CHAPTER 1 :
Let The Cripple Races Begin
House limped quickly towards his office. If he could get to his desk, he could feign occupation and get out of yet more clinic duty. He popped a few Vicodin, slumped into his chair, turned on his laptop and flipped to a random page of the medical encyclopedia. To anyone but Wilson (who could read House better than pretty much anybody) he was the perfect image of a doctor at work. When Cuddy walked in he didn't look up, but closed the window of his Solitaire game and brought up a patient file.
"House, you're…
-Incredibly brilliant and deserve a week's paid vacation?
-No. behind on your clinic hours. AGAIN.
-Gee, Cuddy, he sighed regretfully, I can't. I'm busy.
-Busy? Cuddy asked doubtfully.
-Yep. Working a case. With a patient and everything. Just like a real doctor.
-Aah? said the skeptical doctor, moving behind House to see his screen. Impressive.
-I know, isn't it?
-Or rather it would be…if you were actually working.
-Whatever do you mean? asked House innocently. Cuddy wasn't fooled.
-Well according to this file, Mr.…aah…Stein died a week ago.
-How terrible, said House mentally kicking himself. But that does explain the dangerously low heart rate, non-existant brain activity, un-responsiveness to pain, and the smell. How smart you are Dr. Cuddy. Case closed.
-Good. You have a patient in Exam Room One."
House made a point to walk through every single hallway in the hospital on his way to the clinic. He knew he would have to go treat pretty much every hypochondriac in New Jersey sooner or later. He would just rather (understandably) do it later. And if he passed through every wing, there was more chance that someone would stop him for a consult (yeah, right) or that he would run into Wilson. As it happened, he didn't run into Wilson, but Chase. Well, technically, Chase ran into him. They found themselves in a tangle of arms, legs and cane on floor, the papers the intensivist was carrying fluttering to earth.
"Christ, Chase! Are you incapable of balancing on two feet? Are you gonna need a cane? 'Cause as fun as cripple races sound…"
Just then, Wilson came round the corner.
"You know, Greg, you shouldn't tackle the ducklings.
-It's part of their training. Toughens them up and teaches them to expect the unexpected.
-Since when to intensivists need kung-fu style training?
-Well, suppose they get attacked by a patient? Or by Cuddy?
-The only person to have been attacked in this hospital was you, said Chase as he gathered the scattered papers. When the HIV guy's dad punched you, remember?
-Actually, Foreman was bitten by that crazy homeless lady, wasn't he?
-Yes, but…
- And you wouldn't want to be bitten by a patient would you?
-No, but…
-So you should be thanking me."
With that, House set off on his ambling tour of the hospital. After handing Chase one the dropped files, Wilson caught up with him.
"C'mon. It's quarter past noon. I'll let you buy me lunch.
-No. stated Wilson categorically. Besides, don't you have clinic?
-Jimmy, you know I don't care about trivial things like clinic?
-Cuddy'll have your ass if you skip it anymore.
-Oh, Cuddy'll have my ass no matter what I do. I know she likes. And besides, I'm not skipping clinic. I'm just postponing it.
-'Speak of the devil and he shall appear' warned Wilson.
-What? Oh, sh…"
House noticed Cuddy striding through the hallway towards them. He crouched and tried to hide behind Wilson.
"House, I told you half an hour ago to get to the clinic! If you're not there in the next two minutes, I'm doubling your time. And quit acting like a four year-old."
As Cuddy turned and left, House straightened up, dusted himself off and popped a Vicodin into his mouth.
"Good. I don't think she saw me."