Category: Prison Break/House M.D. Crossover (Gen, Humor, possibly CrackFic)
Summary: A mysterious downturn in his health puts Warden Pope in the clutches of House’s frequently lethal medical team.
Author’s Notes: Written for the pbreak_drabbles “Crossovers” challenge. This is fic #3, and not crossed with Supernatural for a change.
It was supposed to be a simple getaway weekend, for heaven’s sake. A Thursday night flight into Newark, a short drive to a lakeside Bed-and-Breakfast. Now Henry Pope has a tube down his nose and electrodes on his chest, and his wife is trading gourmet roast for hospital coffee.
In another room, the shakedown begins. “Differential diagnosis: overweight male, mid-60’s, no history of medical problems, presents with accelerated heart rate, vomiting, high creatinin levels, white count of 900, light sensitivity, and yellow fingers...”
An efficient, dark-skinned doctor swims before Pope’s eyes as a flashlight slivers his brain. Questions are murmured behind the beeping of machines, and when Pope wakes again a blond man is drawing a blood sample. He is sure introductions are made, perhaps more, but only his wife’s hand touching him matters as he sinks back into sleep.
“Stressful job,” House mutters over the test results. “Prison warden—must be a real hard-ass.”
“I thought he was rather nice,” Chase offers.
“Nice? Nice is for people with nothing better to do.”
Chase lifts his eyebrows and tips his head in a shrug. “Nothing conclusive on his CT-Scan either.”
“I feel worse,” Pope moans, his chest sore from the paddles and his veins burning from yesterday’s IV cocktail. “Are they killing me?”
Tears run down his wife's face, as she looks at his gray skin and shaking hands. "I don't know," she says.
“If he weren’t from out of town, we could ransack his house. Too bad we can’t send you to his prison.”
“I’m not doing that again ever, no matter how sick the patient is or where he comes from.”
Chase is funny when he puts his foot down, and House makes a face at him from across the room.
“I still say it could be a combination of a heart-attack pre-cursor, the flu, and excess medication,” Foreman puts in.
“Or similar, but with toxic exposure,” Cameron adds.
“I vote for Zombie,” Wilson comments, taking his turn at the coffee pot.
“Great—I’ll call Buffy, and you can bring the matches,” House answers.
Two days later, Pope’s stomach screams in hungry protest and the machinery in his room has halved.
“You look so much better, dear,” his wife whispers, tears escaping her weary eyes.
“I’m so sorry I worried you,” he answers. Her precious hand is encompassed in the strength of his own.
She deflects his self-punishing tendencies with a practiced, gentle manner. “Don’t blame yourself, sweetheart, please.”
“What was it?” he finally asks, ready to confront his brush with death.
“I don’t really know,” she says. “For awhile, I thought it was the treatment that was killing you.”
“Oh, I’m sure they knew what they were doing,” Pope says kindly. “But next time… let’s vacation in Orlando.”
“Anything you want, Henry.” And her smile is all his sustenance.
“You let him live?” Wilson digs.
“Yeah. Cuddy threatened me with lawyers if I didn’t.”
“Just wear the blue shirt—she’ll back off.”
“And you told me you’d never share…”
“She can have you, really.”