MST 5
Author's Note: This fic came about because I was trying to find something to MST, but couldn't seem to get any of them to work. SO I decided to write an MST about House finally getting bored with mocking bad!fic.
Spoilers (in the MST) for "Insensitive"
House: I didn’t think it would ever happen, but it’s happened.
Wilson: What’s happened? A patient actually has vasculitis?
Foreman: Chase said something intelligent?
Cameron: You’ve realized you actually love…somebody?
Chase: Cameron stopped making goo-goo eyes at you?
House: No. I’m bored with badfic!
All: Hooray!
House: Take this one. The entire fic is my suicide note, which I chose to write in the form of a poem, for some reason. Among other things, I say:
When they find out,
None will shed a tear,
All will come out and celebrate.
My tyranny is done
House: (continues): But can I be bothered to read and mock the entire thing? I can’t.
Wilson: And this is a problem for you, somehow?
House: Well, yeah. What am I going to do during work hours now? Cuddy took my Game Boy, and there’s nothing on TV.
Wilson: You could try…working.
House: Pshaw. And here’s a piece of self-pitying twaddle where Chase reflects on the bruise he got when I punched him that one time: The first day it was red and pounded out its pain. Everyone noticed it, not just Wilson. But Chase found he didn’t even care. His jaw was swollen and red and throbbing and all he could think about were the What Ifs. Blah, blah, blah, emo-cakes. He even says It ached when he opened his mouth too wide, but do I care? Can I be bothered to make a joke about fellatio? I can’t. And even this: but as long as it didn’t affect anyone but him, it was unimportant. He was nothing but a bug on the windshield of the world, doesn’t raise the ghost of a smile.
Chase: (unconvincingly) I don’t think of myself as a bug on the windshield of life.
Foreman: Sure you don’t.
Chase: I have just as much self-esteem as the next person.
House: If that’s the case, why were you hiding under a table last time we did this?
Chase: I’ve been getting lots of therapy.
Cameron: That’s where you’ve been going every day after lunch? I thought you were having an affair with someone who works on the fourth floor.
Chase: It’s not at all creepy or stalkerish that you formed a theory about where I was going, instead of just asking.
House: And then there’s the one where I tried to bake banana bread in the autoclave. The premise is ridiculous, and the dialogue is wooden, but I just can’t summon the strength to mock.
Wilson: Actually, I thought that one wasn’t so bad.
House: (hurt) You’ve been reading fanfiction without me?
Wilson: I was…I don’t have to explain myself to you!
House: I wouldn’t try to bake anything in an autoclave. Honestly, what kind of idiot do these people think I am?
Wilson: What about that time you tried to heat up a frozen pizza under the hood of my car?
House: That’s a tried-and-tested method of cooking on long road trips. It would have worked, if your engine hadn’t been running hot. And it was only a small fire.
Wilson: Any size of fire in my car is unacceptable!
House: Well, you should have mentioned that beforehand.
Chase: At University we used to make toasted cheese sandwiches with the iron.
House: What on God’s green earth gave you the impression anyone cares about your sad little exploits?
Chase: My therapist said I should try to be more open about my personal life.
House: Your therapist is an idiot. Nobody cares about your personal life. Unless you have any stories involving sex or getting arrested, keep your mouth shut.
Chase: Cameron wants to have microwave-pizza sex with me.
Cameron: **glares**
Foreman: What the hell is microwave pizza sex?
Chase: It’s like how when you’re hungry but can’t be bothered cooking or going out, you heat up a microwave pizza. Only with sex.
House: Wow, that’s flattering.
Chase: Yeah. You think I should do it?
Cameron: **aggressively** You think you’re going to have the chance now?
Chase: **shrugs** If you get hungry.
House: Of course you should do it.
Chase: You didn’t have sex with her, when you had the chance.
Wilson: He’s done it in hundreds of badfics, though.
House: That’s different. I can do better than Cameron. You…eh.
Chase: So you figure meaningless sex with a woman who doesn’t love, or even particularly like, me is the best I can do?
House: In short, yes.
Chase: **hangs head**
House: Here’s one where you and Cameron are married and have a Spawn.
Wilson: Ridiculous name?
House: Skylar. You be the judge.
Wilson: Naming the child after a candy bar. Sweet.
All: **groan**
House: It starts out with the child getting into bed with Chase, while Cameron is out of town for a conference. Seems like I ought to have a field day with that, doesn’t it?
Chase: I think that I would be a good father.
House: Enough with the affirmations already. You’d be a terrible father.
Chase: Am I a bad father in the fic?
House: **skimming it** You take her to daycare, pick her up at daycare, talk to Cameron on the phone, pretend to be interested in some dumb story about a boy at daycare stealing her blocks cook her dinner...I guess you’re adequate. Except for the subtextual incest.
Chase: See?
House: Then you propose to Cameron.
Chase: **sadly** Oh.
House: Then there’s the one where I get brainwashed by an evil psychiatrist. How ridiculous can you get? But I’m still not interested.
Wilson: It sounds like you’re depressed.
House: I am not!
Chase: Losing interest in activities you once loved? That’s a classic symptom of depression.
House: I’m not depressed.
Chase: Do you want the name of my therapist? He’s very good.
House: Is he evil?
Chase: No.
House: I’m so not depressed, that I’m ready to read a fic. Here we go: The end had really started at the beginning, House would admit to himself.
Wilson: Oooh, contradictions. Arty.
House: Yeah. If by arty you mean “meaningless.”
He’d known what he was getting himself into, knew it was never going to last-but Chase’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes and kiss-swollen lips had captured him, drawn him in until there was no logic or reason, only feeling.
House: That certainly sounds like me. Abandoning logic and reason at the first sight of a pair of pretty lips? It’s practically my trademark.
Chase: My lips are pretty.
It had seemed fine at first-in fact, it had seemed more than fine. Chase didn’t mind being secretive about their…whatever it was, he didn’t annoy House with mindless idiot-talk, and he never, ever presumed that he was anything more than House said he was. House said nothing, so that’s how he acted, as if he was nothing.
House: Chase is more in-character in this fic than he is right now.
Chase: Do you people want me to be a quivering ball of angst?
House: Yes. Yes, we do. You work harder when you’re desperately unhappy.
Foreman: You say that, but I’m the one who gets stuck with him when he’s hiding under tables. I say, if Chase wants to get some therapy, he should get some.
Plus, there was the mind-blowingly hot sex they had frequently and in a lot of interesting places.
Chase: Well, at least I’m good at sex in this story.
House: Also unlike in real life.
Wilson: (suspiciously) How would you know?
House: I read Cameron’s diary.
Then the odd feelings came.
It would just occur at any random moment; they would be sitting on the couch together watching New Yankee Workshop, or eating dinner, or sometimes even just lying in bed together, sated and exhausted after a round of passionate sex. Chase would look at him intently and smile as if he knew all the secrets of the universe, but was content to let his knowledge lay and just stay here with House, forever. And House’s heart would do a strange sort of flutter or seize, which he attributed to the vicodin, or the heavy temperatures, or the bad pork.
House: Chase? Knowing things? That’s ridiculous.
Wilson: You letting Chase eat with you? Even more ridiculous.
House: Yeah. You don’t eat dinner with your microwave pizza.
Chase: **whimpers**
House: And then we’re about to go to the grocery store, and I realize I love Chase…or don’t, it’s not totally clear…and it’s angst, angst, angst for the rest of the story. **yawn**
Wilson: We’re not going to finish?
Foreman: Great, then, I’m out of here.
Cameron: Me, too.
Both: **exit**
Wilson: I knew you were depressed.
Chase: Do you want some of my antidepressants? **rattles bottle**
House: I am not depressed. Do you see me wangsting all over the place like Chase here? Crying? Hiding under tables? You don’t, because I’m not depressed.
Chase: I hardly ever hide under tables and cry.
Wilson: **ignoring him** Depression can manifest with a variety of symptoms. Men with depression often feel angry a lot of the time, rather than sad.
House: I’m not angry, goddamn it!
Chase: Depression is nothing to be ashamed of.
House: **yells** Stop with the fucking affirmations! Real men don’t get depressed!
Chase: **runs out of room, frantically calling therapist on cell phone**
Wilson: House, it’s okay. I’m not going to make fun of you for being depressed. **hugs him**
House: **struggles* Gerroff me! I’m not depressed! Let go, you bastard!
Wilson: **doesn’t let go**
House: **ceases struggling** Well. **drops head to Wilson’s shoulder** **mumbles into shirt** I’m still not depressed
Wilson: **patting his back** Sure you aren’t, buddy.
Spoilers (in the MST) for "Insensitive"
House: I didn’t think it would ever happen, but it’s happened.
Wilson: What’s happened? A patient actually has vasculitis?
Foreman: Chase said something intelligent?
Cameron: You’ve realized you actually love…somebody?
Chase: Cameron stopped making goo-goo eyes at you?
House: No. I’m bored with badfic!
All: Hooray!
House: Take this one. The entire fic is my suicide note, which I chose to write in the form of a poem, for some reason. Among other things, I say:
When they find out,
None will shed a tear,
All will come out and celebrate.
My tyranny is done
House: (continues): But can I be bothered to read and mock the entire thing? I can’t.
Wilson: And this is a problem for you, somehow?
House: Well, yeah. What am I going to do during work hours now? Cuddy took my Game Boy, and there’s nothing on TV.
Wilson: You could try…working.
House: Pshaw. And here’s a piece of self-pitying twaddle where Chase reflects on the bruise he got when I punched him that one time: The first day it was red and pounded out its pain. Everyone noticed it, not just Wilson. But Chase found he didn’t even care. His jaw was swollen and red and throbbing and all he could think about were the What Ifs. Blah, blah, blah, emo-cakes. He even says It ached when he opened his mouth too wide, but do I care? Can I be bothered to make a joke about fellatio? I can’t. And even this: but as long as it didn’t affect anyone but him, it was unimportant. He was nothing but a bug on the windshield of the world, doesn’t raise the ghost of a smile.
Chase: (unconvincingly) I don’t think of myself as a bug on the windshield of life.
Foreman: Sure you don’t.
Chase: I have just as much self-esteem as the next person.
House: If that’s the case, why were you hiding under a table last time we did this?
Chase: I’ve been getting lots of therapy.
Cameron: That’s where you’ve been going every day after lunch? I thought you were having an affair with someone who works on the fourth floor.
Chase: It’s not at all creepy or stalkerish that you formed a theory about where I was going, instead of just asking.
House: And then there’s the one where I tried to bake banana bread in the autoclave. The premise is ridiculous, and the dialogue is wooden, but I just can’t summon the strength to mock.
Wilson: Actually, I thought that one wasn’t so bad.
House: (hurt) You’ve been reading fanfiction without me?
Wilson: I was…I don’t have to explain myself to you!
House: I wouldn’t try to bake anything in an autoclave. Honestly, what kind of idiot do these people think I am?
Wilson: What about that time you tried to heat up a frozen pizza under the hood of my car?
House: That’s a tried-and-tested method of cooking on long road trips. It would have worked, if your engine hadn’t been running hot. And it was only a small fire.
Wilson: Any size of fire in my car is unacceptable!
House: Well, you should have mentioned that beforehand.
Chase: At University we used to make toasted cheese sandwiches with the iron.
House: What on God’s green earth gave you the impression anyone cares about your sad little exploits?
Chase: My therapist said I should try to be more open about my personal life.
House: Your therapist is an idiot. Nobody cares about your personal life. Unless you have any stories involving sex or getting arrested, keep your mouth shut.
Chase: Cameron wants to have microwave-pizza sex with me.
Cameron: **glares**
Foreman: What the hell is microwave pizza sex?
Chase: It’s like how when you’re hungry but can’t be bothered cooking or going out, you heat up a microwave pizza. Only with sex.
House: Wow, that’s flattering.
Chase: Yeah. You think I should do it?
Cameron: **aggressively** You think you’re going to have the chance now?
Chase: **shrugs** If you get hungry.
House: Of course you should do it.
Chase: You didn’t have sex with her, when you had the chance.
Wilson: He’s done it in hundreds of badfics, though.
House: That’s different. I can do better than Cameron. You…eh.
Chase: So you figure meaningless sex with a woman who doesn’t love, or even particularly like, me is the best I can do?
House: In short, yes.
Chase: **hangs head**
House: Here’s one where you and Cameron are married and have a Spawn.
Wilson: Ridiculous name?
House: Skylar. You be the judge.
Wilson: Naming the child after a candy bar. Sweet.
All: **groan**
House: It starts out with the child getting into bed with Chase, while Cameron is out of town for a conference. Seems like I ought to have a field day with that, doesn’t it?
Chase: I think that I would be a good father.
House: Enough with the affirmations already. You’d be a terrible father.
Chase: Am I a bad father in the fic?
House: **skimming it** You take her to daycare, pick her up at daycare, talk to Cameron on the phone, pretend to be interested in some dumb story about a boy at daycare stealing her blocks cook her dinner...I guess you’re adequate. Except for the subtextual incest.
Chase: See?
House: Then you propose to Cameron.
Chase: **sadly** Oh.
House: Then there’s the one where I get brainwashed by an evil psychiatrist. How ridiculous can you get? But I’m still not interested.
Wilson: It sounds like you’re depressed.
House: I am not!
Chase: Losing interest in activities you once loved? That’s a classic symptom of depression.
House: I’m not depressed.
Chase: Do you want the name of my therapist? He’s very good.
House: Is he evil?
Chase: No.
House: I’m so not depressed, that I’m ready to read a fic. Here we go: The end had really started at the beginning, House would admit to himself.
Wilson: Oooh, contradictions. Arty.
House: Yeah. If by arty you mean “meaningless.”
He’d known what he was getting himself into, knew it was never going to last-but Chase’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes and kiss-swollen lips had captured him, drawn him in until there was no logic or reason, only feeling.
House: That certainly sounds like me. Abandoning logic and reason at the first sight of a pair of pretty lips? It’s practically my trademark.
Chase: My lips are pretty.
It had seemed fine at first-in fact, it had seemed more than fine. Chase didn’t mind being secretive about their…whatever it was, he didn’t annoy House with mindless idiot-talk, and he never, ever presumed that he was anything more than House said he was. House said nothing, so that’s how he acted, as if he was nothing.
House: Chase is more in-character in this fic than he is right now.
Chase: Do you people want me to be a quivering ball of angst?
House: Yes. Yes, we do. You work harder when you’re desperately unhappy.
Foreman: You say that, but I’m the one who gets stuck with him when he’s hiding under tables. I say, if Chase wants to get some therapy, he should get some.
Plus, there was the mind-blowingly hot sex they had frequently and in a lot of interesting places.
Chase: Well, at least I’m good at sex in this story.
House: Also unlike in real life.
Wilson: (suspiciously) How would you know?
House: I read Cameron’s diary.
Then the odd feelings came.
It would just occur at any random moment; they would be sitting on the couch together watching New Yankee Workshop, or eating dinner, or sometimes even just lying in bed together, sated and exhausted after a round of passionate sex. Chase would look at him intently and smile as if he knew all the secrets of the universe, but was content to let his knowledge lay and just stay here with House, forever. And House’s heart would do a strange sort of flutter or seize, which he attributed to the vicodin, or the heavy temperatures, or the bad pork.
House: Chase? Knowing things? That’s ridiculous.
Wilson: You letting Chase eat with you? Even more ridiculous.
House: Yeah. You don’t eat dinner with your microwave pizza.
Chase: **whimpers**
House: And then we’re about to go to the grocery store, and I realize I love Chase…or don’t, it’s not totally clear…and it’s angst, angst, angst for the rest of the story. **yawn**
Wilson: We’re not going to finish?
Foreman: Great, then, I’m out of here.
Cameron: Me, too.
Both: **exit**
Wilson: I knew you were depressed.
Chase: Do you want some of my antidepressants? **rattles bottle**
House: I am not depressed. Do you see me wangsting all over the place like Chase here? Crying? Hiding under tables? You don’t, because I’m not depressed.
Chase: I hardly ever hide under tables and cry.
Wilson: **ignoring him** Depression can manifest with a variety of symptoms. Men with depression often feel angry a lot of the time, rather than sad.
House: I’m not angry, goddamn it!
Chase: Depression is nothing to be ashamed of.
House: **yells** Stop with the fucking affirmations! Real men don’t get depressed!
Chase: **runs out of room, frantically calling therapist on cell phone**
Wilson: House, it’s okay. I’m not going to make fun of you for being depressed. **hugs him**
House: **struggles* Gerroff me! I’m not depressed! Let go, you bastard!
Wilson: **doesn’t let go**
House: **ceases struggling** Well. **drops head to Wilson’s shoulder** **mumbles into shirt** I’m still not depressed
Wilson: **patting his back** Sure you aren’t, buddy.