AN: This is definitely a PWP if there ever was one. Came to me around midnight: I knew I shouldn't have had that coffee. It's terribly out of character and doesn't really fit anywhere in any of the House canon. I have no idea who the girl is. Probably she's some twisted Mary-Sue--of course she is the only one able to slip in there past ol' House's defenses. Of course. If you're looking for good, meaningful House fanfic, you'll probably want to skip this one.

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"House! You..." Voice lowered, Wilson glanced around the office, as though maybe someone had his ear pressed against the glass in hopes of catching some really juicy gossip. "You slept with a patient? When? Why didn't I know about this? Does Cuddy know about this? What were you thinking?"

House rolled his eyes as he twirled his cane. "Please," he scoffed. "It's not like you haven't done it. And with a cancer patient, no less. God, at least mine was healthy and you know, not dying. How'd you find out, anyway? I know she didn't tell you—barely spoke English, after all."

"This isn't some joke, House." He had his Exasperated Father voice on now. Things were just getting interesting. And by 'interesting,' of course, House meant 'mind-numbingly-dull'. "Do you know how much trouble you could get the hospital into? Please, for the love of God, tell me she was at least...legal? How could you let this happen?"

House shrugged. Truth be told—not that it ever would be: at least, not by him—he hadn't...actually had a choice. There'd been a knock on his door one night, and he'd somehow dragged his lame, limping ass over to the door. She stepped inside before he could open his mouth to send her away, and leaned against the door after she'd shut it, almost glaring at him. She was determined, for sure.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Nope. He was remembering several nights ago. In perfect English, she'd delivered what he was sure was a barely-lukewarm, though scathing diatribe, probably some first-year psychoanalysis about how he was a jerk on purpose, to drive people away—all very common. She wasn't terribly different from all the other young girls who thought they knew him so well. The one difference was that she was standing in his living room wearing his leather jacket.

"That's mine," he'd said, gesturing at the coat as he turned to go back to the couch. He'd sunken back down into the cushions, glancing up as she stepped into the dim light. "You're still here?"

She'd sat next to him in reply, fingering one of the sleeves. "I stole this," she murmured in that strange, unidentifiable accent of hers, cocking her head to one side.

"Well, duh." He studied her out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't uncomfortable: at least, not that he'd actually admit to...he was just curious. And Gregory House was never one to turn away a curiosity. Anyway, she was wearing his jacket. "Are you going to give it back?" She rose to her feet again and slipped out of his jacket. She remained standing, even after she'd dropped it into his lap. So she was going to play this game. It was probably pointless to try to get her to move so he could finish this one episode, so instead he flipped off the television and sat back. "So what is it that you want?" he asked, with equal parts condescension and interest in his voice.

"House, who was it? Not the Addison's girl, right? God, she was seventeen...that can't be it. Anyway, she probably wasn't interesting enough for you." A few more files, a few more noises of panic and disapproval. "Have you seen a single patient over the age of forty this month? What are you thinking?"

Young hands traversed rough, older skin, shirts long gone and pants about to follow. He wasn't fighting her—couldn't remind himself why it was necessary to fight her. Why should he turn her away? She'd probably just come back the next night, anyway. His cane had slipped from his hand as she moved across his lap, fingers mouth lips seeking some place, some hold. Hands, rough not from hard work but simply from age moved across pale skin now, pulling her closer and holding her in place even as he made her work to find his lips. She met his challenge easily, tongue dueling with his own for dominance—of course—and held his shoulders tightly, refusing to allow him to somehow slip away. At this point, there was no danger of that—at this very moment she held him captive not with her body but with her sheer resolve, her determination to win.

"House! Pay attention. She wasn't that Russian prostitute you saw in the clinic two weeks ago, was she? Not even treating her syphilis was enough to keep you away? What is wrong with you, man?" In a way, this was amusing. Normally cool, somewhat reserved even when it came to House himself, Wilson was absolutely panicked. Maybe it was warranted, but to this degree? Hardly.

Something had flashed in her eyes when he'd finally gathered the presence of mind to push her off, but she'd smiled when he gestured toward the door to his bedroom. The sheets were maybe a little too cold, and his fingers traced across goosebumps on her arms, her legs, but it didn't matter once she was astride him yet again—much more completely this time. He looked at her exactly three times—once when she'd first sank down against him, and again when he felt her falter just slightly, as she came undone there above him. Both times, her eyes were shut tightly, head tilted slightly towards the ceiling.

This was not an expression of love or affection or any of that garbage that people out there believed in. She didn't ache for him to fulfill some deep pulsating need—beyond the obvious, that is. Still, he dug his fingers hard into her hips, urging her forward, keep moving, don't stop just yet, until...finally.

When he opened his eyes, he looked at her that third time. Her eyes weren't starry or dewy: thank God. Instead, she looked part proud, part curious...part regretful. She remained silent and unmoving for several long moments, while their hearts went back to normal, and then she slipped off of him and off of the bed. He'd heard her rummaging through the living room and sorting his clothing from hers.

"Leave the coat," he'd called, crossing his arms up behind his head as he remained sprawled out, stark naked and relatively satisfied, on his bed. A gentle click of his apartment door, and she was gone.

So was he. With a bit of a groan, House rose from Wilson's seat and headed towards the door. The man made no move to stop him—maybe he'd given up, or just fallen into a despair about what was to be done this time. "Where are you going?" His voice suggested the former. House turned as he left, and shrugged.

"To my office. Patients to save, porn to surf. The usual. Have you seen my coat?"