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The Trouble With Mutants
by Dana
House strolled into Cuddy's office, grinning like a cat that's just swallowed a deep-fried canary with a side of fries and coke.
She looked up from her paperwork, fuming. "You were supposed to be at--"
"You're going to let me out of Clinic duty today," he announced.
Her mouth gaped. "I'm what?"
"Also, you're going to give me a week of paid leave." He smirked.
"Did you... hit your head on something? Did Cameron punch you? Or..." Her eyes flew to her desk calendar. "...oh, no," she said slowly, shaking her head with astonishment. "Every year I let you get away with your mysterious June disappearance for god knows what reason, but not this time. Not while you continue to treat this hospital's Clinic like the plague. You don't deserve any breaks this time."
House closed his eyes and placed a finger on each of his temples. "You're about to change your mind," he predicted.
She snorted. "Not likely--"
"Ms. Cuddy?" Her assistant rapped on the door. "I'm transferring a phone call for you."
Eyeing House suspiciously, Cuddy picked up the line. "Hello? Yes. Yes, he does. I'm sorry, but I don't think--" Her eyebrows flew up. "Mr. Ambassador! Hello, I-- yes, yes of course. Oh. All right, go-- good bye."
She gave House a hard look. "Get out of here," she finally snapped.
He was still smirking when he left. "See you in a week."
*
The willful ignorance of the general population never ceased to amaze House. Every time he thought humanity had finally reached a stable level of stupidity, people managed to surprise him by saying inane things like, "Did you hear something?" at a deafening explosion worthy of the sonic boom created by, say, an SR-71 Blackbird that's just landed in the back yard - which happened, incidentally, more often than one would have thought.
"Buckle up," he heard from the pilot seat.
"Yeah, yeah," he replied, strapping up. "I know the drill."
*
The trouble with mutants, House thought, was that they weren't so much a puzzle as they were like a stumping piece of contemporary art. When it came down to it, he missed the old days, when symptoms were rational chemical reactions that could be indexed and were at least contained in, you know, the traditional realm of time and space. Nowadays, symptoms looked more like the psychedelic delusions of a whimsical god on crack.
With mutants, there were never any clear answers.
But if there was anything more frustrating that treating a sick mutant, it was giving one a regular old boring physical exam.
Okay, maybe not regular old, but definitely boring. Yearly physical exams were the same wherever you went - charting, paperwork, and actual interaction with a patient who most likely had nothing wrong with them.
House hefted the axe forcibly and swung. It clanged against the shining steely chest.
"Turn around," he ordered, and swung the axe again. The axe head broke.
"All right," he said, ticking the last box on the chart. "Free to go."
Enormous and silent, Colossus left.
Bo-ring.
*
"Okay," House said, "next test: turn this cup of coffee into a frappuccino."
Drake looked at him doubtfully. "Are you sure? I don't remember any of Dr. Grey's tests ever involving iced coffee."
"She added these very recently," House explained.
Drake looked like he still had some misgivings, but finally sighed and reached for the cup. When he was finished, House took an experimental sip. "Excellent," he declared, and pulled out a bowl filled with a white substance. "Next test: turn this into vanilla ice-cream."
*
"Hey, watch it." Logan grimaced as House pricked his arm for the third time, searching for a vein.
"Don't worry, I'm not gonna leave a boo-boo," House replied. "I do this all the time."
Logan eyed him with distrust. "Right."
House finished drawing the blood and capped the tube. "Now I'm supposed to ask you..." he consulted the notes, "...how you feel. So let's skip over that part because I don't care, and-- yeah, we'll skip that question, and that too--okay, why would she put this in? ...hey," House drew out slyly, "did you have a thing with Dr. Grey?"
"No," Logan growled.
"Well, judging by these instructions, she certainly had a thing for you."
Logan's eyes snapped up. "Don't you talk about Jeannie like that."
"If you were going for Southern Gentleman, try slicking the hair back instead of up."
"I mean it, Doc," he warned.
"Or else you'll what?" House taunted. "Attack the cripple? I'm sure Jeannie wouldn't have wanted that."
Logan's claws popped out instinctively and he hissed, forcing them back in. House took it in, a thin smile on his face, and marked something on the chart. "Involuntary release of claws upon provocation, check."
*
He bumped into Rogue in the hallway. Literally.
"Oh, I'm sorry, are you okay?" she let out in a rush, grabbing his arm to make sure he was steady.
House shook his arm free and stabilized himself on his cane. "Those two round things in your face are there for a reason," he said. "Learn how to use them."
"I'm sorry," she repeated, blushing, and turned back down the hall.
House narrowed his eyes. "Wait."
Rogue stopped in her tracks.
"You're the power-sucking-skin girl, aren't you?" he asked. She nodded. "What happened to your gloves?"
She looked down at her hands, almost as if it were still a surprise they were bare. "I..." She swallowed. "There was... I took..." She trailed off, preparing herself for the usual disapproval.
House gave her a long stare, at the end of which he nodded.
"Good for you."
*
"Dr. House," she greeted as he stepped into her office. House smiled. Storm was always enjoyable to reckon with, even if she didn't have Cuddy's sense of style.
"Ororo," he replied pleasantly, "or should I call you Headmistress?"
"Ms. Munroe will be fine," she smiled. "I've been getting some complaints about you."
He screwed up his face. "That is just hard to believe, isn't it?"
"No, not really." Storm leaned back in her chair. "I'm sure things will go much smoother if you just stick to the guidelines left by--"
"Yes, yes, I know, Dr. Grey. Her guidelines are very... pedantically documented."
Storm's eyes clouded. "Her death is still painful for most of us to talk about. Please," her jaw hardened, "watch your words carefully when you speak of her."
House spoke in a voice just a little bit softer. "Hey, I didn't say she was bad. Granted, she wasn't easy working with - having a backseat doctor who's also a telepath is one too many people speaking in your brain - but she was a good doctor." In the end, with her new powers, she could have - but it's something he couldn't let himself think about, so he didn't. "Anyway," he continued. "Don't worry about my deviations from the book. Turns out that occasionally I'm, you know, right. Statistically, if you trust that kind of stuff."
She raised her eyebrows. "'Deviation from the book'? You had Bobby Drake running around all day to ice your drinks."
"It was part of the check-up!" he protested.
"It's called 'mutantual harassment'."
"Oh, only legally."
"You provoked Logan to release his claws."
"Again! Part of a test."
She tilted her head skeptically. "Seven times?"
He almost smiled. "I... had to be sure?"
Storm smoothed her air behind her ears, composing herself. He had noticed Cuddy tended to do that with him too. Interesting. "Dr. House," she said calmly, "all I'm asking is that you tune it down a bit, that's all."
House sighed. "Well if it means that much to you... I guess I'll think about it really really hard."
He wondered if she'd let him go at that.
"You know," she said, "before you arrived I had thought of offering you a job here. We are in need of a physician."
"Sorry. The Worthington kid is cute, but my rich blond with daddy issues is much prettier. I just couldn't bear to leave him."
"Yes, by now, I'd hoped not."
"Good. A few more physicals left and I'll be gone."
Looking resigned, she waved him off, returning to her work. He stopped halfway out the door, feeling the need, for some reason, to say something else. "Hey." She looked up. "You're new at this. Don't take dealing with me as indication of how well you do your job, okay?" He gave her a small smile. "I've been known to reduce women to tears."
She looked surprised at his words. "I'll... try to control my raging emotions."
"And you're much sexier than the last headmaster, I'll give you that," he added magnanimously.
"I'm overjoyed," she said dryly. "I suppose I can only hope to one day be able to 'manage' you."
He smirked. "Good luck. Meanwhile, have the Blackbird ready, I'll be done around nineish."
As he left, he heard her voice behind him. "Oh, about that..."
He froze, and turned around. "What?"
Storm's eyes widened innocently. "Oh, don't worry, the Blackbird will be ready for you at nine. It will take you straight back to Princeton."
A moment later House stormed back into the office, nearly slamming the door behind him. "That was not the deal we discussed."
"Yes, that's a shame for you."
"I was doing you a favor. One last time, I said, because you don't have a doctor. I was being fair!"
"You asked for a week in the Caribbean," she reminded him with amazement.
"Which you agreed to!"
"Yes, well," she said simply, "I lied."
He couldn't quite grasp his mind around it. The images of a relaxing beach, calm waves, bikini-clad women and tropical fruits that sustained him through the long, aggravating day faded slowly in front of him. "You lied?"
"I knew it was the only way to get you here. Turns out," she smirked, "I occasionally get what I want. Statistically, if you trust that sort of thing."
House stared at her, still slightly shocked, with a new kind of respect. And suddenly that stiff gray jacket she was wearing looked so much sexier.
Shaking himself out of his stupor, he finally muttered, "That was just morally and ethically wrong."
She shrugged, unconcerned. "What can you do?"
He considered it for a moment. "Well, I had a thought." He leaned forward, and lowered his voice to the tone he saved for making girls swoon. "How about dinner?"
Storm caught his eyes curiously, and smiled.
*
END
(Originally written for npkedit :-) )
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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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