"24-year-old female, presents in the ER with respiratory distress and localized rash," Chase said as he walked through the glass doors, holding a blue folder aloft.
House rolled his eyes. "Surely even the cosplayers in the ER can diagnose an allergic reaction? Epinephrine and send her home, I thought you were looking for interesting cases."
"ER treated with 0.1 ccs epi, her breathing improved but the rash is persistent."
"So she got poison ivy in her vegetable garden before a bumblebee put her in anaphylactic shock. I don't know what registers as interesting in the mind of a wombat, but—"
"You are suggesting the two symptoms were a complete coincidence?" Chase asked, eyes mockingly wide.
"Plants and bees inhabit the same area. It fits. The sting reaction was cleared up with the epi administration, but she still has poison ivy."
"Cuddy said to tell you it's case or clinic, your choice."
"The clinic might actually be preferable," House replied, then shuddered dramatically. "Strike that, such a horrid idea." He shook his head as if in shock that the words could ever have left his mouth, then took a sip of coffee as though to cleanse them from his lips.
"What if I told you where her rash is localized?" Chase said mischievously, waving the folder in front of House's face as he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"Where are you in such a rush to be?" Cuddy asked, raising an eyebrow at the sight of the diagnostician glaring at the elevator and tapping his cane impatiently.
"Oh, you know; things to do, places to be, rashes to probe, patients to see." House smirked. "I should have been a poet... Punches to duck, puzzles to ponder, women to—"
"—stop you before you get another visit to HR."
House feigned an innocent expression. "Why Dr. Cuddy, what are you insinuating? I was going to say cluck!" He clucked a few times for emphasis.
"Yes, Dr. Chicken Wordsworth, I bow before your poetic might. Exactly whose rash are you off to probe? You don't do clinic work voluntarily, and you haven't had a case since Tuesday."
"Well, Detective Cuddy, there's this construct humans seem to rely on - false, if you ask the physicists, but physicians on the other hand – even fake ones like you – are just such sticklers - practically slaves to it. It controls what you do, when you do it, and as it passes by, new things just seem to appear - it's like magic!" House lifted his cane and waved it around like a wand.
Cuddy sighed at his juvenile dramatics. "I'm familiar with the concept of time - I didn't think you were. You got here at, what, 10 to noon this morning?"
"10:36 is hardly noon, Cuddy, I thought you said you were familiar with the concept."
Cuddy rolled her eyes. The elevator gave a ping to alert them of its impending presence, and the doors slid open. House limped in, and Cuddy followed behind him
"You weren't waiting for the elevator," House remarked. "Just can't stay away, can you? The cane is unbelievably sexy, I know, but really—"
"The day you willingly visit a patient out of the goodness of your heart is the day Wilson takes tosses his Vertigo poster. Whatever the actual motive, supervision can't hurt."
"Who said this was being done willingly? For all you know I'm being blackmailed by threat of an angry kickboxing kangaroo."
Cuddy just shook her head - just another day in Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.