House x Jessica Jones Crossover Visit 1
This is just a draft sitting in my folder. I haven't re-read it yet so it's a mess.
Visit 1: Powered
House’s day had begun well enough. The crossroad on the 45th had been underpopulated, he had avoided the smarmy look of the half-French nurse that manned the reception on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and Wilson had invited him over for dinner that night. All in all, House was feeling remarkably in love with the world when he limped in the ER department, which was to say that he only half glared at sleepy Dr. Javier, and only sneered at two nurses gushing about Christmas songs. Halloween had been just around the corner. What the hell.
House limped in the room of his appointment and found a black-haired woman, clad in black leather, inspecting God-knew-what and giving the door her back.
House’s initial thought was that his day had just turned bad. A careless tourist? A drug addict? A STD case? If House had to describe the inner workings of the female reproductive organs..
But the woman turned around, and House’s mind jolted awake in excitement. Multiple concussions. Cuts. Internal micro-fractures. Alcoholism. Depression. Insomnia. The multiple concussions were the most interesting. Apart from the visible cuts and bruises on the woman’s face and neck, from the angle of her shoulders, the way she held her arm to herself, and the way she leaned on one leg, it seemed as if she had collided with a wall. Or two. Violently and repeatedly.
House sat down in silence and the woman did the same. She looked pissed and bored and hurting all at the same time. House recalled the press conference about Black Widow revealing herself to the world, and the online article of a material that looked remarkably like skin and that had ruffled the feathers of the CIA, the FBI, and of the National Defense for its espionage potential.
House studied the woman’s face, her expression, her eyes. Could she be wearing colored lenses? He stopped relying on his sight then, and smelled the room. Dust, wet concrete, soot, mold and alcohol. That didn’t help much.
Enough was enough, thought House, that bad arm was not going to disinfect and bandage itself any time soon.
“Clothes off,” he murmured absent-mindedly as he limped to a supply drawer and back to his stool.
“Very smooth doctor,” retorted the woman with a bored expression, which immensely pleased House. He was rather fond of snarky spitfire women.
As House set to work he catalogued the woman’s reactions, including her obviously fake name on the filled form (‘Jessica Jones,’ honestly?). She looked worried about infections, so she had wits with her, she didn’t ask House what he was doing and with what, and she was conducting a very poor attempt at keeping her bruised face away from him.
“Stop it, you won’t need stitches,” said House as he wet another piece of cotton with disinfectant to start with her face. It put her at peace immediately. Her shoulders sag in relaxation and her hands stopped twitching on her thighs. She wasn’t using a disguise then. Still, her previous fear could mean two things. It indicated either fear of needles or the necessity to cover her own injuries.
“Now take off your pants,” commented House absent-mindedly once he finished cleaning the woman’s face.
But this time, she didn’t surprise him and acquiesced, this time she behaved like all the other patients. She scoffed.
“Wha-Dude, no.”
“I need to confirm by touch if any bone in your hip and low lumbar region are fractured before I book you an tour to the x-rays-“
“Woah, I don’t need x-rays.”
“That’s for me to attest.”
“I mean that I’m fine. Work done. Bye bye have a nice day,” said the woman as she started to put on her shirt, trying not grimace when the fabric hit the end of the area of her arm that was not covered in bandages.
“Look, I don’t care if you’re a superhero or if you are a supervillain, that’s a problem for the authorities, but you’re not going to walk out here without a diagnosis and a half a dozen prescriptions, half of which will be pain-killers. In fact, I don’t think you’ll be able to make it past the beady eyes of that damn French that holds fort at the reception without fainting from the pain. And believe me I know something about it,” he ended his little sermon by tapping the cane on the floor twice.
In reply, the woman stared at him, gaping a bit, stretching the shirt’s sleeve as her bad arm was still at an awkward angle. The sting of the disinfectant was stronger when she lifted the arm more, which the only correct angle at which the arm could fit into the sleeve.
Then, the woman let the shirt fall over her bad arm with an exhausted sigh and set to work to remove her jeans. House zeroed in on her skin as inch after inch became visible, he was worried that she would cover herself up and try to leave at a moment’s notice. Calling security on her would be extremely embarrassing for both of them and the paperwork was a pain in the ass.
House was right. As usual. Repeated collisions on a large and hard surface. He snapped a new pair of gloves on and set to work.
It was only after a few minutes of prodding and poking that he noticed how the woman was barely making any sound. She was gripping the medical bed’s edges so tightly that her hands were completely white, her eyes were slightly unfocused. House estimated that she had not slept for at least 24 hours, nor had she eaten in the past 12 hours.
“Nothing’s broken, but your hip may be bruised. X-ray to be sure and a couple of fun pills, you can dress yourself now, a couple of fun pills, food and sleep. Lots of both. Do you plan on having sex in the next 48 hours?”
House waited for the response for a few seconds before looking up from the form he was filling. The woman was looking at him with a tired ‘what the fuck’ expression, her good hand trying to tug up the hem of her jeans over the curve of her hip.
“What if I say yes?”
“I’d say no.”
The black-haired replied with a heavy eye roll and another exasperated sigh.
“You’re no fun, doc.”
“I’m no fun and gay, a limping oxymoron. I need your actual name for booking the x-ray.”
Another pause. House looked up again. The woman had managed to tug her jeans all the way up and was buttoning herself one-handed. She wasn’t looking at him this time, though, she was looking over at the form she had filled for admittance with a frown.
“That’s my actual name.”
“Jessica Jones?”
“Yeah,” she shrugged.
“Condolences. The x-ray department is-“
“Don’t need that,” said Jones. When House looked at her this time she was fighting and valiantly winning the battle against her shirt’s sleeve.
“Because of your powers?”
“How do you-? Never mind,” sighed Jones, astutely performing a tactical retreat in front of the battle that was her leather jacket, choosing to sling it over her good shoulder for now. “No, not because of any powers. My friend will want me to get rayed at a private clinic or whatever.”
That Jones was a fairly good liar, House observed. Her tells were few and well-hidden, but not impossible to spot for House.
“Good try but there is room for improvement. Here are your receipts and your x-ray booking, whether you go or not is not my problem but know this: will this friend of yours be happy when you micro-fractured your whole hip the next time you get slammed into something?”
Massaging his leg, House relished the look of astonishment on Jones’s face for a few moments before tapping his cane on the floor.
“Now, go. Chop chop.”
Jones shook her head, sighing again in exasperation, snatched her receipts and walked out.
.
.
.
Visit 1: Powered
House’s day had begun well enough. The crossroad on the 45th had been underpopulated, he had avoided the smarmy look of the half-French nurse that manned the reception on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and Wilson had invited him over for dinner that night. All in all, House was feeling remarkably in love with the world when he limped in the ER department, which was to say that he only half glared at sleepy Dr. Javier, and only sneered at two nurses gushing about Christmas songs. Halloween had been just around the corner. What the hell.
House limped in the room of his appointment and found a black-haired woman, clad in black leather, inspecting God-knew-what and giving the door her back.
House’s initial thought was that his day had just turned bad. A careless tourist? A drug addict? A STD case? If House had to describe the inner workings of the female reproductive organs..
But the woman turned around, and House’s mind jolted awake in excitement. Multiple concussions. Cuts. Internal micro-fractures. Alcoholism. Depression. Insomnia. The multiple concussions were the most interesting. Apart from the visible cuts and bruises on the woman’s face and neck, from the angle of her shoulders, the way she held her arm to herself, and the way she leaned on one leg, it seemed as if she had collided with a wall. Or two. Violently and repeatedly.
House sat down in silence and the woman did the same. She looked pissed and bored and hurting all at the same time. House recalled the press conference about Black Widow revealing herself to the world, and the online article of a material that looked remarkably like skin and that had ruffled the feathers of the CIA, the FBI, and of the National Defense for its espionage potential.
House studied the woman’s face, her expression, her eyes. Could she be wearing colored lenses? He stopped relying on his sight then, and smelled the room. Dust, wet concrete, soot, mold and alcohol. That didn’t help much.
Enough was enough, thought House, that bad arm was not going to disinfect and bandage itself any time soon.
“Clothes off,” he murmured absent-mindedly as he limped to a supply drawer and back to his stool.
“Very smooth doctor,” retorted the woman with a bored expression, which immensely pleased House. He was rather fond of snarky spitfire women.
As House set to work he catalogued the woman’s reactions, including her obviously fake name on the filled form (‘Jessica Jones,’ honestly?). She looked worried about infections, so she had wits with her, she didn’t ask House what he was doing and with what, and she was conducting a very poor attempt at keeping her bruised face away from him.
“Stop it, you won’t need stitches,” said House as he wet another piece of cotton with disinfectant to start with her face. It put her at peace immediately. Her shoulders sag in relaxation and her hands stopped twitching on her thighs. She wasn’t using a disguise then. Still, her previous fear could mean two things. It indicated either fear of needles or the necessity to cover her own injuries.
“Now take off your pants,” commented House absent-mindedly once he finished cleaning the woman’s face.
But this time, she didn’t surprise him and acquiesced, this time she behaved like all the other patients. She scoffed.
“Wha-Dude, no.”
“I need to confirm by touch if any bone in your hip and low lumbar region are fractured before I book you an tour to the x-rays-“
“Woah, I don’t need x-rays.”
“That’s for me to attest.”
“I mean that I’m fine. Work done. Bye bye have a nice day,” said the woman as she started to put on her shirt, trying not grimace when the fabric hit the end of the area of her arm that was not covered in bandages.
“Look, I don’t care if you’re a superhero or if you are a supervillain, that’s a problem for the authorities, but you’re not going to walk out here without a diagnosis and a half a dozen prescriptions, half of which will be pain-killers. In fact, I don’t think you’ll be able to make it past the beady eyes of that damn French that holds fort at the reception without fainting from the pain. And believe me I know something about it,” he ended his little sermon by tapping the cane on the floor twice.
In reply, the woman stared at him, gaping a bit, stretching the shirt’s sleeve as her bad arm was still at an awkward angle. The sting of the disinfectant was stronger when she lifted the arm more, which the only correct angle at which the arm could fit into the sleeve.
Then, the woman let the shirt fall over her bad arm with an exhausted sigh and set to work to remove her jeans. House zeroed in on her skin as inch after inch became visible, he was worried that she would cover herself up and try to leave at a moment’s notice. Calling security on her would be extremely embarrassing for both of them and the paperwork was a pain in the ass.
House was right. As usual. Repeated collisions on a large and hard surface. He snapped a new pair of gloves on and set to work.
It was only after a few minutes of prodding and poking that he noticed how the woman was barely making any sound. She was gripping the medical bed’s edges so tightly that her hands were completely white, her eyes were slightly unfocused. House estimated that she had not slept for at least 24 hours, nor had she eaten in the past 12 hours.
“Nothing’s broken, but your hip may be bruised. X-ray to be sure and a couple of fun pills, you can dress yourself now, a couple of fun pills, food and sleep. Lots of both. Do you plan on having sex in the next 48 hours?”
House waited for the response for a few seconds before looking up from the form he was filling. The woman was looking at him with a tired ‘what the fuck’ expression, her good hand trying to tug up the hem of her jeans over the curve of her hip.
“What if I say yes?”
“I’d say no.”
The black-haired replied with a heavy eye roll and another exasperated sigh.
“You’re no fun, doc.”
“I’m no fun and gay, a limping oxymoron. I need your actual name for booking the x-ray.”
Another pause. House looked up again. The woman had managed to tug her jeans all the way up and was buttoning herself one-handed. She wasn’t looking at him this time, though, she was looking over at the form she had filled for admittance with a frown.
“That’s my actual name.”
“Jessica Jones?”
“Yeah,” she shrugged.
“Condolences. The x-ray department is-“
“Don’t need that,” said Jones. When House looked at her this time she was fighting and valiantly winning the battle against her shirt’s sleeve.
“Because of your powers?”
“How do you-? Never mind,” sighed Jones, astutely performing a tactical retreat in front of the battle that was her leather jacket, choosing to sling it over her good shoulder for now. “No, not because of any powers. My friend will want me to get rayed at a private clinic or whatever.”
That Jones was a fairly good liar, House observed. Her tells were few and well-hidden, but not impossible to spot for House.
“Good try but there is room for improvement. Here are your receipts and your x-ray booking, whether you go or not is not my problem but know this: will this friend of yours be happy when you micro-fractured your whole hip the next time you get slammed into something?”
Massaging his leg, House relished the look of astonishment on Jones’s face for a few moments before tapping his cane on the floor.
“Now, go. Chop chop.”
Jones shook her head, sighing again in exasperation, snatched her receipts and walked out.
.
.
.