Disclaimer: Neither Steph or I own House or any other character from the show. But we're taking bets on which one of us would bag him if we had the chance.
Author's Note: This is not my story, it belongs to my friend Steph. Well that's not her name, but I can't very well tell you her real name. Steph wrote this one-shot for me after she read my own House fan fic. She refused to create her own account to post this so I promised to do it for her. But I told her if this story gets ten positive reviews in one week she has to start her own account and post more of her work. :evil grin:
"Mmf. Your elbow's on my hair."
" Well, why do you have so much of it? Completely inefficient."
" I use it to trap hapless male victims and drag them down to a watery grave."
House snorted in an approximation of laughter. " I knew it."
There was silence. Not comfortable, but rather expectant, as if the air was heavier than conventional physics would dictate it possible. " I suppose I should be going," she finally said.
More silence, then a sigh. "Got a hot date?" House quipped, striving for irony.
"Bastard," she sniffed. "No. This was all...a happy accident, but I don't imagine you're much for cuddles and pillow talk and picking out china patterns. And the conference is paying for a nice room at the hotel, and I hate to think of it going to waste." The silence was finally dispelled by the rustle of sheets and the emphatic click of a bedside lamp.
The light caught her shrugging back into her dress, and she turned her back as she sat on the edge of the bed. "Would you?" House saw to her zipper, watching mutely as she rose. "Where did my shoes end up?"
" One of them should be by the piano," he answered quietly. " Look...aw, fuck. This is awkward. Can I call you or...?"
She turned around, finally, her hair fabulous disarray, and smiled at him tenderly. "Greg...Yes. Yes, you can call me, but you won't. This---all of this normal give-and-take stuff-----won't work for you." Soundless in her bare feet, she took a few steps closer and settled on the edge of the bed once more, looking down at him with a hint of sorrow.
" You want my professional opinion?"
"No."
" You're fucked up."
" Super bedside manner, Doc. I can see why you psychologists make the big bucks."
" You want jargon? I can talk about dissociative condition, if you'd like, or pervasive problems with intimacy related to post-traumatic stress disorder." Her gaze fell to his leg, hidden by the bedclothes. " Hell, I could probably make an argument for borderline sociopathy. But the truth is that you need to take a week off, go out to dinner, drink some twelve year old scotch, and get yourself a damn girlfriend."
House stared at her for a moment. " And you're not interested in applying for that position," he finally muttered. " Now I feel cheap."
"Yes...no. No." She ran her fingers through her hair with a frustrated little huff. "This was good, Greg. Really, really good." A hint of pink heated her cheeks and a sheepish grin confirmed that she had, yes, enjoyed herself. "But if we got together, I'd be wanting to fix you and you'd be wanting to kill me before the month was out. You need someone who sees through your bullshit but doesn't mind it. And that's a younger woman's game. Besides," she added, arching a brow, " I heard you."
" I should hope so. We were in the same bed."
" No, I heard you start to say another woman's name. Started with a K, maybe? Or a C?"
House glowered. " I have no idea what you're talking about," he insisted.
The heavy silence returned as she looked at him. He fell back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling instead of meeting her steady gaze.
" It's one thing to say everybody lies, Greg. It's another thing entirely to lie to yourself."
The problem is, House thought to himself as he listened to the door close behind her, I'm getting to be so damn good at it.
Author's Note: What do you think? Personally I loved this when she gave it to me. So please review and get this girl to write more on this site. You'll all congratulate yourselves later.