Disclaimer: Not my property. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.

A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback. Also, thank you to everyone who's been following this fic as well as leaving lovely comments. I'm grateful for all of my readers.

The Powerhouse

Last call.

House tapped his empty glass on the surface of the bar, signaling the bartender as she passed.

She didn't ask what he was drinking and reached for a fresh bottle of Maker's Mark. A smirk upturned the corners of her flamingo-pink lips as she opened the bottle, one manicured hand sliding suggestively along its neck. House shifted uncomfortably, feeling the soles of his sneakers peel away from the damp, sticky floor. He peered over his shoulder at the ugly, mustard-yellow vinyl booths that lined the room, and counted the number of bricks in each wall. Those bricks reminded him of the ones on his balcony, on Wilson's balcony.

By now, Wilson had undoubtedly flooded his answering machine with messages ranging from concerned to angry to panicked. When House had left the hospital, he'd wanted an escape. An escape from the pity, the pain, from Wilson's interference. He'd bypassed his home and found The Powerhouse Bar sandwiched between two dirty Chinese restaurants, the vinyl sign in the window offering cheap drinks and a guaranteed refuge. When he'd caught sight of a tall, dark haired bartender and her low cut jeans, the tanned skin of her belly, he'd decided that he'd rather spend the evening fending off a hard-on than Wilson's frantic questions, and had taken a seat at the end of the bar.

With each refill, the bartender had leaned lower across the bar, nearly spilling out of her strapless top and, with each refill, House had found her more and more difficult to ignore. When her fingers had stroked his knuckles as she'd reached for the glass, he'd forced his attention to the corner of the room, where a group of boys launched into an off-key chorus of "Livin' on a Prayer," their arms wildly strumming the air.

House chanced a peek at his glass. Full. The bartender was swinging her hips to the opposite end of the bar, her eyes darting to his face as she joined her co-worker—a red head with smoky eye shadow. House maintained a tight-lipped expression and studied the peaks of ice bobbing like buoys in his glass, then tipped the glass to his lips. Thick air curled around his back as customers shuffled and stumbled into the night. He drained the last drops from his glass as the door drifted shut, mercifully severing the slurred story of Tommy and Gina, leaving him alone with the pair of bartenders.

Sounds blended together as he hunched over his empty glass—clinks of glasses, the swing of the kitchen door, voices, the uneasy gurgling of his own stomach. Somewhere around midnight, he'd lost count of the number of drinks he'd had. Too many, he realized. He crossed his arms over his chest as another gust of outside air blanketed his back. Heels clicked against the concrete floor and a cheery "See you tomorrow night" sounded in the room as the red head left the bar.

House swayed when he stood and he gripped the edge of the bar to steady himself. He threw a stack of bills beside his empty glass and turned slowly towards the door.

"Hey."

The bartender appeared in front of him, one hand planted firmly against his chest and the other waving a fistful of cash in front of his nose.

"You're short," she said.

"Not as short as you." House tried to sidestep her, but she pushed him backwards. He fell onto a barstool, grimacing.

She advanced to stand between his knees. "Now you are."

House set his jaw and scowled.

The bartender reached past the side of his head and slapped the bills on the bar. She wore a smug, sideways smile. "You still owe me forty-five bucks."

He sighed. "I gave you all of the—"

She lunged forward, pressing herself against him as her hand dove into the back pocket of his jeans. Her hip brushed his groin, and he felt himself start to harden.

"Little unprofesshnal to force your way into my pants, isn't it?" His breathlessness cancelled out the sarcasm in his tone. He sounded ridiculous in his own ears.

She searched his wallet. "You don't seem to mind," she whispered, touching her lips to his ear as she returned the wallet. He saw her smile broaden and watched her lock the door, then reclaim her place in front of him. Her hand dropped to squeeze the growing bulge in his jeans. "No, you don't seem to mind at all." Shit.

House's hips jerked. "It's just a biolozical re. . ." His words evaporated on his tongue when her fingers began to stroke the outline of his shaft through the denim. His eyelids fluttered closed. His head fell back against the bar. She unfastened his belt, then his jeans, and, when she wrapped her fingers around his rigid cock, he groaned.

He wasn't sure if he should blame the alcohol, exhaustion, or his own selfish want, but his body went slack under her hands, and he didn't—couldn't—fight her when she pushed his clothes from his hips, crouched between his legs, and locked her lips around the base of his cock. Fingers dug into both of his thighs while her wet, hot tongue curled and swirled around him, forcing him to draw a sharp intake of breath. House's brain clashed with his body, pain merged with pleasure, and he wasn't entirely sure if he should pull back or push forward.

He raised his head and stared at the face in his lap, at the tongue tracing a thick blue vein to his head. Fuck, forward. He lowered his hand to the crown of her head and pushed himself into her mouth, panting.

Her hands forced his hips backwards. House felt the warmth of her mouth pull away as she twisted away from him to stand. He suddenly felt cold, and horribly exposed. A shiver coursed from his toes to the top of his head, and he dropped his eyes to her shoes.

Her voice invaded his ear. "Listen, I'm not a fucking whore." Her foot tapped against the floor. "Do you want to get off or not?"

Of course, he did. His dick fucking throbbed. House raised his eyes to her.

She leaned over him and reached down to grasp his cock, squeezing and tugging with a little more force than he would have used on himself. "Do you?" Her breath rushed over his face.

He closed his eyes, turning his face away from her, and gritted out from between clenched teeth, "Yeah."

"Then keep your hands off me."

Without allowing him time to respond, she held his hips and swallowed the length of him. House felt himself twitch in the heat of her mouth and braced his hands on the edges of the stool, fighting to maintain control of his own body. A burning ache grew low in his stomach, slowly spanning across his hips and down his legs. Yes, almost, yes. His loud breaths turned to grunts. The pressure in his body coiled into a glowing, red spring and, as he arched back, he gasped, suddenly shocked with a cold rush of air.

His eyes snapped open. The bartender stood an arm's length away, her fingers calmly pulling a cigarette from its pack.

"I din't touch you!" he shouted between heavy breaths.

The bartender held the cigarette between her lips, lighting the tip. She smirked as she exhaled. House's blood pounded against his eardrums.

He watched as she retreated to the door and unlocked it. "Maybe if you'd had enough cash to cover your tab, I would have finished the job." She paused for another drag on her cigarette and ducked behind the bar. House stared dumbly at her. "We're even," she said. "Now zip up and get out."

House blinked, his mouth gaping, and heaved himself to his feet. His body burned with embarrassment and frustration as he tucked his erection into his pants and staggered out of the bar with unsteady feet, the pain in his leg flaring high into his spine.

When House finally stumbled into his dark apartment, it took him a moment to notice the flashing red digit of his answering machine. He rushed across the room, craving the sound of a familiar voice, even an angry, familiar voice. It didn't matter.

Later, he would never admit that he'd tilted his head and listened earnestly to a muffled sound that he couldn't identify. He would never admit that when the message ended with no spoken words, no familiar voice, he'd dropped his eyes and released a shallow sigh before he'd dragged himself to his bedroom and collapsed, not bothering with a change of clothes.

He would never, ever admit that he'd fallen asleep disappointed because Wilson had never even tried to reach him.