Dr. House and the Not Bad, Pretty Good Day

9:00 AM

Jane is just about to confess her undying love to Dr. Paulson when Cuddy interrupts House and Wilson’s clinic-dodging, General Hospital-watching, popcorn-munching session in Exam Room 1.

“You,” she says, pointing at House, “have clinic hours right now.” She turns slightly to face Wilson and smiles. It does nothing to hide the evil. “Dr. Wilson,” she says by way of greeting before turning back to House.

Wilson smiles back and waves genially at her between mouthfuls of popcorn.

“Well, I am in the clinic right now, and,” House checks his watch, “oh, look. It’s been almost an hour.”

“Don’t think that counts,” Wilson says without looking up from the tiny, hand-held TV. House shoots him a glare.

Cuddy crosses her arms across her lovely chest. “See some patients.”

House scrunches his face into a pained expression. “But Mommy, do I have to go to school today?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitating, pulling open the door and gesturing to it. “Let’s go.”

House gets up and heads to the door (emphasizing the limp just to be a bastard), but not without throwing Wilson a ‘please help me’ look.

Wilson just shrugs in response.

And even though House understands the desire not to incur Cuddy’s wrath, he still plots his revenge.

11:00 AM

Apparently, it’s unacceptable for House to let Foreman, Cameron, and Chase sit on their asses all day doing nothing. He feels differently, of course, but he decides to head to his office anyway. The fellows stare up at him as he enters the room.

“We’ve got a case…” Cameron starts, but House holds up a hand, cutting her off.

“Don’t care,” he says.

“But…” Cameron is getting that kicked-puppy look, the one that House thinks is vaguely cute. When it’s not annoying. Which is most of the time.

“Don’t. Care.” He enunciates the words this time, because she clearly missed them the first time around. Chase looks bored. Foreman looks irritated. House waves his hands. “Go forth and amuse yourselves,” he announces, grandly. “But not in that way, Chase. That’s gross.”

Foreman raises an eyebrow full of skepticism. House wonders if he actually thinks it makes him look intellectual. “Aren’t you going to give us something to do?” Foreman asks.

House rolls his eyes. “Nope. Don’t feel like it today.” He expects them to leave, but apparently he hasn’t trained them well enough, because instead, they just sit there, still staring at him. Chase looks even more bored. Foreman looks even more irritated. Cameron looks even more like a kicked puppy. “What are you waiting for?” House snaps. “Get.”

They get. (Albeit reluctantly.)

After they’re finally gone, House relaxes at his desk and wonders whether or not he wants to a) play his Gameboy b) bother Wilson while he’s trying to do work or c) find some horrible, extravagant way to annoy Cuddy. Eventually, he decides on d) all of the above.

1:00 PM

At lunch, House gets his revenge by stealing Wilson’s Jello. It’s not particularly delicious looking Jello, and House has never really been fond of Jello, but he likes making Wilson react, and now’s a good time as any.

“Hey!” Wilson shoots him a disapproving look.

House shrugs. “I’m a cripple. Would you deny me the simple joy of your wobbly, gelatinous dessert?” He tries a hurt, puppy dog face that Wilson’s much better at anyway.

Wilson rolls his eyes. “Yes, easily.”

House makes a sad face at him. “And to think that they let you near sick, dying people.”

“To think that they let me anywhere near you,” Wilson mutters as he eyes the Jello in House’s hands. House knows that he’s debating whether or not he wants to steal it back. In the end, the laziness wins out. “You know,” Wilson says instead of making a surely futile attempt at what is now House’s Jello, “you could just buy your own.”

House shrugs. “But what’s the fun in that?”

“Well, I’d have my Jello. That could be tons of fun. For me, at least.” At this point, Wilson’s only expressing token annoyance, which means that House has already won.

“It’s not your Jello anymore, is it?” House pokes at it with his spoon. It wobbles.

“It was, at one point, my Jello.” Wilson’s tone hasn’t switched over from annoyed to resigned yet, but House is willing to bet it won’t take long for that to happen.

House inspects the plastic cup carefully for nonexistent marker. “Doesn’t have your name on it. How can you be sure?” He takes a big, wobbly bite of Jello and decides to steal Wilson’s chips next time. The lime Jello is gross.

Wilson sighs. “Whatever,” he says, and House feels a surge of triumph. He owes himself five bucks.

3:00 PM

House isn’t exactly hiding from Cuddy when she finds him in the men’s bathroom, sitting on the edge of a sink and reading one of the People magazines from the clinic waiting room, but the whole point of the stunt was that she wouldn’t be able to find him. Apparently, Brown from Oncology has a big mouth. He should really tell Wilson about that.

House feigns shock at her arrival. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be in here.”

Cuddy ignores his comment. “Why is Foreman in Neurology right now?”

“I don’t know,” House shrugs. “Maybe because he’s a neurologist? I bet he just wanted to get closer to his people.” He pauses to think that over. “Oh, wait. That’s Africa, isn’t it? My bad.”

She glares. At this point, she’s just mildly annoyed (for Cuddy, at least. On any other person, it would be full out aggravation), so House doesn’t really mind pushing a bit. Cuddy, on the other hand, doesn’t agree. “Oddly enough, he’s being paid to work for the Diagnostics Department. Which is empty at the moment.”

House reads a blurb about Lindsey Lohan’s latest escapade and wonders why she decided to dye her hair blond. “Huh,” he says. “You should totally fire the guy in charge of that place.”

Cuddy sighs, crossing her arms. She leans her hip against the edge of the sink, and all of a sudden she looks exhausted. House thinks that if he didn’t have a heart made of coal (three sizes too small), he might have felt bad for her. “If only I could,” she says. “If only I could.”

She rolls her eyes and just as suddenly she’s Cuddy again, hellspawn of Princeton-Plainsboro. House is kind of glad. If there’s one thing he’s worse at than empathy, it’s sympathy.

5:00 PM

“So let me get this straight,” Wilson says as they walk toward the toxicology lab (where Wilson is probably going to do something important, and House is coming along for the ride), “you got Cuddy to give you two weeks without clinic duty because you promised not to insult or abuse your next five patients.”

He flashes House a disbelieving look, and House nods.

“And she actually fell for that?” Wilson continues. “I think it’s physically impossible for you to be nice to patients. Physically.”

House shrugs. “What can I say? I’m sure I’ll get an A for effort.”

Wilson raises an eyebrow. “If by ’effort’, you mean ’not giving a crap’, then yes, it is possible.”

“Ah, but you forget that she said nothing about insulting their friends and family.”

They stop at an elevator and Wilson presses the down button. “So, coma patients then?” he asks.

House smirks. “As many as you can find.”

“Better hope none of them wake up on you.” The elevator comes and they step inside.

“Why do you think I’m asking you?”

Wilson glances at him, amused smile spreading across his face. “You’re just using me for my patients,” he says with deadpan mock-hurt.

House rolls his eyes. “Well, yeah.”

7:00PM

House decides to spend the last hour of his “work day” in his office. Most of the staff have cleared out for the night, off to eat dinner with their families or something equally pathetic. He bounces the stress ball against the balcony window, watching as it rebounds. He misses one of the catches, and it rolls past his desk. It’d take too much effort for him to get it, so he leaves it there.

He considers blasting the Who at high volume to scare passing janitors, but that might piss off the nurses, and it’s never a good idea to piss off the nurses. (House has learned from experience.)

The sun is setting on the horizon, and he knows that he should probably go home, sleep, watch bad TV, chow down on some Vicodin. But he also has bets to win, patients to cure, the world to save (in tiny, pixelated form, anyway).

He considers it for a moment. Decides they can wait until tomorrow.

On the way out, he uses his cane as a golf club to whack the stress ball against the glass of his office door. The impact makes a nice thwacking sound. A few passing patients look startled, and a few nurses promise painful, flaming death with their eyes.

House doesn’t bother hiding the expression of smug satisfaction on his face as he heads out to the parking lot. Damn, he’s good at making an exit.

FIN.