

"Technically, that was Dr. Chase, and you are the hospital administrator. You're the one who let them use the hospital like it's a motel." When I see that she isn't looking any more agreeable, I grab her arm with one hand and march her out to the parents.

"What the hell is going on?" Mr. Donahue asks angrily, his wife and daughter behind him. "We leave Becca alone for a couple hours with you people and you can't even keep those kids away from her?"

"Oh, you mean her 'lovely friends?'" I reply. "It seems to me that mere hours ago you were raving about how sweet they are."

"That was before we realized they were bad influences," he says. "Drinking in a hospital room? What kind of kids are those?"

"Poor Becca," Mrs. Donahue murmurs. "The peer pressure must be terrible for her."

"Yeah, Mom, it must have been excruciating for her to convince her friends to bring her all that stuff," Isabelle mutters. "Look up 'peer pressure' in the dictionary and you see her picture next to the definition."

Her father turns on her. "Stop talking about your sister like that!" he demands. "You hardly have room to talk, anyway."

"When was the last time you heard about me doing something like this?"

"You may not be stupid enough to get caught, but you're sure as hell on something."

"It's working better than whatever they've got you on."

"We're awfully sorry about this whole mess," Cuddy interjects nervously. "We caught them before anyone was seriously intoxicated, all of the other children's parents have been contacted, and –"

"And it's all over?" Mr. Donahue scoffs humorlessly. "Not on your life. We're getting Becca out of this place and taking her to a real hospital."

"I wouldn't do that just yet," she warns them helplessly.

"And just why not?"

"She…may not…" Cuddy looks at me for help.

I sigh, but step up to the plate. "Becca's had a heart attack. Since we don't know what her condition is, we can't predict what it will do to her if she's transferred. It's best to keep her here and let us do our jobs."

"You've done such a great job of that so far," mutters Mr. Donahue.

"And," Cuddy adds suddenly, brightening, "in twenty-four hours, we'll release her anyway, if nothing else happens."

"No, we won't," I counter.

"Yes, we will."

"We can take her home tomorrow?" Mrs. Donahue begins rummaging in her purse for tissues, sobbing tears of joy. Isabelle looks shocked, as if she's just found out the world is flat and she's about to roll off the edge. "That's wonderful!"

"Only if there are no more incidents," Cuddy reminds her, but she looks relieved as the parents begin to twitter excitedly to each other.

"We can't let the kid go," I protest quietly. "She's sick. Between her brains and her heart, she'll croak the second she walks out of this hospital."

"I'll croak if she stays in this hospital one more second," she hisses. "She's out of here tomorrow. I'm done."

"She'll be back within twenty minutes of leaving if you discharge her tomorrow!"

"You can't justify keeping her if she doesn't have any more fainting spells or heart attacks!" Cuddy looks at Isabelle, who has been following our argument intently. "Besides, I'm sure her sister misses her –"

"With all due respect, Dr. Cuddy, if you discharge my sister, I'll scare her into a heart attack myself to get her back here."

"They have such a loving relationship," I comment, noting her shocked expression.

For a moment, Cuddy looks like she's going to put Isabelle on the couch and get to the bottom of her animosity for her sister. Tough luck – that kind of resentment is the thinnest spread of emotion, with no substantial depth to it. I've made up my mind to let her spin her wheels, playing the psychologist she never was, but instead she sighs and turns to me. "You have 24 hours," she says. "Use them well, because they're the last you'll get if all goes well."

A/N: See? What'd I tell you? This chapter was just not very good. I swear on…House himself that something worth reading will happen in the next chapter!

But only if you leave reviews!