by Adrian Tullberg.
The party was as lively as it was ever going to get. After all, the word 'fundraiser' is a stark reminder that the primary reason you were invited was so that you can reach deep into your hip pocket.
One person who had no intention of doing anything more expensive than filling his tank at the nearest gas station was nursing a scotch at the bar. He never liked fundraisers, and it didn't take long for those who organised these affairs to reflect similar opinions.
However, Dr. Gregory House still commanded a significant amount of respect among the medical community for the Dean of Medicine to negotiate/threaten him into showing up.
House had acheived that perfect Vicodin/Booze ratio where he was feeling pretty mellow by now, and got off the bar stool to stretch his leg.
Navigating around the circumference of the room (best way to avoid people) he looked at the crowd. Cuddy had done a pretty good job in nabbing potential suckers; a lot of blue bloods and neuveau-rich. He could practically smell the stock portfolios.
Something caught his eye; an item that he'd never seen in the hospital before. A beautiful baby grand.
House lurched over, and ran his hand over the surface. A few chords showed it'd been well cared for - and reminded him that he'd have to spring for a tuner to take care of his piano at home.
"You obviously play."
House turned his head towards a well-preserved woman in her fifties, at least. Bluest of the blue bloods, lifelong Republican, and plainly several generations rich.
"Just a little."
And now she's going to talk about herself.
"I went to this wonderful recital in New York just this week. Absolutely wonderful." She gave a small smile, in that matiarchial fashion. "And I insist that you play."
"Oh, I can't. Really. Tennis knee, spread straight to the hands."
"Young man, I insist."
Whoa. Really dating herself, calling him young.
House was just about to tell her where to stick it, in shocking, clinical detail, when he stopped.
Those who knew that smile tred warily for the rest of the day. If Chase had been there, he would have slowly retreated out the room, and called in sick for the rest of the week.
"Well ... all right. Just because it's you."
Her smile was warmed by geniality fueled by victory.
House sat on the stool and swung his legs towards the pedals, flashing that dangerous smile to the oblivious. "I hope you love show tunes."
"Oh yes. I once went ..."
Someone who knew that smile was hurredly autodialling.
Cuddy was searching her desk for the projected expense figures when her cell rang. Why was Wilson ...?
"Someone is making House sing in public."
The elevator doors had barely opened when a small Jewish woman squeezed through the gap with desperate speed.
Shoes in a sweaty grasp, her bare feet slapping the floor, she saw the crowd gathered around the piano she'd rented for tonight (to class the place up)
The tune sounded jaunty. Maybe House was finally playing something that could be broadcast in public ... ?
Then again, she saw the expressions of the faces around the room. Including the society matron who had the biggest pockets of the guest list.
House was singing out what sounded like the chorus with gusto.
"The Internet is for Porn ...
The Internet Is For Porn ..."