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House's International Pancakes
by Lindenharp
House is in Hell. Hell is an overheated hotel ballroom full of microcephalic nitwits. At the far end of the room -- but not far enough -- a string quartet is butchering Borodin's Scherzo.
The reception is for a visiting Russian Nobel Laureate -- a plant geneticist with all the charm of a sack of fertilizer. Cuddy coerced House into joining the PPTH delegation. She isn't interested in the guest of honor, only the potential donors milling around the room. He tugs resentfully at his black tie. Why the hell didn't Cuddy make him wear a collar and leash? It would be more honest -- and probably more comfortable.
"I am in Hell," House repeats. "I'd say this is the Eighth Circle, abode of flatterers, hypocrites, hospital administrators--" He glares across the room at Cuddy. "--and seducers," he adds, turning his gaze on Wilson.
"I don't think they serve caviar in Hell," Wilson scoffs.
House waves this objection aside. "Of course they do. The point is, in Hell they don't serve blini. Caviar without blini is like... fries without ketchup.
""It usually takes more than three shots of vodka to affect your eyesight, House. They have blinis." Wilson points at a platter of miniature pancakes.
"Wilson, you schmuck! I'm not talking about your bubbe's blintzes, or the crepes that your petite cherie at McGill made for post-coital snacks. Blini -- no 's', it's already the plural form -- are made with a yeast dough."
Wilson rolls his eyes. "Thank you for that clarification, Aunt Jemima."
"You know blini?" The voice is young and female, with an accent that belongs 4700 miles northeast of Princeton. She smiles at House. "I am Elena Sokolovskaya, research assistant to Dr. Morgunov."
House looks her over carefully. Very young. Very female. Nothing at all wrong with her genetics. He smiles back. "Pervyi blin vsegda komom," he says, quoting the old proverb. He continues speaking in Russian. "Or so they told me in Saint Petersburg. There was a little restaurant on Voznesenskii Prospect..."
The girl's face lights up at the sound of her own language, and House smiles. There are no blini in Hell... but there are other compensations.
Note: the proverb translates as "The first blin is always lumpy"
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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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