House eyed the window, wincing as freezing rain pounded the panes. Another beautiful day in New Jersey. This time last year he’d been able to pull his bike out of storage and take advantage of the rare few warm, sunny days. So much for that. Duty calls.

He barged into Cuddy’s office, shoving the door open as abruptly as possible. God, I hope I’m interrupting something. “You summoned me?”

Cuddy didn’t even look up from her paperwork. Which was nice, as it gave him a perfect view straight down her shirt practically to her navel. He was almost too far away to appreciate it properly, but his vision was excellent. Not what my mother meant when she forced me to eat all my vegetables. House was almost distracted enough to miss the argument’s opening salvo, but Cuddy’s words were loud enough to break through the breasts-on-brain barrier. “I need you to talk to Dr. Wilson.”

Damn. She was expecting me. It might have had something to do with the voicemail waiting on his office answering machine that threatened him with a week of eight-hour days in the clinic if he didn’t show his face as soon as he got in, but still. Next time he was going to have to try harder. Megaphone, maybe. Or balloons. Balloons might do it. House slowed his pace, meandering between the two plush, patterned couches lining the center of Cuddy’s office for the express purpose of kissing donors’ asses. “I do that every day. What makes this a command from on high, rather than a social visit?”

“The press got wind of the incident in the clinic yesterday.” Cuddy finally put down her pen, sitting back in her chair. House took a minute to enjoy what the change in posture did for her cleavage.

“Incident. Sounds so . . . sterile. No one would ever guess that someone got killed.” He headed for the bookshelf set against the side wall. If he had to listen to Cuddy nattering in one ear, he might as well have something different to look at. Man cannot live on breasts alone. Shame. At least it pisses her off when she thinks she’s being ignored.

He turned in time to note that his little jab almost got a sigh and the heaving bosoms that went with it. Cuddy frowned at him, arms folded under her breasts. The front of her jacket gaped, ever so slightly, with the movement. Just as good. “Brian Markey isn’t dead.”

Sucks to be him. The shelves were actually quite comfortable to lean against, but the ache in his leg demanded movement. House dragged the rubber tip of his cane against plush carpeting, wiping off some of the accumulated dirt and grime that came with vigorous use. It left a lovely grayish brown streak. “Oh, excuse me. I thought that full life support, ventilation, and complete brain death qualified someone as actually dead. Wait, no, you’re right, his heart’s still beating so he must be alive. I’m going to have to update my definition.”

Typically, when Cuddy didn’t want to engage, she changed the subject. Her elbows hit the desk as she leant forward. House paced around the couch back to the center of the room, hoping for a better view.

“Look. I’ve had a dozen calls from different news stations that want to interview Dr. Wilson, as the man who overpowered the gunman.” Cuddy shook back long, dark locks at that, disbelief written all over her face. “I’ve seen the security tapes, and I still barely believe it.”

“Then you don’t know him.” Hell, I know him and I didn’t think he could do – that. Attack someone who threatened him, or me, or his patients? Yeah. Actually kick their ass? That would be a no. But House would do nothing but clinic work for a month before he’d admit it.

“Yeah, well, the press want to know him.”

Okay, and . . . ? “So where exactly do I come into this equation? The press want to interview me too, as the guy who almost got shot?” The potential there was endless. House tried to stifle a grin, but from the suspicious stare Cuddy gave him, he hadn’t done a particularly good job.

“I wouldn’t let them if they did,” his boss snorted. It was a bit irritating how perfectly composed she was, not even fiddling with any of the stuff on her desk. “No. Dr. Wilson refused to have anything to do with the press. Won’t take their calls, or even think about talking to them.”

“So release the security tapes and tell them he’s camera-shy,” House planted himself in the center of the carpet, rocking back and forth gently on his good leg. I need to get a patient. At least then I could time my pager to go off after seven minutes to give me a quick out.

“I can’t.” Cuddy’s eyes dropped to her hands, fingers twisting together just the slightest bit.

Huh. Unusual. “Why not? Blur the faces out. It’ll protect the privacy of the clinic patients, give the press their pound of flesh, get the hospital good publicity, and the tapes are hospital property. It’s not like anyone can sue you for -” Cuddy’s face remained perfectly blank, and House tripped over his own words. No way. “Wilson threatened to sue if you released the security tapes?”

“No,” she snapped, spine straightening. Defiant blue eyes met his own.

Methink the lady doth protest too much. House smirked at her knowingly. His leg ached. The diagnostician paced to between the couches for a short moment, glancing at rain-spattered windows.

“Not threatened, exactly,” Cuddy muttered defensively. “It’s Dr. Wilson. He’s never threatened anyone in his life. He just hinted, strongly, that if the hospital didn’t feel the need to honor his employment contract and protect his privacy, he’d take the steps to ensure it.”

A chuckle broke free; House ignored the laserlike glare that flashed his way. God, to be a fly on that wall. “Go Wilson,” he murmured.

“And then he mentioned a college friend of his who’s at Sloan-Kettering, starting an interesting new clinical trial, and looking for a co-writer for the paper.”

He actually threatened to quit? Now that was interesting. It took a lot to push Wilson to desperation, but this was classic of a man on the edge lashing out to protect himself however he could. And co-authoring a paper’s a pretty flimsy excuse; he could do that from here, if he really wanted to. House refused to acknowledge the trickle of unease slipping through the back of his brain. He wouldn’t. Wilson was attached to his job and his practice in Princeton, as evidenced by his distress when Vogler forced him to resign. He wouldn’t. But when House opened his mouth, all that came out was a weak, “Sloan-Kettering’s not hiring.”

Blue eyes rolled; the rain pounding the windows behind Cuddy was lessening. “Dr. Wilson is one of the top oncologists on the east coast. For doctors with his qualifications, Sloan-Kettering is always hiring.”

That barb bypassed his armor, worming in through a chink he hadn’t even known was there. House glared, almost stomping the three steps between the two couches. “Fine. Whatever. You want to take advantage of the brain-dead security guy and kneecapped druggie who invaded the clinic by pimping Wilson out to the press. Only he won’t let you. What do you want me to do about it?”

Pure exasperation drove Cuddy to her feet and out from behind her desk. Hunters have it all wrong. You don’t lure prey out into the open. You harass it into abandoning cover.

House kept going through the smile that wanted to give the game away. I love winning. “You think I can talk him into it? You’re the one who signs his paychecks. I’m just the questionable colleague who hits him up for narcotics prescriptions.” Kinda like -

“It’s a shock he hasn’t kneecapped you yet.” Cuddy stalked right up to him, every line of her body declaring a challenge. “What’s it worth to you?”

“That depends,” House leant forward, using his height to his advantage. Unfortunately, Lisa Cuddy hadn’t become one of the three women running internationally-known, top American hospitals by being easily intimidated. “What kind of offer’s on the table?”

Blue eyes sized him up. House waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and was rewarded by an irritated sigh. And cue the heaving bosoms. Sweet.

“Six weeks off the clinic duty you owe,” she said at last.

Huh. More than a little smiling for the cameras was worth. Still, if she wanted it badly enough to give up twenty-four clinic-hours, he could definitely work her for more. “2054,” House reminded her. “I won’t be caught up until 2054. A couple of measly months off that amount is like a drop of rain in the ocean. Unnoticeable. A few years off the end tally, though . . . that might get my attention.”

“Yeah, right,” Cuddy laughed, turning her back on him and striding confidently to her desk. The view from behind was pretty good, too. “If you did six hours a week in the clinic, you’d be done in 2037. Amazing what a little extra pain and suffering will get you.”

Right. I wouldn’t know anything about pain and suffering. Bitterness shot through him, and House reached for a Vicodin. Even the power of Cuddy’s curves couldn’t counter the massive turn-off that was clinic duty. “Three months,” he bargained. The diagnostician smacked his cane on the carpet thoughtfully, and swallowed the pill dry. “If I talk to him about it.”

“Three weeks,” Cuddy shot back, ensconced behind her desk once more. “And only if you get him to agree to an interview.”

Like that’ll happen. The way Wilson was apparently acting about this whole press thing, House would be lucky to broach the subject and leave the conversation with both knees intact. “Six weeks for talking to him about it, and six more if I get him to interview.” No real chance that Cuddy would miss the fact that two six-week periods added up to the three months he’d offered in the beginning, but he had to try. She’s just going to cut it in half anyway.

“Three weeks off for talking to him about it. Plus one more week for the interview.”

The diagnostician could read the look in those blue eyes; that was as high as Cuddy was going to go without scrapping the idea entirely. But it’s three weeks free of clinic duty for nothing. More, if I can just prod Wilson into blow-drying his hair for the five o’clock news. House knew where the bodies were buried; the oncologist would fold. “Make that week a month and you’ve got a deal.”

“Done.”

That was too easy. Well, Cuddy had tried and failed to get Wilson to do the interview, that would account for it. The diagnostician nodded, limping for the exit.

“And House?” He turned and blinked; Cuddy’s smile showed too many teeth. Makes her look like a snake about to strike. “I will be checking with Wilson.”

House waited until he was at the door before replying, matching her condescension tone for tone. “Oh, Cuddy? I will be collecting hazard pay.”

He let the door cut off her sputtering reply.

What a waste. Drive half an hour through traffic and crappy weather to sit in a glass box and do nothing. Chase worked a finger into the knot of his tie, tugging just enough to loosen it. “I’m bored.”

“Run out of crosswords?” Cameron asked absently. She’d returned to sorting through House’s mail after abandoning it during yesterday’s debate. For some reason, she’d been at it for the last three hours and still wasn’t done.

Foreman didn’t respond, scrawling notes on a pad of paper as he compared journal articles from two different issues of the Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery and Psychiatry.

“We haven’t had a case in two weeks,” Chase grumbled, tapping his nails against the glass tabletop. Foreman’s scribbling pen slowed at the noise and vibrations, and Chase smirked, then stopped. He didn’t dislike Foreman, really. The other doctor was just occasionally easy to rile. And we have to work together for who knows how many years . . . He’d finished his book of sudoku puzzles too, after spending two days assisting in the NICU.

Cameron didn’t look up from the piles of subscription renewals, bills, local mail, and junk she’d separated out on the table. “What about the man who came in last week?”

The Australian snorted. “It doesn’t count as a case if House looks at the symptoms and figures out what it is in fifteen minutes, then ridicules all our ideas for two hours without letting us do any tests to find out what’s the matter.”

“He could have been wrong,” Foreman pointed out. “The last appreciable outbreak of cholera in the United States was in 1910. It’s been practically eradicated here.”

Chase glanced at the neurologist incredulously. “House bet a week’s worth of clinic-hours on it, right after hearing that the man had just come back from a trip to India.” Also after he’d given his fellows free reign to run their tests and practically dared them to diagnose the patient for themselves. “He never bets with clinic hours, not unless he’s absolutely certain he’s right.” Chase was still kicking himself for not making that connection earlier.

“He’s been certain before, and he’s been wrong before.” But Foreman had picked up his pen again, clearly unwilling to be drawn into a debate about their boss. Most of their “discussions” about House were well-worn ground anyway. Cameron’s crush meant she flavored the subject with a good dose of hero worship, Foreman made it clear that respect and dislike could be kept entirely separate while being simultaneously applied, and Chase personally admired the man, even if he did acknowledge that House was occasionally mistaken. But he’s usually right in the end.

And House was the best in the States, quite possibly the best in the world, at what he did. Isn’t that why we’re all here? To learn from the best?

Not that there was any learning going on now, unless Chase counted learning how long it took for boredom to drive him into the bughouse. “I’m gonna go to the ER. See if I can find us a patient.”

“Since when has the ER gotten us a case?” Foreman. Again.

“A few times,” Chase said defensively. “The kid with the gout medicine overdose.”

Cameron looked thoughtful; Foreman blinked and shook his head. “No, remember, it was one of the first dozen or so cases we did. The girlfriend thought she rode him to death, remember?” He, at least, wouldn’t be forgetting that any time soon. Or Cameron’s sex talk –

“Oh, right.” Foreman paused. “So that’s one. Any others?”

Arse.

“You’d probably have a better shot in the clinic,” Cameron suggested. She’d finally looked up from the post, wisps of hair escaping her ponytail and prettily framing her face. The glasses somehow only added to that.

“After a security guard got shot there yesterday? Anyone with half a brain is going somewhere else.” Then he realized what she was actually suggesting. Unbelievable. But then again, he was talking to Cameron. “Oh, no. I’m not doing House’s clinic-hours for him. Not this week. I’m behind on my own.”

“Really?” Foreman didn’t look interested at all, but apparently Chase’s decision to actually do something other than twiddle his thumbs rated more highly than whatever critique he was composing. “Hot date?”

I wish. “Yeah, with a centrifuge,” Chase muttered. Staying late to do enough tests to prove House wrong while he waited for the cholera bacterial cultures to grow definitely had its downsides. Then he’d refused to believe it until he’d been able to enrich the stool sample for microscopy, and cross-confirm. “There’s persistence, and then there’s stupidity,” House had snapped. “Learn the difference.”

“Good luck,” Cameron turned back to the letters.

“What, you don’t want to come?” Chase was a little surprised. She’d really rather sit here and do House’s mail?

“I spent all of yesterday in the ER,” the immunologist shrugged. “Besides, what if House -”

Oh, come on. “That’s what pagers are for,” Chase interrupted. “Fine. I’ll go find us a patient.”

“Twenty bucks House finds a case before you do.” Foreman’s face was tucked in his journals again, and unlikely to surface for hours.

We’ve had loads of cases come to us through the ER! Indignant, Chase stalked to the door. “I’ll take that bet. And after we’ve solved it, drinks are on you.”

“I hear Sloan-Kettering’s always hiring.”

“House.” Wilson shut his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and steadied the biopsy needle three short inches from piercing skin. I can’t tell whether his timing is unbelievably good or it just really, really sucks. “Thank you for waiting until I was done with the only minor surgery on my schedule today,” he said sardonically. “Wouldn’t want to startle me just as I’m about to insert a rather large needle into an anesthetized patient’s abdomen.”

“You have steady hands. You can take it.” Lean and looming, House appeared behind the nurse operating the ultrasound machine, across the patient’s bed from Wilson. With a nudge and a not-so-gentle shove, the diagnostician took the transducer probe right out of her hand. Mask, gown, gloves. At least he scrubbed in.

Wilson glanced from the screen, where the image of the liver cyst barely wavered, and nodded to dismiss the nurse. She retreated to a corner of the room, still available if the need arose. “Huh. I think there might have been a compliment in there somewhere, but what with almost stabbing my patient, I might have missed it.”

Blue eyes rolled, but the image on the ultrasound screen never shifted. “You’re going to stab him anyway. Just do it, already.”

Wilson opened his mouth, paused, then reconsidered. “True.” He switched his attention from diagnostician to biopsy needle. A smooth push took him through epidermis and muscle wall to the liver, and a continual, gentle shift in angles brought the tip in contact with the growth. “You talked to Cuddy.”

“Yeah.” House didn’t say anything as Wilson carefully collected his sample and withdrew the needle. Paul McNabb, age 52, Stage II lung cancer. This cyst was either a benign growth or evidence that the cancer had metastasized to Paul’s liver. As he was caring for the puncture wound, the diagnostician roughly cleared his throat. “So -”

“This is about the media, isn’t it.” Anger bubbled up again, but it was old and familiar by now, and already half-transformed into quiet determination. The oncologist yanked latex from his hands with a sharp snap! and tossed both gloves into the trash. He motioned the nurse back to Paul’s side, officially handing him off to her for recovery. “What’d she give you to talk me into it?”

House glanced down, fiddling with his cane. “A month off clinic duty.”

Cuddy actually agreed to that? “Well, sorry to disappoint.” Wilson pulled the mask from his face as he swung through the OR doors. Rhythmic thumping followed at his side.

“Eh,” House’s voice was carefree. “I get an extra three weeks just for talking about it.”

“Then leave it at that. I wasn’t kidding about Thomas’ offer.” A moment’s twisting freed him from the surgical gown. It went into the clearly marked biohazard bin. Wilson paused at one of the many sinks lining the room, starting to scrub out as House wriggled free of his own gown and mask.

Over the rush of another tap opening, Wilson could make out House’s next comment. “Thomas? That the name of the doctor trying to lure you out of Princeton?”

Lure? Wilson smothered a grin. As if. “Thomas Paquet.” Drying his hands, he turned the water off with the used wad of paper towels, and began rolling his sleeves back down.

House rinsed the last of the lather from his skin, forearms twisting under the hot spray. “I thought you didn’t trust anything the French said.”

A laugh burst free at that. “Generally, no. But I’ve known Thomas since our sophomore year of undergrad. And he’s French-Canadian.” Wilson finished buttoning his cuffs and headed for the hallway, his pace one that House could easily match.

“Practically British.” A lump of wet paper-towels shot past Wilson on the right, dropping obediently into the open trash bin on a janitor’s cart that had been shoved against the wall, out of the way. “That’s a little better, but not much.”

“Not according to the French-Canadians.” This close to lunchtime, the hallways were a little more busy than usual. Staff and patients streamed by, heading to and from different departments within the hospital.

House paused. “What, being better or being British?”

“British,” Wilson clarified. He sidestepped a wheelchair, smiling at the nurse and occupant, who had one hand on the accompanying IV pole.

“They’ve got the Queen on their money.” Limping ahead, House beat him to the elevator call button. “It’s the same principle as Australia.”

“This conversation is mind-numbingly familiar.” Wilson used an arm to hold back the elevator doors as what seemed like half the people riding in the car disembarked. It still looked uncomfortably full. He followed House on regardless, carefully sidestepping his cane in the cramped space.

“You might want to give us some room,” House stage-whispered to the people closest. He jerked a thumb in Wilson’s direction. “He lost his temper yesterday, actually kneecapped a guy who came in here. Word from Orthopedics is the guy might not walk for a year.”

A couple of people eyed the oncologist warily.

Wilson stifled a groan. “Don’t worry, Mr. Jones. Your new medication should start to control the delusions after a few days.”

“What about my manic episodes and violent outbreaks?” House whined, taking the cue and running with it. “They’re usually brought on by my extreme claustrophobia. God, it’s a tight squeeze in here -”

The other occupants of the elevator were almost plastered to the walls by this point. There was a good foot of empty space around the two doctors, in all directions. Wilson bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

One floor down they extricated themselves from the crush, exchanging victorious grins. The third-floor hallway was somewhat emptier than the upstairs; they made their way to their respective offices in a comfortable silence. A thought that had been sitting in the back of Wilson’s mind surged forward when he saw the silver letters of his name on heavy wood.

“Hey.” He paused in opened his office door, diverting House from continuing on to Diagnostics. “I have a referral for you. Let me get the file.”

Once inside, Wilson pulled on his white coat and paced to his desk. The noise of cane hitting carpet, soft and distinct, told him House had indeed followed. One finger slid down his schedule for the day, checking off the biopsy. Lab results before five. Patient meeting in ten minutes.

“Interesting.”

Wilson’s stomach dropped; that word, from House, never boded well. Ah, hell. His head dipped, fingers rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. The oncologist rubbed his forehead a moment, then risked a sideways glance.

Blue eyes had narrowed in on him. “Judging by the tie that breaks your usual weekly pattern, I’d say you didn’t go home last night.”

That . . . wasn’t what I expected. “Why do you even notice these things?” Still, it wasn’t the first time his choice of neckwear had prompted a dissertation on his actions or state of mind.

House just waited.

Wilson was, in fact, wearing one of the two business-professional outfits he kept in a bag in his car for overnight emergencies. “The press staked out my front lawn,” he muttered, annoyed. “Julie called me, wanted to know what was going on. I told her, and decided to sleep here. Less hassle.”

Long fingers twirled the cane perilously close to some of the knickknacks on the edge of Wilson’s desk. The oncologist found himself the subject of House’s scrutiny. “What’s the real reason you don’t want to do the interview?” his friend finally asked.

My name, face, and location circulated on national television? I might as well put the gun in my mouth right now, and get it over with. Wilson locked gazes with House’s intense blue stare. If the diagnostician didn’t let this go, or decided a month’s worth of clinic hours and Wilson’s secret were worth more than the consequences of whatever impediment Wilson could throw in his way, there were going to be problems that wouldn’t be solved by smiles and smooth words. Or even kneecapping. “I know this might be difficult for you to understand, as someone who pokes, pries, and steals personal files to ferret out every last bit of information. But I want to keep my life private.”

“True,” House said after a moment. Being the sole focus of the other man’s attention was unnerving. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

That’s the closest answer I can give. It wouldn’t be enough for House; nothing was, except the whole, gory mess of whatever truth he was seeking. Sometimes he could see his friend as an ancient oracle, slitting open animals’ stomachs and poking through steamy entrails to read the future. Wilson abandoned his strategy for a different approach. “Everybody lies, right?”

Blue eyes turned wary. “Right.”

“Why?”

“Why?” House sounded puzzled. “Because they’re stupid. And think it doesn’t matter -”

“No.” Wilson was losing patience. For a genius, House, sometimes you really need to buy a clue. “People always lie for a reason. To deceive, conceal. Protect.” He couldn’t keep his gaze from skittering away. He studied the paperwork on his desk with more concentration than it deserved. “Themselves, others. From their mistakes, or stupidity -”

“From the truth,” House corrected.

“Fine.” The oncologist raised a quelling hand. “House. Just . . . think about that, for a bit. And – don’t ask me again.” His eyes dropped to the folders on his desk. “I don’t want to lie.” But I will, if you make me.

That, at least, was the truth.

A glance up from under his lashes showed him a House who was lost in thought, cane slowly rotating. Hopefully that was enough to arrest his attention for awhile. Maybe long enough for the press to lose interest.

The clock showed twenty minutes to one. Sifting through several sheaves of paper on his desk, the oncologist grabbed a blue folder tilted out of place among his pile of referrals.

“I have a patient coming in, in a minute. Here,” Wilson held out the file. “Dr. Tresler wanted me to pass this on to you.”

“Tresler?” House frowned. Wilson could almost see his train of thought changing rails. “The dermatologist?” Slyness slipped into the diagnostician’s expression. He didn’t touch the extended folder. “I’ll take the case if you’ll do the interview.”

Oh, I don’t think so. It was a last-ditch try, and House barely put any effort into it. But it wouldn’t have been House if he’d let the opportunity pass by without a word. Thanks, House. For not pushing. At least for now. “You’ll take the case because the patient is an albino, presenting with skin lesions over seventy percent of her body. And no, it is not in any way, shape, or form, melanoma. I checked.” He shook his head. “Thoroughly. The mother was . . . very insistent.”

Tresler might have said something about Wilson’s chances of convincing House to see her patient being better than hers, but House definitely didn’t need to hear that. They both knew it, anyway.

The diagnostician was clearly torn. Wilson had probably had him at ‘albino’, but the rest was just the icing on the cake. He waited patiently, the folder still stretched out over his desk like an olive branch.

Mutinously, House snatched the file. “You haven’t won,” he warned as he headed for the balcony door. “This is a strategic retreat. A regrouping of forces, in preparation for attack.”

“Of course,” the oncologist deadpanned, ruining the mock-serious acknowledgment a second later with his best Monty Python impression. “Run away, run away!”

House sniffed haughtily, closing the balcony door with a decided click.

Wilson scrubbed his hands down his face, watching his friend hop the wall separating their balconies and disappear into Diagnostics. I know, House. I know.

“Differential diagnosis,” House flung open the balcony door, limping close enough to pitch copies of a patient file at the table. “Blisters.”

New shoes. Allison looked up in time to catch her folder, forever thankful for strong, built-in clips that kept all the papers firmly in place. The other two files knocked into the piles of mail she had spent hours sorting and responding to. She let the frustration show, but House’s back was already turned.

“Herpes.” Foreman didn’t bother to look up from his articles, as the flying paperwork fell short of reaching him at the far end of the table.

“It always comes down to sex for you, doesn’t it?” House leered, making his way to the whiteboard. Seriousness invaded, his tone turning businesslike as he uncapped a marker. “Herpes simplex viruses usually present with sores on and around the mouth and genitalia. Remarkably, these are really the only places this girl doesn’t have blisters. Which rules out Candidiasis as well.”

“She’s got blisters all over her body?” Allison flipped to the physician’s notes. Poor girl. There’s going to be scarring, and on her face . . . At least it doesn’t look like an STD’s responsible.

Foreman’s voice was surprised, but smug; he was finally looking up from his notes. “You found a patient?”

Referral from Dr. Amira Tresler, Allison read, eyes skipping over the pertinent details. Name: Rachel Espinosa. Age: 15. I guess drinks are on –

“Where’s Chase?” Irritation scraped over them like sandpaper, rough and abrasive.

“In the ER, trying to scare up a new case,” Foreman contributed. The journals were folded up, and disappeared into his messenger bag. Finally. “Could be pemphigus vulgaris.”

“Page him. And that’s a chronic condition,” House countered. “This is the first time the patient’s experienced these symptoms.” Marker squeaked against the dry-erase board.

But everybody lies, right? Allison tilted the folder slightly, eliminating shadow from the overhead lights. She preferred to have a little faith in people.

“Could be the first outbreak,” Foreman argued. But he was already punching Chase’s pager number to recall him from his search for a new patient.

Possible, but highly unlikely. Allison frowned, and opened her mouth to dispute. “At fifteen? Pemphigus vulgaris is a middle-age diagnosis.”

“You’ve got something better?” the neurologist jibed. Foreman folded his hands, tilting his head to size her up. Most of his attention stayed on their boss, though.

Allison huffed a sigh through her nose, and turned to House. The diagnostician was standing by the whiteboard, just finished with scribbling down the first symptom. He might be on to something with autoimmune, though. Presenting with dermatological symptoms, specifically blisters, over a large percentage of the epidermis - “Childhood linear IgA disease. She’s a little old for it, but there have been cases of children afflicted into their early teens.”

“It’s chronic,” Foreman pointed out, trying to throw House’s point in her face.

Allison contended, “She’s been seeking treatment for acne for several years. It’s possible that she’s had previous, minor outbreaks that were mistaken for acne or dermatitis.”

“The difference between blisters and pimples is kind of obvious,” the neurologist disallowed. He was leaning forward challengingly, and practically dripping skepticism.

Her temper flared, just a little, and each word came out clipped. “Because pemphigus vulgaris is so much more likely?”

“No,” House interrupted. “So, autoimmune is a possibility.” Linear IgA (autoimmune) appeared on the whiteboard, and Cameron kept the triumph off her face. Their boss continued to muse. “Sunburn.”

Allison’s eyes involuntarily went to the window. The rain wasn’t coming down as hard as a few hours ago, but the sky was still ominously dark and emphatically wet. In this weather? Not here. “It’s possible if she’s been traveling recently.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall behind her. Pivoting in her chair, she caught a glimpse of a white coat just as Chase pushed open the door to Diagnostics and strode in.

“Ah, Chase. You’ve experienced the wonders of American educational television.” House stepped in front of the whiteboard, changing topic on a dime. “Share with the class.”

Allison glanced up over the rims of her glasses. The Australian was still standing in the doorway, blue eyes shifting from the expectant gaze she was leveling at him to Foreman’s lowered eyes and unhidden amusement.

“That wasn’t rhetorical,” House said acidly, drawing their attention.

Beneath shaggy blond bangs, Chase blinked, floundering. “Well, apparently, it’s not easy being green.”

“It’s not easy being colorless, either.”

Allison balked at that. Colorless? “What?”

House didn’t even look at her. Instead, he nodded at the folder waiting for Chase on the table. “Read up.”

Absorbed in her own copy of the patient file, she barely registered the scrape of metal over carpet as Chase pulled out a chair and seated himself at her side. Allison scanned the first few pages again, and felt her eyes widen. Hair color: white. Eye color: lavender. Pre-existing conditions: Oculocutaneous albinism. How did I miss -

“The patient’s an albino?” Chase blurted, folder pressed widely open under his fingertips.

That’s rude. Allison wasn’t precisely sure how, but there had to be a more . . . delicate way of putting it. Blunt was usually House’s style, and he was best left to it.

“They really need to start including pictures in these files. Purely for entertainment value,” their boss mused. A clack drew Allison’s gaze upwards; he’d hooked his cane over the whiteboard, revealing its contents to the room once more. “Yes, the oozing wonder is also lacking all pigmentation in skin, hair and eyes. Back to the full-body blisters. Chase? Care to contribute?”

“Um, transient acantholytic dermatosis,” the Australian managed. “Sudden onset of papules on the back, chest, arms, legs.”

Transient – isn’t that usually a different subset of the population? House wanted them to be looking for zebras, not horses, but even so . . . It’s a reach. Allison flipped through the file again, reading a little more closely this time.

“Grover’s disease,” House capped the marker. “First the Muppets, now Sesame Street. Your education is growing by leaps and bounds. Too bad it’s not medically relevant. If she was male, and over forty, that might fit.”

Ouch. She winced.

“The symptoms fit,” Chase tried.

“But not the patient profile,” House half-shouted back. “That line I mentioned, between persistence and stupidity? You’re crossing it.”

What is that all about? She’d ask her co-worker later. House is right. Find something else, Chase. She jumped in to give him time to recover. “It could be a parasite. Scabies, or bedbugs.” A lot of bedbugs. Spider bite might also be a possibility, but enough bites to cause blisters over the majority of her body would definitely poison her, and then Chase would have won the bet because she’d have been coming in through the ER.

At her side the Australian muffled a sigh. They’d been working together long enough that his resentment was clear. And, well. It’s amazing what you learn about someone after sleeping with them. But he’d made good use of the momentary reprieve she’d given him. “Allergic reaction. She’s using three different moisturizers, who knows what brand of sunscreen, and two prescription acne creams.” Chase shrugged. “She might have developed an allergy to one of them, gotten a bad batch, or maybe some of them are combining to irritate her skin. Alternatively, she went out last weekend and rolled in poison ivy without mentioning it.”

House nodded, appeased, and the words Parasites, Allergic Reaction and Contact Dermatitis made their way onto the board. “Okay. We have autoimmune, which leaves us with a whole host of pemphigoid conditions, plus burns, bites, mites, and poisonous plants. Foreman? Any last words?”

That got a definitive nod. “Pregnancy.”

No way he’ll pass that up. Allison exchanged an exasperated glance with Foreman as they waited for the punchline. They weren’t kept in suspense long.

House chortled. “Again with the sex?”

“There are several dermatological conditions that appear during pregnancy and present with blisters,” Foreman’s voice was steady as he leant back in his chair. “They can start as early as the second trimester, and while yes, they’re usually localized to the trunk of the body, it’s not impossible for them to spread. She’s got sensitive skin; it might make her prone to more severe outbreaks.”

That got him a nod. “Okay. You,” blue eyes rested on Foreman. “Urine, blood, samples of the mucosal membrane, allergy test. And find out if we got a two-for-one sale on albinos this week. Chase. Patient history – I want the details of her skincare regime. Get the name of every product she ever even thought about using, and find out if she went anywhere or did anything that could result in symptoms from burning or contact dermatitis. Cameron.”

She locked eyes with him, but House’s gaze was typically opaque. “Make sure she’s thoroughly washed to get any allergins off her skin. Then get her on IV fluids for what she’s losing through the blisters. Start her on Dapsone and Prednisone for the Linear IgA, and choose a test area to apply permethrin and see if it’s scabies.”

House went quiet, apparently done.

Allison nodded, pushing back her chair. Time to go to work.

They had a case.

A/N2: Let me reiterate: the entire differential I pieced together from Wikipedia, WebMD and the unreliable intraweb. I know nothing about any of the conditions described, with the exception of getting blisters from new shoes, and I wasn’t about to kill myself researching, sorry. No insult is intended towards anyone who has any of the conditions listed herein.