Rating :: FR13
Fandoms :: House, BtVS
Word Count :: 850
Notes :: This ficlet takes place during the season six premiere of House and pre-Sunnydale for BtVS.
Synopsis :: House wasn’t the only semi-sane person in the nuthouse. A twisted shorts fic-a-day prize for ramenth
Summers was a lousy poker player, but what she excelled at was cheating and that was why House situated her across from him. It certainly wasn’t because she was young, pretty and wore those tight baby tees that showed off her nearly C-cup bosom—ah the wonders of a misspent youth.
She was quieter then the rest of his rabblerousing bunch and according to Richter just a smidge crazier, but then Richter wasn’t the best judge of—well—anything. Her mother, and only her mother, came to visit her and more often then not the two would simply stare at one another until the few hours they had slipped away and the older woman left, defeated, but still returning the following week. It was an odd series of events to pay attention to, but then House didn’t have television privileges yet so he continued to watch and add his own dialogue. It was more fun that way.
“Are you cheating?”
Richter’s shrill shout of the question was answered with a quirked brow and slight valley girl accent as Summers snapped back, “Are you bathing?”
The conspiracy theorist, or complete whack-job depending on one’s own mental status, glared at the petite blonde and shifted closer to House who winced and shifted downwind. Perhaps Summers wasn’t the crazier of that pair. His head inclined as the great and idiotic Dr. Medina made his way past the table, pausing only long enough to offer House an unnecessary apology, to which he shared a knuckle tap with Alvie over, before requesting Steve—better known to the citizens of small-town nowhere as Mister Freedom.
He noticed Summers’ frown before the doctor’s mockery of Steve registered and he paused in his adjustment to his hand to listen more closely to the exchange as Dr. Medina asked, voice pleasant, “Great, could you move the piano for me?” There was a pause as Steve hesitated and the doctor continued with, “Five hundred pounds isn’t too much is it?”
Steve’s voice was confused as he asked, “Is there someone trapped underneath?”
The doctor laughed, “No,” and shrugged before adding, “I just want to move it away from the window—”
Steve interrupted, “I’m sorry my powers aren’t for frivolous—”
“Just one quick lift.”
The doctor returned the favor and waited expectantly as the rest of the table grew quiet and House shifted, his leg giving a twinge of discomfort as he asked, “Why are you doing that?” Summers’ eyes widened and she glanced to Alvie as he softly whispered his name, warning him against further interaction even as House ignored him—as per usual—and turned, meeting Medina’s gaze as he stated, “I’m just curious,” he paused, raised his brows, “as a doctor: what are you doing?”
Medina’s hands slipped into the pockets of his ill-fitting coat as another shrug lifted his shoulders. “Either he is Freedom Master and he shouldn’t be here,” he paused, glanced first at Steve and then back to House before finishing with, “or else he’s suffering from a serious, dangerous delusion that he needs to deal with.”
House’s head inclined, mouth curving inward as he started to rise, but Summers’ voice stilled his upward momentum as she asked, her voice soft, “So if I move the piano I’m not crazy, but if I don’t I am.”
Medina’s blue eyes narrowed and shifted past House to Summers and he frowned, “Buffy, now isn’t the time—”
“I think it is.” The small plastic chair squeaked its way back from the table as she rose and moved around it toward House as he finally finished standing. “I mean, don’t you want to know if I’m all thundering loony?”
House interrupted the condescending soaked doctor and offered, “I kinda want to see her try,” his smile turned lecherous, “as long as she bends at the waist while attempting.”
A brow quirked as Summers moved past him and between Steve and Medina to place herself directly in front of the piano. She pushed the stool out of her way with nudge of her hips and House’s chin dipped before he advised, “Don’t strain yourself.”
Her palms settled over the key cover, pink painted nails facing skyward as she turned her head, bending slightly at the waist and making her nylon shorts hugged her nicely proportioned derrière. Her mouth quirked as she took the pose House had requested before the muscles in her shoulders tightened and she turned to face the wall. Blue eyes narrowed as House noticed a fine trembling begin in her forearms and he moved forward a step, about to intervene, call her off, when the piano screeched forward an inch. His mouth opened, slow and shocked as it moved another inch and he heard Summers give a small grunt of discomfort and then shove. The piano slammed backwards, striking the wall and cracking the drywall.
Summers coughed and stumbled back from her improbable—if not impossible—feat before she turned, face covered in drywall dust and miserable as she meet House’s gaze and stated, voice lost, “I’d been kinda hoping for crazy.”