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Fresh Blood
by Mer
On the first day of his fellowship, an assistant from the Dean's office showed Robert Chase around the hospital, introduced him to the department heads and key personnel, led him through the myriad forms that would establish him as an official employee, and took him to lunch in the cafeteria. That took four hours. During the remaining four hours of his work day, he sat in the conference room of the Diagnostics office, reading the hospital handbook, poking through what few files were available, and wondering if his new boss was ever going to speak to him.
Gregory House had spent the entire day holed up in his office, ostensibly deep in research, but Chase could see a tiny television screen flickering on his desk beside his computer monitor. When he knocked on the door to see if House had any assignments for him, House just growled and waved him away.
Chase hadn't expected anything else. He'd done his research. His father had told him that House was an arrogant, antisocial bastard, but he'd still made the call that clinched the fellowship for Robert. He knew the misdiagnosed infarction that had destroyed House's right thigh had left him with chronic pain and a disputed dependency on Vicodin. He also knew that House was a genius, an undisputed master in his field. Chase understood arrogance and he understood addiction. He wanted to understand - or at least learn from - genius. He was patient. He could wait as long as it took.
On the second day he fielded three requests for consults (all summarily denied by House), completed the crossword puzzles in all the papers the newsstand sold, reorganized the kitchen cupboards, and sent long emails to all his friends back in Australia. At noon House emerged from his office long enough to send Chase off to buy him a sandwich. When Chase returned, House was in the conference room, talking on his cell phone.
"Yes, I'm eating," he heard House say, with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "The wallaby just brought me a sandwich." He smirked, either at the comment on the other end of the phone or at the expression on Chase's face.
"No, you can't talk to him. You could talk to him if you were here, but you're not, are you?"
Chase wondered who could possibly have called House. Or who would accept a call from House. From what he could tell, House didn't bother talking to anybody for longer than it took to refuse a request or state a demand.
"Yes, in fact, it is your fault that the conference was this week. And I don't care if you're presenting a paper. Surely, graduating from medical school ensures that even our most idiotic colleagues are literate. They can read it when it's published."
Another doctor, then. Chase hadn't thought anyone in the hospital would willingly speak to House, but apparently he was wrong.
House scowled and grabbed an odd-sized ball off the table, squeezing it convulsively. "You have to admit you have a record of going out of town when I need you."
Chase thought he saw an expression of remorse flit across House's face, but when he blinked it was gone.
"Okay, that was a low blow. I'm sorry." House threw the ball in the air and caught it, before cocking his head to one side. "What? No, I don't have a fever." He rolled his eyes. "It's a balmy 72 degrees, thank you. Besides, you're the one in Vegas. You'd be the first to know if hell had frozen over. It's a good thing you're not a Mormon. Last time you went to Vegas you came back with a wife. Or was that a divorce? They all seem to blend together." House was grinning now, and for a moment the lines of pain etched on his face smoothed out and he looked almost boyish.
"If you don't miss me, why did you call? Cuddy misses you. So does Chase, he just doesn't know it yet." House gazed at Chase, his bright blue eyes disturbingly penetrating. "How would I know that?" He sighed deeply. "No, I haven't talked to him. You said to be nice. How can I be nice if I talk to him?" He sighed again, sounding like a heroine in a melodrama. "Fine. I'm hanging up." He flipped the phone closed and studied Chase. "Wilson says hi," he commented, accepting the sandwich, as if it were gold, frankincense and myrrh all in one.
"Who's Wilson?"
"The guy who's responsible for your purgatory here." House gazed in mock confusion at Chase's outstretched hand. "What? You're not trying to curry favour with your boss by buying him a sandwich?"
"If I thought it would do any good, I would," Chase replied, wiggling his fingers.
"Get it from Wilson. In fact, if you play your cards right, he'll buy your lunch as well." He unwrapped the sandwich and inspected it for traces of mustard. "In the meantime, go down to oncology and see if they need any help."
There wasn't anything better to do, so Chase grabbed his own sandwich and headed down the hall to the oncology department. On the way, he ran into the assistant who had shown him around the day before. "Who's Wilson?" he asked.
She blinked at the abrupt question. "You must mean James Wilson. He's one of the attendings in oncology. He's out of town at a conference right now, but you'll probably see a lot of him. He's the only doctor in the hospital House can stand." She grinned. "And the only one that can stand House."
On the third day, House didn't show up at all. The Dean of Medicine, Lisa Cuddy, called him down to her office and told him to cover a shift in ICU.
"Should I report to ICU tomorrow as well?" Chase asked.
Cuddy smiled to herself. "Oh, no. House will be in tomorrow." It was as much a threat as it was a promise. She opened a file, dismissing him without a word.
Chase hesitated wondering if he was going to spend the next three years not knowing where he'd be working the next day. Cuddy glanced up and seemed to notice his uncertainty. This time she smiled at him.
"While you're down in ICU, keep an eye out for any interesting cases. If you time it right, House just might take a case tomorrow." She turned back to the file. "I wish you luck, Dr. Chase. You're going to need it."
On the fourth day, someone was already in the conference room when Chase arrived. Chase blinked and checked to make sure he hadn't taken a wrong turn and ended up in a different department. As far as he could tell, nobody willingly entered Diagnostics. But another doctor (judging by the lab coat) was lounging in one of the chairs as if it belonged to him, sipping a cup of coffee. He was flipping through a journal, but looked up when Chase walked in.
"There's fresh coffee," he said.
Chase nodded and headed directly for the coffeemaker. It was universally acknowledged in the medical field that civilities could wait until after an injection of caffeine. He took a deep gulp of coffee, which was better than anything he'd tasted in the hospital so far, and studied his companion.
Young, slender, with dark hair that draped boyishly on his forehead and darker eyes under heavy eyebrows. Too old to be a resident; too comfortable to be a fellow. Chase thought he had met all the attending physicians. Just as the caffeine kicked in and his brain made the obvious connection, the other man stood up, holding out his hand.
"James Wilson. Oncology. You must be Robert Chase." His grip was firm, but not overpowering. "Welcome to the Twilight Zone." He grinned when Chase just stared at him. "Whatever House told you about me, it's not true."
Chase managed to smile back, though he had a hard time believing this apparently normal man was, as general consensus had it, House's only friend. "That would imply House has spoken to me."
House hadn't said anything, beyond his cryptic comments, but the nurses in oncology and ICU had been happy to tell him anything he wanted to know. Their comments made James Wilson sound like a cross between a saint and a satyr. Chase had stopped believing in saints after he left the seminary, but he had learned to believe the gist, if not the substance, of hospital gossip.
Wilson sighed. "If he hasn't talked to you, then I'm guessing you don't have a case." A hint of a mischievous grin twitched his mouth. "I like how you've organized the cupboards. And you deserve danger pay for cleaning the fridge. But has he given you anything medically related to do?"
"He sent me to help out in your department on Tuesday. And when he didn't come in yesterday, Dr. Cuddy assigned me to the ICU."
Wilson stopped smiling. "He didn't come in yesterday? Did Cuddy tell you what was wrong?"
The sudden change from affable and amused to worried startled Chase. "Dr. Cuddy didn't seem concerned," he said carefully. "And she said he'd be in today. She suggested I track down some cases that might interest him."
Wilson nodded and sat back down, apparently settling in for the morning. "Let's see what you found."
Chase handed him the stack of files he had borrowed the day before, sensing he was about to learn the first lesson of his fellowship.
"Boring. Boring. My department. Possible. Should already be released." He frowned over the last file. "This might interest him. But start with this one. He'll be happier if he gets to say no first." He handed two files over to Chase and put the others aside.
House chose that moment to limp into the room, tossing his backpack into his office before making a beeline for the coffee pot. He didn't acknowledge either Chase or Wilson, but Chase watched Wilson's eyes follow his progress, gauging his movement and mood. A flicker of emotions crossed Wilson's features - concern, affection, exasperation - before they finally settled into a steely gaze.
"Playing hooky yesterday, House?"
House turned, pretending to notice Wilson for the first time. "Why, Jimmy! How nice of you to grace us with your presence." He dumped a packet of sugar in his mug and stirred forcefully. "I'm surprised you could tear yourself away from all those willing women." He winked broadly. "But what goes in Vegas, stays in Vegas, hey big boy?"
Wilson didn't take the bait. "You know, when I told you to give Chase an assignment, I didn't mean an assignment in another department."
"I thought you'd appreciate having someone to pick up your slack while you were off chasing show girls and gambling away your paycheque. Speaking of which, you owe Chase for lunch."
To Chase's surprise, Wilson pulled out his wallet and extracted some bills from a side compartment. "You're in luck. Eleven was a bust, but I played the street and won with 12." House reached out to take the money, but Wilson slapped his hand away and gave it to Chase instead. "That should cover a couple of weeks worth of lunches," he said, winking.
"I'd count it, if I were you," House whispered conspiratorially. "You know how Jews are about money."
Chase flinched and nearly dropped the bills, but Wilson just shook his head, smirking indulgently. "I see the sensitivity training Cuddy sent you to has really paid off," he said dryly, and Chase tried to decide if Wilson actually was a saint, or if he was just a pushover. "I don't think that was one of her brighter ideas - putting you in a room for eight hours with assholes who actually mean the things they say. I can only imagine the material you gathered."
"I mean exactly what I say," House protested.
"You mean to shock people, certainly. Shock and appal," he added, letting the words roll out of his mouth with relish. "Don't take anything he says personally," Wilson told Chase. "House hates everybody equally. He only makes distinctions for dramatic effect."
"I certainly hate you," House replied, and Chase blinked, because the light, nearly affectionate tone that had infused their banter and the overheard phone call was gone.
Wilson apparently noticed too, for the half-smile on his face faded away, and for the first time he looked uncertain. "What happened while I was gone?" he asked.
House's features set stubbornly and then he glared at Chase, though his words were directed at Wilson. "It was your idea for me to hire a fellow," he hissed. "You should have been here to help."
Wilson looked away. "I know. But it was important. Not just for me, but for the hospital." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bag. "I brought you this." He cradled the bag in both hands like an offering, a hopeful, doe-eyed expression on his face. Chase decided that if he looked at the nurses like that, the satyr reputation was probably deserved.
House narrowed his eyes, but then snatched the bag from Wilson's hands. Still glaring, he pulled the object out of the bag. It was a lighter in the shape of a naked woman. When House flicked the wheel, the flame shot from her breasts. The look of sheer delight on House's face stunned Chase and satisfied Wilson, who pulled a cigar out of another pocket. "Romeo y Julieta Churchill. Don't worry. I got a Canadian to buy it."
"Take that, Jesse Helms." House took the cigar and ran it under his nose, inhaling appreciatively. "Fine. You're forgiven for once again abandoning me in my hour of need."
Wilson flinched and for a moment there was a look of such naked pain on his face that Chase flinched as well. Wilson quickly schooled his features, but House shifted uncomfortably, almost looking apologetic. He twirled the cigar absently through his fingers, like a magician manoeuvring a coin or card, and stared down at his cane. "How did it go?" he asked finally.
Wilson shrugged. "Fine, I guess."
House looked up and smirked. "I figured you'd say that. So I got Rodrigues and Tait to email me full reviews. I already forwarded them to the board, so there's no need for false modesty when you make your report."
"Why...what? I don't..." Wilson closed his eyes and composed himself. "Why did you do that?"
"Because sometime in the next month they're going to announce who takes over as Head of Oncology when Gunnlaugson retires. And you have this quaint idea that your work should speak for itself, when really you need to speak for yourself, like the rest of the self-aggrandizing assholes up for the job. But since you won't, I'm stuck with the thankless job of making sure the morons in power know how good you are." He shook his head. "For somebody who can play the game better than anybody when it comes to getting funding for your bald-headed freaks - and floppy-haired foreigners," he added, glancing at Chase, "you're pathetic about advancing your own interests."
"You know, I think there was a compliment in there somewhere," Wilson said dryly. "I'll have to gold star this day in my diary. Dear Diary," he chirped in a singsong voice. "Greg said the nicest thing to me today. He's so dreamy."
Chase sputtered out a coffee-soaked laugh, earning another glare from House.
"I appreciate your concern for my career," Wilson continued. "But I think I have it under control. I had a very fruitful chat with Jean Greerson from Sloan-Kettering between sessions. She agreed in principle to a series of joint clinical trials on paediatric pain management. We're putting in a proposal to the NCI for the next funding round. Assuming that I have the authority to do so as Head of Oncology, of course." He stood up and stretched, rinsing out his coffee cup in the sink. "So I'm sorry I abandoned you to deal - or not deal, as the case may be - with a human being on your own, but my bald-headed freaks thank you for your sacrifice." He clapped Chase on the shoulder as he strolled to the door. "Nice to meet you, Chase. Come by my office later today for a crash course in surviving House. No one's passed it yet, but hope springs eternal."
"What are you smiling about?" House snapped as soon as the door closed behind Wilson. "I don't pay you to be happy."
"You don't pay me to do anything, so far," Chase pointed out. He casually pushed the two files Wilson had vetted towards House, noting that Wilson had taken the others with him, but left the journal behind. He picked it up and glanced at the table of contents. James Wilson was listed as the lead author of the feature article. He wasn't surprised to see House listed among the other authors.
"Did I say you could touch that?" House said, but didn't look up from the first file. "Send this back from whence it came," he announced, dismissively tossing the folder to Chase, "and tell the attending to check for Babinski sign."
"You think MS?" Chase had suspected the same thing, but the presentation was unusual enough to have captured his attention. Obviously it wasn't unusual enough for House.
"Duh." But House was looking at the second file now, actually reading rather than skimming. "Who found this one? You or Wilson?"
"I did," Chase said, but decided backup might be useful. "But Wilson agreed. What is it with Wilson anyway? Did you hire me or did he?"
"I hired you," House replied quickly. "But Wilson got the staffing approval. And vetted the resumes. And did the reference checks. And all the paperwork." He smirked. "He really, really wanted me to hire somebody."
Chase wondered if that had anything to do with the Head of Oncology position opening up. Wilson struck him as a person who planned for all contingencies. "Calling in reinforcements, is he?"
House ignored him, but Chase was fine with that, because at least House was looking at the file. Finally he limped over to the whiteboard and grabbed a dry-erase marker, writing the patient's symptoms on the board. He turned and looked at Chase, a challenge plainly written in his posture and the gleam in his eye. "Differential diagnosis."
Chase leaned forward and prepared to learn.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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