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lit_luminaryTitle: Appraisals and Appointments
Author: lit_luminary
Rating: PG
Characters: House, Wilson, Chase and Foreman (and their dæmons, naturally).
Genre: Alternate alternate universe, à la Pullman's His Dark Materials.
Summary: Power, politics and a phone call: how House of the dæmonverse came to hire Chase.
Notes: This takes place about three-and-a-half years before “Principles of Growth.”
“No more arguments, House.” He knows this tone: it means he’s reached his boss’ tolerance limit and Foreman wants him to regret it. “No more whining, sulking or procrastinating. I will have either your new fellow’s CV or your resignation on my desk by the end of the month.”
Between the obviously confrontational body language and his dæmon’s hiss—no doubt intended to be threatening—he probably means it. Still, giving in without a fight is against House's principles. “My department runs fine fellow-less. I solve a case every week, and my success rate lets you brag to the Board and donors with fat pocketbooks.”
“Your department is a sucking financial vacuum,” Foreman says flatly. Renata slithers down from his arm to sit under her sunlamp, but maintains a striking pose. “One case a week is acceptable only because every one of your cases comes with a lawsuit to fend off. And Doctor Wilson should get sainthood for doing your paperwork and billing on top of his own, because that and your reputation are the only reasons I don’t fire your ass.”
“So you admit we’ve established a working system.” Minerva, his raccoon dæmon, climbs onto the chair he’s declined to occupy, and he gives himself a point for Foreman’s not-quite-hidden annoyance: the unwritten rules dictate she should speak to Renata, and only then if spoken to first. Naturally, they flout those rules. “We solve a case every week, we maintain our reputation, the hospital absorbs our legal fees and Wilson does the paperwork.”
“Your paperwork isn’t Wilson’s responsibility,” Foreman says, holding his gaze. “I’ve tried to make allowances, but after your antisocial personality went through three secretaries—”
“They were idiots. We told you: we don’t work with domestic dog people,” Minerva says.
“You barely work at all,” Renata shoots back. “From now on, we expect productivity from you. Either we see multiple cases and paperwork not done by Wilson, or you and your stunted people skills will be looking in vain for a job.”
Bristling, Minerva growls at her and shows her teeth, but they can’t deny that from her, the words carry weight: they have two-and-a-half weeks to find a doctor they can tolerate. “I assume,” he says, tapping his cane against the floor, “you’ve already put out the news that I’m seeking a minion?”
“It was either that or trust you to do it, so yes,” Foreman says. He opens a drawer, takes out a distressingly large stack of CVs and shoves them across the desk. “These candidates should all be qualified.”
House picks up the papers, scans the one on top: dog person. No chance in hell, Minerva says, and he crumples it up, throwing it just a little to the left of the wastebasket. “Your idea of ‘qualified’ about covers the ability to type a résumé,” he says. “I’m not going to hire just any moron in this pile.”
If he can’t maintain his personal status quo, at least he can send Foreman’s blood pressure up a few notches.
“Whichever moron you want, House,” Foreman says, forcing a smile. “But I want his name on my desk by the thirtieth.”
House makes a mental note to write it in block letters and permanent marker beside the blotter and stalks out, Minerva at his heels.
---
“Go through these,” he says, striding through the door and dumping the pile on Wilson’s desk, “and take all the dog people out.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Wilson says dryly, and Rona pads out from behind the desk to sit in House’s line of sight. “Will there be anything else?” she asks.
“We’re not in a playful mood,” Minerva says, settling a short distance from Rona. Her hackles are still raised. “Foreman just pulled rank: we either hire or get fired.”
“Meaning you’re hiring,” Rona says. “Don’t you want someone around with no choice but to cater to your whims?”
“We want someone we can work with,” Minerva says. “Someone who has a brain and can deal with us. Chances of finding that within the boss-man’s arbitrary deadline aren’t good.”
Wilson eyes the CVs, sighs quietly. “By ‘no dog people,’” he says at last, “I assume you meant ‘no domestics’?”
“Other canids are okay,” he confirms. Rona is a wolf; their longstanding friendship is proof Wilson's nature contains none of the too-ready obedience that House can’t stand in dogs. He can also get along with Lisa, Foreman’s assistant (a fox in both senses), who’s often agreeably ready to offer a little surreptitious help in annoying her boss. “And shortlist anyone with an interesting background. You know what I like.”
“Yeah.” A short pause, then, “House. Provided you find an intelligent, qualified doctor in this pile…please try not to actively repel him.”
“Only if he earns it,” House says. “Otherwise, I make no promises.”
Rona looks to Wilson, says something silent and probably a little sharp that wipes the look of a pending lecture off his face. He meets House’s gaze, shakes his head. “That’s probably the best I’m going to get. Any other species you can’t stand?”
“None I’ll reject categorically,” he says, and turns toward the door. “When you’re done with those, I’ll be watching a soap in my office. Try to time your entrance with the commercials.”
---
The phone rings halfway through his third episode of General Hospital. He reaches over to pick it up just high enough to slam back down, but pauses when he glances at the caller ID and sees that whoever’s calling is doing it from Australia.
“Vague interest beats this rerun,” Minerva says, and he mutes the TV and takes the call with a brusque, “Yeah?”
“Doctor House?” Cultured, upper-class sound; Czech with about thirty years Down Under.
“Speaking.”
“This is Doctor Rowan Chase.”
He’s seen the rheumatologist’s book. Comprehensive, even a little witty by textbook standards. Not a bad piece of work. “I’ve heard of you. What do you want?”
“To speak to you about my son, Robert. It’s my understanding he’s applied for your fellowship position.”
If he’s calling to grease the wheels for Junior, Minerva says with a low growl, tell him to shove it.
“And you thought you’d take some time to tell me your special boy would be the best underling ever?” House asks, dripping syrup. Then, flatly, “Nice. It’s my pleasure to say you’ve just put him out of the running.”
He shakes his head, starts to move the phone back to the cradle, but then Minerva’s ears hear Chase Senior say, “Good,” and House brings the phone back to his own ear because the man actually sounds sincere. “Robert will be much better off in Melbourne and intensive care. He doesn’t need what he’d learn in your practice.”
Because he now has other priorities, he hangs up without telling the man his textbook will soon be shoved under the uneven leg of House’s conference table. “So,” he says to Minerva, “what say we go have a long look at Chase Junior’s CV?”
She purrs satisfaction. “Oh, definitely. And even if we don’t hire him, we’re sending Daddy Dearest a nice letter about how close he came to getting the spot.”
Putting his miniature TV aside, he shifts his weight to the cane, levers himself out of the chair and heads back to Wilson’s office. Minerva climbs up on the couch as he shuts the door.
“I just got a really weird phone call,” he says. “Apparently Rowan Chase is out to sabotage his kid.”
Wilson looks up from the now-much-shorter stack of papers, eyebrows raised. “Chase? The rheumatologist?”
“Yup. I’ve had people call to say, ‘please do this favor for my insert-relation-here,’ but never one who said don't. Happen to have the son’s application handy? Because suddenly it’s piqued my interest.”
“Remaining canids are in the short pile on the left,” Rona says, and Wilson picks it up and rifles through it before holding out a neatly typed sheet. “Here: Robert Chase, intensivist.”
“Rare breed,” House says, and sits down beside Minerva as he reads. Chase did his residency in internal medicine, which works nicely for House's purposes: neither anesthesiology nor surgery would have brought much to the whiteboard, but an internist's training will have filled the gaps of critical care and—in theory, anyway—left Chase with a usefully broad knowledge base.
He tests well, anyway, Minerva notes. Top of his class…and perfect UMAT score.
The UMAT is exclusive to Australia and New Zealand, but House knows enough about it to mark a point down in Robert Chase’s favor. Academic brilliance doesn’t necessarily a decent diagnostician make, but this score means excellent reasoning, problem-solving and people skills.
Always good to have someone to handle interacting with the patients for us, Minerva says. They like him; they don’t sue; everyone’s happy.
Add that to his GPA and the fact that he earned a specialty in intensive care by only twenty-eight, and it says he’s both hardworking and exceptionally bright.
House scans the sheet for his dæmon’s form: dingo. Kylie. “Huh. Native species.”
No need to worry about clashing egos, then: canids in general tend not to be insufferable in that department.
He goes on reading, pauses and scowls when he sees three years spent in seminary training: the last thing he needs in here is a Church sympathizer breathing down his neck.
Switched to med school at twenty-one, though, Minerva says, and that was seven years ago. There’s no proof he was there because he felt an urgent calling to the priesthood.
True. And he’d hate to dismiss an otherwise promising candidate based on an incorrect conclusion.
“He can have an interview,” he decides. Standing and moving around the desk, he reaches over Wilson’s shoulder to pick up his phone and dials Chase’s number. A generic answering machine message plays. “This is Doctor House,” he says after the beep. “You have an interview tomorrow at two. Our power-tripping Dean of Medicine will direct you to my office.”
Click.
“Concise,” Wilson says with a nod. “And you didn’t insult him as well as Foreman; that’s encouraging.” He takes Chase’s CV from House and rereads it. “The intensive care specialty is a good sign: he’d have to be immune to most shocks and deal well with crisis situations.”
“You may just have found a doctor who won’t quit citing personality conflict,” Rona says, pleased.
“Provided those three years in the church don’t mean he’s a devout child of God, yeah,” Minerva replies. “We’re hoping for mitigating factors.”
“So am I,” Wilson says. “You might manage to be civil for the duration of one interview.”
House glares at him, but without real anger: he gets that this whole hiring-a-fellow thing is an inconvenience to Wilson as well as to him. “Save the rest of whatever applications looked decent,” he says, taking the CV back and moving toward the door, “just in case he doesn’t work out.”
---
Robert Chase shows up at his door at exactly two. House is sitting in his office, Minerva under the desk but looking through his eyes to watch what Chase does.
After a moment passes and House doesn’t invite him in, he opens the door for his dæmon (golden-colored and considerably smaller than Rona; he guesses fifty pounds and two feet high at the shoulder) and moves through the conference room and into the office. He doesn’t sit down, though, until House acknowledges him with a nod.
He’s placed the chair far enough from his desk that Kylie, sitting beside it, is as visible to him as Chase.
It should be unsettling to the younger man that Minerva isn’t in view: besides being extremely rude, it robs him of the more important half of a set of body signals.
Not anxious and not offended, Minerva says, or else doing a hell of a good job hiding it.
He meets Chase’s gaze and sits back in his chair, still silent: he wants to see whether he’ll speak first or wait to take House’s cue.
Five minutes tick by. Finally, Kylie says, “I can sit behind him if you’d rather.”
Since her reactions are more important than Chase’s, he shakes his head. The tactic was good, though: it forced him to react and told them whether Minerva’s hiding was a test or something she was supposed to mirror.
Minerva climbs up his chair and onto the desk. Kylie’s gaze meets hers briefly, and House returns his attention to Chase.
“Your father is a bastard.”
He’s still not offended. On the contrary: his wry grin says he’s more than aware of the fact.
“You’ve met him?”
“He called me to say I shouldn’t hire you,” House says, and watches Kylie’s hackles rise a little. Chase’s expression stays neutral. “You should thank him: it got you in here.”
“And?”
“You’re a very good candidate. Probably a very good candidate with festering daddy issues, but having spoken to him…” House shrugs. “Not surprising. So: explain to me why the hell three years in seminary.”
“That’s relevant?”
“Very.”
Whatever skeletons he’s got, we just found their closet, Minerva says matter-of-factly. Time for some calculated rattling.
It’ll have to be calculated, because their heresy-charge-happy theocracy means religious belief tops everyone’s list of Things Not Discussed, and that plausible deniability is key.
“I was eighteen,” Chase says at last. “It has no effect on my ability to do this job.”
“It has an effect on our ability to work with you,” Minerva says, and Kylie lifts her head, maintaining eye contact this time. “Whatever you answer is off the record.”
“Our father wanted us there,” Kylie says.
“And what did you want?” he asks Chase.
“What I did or didn’t want wasn’t important,” he says, and House nods, satisfied. No religious fervor: if there were, he’d have spouted the stock answer about wanting to serve God.
Guarded answers mean a mind perceptive enough to see the state’s faults and a belief system in enough disagreement with said state’s to demand caution.
Both of those are good things.
“You’re hired,” House says, “but I reserve the right to fire you if you turn out to be incompetent.”
Chase half-smiles.
“Don’t celebrate yet,” he continues. “In the interest of full disclosure and not having you quit sometime next week, you should know your job includes all of my paperwork, half the testing, irregular and late hours and all patient interaction before the point of circling the drain. Basically, I will work your ass off.”
A nod.
“Also. When we’re running a differential, I want your entire thought process. That means you in totality speaking out loud. If you have a thing about the etiquette involved with that, you definitely don’t belong here.”
“It won’t be a problem,” Kylie says.
He doesn’t let it show, but he likes to see signals of being able to adapt fast. “Good. Finally, whatever ethics you’ve got, either they’re pragmatically bendable or you’ll be swallowing a lot of objections.” He meets Chase’s gaze. “I assume you’ve heard something about how I practice.”
“Enough that I also know not to discuss it on the record,” Chase says, and House smirks.
“Nice.” He picks up the phone and dials Wilson’s extension. The phone rings twice, then Wilson picks up.
“House?”
“He’s hired. Tell Foreman to hand over whatever paperwork is involved.”
Wilson assents, and House returns the phone to its cradle and looks back to Chase. “Go see Wilson next door for that paperwork and any of mine he hasn’t done yet.”
“And Wilson is…?”
“Head of oncology,” House says. “He’ll pop in whenever the mystery illness might be cancer.”
If Chase thinks it’s odd that the head of oncology does House’s paperwork, he has more sense than to say so. He nods, rises and leaves, Kylie at his heels.
Discretion, Minerva says approvingly. Excellent quality in a minion.
It remains to be seen whether that quality will hold when he starts giving not-so-legal orders, but he calculates at least an even chance. And provided Chase makes a good sounding board and has reasonably intelligent ideas of his own, House can see him lasting here.
He surfs the ‘net aimlessly for half an hour—long enough for Chase sign a contract and get officially on staff—and then turns to the stack of referrals he’s been ignoring for the past few days and starts scanning symptoms. One of them might be worth taking, and he wants to know what his new employee is capable of; the paperwork will wait.
Twenty-nine-year-old female presents with seizure, loss of ability to speak and deteriorating mental status.
No protein markers for the big three brain cancers, or response to radiation, Minerva says, and grins as they set the file aside and pick up the phone to call Chase back in.
It might still be a brain tumor, but if it’s not…
Showtime.
END.
Note: Further details on the significance of the names and forms of the dæmons mentioned can be found here.
Author: lit_luminary
Rating: PG
Characters: House, Wilson, Chase and Foreman (and their dæmons, naturally).
Genre: Alternate alternate universe, à la Pullman's His Dark Materials.
Summary: Power, politics and a phone call: how House of the dæmonverse came to hire Chase.
Notes: This takes place about three-and-a-half years before “Principles of Growth.”
“No more arguments, House.” He knows this tone: it means he’s reached his boss’ tolerance limit and Foreman wants him to regret it. “No more whining, sulking or procrastinating. I will have either your new fellow’s CV or your resignation on my desk by the end of the month.”
Between the obviously confrontational body language and his dæmon’s hiss—no doubt intended to be threatening—he probably means it. Still, giving in without a fight is against House's principles. “My department runs fine fellow-less. I solve a case every week, and my success rate lets you brag to the Board and donors with fat pocketbooks.”
“Your department is a sucking financial vacuum,” Foreman says flatly. Renata slithers down from his arm to sit under her sunlamp, but maintains a striking pose. “One case a week is acceptable only because every one of your cases comes with a lawsuit to fend off. And Doctor Wilson should get sainthood for doing your paperwork and billing on top of his own, because that and your reputation are the only reasons I don’t fire your ass.”
“So you admit we’ve established a working system.” Minerva, his raccoon dæmon, climbs onto the chair he’s declined to occupy, and he gives himself a point for Foreman’s not-quite-hidden annoyance: the unwritten rules dictate she should speak to Renata, and only then if spoken to first. Naturally, they flout those rules. “We solve a case every week, we maintain our reputation, the hospital absorbs our legal fees and Wilson does the paperwork.”
“Your paperwork isn’t Wilson’s responsibility,” Foreman says, holding his gaze. “I’ve tried to make allowances, but after your antisocial personality went through three secretaries—”
“They were idiots. We told you: we don’t work with domestic dog people,” Minerva says.
“You barely work at all,” Renata shoots back. “From now on, we expect productivity from you. Either we see multiple cases and paperwork not done by Wilson, or you and your stunted people skills will be looking in vain for a job.”
Bristling, Minerva growls at her and shows her teeth, but they can’t deny that from her, the words carry weight: they have two-and-a-half weeks to find a doctor they can tolerate. “I assume,” he says, tapping his cane against the floor, “you’ve already put out the news that I’m seeking a minion?”
“It was either that or trust you to do it, so yes,” Foreman says. He opens a drawer, takes out a distressingly large stack of CVs and shoves them across the desk. “These candidates should all be qualified.”
House picks up the papers, scans the one on top: dog person. No chance in hell, Minerva says, and he crumples it up, throwing it just a little to the left of the wastebasket. “Your idea of ‘qualified’ about covers the ability to type a résumé,” he says. “I’m not going to hire just any moron in this pile.”
If he can’t maintain his personal status quo, at least he can send Foreman’s blood pressure up a few notches.
“Whichever moron you want, House,” Foreman says, forcing a smile. “But I want his name on my desk by the thirtieth.”
House makes a mental note to write it in block letters and permanent marker beside the blotter and stalks out, Minerva at his heels.
---
“Go through these,” he says, striding through the door and dumping the pile on Wilson’s desk, “and take all the dog people out.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Wilson says dryly, and Rona pads out from behind the desk to sit in House’s line of sight. “Will there be anything else?” she asks.
“We’re not in a playful mood,” Minerva says, settling a short distance from Rona. Her hackles are still raised. “Foreman just pulled rank: we either hire or get fired.”
“Meaning you’re hiring,” Rona says. “Don’t you want someone around with no choice but to cater to your whims?”
“We want someone we can work with,” Minerva says. “Someone who has a brain and can deal with us. Chances of finding that within the boss-man’s arbitrary deadline aren’t good.”
Wilson eyes the CVs, sighs quietly. “By ‘no dog people,’” he says at last, “I assume you meant ‘no domestics’?”
“Other canids are okay,” he confirms. Rona is a wolf; their longstanding friendship is proof Wilson's nature contains none of the too-ready obedience that House can’t stand in dogs. He can also get along with Lisa, Foreman’s assistant (a fox in both senses), who’s often agreeably ready to offer a little surreptitious help in annoying her boss. “And shortlist anyone with an interesting background. You know what I like.”
“Yeah.” A short pause, then, “House. Provided you find an intelligent, qualified doctor in this pile…please try not to actively repel him.”
“Only if he earns it,” House says. “Otherwise, I make no promises.”
Rona looks to Wilson, says something silent and probably a little sharp that wipes the look of a pending lecture off his face. He meets House’s gaze, shakes his head. “That’s probably the best I’m going to get. Any other species you can’t stand?”
“None I’ll reject categorically,” he says, and turns toward the door. “When you’re done with those, I’ll be watching a soap in my office. Try to time your entrance with the commercials.”
---
The phone rings halfway through his third episode of General Hospital. He reaches over to pick it up just high enough to slam back down, but pauses when he glances at the caller ID and sees that whoever’s calling is doing it from Australia.
“Vague interest beats this rerun,” Minerva says, and he mutes the TV and takes the call with a brusque, “Yeah?”
“Doctor House?” Cultured, upper-class sound; Czech with about thirty years Down Under.
“Speaking.”
“This is Doctor Rowan Chase.”
He’s seen the rheumatologist’s book. Comprehensive, even a little witty by textbook standards. Not a bad piece of work. “I’ve heard of you. What do you want?”
“To speak to you about my son, Robert. It’s my understanding he’s applied for your fellowship position.”
If he’s calling to grease the wheels for Junior, Minerva says with a low growl, tell him to shove it.
“And you thought you’d take some time to tell me your special boy would be the best underling ever?” House asks, dripping syrup. Then, flatly, “Nice. It’s my pleasure to say you’ve just put him out of the running.”
He shakes his head, starts to move the phone back to the cradle, but then Minerva’s ears hear Chase Senior say, “Good,” and House brings the phone back to his own ear because the man actually sounds sincere. “Robert will be much better off in Melbourne and intensive care. He doesn’t need what he’d learn in your practice.”
Because he now has other priorities, he hangs up without telling the man his textbook will soon be shoved under the uneven leg of House’s conference table. “So,” he says to Minerva, “what say we go have a long look at Chase Junior’s CV?”
She purrs satisfaction. “Oh, definitely. And even if we don’t hire him, we’re sending Daddy Dearest a nice letter about how close he came to getting the spot.”
Putting his miniature TV aside, he shifts his weight to the cane, levers himself out of the chair and heads back to Wilson’s office. Minerva climbs up on the couch as he shuts the door.
“I just got a really weird phone call,” he says. “Apparently Rowan Chase is out to sabotage his kid.”
Wilson looks up from the now-much-shorter stack of papers, eyebrows raised. “Chase? The rheumatologist?”
“Yup. I’ve had people call to say, ‘please do this favor for my insert-relation-here,’ but never one who said don't. Happen to have the son’s application handy? Because suddenly it’s piqued my interest.”
“Remaining canids are in the short pile on the left,” Rona says, and Wilson picks it up and rifles through it before holding out a neatly typed sheet. “Here: Robert Chase, intensivist.”
“Rare breed,” House says, and sits down beside Minerva as he reads. Chase did his residency in internal medicine, which works nicely for House's purposes: neither anesthesiology nor surgery would have brought much to the whiteboard, but an internist's training will have filled the gaps of critical care and—in theory, anyway—left Chase with a usefully broad knowledge base.
He tests well, anyway, Minerva notes. Top of his class…and perfect UMAT score.
The UMAT is exclusive to Australia and New Zealand, but House knows enough about it to mark a point down in Robert Chase’s favor. Academic brilliance doesn’t necessarily a decent diagnostician make, but this score means excellent reasoning, problem-solving and people skills.
Always good to have someone to handle interacting with the patients for us, Minerva says. They like him; they don’t sue; everyone’s happy.
Add that to his GPA and the fact that he earned a specialty in intensive care by only twenty-eight, and it says he’s both hardworking and exceptionally bright.
House scans the sheet for his dæmon’s form: dingo. Kylie. “Huh. Native species.”
No need to worry about clashing egos, then: canids in general tend not to be insufferable in that department.
He goes on reading, pauses and scowls when he sees three years spent in seminary training: the last thing he needs in here is a Church sympathizer breathing down his neck.
Switched to med school at twenty-one, though, Minerva says, and that was seven years ago. There’s no proof he was there because he felt an urgent calling to the priesthood.
True. And he’d hate to dismiss an otherwise promising candidate based on an incorrect conclusion.
“He can have an interview,” he decides. Standing and moving around the desk, he reaches over Wilson’s shoulder to pick up his phone and dials Chase’s number. A generic answering machine message plays. “This is Doctor House,” he says after the beep. “You have an interview tomorrow at two. Our power-tripping Dean of Medicine will direct you to my office.”
Click.
“Concise,” Wilson says with a nod. “And you didn’t insult him as well as Foreman; that’s encouraging.” He takes Chase’s CV from House and rereads it. “The intensive care specialty is a good sign: he’d have to be immune to most shocks and deal well with crisis situations.”
“You may just have found a doctor who won’t quit citing personality conflict,” Rona says, pleased.
“Provided those three years in the church don’t mean he’s a devout child of God, yeah,” Minerva replies. “We’re hoping for mitigating factors.”
“So am I,” Wilson says. “You might manage to be civil for the duration of one interview.”
House glares at him, but without real anger: he gets that this whole hiring-a-fellow thing is an inconvenience to Wilson as well as to him. “Save the rest of whatever applications looked decent,” he says, taking the CV back and moving toward the door, “just in case he doesn’t work out.”
---
Robert Chase shows up at his door at exactly two. House is sitting in his office, Minerva under the desk but looking through his eyes to watch what Chase does.
After a moment passes and House doesn’t invite him in, he opens the door for his dæmon (golden-colored and considerably smaller than Rona; he guesses fifty pounds and two feet high at the shoulder) and moves through the conference room and into the office. He doesn’t sit down, though, until House acknowledges him with a nod.
He’s placed the chair far enough from his desk that Kylie, sitting beside it, is as visible to him as Chase.
It should be unsettling to the younger man that Minerva isn’t in view: besides being extremely rude, it robs him of the more important half of a set of body signals.
Not anxious and not offended, Minerva says, or else doing a hell of a good job hiding it.
He meets Chase’s gaze and sits back in his chair, still silent: he wants to see whether he’ll speak first or wait to take House’s cue.
Five minutes tick by. Finally, Kylie says, “I can sit behind him if you’d rather.”
Since her reactions are more important than Chase’s, he shakes his head. The tactic was good, though: it forced him to react and told them whether Minerva’s hiding was a test or something she was supposed to mirror.
Minerva climbs up his chair and onto the desk. Kylie’s gaze meets hers briefly, and House returns his attention to Chase.
“Your father is a bastard.”
He’s still not offended. On the contrary: his wry grin says he’s more than aware of the fact.
“You’ve met him?”
“He called me to say I shouldn’t hire you,” House says, and watches Kylie’s hackles rise a little. Chase’s expression stays neutral. “You should thank him: it got you in here.”
“And?”
“You’re a very good candidate. Probably a very good candidate with festering daddy issues, but having spoken to him…” House shrugs. “Not surprising. So: explain to me why the hell three years in seminary.”
“That’s relevant?”
“Very.”
Whatever skeletons he’s got, we just found their closet, Minerva says matter-of-factly. Time for some calculated rattling.
It’ll have to be calculated, because their heresy-charge-happy theocracy means religious belief tops everyone’s list of Things Not Discussed, and that plausible deniability is key.
“I was eighteen,” Chase says at last. “It has no effect on my ability to do this job.”
“It has an effect on our ability to work with you,” Minerva says, and Kylie lifts her head, maintaining eye contact this time. “Whatever you answer is off the record.”
“Our father wanted us there,” Kylie says.
“And what did you want?” he asks Chase.
“What I did or didn’t want wasn’t important,” he says, and House nods, satisfied. No religious fervor: if there were, he’d have spouted the stock answer about wanting to serve God.
Guarded answers mean a mind perceptive enough to see the state’s faults and a belief system in enough disagreement with said state’s to demand caution.
Both of those are good things.
“You’re hired,” House says, “but I reserve the right to fire you if you turn out to be incompetent.”
Chase half-smiles.
“Don’t celebrate yet,” he continues. “In the interest of full disclosure and not having you quit sometime next week, you should know your job includes all of my paperwork, half the testing, irregular and late hours and all patient interaction before the point of circling the drain. Basically, I will work your ass off.”
A nod.
“Also. When we’re running a differential, I want your entire thought process. That means you in totality speaking out loud. If you have a thing about the etiquette involved with that, you definitely don’t belong here.”
“It won’t be a problem,” Kylie says.
He doesn’t let it show, but he likes to see signals of being able to adapt fast. “Good. Finally, whatever ethics you’ve got, either they’re pragmatically bendable or you’ll be swallowing a lot of objections.” He meets Chase’s gaze. “I assume you’ve heard something about how I practice.”
“Enough that I also know not to discuss it on the record,” Chase says, and House smirks.
“Nice.” He picks up the phone and dials Wilson’s extension. The phone rings twice, then Wilson picks up.
“House?”
“He’s hired. Tell Foreman to hand over whatever paperwork is involved.”
Wilson assents, and House returns the phone to its cradle and looks back to Chase. “Go see Wilson next door for that paperwork and any of mine he hasn’t done yet.”
“And Wilson is…?”
“Head of oncology,” House says. “He’ll pop in whenever the mystery illness might be cancer.”
If Chase thinks it’s odd that the head of oncology does House’s paperwork, he has more sense than to say so. He nods, rises and leaves, Kylie at his heels.
Discretion, Minerva says approvingly. Excellent quality in a minion.
It remains to be seen whether that quality will hold when he starts giving not-so-legal orders, but he calculates at least an even chance. And provided Chase makes a good sounding board and has reasonably intelligent ideas of his own, House can see him lasting here.
He surfs the ‘net aimlessly for half an hour—long enough for Chase sign a contract and get officially on staff—and then turns to the stack of referrals he’s been ignoring for the past few days and starts scanning symptoms. One of them might be worth taking, and he wants to know what his new employee is capable of; the paperwork will wait.
Twenty-nine-year-old female presents with seizure, loss of ability to speak and deteriorating mental status.
No protein markers for the big three brain cancers, or response to radiation, Minerva says, and grins as they set the file aside and pick up the phone to call Chase back in.
It might still be a brain tumor, but if it’s not…
Showtime.
END.
Note: Further details on the significance of the names and forms of the dæmons mentioned can be found here.
