milliways_bar | (no subject)

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As it turns out, Vinnie wasn't responsible for the bar in my house - that was just some strange happenstance of the space-time continuum. He did try to steal my biology paper though, but, as it turns out, he learned his lesson and ended up writing the paper himself. Sometimes those life lessons do get through.

"And sometimes I end up walking into a bar instead of a patient's room. What is with this place?"

Seventeen year old doctor wearing his lab coat and carrying a clipboard looking mildly annoyed at his re-entry to Milliways.

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"So ask for a day's supply."

This seems rather simple to Doogie.

House shakes his head. "You're new here, aren't you?" he asks, as if that explains everything.

"Second trip here, but yeah, new."

A nod.

He's trying to look pitiful.

"You're giving me puppy-dog eyes? Now I don't know if you just want to look pathetic or you're trying to ask me out."

Gotta run with the jokes that work.

House kept his gaze level. "Do you want me to ask you out? Or do you want me to play Daddy?"

His brain twitches over that, but he retorts with: "To some people, that could actually be one in the same request."

Wow - he has been hanging around Vinnie waaaaaay too long.

"Damn. You got me there." House moves to stand, cane in hand. "We can go upstairs right now if you want." He's being glib now. Over exaggerating. He's almost forgotten about wanting his pills. Almost.

The Doogie-brain goes: *meep*.

"Uh... er... I - uh - don't think my - uh - girlfriend would like that much."

Gulp.

"My boy would know, you're gonna talk the talk, you gotta walk the walk." House gestures toward the stairs with his cane.

"Excuse me?" He blinks and takes a minute to try to tip this back into jokes...

"You can't afford me."

Because that sounds so much better.

House is grinning. He likes catching people off guard.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yup."

Only not.

There's also that flicker of hope in the back of his head that this all is just a joke.

"Anybody can be bought, son, and the going rate isn't always money." For instance, House himself could be bought for a bottle of Vicodin.

"Almost anyone can be bought. So, what's your going rate, dad?"

"I already told you what I want." He taps his cane against the side of his foot.

"Where's your pain currently on the pain scale?"

Back into doctor mode...

"And how often does it peak?"

"1 to 10? Right now, about an 8." He was, more or less, honest about that. Of course on his persoonal scale, the pain never dropped below a 5, even with the pills.

"You know that I can't, in good conscience, give you a presciption if you're not going to follow the label instructions, right?"

"I follow the instructions." He can lie that lie well, his eyes bright and focused. It's a well practiced lie. "I told you I want the script so I don't have to come downstairs every time I'm due. You want to take a look at my leg? Nothing else works."

"No, I don't want to look. But I would like to know what really happened. You don't look the military type."

"I was ten when 'Nam started." Give or take. He remembered watching it on the television. He remembered his mother sitting by the phone, waiting for the call that said his father wouldn't come home. But he had come home.

House sits back down, and rubs the handle of his cane under his chin. "A little advice from you to me, kid. Don't trust women. Don't let your girlfriend have the right to make medical decisions. Even if she is a lawyer."

He shifts the cane and taps it against his forehead before going back to rubbing it under his chin. "I had an infarction, initially misdiagnosed as muscle strain. By the time I figured it out, a third of the muscle was dead. My doctor wanted to amputate. I refused to sign the papers. I asked for a medically induced coma, and my girlfriend authorised a debridement to remove the necrotic tissue. I've tried every pain management option out there, and Vicodin is the only thing that works so I can function."

Doogie takes a seat as he starts talking and just - listens. He might take a couple notes on the blank sheet of paper at the back of the chart he's been holding since he stepped into the bar - nothing major, just notes for himself.

"Is the pain regularly at an 8, or does is usually stay lower than that?"

"It's at an 8 because I had my pills an hour ago. Might hit 8 1/2 or 9, but it'll drop a lot quicker."

"It only drops to 8 when you take the meds?"

This he finds unusual, but he doesn't know of anything different that would help. Not right now anyway.