Since some of you were silly enough to ask...
For the benefit of anyone who hasn't read Part 1:
http://tazlet.livejournal.com/68067.html
Title: The Curious Incident of the Doc in the Night-time
Author: Taz
Series: Highlander/House
Rating: Still no sex
Warnings: See Part 1
The Curious Incident of the Doc in the Night-time: Part 2-Physician, Heel!
By Taz"
The background music in the Physician’s dining room was Barry Manilow and the atmosphere equally ripe with the effluvia of steam table breakfast. The coffee was putrid. But, if yours was the study of humanity, particularly, if you were studying to avoid it, the high-backed booth in the corner by the window was the perfect observation post.
It overlooked the entrance and specimens, coming and going, at 7:28 a.m. after a night of crisis were mostly going. But there was Wilson, shower damp and early…mmm, the man was finally separated and pausing to exchange good mornings with a blonde. Get details later. Ah, Foreman, a whole half an hour early. Unhurried but, still, half an hour early. Was that a bald spot? Aaand right behind Foreman, Cameron, shaking her tight little tail. Wait five minutes and...yessss, there was Chase-under-slept and cursing House, but damned if he’d let the other two show him up.
“I love the smell of anxiety in the morning.
House glanced over and caught his booth mate eyeing the clock.
“How ‘bout you, Dr. Pierson?”
“I’d love another cup of coffee.”
“No accounting for taste.” House gestured grandly. “Mi tab es su tab.” Actually, it was Wilson’s tab, but Pierson didn’t need to know that, although, he didn’t seem to cracking under the strain of his ignorance. “Another stack of pancakes?” House called after him. “A few more waffles? Nine and twenty sausages? A ham hock? Bring back a haunch of venison and a horn of mead while you’re at it.
House leaned back in the booth and hoisted his bum leg onto the bench. It was just as easy to look out the window and easier to avoid looking at the stack of egg smeared plates across from him. Five of them. Recently freighted with the entire breakfast menu. Also, toast, hash browns and-the acid roiling House’s stomach spiked-more of those little grape jelly containers than was comfortable to think about. How many coffees? The sugar had been full when they sat down. It was two-thirds empty now.
How much energy?
How many calories?
To heal that fast?
Stop asking questions.
The red eye must have landed by now. Presumably, Pierson’s ride was on his way. Couldn’t happen soon enough.
He could see the room behind him reflected in the window. Pierson, despite lavender Donald Duck scrubs and yellow paper booties, (Revenge being where you take it.) was charming the dragon behind the cash register. The man had melted into the environment.
House fumbled in his coat pockets, abruptly aware that his eyes were stinging fiercely with unshed tears. He found keys, cell phone, lighter, rubber bands, a crumpled pack of Camels, the two syringe packets he’d tucked away before going to look for Mrs. Chapman, the wadded up sheets of the Coroner’s prelim…and, finally, the Vicodin.
Come to papa, my proud beauties.
“The leg?”
Pierson was back, setting down two cups of coffee and a plate of sticky buns.
“No, my Great Aunt Fanny’s leg. What quack factory gave you a degree?”
“Salerno.”
“Don’t they still teach the Humoural Theory?”
“S’possible.” Pierson picked up a bun.
“You’re not going to eat that.”
Pierson took a deliberate bite, dripping obscenely with caramel and pecans.
“That sound you don’t hear is your arteries clogging.”
Pierson’s lip twitched. Was it a hint of weakness?
“You’re gonna get fat.”
“Melancholia.”
“What?”
“Sardonic. Suspicious. Prone to look on the dark side.” Pierson licked a finger for each symptom. “I suspect an excess of black bile and I should let blood, were I your physician. Also, administer a strong purge and put you on a vegetable diet.”
The nerve of the man! Were I your...
“Just so you know;” House said, “they have a pill for that these days.”
Pierson wagged his head. “What a wonderful modern age we live in.”
“Bite me.” Were I your physician...Whoops! There was a flutter down below.
House stretched to see. Cuddy, stepping fast. And two more members of the board - the lawyers, of course. “Tell me, my chirurgical friend, if a flock of chirping birds is called an exaltation, what’s a supervisory board in a twitter?”
“Relax.” Pierson started on another bun.
“Easy for you to say, you’re dead...”
“No one saw us”
“...and not going to get caught with the corpse.”
“Does that pathetic look work on your friends?
“I don’t know. I haven’t got any friends.”
“Color me surprised. I’m not dead.”
“The paper in my pocket says you are They’ll think I stole your body to have kinky sex with...” House itched to smack the smile off of Pierson’s face. “And I did.”
Didn’t work. To add insult, Pierson missed House’s best soul tortured expression because he was suddenly tracking a dark figure stalking purposefully along the sidewalk.
“I’ll take a rain check, Dr. House.” Pierson sat back, took the last gulp of his coffee and inhaled the last of his bun. At least the smile was gone.
“Storm blowing in?” House said. “I’ll walk out with you.” This I want to see.
All the way down in the elevator, House fingered the pill bottle in his pocket while Pierson slouched in the corner next to the control panel. Shortly Pierson would be out of his life. Burn that incriminating wad of notes and pffft, the little man who wasn’t there.
“You’re really a doctor?” House said.
“Told you; University of Salerno, class of ‘87”
“Let me guess. 1487.”
“1287.”
“You couldn’t cut it in medical school today.”
“You think so? In my day, even before starting a degree, a ‘reputable maystre and phyisicyen had to know the proporcions of letters of gramayre, the monemens, the conclusions and sophyms of logique, the gracious speche and utterance of rethorique, the mesures of the houres and dayes, and, of course, astronomye, the nombre arsmetryk and the joyous songes of musyque.’”
“Okay. You’ve got me on the ‘joyouse songs of musyque’. The least you could do is give me a blood sample.” There. Asked.
But Pierson’s head was shaking. “It wouldn’t tell you anything.”
“Let me be the judge of that. We have better diagnostic tools than urine flasks these days.” He was fully prepared to argue all the way to the parking garage, if that’s what it took.
But, as the elevator doors parted and he set his cane on the floor, a man stepped into his way. Deliberately, into his way. Usually there was someone steaming to get on - there were documented cases of people who’d died of scurvy waiting for the hospital elevators - and this man - judging from the black circles under his eyes and unshaven chin - might have sat up all night on a cross country fight. (A better clue was the small rolling duffle and the long black case with airline security seals all over them.) It was hard not to notice how good looking he was -- if dark and rip-my-bodice-off-you-brute! was your thing. And well dressed (House had enough experience of the rich and mighty to recognize a coat that cost more than most people’s mortgage). But, and this was the disturbing part, he was glaring at House’s cane with a flaring of nostrils and a clamping of jaw that was truly impressive.
Physical handicaps provoke a range of reactions, pity or disgust most often, but to some, a cripple with a cane is marked ‘prey’ - sometimes sexual prey.
“Duncan McLeod!” Dour and Dark announced, “Of the clan McLeod.”
“House,” House said. “Of the Levittown houses.”
“Mac!” Pierson had finally peeled himself out of the corner. "You brought my things!”
Dour and Dark, presumably McLeod, rocked back as though he’d been stuck, but recovered quickly. Fixing Pierson with a look, he roared, “Ya gaummy lang-nebbed glaikit nyaff! I feart ye wor fey!”
“For heaven’s sake!” Pierson said.
“Does he speak English?” House said.
“No, but he's fluent in glower,” Pierson said as he relieved McLeod of the long case (Long enough to hold…what?). “Mac, please, this is Dr. House. He’s been...helpful.”
McLeod clearly wasn't over whatever was biting his ass, but he made an effort. “Nice cane.”
“Birthday present,” House said. “Can we move the happy reunion out of the elevator?” Way too public. Any minute now, there was going to be the click of Cuddy’s high heels on the stairs and doctors are the worst gossips in the world. There was a clutch of them yapping it up by the registration cubicles, Wilson included, giving House the ‘meet me in my office’ sign as they went out.
Later.
As they walked toward the patient drop, McLeod inserted himself between House and Pierson. Fierce. Protective. Unsubtle. To give McLeod credit, he didn’t look like he gave a damn. It was almost...flattering. Who, after all, needs protection from a cripple? A cripple with a cane. Unless, the cane conceals 27 inches of razor sharp Spanish steel. And who, these days, recognizes the sword cane of a 19th century Regency buck? An antique dealer. Maybe. House slipped his hand in his pocket. Or another antique.
The rental car was the sort of bloat-mobile you have to step up into. McLeod keyed the doors and popped the hatch and While Pierson was stowing his case, had to try to be polite, “Listen--” he said.
“Don’t.” House held up the cane. Walnut with a honey gold patina and silver head. “Bit flashy. Not the sort of thing I’d have picked out myself. Were you the under-bidder?”
“No. Saw it in the catalog, though. Listen...” Of course McLeod wasn’t going to take a hint. Oh, god, his lip was trembling. “I need to thank you.”
“Don't. But, let me give you some advice.”
“What?” McLeod said.
“He’ll be in pain for a long time. But be gentle with him for a while. Feed him.”
“He’s my oldest friend!”
“That’s what I call mine, too,” House said.
Gotcha!
McLeod had the grace to laugh as he climbed into the car and put the key in the ignition.
The passenger door was open. House clumped around. He took the seatbelt Pierson was fumbling with and reached in and clipped it, nice and tight. “I guess this is it,” Pierson was saying. “Parting is such sweet--" House gave his shoulder a good solid manly thump. "Ow!”
“Just a little stick and a sting,” House said, as the engine roared to life.
Wilson found him in his office two hours later. “You avoiding clinic?”
“Yes. It seemed like the thing to do; Cuddy is not to found.”
“Didn’t you hear?”
“Too open ended. What haven’t I heard?”
“The morgue lost a body. Legal is spinning like crazy. ”
“Really? Maybe he heard a rumor that people die in hospitals and walked out.” Something occurred to House. “Dr. Wilson, tell the truth, do you believe in fairies?”
“What kind?” Wilson’s chuckle was affectionate.
“The other kind.”
Wilson avoided his eyes.
“Oh, my God,” House said. “You clap for Tinkerbell.”
“Don’t either.”
“Do too.”
“Do not.”
“Lunch?’
“Yeah.”
The sample had been prepped and the spring loaded biopsy needle was bio-hazard trash.
Finis
01/22/2006
http://tazlet.livejournal.com/68067.html
Title: The Curious Incident of the Doc in the Night-time
Author: Taz
Series: Highlander/House
Rating: Still no sex
Warnings: See Part 1
The Curious Incident of the Doc in the Night-time: Part 2-Physician, Heel!
By Taz"
The background music in the Physician’s dining room was Barry Manilow and the atmosphere equally ripe with the effluvia of steam table breakfast. The coffee was putrid. But, if yours was the study of humanity, particularly, if you were studying to avoid it, the high-backed booth in the corner by the window was the perfect observation post.
It overlooked the entrance and specimens, coming and going, at 7:28 a.m. after a night of crisis were mostly going. But there was Wilson, shower damp and early…mmm, the man was finally separated and pausing to exchange good mornings with a blonde. Get details later. Ah, Foreman, a whole half an hour early. Unhurried but, still, half an hour early. Was that a bald spot? Aaand right behind Foreman, Cameron, shaking her tight little tail. Wait five minutes and...yessss, there was Chase-under-slept and cursing House, but damned if he’d let the other two show him up.
“I love the smell of anxiety in the morning.
House glanced over and caught his booth mate eyeing the clock.
“How ‘bout you, Dr. Pierson?”
“I’d love another cup of coffee.”
“No accounting for taste.” House gestured grandly. “Mi tab es su tab.” Actually, it was Wilson’s tab, but Pierson didn’t need to know that, although, he didn’t seem to cracking under the strain of his ignorance. “Another stack of pancakes?” House called after him. “A few more waffles? Nine and twenty sausages? A ham hock? Bring back a haunch of venison and a horn of mead while you’re at it.
House leaned back in the booth and hoisted his bum leg onto the bench. It was just as easy to look out the window and easier to avoid looking at the stack of egg smeared plates across from him. Five of them. Recently freighted with the entire breakfast menu. Also, toast, hash browns and-the acid roiling House’s stomach spiked-more of those little grape jelly containers than was comfortable to think about. How many coffees? The sugar had been full when they sat down. It was two-thirds empty now.
How much energy?
How many calories?
To heal that fast?
Stop asking questions.
The red eye must have landed by now. Presumably, Pierson’s ride was on his way. Couldn’t happen soon enough.
He could see the room behind him reflected in the window. Pierson, despite lavender Donald Duck scrubs and yellow paper booties, (Revenge being where you take it.) was charming the dragon behind the cash register. The man had melted into the environment.
House fumbled in his coat pockets, abruptly aware that his eyes were stinging fiercely with unshed tears. He found keys, cell phone, lighter, rubber bands, a crumpled pack of Camels, the two syringe packets he’d tucked away before going to look for Mrs. Chapman, the wadded up sheets of the Coroner’s prelim…and, finally, the Vicodin.
Come to papa, my proud beauties.
“The leg?”
Pierson was back, setting down two cups of coffee and a plate of sticky buns.
“No, my Great Aunt Fanny’s leg. What quack factory gave you a degree?”
“Salerno.”
“Don’t they still teach the Humoural Theory?”
“S’possible.” Pierson picked up a bun.
“You’re not going to eat that.”
Pierson took a deliberate bite, dripping obscenely with caramel and pecans.
“That sound you don’t hear is your arteries clogging.”
Pierson’s lip twitched. Was it a hint of weakness?
“You’re gonna get fat.”
“Melancholia.”
“What?”
“Sardonic. Suspicious. Prone to look on the dark side.” Pierson licked a finger for each symptom. “I suspect an excess of black bile and I should let blood, were I your physician. Also, administer a strong purge and put you on a vegetable diet.”
The nerve of the man! Were I your...
“Just so you know;” House said, “they have a pill for that these days.”
Pierson wagged his head. “What a wonderful modern age we live in.”
“Bite me.” Were I your physician...Whoops! There was a flutter down below.
House stretched to see. Cuddy, stepping fast. And two more members of the board - the lawyers, of course. “Tell me, my chirurgical friend, if a flock of chirping birds is called an exaltation, what’s a supervisory board in a twitter?”
“Relax.” Pierson started on another bun.
“Easy for you to say, you’re dead...”
“No one saw us”
“...and not going to get caught with the corpse.”
“Does that pathetic look work on your friends?
“I don’t know. I haven’t got any friends.”
“Color me surprised. I’m not dead.”
“The paper in my pocket says you are They’ll think I stole your body to have kinky sex with...” House itched to smack the smile off of Pierson’s face. “And I did.”
Didn’t work. To add insult, Pierson missed House’s best soul tortured expression because he was suddenly tracking a dark figure stalking purposefully along the sidewalk.
“I’ll take a rain check, Dr. House.” Pierson sat back, took the last gulp of his coffee and inhaled the last of his bun. At least the smile was gone.
“Storm blowing in?” House said. “I’ll walk out with you.” This I want to see.
All the way down in the elevator, House fingered the pill bottle in his pocket while Pierson slouched in the corner next to the control panel. Shortly Pierson would be out of his life. Burn that incriminating wad of notes and pffft, the little man who wasn’t there.
“You’re really a doctor?” House said.
“Told you; University of Salerno, class of ‘87”
“Let me guess. 1487.”
“1287.”
“You couldn’t cut it in medical school today.”
“You think so? In my day, even before starting a degree, a ‘reputable maystre and phyisicyen had to know the proporcions of letters of gramayre, the monemens, the conclusions and sophyms of logique, the gracious speche and utterance of rethorique, the mesures of the houres and dayes, and, of course, astronomye, the nombre arsmetryk and the joyous songes of musyque.’”
“Okay. You’ve got me on the ‘joyouse songs of musyque’. The least you could do is give me a blood sample.” There. Asked.
But Pierson’s head was shaking. “It wouldn’t tell you anything.”
“Let me be the judge of that. We have better diagnostic tools than urine flasks these days.” He was fully prepared to argue all the way to the parking garage, if that’s what it took.
But, as the elevator doors parted and he set his cane on the floor, a man stepped into his way. Deliberately, into his way. Usually there was someone steaming to get on - there were documented cases of people who’d died of scurvy waiting for the hospital elevators - and this man - judging from the black circles under his eyes and unshaven chin - might have sat up all night on a cross country fight. (A better clue was the small rolling duffle and the long black case with airline security seals all over them.) It was hard not to notice how good looking he was -- if dark and rip-my-bodice-off-you-brute! was your thing. And well dressed (House had enough experience of the rich and mighty to recognize a coat that cost more than most people’s mortgage). But, and this was the disturbing part, he was glaring at House’s cane with a flaring of nostrils and a clamping of jaw that was truly impressive.
Physical handicaps provoke a range of reactions, pity or disgust most often, but to some, a cripple with a cane is marked ‘prey’ - sometimes sexual prey.
“Duncan McLeod!” Dour and Dark announced, “Of the clan McLeod.”
“House,” House said. “Of the Levittown houses.”
“Mac!” Pierson had finally peeled himself out of the corner. "You brought my things!”
Dour and Dark, presumably McLeod, rocked back as though he’d been stuck, but recovered quickly. Fixing Pierson with a look, he roared, “Ya gaummy lang-nebbed glaikit nyaff! I feart ye wor fey!”
“For heaven’s sake!” Pierson said.
“Does he speak English?” House said.
“No, but he's fluent in glower,” Pierson said as he relieved McLeod of the long case (Long enough to hold…what?). “Mac, please, this is Dr. House. He’s been...helpful.”
McLeod clearly wasn't over whatever was biting his ass, but he made an effort. “Nice cane.”
“Birthday present,” House said. “Can we move the happy reunion out of the elevator?” Way too public. Any minute now, there was going to be the click of Cuddy’s high heels on the stairs and doctors are the worst gossips in the world. There was a clutch of them yapping it up by the registration cubicles, Wilson included, giving House the ‘meet me in my office’ sign as they went out.
Later.
As they walked toward the patient drop, McLeod inserted himself between House and Pierson. Fierce. Protective. Unsubtle. To give McLeod credit, he didn’t look like he gave a damn. It was almost...flattering. Who, after all, needs protection from a cripple? A cripple with a cane. Unless, the cane conceals 27 inches of razor sharp Spanish steel. And who, these days, recognizes the sword cane of a 19th century Regency buck? An antique dealer. Maybe. House slipped his hand in his pocket. Or another antique.
The rental car was the sort of bloat-mobile you have to step up into. McLeod keyed the doors and popped the hatch and While Pierson was stowing his case, had to try to be polite, “Listen--” he said.
“Don’t.” House held up the cane. Walnut with a honey gold patina and silver head. “Bit flashy. Not the sort of thing I’d have picked out myself. Were you the under-bidder?”
“No. Saw it in the catalog, though. Listen...” Of course McLeod wasn’t going to take a hint. Oh, god, his lip was trembling. “I need to thank you.”
“Don't. But, let me give you some advice.”
“What?” McLeod said.
“He’ll be in pain for a long time. But be gentle with him for a while. Feed him.”
“He’s my oldest friend!”
“That’s what I call mine, too,” House said.
Gotcha!
McLeod had the grace to laugh as he climbed into the car and put the key in the ignition.
The passenger door was open. House clumped around. He took the seatbelt Pierson was fumbling with and reached in and clipped it, nice and tight. “I guess this is it,” Pierson was saying. “Parting is such sweet--" House gave his shoulder a good solid manly thump. "Ow!”
“Just a little stick and a sting,” House said, as the engine roared to life.
Wilson found him in his office two hours later. “You avoiding clinic?”
“Yes. It seemed like the thing to do; Cuddy is not to found.”
“Didn’t you hear?”
“Too open ended. What haven’t I heard?”
“The morgue lost a body. Legal is spinning like crazy. ”
“Really? Maybe he heard a rumor that people die in hospitals and walked out.” Something occurred to House. “Dr. Wilson, tell the truth, do you believe in fairies?”
“What kind?” Wilson’s chuckle was affectionate.
“The other kind.”
Wilson avoided his eyes.
“Oh, my God,” House said. “You clap for Tinkerbell.”
“Don’t either.”
“Do too.”
“Do not.”
“Lunch?’
“Yeah.”
The sample had been prepped and the spring loaded biopsy needle was bio-hazard trash.
Finis
01/22/2006