(Squeals) Wow, you really like me! I can't believe it! You really truly like me! (That, for those of you that didn't pick up on it, was my admittedly poor impression of Sally Field receiving her first academy award. Inside joke with my mom, ungodly long story, but it captures my sentiment about now perfectly…) But seriously, thank you for the reviews...all four of them. :) Come on, ya'all it's not that hideous! I love love, I tolerate hate, but PLEASE don't make me suffer through silence!

NVM, I'm just spoiled, that's all. Ignore me.

Update on my disclaimer: Still don't own House. It's unfortunate (for me, at least), but what can you do?

Alright, everybody put your hands up for Mollisk, the awesome person who beta-ed this chapter! Thanks again for the splendid suggestions! Hearts and all that jazz.

And now, on to Chapter Eight!

Chapter Eight:

I walk down the hall, doing my best to ignore the awed stares I'm receiving. Room 211 seems miles away, but I finally reach it. Chase is sitting on the bed, swinging his legs back and forth. Becca and her mother are nowhere to be found.

"Took you long enough," he comments dryly, hopping to his feet. "Becca fainted again."

"Yeah, so I've heard. Cuddy mentioned that to Isabelle when she found her."

"With you?"

"Where else?"

"The other half of the Donahue clan is in room 212. I figured we should sweep the room for environmental factors."

"Yes, and while we're at it, let's sweep your skull for a brain. What the hell were you thinking, yelling into the baby monitor like that?"

"I wanted to reach you!"

"Hmmm, if only Alexander Graham Bell had invented the telephone – oh, wait! He did. I guess it's your fault after all."

"Where is it now? The baby monitor, I mean."

I'm so surprised at his question that I almost tell him the truth – God forbid I do something asinine like that. Luckily, I catch myself just in time and instead sarcastically reply, "You know, Chase, I haven't the foggiest idea. It could be anywhere by now."

He sighs, frustrated, and grabs the speaker. "Come in, anyone. Come in –"

Exasperated, I reach into my pants and pray no one's walking by at just the right time to see me pull the monitor out. "You moron!" I bellow, holding it high in the air, too obvious for him to miss. "Does this look familiar?"

Chase's eyes go through a strange and amusing series of widenings and narrowings as he tries to comprehend the long and difficult journey this baby monitor has been through. Finally, he settles on narrowing them and asks, "Why was the baby monitor…umm…riding below?"

"I set up headquarters in the bathroom after Cameron spoiled our fun, and Mr. Donahue came in. I had to get creative or risk losing the monitor." Not to mention my job, my reputation, my medical license. Neither parents nor hospitals take kindly to doctors spying on their patients, even if their reasons are as noble and justified as mine.

"Why didn't you just take it out when he left?"

"I left. He wasn't about to. Then I ran into Isabelle, who promptly made herself comfortable on my couch and told me her life's story."

"What couch?" he asks. "There's no couch in your office."

"A figurative couch, like the ones psychologists are so famous for using," I say. "We then proceeded to fight out a long, intense battle of wits – I won, of course – then Mr. Donahue and Cuddy came to find Isabelle."

I pause, waiting for him to catch up. "When did I come in?" he asks hesitantly. My silence is enough to tell him. "Was it bad?"

"No, sir! I had a grand old time explaining to Cuddy why my Johnson was suddenly so verbal," I assure him. He licks his lips and stares at me guiltily, like a puppy caught ripping the good futon to shreds. "Now would be an excellent time to start kissing up to meif you expect to keep your job."

Chase looks as if he's about to protest, but instead mumbles, "Sorry, House."

I blink. "'Sorry?' That's it? Not even a bribery? Here's a hint: I love anything big, flashy, and sinfully expensive." When I see he isn't biting, I mentally roll my eyes for hiring someone with no sense of humor and continue. "Listen: as much as I'd like to right now, I can't fire you. Firing you would mean giving Cuddy a reasonable explanation for it, and I can't do that without joining you in your trek through the want ads. Thus, we're stuck together. Keep your mouth shut, I'll keep mine open, and everything will go back to normal. And for God's sake, stay away from the baby monitor!"

"With all due respect, Dr. House –"

"I like that – 'all due respect.' Continue."

"Don't you think maybe the surveillance is a little too risky to continue?"

"Of course not. It's the only thing we've done so far that might actually get us somewhere."

"I'm just saying that maybe we should explore other methods of keeping track of Becca."

"Such as?"

"The old-school way: baby-sitting. One of us should be with her at all times; if we can't be, then we can get a nurse to sit with her. Never leave her alone, never give her the opportunity to do something stupid."

"Every time Becca opens her mouth, it's an opportunity for her to do something stupid."

"What do you think?"

I consider it only a second before replying, "I think it sucks Willy Wonka's biggest lollipops."

"House, the baby monitor is illegal! We can justify –"

"You can justify anything you want; the legalities only matter if you get caught. We need the Donahues to let their guard down, and they won't do that if one of us is sitting there watching them. We need to see every ounce of drama we can from this family. At this point, anything and everything could be causing Becca's heart attacks, something her family may be able to shed light on without even realizing it. If one of us is hanging on every word they say, there won't be any words."

"So you're saying the only way to get them to talk is to pretend we're not listening?"

"See, now you're understanding where I'm coming from. So what do you say?" I really only asked him as a formality; my team is not a democracy.

Fortunately, he agrees. "If you say so," he concedes hesitantly.

"I suggest you go back to pretending you didn't know the baby monitor was in here. I'll do the same. That way, when Cuddy finds out and gives us the third degree, we can point fingers at each other and confuse her into forgetting the whole thing."

"Cameron will know, and don't think she won't say aything."

"That's why I told you to distract her. Don't you ever listen to me?"

"I did my best!" he protests.

"Which one did you try?"

"All three," he replies. "She wasn't receptive to the supply closet suggestion at all –"

"You're losing your touch," I observe, disappointed.

"– I left my didgeridoo at home –"

"You should keep it here in case of emergency."

"– And it turns out she's more of a cat person."

"Better luck next time," I say.

"I can't stand this case anymore. I say we take so much blood she shrivels up like a raisin, test it for every disease known to man, and get her the hell out of here."

"Chase, if I didn't have such a deep and profound conscience, we'd skip right to the third step and forget the Donahues ever existed. Sadly, my sense of doctoral duty will not allow me to do so."

"Well, that and the fact that it's illegal."

"Since when have rules ever stopped me from doing something?"

"You, never. Everyone else, all the time, and you need to go through us to get anything done." Chase chuckles humorlessly, more to himself than to me. "Becca's not the only drama queen in this hospital. Do you think teenage girlhood is contagious?"

Drama.

"Chase, what was she doing when the fainting spell presented?"

"According to her mother, crying about that boy, Darin. He apparently hasn't called her since you brought to light the fact that I'm obscenely hotter than he is."

"What did they say they were doing when the most recent heart attack happened?"

"Becca was watching a horror movie."

"Which one?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Just tell me."

"I think it was 'Saw.'"

"What part was she at when it happened?"

"I don't know!"

"Why didn't you take it down in the medical history?"

"Because they didn't teach me to worry about the cinematic tastes of my patients in medical school!"

"Find out what part she was at. I want the specifics: how much blood and gore there was, how long she'd been watching it, the works. What about the first fainting spell?"

"Fighting with Isabelle. Something about a tube of whore red lip gloss and a lying, stealing bitch of a sister."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously what?"

"That's what the shade of lip gloss was called?"

He shrugs. "That's what they called it."

"And the first heart attack?"

Chase furrows his brow. "You were there, weren't you?"

Ah, yes. I reach into my collection of deep, dark memories and grope for that particular one. "Becca was in the middle of a very extensive crying jag. She was upset about the possibility that she might be pregnant." I smile involuntarily. "Excellent."

"May I ask why?"

"Is it only me, or do I see a pattern here?"

"It's only you at the moment."

"Drama. Becca is the queen, duchess, empress, and president of drama. Drama does what to girls?"

"Makes them break out."

"And what causes them to break out?" Come on, Chase, I know you have it in you…

"Stress?"

"That's the one! If the heart attacks have a specific trigger - like stress and drama - that'll significantly narrow the course of our investigation. We'll have a diagnosis in no time."

Chase grins. "That's fantastic! Good call, House."

"Wrong: great call," I say. "We need more tests and more scans. Do an EKG and bring me the results, stat. I want to know what triggers these things. Meanwhile, do everything you can to piss that family off. I want Becca so tense she snaps like a rubber band."

"Yes, sir," Chase replies dutifully. "Hey, House, weren't you supposed to leave over an hour ago?"

"Gee, I wonder whose fault it is that I'm still here," I wonder aloud, shooting him an angry glance.

"Never mind," he says quickly, heading for the door. "I'll start that EKG. We can go over it first thing in the morning."

"Sounds good, but one last thing, Chase," I say before we step out the door. I don't want to put my question into words, but I just have to ask him. "Did you really not notice the baby monitor when I came in?"

"Oh, I noticed, all right," he replies. "I thought you might appreciate my tact in not mentioning it."

"Well," I say, relieved, "you were right about that, at least."

I'm hoping to sneak out of the hospital without seeing Cuddy, but the woman is like my second shadow – ironically enough, especially when I don't want her around. She passes through the hallway, dressed for a tennis match, just as I am flipping out the lights to the Department of Diagnostic Medicine. "House," she cries, jogging up to me, "we need to talk."

"And there is nothing I would love to do more than just that, but unfortunately The OC starts soon. Mischa Barton waits for no man."

"Mischa Barton needs to learn to share," she says as we step into the elevator. "I get first dibs on you, especially when it involves work. What the hell was going on earlier?"

"I learned a new trick."

"Yeah, some trick. You seem to forget every now and then, but I'm a doctor, and happen to know for a fact that penises –"

I burst into a fit of juvenile snickering, cover my mouth and point at her. "You said 'penis!'" I inform her in a sing-song voice.

"Stop acting like a twelve-year-old," she hisses, her face reddening as we step out of the elevator onto the first floor. "Anyway, I just happen to know that they don't just start talking out of the blue, and certainly not in Chase's voice."

"Stranger things have happened," I say, hoping this is true.

"All I want to know is what sort of electronic device you stuffed down your pants and why."

"That's an awfully personal question."

Without warning, Cuddy grabs my arm, her fingers nearly piercing through my jacket. This is where we men fail; no matter how much muscle we have, we will never hold up against the barbaric invention of the French manicure. "Tell me."

"Officer," I whine to the security guard we pass as we head out to the parking lot, "she's sexually harassing me."

"In your dreams," he says.

Cuddy hides a satisfied smile and continues. "All I want to know is how much I'm going to have to lie to the Donahues in order to smooth things over."

"Seriously?" She nods. "No write-up, no extra clinic hours?" More hesitantly, she repeats the gesture. "Promise you won't report me?"

It's hard to tell in the dusk's gray light, but I think she pales ever so slightly. "Is it really that bad?"

My walk comes to a slow and steady halt in front of a blue SUV. I study the assortment of litter on the ground in front of it, then hesitantly reply, "It was a baby monitor. One half is set up in Becca's room, the other stays on my desk." I pause. "At least, it's supposed to."

Her eyes flutter shut. "Of all the stupid things you've done, House, this has got to be one of the top five."

"I'm always trying to outdo myself."

"Well, this time you really –"

Suddenly, the SUV begins to move. Cuddy yelps, and I'm not sure whether I push her or she pulls me, but somehow we both end up safely out of harm's way, arms wound around each other awkwardly. The driver of the SUV is none other than Dr. Simpson, who probably would have given anything to have stepped on the gas a little harder and finish me off. "Watch where you're going, House!" he yells as he pulls out and speeds away. "Sorry, Dr. Cuddy!"

"This is the man you trust to operate on half-dead patients?" I ask, releasing her.

"Don't try to change the subject," she warns me as we continue to walk. "You put a baby monitor in Becca's room? Why do you need to do that?"

"To make sure she doesn't have any more parties."

"I got those kids in so much trouble between the police and their parents, she doesn't have any friends left to party with."

"I have a medical reason as well." I brief her on my drama-stress theory as we walk. "I believe this is a new factor we can use to rule out certain medical conditions," I conclude.

"How many, two or three out of the hundreds that could be causing this?" Cuddy stops at her car and begins to dig through her purse for her keys. "I don't know, House…"

I sigh. "What if I give my solemn promise to never walk around with the speaker in my pants again?"

To the untrained eye, the look on Cuddy's face is pure constipation, but it's laughter she's trying to hold back. "Alright, this is the story we're sticking to. The bulge in your pants was the unfortunate result of an allergic reaction you had during the clinical trial of a new pain medication. Your phone was set to vibrate when a call came in, but you shifted in your seat when Chase dialed, answered the call, and set it on speaker-phone. In other words, all coincidences. Make sure to get this straight with him; I'm assuming he's part of this shenanigan as well."

Sometimes – actually, most of the time – I just do not understand Cuddy. On the surface, she acts like such a goody-good, but there's a deviousness in her so surprising I can't help but admire it. When she acts this way, it is the only proof I have that I am not entirely alone in the world. "You're being awfully agreeable about this," I comment gratefully.

She unlocks her door and opens it. Instead of getting in, though, she looks at me and says, "House, you've done some things that boggle the minds of normal people. The way you think is something extraordinary. There are times when it feels like I'm blindly following you into trouble and I can only imagine how you're going to get out, but there are a few rare occasions when I can understand what you're thinking as lucidly as if my own mind conceived it." She stares at me and tilts her right shoulder ever so slightly to the sky; the right corner of her mouth mimics it. "I don't know what you're getting yourself into, but I've learned by now that you do. I trust you."

Awww, how sweet. I know it's crazy, but sometimes I feel the exact same way about her. "Good," I say. "Maybe Becca has a fighting chance, then."

"Maybe," she repeats, gazing at me with a look I have to classify as fond. Her mesmerization is gone almost as quickly as it appeared, and she asks me, "Where did you park? I thought you started using your leg to an advantage and taking the handi-capped spaces."

"I did," I reply. "But walking you to your car was the gentlemanly thing to do after Dr. Simpson's malicious attack."

"My hero," she says sarcastically, but a smile plays on her lips.

We exchange polite farewells, back to a dry, professional manner of conduct, and she drives off. I walk back to my own car, wary of each every vehicle I pass. With a life beside my own hanging in the balance, I can't risk being snuffed by any more would-be assassins tonight.

Alright, you guys. I am humbling myself. I am on my knees in front of this computer screen, hands clasped, crying out in hope. Please please PLEASE leave me some reviews! Even if this story is a disgrace to fan-fiction everywhere. Maybe especially if this story is a disgrace to fan-fiction everywhere. P. L. E. A. S. E.

That's enough groveling for one chapter. But honestly, thank you for reading...even if you're going to torture me by not leaving a review:)