AN: Season 8-inspired, with a Season 5 throwback, though it doesn't belong to any specific timeline. Plenty of liberties taken, as usual.
"She's cute." Wilson offered the sentiment, taking a sip from his beer.
"Cute, right," House grumbled, rolling a pair of vicodin in his palm, perched antisocially on his far corner stool. "Puppies are cute. Kittens are cute. Adams isn't cute."
He scarfed the pills and eased them down with the last, watery sip of his second, watery scotch.
"It's amazing how you manage to belittle the only person in that prison who saw you as an actual person." Wilson shook his head and helped himself to a deeper drink, watching as the young woman weaved through the bar crowd, tugging along an even younger girl who wore wide, frightened eyes beneath strict bangs
"I'm an actual person?" House inquired half-genuinely, regarding Wilson out of the corner of his eye.
Considering it for a moment, Wilson conceded the point with a reluctant nod.
"…true. Regardless, though…you should be nicer, House."
House's gaze was stern and hawk-like as he watched both Adams and Park sit at a small table, just beside the games of darts and pool that were only superficially being played. He stopped chewing on the thin, red straw long enough to grumble out a response.
"Right. And you should be meaner, Foreman should be more relaxed, and the world should be a better place. 'Should' doesn't apply. It's just a 'guilt word'. You're not trying to guilt trip me, are you?"
House swiveled to face the bar and check the baseball score.
"Because if you are…Hi. Greg House. Have we met?"
"Right, right. You see, I tend to forget from time to time that the Almighty Oz never did quite grant you that conscience."
The smirk that then appeared beneath thick salt-and-pepper stubble was nothing short of mean with amusement. House never looked away from the television.
"Wizard of Oz. Judy Garland. Got it in two."
Wilson sighed, combing his fingers through his hair and wondering aloud to the ceiling why, oh why God, did House have to currently be obsessed with playing Six Degrees of Wilson Being Gay?
"I'm going to pee."
"Watch out for glory holes."
House sang out the last two words, listening though not looking for a response. He heard Wilson's footsteps leading away from their stools and knew moments later he was alone with his third scotch. Knowing Wilson, this would be his last and so he started to savor it, finding it strong and succulent on his tongue. It always was, that's how it got a person to stay for 'just one more'. It reminded you when you were ready to walk away that you actually didn't want to.
Thirteen came and sat down beside him, in Wilson's seat. She watched him carefully, not wanting to interrupt him since his eyes were closed (as they often were when his thoughts overtook his clarity) but all the same he knew she was there. When she spoke, it was softly- a tone reserved for people she felt bad for.
"Weren't you in rehab?" Her small smile betrayed her intentions to joke with a straight face.
House opened an eye and rolled an ice cube to his molars, crunching down on it while he answered just as light-heartedly.
"Didn't we talk about this at lunch? Nothing keeps me down, not even…The Man." For emphasis, he took another sip. " This is the last one. You know how strict my nanny is."
Thirteen chuckled and shook her head, raising her attention to the television and frowning at the discovery that her team was losing.
"Wilson means well, leave him alone. He's also the only person crazy enough to still be friends with you, Greg."
Greg.
Oh, she called him Greg.
It sounded just the way it always did, husky and alluring like so much velveteen lying in wait beneath loved-in bedsheets.
Something in his chest tightened and he cleared his throat uncomfortably to try to make way for some air.
"I know. I'm only pushing buttons, he knows that. I've been good. No parole violation, no write-ups at the hospital…"
Thirteen cut him off.
"Do you like her?"
"…what?"
She repeated herself, slowing the words down as one did when addressing invalids.
"Do. you. like her?" She pointed an immaculate nail at Adams, who was (like Park) nose-deep in a patient file.
"Don't be ridiculous." House didn't have to see who she was pointing at to know who she was pointing at.
"What would even give you that idea?"
"I know you." She offered simply, watching the scotch in his glass disappear to make room for the melting ice.
"Obviously not." He almost barked at her but stopped at the realization that that would come off as defensive. He was certainly not defensive.
"It's okay, if you do. I think it's healthy. You need that kind of interaction."
"You're my shrink, now?"
His patience for the topic was as thin as was possible without it being non-existent. Still, he held himself together well for someone destined to have his car keys taken away.
Jessica Adams had surprised him. She saw, when the rest of the world cried 'hopeless', potential. And she saw it in him- a miserable, junkie convict. She saw pain and talent and frustration and encouraged the second while soothing the others. She had surprised him.
Certainly, though, he didn't like her.
House lazily lifted a few fingers to signal the bartender over and ordered his new ducklings another round of…whatever it was they were drinking.
Soda, probably.
"See? Is that really so bad?" Thirteen watched on with him as the girls were served their drinks and informed of where it came from.
House's expression didn't change when he lifted his glass to salute them both so it was hard to tell if it surprised him that it was full again. Then, as if all hell was freezing over, he winked at Adams when she made eye contact.
"House."
Wilson's tone was stern and his glare heavy.
"Busteeed," Thirteen sung, biting at her lower lip.
"Leave it, let's go. It's late."
For emphasis, Wilson tapped the face of his watch sharply before holding out House's cane so that the curve of the handle hovered threateningly by his nose.
True to form, House lifted his head back and polished off the drink, slamming the glass down triumphantly with a growl of an exhale.
"Sorry, Mom." He grumbled, as he snatched the cane and eased off the stool.
Under his breath, he spoke to Thirteen as he passed her.
"See you at home."
Wilson stopped in his tracks and turned to peer at him, an innocent worry parting his lips.
"…who are you talking to?"
"The scotch." House lied, pushing past him to head for the door.
It was true, though. He would see Thirteen later on at his apartment, sure as a sunrise or sunset.
He found it a lot more agreeable than he had when it was Amber.