They might just do that. Tim's mother was incredibly disappointed when he didn't go to med school, btw.He might have been afraid of germs. I think that was why. So I imagined Tim's relation to medicine like mine to psych. I read a lot about psychology for a woman who *didn't* become a shrink. So an epidemiologist like Dr. House comes to town, I could definitely see him wanting to be present, in a "Sliding Doors" kind of thing.

the invitation of her fishnet stockings rendered macabre by her being so obviously dead

I esp. like this.

Thanks...the muse Chandleria has blessed me.

More...
“You care about these women, don’t you?” House asked. “Even if you don’t know them and you find the way that they lived repugnant to your many sensibilities? Even if they do things that make you shake your head, like put their mouths on strangers’ naughty parts and take drugs?” As he said “drugs”, House felt his pills kick in, and thanked a God he didn’t believe in. “Why?”

“It’s who I am, sir.” Tim said simply. “And I’m not going to apologize for that.”

“Again, you mean...”

”I think we’re getting off track...”

”Oh, Bayliss. We were doing so well. Don’t start hemming and hawing now.” Using his other hand, House thumped the desk so hard that Wilson paused on his way down the hall to see what was up. “I warned you about the dragon on level four didn’t I? It’s a real heartbreaker, isn’t it?” the oncologist quipped.

“I’m on the phone,” House said. “Long distance.”

“Those women aren’t as sexy as they sound, you know. Well, off to cheat death for another day.”

”What do you know about Baltimore?”

”About as much as any cable subscriber. Why?”

“ I think we should plan a little field trip.”

“I hate it when you look at me like that.” “Ok, yeah.” Bayliss said. “I’m through apologizing.”

”Great. My colleague and I are thrilled to help with your science project.”

House clicked End, cutting short Tim’s effusive thanks. “Ok,” Wilson said, “ Let me pretend I have some free will left and ask what’s in Baltimore.”

House told him.
“We have sick hookers in New Jersey, Greg. You probably know...you’d be more likely to watch COPS than I. What’s so mysterious about addiction, hepatitis, and PID?”

“The nifty crab cakes.”House said.

“Ok...if you’re not telling me, the caller must have sobbed.”

House, irritated, said “He did not.”

“Did he beg? Rumor is, you like it when they beg.”
“He called me ‘sir”. All that respect turned my self-effacing little head.’

“OK, fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll just be surprised with the Irregulars.”

Damn, erika. This is great. I cannot wait for the inevitable House v. Pembleton confrontation.

Me either...all that ego in one room? I'm kind of not sure I can do it, though.

A very short Buffy fic, written in response to a challenge in which I was given 30 minutes to write and 15 to edit. The challenge prompt was "the blood that falls from heaven."

There came a point when Buffy had to admit to herself that being the Slayer was no longer just something she did. Being the Slayer was something she was.

Oddly enough, it wasn't some apocalypse or personal tragedy that drove the point home. It was something much, much simpler, so simple that she didn't think she could explain it to Willow or Xander.

And as for when she realized this?

The date was August 17, 1998, a hot, muggy night for patrol. She was in the woods just a few miles from campus and had stopped for a moment to see if she could hear anything unusual when she felt something warm and wet strike her cheek.

She looked up into the treetops, stake at the ready, and yelped in surprise as another drop caught her square in the eye.

After wiping the wetness from her eye, she spent a good two minutes trying to think of what kind of demon might possibly have clear blood before she realized that it had started raining.

OK, I'm vain. Shoot me. But read this first.

House, no spoilers:

Mornings Are The Hardest

The people at the doctor’s office told him the mornings would be the hardest, in that chipper, office staff sort of way he loathed before he was crippled enough to be this bitter. He has even more reason to wonder what the hell people *smile* at so much. Just grinning away like chimps about nothing. “Looks like *somebody’s* having a blue Monday.” Christ. He can hear it now. Cameron doesn’t smile like a chimp...it’s worse. She’s a true believer. It’s just too sad. She’ll want to be helpful all day now. He wonders how far he could take that. Could he get her to beat the life out of that dingy idiot in the Rehab clinic...she could use one of his canes. It might be worth doing for the irony. Except for Cuddy.He can only push Cuddy so far. He knows. He has a chart.

He grunts, rubs his knee. Hardest implies there are times when it is easier. There really aren’t. Just times when the hell recedes, just a bit. When Forman has to admit he was right, at lunch with Wilson, and, damn it, sometimes when Cameron smiles. If she wouldn’t read too much into it, he would ask her how she smiles and gets her eyes into it too. Has he ever done that? He doesn’t remember anymore; not with this fucking burning arrow in his thigh. Life is funny like that...constant throb drowns out the little stuff.

By some miracle, he makes it to the clinic, finds a bunch of sniffling drones wanting their Zyrtec, dying to swatch their mucus for him.

It’s not quite a punchline; research has borne it out, but none of the patients understand his bitter smile when he says “Mornings are the hardest.”

I've never posted in this thread before. I have almost no love for writing and zero skill for fanfic.

That said, I'm glad some people have Mad Skillz with fanfic - Awesome job Anne and erika both!