Chapter Text
“Any plans?” Foreman asks while you walk towards the locker rooms.
“Lots of beer.” Chase replies. “What about you?” He looks at you.
You grin at them: “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Oh, now I definitely do.” Foreman raises an eyebrow.
You throw your lab coat and badge into your locker and tell them: “I’m gonna take drugs I prescribed myself and be high as long as I can.”
Chase chuckles: “Yeah, right.”
“You really not going to tell us, huh?” Foreman closes his locker.
“Well, what about you?”
“There is a study in Boston going on that I’m interested in. I might drive up there tomorrow.”
You huff: “What on earth are you compensating for?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Chase puts on his leather jacket: “As long as he’s busy he doesn’t have to confront his emotional unavailability.”
“Wow.”
You give Chase a fist bump.
“Good night, guys.”
They give you a wave and leave, while you linger behind, pretending to sort out your bag.
After a good minute, you sit down on one of the benches with a groan. Even though the patient is fine and will be send home tomorrow, you brain is still on high alert. Your thoughts, even though mundane, are racing and your pulse just will not drop below ninety.
You had this happen before; when you’re stressed and don’t really sleep and stay hyper focused for such an ungodly amount of time, your body struggles to calm down. To drop out of overdrive, basically.
Usually, a tea, a book, and a high dose of sleeping meds will do the trick.
For some reason, however, you don’t feel like doing that. The best explanation you have for yourself, is that your social life is nonexistent, and you don’t really have an opportunity to ‘let go’. Like at a bar.
Sure, you sometimes – on rare occasions – go have a beer with Chase and Foreman, but you always feel the need to keep some sort of composure around them. You also worry, that you’ll talk too much. Specifically, about House.
Naturally, whenever the three of you are alone, House will come up at some point. Your worry is that you’ll make one comment that’s too blatantly suggestive and honest that you cannot backpaddle out of it.
You get the bottle of pills out of your bag and stare at it for a long moment. You have taken this before, and you’re a goddamn doctor specialized in psychopharmacology. Thereby, it’s easy for you to get access to the really good stuff – and also to know how and what to take.
“Party time.” You chuckle to yourself.
You go to the toilet. Eat a granola bar. Drink a healthy amount of water. And then some more to swallow the pills.
You grab your bag and head out, calling yourself a taxi on your way through the lobby.
It’s a cool autumn night, and you inhale the fresh air deeply and with a smile on your face. You could have taken the pills at home, but you want for them to kick while you’re on the way there. It makes the city lights and street lanterns look magical.
You wait by the parking lot, smoking a cigarette, looking up at the night sky.
“A doctor who smokes? Scandalous.”
“I know you do it too.” You look at House and get the pack out of your coat pocket, offering it to him.
He appears amused and takes it. One hand on his cane, he skillfully manages to open the pack with the other, push up a single cigarette with his thumb, and the take it with his lips. You watch him, probably a little too intense.
He hands you the pack back and you lean closer to light the cigarette up for him. His icy blue eyes stare at you while you do it, and you have to force yourself to focus on the flame to not burn yourself.
It’s quiet for a moment as you both take a pull on your cigarettes.
“I still think I was right.” You speak up.
House raises an eyebrow: “It was a complication with the brain tumor. Not actual schizophrenia.”
You shake your head: “The symptoms were there long before the brain tumor. They were just the reason we caught it.”
“Oh, I didn’t know they found a method to determine the exact ‘age’ of a tumor.”
You roll your eyes at his sarcastic tone.
“When you hear hoof beats-“
“Think horses, not zebras. Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“You’ll sleep better.” House says after another pull on his cigarette.
You scoff, hoping he didn’t actually catch on to your sleeping problems. Not that he seems like the person to vehemently disapprove of sleeping pills.
“But I think you already took care of that for tonight.” He adds.
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
He tilts his head, eyes darting over your body, as if he were assessing your state. It makes you shift uncomfortably.
You busy yourself by checking the time. You have to narrow your eyes to be able to read the time from your watch. It lets you know that not only is your taxi late, but also that the drugs are starting to take effect.
Another giveaway is that the lanterns of the parking lot start to appear brighter.
And of course, you had to meet House on your way out. You avoid getting intoxicated when Chase and Foreman are around to make sure you don’t say anything stupid, but then manage to be high in House’ presence.
“What are you still doing here anyway?” You ask him as if he hadn’t made the last comment.
“Stole pudding from the cafeteria.” He replies deadpan, making you burst out laughing.
Then, fucking finally, your taxi comes around the corner.
“Mind if we share?” House asks.
“Don’t you have a car?”
“At the repair shop.”
“Fine.” You shrug your shoulders. “But you pay.”
“You going to make the cripple pay?”
“Yes.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
The taxi stops and you open the passenger door, confirming your name.
Then you open the back door, looking at House expectantly, saying: “Cripples first.”
His lips twitch as if he were suppressing a grin, and he throws his cigarette on the ground, before getting in.
You walk around the car and get in on the other side.
The driver repeats your address, and you hum before closing your eyes for a moment. The sound of the car starting up is comforting to you, and you listen to the wheels on the asphalt and the gears being shifted.
After about a minute, you lean your head against the window to look outside, watching how the last shops are being closed down, and how the lights in the few bars that are nearby are still on, and how people are taking walks, wearing long coats and hats.
“I knew you were more fun than you let on.”
You flinch. You completely forgot that House is in the car as well.
When you turn towards him, you cannot help but smile at the view. He’s wearing his little slutty light blue turtleneck that always drives you insane.
“Come on.” He lowers his voice. “Tell me.”
You lean closer towards him. He leans closer towards you.
Your eyes dart over his stupidly pretty face and you forget what you wanted to reply.
“Take a guess.” You whisper finally.
He purses his lips: “So you admit it.”
“If you get it before we arrive at my apartment, you can come up.”
His eyes widen. You grin.
“I’m flattered.” He pauses, as if to give you time to say that you’re joking. When you don’t, he says: “I won’t take advantage of you being high and feeling frisky.”
“Funny you should say that.” You chuckle, leaning back into your seat. “Because how I see it, I’m taking advantage of my lonely boss that has a weak spot for young and equally shameless women.”
House bites his bottom lip. He stays quiet for another moment, but you know that he cannot, for the life of him, refuse. And if it’s just to find out what you took and enjoy you being flirty with him.
“Obviously a psychopharmaceutical.”
“Obviously.”
“How long ago did you take it?”
“Like thirty minutes.”
“When did it start to hit?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
“Makes sense.” He chuckles.
“What gave it away?”
“I got suspicious when I saw your pupils not reacting to the flame of the lighter.”
“Hmh.”
“More obvious was it when you barely were able to read your watch.”
“Great. You narrowed it down to like a thousand different meds.”
House rubs his chin, and you look out the window again, enjoying the view and how excited yet relaxed you feel.
“Half-life?”
“Average of fifteen hours.”
“The good stuff, huh?”
“Obviously.” You find his gaze again. “You’re running out of time, House.”
“How much did you take?”
“One point five milligram.”
He presses his lips together and you can see the wheels turning in his head.
The car comes to a stop.
“Lorazepam.”
A bright smile spreads on your face and House knows he’s right without you having to say anything. He grabs his wallet and pays the driver.
You giggle to yourself and get out of the car, walking towards the entrance of your apartment building, but waiting halfway there to let House catch up to you.
He follows you inside, and you cannot tell if he’s excited, nervous, or simply amused.
“No elevator. But first floor.” You tell him, pointing towards the stairs.
“Oh, had I known that…”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you before.”
“Devious.”
You walk up to the bottom of the stairs; one hand on the railing, you offer your other to House.
He looks like he wants to tell you off but then a small smile spreads on his lips and he grabs your hand.
You clasp his tightly and slowly make your way up the stairs with him.
Then, sneaky and shameless as you are, you don’t let go of it even when you made to the top. Somewhat surprisingly, House doesn’t do anything to stop you. He lets you guide him to your apartment door and waits for you to unlock it. All while still holding your hand. You press your lips together to not let out an embarrassingly delighted giggle.
You kick the door open and only then let go of his hand to switch on the light and take off your jacket. You make a wide gesture and tell him: “Mi casa es su casa.”
“Oh boy.” He mumbles, putting his backpack down. You are, honestly, somewhat proud that you are able to out-unhinge Gregory House.
“You want a beer?”
“You shouldn’t-“
“Alcohol free.” You interrupt him, nevertheless charmed by his concern.
“Then yes.”
You turn on your heels and prance towards the kitchen, enjoying how light your body feels.
The sound of his cane hitting the wooden floor announces House before he enters behind you.
He watches as you open the bottles and throw the caps into the sink as if they were a basketball. He shakes his head at your antics before taking one of the bottles and toasting.
“Come on.” You nod towards the living room.
While House takes a seat on the couch, you whirl around, switching on a few small lights and putting on music. Then you plop down next to him, propping your elbow up on the headrest of the couch, grinning at him.
“You seem awfully smug.” He tells you.
“Like you don’t like that.”
“Touché.”
“Have you ever taken lorazepam?” You ask him.
He shakes his head, and then asks: “Do you always do this to relax?”
You narrow your eyes at him and lean a little closer: “Are you assessing your employee? But also: no.”
House hums, eyes darting over your face. You can tell by now that he enjoys this but is hesitant to fully commit to the lunacy.
He then asks a question that is the gateway to shameless indulgence: “Have you ever taken Vicodin?”
“Nope.”
You look at each other and have the same stupid idea at the same time.
You jump to your feet and hurry to the hallway to get the bottle out of your bag.
When you return, House already has the bottle of his pills in his hands.
“You should start with half a milligram.” You say, as you get one pill out.
“Sounds reasonable.” He comments.
“I know, right?”
You’re really about to take (more) drugs with Greg House. Dionysus would be proud. First and foremost, though, you’re aroused.
House holds his open hand out, but you have a different idea.
You scoot closer to him, rest one hand on his knee, and put the pill on your tongue. He has a glimmer in his eyes, which only get more intense when he understands.
He leans in – thank god – and you kiss him.
You sigh and he opens his mouth so that you can push your tongue inside. He swirls his tongue around yours, welcoming the pill.
You lean back, watching as he swallows it.
He then, pretty hastily one might say, rips the bottle of Vicodin open.
“One or two?” He asks. You check the dosage.
“Two.”
“As you wish.”
He mirrors what you did, which makes you clench your thighs together, and puts them on his tongue. Then he’s the one to lean closer, putting both of his hands on your knees.
You kiss him again, hands clasping his face. He pushes his tongue onto your mouth and against the inside of your cheek. You feel the pills he leaves behind, but don’t break the kiss yet.
Instead, you push one hand into his hair, gripping it to keep him close.
Only when you can start to taste the pills becoming bitter on your tongue, you lean back to flush them down with beer.
While you do that, he takes two Vicodin himself.
You lean back into the couch with a chuckle, closing your eyes for a moment. You can feel the lorazepam cursing through your veins and wonder if you’ll even feel much of the Vicodin. Not only are you not in pain, but it’s also pretty tame compared to the full-on Benzodiazepine you took.
When a song you really like comes on, you spring to your feet and offer House your hands. He looks hesitant but cannot resist your excited demeanor.
He takes your hands and lets you pull him to his feet. Leaving his cane by the couch, he follows you to the middle of the living room, where you have some space to move.
You know that he relies on you keeping him standing, so you stay very close – which you probably would have done anyway.
House looks down at you, one hand holding on to your upper arm, the other resting on your side.
“What’s the song called?” He asks, following your swaying motions.
“Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes lots of sense.”
Before he can make another comment, you start to bounce up and down and loudly sing along:
It's too late to articulate it
That empty feeling
You share the same fate as the people you hate
You build yourself up against others' feelings
And it left you feeling empty as a car coasting downhill
I have become such a negative person
It was all just an act
It was all so easily stripped away
House eyes are fixed on you and with every line he seems more enamored. Even though you’re a terrible singer.
“Come on, House. I know you can sing.”
“I don’t know the lyrics.”
“Wait for the chorus then.”
“I-“
You stop bouncing for a moment to kiss him again. It makes him grab your waist with both hands, squeezing it.
“I was worried I have to exchange drugs with you to make that happen again.” He murmurs.
You give him a smile and then say: “Okay, listen to the chorus. I expect great things.”
You start to bounce again, building up to the switch of the tempo.
When it happens, it hits your brain like another dose of drugs, but better.
It doesn't have to be like this
It doesn't have to be like this
It doesn't have to be like this
Killer whales, killer whales
House starts to sing along quietly. And even though you asked him to twice, you’re surprised that he does it at all.
As the chorus repeats, he gets louder. You stop because you much rather listen to his voice. Which is, like you guessed, great.
“Happy?” He asks, pretending to be annoyed.
“Very.” You reply, pulling him in for another kiss.
He kisses you back, a lot more intense than before. You highly enjoy it, pressing your body into his; your hands wandering over his back.
He tilts his head to the other side, pushing his tongue into your mouth again.
You lose track of time, and only realize that you made out for several minutes because a different song starts playing.
Breathing heavily, you walk back to the couch with House, pushing him into the cushions. He smiles excited as you climb into his lap. You straddle him, cautious of his leg, and ask: “Is this okay?”
House nods, grinding you down on him.
It makes you groan, and you roll your hips, following the urging of his hands. He lets them wander upwards, finding your tits and squeezing them. It makes you smile against his mouth, and he weighs them in his hands before continuing his journey upwards until he reaches your neck. He presses down on the sides of it ever so slightly, making you gasp.
Panting, you rest your forehead against his, enjoying the warmth and closeness of his body. You then kiss his temple and ask: “Do you feel anything yet?”
“Oh, I feel a lot right now.” He replies, his hips bucking up.
You snicker and find his eyes: “The drugs, I mean.”
“A bit.”
You hum, playing with his hair. You get lost in his eyes for a moment, until he starts: “Listen, I-“
You let your hands fall to his shoulders.
“I don’t know.”
You try your best to form a coherent thought. You come up with: “You can sleep here. If we both still wanna make out sober, we’ll do that. Otherwise, this was simply a fun night we can think about at the hospital and chuckle.”
He slowly nods but says nevertheless: “You know I’m not the best…company.”
“If that turns out to be true, I’ll just put some more drugs in your coffee.”
“God, you really are a lot more fun than you let on.”
You kiss his cheek and get out of his lap.
In the bathroom, you find him a new toothbrush and when you’re both done, you say: “Bedroom is down the hallway.”
“You’re not coming?” He muses.
“I need to pee.”
“Women do that?”
“Do you have a piss kink?”
He blinks: “No.”
“Then get out.”
“Okay, okay.” He laughs to himself and closes the door behind him.
After you’re done, you wash your face and drink from the faucet. You’re still high, obviously, but by now the induced sleepiness starts to make itself known. Which is great timing. You’re proud for so perfectly dosing yourself.
You find House sitting on the edge of your bed, his turtleneck thrown aside, but still wearing his jeans.
You don’t comment on it. You simply find him a pair of oversized sweatpants and hand it to him. Then you turn around to give him the opportunity to change without you looking. Meanwhile, you hope he shows you the same courtesy, as you change into your sleepshirt and shorts.
You’re already done, but you can hear the sound of fabric that lets you know he’s still changing. You wait, folding your clothes instead and lay them on the dresser neatly.
Only when you hear the bedsheets rustle, you turn around and get into bed as well.
Even though you begin to yawn, you’re also giddy because of House’ presence.
He glances at you and scoots down until his head hits the pillow. You praise yourself for not only having several blankets in your bed at all times, but also an abundance of pillows.
House turns to look at you, hand under his chin. You lay on your side as well to face him, getting comfortable at the same time.
“Wanna talk about boys?” He asks in a high-pitched voice.
“Sure.” You nod.
“Who’s the most attractive doctor at the hospital?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Easy.” You grin. “Wilson.”
“Ouch!” He clutches his chest.
“As if you wouldn’t tap that.”
“You’re way too horny.”
“Pff. You wanted to talk about boys.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then pauses.
Instead, he lifts his hand to rest it on the side of your face. You enjoy the skin contact and turn your head to kiss his palm.
“You want to make out some more?” House asks.
You hum and scoot even closer, until you can tilt your chin and find his lips. His hand wanders to the back of your head, urging you to prolong the kiss. You sigh and slither your hand under his shirt, feeling his chest and then scratching over his pectorals.
It causes his hips to jerk forwards, making your grin.
“You’re especially attractive when you’re smug.” He whispers.
“Thanks. I always get wet when you’re arrogant and self-assured.” You blurt out.
You put your hand over your mouth, shocked by your own words; and regretting to have admitted that.
“You really know how to work me up.”
You hide your face fully in your hands, groaning. “Please forget that I said that.”
“No chance. I’m going to jerk off thinking about it.”
“Jesus Christ.” You breathe out.
House pulls your hand away from your face. You expect him to taunt you, but he kisses you instead. Gently so.
“Night, House.” You say when you break the kiss.
“Night.” He says.
You turn around to switch off the light. As soon as it’s off and you lay back down, House’ hand comes to rest on your tit.
You think of something snarky to say, but then retaliate by pushing your hand under his blanket and grabbing his crotch instead. He inhales sharply and you bite your lip to not make a comment about his dick being half hard. You give it a stroke and then ask: “We done here?”
House clears his throat and takes his hand away, so do you.
You both let out a chuckle and then move to really get comfortable. It’s quiet for a long time.
You listen to House’ breathing as sleep slowly takes over.
Suddenly, he speaks up: “I liked the song.”
“Hmh.” You nod even though he cannot see you. “I like you, House.”
And with that, you’re asleep.
requests for part 2 welcome! (smut will happen)