"DDX, With Feeling" (Act One).
Sep. 4th, 2008 04:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lit_luminaryWelcome all to Operation: Get Collected Works in One Easily Accessible Place. (Reposting this particular work, as I managed to screw up the HTML when editing a typo in the previous post.)
"DDX, With Feeling" (à la BtVS' endlessly versatile "Once More, With Feeling") was my initial foray into the House fandom. With 17 meticulously reworked musical numbers, stage directions and dialogue, this piece is definitely a manifestation of my inner perfectionist. Also my inner musical theater nut. Please note that this edition includes links to MIDIs of the various instrumentals for your singing pleasure, and take time to appreciate the rhyme schemes and harmonies.
On with the show...
"DDX, With Feeling" (à la BtVS' endlessly versatile "Once More, With Feeling") was my initial foray into the House fandom. With 17 meticulously reworked musical numbers, stage directions and dialogue, this piece is definitely a manifestation of my inner perfectionist. Also my inner musical theater nut. Please note that this edition includes links to MIDIs of the various instrumentals for your singing pleasure, and take time to appreciate the rhyme schemes and harmonies.
On with the show...
DDX, With Feeling
Act I
Act I
[Scene: Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, CUDDY’S office. She is sitting at her desk, filing miscellaneous paperwork as she waits for her computer to boot up.]
CUDDY (mutters): Why is this thing always so slow? (Closes drawer on the paperwork, logs into the computer network.) Okay…first order of business, make sure House didn’t spam the staff e-mail accounts again. Didn’t hear the end of that for weeks… (Double-clicks the e-mail program, skims the screen, reads a subject line aloud.) ‘Attention all staff’—what’s this? (Casts a wary eye on the message, opens it, reads aloud in an undertone.) Staff of PPTH will be conducting all business in—what? (Silently reads further, eyes growing wide, then sighs.) Oh, great. (Looks up at the ceiling, throws up her hands.) Why me?
(A young woman, approximately twenty and wearing a t-shirt and jeans, enters the office, stopping in front of CUDDY’S desk and giving the Dean of Medicine a smile.)
YOUNG WOMAN: I can answer that.
CUDDY (gives her an appraising look, then narrows her eyes): Who’re you?
YOUNG WOMAN: Call me Dem—acronym for dea ex machina. Since your Powers that Be take the summer off and I have far too much time on my hands, I decided a little song-and-dance is just what this institution needs. Whimsical and excellent for character development. (DEM’S smile widens; she pulls a folder seemingly from nowhere and lays it on CUDDY’S desk.) There you go. You don’t actually have much singing to do—just the one number to start things off, a short interlude and a verse or two during the climax—so you get to play the Greek chorus for the duration. All your lines are in there.
CUDDY (looks flabbergasted, sputters): This—this is a hospital, not Broadway! And I don’t sing—
DEM (cutting in): Doesn’t matter; you do now. Participation is kind of compulsory. (Snaps her fingers, and a light, mincing musical introduction begins to play; then she vanishes, leaving CUDDY alone in the office.)
(CUDDY tries to fight the music, but as the opening bars wind to a close, she finds that ‘compulsory’ was actually an apt description, as she begins to sing in spite of herself. Contrary to her earlier assertion, her singing voice isn’t that bad.)
[Song: Trying to Keep Order (to the tune of “Overture/Going Through the Motions.”)]
CUDDY:
Every single day, it never changes
Trying to make this place run.
Sure I’ve reached the top, but what is strange is
It’s never easy. And it’s rarely fun.
What I must endure from the fourth floor,
I stand all that and more, but I’m just
Trying to keep order,
Wielding chair and whip,
Hoping Doctor House won’t lose his grip!
Always arrogant, oh-so-sarcastic
Pops narcotics left and right.
How to change his ways? Do something drastic?
Wilson tried and failed. It’s not worth the fight
(Or case oversight).
So I stand behind his brilliant mind,
Let him be unrefined
For despite his unorthodoxy
[Descant (courtesy of NURSE BRENDA, from the clinic):] Damn unorthodoxy!
And bedside learned in hell
Make allowances and he’ll excel!
Will he be this way forever?
All these years and he has never
Tried that bitterness to sever—
Nothing I can do…
Just keep keeping order,
Fulfill inner drive,
And hope someday he’ll see
Life’d go more easily
If he’d do more than just
Survive.
[End song.]
CUDDY (sighs): Thank God that’s over! (Glances at the folder, opens it and reads the top sheet, then frowns.) Oh, dammit. There’s no way House will… (She trails off, a slow, wicked smile spreading over her face as she realizes that HOUSE won’t have a choice.) On second thought…this I have to see. (Opening the drawer, she takes out four copies of a file, puts the folder down and leaves her office, taking the elevator off the clinic to the fourth floor. HOUSE is limping down the hall to his office; she catches up with him and shoves the folders into his free hand.)
HOUSE (frowns at them): Now, see, those look like case folders, but they can’t be, because I don’t recall agreeing to take a case.
CUDDY: I don’t care if you agree or not: you’re taking it. Now go do your job.
HOUSE (opens the folder, skims it, then looks up as a musical note sounds): What the hell was that?
CUDDY (smugly): Did I mention we all have to sing and dance our way through work today? (Pauses, considering.) Well, not dance, in your case, but that was probably the cue for your opening number.
HOUSE (flatly): I’m not singing.
CUDDY: That’s what you think. (Points to his office.) Get in there.
HOUSE (approaches the office door, glances in at the FELLOWS): I can diagnose from out here today, I think.
CUDDY: Do it, and you don’t have any clinic hours until this madness is over.
(HOUSE considers. That offer is apparently too good to refuse. He enters the office, where CHASE, CAMERON and FOREMAN are sitting with a crossword puzzle, HOUSE’S paperwork and a cup of coffee, respectively. The earlier musical cue—a single, upbeat note—repeats itself; HOUSE tosses the charts onto the table and begins to sing.)
[Song: I’ve Got A Theory/Half-wits/Just Run the Damn Tests (to the tune of “I’ve Got a Theory/Bunnies/If We’re Together.”)]
HOUSE:
We’ve got a patient! The differential?
Well, come on, people—I’m not giving you all day here.
CAMERON (reaching for a chart):
What are the symptoms? There must be symptoms,
And given your tastes I am guessing that they’re severe.
HOUSE (impatiently):
That what the chart’s for—start to work it out!
Keep your mouth shut ‘til you know what you’re meant to talk about.
CHASE (rapidly):
It could be drug use! Illicit drug use
‘Cause that’s a common cause
Of many of the symptoms here
And we should run a tox screen
Search the house and find out if
The patient lies.
FOREMAN:
Maybe head trauma? Get an MRI.
Or what if—
(The music changes abruptly, the light, cheery notes of the piano becoming darker, faster, more intense chords played by electric guitar.)
HOUSE (explodes, disgusted):
‘Fore I hired you, did you even go to med schools?
You’re clearly guessing and I don’t pay you to be fools!
Chase at least learned my methods—but the rest of you are so getting on my nerves!
Theories! Give me some better theories!
(The music resumes the original tune and mode; HOUSE adds:)
Or more stuff to mock.
CAMERON:
It could be lupus! Run an ANA.
HOUSE:
It’s never been lupus and it will not be so today!
(The tone of the piece changes for the final time, a guitar joining the piano as the music swells, losing the uncertain tone of the earlier theorizing and becoming as confident as HOUSE’S instructions.)
Chase, break and enter. Foreman, start to test:
Tox screen, CBC and all the rest—
And that’s an order, not a request.
Well, go on; move—your duty calls;
Don’t stand and gape within these walls.
FELLOWS (filing out):
Another case. Well, let’s get in it;
Patient’s growing worse every minute.
We know by now: we cannot grouse,
Or else we’re sure to piss off House.
We’ll run the tests—
HOUSE (descant):
Run the damn tests!
FELLOWS (cont’d):
And we’ll solve this case—
That’s how we are meant to earn our place.
HOUSE (descant):
And get me answers!
FELLOWS (cont’d):
Nothing we can’t guess…
Eventually.
[End song.]
HOUSE (mutters, with an expression of profound disgust): This is why I’m an atheist: no benevolent being would have allowed show tunes to highjack my life. (Pause, pensive silence.) I wonder if Wilson’s been forced to sing anything? Maybe a funeral dirge with some tumor-ridden kids as backup…
[End scene.]
(Fade in on CUDDY, standing outside the room while the FELLOWS run an MRI.)
CUDDY: While House is goofing off, his fellows are actually doing their jobs and taking care of the patient, who’s having an MRI—apparently Foreman is testing for neurological problems anyway. (Peeks in the door.) Chase is back from the weekly break-in, which is fortunate, because an uncommon number of patients seem to need an intensivist at some point during this procedure.
(Pan in on the MRI machine. The patient has just come out; fanfare begins to play.)
[Song: The Patient (to the tune of “The Mustard.”)]
CAMERON (turns a cartwheel, sings):
The patient’s still okay!
CHASE/FOREMAN (echo jubilantly):
The patient’s still okay!
[End song.]
(Cut back to CUDDY, looking disturbed.)
CUDDY: I’ll talk to them about that display later. Right now, we should get back up to Oncology—Wilson’s due to start an expository number any minute. (Consults her watch, then the folder from earlier. There’s sheet music sticking out of it.) Damn—if this tune were any sweeter, it’d make Disney sick. I hope they let him bring it down an octave. (She turns and heads for the elevator.)
(Cut to WILSON’S office. He’s sitting at his desk when guitar chords begin to play.)
[Song: Caught in His Thrall (to the tune of “Under Your Spell.”)]
WILSON:
He drives me crazy sometimes—
I’m first to admit it—yet
He’s seen me through my glum times
Almost since when we first met.
Maybe it’s a fact
That opposites attract.
Caught up in his thrall
Standing at his side
Confidant and sometimes guide
Just why I can’t recall
But I’ll take in stride
Each surprise that he’ll provide.
We’re so mismatched that it’s strange
We’ve been together this long—
But there’s not much that I’d change;
Somehow it keeps our bond strong.
It’s odd, yes, but true,
That we have seen so much through.
Caught up in his thrall—
But on reflection,
‘Twas mutual connection.
Something, however small
Prompted him to stay;
Had to figure out the way
I worked—why I liked him.
Our friendship endures—
Maybe even something more?
Caught up in his thrall—
Don’t quite know it all
For he’s such a mystery
Enough to make me fall
Holding to the key,
Glimpses that he’s let me see…
There’s something more there…
There’s something more there…
There’s something more there…
There’s something more there…
[End song.]
(Cut to CUDDY, standing about halfway between the oncology and diagnostics offices.)
CUDDY: Even with the elevator, it takes far too much time to get from the basement to the fourth floor—I only just made the first refrain. (Pause.) Wilson has a great voice, even if that number was a little more than I wanted to know. At least it explains why he puts up with so much crap from House. (Pause. CUDDY glances into Diagnostics. HOUSE is juggling an 8-ball, his oversized ball, and the stapler. She raps on the glass; he starts, but still catches the objects.)
HOUSE (shouts): What?
CUDDY (sighs, opens the door and sticks her head in): Wilson’s office. Now. You’re late for a duet.
(HOUSE glares obstinately at her, drops into his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. She opens the folder and consults the contents.)
CUDDY (cont’d): Actually—you can stay there. (She withdraws, lets the door swing shut and heads for oncology, stopping in front of and knocking on the door. Wilson opens it, looks surprised to see her there.)
WILSON: Dr. Cuddy? Do you need something?
CUDDY: You have a duet in House’s office. It was originally supposed to be in yours, but he’s determined to go through this with as much ill grace as possible.
WILSON (chuckles): Sounds like him. Actually, DDX in song was fairly entertaining…and I had no idea Chase could theorize that fast. (Leaves his office, closes the door behind him.) Anything I should know about this number? The last one was kind of a surprise…
CUDDY (checks the folder as they head for HOUSE’S office): There’s a dance interlude in the middle, kind of a forties-style thing. House is exempt, for obvious reasons, but you’re stuck with it.
WILSON (dryly): I think I’ll survive. (Enters just in time for a winds-and-piano introduction; lets the door swing shut behind him as he draws a breath in preparation to sing.)
[Song: I’ll Never Tell (to the eponymous tune.)]
WILSON (gestures to indicate HOUSE):
This is the guy that I do not ask why
I still hang around,
Even when he grins with glee as he runs me
Into the ground.
All these years, they just show
His vitriol won’t make me go.
There are just things that—no.
I’ll never tell.
HOUSE (mirrors WILSON’S gesture):
He is my friend to the end, will attend
To my every need. When I'm in jail, he'll pay bail;
He won't fail my hungers to feed.
He’s loyal, he’s a wit,
We’re both screwed up but still we fit.
It’s just that he’s a bit—
Well. I’ll never tell.
BOTH:
But the things I could tell!
(Music changes key, speeds up in preparation for the banter.)
WILSON:
He drinks.
HOUSE:
He preaches.
WILSON:
All boundaries he breaches.
HOUSE:
He has this thing with marriage that I won’t describe.
WILSON (frowns, counters):
Addict, narcotic.
HOUSE:
He’s ever so neurotic!
WILSON:
He’ll lie, cheat or steal or try an incisive jibe.
BOTH:
Ascribe whatever meaning…
WILSON:
Maybe needs some intervening.
HOUSE:
Not out of control careening!
WILSON:
Maybe on support he’s leaning,
But I guess just as well.
BOTH:
‘Cause God knows I’ll never tell!
WILSON:
He needs a muzzle
And depends on a puzzle
To get him through the day he couldn’t otherwise bear.
HOUSE:
He needs the needy—
It’s really almost greedy.
When I least want a lecture that’s when I’ll find him there!
WILSON (spoken): Time for that dance interlude, I guess.
(Instrumental break, change of key; WILSON begins a few dance steps; HOUSE observes, still seated.)
WILSON:
Well, maybe we’re both crazy.
HOUSE:
The logic’s hazy…
WILSON:
But his antics are amusing,
Even when they’re quite confusing
So if I’m the crutch that he’s using…
(Instrumental break; HOUSE stops WILSON’S dancing with a strategic application of cane to shins; return to original melody.)
WILSON:
We need each other.
HOUSE:
Like symbiotes or brothers.
Never mind the others—he’s the one that will stay.
WILSON:
I endure vices, and make some sacrifices,
But in the end the price is one that I’m glad to pay.
HOUSE:
I say that I need no one;
That way, I know I won’t be betrayed.
WILSON:
But I wouldn’t let him drive me off.
HOUSE:
Despite all the times I yelled and scoffed.
WILSON:
Maybe this arrangement’s stressful
But ultimately successful.
HOUSE:
And I can’t imagine working
Sans my bud beside me smirking,
Maybe pranking,
Maybe joking.
WILSON:
Maybe driven into stroking.
Either way, all the provoking
It will somehow end well,
And that’s why I’ll never tell.
I swear that I’ll never tell.
HOUSE (smirking):
Although I could.
WILSON (pointedly rubbing his shin):
Although I should.
HOUSE:
I take the fifth.
Just move along.
BOTH:
I’ll never tell!
[End song.]
WILSON (to HOUSE): That was...uncommonly positive of you.
HOUSE: It was the song talking—I haven’t had to be that candid about my emotions since I ditched Stacy. Did I mention this vaudeville routine is getting old?
WILSON: Not to me, but I’m sure you’ve been complaining all morning.
HOUSE (disgruntled): Of course I’ve been complaining—if I wanted to sing, I wouldn’t’ve become a doctor!
WILSON: It’s not that bad—my younger patients were really entertained when I sang while they were getting morning meds.
HOUSE (interestedly): Something upbeat and heartwarming, or did they all end up crying over their terminal prognoses?
WILSON (frowns): They’re not all terminal. And it was nice; full of hope. Some of them made great backup singers.
HOUSE (with a pained expression): Thank God I was nowhere near that. I’ve had about as much sweetness as I can stomach.
(Cut to CUDDY, waiting by the fourth floor elevator.)
CUDDY: He should be happy, then: the number he has coming up is about as far from sweet as possible. (The elevator doors slide open; she gets in and hits the button for the first floor.) Not that he likes to discuss his suffering, either, but he’ll get to do it more or less in private. (She opens the folder and sighs.) Time for my second song—at least this one’s short. (Leaves the elevator; returns to her office and sits down behind her desk, just in time for the sound of chimes to open up the piece.)
[Song: The Meta Number (to the tune of “The Parking Ticket.”)]
CUDDY:
So far it’s been a strange, strange day;
I hope the theater routine won’t stay…
Up in diagnostics
The final bars of a duet…
There’s something odd going on there—
It’s not the dancing; au contraire;
Something else, something more
Some twisted ending is in store…
Something the music should reflect
(Or else the Chorus will detect).
[End song.]
CUDDY (heaves a sigh and leans back in her chair): That’s enough foreshadowing for a while, so let’s fast-forward a few hours and get back to House. According to my file, he should be home by now—thank God I don’t have to follow him there—with some scotch he has no business mixing with narcotics, particularly bad leg pain and an even worse mood than usual.
(Cut to HOUSE’S apartment, where the omnipresent bottle of Vicodin and a half-empty glass of scotch can be seen on the coffee table. HOUSE is seated at the piano, wearing a pained expression that intensifies into a scowl as he hears a phantom electric guitar begin to play.)
HOUSE (yells at ceiling): Would you shut that thing the hell up? I’m in pain and nowhere near drunk enough to want to sing!
(The guitar pauses for several seconds, then begins the chord again, louder and more insistently. HOUSE’S scowl deepens, then he sighs and begins to accompany the chords on the piano, singing in a sullen undertone.)
[Song: Didn’t Choose (to the tune of “Rest in Peace.”)]
HOUSE:
Since the infarction years ago
The evening hours crawl; seem almost to slow.
Nerve endings frayed, broadcasting pain
With fire’s burning glow…
Half drink, and half narcotic haze
Substitute for the puzzles
That get me through my days.
Shouldn’t manage it like this
But there aren’t other ways…
It’s hell; a most perverted dance
The pain my sneering paramour,
Pills a toxic chance.
Better to have died than live
In grips of this romance…
Anything for relief.
Didn’t choose this way
Didn’t choose this pain—
Refused amputation; debridement
Gave me addiction’s chains.
Trusted her and was betrayed
What was inflicted can’t allay…
A price too high to pay.
They think that they can understand;
They say that it’s all in my head
Frown at the pills in hand—
It’s not their call to break my fall,
To chide and countermand,
Deny me this relief.
The days, I can bear.
When a case is found that can hold my mind
Puzzle pieces form a chain to bind
Back the pain and work with the pills entwined
And so what if this method’s oft maligned?
At least it works—or so I find.
I just wish they—
Knew I didn’t choose this way
Didn’t choose this pain—
Refused amputation; debridement
Gave me addiction’s chains.
Trusted her and was betrayed
What was inflicted can’t allay…
A price too high to pay.
A price that’s far too high to pay.
[End song.]
(HOUSE gets up from the piano, takes an extra Vicodin with the remainder of the scotch, limps into his bedroom and slams the door behind him.)
(Cut to CUDDY’S house, bedroom. She’s sitting up in bed, a book splayed open on her lap, apparently put down recently. The folder sits on her bedside table.)
CUDDY (yawns): I was starting to think I’d be up half the night waiting for House to do that number. Anyway, back at the hospital, his fellows are still running tests on the patient... (She trails off, yawns again and switches off the light.)
(Cut to PPTH, lab. All three fellows are there, carrying out their respective tasks accompanied by a slow, melancholy tune. After a while, they sing in unison.)
[Song: The Fellows’ Lament (to the tune of “Dawn’s Lament.”)]
FELLOWS:
We have been here all night working.
Does anybody even care?
[End song.]
(Abrupt cut to a sleeping CUDDY, and the tacit answer: “No.”)
[End scene.]
(Pan in, HOUSE’S bedroom. HOUSE is sprawled out on the bed, limbs splayed; a close-up of his face shows he is in REM sleep. The close-up grows closer, and closer, and finally fades into the familiar blurry wavering of…a dream sequence. HOUSE is back in the living room, sitting on the couch. STACY leans against the piano, wearing a tight red satin dress short enough to show a scar to match HOUSE’S marring her right thigh.)
HOUSE (notices her): Stacy? How’d you get in here—and what happened to your leg? (He gets up, limps over to inspect the damage.) You can’t have had—
STACY (breaking in): I didn’t—and I’m not Stacy, technically. (Sits down at the piano, gives him a half-smile.) Come on, Greg—basic metaphor doesn’t even approach your caliber of puzzle. Wake up and smell the psychology.
HOUSE (puts it together): You’re my pain. And since my pain doesn’t usually come in such a shapely, well-dressed package, this is a dream, and I want to wake up. Now.
(PAIN laughs at his look of horror as a jazzy piano opening begins to play.)
[Song: What You Feel (to the eponymous tune.)]
PAIN:
Since I’m here to stay—
Come and say ‘hello.’
You can’t send me away,
And midnight hours pass real slow.
I’m the fire, stealing your motion
My ebbs and flows, eternal as the ocean…
Oh, you know me well—‘cause I’m your private hell.
I’m what’s deep within,
The secrets you keep
And the many sins
That torment you when you sleep.
All your doubts and darknesses hidden,
Things that others to see are just forbidden…
So what do you say? Why don’t we roll them out?
‘Cause I am what you feel, boy…
I know just what you feel, boy…
HOUSE (shouted):
The hell you do! Shut up and get out!
PAIN (shakes head, then sings):
All that repression—keep it up too long
Sooner or later, pressure’s gonna grow too strong:
The cork will blow out of the bottle
Everything inside will flow full-throttle…
That’s how it’ll be…
Unless you deal with me.
Pain of your form must be the norm,
But not pain of your mind.
Keep thinking pills will cure all of your ills,
You won’t like what you'll find…
I am here and I’m real, boy…
HOUSE (descant):
Shut your trap, cut this crap
‘Cause I don’t wanna hear it.
PAIN:
l am what you feel, boy…
HOUSE (descant):
I know pain, and again
I’m refusing to fear it.
PAIN:
Heed my warning: I’ll be your ruin
Unless you’ll listen and stop me brewin’.
HOUSE:
While you’re there: I don’t care
For the price that I’m paying.
PAIN:
Remember that when you’re awaking
Or your leg isn’t all I will be taking.
HOUSE (half-resigned, half-contrary):
And yet why should I try
To deny that you’re staying?
PAIN:
Oh, you know me well—I’ll stay your private hell.
[End song.]
(Abrupt cut to HOUSE, now awake and breathing hard. After a few seconds, he composes himself.)
HOUSE (mutters): Much more of this, and I’m going to start a smear campaign to take down Broadway. (He gets out of bed and returns to the living room, then picks up the bottle of Vicodin and shakes it, listening with a practiced ear.) Hmm, running low. (He dry-swallows a pill.) I’ll get a scrip from Wilson in the morning. (Putting the bottle down, he returns to the bedroom.)
[End scene.]
CUDDY (mutters): Why is this thing always so slow? (Closes drawer on the paperwork, logs into the computer network.) Okay…first order of business, make sure House didn’t spam the staff e-mail accounts again. Didn’t hear the end of that for weeks… (Double-clicks the e-mail program, skims the screen, reads a subject line aloud.) ‘Attention all staff’—what’s this? (Casts a wary eye on the message, opens it, reads aloud in an undertone.) Staff of PPTH will be conducting all business in—what? (Silently reads further, eyes growing wide, then sighs.) Oh, great. (Looks up at the ceiling, throws up her hands.) Why me?
(A young woman, approximately twenty and wearing a t-shirt and jeans, enters the office, stopping in front of CUDDY’S desk and giving the Dean of Medicine a smile.)
YOUNG WOMAN: I can answer that.
CUDDY (gives her an appraising look, then narrows her eyes): Who’re you?
YOUNG WOMAN: Call me Dem—acronym for dea ex machina. Since your Powers that Be take the summer off and I have far too much time on my hands, I decided a little song-and-dance is just what this institution needs. Whimsical and excellent for character development. (DEM’S smile widens; she pulls a folder seemingly from nowhere and lays it on CUDDY’S desk.) There you go. You don’t actually have much singing to do—just the one number to start things off, a short interlude and a verse or two during the climax—so you get to play the Greek chorus for the duration. All your lines are in there.
CUDDY (looks flabbergasted, sputters): This—this is a hospital, not Broadway! And I don’t sing—
DEM (cutting in): Doesn’t matter; you do now. Participation is kind of compulsory. (Snaps her fingers, and a light, mincing musical introduction begins to play; then she vanishes, leaving CUDDY alone in the office.)
(CUDDY tries to fight the music, but as the opening bars wind to a close, she finds that ‘compulsory’ was actually an apt description, as she begins to sing in spite of herself. Contrary to her earlier assertion, her singing voice isn’t that bad.)
[Song: Trying to Keep Order (to the tune of “Overture/Going Through the Motions.”)]
CUDDY:
Every single day, it never changes
Trying to make this place run.
Sure I’ve reached the top, but what is strange is
It’s never easy. And it’s rarely fun.
What I must endure from the fourth floor,
I stand all that and more, but I’m just
Trying to keep order,
Wielding chair and whip,
Hoping Doctor House won’t lose his grip!
Always arrogant, oh-so-sarcastic
Pops narcotics left and right.
How to change his ways? Do something drastic?
Wilson tried and failed. It’s not worth the fight
(Or case oversight).
So I stand behind his brilliant mind,
Let him be unrefined
For despite his unorthodoxy
[Descant (courtesy of NURSE BRENDA, from the clinic):] Damn unorthodoxy!
And bedside learned in hell
Make allowances and he’ll excel!
Will he be this way forever?
All these years and he has never
Tried that bitterness to sever—
Nothing I can do…
Just keep keeping order,
Fulfill inner drive,
And hope someday he’ll see
Life’d go more easily
If he’d do more than just
Survive.
[End song.]
CUDDY (sighs): Thank God that’s over! (Glances at the folder, opens it and reads the top sheet, then frowns.) Oh, dammit. There’s no way House will… (She trails off, a slow, wicked smile spreading over her face as she realizes that HOUSE won’t have a choice.) On second thought…this I have to see. (Opening the drawer, she takes out four copies of a file, puts the folder down and leaves her office, taking the elevator off the clinic to the fourth floor. HOUSE is limping down the hall to his office; she catches up with him and shoves the folders into his free hand.)
HOUSE (frowns at them): Now, see, those look like case folders, but they can’t be, because I don’t recall agreeing to take a case.
CUDDY: I don’t care if you agree or not: you’re taking it. Now go do your job.
HOUSE (opens the folder, skims it, then looks up as a musical note sounds): What the hell was that?
CUDDY (smugly): Did I mention we all have to sing and dance our way through work today? (Pauses, considering.) Well, not dance, in your case, but that was probably the cue for your opening number.
HOUSE (flatly): I’m not singing.
CUDDY: That’s what you think. (Points to his office.) Get in there.
HOUSE (approaches the office door, glances in at the FELLOWS): I can diagnose from out here today, I think.
CUDDY: Do it, and you don’t have any clinic hours until this madness is over.
(HOUSE considers. That offer is apparently too good to refuse. He enters the office, where CHASE, CAMERON and FOREMAN are sitting with a crossword puzzle, HOUSE’S paperwork and a cup of coffee, respectively. The earlier musical cue—a single, upbeat note—repeats itself; HOUSE tosses the charts onto the table and begins to sing.)
[Song: I’ve Got A Theory/Half-wits/Just Run the Damn Tests (to the tune of “I’ve Got a Theory/Bunnies/If We’re Together.”)]
HOUSE:
We’ve got a patient! The differential?
Well, come on, people—I’m not giving you all day here.
CAMERON (reaching for a chart):
What are the symptoms? There must be symptoms,
And given your tastes I am guessing that they’re severe.
HOUSE (impatiently):
That what the chart’s for—start to work it out!
Keep your mouth shut ‘til you know what you’re meant to talk about.
CHASE (rapidly):
It could be drug use! Illicit drug use
‘Cause that’s a common cause
Of many of the symptoms here
And we should run a tox screen
Search the house and find out if
The patient lies.
FOREMAN:
Maybe head trauma? Get an MRI.
Or what if—
(The music changes abruptly, the light, cheery notes of the piano becoming darker, faster, more intense chords played by electric guitar.)
HOUSE (explodes, disgusted):
‘Fore I hired you, did you even go to med schools?
You’re clearly guessing and I don’t pay you to be fools!
Chase at least learned my methods—but the rest of you are so getting on my nerves!
Theories! Give me some better theories!
(The music resumes the original tune and mode; HOUSE adds:)
Or more stuff to mock.
CAMERON:
It could be lupus! Run an ANA.
HOUSE:
It’s never been lupus and it will not be so today!
(The tone of the piece changes for the final time, a guitar joining the piano as the music swells, losing the uncertain tone of the earlier theorizing and becoming as confident as HOUSE’S instructions.)
Chase, break and enter. Foreman, start to test:
Tox screen, CBC and all the rest—
And that’s an order, not a request.
Well, go on; move—your duty calls;
Don’t stand and gape within these walls.
FELLOWS (filing out):
Another case. Well, let’s get in it;
Patient’s growing worse every minute.
We know by now: we cannot grouse,
Or else we’re sure to piss off House.
We’ll run the tests—
HOUSE (descant):
Run the damn tests!
FELLOWS (cont’d):
And we’ll solve this case—
That’s how we are meant to earn our place.
HOUSE (descant):
And get me answers!
FELLOWS (cont’d):
Nothing we can’t guess…
Eventually.
[End song.]
HOUSE (mutters, with an expression of profound disgust): This is why I’m an atheist: no benevolent being would have allowed show tunes to highjack my life. (Pause, pensive silence.) I wonder if Wilson’s been forced to sing anything? Maybe a funeral dirge with some tumor-ridden kids as backup…
[End scene.]
(Fade in on CUDDY, standing outside the room while the FELLOWS run an MRI.)
CUDDY: While House is goofing off, his fellows are actually doing their jobs and taking care of the patient, who’s having an MRI—apparently Foreman is testing for neurological problems anyway. (Peeks in the door.) Chase is back from the weekly break-in, which is fortunate, because an uncommon number of patients seem to need an intensivist at some point during this procedure.
(Pan in on the MRI machine. The patient has just come out; fanfare begins to play.)
[Song: The Patient (to the tune of “The Mustard.”)]
CAMERON (turns a cartwheel, sings):
The patient’s still okay!
CHASE/FOREMAN (echo jubilantly):
The patient’s still okay!
[End song.]
(Cut back to CUDDY, looking disturbed.)
CUDDY: I’ll talk to them about that display later. Right now, we should get back up to Oncology—Wilson’s due to start an expository number any minute. (Consults her watch, then the folder from earlier. There’s sheet music sticking out of it.) Damn—if this tune were any sweeter, it’d make Disney sick. I hope they let him bring it down an octave. (She turns and heads for the elevator.)
(Cut to WILSON’S office. He’s sitting at his desk when guitar chords begin to play.)
[Song: Caught in His Thrall (to the tune of “Under Your Spell.”)]
WILSON:
He drives me crazy sometimes—
I’m first to admit it—yet
He’s seen me through my glum times
Almost since when we first met.
Maybe it’s a fact
That opposites attract.
Caught up in his thrall
Standing at his side
Confidant and sometimes guide
Just why I can’t recall
But I’ll take in stride
Each surprise that he’ll provide.
We’re so mismatched that it’s strange
We’ve been together this long—
But there’s not much that I’d change;
Somehow it keeps our bond strong.
It’s odd, yes, but true,
That we have seen so much through.
Caught up in his thrall—
But on reflection,
‘Twas mutual connection.
Something, however small
Prompted him to stay;
Had to figure out the way
I worked—why I liked him.
Our friendship endures—
Maybe even something more?
Caught up in his thrall—
Don’t quite know it all
For he’s such a mystery
Enough to make me fall
Holding to the key,
Glimpses that he’s let me see…
There’s something more there…
There’s something more there…
There’s something more there…
There’s something more there…
[End song.]
(Cut to CUDDY, standing about halfway between the oncology and diagnostics offices.)
CUDDY: Even with the elevator, it takes far too much time to get from the basement to the fourth floor—I only just made the first refrain. (Pause.) Wilson has a great voice, even if that number was a little more than I wanted to know. At least it explains why he puts up with so much crap from House. (Pause. CUDDY glances into Diagnostics. HOUSE is juggling an 8-ball, his oversized ball, and the stapler. She raps on the glass; he starts, but still catches the objects.)
HOUSE (shouts): What?
CUDDY (sighs, opens the door and sticks her head in): Wilson’s office. Now. You’re late for a duet.
(HOUSE glares obstinately at her, drops into his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. She opens the folder and consults the contents.)
CUDDY (cont’d): Actually—you can stay there. (She withdraws, lets the door swing shut and heads for oncology, stopping in front of and knocking on the door. Wilson opens it, looks surprised to see her there.)
WILSON: Dr. Cuddy? Do you need something?
CUDDY: You have a duet in House’s office. It was originally supposed to be in yours, but he’s determined to go through this with as much ill grace as possible.
WILSON (chuckles): Sounds like him. Actually, DDX in song was fairly entertaining…and I had no idea Chase could theorize that fast. (Leaves his office, closes the door behind him.) Anything I should know about this number? The last one was kind of a surprise…
CUDDY (checks the folder as they head for HOUSE’S office): There’s a dance interlude in the middle, kind of a forties-style thing. House is exempt, for obvious reasons, but you’re stuck with it.
WILSON (dryly): I think I’ll survive. (Enters just in time for a winds-and-piano introduction; lets the door swing shut behind him as he draws a breath in preparation to sing.)
[Song: I’ll Never Tell (to the eponymous tune.)]
WILSON (gestures to indicate HOUSE):
This is the guy that I do not ask why
I still hang around,
Even when he grins with glee as he runs me
Into the ground.
All these years, they just show
His vitriol won’t make me go.
There are just things that—no.
I’ll never tell.
HOUSE (mirrors WILSON’S gesture):
He is my friend to the end, will attend
To my every need. When I'm in jail, he'll pay bail;
He won't fail my hungers to feed.
He’s loyal, he’s a wit,
We’re both screwed up but still we fit.
It’s just that he’s a bit—
Well. I’ll never tell.
BOTH:
But the things I could tell!
(Music changes key, speeds up in preparation for the banter.)
WILSON:
He drinks.
HOUSE:
He preaches.
WILSON:
All boundaries he breaches.
HOUSE:
He has this thing with marriage that I won’t describe.
WILSON (frowns, counters):
Addict, narcotic.
HOUSE:
He’s ever so neurotic!
WILSON:
He’ll lie, cheat or steal or try an incisive jibe.
BOTH:
Ascribe whatever meaning…
WILSON:
Maybe needs some intervening.
HOUSE:
Not out of control careening!
WILSON:
Maybe on support he’s leaning,
But I guess just as well.
BOTH:
‘Cause God knows I’ll never tell!
WILSON:
He needs a muzzle
And depends on a puzzle
To get him through the day he couldn’t otherwise bear.
HOUSE:
He needs the needy—
It’s really almost greedy.
When I least want a lecture that’s when I’ll find him there!
WILSON (spoken): Time for that dance interlude, I guess.
(Instrumental break, change of key; WILSON begins a few dance steps; HOUSE observes, still seated.)
WILSON:
Well, maybe we’re both crazy.
HOUSE:
The logic’s hazy…
WILSON:
But his antics are amusing,
Even when they’re quite confusing
So if I’m the crutch that he’s using…
(Instrumental break; HOUSE stops WILSON’S dancing with a strategic application of cane to shins; return to original melody.)
WILSON:
We need each other.
HOUSE:
Like symbiotes or brothers.
Never mind the others—he’s the one that will stay.
WILSON:
I endure vices, and make some sacrifices,
But in the end the price is one that I’m glad to pay.
HOUSE:
I say that I need no one;
That way, I know I won’t be betrayed.
WILSON:
But I wouldn’t let him drive me off.
HOUSE:
Despite all the times I yelled and scoffed.
WILSON:
Maybe this arrangement’s stressful
But ultimately successful.
HOUSE:
And I can’t imagine working
Sans my bud beside me smirking,
Maybe pranking,
Maybe joking.
WILSON:
Maybe driven into stroking.
Either way, all the provoking
It will somehow end well,
And that’s why I’ll never tell.
I swear that I’ll never tell.
HOUSE (smirking):
Although I could.
WILSON (pointedly rubbing his shin):
Although I should.
HOUSE:
I take the fifth.
Just move along.
BOTH:
I’ll never tell!
[End song.]
WILSON (to HOUSE): That was...uncommonly positive of you.
HOUSE: It was the song talking—I haven’t had to be that candid about my emotions since I ditched Stacy. Did I mention this vaudeville routine is getting old?
WILSON: Not to me, but I’m sure you’ve been complaining all morning.
HOUSE (disgruntled): Of course I’ve been complaining—if I wanted to sing, I wouldn’t’ve become a doctor!
WILSON: It’s not that bad—my younger patients were really entertained when I sang while they were getting morning meds.
HOUSE (interestedly): Something upbeat and heartwarming, or did they all end up crying over their terminal prognoses?
WILSON (frowns): They’re not all terminal. And it was nice; full of hope. Some of them made great backup singers.
HOUSE (with a pained expression): Thank God I was nowhere near that. I’ve had about as much sweetness as I can stomach.
(Cut to CUDDY, waiting by the fourth floor elevator.)
CUDDY: He should be happy, then: the number he has coming up is about as far from sweet as possible. (The elevator doors slide open; she gets in and hits the button for the first floor.) Not that he likes to discuss his suffering, either, but he’ll get to do it more or less in private. (She opens the folder and sighs.) Time for my second song—at least this one’s short. (Leaves the elevator; returns to her office and sits down behind her desk, just in time for the sound of chimes to open up the piece.)
[Song: The Meta Number (to the tune of “The Parking Ticket.”)]
CUDDY:
So far it’s been a strange, strange day;
I hope the theater routine won’t stay…
Up in diagnostics
The final bars of a duet…
There’s something odd going on there—
It’s not the dancing; au contraire;
Something else, something more
Some twisted ending is in store…
Something the music should reflect
(Or else the Chorus will detect).
[End song.]
CUDDY (heaves a sigh and leans back in her chair): That’s enough foreshadowing for a while, so let’s fast-forward a few hours and get back to House. According to my file, he should be home by now—thank God I don’t have to follow him there—with some scotch he has no business mixing with narcotics, particularly bad leg pain and an even worse mood than usual.
(Cut to HOUSE’S apartment, where the omnipresent bottle of Vicodin and a half-empty glass of scotch can be seen on the coffee table. HOUSE is seated at the piano, wearing a pained expression that intensifies into a scowl as he hears a phantom electric guitar begin to play.)
HOUSE (yells at ceiling): Would you shut that thing the hell up? I’m in pain and nowhere near drunk enough to want to sing!
(The guitar pauses for several seconds, then begins the chord again, louder and more insistently. HOUSE’S scowl deepens, then he sighs and begins to accompany the chords on the piano, singing in a sullen undertone.)
[Song: Didn’t Choose (to the tune of “Rest in Peace.”)]
HOUSE:
Since the infarction years ago
The evening hours crawl; seem almost to slow.
Nerve endings frayed, broadcasting pain
With fire’s burning glow…
Half drink, and half narcotic haze
Substitute for the puzzles
That get me through my days.
Shouldn’t manage it like this
But there aren’t other ways…
It’s hell; a most perverted dance
The pain my sneering paramour,
Pills a toxic chance.
Better to have died than live
In grips of this romance…
Anything for relief.
Didn’t choose this way
Didn’t choose this pain—
Refused amputation; debridement
Gave me addiction’s chains.
Trusted her and was betrayed
What was inflicted can’t allay…
A price too high to pay.
They think that they can understand;
They say that it’s all in my head
Frown at the pills in hand—
It’s not their call to break my fall,
To chide and countermand,
Deny me this relief.
The days, I can bear.
When a case is found that can hold my mind
Puzzle pieces form a chain to bind
Back the pain and work with the pills entwined
And so what if this method’s oft maligned?
At least it works—or so I find.
I just wish they—
Knew I didn’t choose this way
Didn’t choose this pain—
Refused amputation; debridement
Gave me addiction’s chains.
Trusted her and was betrayed
What was inflicted can’t allay…
A price too high to pay.
A price that’s far too high to pay.
[End song.]
(HOUSE gets up from the piano, takes an extra Vicodin with the remainder of the scotch, limps into his bedroom and slams the door behind him.)
(Cut to CUDDY’S house, bedroom. She’s sitting up in bed, a book splayed open on her lap, apparently put down recently. The folder sits on her bedside table.)
CUDDY (yawns): I was starting to think I’d be up half the night waiting for House to do that number. Anyway, back at the hospital, his fellows are still running tests on the patient... (She trails off, yawns again and switches off the light.)
(Cut to PPTH, lab. All three fellows are there, carrying out their respective tasks accompanied by a slow, melancholy tune. After a while, they sing in unison.)
[Song: The Fellows’ Lament (to the tune of “Dawn’s Lament.”)]
FELLOWS:
We have been here all night working.
Does anybody even care?
[End song.]
(Abrupt cut to a sleeping CUDDY, and the tacit answer: “No.”)
[End scene.]
(Pan in, HOUSE’S bedroom. HOUSE is sprawled out on the bed, limbs splayed; a close-up of his face shows he is in REM sleep. The close-up grows closer, and closer, and finally fades into the familiar blurry wavering of…a dream sequence. HOUSE is back in the living room, sitting on the couch. STACY leans against the piano, wearing a tight red satin dress short enough to show a scar to match HOUSE’S marring her right thigh.)
HOUSE (notices her): Stacy? How’d you get in here—and what happened to your leg? (He gets up, limps over to inspect the damage.) You can’t have had—
STACY (breaking in): I didn’t—and I’m not Stacy, technically. (Sits down at the piano, gives him a half-smile.) Come on, Greg—basic metaphor doesn’t even approach your caliber of puzzle. Wake up and smell the psychology.
HOUSE (puts it together): You’re my pain. And since my pain doesn’t usually come in such a shapely, well-dressed package, this is a dream, and I want to wake up. Now.
(PAIN laughs at his look of horror as a jazzy piano opening begins to play.)
[Song: What You Feel (to the eponymous tune.)]
PAIN:
Since I’m here to stay—
Come and say ‘hello.’
You can’t send me away,
And midnight hours pass real slow.
I’m the fire, stealing your motion
My ebbs and flows, eternal as the ocean…
Oh, you know me well—‘cause I’m your private hell.
I’m what’s deep within,
The secrets you keep
And the many sins
That torment you when you sleep.
All your doubts and darknesses hidden,
Things that others to see are just forbidden…
So what do you say? Why don’t we roll them out?
‘Cause I am what you feel, boy…
I know just what you feel, boy…
HOUSE (shouted):
The hell you do! Shut up and get out!
PAIN (shakes head, then sings):
All that repression—keep it up too long
Sooner or later, pressure’s gonna grow too strong:
The cork will blow out of the bottle
Everything inside will flow full-throttle…
That’s how it’ll be…
Unless you deal with me.
Pain of your form must be the norm,
But not pain of your mind.
Keep thinking pills will cure all of your ills,
You won’t like what you'll find…
I am here and I’m real, boy…
HOUSE (descant):
Shut your trap, cut this crap
‘Cause I don’t wanna hear it.
PAIN:
l am what you feel, boy…
HOUSE (descant):
I know pain, and again
I’m refusing to fear it.
PAIN:
Heed my warning: I’ll be your ruin
Unless you’ll listen and stop me brewin’.
HOUSE:
While you’re there: I don’t care
For the price that I’m paying.
PAIN:
Remember that when you’re awaking
Or your leg isn’t all I will be taking.
HOUSE (half-resigned, half-contrary):
And yet why should I try
To deny that you’re staying?
PAIN:
Oh, you know me well—I’ll stay your private hell.
[End song.]
(Abrupt cut to HOUSE, now awake and breathing hard. After a few seconds, he composes himself.)
HOUSE (mutters): Much more of this, and I’m going to start a smear campaign to take down Broadway. (He gets out of bed and returns to the living room, then picks up the bottle of Vicodin and shakes it, listening with a practiced ear.) Hmm, running low. (He dry-swallows a pill.) I’ll get a scrip from Wilson in the morning. (Putting the bottle down, he returns to the bedroom.)
[End scene.]
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no subject
Date: 2008-09-04 10:07 pm (UTC)This is absolutely marvelous.
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Date: 2010-04-18 05:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-04 11:28 am (UTC)