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Doctor's Orders
by lex
"Hey, Wilson."
The oncologist's office door was pushed open without so much as a knock, and Gregory House unceremoniously burst into his friend's office. Wilson glared at him.
"I have a patient, House," he said between gritted teeth.
House appeared unconcerned. "Right. Well, I have a patient, too, and I need your expert opinion."
Wilson smiled determinedly at the weary-looking woman who sat, unquestioning, on the chair opposite his desk. "I'm sorry ... medical emergency, you know how it is ...
"Sure," said the woman stoically. The disruption of an interrupted doctor's appointment was inconsequential compared to the effect that cancer had had on her life. Shrugging patiently, she fixed her eyes dully on the framed prints hanging on the wall, as House dragged a reluctant Wilson into the hall.
Wilson, on the other hand, didn't feel particularly patient. He glared exasperatedly at the unrepentant diagnostician, but House, typically, was unapologetic.
"Listen," House said urgently. "Is it "feed a cold and starve a fever," or the other way around?"
Wilson was momentarily speechless. He stared at House incredulously, mouth open, until finally he managed to speak:
"What? What did you say?"
House assumed his martyr expression, burdened by the great weight of having to repeat himself when he was in a hurry.
"Is it `feed a cold and starve a fever,' or the other way around?" He looked expectantly at Wilson, seemingly unaware of any inappropriate behavior on his part.
Wilson made a desperate sound, seemed to want to speak but choked on his words, and raised his brown eyes heavenward. He raked his hand through his hair, and implored God to grant him the patience to put up with House; he figured that God would be so sick of hearing Wilson make that same prayer, over and over, that maybe He would grant it out of sheer exhaustion.
"Well?" House exhaled loudly. "Which is it?"
"You've got to be kidding. You interrupt my session with a dying woman to ask me that? You need my `expert opinion' for that? What the hell are you thinking?"
House looked innocent, his blue eyes guileless. "I thought you'd be all in favor of such a crucial medical research project," he said reproachfully. Then, when Wilson failed to appear won over by House's charm, the diagnostician abandoned the effort and tersely repeated the question for a third time. "I need to know."
Wilson glared at him. "Didn't they teach you that in med school?" he snapped, and, disgustedly, slammed the door behind him as he re-entered his office.
House made sure to say "Fuck you" to the closed door before turning and stomping irritatedly off in the direction of the elevators.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Back at his apartment, House stood in his kitchen and peered balefully at the contents of his cabinets. There didn't seem to be anything even remotely resembling chicken soup; discouragingly, his fridge was similarly bereft of juice, orange or otherwise. House briefly considered the sick-food potential of Pop-Tarts, but, upon noticing the long-past expiration date, discarded the idea. He scowled. If only Wilson had taken a minute to confirm that it was `starve a fever,' House wouldn't have to be undergoing all this. But on the off chance that it was `feed a fever,' House continued doggedly to ransack his kitchen, in hopes of finding something that seemed appropriate to feed to his flu-ridden patient. Finally, with great relief, he happened upon an ancient box of Saltines, and remembering how his mother had always given them to him for an upset stomach when he was a boy, seized them and triumphantly carried them into his bedroom, where his unsuspecting patient lay sleeping.
But, once in his bedroom, House forgot all about the Saltines. As usual, the appearance of Robert Chase in his line of vision struck him like a blow, momentarily driving all other thoughts from House's mind save the beauty of the sleeping boy in his bed. House often wondered if the day would ever come when he would grow used to Chase's looks, when that pretty mouth and the smooth skin would cease to be a source of amazement to him, when the young Australian's jutting hip bones and shaggy blond hair would no longer make House's throat go dry. And as Chase, sensing House's presence in the room, opened his blue-green eyes and gave his lover a dozy smile, House swallowed hard and felt sure that such a day would never arrive.
"How do you feel?"
"Umm," Chase answered drowsily, burrowing more deeply into the cocoon of blankets in which he was engulfed. "Ok, I guess. Kind of achy, though ... and I can't get warm enough." He started to raise himself to a sitting position.
"Lie down." House's voice was brusque, carefully tailored to hide any concern he might be feeling. He approached the bed and sternly looked down at Chase. The soft blond bangs were brushed aside as House carefully placed one hand on the boy's forehead to test for fever, determinedly repressing any erotic images sparked by Chase's languid vulnerability, or by memories of all the things they had done together there. "You feel hot," House said worriedly.
"I always get hot when you touch me," Chase replied boldly. And, just as he had hoped, his words drew a smile from House.
"You're an idiot," said House affectionately.
"I must be," said Chase agreeably. He again started to sit up, but stopped when a wave of dizziness overcame him, and he gave a little moan.
"Chase! I told you to lie down," House reprimanded his patient. His voice gave no hint of the surprisingly sharp stab of pain House felt in his heart upon seeing evidence of Chase's illness. Appalled at just how sappy he had become, House silently mocked himself: "It's just the flu - the flu, for God's sake. Moron! Not exactly one of the life-threatening diseases you deal with all the time ..." But it was no good: Chase's unhappy little sigh as he settled his blond head against the pillow and drew the blankets more closely around him struck House harder than any anguished groan from one of his gravely ill patients at the hospital ever could. The sight of Chase snuggling cozily among the covers, and the trusting way the kid reached for House's hand as he closed his eyes, left the diagnostician struggling to maintain his fierce expression.
After a brief time, Chase's grip on House's hand loosened and he fell asleep. House relinquished his lover's hand, but remained standing by the side of their bed, wishing Chase a peaceful sleep. He was taken aback by just how unhappy it made him to see Chase feeling bad, when, after all, it was just a stupid case of the flu. Nothing serious. For Christ's sake - didn't he deal with real illnesses every day? Nevertheless, House found himself carefully placing the box of Saltines on the night table, where Chase could reach them easily when he woke up, before kissing his patient tenderly on the forehead and tucking the quilt more tightly around him.
"Feel better," whispered House, and, turning out the bedside light, quietly left the room.
END
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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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