Mr. Perfectly Fine

Pilot

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Author's Note: Hello everyone, and happy summer! As a Pre-Med student, I've fallen (like many others) for the sarcasm and wit for the one and only Dr. House, M.D. Please note that while I do study the medical sciences (i.e. Anatomy & Physiology, Healthcare System, etc.) I am not a physician and this fanfiction- key word: fiction -will contain inaccuracies. 

Additionally, I will aim to have new chapters out every Friday latest, but may post before or after that time given my personal schedule and life.

Thank you for your time and patience, and I hope you enjoy reading.

FanFictionsUnite

The playlist for this story: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5G98VnmiewMzh9X1X0U3RV?si=f89874be69254cdb

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8:03AM, Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital; Emergency Room & Clinic

"You know, I could be wrong, but I don't think that's particularly good for you."

The clinic was practically vibrating with people that morning. It was early August, and the summer months had done nothing but provide an onslaught of smelly, sweaty and frankly, more-than-usual annoying patients to the Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital.

"What?"

The other wagged his stick at the sandwich. "McDonalds? In a hospital? It's almost as if you're asking to be a diabetic."

The man's face soured, all pudgy and pink over his shirt collar. "And it's almost like I didn't ask for your input," he said, taking an obnoxious bite.

"Yeah, whatever," the other one rolled his eyes. "You're in a hospital, the grand central station of 'asking for input'; you're gonna get it regardless of what you want, and judging by how bright your face is, it looks like you already know that. See ya."

By the time the patient had gotten over his initial shock, House had already gotten halfway down the hall- an Olympic feat for a cripple.

"Who do you think you are?" Sandwich man cried after him, getting redder by the second. "Some hotshot doctor or something?"

House sighed: he could let this go; pretend not to hear this Pillsbury moron in the waiting room, but mercy was more of a Cuddy thing than a House thing.

He turned, the bustling of the hospital fading in the background. "Hotshot? Probably." House mused. "But Doctor? Oh, absolutely. I'll see you at eight thirty, Mr. Franco, and please wash your hands before your visit- I'd hate to get the door handle greasy."

10:37AM, Second Floor

You're going to be late, you chastised yourself. Stuffing your gym bag into the locker and praying you didn't smell like hospital shower water, you threw on your coat and set a course for the lab. You had barely been around for two weeks and already you were running samples. Though, you hadn't been assigned to a resident yet. You were hoping for Wilson, above everything, or Cuddy herself. She was lovely.

"So, why do you want to work at Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital?" Dr. Cuddy's eyes flickered up from your paperwork to meet yours. "Please tell me it's not because you want to see that 'guy with the cane' perform miracles."

"I- I'm not here to work. 'Working' at a hospital makes it sound like a chore," you explained, praying Cuddy wouldn't notice the way you were squirming in your seat.

"Then why are you here?" she replied.

You paused. This was the question that everyone dreaded in the medical field. Too unique, and you won't fit in; too boring, and you'll stand out like a sore thumb. "I'm here to heal," you said slowly, carefully, like putting a band-aid on. "I am here to treat and cure the patients of this hospital, even if that means bringing them another packet of graham crackers or a can of ginger ale."

Cuddy nodded, jotting on her notepad.

"Everyone deserves another chance at life," You concluded. "Even if they don't think they do."

You squinted through the microscope lens, spotting plenty of purple specks. "Well, someone probably has an infection," you muttered. Taking your gloves off with a snap!, you logged your findings and readied the other samples ready for testing.

It's not that you didn't like the lab. Half the time you snuck your iPod in to play music, and when you couldn't, you just thought...a lot.

Cuddy clicked her pen closed and set her notes down. "So," she said. "You want to save people? Why not go back to being an EMT? Become a paramedic- they need plenty of them, and-"

"No." You swallowed, regaining your composure. "I'm not here to 'save' people, Dr. Cuddy. I want to be here to help them save themselves."

The hours slid by easily enough, to your liking. For the most part, you were surprised that the centrifuge (which looked ancient) didn't explode when you'd moved onto the blood samples, even if it sounded like it was dying while running. Fishing a vial out, you watched as the remaining filaments gently swirled away from the plasma to the bottom of the tube. This was for patient Maria Silveson, a walk-in for the clinic who'd requested a TB test to submit for her college. Of course, there was always the option for a PPD, but she had elected a blood test for accuracy.

You swiveled around in the chair, pushing off a pair of table legs to glide over to the computer to type in the results, clack clack clack- negative for TB, but her leukocyte count was slightly up. Seasonal allergies? Your nose wrinkled. Probably not. You slid back over to the centrifuge with another vial. This one was for "....Paul Parker." You smirked; shame it wasn't a Peter Parker- you would've found that awfully interesting.

Popping his sample into the centrifuge, you set it for fifteen minutes and huffed. As much as you loved doing this all day, it eventually got boring. Perhaps it was time for a lunch break? You peered down at the watch peeking out from your lab coat.

Lunch sounded just about right.

1:13PM, Second Floor- House's Office

"What the hell is this?" House groaned, barely glancing over the papers that had been plopped down on his desk.

Cuddy- who had just walked into the office a few seconds ago -rolled her eyes. "Just look at them."

House sighed, gathering the sheets in his hands for a moment before dropping them as if they were hot coals. "No."

"You didn't even read them!"

"They say curiosity kills the cat. In this case, the word 'intern' kills me." House quipped. "Can't you just stick them to Wilson? Isn't it his turn or something?"

Cuddy sighed, swiping the papers off his desk. "Fine, have it your way. I'm sure Wilson will be happy to have a new, fully competent duckling of his own," she replied nonchalantly, starting for the door.

House furrowed his brows. "Wait," he said. In the entirety of his career at Princeton, conversations between himself and Cuddy never ended with a 'fine' or in a couple minutes; that typically happened after a couple hours of on-and-off bickering and House entertaining the possibility of his boss starting to menstruate again.

Cuddy paused. "What? I thought you didn't want them, so I'm going to give them to Wilson."

"Just- gimme those." Ambling over, House snatched the papers from Cuddy's hands. "Buh, buh, buh- former EMT, huh? They're practically an entire case of their own." He flipped a page and squinted. "And a nutritional sciences major? What exactly were they expecting to do with that? Give someone a carrot and beta-carotene their problems away?"

A few more moments passed, slow and draining despite the sun leaking in.

Cuddy sighed, exasperated. "Look, if you really don't want an intern-"

House's eyes flicked up towards Cuddy's.

"What's their name?"