Chapter Text
I’d never been privy to what Gregory House gets up to. Everyone knew that the vicodin-popping, cane-swinging, tenured physician had, shall we say, less-than-orthodox ways to go about treating his patients. Working in pediatrics, my world was typically filled with ear infections, chickenpox, overbearing parents, and the occasional case of Hashimoto’s. My interactions with the diagnostic department were limited to the rare occasions when a child’s illness stumped us general practitioners and needed House’s strange brand of genius. I like kids, I like straightforward cases, and I like keeping my professional life simple. That probably explains why I never sought out House’s company or the chaos that seem to orbit him.
I’ve been at Princeton-Plainsboro for six years, long enough to know which nurses are worth befriending and which ones you should never cross. Long enough to know that Cuddy’s meetings always run at least 15 minutes over. Certainly long enough to have developed a comfortable routine in the pediatric ward that I had absolutely no intention of disrupting. A creature of habit, I guess.
My routine, and my self-imposed isolation from the hospital’s more exotic personalities, held steady for the first 5 years of my career. I was content in my little bubble, a world I understood and controlled. When you work with children, particularly sick ones, you learn to build walls in your brain to protect yourself from the emotional toll of high platelet counts that become cancers, and parents who are a bit too quick to explain away their children’s bruises in various stages of healing. Then Dr. Eric Foreman was hired as one of House’s new fellows, and my carefully constructed walls began to develop a crack.
Our initial interactions were strictly professional, limited to passing in hallways and the occasional shared elevator ride. He was handsome, intelligent, and carried himself with a confidence that I found appealing. There was an undercurrent of stress that was noticeable even from a distance, a tension that seemed to ooze from the diagnostic department like a low-grade fever.
The first time we spoke at any length was in the cafeteria. I was picking at a salad while reviewing a patient’s chart, and he dropped into the chair opposite me with a sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body.
“Rough day?” I asked, marking my place with a finger.
“God, you have no idea,” he replied, rubbing his temples. “House decided our patient’s mysterious illness was caused by her husband’s affair. Not the stress from it, like the actual affair. Thinks the husband passed some sort of ‘spiritual syphilis’ to his wife.”
I blinked, trying to process his strange choice of words. “Is that like, an actual medical term?”
“It is if you’re House,” Foreman said, a bitter smile touching his lips. “We spent the day running tests for exotic STDs while the patient stayed in renal failure. I’m seriously considering a career change to proctology. At least anuses are straightforward.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I think I’ll stick with ear infections and runny noses. They don’t typically have marital drama.”
“Luck you,” he muttered, but his eyes had warmed slightly. “I’m Eric Foreman, neurology.”
“Sasha Quinn, peds,” I replied, offering my hand. “Though you probably already knew that.”
“I did,” he admitted, shaking it. Good grip strength, I wonder if he works out. “You’re the one who managed to diagnose that Kawasaki case last month that had everyone else stumped. Good work.”
“Thanks. It was the strawberry tongue that gave it away. Kids are simple like that. They show you exactly what’s wrong with them, even if they can’t tell you in words.”
“God, I wish my patients were like that,” he said, glancing toward the diagnostic department’s wing of the hospital as if expecting to be summoned by The Great One. “Instead, I get liars and hypochondriacs and people who think WebMD is a substitute for years of medical training.”
That first conversation was a revelation. I’d never been much of a gossip. I found hospital politics tedious and preferred to focus on my work. But listening to Foreman talk about House was different. It was less gossip and more drama, something akin to the awful medical show he likes so much.
After that, our paths crossed more frequently. A coffee here, a shared complaint about the hospital’s new electronic records system there. He started stopping by my office in the evenings, after his shift with House was done, leaning against my doorframe with an expression of pure exhaustion.
“He made us break into a patient’s home today,” he told me one Tuesday, looking utterly drained. “Said the guy’s apartment might hold the key to the lock that is his illness. Never mind that we could’ve just asked the wife for permission.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And did you find anything?”
“Dirty laundry, a half-eaten sandwich, and a restraining order from his ex-wife. House was disappointed we didn’t find any secret sex toys or drug paraphernalia. His favorite things to find I guess.”
I laughed, and his mouth curved into a smile that made my stomach do a small flip. “You know, most doctors just order more tests when they’re stuck.”
“Most doctors aren’t House,” he replied, running a hand over his shaved head.
That was the first of many late-night conversations. I found myself looking forward to Foreman’s visits, to the glimpses he offered into the very strange world of diagnostics. There was something so fascinating about House and his team. Something compelling about the way Foreman described their cases and their unconventional boss.
"He hired a new fellow," Foreman mentioned one day, dropping into the chair opposite my desk. "Some pretty boy from Hopkins. Thinks he's God's gift to medicine."
"And how does House feel about that?" I asked, pretending to focus on the chart in front of me.
"He’s having way too much fun messing with him. Yesterday he told the guy to retrieve a sample from a patient's dog, acting like his lung problems were coming from the dander."
I made a face. "Sounds like House is being House."
"Always," Foreman agreed, his eyes meeting mine. "But this new guy, Chase, he actually did it. No questions asked. Either he's desperate for the job or he's even crazier than House."
I learned about Cameron too, the idealistic one who apparently had a thing for their miserable boss. "She keeps trying to see the good in him," Foreman complained one afternoon, pacing my small office. "Thinks he's just misunderstood. I keep telling her he's not a puppy from the shelter. He just happens to be good at diagnosing rare diseases."
“Sounds more like a rabid dog.” I suggested, earning a wry smile.
The more that Foreman shared, the more I found myself thinking about House. Not just the diagnostic genius everyone whispered about in awe, but the man behind the cane. The man who apparently played his guitar at odd hours, who terrorized the ducklings in his department, who had a complex relationship with Dr. Cuddy that was the subject of much speculation.
"Wilson was here today," Foreman mentioned casually one evening as we walked toward the parking garage. "They had lunch together. House spent most of it insulting Wilson's taste in women and stealing his fries."
"Wilson?" I asked, though I knew perfectly well who he was. Dr. James Wilson, head of oncology, known throughout the hospital for his kindness and his inexplicable friendship with House.
"Best friends," Foreman clarified, though I didn't need the explanation. Their dynamic was legendary here. "Sometimes I think Wilson's the only person who actually likes House. The rest of us just tolerate him because he's a genius."
"Or because Cuddy would fire us if we didn't," I suggested, and Foreman laughed.
"That too. But seriously, Wilson puts up with more than anyone should. House once used Wilson's office to experiment on a dead rat. Wilson found it when he went to make coffee."
I wrinkled my nose. "And he still talks to him?"
"They have a weird dynamic."
It wasn't until three months into our regular conversations that I finally witnessed House in action. A seven-year-old with a mysterious neurological condition had stumped everyone in pediatrics, and after two weeks of inconclusive tests, I swallowed my pride and requested a consult.
House arrived without knocking, cane thumping against my office floor with an aggressive rhythm that seemed to announce his presence before he even spoke. He was taller than I expected, with a permanent five-o'clock shadow and eyes that seemed to see right through me.
"Dr. Quinn," he grunted, flipping through the chart I'd prepared. "Pediatrician. Probably chose the specialty because kids can't tell you you're wrong."
"Dr. House," I replied, keeping my voice even. "Thank you for coming."
"I didn't have a choice. Cuddy made it clear that refusing to consult on a sick child would make me look bad in next year's performance review." He closed the chart and tossed it onto my desk. "Where's the patient? And more importantly, where's the interesting part of this case? Because if this is just another kid with a fever and a rash, I'm billing you for my time."
I led him to the patient's room, where little Emma Martinez lay hooked up to monitors, her parents hovering anxiously. House ignored them completely, circling the bed like a predator examining its prey.
"She's had seizures?" he asked, not looking at me.
"Three in the past week," I confirmed.
"Any history of epilepsy? Family history of neurological conditions?"
"Negative on both."
He leaned closer to the sleeping child, his cane propped against the bed rail. For a moment, something softened in his expression. It was fleeting, but I swear I saw something that looked almost like compassion.
"Get her an MRI," he ordered, turning to me. "And run tests for heavy metal poisoning. Also, find out if the family has recently traveled outside the country."
"I already ordered the MRI," I said, trying not to sound defensive. "And we've done the standard heavy metal panels."
"Then you did it wrong," he snapped. "Check for thallium. And don't just ask the parents where they've been, where their relatives have been. Kids pick up weird stuff from family."
Before I could respond, he was gone, his cane echoing down the hall as he retreated back to his own territory. Emma's father turned to me, looking bewildered.
"Is he always like that?"
"Worse," I admitted. "But he's also usually right."
Two days later, we discovered Emma had been exposed to thallium through a ceramic plate her grandmother had brought back from a trip to Mexico. House's diagnosis had been spot-on, though I'd never admit it to his face.
When Foreman stopped by that evening, I was still at my desk, finishing the paperwork on Emma's case.
"Heard you met the wizard of odd," he said, taking his usual seat.
"He's something else," I agreed, rubbing my eyes. "But he was right about the thallium."
"He usually is," Foreman replied. "Doesn't make him any easier to work with. Cameron cried yesterday after he told her her shoes were an affront to decent footwear."
I smiled. "And Chase?"
"House made him run the entire hospital's laundry list looking for the patient's missing sock. Said it might hold the key to the diagnosis. The sock was in the patient's bed the whole time."
"Let me guess, House knew?"
"Of course he knew. He just wanted to see if Chase would do it. The guy's a masochist or something."
"Or he really needs this job," I suggested, though I suspected Foreman was right.
"Or that," Foreman agreed, his eyes lingering on mine longer than usual. "You know, for someone who claims to like keeping things simple, you seem pretty interested in House's drama."
I felt a flush creep up my neck. "It's fascinating in a car-crash kind of way. Besides, you're the one who brings it to my door."
"True," he admitted, leaning forward. "But you never tell me to stop."
"I never said I wanted you to."
Something shifted between us in that moment, some sort of recognition that this casual flirtation was evolving into something more substantial. Foreman's smile widened, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to kiss him, to move beyond our hallway conversations and coffee breaks.
"Dr. Quinn," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "Sasha. Would you like to get dinner sometime? Outside the hospital?"
"I'd like that," I replied, my heart beating a little faster. "But only if you promise to keep the House stories coming. I'm getting a bit invested."
"Deal," he agreed, standing to leave. "But I should warn you, once you're in. It’s hard to get out. The vortex sucks everyone in eventually."
As he walked away, I found myself thinking about his words. Was I being pulled into House's orbit? Or was I simply stepping into a different part of the hospital ecosystem? One that involved diagnostic mysteries, difficult personalities, and a neurologist who seemed to collect complicated relationships like some people collect stamps?
Only time would tell, I supposed. But as I closed my office door that evening, I couldn't help but feel that my simple, straightforward professional life had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.