The Incident at the Hospital Fundraiser (House fiction)
Friday, 13 May 2016 10:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carose59"There's something very strange about this," Cuddy said quietly, close to Wilson's ear.
"What?" Wilson asked, looking around the shimmering room. "Seeing the hospital look like Sea World?"
"Not that," Cuddy snapped, exasperated, "I arranged for that. No, House." She nodded in his direction, where he was talking pleasantly to one of the hospital's most generous benefactors.
"I thought you plied him with sexual favors," Wilson said.
"I was going to, but it wasn't necessary. Haven't you noticed how excited he's been about this whole thing?"
"Yes, but I though you'd—" rather than repeat himself, Wilson made a circular motion with his hand.
Cuddy stared at him. "What did you think I'd offered to do that would put him in that high a state of anticipation?"
Wilson blushed. "Well, I don't know! I mean, he's always telling me things, but since I'm pretty sure they're all lies— I don't know! What do you think is going on?"
"I don't know," Cuddy said. "He didn't even protest when I told him it was going to be a pay bar this year."
"You're right," Wilson said definitively. "Something's up. Look, he's talking to Mr. Carmichael."
"I can't look," Cuddy said. "He just gave us that beautiful new—"
"No, it's all right, he's being pleasant," Wilson tried reassured her, though it reassured neither of them. "Could he be back on the Vicodin?"
"When did Vicodin ever make him pleasant?" Cuddy asked.
Wilson had no answer for that.
"Fish?" Taub said, looking with puzzlement into one of the aquariums set up around the room. "People decorate with fish now?"
His wife relieved him of one of the drinks he was carrying and took a sip. "It's a new thing," she said. "A new company. They set the whole thing up. They even have these special tops on the tanks so drunken idiots can't drop canapés into the tanks."
Taub stood on tiptoes, but couldn't see the special top. When he reached up, though, he could feel it. "Pretty cool idea," he conceded, looking around at how the watered lighting gave the room the air of an underwater cave. "It does make the place look very different."
"I think this is their first job," Rachel said. "Nobody's seen anything quite like this before. It's is a major coup for your administrator."
Taub nodded, smiling. A happy Cuddy should make for a happy House, and while trickle-down economics was a questionable theory, trickle-down happiness was a pretty secure bet. Trickle-down unhappiness was a sure thing.
Later, trying to sort out exactly what had happened, and who—besides House—was to blame, Wilson kept saying, "At least he waited until practically everyone was gone." If Cuddy found solace in this, she gave no indication.
The first strange thing was Chase and another man dragging in a wooden ramp. "I'm not doing this," Chase was heard to say, and when Foreman came over to find out what was going on, he said it again. "I'm not doing this."
"How much have you had to drink?" Foreman asked, and Chase answered, "Since when?" which hardly counted as an answer.
Cuddy was talking to the other man, trying to find out who he was, but more importantly, what he was doing. The man, however, was silent, obdurate, and once he had finished his work, gone.
"What's going on here?" Wilson asked, joining Foreman in his interrogation of Chase.
"I'm not even here," Chase declared. "I have the flu, and I couldn't go to the party, I had to stay home." The middle part of that statement turned out to be true, Chase did have the flu, and a raging fever. Wilson and Foreman were helping him to the clinic when the music started.
It was music to announce the arrival of royalty, and the party die-hards all turned to look to see where it was coming from. At that moment the music was overcome by the feral growl of House's motorcycle, his own bellow of "Bansai!" and through the dappled light came House atop his motorcycle.
Up the ramp they went, then into the air. Cuddy was screaming, and so was Wilson, but the other half-dozen or so people had been reduced to stupefied silence.
As his motorcycle made its arc over the fish tank containing the pale catshark—believed to be the smallest breed of shark in the world—House roared, "Geronimo!"
He cleared the tank. Even more impressively, he swerved before hitting the next tank, and stopped before crashing into anything else. He came down with a THWUMP! everyone on that floor could feel. Wilson left Chase to Foreman's care and ran to House, who was on the floor under his motorcycle.
Cuddy was there, and two nurses, and an intern. They got the motorcycle off House, got him into a wheelchair, and took him to the clinic, where Chase could be heard snoring stridently.
Except for a few bruises, House was undamaged. So was the motorcycle.
The question of why, why, why he had done this foolish thing was never satisfactorily answered. All House would say was, "How often in life do you get the chance to jump a shark?"
"What?" Wilson asked, looking around the shimmering room. "Seeing the hospital look like Sea World?"
"Not that," Cuddy snapped, exasperated, "I arranged for that. No, House." She nodded in his direction, where he was talking pleasantly to one of the hospital's most generous benefactors.
"I thought you plied him with sexual favors," Wilson said.
"I was going to, but it wasn't necessary. Haven't you noticed how excited he's been about this whole thing?"
"Yes, but I though you'd—" rather than repeat himself, Wilson made a circular motion with his hand.
Cuddy stared at him. "What did you think I'd offered to do that would put him in that high a state of anticipation?"
Wilson blushed. "Well, I don't know! I mean, he's always telling me things, but since I'm pretty sure they're all lies— I don't know! What do you think is going on?"
"I don't know," Cuddy said. "He didn't even protest when I told him it was going to be a pay bar this year."
"You're right," Wilson said definitively. "Something's up. Look, he's talking to Mr. Carmichael."
"I can't look," Cuddy said. "He just gave us that beautiful new—"
"No, it's all right, he's being pleasant," Wilson tried reassured her, though it reassured neither of them. "Could he be back on the Vicodin?"
"When did Vicodin ever make him pleasant?" Cuddy asked.
Wilson had no answer for that.
"Fish?" Taub said, looking with puzzlement into one of the aquariums set up around the room. "People decorate with fish now?"
His wife relieved him of one of the drinks he was carrying and took a sip. "It's a new thing," she said. "A new company. They set the whole thing up. They even have these special tops on the tanks so drunken idiots can't drop canapés into the tanks."
Taub stood on tiptoes, but couldn't see the special top. When he reached up, though, he could feel it. "Pretty cool idea," he conceded, looking around at how the watered lighting gave the room the air of an underwater cave. "It does make the place look very different."
"I think this is their first job," Rachel said. "Nobody's seen anything quite like this before. It's is a major coup for your administrator."
Taub nodded, smiling. A happy Cuddy should make for a happy House, and while trickle-down economics was a questionable theory, trickle-down happiness was a pretty secure bet. Trickle-down unhappiness was a sure thing.
Later, trying to sort out exactly what had happened, and who—besides House—was to blame, Wilson kept saying, "At least he waited until practically everyone was gone." If Cuddy found solace in this, she gave no indication.
The first strange thing was Chase and another man dragging in a wooden ramp. "I'm not doing this," Chase was heard to say, and when Foreman came over to find out what was going on, he said it again. "I'm not doing this."
"How much have you had to drink?" Foreman asked, and Chase answered, "Since when?" which hardly counted as an answer.
Cuddy was talking to the other man, trying to find out who he was, but more importantly, what he was doing. The man, however, was silent, obdurate, and once he had finished his work, gone.
"What's going on here?" Wilson asked, joining Foreman in his interrogation of Chase.
"I'm not even here," Chase declared. "I have the flu, and I couldn't go to the party, I had to stay home." The middle part of that statement turned out to be true, Chase did have the flu, and a raging fever. Wilson and Foreman were helping him to the clinic when the music started.
It was music to announce the arrival of royalty, and the party die-hards all turned to look to see where it was coming from. At that moment the music was overcome by the feral growl of House's motorcycle, his own bellow of "Bansai!" and through the dappled light came House atop his motorcycle.
Up the ramp they went, then into the air. Cuddy was screaming, and so was Wilson, but the other half-dozen or so people had been reduced to stupefied silence.
As his motorcycle made its arc over the fish tank containing the pale catshark—believed to be the smallest breed of shark in the world—House roared, "Geronimo!"
He cleared the tank. Even more impressively, he swerved before hitting the next tank, and stopped before crashing into anything else. He came down with a THWUMP! everyone on that floor could feel. Wilson left Chase to Foreman's care and ran to House, who was on the floor under his motorcycle.
Cuddy was there, and two nurses, and an intern. They got the motorcycle off House, got him into a wheelchair, and took him to the clinic, where Chase could be heard snoring stridently.
Except for a few bruises, House was undamaged. So was the motorcycle.
The question of why, why, why he had done this foolish thing was never satisfactorily answered. All House would say was, "How often in life do you get the chance to jump a shark?"