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“So, what could cause an otherwise-healthy octogenarian to collapse on her driveway?” Dr. House wheels on his minions and locks each of them with a scrutinizing stare. He waits for their hypotheses with very little hope for any inspired responses.

“The patient was recently put on Warfarin to reduce her risk of heart attack. She could have had a negative reaction to the medication. She’s covered in bruises and she has swelling in her right arm,” Thirteen offered.

“Old people bruise easy; she doesn’t have any bruises that couldn’t be explained by the fall. Try again.”

“She might have overdosed on the blood thinners; taken a double dose to make up for one she missed, taken a dose twice because she forgot that she’d already had her daily fix.”

“Damn it, Taub, I just told Thirteen that this wasn’t a drug-related fall! I didn’t hire the three of you to get the same idea three times!”

“The patient is too cognizant to have dementia-related forgetfulness, and her tox screen showed normal levels of Warfarin in her system. I’m thinking syncope; she’s old, probably anemic, and when she got up from the porch swing, she got lightheaded and passed out,” Kutner said with his usual stoner’s drawl.

House turned and wrote “Syncope” on the board. “Finally, a plausible theory. The fainting was caused by fainting, lovely. What makes you think it’s syncope?” House asked, still facing away.

Densely truthful, as always, Kutner replied, “It’s the first thing I could think of that wasn’t related to her pills.”

House hit his head on the easel a few times before turning to face his assembled team. “Taub, go prove just how wrong your drug-theory is; re-run the tox panel, include illegal substances and commonly abused prescription meds. Thirteen, run an EKG and measure blood pressure and heart rate. Check for hypotension and long Q-T syndrome.”

“If she is anemic, she could have a history of fainting like this. She could have sustained a concussion in an earlier fall.” Foreman interjected.

“Fine, Foreman, check for that concussion, then put her on a stress test, then have Taub recheck her heart rate and blood pressure.”

The Dream Team quickly rushed off to fulfill their designated tasks. Which left Kutner alone with one Gregory House.

“Why do you insist on making me regret hiring you?” House still hadn’t looked at Kutner since issuing his orders, and the lack of face-to-face acknowledgement was making the young fellow uneasy.

“I. don’t know what you mean…?“

“See? That, right there, is what I’m talking about. Why are you always so slow on the uptake? Why do your best ideas and insight always seem to surprise you more than anyone else?”

Kutner’s eyes and mouth are wide, surprised and hurt. “I-“ he gulps “I don’t know? But if I’m so pathetic, why do you keep me around? Why didn’t you fire me during the game?”

“I did fire you. You flipped your card and came back, as I recall.” A small, secret smile has begun to tug at House’s lips. “It was such a cocky, unexpected thing to do; I had to keep you around to see what you’d come up with next. That, and your idea was genius.”

“So.. then.. You do want me?” A sort of puzzled bewilderment has taken over Kutner’s features.

“Dead on.” House limps closer to his new recruit and sits leaning against the board room table. “I keep you around because you think differently. You see things that no one else sees; you think up possibilities that no one on the team would’ve come up with! And, more to the point,” For the first time since the rest of the team left, House’s glacial eyes focus squarely and intensely on Kutner’s earth-brown pair. “I do want you. But not particularly for your mind.”

“Uh.”

“Which is, apparently, a good thing.” House leans closer. “Because it’s just frozen up.” An inch or less away. “Hasn’t it?” And, suddenly, Kutner’s trying to make sense of House’s smirking mouth crushed against his own.

--

Author’s Ramblings; turn back if you want to avoid my useless talking, basically, to myself.

Ok, so I had this bit written a
long time ago, even posted it to fanfiction.net, and still neglected to post it here. Don't know why. Moving right along. I don't like where my patient's headed, since House would never in a million years, on a dare from Cuddy and Wilson, for all the vicodin in the hospital, diagnose something as boring as this case. She's obviously anemic from her blood thinners, thus she fainted. Whatever, I'm going to try to salvage it and move on.

In tragically political news, yes I'm aware that Kal Penn left. However, I don't care and my 'verse says I don't have to. Kutner's alive, and I guess that makes this story AU now. It's my own fault for taking so long to get it out, anyway. Mmm.. What else? Oh, yes, Kutner is hard for me to write, and I'm not entirely sure how to progress this fic from their little kiss-thing, so it could still be a little while before I know where this train of thought's headed. I'll be trying to catch it at the next station it stops at.

Wish me luck!

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Current Mood: frustrated frustrated
Current Music: Computer hum

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Dr. Gregory House, self-styled diagnostics god, peers raptly through the glass wall of his latest patient’s room. More specifically, his ice-chip gaze is locked firmly on one of his newest recruits as said hospital-bitch carries out the most boring aspects of patient care: talking to the new plague-bundle, doing routine tests, replacing the patient’s comfortable street clothes with open-backed paper replicas, etc. He tells himself he’s monitoring for quality assurance, but the happy little tingle in his pants proclaims him a liar.

“I think I’ve seen this show before,” Wilson says, sidling up next to his best and most annoying friend. “The crotchety protagonist moons over his love interest from afar, tricks said misguided youth into falling for him, then turns on the poor fool as soon as the relationship start to look too secure. The original was amazing; I’m not sure the sequel can live up to the hype.”

“Really, you ought to be careful about how you throw around words like “crotchety” when the person you’re describing hasn’t gotten any in three months.”

“Three months!? Not even from a hired hand? Or hired… anything else? Isn’t that about how long it’s been since Chase quit?”

“That’s how long it’s been since Cameron quit, thank you very much. Ever since she dyed her hair, it’s been as if a part of me died, too. I’ve been in mourning for her luscious chocolate locks.”

“And that’s why you’ve turned your attentions to the significantly shorter chocolate locks of Lawrence Kutner?”

“Why does it have to be Kutner I’m eying? That chick in the bed is a real hotty, and soon, she’ll need to get naked to put on her lovely tree-based dress. I’m counting down the minutes.”

“That “hot chick” is nearly eighty, and there’s no way she’ll perform a strip tease, what with the broken hip that she sustained when she collapsed from unknown causes.”

“Well, the wait’ll make the payoff all the more worth-while.”

“Why can’t you admit that you find men attractive? No one could possibly find you any more repugnant than they already do, and everyone who hates you already has the much more defensible reason of your general personality. It’s a win-win.”

“Telling people you’re into guys tends to keep the ladies at bay. It could seriously interfere with my sex life.”

“You mean the one that doesn’t currently exist? Try to admit, at least to yourself, that you have feelings for him. You know that kid adores you; why not try to find some happiness with him?”

House licks his lips as he watches Kutner walk toward the door, carefully balancing the specimen samples that he intends to bring to the lab.

“I think I will.”

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Current Location: The other couch
Current Mood: contemplative contemplative
Current Music: "Give 'Em Hell, Kid" ~ MCR

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Disclaimer: Don’t own; don’t sue

Warnings: Self-love, slash, nudity, etc.

Pairings: Chazz/self, Chazz/Jimmy

Semi-Conscious

“Well,” Chazz said, getting up from the couch, “it’s time for Chazz and Little Chazz to have some alone time.” He set the remote control on the couch’s armrest and headed for the bathroom.

“Ugh, what makes you think I want to hear about the perverted stuff you do in your free time?”

“Is Princess MacElroy jealous? Maybe you’d like to help me out, then?”

“No way, you freak!”

“Your loss, my man!”

                ***                        ***                        ***                        ***                        ***                        ***

                Chazz was adrift in a sea of warm pleasure, slumped against the edge of the bathtub with his pants and underwear in a pool around his feet and his hand wrapped firmly around his not-so-little friend. He pumped his fist up and down with just the right amount of pressure at just the right speed, grunting and moaning at just the right volume to get Jimmy’s attention. Masturbation was an art that Chazz had mastered in his late teens, toward the end of his sixteen-year dry spell, and he had treated each session like a masterpiece-in-progress ever since. And, like any artist, Chazz liked to show off his work.

                A sudden noise tugged Chazz out of his “creative flow.” He rolled his eyes back to the front of his head and half-opened them in time to see Jimmy MacElroy quietly closing the door behind him.

                “Changed your mind, did you, MacElroy?” Chazz raised his left hand and beckoned Jimmy closer, never slowing the efforts of his right hand. Jimmy approached silently and knelt in front of his roommate. Jimmy reached down, placed his hand on top of Chazz’s and began to synchronize his tugs with Chazz’s. Jimmy learned quickly and soon, both of Chazz’s hands were resting limply on the rug-covered tile floor.

                Shortly, Chazz felt the end approaching, and he opened his eyes time to watch as Jimmy MacElroy was covered in pearlescent white strands. Chazz groaned thickly and leaned forward to lick a bit of whiteness from Jimmy’s cheek. Just before his mouth could reach its target, a loud banging at the door drew him from his reverie.

                Chazz opened his eyes and looked around, taking in the mess all over his hand, his groin and the bathroom rug under him. His feelings of satisfaction and contentment diminished greatly when he noted the distinct lack of a certain MacElroy. Jimmy knocked again, more loudly.

                “Keep it down in there, Chazz,” he yelled through the door.

                “Easier said than done, amigo!”

                “That. Is. Disgusting.”

                Chazz waited for the sound of his partner’s footsteps to fade before shedding his clothes and stepping into the shower. Chazz closed his eyes and let the warm spray wash away all evidence of his earlier activities, and when he re-opened his eyes and looked down, he was once again face-to-face with his teammate.

                “Back for more, huh? I knew you couldn’t resist the Chazz Michael Michaels.”

                Jimmy met Chazz’s smoldering gaze with a small smile before bending forward and taking Chazz into his mouth. Chazz’s sudden groan became a low growl. He let his eyes fall shut and willed himself to believe that it was Jimmy’s lips and not his own fingers that brought him to completion.

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Current Location: The Other Side
Current Mood: thirsty thirsty
Current Music: X-men flick

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I know what he's doing in there. It's hard to miss, really, knowing who he is, what he is. I hear those sounds every day, and more than once a day, at that. I should be against the law; making those sounds, doing what he's doing, all when he knows I'm in the next room, when he knows I can hear every heavy breath, every strangled moan, every small mewl of pleasure. It should be a crime the way that Jimmy MacElroy washes his hair, but the biggest crime is that he never forgets to lock the bathroom door.

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Current Location: Livingroom
Current Mood: devious devious
Current Music: Blades of Glory

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