"I understand there's nothing like the moment when those vacant blue eyes look at you in wonder and those little hands grip your finger, but you tell him he has to make time for the baby, too, okay?"

One of the all time great lines.

Sometimes it scares me that I could get in House's head. Thank you. Even though I, personally, love Vince Chase and think he's a lot deeper than he looks, I have to concede that he'd pretty much have to be. It's fun coming up with those burns though, because the Entourage-verse kind of rolls over for Vin, and if it doesn't, those are bad guys. Personally, I think Vince needs a Snape, if you'll follow me. Somebody who's on his side, but still makes it kind of hard for him for some sort of personal reason. If I've had one, it wouldn't be weird for a huge movie star to have one, right?

The whole hospital thing in House last week made me think of another show with a (possibly) crazy character. House/Cupid1.0

With some difficulty, House ducked Alvy in the dining hall, though his bipolar roommate was the closest to a human equivalent to Julie Wilson's barky dog that House had ever seen.As he limped by, he heard the phrase "thinks he's stupid," and congratulated the unseen bearer of the sentiment on his apparent discernment. As the overheard chat between doctor and social worker went on, House heard "Mount Olympus" "wood nymphs" and an impressive display of graphic sexual acts.Oh, House thought, he thinks he's *cupid*

The blonde social worker argued with Cupid. "Now, Mr. Hale...we've talked about your sitting on the tables...is that appropriate use of hospital furniture?"

House rolled his eyes. The minor deity appeared not to notice. "Hey, I'm Trevor Hale...I'm inappropriate. Not half as much as if I had her spread-eagled on top of it...you know what I mean?"

"Greg House...doctor, addict, and master manipulator." The men shook hands.

"Hey, that's cool...I've worked with brainy guys before. And might I add that's a nice metaphor you've got there."

"That's what she said."

"Funny...I like it. And the ladies do too. Unless your interests lie elsewhere..."

"They definitely do not."

"Really? Because I may not look like it in yet another cuckoo's nest, man, but I've been at this for a long time, and you do sort of give off a bi vibe...of course, who doesn't when the right centaur comes along...this culture over-politicizes Eros...it's horrible." He bounded off the table.

"You don't seem to have a problem with it."

"I go back thousands of years...it gives you mad perspective as well as more fig-leaved tchotchkes than you can shake a stick at, doc. But there's nothing betwen me and Honeypants, MSW except a mutual migraine, I swear. If you've lost the on-ramp to passion, she's not even looking at the same map. But I do like to screw with her in the non-naked sense...now, it's much more fun to be crazy in Chicago."

"I know this one...it has something to do with that baseball team that loses all the time, right?"

"Hey, ease up on the Cubbies. But, no, even though half their hitters had romantic setbacks last year, baseball is only part of it..part of it is my last doctor, Claire.She was dark and lovely, and a total pain in my ass."

"I might know the type."

"Then you feel my pain."

"I didn't say that. Do I look like Oprah? Or Bill Clinton?"

"A little, around the eyes...I'm just fucking with you."

"I never would have guessed."House replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, you know, look where we are. I figure my worst problem isn't over-exposition."

House shrugged. "I have to go make a spleen in crafts. When I get back, we can talk about how your devotion to a losing franchise isn't rational and, that, statistically, you'd be happier as a Yankee fan."

"Argh...moneyball?! I'd rather die first. That is, if I could die, being immortal. And when are you medical types going to learn that being happy isn't measured by statistics?"

"You really can't die?"

"No. I'm a god. Like "Deus ex machina' without the machina. You're a genius; keep up." Trevor's tone was elaborately patient.

"Bummer. Because if you can't die, where's your incentive to do things. Like stop eating jello in your bathrobe and..."

"Well, you know what the poet said 'Only God can make a spleen' And, you know, right this minute, it's kind of hard to tell you busted ass at Johns Hopkins."

"Stop reading my file. You know, I could report you for that."

"You wouldn't though, I can tell."

A story appeared in my head. The way things have been, I greet all stories with eager, open arms.

Stargate Atlantis/SG-1, for Christmas

After declassification of the Stargate Program, thousands upon thousands of letters and emails poured in to the special addresses that had been set up. An entire staff supplied with the official FAQ answered the messages. There were standard replies for the xenophobes and the xenophiles, the people who decried the costs of the project, and the ones who wanted autographed pictures of everyone who had gone out into space.

One letter, though, was passed up to the director of the department, then to the PR officer, then to the assistant of the commanding officer.

Jack O'Neill leaned his elbows on his desk while he rubbed his temples fretfully. "It was supposed to solve problems, they said. The people would settle down eventually, they said." He opened his eyes and stared down at a flier that had been discovered that announced the Church of the Ancients. A glowing figure stood with arms outstretched, and it didn't take too much squinting to see that the figure's face was Daniel Jackson's. Rumor had it that a dart board had appeared in Daniel's office and that this flier appeared on the board regularly.

A knock on his office door made him groan. "Yes?"

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," Walter said. He was carrying a piece of paper. Jack hated pieces of paper. "An odd email has come in to the comment line."

"Not another question about the sex habits of the Wraith?"

"No, sir."

"Nothing about sex in zero-G?"

"Um, no, sir."

"Because I've noticed a trend in these emails."

"It's from a six-year-old, sir."

"I've become very cynical in my old age, Walter." He put out a hand. "Let me see."

Walter handed over the printout. Jack tried extending his arm far enough to read the small print, then sighed and reached for his reading glasses.

"Dear Stargate Command:

"My name is Dylan, and I'm 6 years old. Does Santa go to Atlantis? I watched Santa last year on your Norad tracker, and Mommy says they couldn't show Santa going to Atlantis because we weren't supposed to know Atlantis exists. But now we do know, and I don't think Santa has time to get to Atlantis on Christmas Eve along with everybody else, even with wormholes. Don't they get to have Christmas?"

"Huh," Jack said.

"Santa going to Atlantis is not included in the standard FAQ sheet, sir," Walter replied. "The response team doesn't know what to say."

"What, nobody down there has read 'Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus'?"

"I don't think they wanted to put Stargate Command in a position of officially declaring Santa Claus as real."

"Hmph. If I have to put up with a universe with the Ori and the Wraith, I'm having Santa Claus, too." He pulled off his glasses decisively. "Get me whoever's in charge of the Santa Tracker on the phone."

"Yes, sir."

• 13 minutes later*

"General? Colonel Evangelyne McDonald, Norad Santa Tracker, Line 3."

"Thanks, Walter. Colonel McDonald, this is General O'Neill over at SGC."

"How do you do, General?" Colonel McDonald's voice sounded very puzzled. "It's an honor to speak to the SGC, but are you sure you've reached the correct department?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure. Listen, we got an email from a kid who's a fan of your Santa Tracker, and he wants to know if Santa goes to Atlantis and why you don't show him headed, I don't know, out of the galaxy."

Colonel McDonald laughed. "We got a couple of emails like that this year. We told them that Norad is only geared to track Santa in Earth space and we don't have the range to track him to the Pegasus Galaxy."

Jack nodded. "Good answer, but I've got a clever kid here who's worried that Santa doesn't have time to get there and back on Christmas Eve. Do you think if your computer people and my computer people had a brief chat that we could account for a few minutes flight time?"

"Well, I don't see why not. We've got him scheduled for a stop at the International Space Station, (continued...)

( continues...) I think that's a good jumping off point for a trip to Pegasus. Someone's bound to ask if he takes a tour through the other galaxies, you know."

"We'll tell them that he drops off a special load in Atlantis and that the folks out there take care of distribution."

She laughed again. "I'll make sure to get the FAQ updated on our end. Anything else, General?"

"Nope, good working with you, Colonel. Merry Christmas."

"Joyeux Noel, General."

Jack hung up the phone. "Walter!"

"Sir?"

"We've got some work to do."

• Christmas Eve*

Dylan stared at the computer screen. "Mommy!"

"What is it, honey?"

"Mommy, look!"

She leaned over to look at the update page of the Norad Santa Track. Santa had just finished at the International Space Station, and the Next Stop ticker said "Pegasus Galaxy, Atlantis. We regret we have no tracking systems in that area but we should pick Santa up again in about ten minutes when he returns to Earth."

"They *do* get Christmas, Mommy! But how can he get there so fast?

She kissed Dylan's head and chuckled. "I think between Santa and the Stargate, anything's possible."

Look, when I wrote this I thought it was too dumb to post(Jilli, I tease because I love) but I'm just dying to get attention for my Yuletide fic and I have to stay in the wind for a bit, so, here's one of my only attempts at RPF.

The Only Kind Of RPF I Could Ever Write

"Hey, isn't that..."

"Nah, what are the odds...just cause it's Chicago and we're f2fing here...no, it's definitely not."

"I think it is...huh, not quite as foamy in person, is he?"

"It's eight AM...who's sexy now?"

"Fay.."

"The accent gives her an unfair advantage."

"Quick, Fay, .say 'Don't hate the player, hate the game."

"Aw, look, she's blushing...is Not!Piven looking over here?"

"Dude, I love that you're not typing that? And yet, still hear the exclamation point."

"Cool."

"I dare somebody to go over there and tell him he's not as hot in person."

"Jilli, send Clovis."

"Clovis actually did stab the President of Paraguay with a fork...he hates to be reminded.And I have my suspicions about what happened to that man's sushi, besides.Come, Clovis!"And the head of Gothic Charm School swept grandly out of the coffee shop.

"Well, I have to know if it is." I pushed forward and when it seemed that he would be looking, pushed back. Several times.

Finally, an unmistakable voice yelled out "Speak! Declare yourself...go ahead and say it, I know you want to.But not too loudly...it seems you might want to hug it out on a day when my voice in my own head is too loud." he winced.

"Well, here's the thing. I'm dying."

"Did you close out a season too? Jesus, I'm not the young sprout I used to be. But you may not quote me on that."

"No, the details are too painful,..."

"How about your friend?"

"No, she's healthy...she's just British."

"Ok, then I *want* her to say 'hug it out, bitch" but at Wimbledon sound levels, please."

She does and charms us both.

"Okay, now, I have two questions... do you know Mary Poppins of the Damned that was just in here, and are you absolutely sure you're dying?"

"Her name is Jilli and she's very cool."

"I'm sure she's the most normal grown person that ever went out with a stuffed rabbit in public."

"Hey, I saw a picture of you with Lindsay Lohan!"

"Point taken. Reluctantly.And you never answered my second question."

"Well, you know, eventually. With global warming and all that, who knows?"

"Eventually?"

Ok, I wrote this because apparently I'll never see Malibu without thinking of somebody's mangy trailer in the background. Or maybe I want to seduce Nick Hornby.(If I do, write me hot, okay, Nick? Ta ever so.) [link] It's Entourage/ Rockford files. Gen, just a little comment fic.

Another one for Fay... Numbers/ Entourage The Eppes' were having bagels and lox when suddenly Mr. Eppes said "I'm sorry, Charlie. I forgot to tell you.Somebody from Vincent Chase's office called while you were in class yesterday. A nice young man. Eric Something."

"Who?"Charlie looked as vague as if his dad had begun speaking in tongues.

"You do this just to fuck with me, don't you?" Don asked. "Admit it...we went to Aguaman together. Remember?"

"Don't get started on that movie again...the human brain's completely incompatible with that kind of sonar...that kind of bad science makes me insane."

"Compared to what? C'mon, I know you do the hermity-genius thing, and you're great at it, but that was one of the biggest movies of the decade..."

"Okay, so, Dad, what would a guy like that want with someone like me..."

"I don't know...maybe he wants you to check some math for him."

"I'm not H&R Block."

"I hope you won't be this dismissive when you talk to him on the phone." Alan Eppes said. "I raised you better than that."

"Ok, but I hope he's not too Hollywoody...you know, all about macrobiotics and botox."

"I take it back," Don said. "You weren't holding out on me at all."

A FEW MONTHS EARLIER "Wouldn't this article make an interesting script? Vinny Chase asked. "I can totally see myself playing this guy."

"Okay?" Eric Murphy said, a quizzical frown wrinkling his forehead. "But that guy does theoretical mathematics, and you? Count on your fingers sometimes."

"But he's so into it, E. That's the part I think I could play...the passion behind the pocket protector."

"You're serious...you're not just fucking with me?"

"The critics are driving me crazy, calling me just a pretty-boy actor...I want to play someone substantial."

"Let me see what he looks like,"E offered." because we've already seen substantial mean ugly

Part 2 of my as yet untitled Entourage/ Numbers fic. "Fine, Vinny," Gold said. "Make your little math movie. Because nothing keeps butts in the seats like the former Aguaman doing equations. You could even add some sex appeal and film your dental cleaning."

"Hey," Vinny argued. "I'd still fight crime. Just without the suit."

"Forensic crime-solving is very hot right now," E. offered. "As are biopics."

"I thought you hated this idea," Vinny reminded his friend. "What changed?"

"Watching him hate it made me think there might be something good in it. Also, I saw Professor Eppes' picture and this time you won't be buried in weight and latex."

"Don't make this movie because Eric has a crush. Let me wait and get you something viable."

"We have a studio director attached. In theory, anyway."

"From where...one of Vinny's Facebook fans?"

"Ridley Scott...but he's not going to be thrilled that you're involved...he, uh, kind of hates you."

"What's your point?"Ari snapped. "If I ruled out doing business with people who disliked me I'd be driving a minivan, Eric."

"Well," Vince said, as if the meeting had gone perfectly well..."We're on our way to the university to meet with him and see what his life's like."

"Sounds thrilling."

Charlie had his weekly meeting with Amita, trying to look for a comment to make about an almost perfect theorem when he casually mentioned Chase's visit. Of all the variables he'd ever imagined while leaning over her desk and being close enough to feel her breath on his cheek(some of which made him feel both knock-kneed and terribly unprofessional0 he was unprepared to see her squeal and giggle while a suspicious color rose in her cheeks.

'What? Oh, I know I'm being star-struck and ridiculous."

"It's true, I never have heard you make that sound before...I think you hit ranges that only dogs could hear."

"A lot of guys have never seen that side of me...you could, though."

"Excuse me?"

"Because you're such a perceptive advisor. And because I trust you."

Charlie felt color flood his own cheeks and he had to think of prime numbers to regain his composure. Amita was about to leave when Chase and his friend Eric knocked lightly.

"Amita, this is Vincent Chase...Amita was just leaving." "Charlie, don't be rude." "yes, I'd love to have someone around to ...check my work. Are you going to be around later?'" "Well, I could be," Amita noticed Charlie's frown. "But probably not...one of these days I'd like to talk "Aguaman" though."

More Numb3rs/Entourage(although the boys from Queens aren't in this bit) The family had dinner one night shortly after the actor, Chase, began showing up at the university and just...watching Charlie all day. " He wants to make a movie about my life."Charlie explained. "Do I *want* a movie about my life?"

"Of course," Alan said, proud father all the way."You've accomplished a lot. Toot your own horn a little."

"I don't have to, Dad. You do it for me."

"What, so I occasionally mention..."

"I heard you tell someone at Ralph's that we are a 'crime solving team'."

"Really?" And Alan noticed that the look that passed between the brothers could only be described as sympathy. "Dad, don't do that."

"At the risk of sounding hopelessly square, why not?"

"Do you really want to know? Really-really?"

"That's generally why people ask things, isn't it?"

Don fiddled with his salad fork. "You'd be surprised. " He took a deep breath. "Because it makes me feel like I should be wearing a utility belt and tights and sliding down a pole to the hebe-mobile, okay? happy now?"

"I certainly am not happy about that, Don," his father responded. "I hoped you'd have more pride in your heritage."

"I do...it's just that..." He waved his arms around. "All of this...is a lot to live down at work."

"The probability of the next sentence out of Dad's mouth referencing the Emanuel Brothers, Sandy Koufax, or Israel is at approximately 59%."

"That's a given...what are the odds that I can chill this out?"

'Shrinking by the minute, especially since you did it again."

"Did what?"

'Even in your weird, and I'm gonna agree with Dad, slightly self-hating hero fantasy, you're the hero, and I'm stuck in the Batmobile being your Wonder Boy."

"Boy wonder," Don corrected. "As I've told you about a million times over our lifetime."

"It couldn't be more than a few thousand," Charlie replied. "Because you got into comics when you were, like, what? Eight? Then there were the years we didn't talk every day, and it's not like you start the FBI briefings with Batman references."

"Nobody likes a smarty-pants genius,Charlie," his father chided.

"Ok, be imprecise...see if I care." And one of the brightest teaching minds in California stuck his tongue out at his big brother, in a most un-genius fashion.

"I will and I'll enjoy the hell out of it, too. Thanks. Jesus Christ."

"Don...language."

"For what? Jesus? We're Jews...it shouldn't even be a curse for us....It should be like getting ticked off and yelling out 'Norman Shapiro' or something."

"That argument didn't work when your brother tried it, and it won't work now."

"Yeah, but there's a difference...he was ten and I'm thirty-five." Maybe Don shouldn't treasure that memory quite so much, but it was one of the few times he ever saw Charlie Get It like any other kid, instead of their parents having hushed discussions about him in the master bedroom, or louder ones with his teachers...it was one of the few times he felt like he was on the same planet with his brainy brother growing up.

"Is it so wrong to want to give my boys an oasis from the rough world?"

"No..." Both brothers sounded chastened.

"Good."

"What are you working on now, Charlie?",br>

"Pretending you care?"

"No, pretending I can understand."

"Huh..."

"I discovered it...I can call it anything I want," Charlie said defensively.

"Charlie, I've seen less guilty faces on posters at the post office. What?"

Don read his brother's chart,titled "Vincent Chase's Vector of attraction." "Well, if I read this right, you didn't discover this. Ari Gold did."