Work Text:
- Titillations -
The bass in the club is turned up as high as it can go. Thirteen can feel it in her chest, in her groin, can feel it shiver her lungs and make the fine hairs on her arm raise up. She likes it like this, when her brain is vibrated to something approximating jelly and she is no longer a doctor, no longer beautiful, no longer someone with Huntington’s, no longer something to be pitied or admired - she’s just a pair of eyes in front of quivering goo.
A bartender sets another martini in front of her, gesturing over to a table of twenty-something polo shirts that sent it over. Thirteen sends a half-smile over in their direction, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Part of her wants to turn it down, part of her enjoys the free alcohol, and the biggest part of her knows it’s expensive to get to the level of wasted she intends to tonight so she might as well accept it.
The girl on the pole in front of her is all long bronzed legs and scraps of gold lame fabric. She spreads her legs wide enough to make Thirteen absently wonder if she waxes or shaves because either way it’s an impeccable job, before spinning around and around. Thirteen pulls an olive off the skewer and eats it slowly as she watches, her wide blue eyes opaque as to what is going on behind them.
“You should give her your card,” comes a voice from behind her, echoed by an unfortunately familiar uneven gait. It takes House a minute to lever himself up onto the tall stool, but he manages the feat and hooks his cane over the brass rail when he’s done.
“I don’t pick up strippers in strip clubs,” Thirteen says mildly.
“I’m not saying to pick her up, I’m saying to treat her,” House says, nodding up at the slowly rotating woman’s left leg. “She’s got malignant melanoma there on the back of her calf. Those tanning beds can be killer.”
“I’ll pass her on to Wilson, then. I’m sure he could use the pick-me-up.”
House looks at her for a long moment, a faint smile on his unshaved face. “Although I’m sure he’d appreciate you thinking of him, Wilson and strippers is…not the best combination. We have two different bachelor parties for him as evidence of that. And I wasn’t even there for the first one, just heard the stories.”
Thirteen has an involuntary flashback to Chase’s bachelor party, and Wilson wandering around outside afterwards. Minus his pants. “I thought he was married three times.”
House motions for the girl on stage to come closer. She fixes him with a practiced smile as she sinks to her knees, thighs spreading to show tense tendons in her inner thigh. House tucks a five into where she’s pulled the strap of her g-string away - rather politely, all things considered. “Wilson eloped for his last marriage. Trying to escape the bachelor party I was going to throw for him may or may not have been a major part of that decision.”
“And here I thought only Chase was special enough to have a party end with anaphylaxis.” Thirteen pulls another olive off the skewer, doesn’t miss how House watches her do it.
“Get busy living, or get busy dying - the motto for every successful bachelor party.” It would sound more trite but less successful if House wasn’t staring off into the distance, sounding almost melancholy. A new girl takes the place of the bronzed one, this one all pale skin and black lace. House seems to shake himself out of his funk, looking the new girl up and down in appreciation.
Thirteen downs the last of her martini. “I’m off, I have clinic hours in the morning.”
House glances over, brows raised in what might be surprise. “Not here to take someone back to your lair?”
She smiles, faintly. “Sometimes you go to the museum just to look at the art, House. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Feeling House’s curious eyes on her, Thirteen makes her way towards the exit. Had he not been here she might well have found someone to take home. Somehow, now, she just doesn’t feel the need.
Curious.
- Breathless -
The smell of the stripper’s coconut body oil is just this side of overpowering. She hovers above Thirteen, expertly getting so very close without touching. Despite her best intentions they have touched, though - there are light smears of shine on Thirteen’s bare arms, small barely-visible smudges on her pants that she knows she’ll have to take dish soap to. She doesn’t mind all that much, though - the girl is all luscious curves and a good sense of rhythm.
“Extra fifty if you’ll kiss her,” says a voice from the side, and Thirteen turns her head to glare over at House. He waves a bill in the air, and the stripper looks at Thirteen for a moment before snatching the bill and making it disappear.
The girl has full lips with too much gloss, the kiss sliding around and uncomfortably tacky. Thirteen figures they’re breaking enough rules so she slides a hand into the girl’s heavy, sweat-damp hair and tilts her head until it turns good, turns rhythmic and wet in a good way. When she pulls back the stripper looks faintly dazed, her black-ringed dark eyes slightly hazy. She stays professional and caresses Thirteen’s cheekbone with a graceful finger before standing and striding away in four-inch heels.
Thirteen blots away the strawberry-flavored lip gloss before taking a long drink of her beer.
“You could thank me,” House suggests as he sits down at her table.
“Why? I could have found her later and gotten her to kiss me for free.”
“I thought you said you didn’t pick up strippers,” House counters, waving a hand at a server making her way over with a tray of beers.
“What’s that favorite phrase of yours? Everybody lies, that was it.” Thirteen drinks from the bottle, setting it down carefully as she notices her hand shaking. She’s on a new treatment, one that requires injections every few hours and she’s supposed to stay away from alcohol. She’s late on the injection and, well. In for a penny in for a pound, she thinks as she downs the bottle to its dregs.
“Yeah, but I’m special,” House says in an annoying tone of voice. “You’re not supposed to lie to me.”
Thirteen makes a neutral noise, watching the stage as the girl that gave her a lapdance turns upside-down on her pole. How the hell does she not slide off the pole, with as much body oil as she had on, she wonders.
“So is there a reason you’re at strip clubs two weeks in a row?” House asks. “Remember, I’m your boss and you can’t lie to me.”
Thirteen rolls her eyes and takes her time getting another beer from the server before answering. “Yeah, alcohol and hot, nearly-naked women. Why wouldn’t I be interested in that?”
“No, see, we went to a lesbian bar a while ago. There you still had all the hot women, with marginally more clothing, and just as much alcohol but then it was free. Now you’re putting yourself somewhere where you have to buy your own booze and the women are statistically less likely to be interested in you. Now why is that?” House props his bristly chin up on a hand, fixing her with faded blue eyes. The effect is ruined a bit by how he has to peel his elbow up off the table with a look of disgust from where it landed in a puddle of dried cocktail.
“It’s all a game, House. Think of this as a more challenging level,” Thirteen says. “Not to mention,” she waves her beer at him, “this is the first drink I’ve paid for all night.” The table is littered with bottles.
“You’re lying,” House says cheerfully. “I just don’t know why.”
Thirteen shrugs. Not her problem, and she’s off the clock. They sit companionably, drinking and watching in comfortable silence. It’s broken by pagers going off - first House’s, then Thirteen’s.
“You need a ride back?” House asks. He hasn’t even finished his first beer while Thirteen is most of her way through a six pack, so she nods. They leave money on the table and make their way outside. The chill air is a sobering slap to the face, and Thirteen takes a deep breath to help clear her head.
House’s car is old, almost as old as Thirteen herself. It’s surprisingly clean inside, though. When Thirteen sits down, the seat puffs out some stale cologne. It takes her a minute to identify it as Wilson’s. Does anyone else ever ride in here other than the two of them, she thinks. Does House really have any other friends?
Are they friends?
By the time they get to the hospital the patient has crashed, been resuscitated, and there’s four new diagnoses for them to rule out.
As they file out of House’s office to do tests, he clears his throat. Thirteen looks back.
“You know, on Friday mornings, Johnny A’s Hitching Post does Legs and Eggs. Surprisingly good country-fried steaks.” His face is neutral, but Thirteen likes to think she knows better at this point.
“Friday morning,” she repeats.
It’s an agreement, of sorts.
- Johnny A’s Hitching Post -
“...and I’ll have the omelet with avocado, swiss, and peppers.” The stripper nods as she writes it down in her notebook, and gives Thirteen a blindingly white smile as she spins on one lucite heel and heads back to the kitchens.
“Are you seriously getting a shot of bourbon at seven in the morning? You don’t even like bourbon! Please tell me this isn’t for one of your hookers.”
A hand reaches over and dumps a shot glass full of liquor into Thirteen’s coffee. She raises an eyebrow as House settles himself across the table from her, with Wilson in tow.
“You are aware that we’re supposed to be coherent and at work in an hour?” she asks mildly, after giving a genial nod to Wilson.
“Oh, like this will affect you at all. All your martinis have pickled your liver already, this isn’t going to do anything. Yes, hello, I’d like two manmosas and some time to look at the menu,” House says, first to Thirteen and then the stripper that comes to take his order.
“Manmosa?” Thank god Wilson asked, because Thirteen didn’t want to give House the pleasure of her curiosity.
“Pint of Blue Moon with a shot of Stoli.” At their flat looks House spreads his hands and adds, “It has a wedge of orange in it!”
Wilson is looking increasingly frazzled, trying not to look at the strippers, their fellow strip-club-goers, or seemingly the people at his own table. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows with quick, nervous movements. “You are aware that this is a Friday, a work day for all of us. I have a consult in,” he checks his watch, “an hour and a half with a ten year old with skin cancer.”
“Loosen up, drink your manmosa, and tell the kid to wear more sunscreen,” House says, passing over a glass that does indeed have an orange wedge perched on the rim. Thirteen contentedly sips her doctored coffee.
“You don’t get skin cancer at that age from a lack of sunscreen, you get it from…” Wilson trails off, staring at the omelet set down in front of Thirteen. It’s a beautiful mound of golden eggs, with pops of color from the vegetables, a mound of crispy home fries next to it along with a slice of buttered rye toast. “Did they seriously make that here? That looks better than my local diner.”
“That’s because your local diner should have been condemned twenty years ago and you keep going to it just because the owner’s husband was one of your patients and you are patently unable to let people go.” House squints at the menu for a moment before ordering the steak and eggs.
Wilson ignores House, ordering an omelet of his own with a side of sausage. As he hands the menu back he looks back and forth from House to Thirteen. “So this is just…what you two do. Go to strip clubs for breakfast.”
“No, it’s normally at night. And instead of breakfast we have strippers,” House says.
Wilson rolls his eyes, but upon catching Thirteen’s eye his own eyebrows raise. “Seriously?”
Thirteen fills her coffee cup from the urn at the table. “Last time House bought me a lap dance.”
Snorting, Wilson drinks down half his manmosa. “I doubt that you normally have to pay for lap dances.”
“Nope,” Thirteen says. “That really was wasted money.”
“Not if I got to watch,” House says, eyes on the plates placed in front of them. The food really does look good, and Thirteen wonders idly how a strip club ended up getting such decent chefs. Maybe they got discounts, that would certainly be a draw. In the range of restaurants and kitchens, where does a strip club rank? She’s halfway through debating with herself whether a strip club could qualify for a Michelin star when her attention is drawn back to her dining companions.
“I am not getting a lap dance before eight am!”
“So after eight am it’ll be okay?”
“After eight am I’m going to be at the hospital, where you will be as well. Where we’ll do something called our jobs, that we get paid for, so then you can use your money for things like ill-advised lap dances.” Wilson takes a drink of his manmosa and chokes a bit, seemingly having forgotten the alcohol part. With a disgusted look at the drink and then House he picks up his coffee.
“Being late never hurt anyone,” House says, cutting off a piece of Wilson’s omelet. Wilson doesn’t appear to notice.
“Being late has gotten people fired, not to mention yes it has killed people since we work in a hospital, but you don’t care because you have tenure.”
“So do you!”
“Yes, but my patients don’t care about that. And get your own sausage, or at least leave me some.” Wilson stabs at House’s hand with his fork, rescuing his last sausage link.
It’s been years and Thirteen still hasn’t quite figured House and Wilson out. If anyone ever does definitively prove that they’re sleeping together she has an enormous amount of money coming to her thanks to the various betting pools, but she’s convinced it’s more than just long-term fuckbuddies.
She watches as they bicker, House eating off of Wilson’s plate shamelessly and Wilson stealing House’s coffee when the urn runs dry. Thirteen takes the word ‘friend’, turns it over in her brain. She doesn’t know if she’s ever had a friend the way these two are friends, like they’ve taken the concept and turned it inside out and into something vastly more intimate, something far more codependent.
Thirteen thinks of how Wilson talked about Sam, how she was there and then she wasn’t. Thinks of House’s face when he talks about Cuddy now, the tenterhooks that the two of them have forced the rest of the team to be on. There’s a string of women behind each of them, and yet somehow House and Wilson keep on being tangled around each other at the center of it.
House downs a pill with his manmosa and something in Wilson’s face shutters, the banter dying. Thirteen is aching in her joints, muscles pained from trying to keep her hands and legs from trembling. She stands, downing the last of her coffee, and tells the men that they need to get to work. Not willing to wait for her card, she sets cash down on top of her bill, including a generous tip for the women having to listen to House and Wilson for the past hour.
Outside the sun is hovering just over the horizon and a chill wind blows through Thirteen’s hair. It’s cold and gray and looking to be another day of short winter sunlight, but Thirteen has warm food and warmer liquor in her belly and a stripper’s phone number in her pocket.
She’s had worse Friday mornings.
- Stiletto/Savage Men -
Although their strip club meetings are pretty much planned and penned in on their calendars by now, tonight isn’t one of them. For the first time, Thirteen is genuinely surprised to have House set himself down next to her at the bar, not the least because there’s a barely-covered gyrating cock right in front of her face.
She’s also annoyed - she didn’t want House here, didn’t want to deal with his usual bullshit. Thirteen is three G&Ts in and knows that if she wasn’t sitting, her legs would be shaking too much to stand.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks flatly. He doesn’t answer, takes his time getting a beer.
“I thought you’d stop asking that by the dozenth or so time we met up,” he says, taking a sip.
“You like women with tits out to Newark and thighs that could break your neck,” Thirteen snaps back.
“Aesthetics are aesthetics,” House says, leaning on his cane and grunting a bit as he tucks a five into the g-string of the man dancing in front of him. “Besides, he’s got bigger tits than you. Nicer ass, too.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously. I mean, his testicles are likely the size of gumballs from all the steroid use, but I don’t have to look at them so what do I care?” House settles back in his chair. Thirteen doesn’t look down to see if he’s hard or not, doesn’t know if she could handle knowing.
“So aesthetics are what you see in Wilson, huh?” She doesn’t have it in her to be nice today.
“Wilson has the body of a middle-aged oncologist, and doesn’t pretend anything else. Besides, I can see a middle-aged guy in the mirror every morning, it’s not his body that I keep him around for.”
Despite the flippancy Thirteen knows when House is being more honest than he means to. She picks at it, like a scab. “Why are you together, then? And lying about it to everyone?”
The picking went too deep, now blood obscures everything. House gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’re not here to talk about me.” They watch the oil-slicked man in front of them dance, then exchange places with another one - identical but for hair and underwear color. “Why are you here?”
“For the tits and ass, I thought we established this.”
“No, what’s established is us meeting up, watching mostly naked women, drinking, and pretending that we’re something like friends,” House says. “This is a break in the pattern. Different club, different dancers, different time of the week.” He tilts his head as he looks at her glass of gin, grabs the glass and wafts it towards his nose like he’s smelling a test tube. Takes a drink, swishes it around his mouth. “Different drink.” He grimaces as he sets the glass down. “Never understood why people wanted a drink that tasted like a tree.”
“It’s my drink and not yours, so why does it matter.” She’s too tired to make it into a question.
“It doesn’t, I suppose. Except I’ve seen you drink a lot, and never gin.”
Thirteen hates gin, hates how it tastes like frozen Christmas, hates how it makes her tongue dry. The bittersweet tonic is the only reason she can drink it. That and memories of her brother, drinking it straight from the bottle.
It’s one of the nights that she feels the need to have a little of him running through her.
“I guess we don’t know everything about each other, shockingly,” she finally says.
They watch the men in silence, bass beat pounding in time with swivelling hips and thrusting groins. Thirteen presses one foot to the floor and then the other, trying to gauge whether she’ll be all right to stand or not. It’s a bad night, one of the worst she’s had in weeks. If she knew it would be like this she would have stayed at home, and yet here she is. Surrounded by mostly naked men and Dr Gregory House.
A glance into her bag shows that the doses are there - her works, she likes to think of the needles and vials and swabs ironically. It’s another experimental treatment, but it’s having an effect. After it started to genuinely seem to help, she broke into the study’s computer system, made sure that she was on the real meds and not a placebo.
(she tries to ignore how this isn’t something she ever would have done before she worked for House)
(needs must, when Huntington’s drives)
Thirteen gets up without a word to House, walks steadily away. If she can stride around in three inch heels, she can walk in flat boots with her legs only half under her control. Chalk one up for surviving enforced femininity. Making her way to the bathroom is easy - it’s crowded and no one complains about having a pretty girl steady themselves on their shoulder.
The bathroom is empty, thank god, and surprisingly clean for a strip club. Thirteen braces her hands on the sink and just breathes for a moment. She thinks about splashing her face with water, then thinks about the time it took to do her eye makeup and how much of it isn’t waterproof. With a sigh, she opens her puse with shaky hands.
Uncap needle, fill with 0.5 ml, get rid of air, swab skin with alcohol wipe, inject. She’s done this dozens, if not hundreds of times.
Thirteen’s hands hold the needle, and she can’t get the cap off.
She stares at her hands, willing them to still. This is - this is worst case scenario. Right now it’s this injection, tomorrow it’s a pen, the next week it’s her car keys. You can’t practice medicine if you can’t hold anything.
There’s a crunching noise - the syringe shatters in her right hand. It’s all glass - the shit that’s in this vaccine apparently doesn’t play well with plastic. Thirteen doesn’t know if she broke it because of a spasm or because she clenched her hands out of anger, and she’s afraid to find out. Dark blood rises to the surface where a shard has sunk into the meat of the heel of her hand.
Drip, drip, drip. The lines of blood look black in the bluish light of the bathroom. One of the lines fractures, pales. Another teardrop falls, interrupts the line even more. Thirteen blinks, blinks again. She’s not fucking crying over this.
“You have another syringe?”
She didn’t even hear House come in, between the bass creeping in from outside and her own thoughts thundering through her head.
He doesn’t wait for an answer, grabs her bag and roots through it. There’s a clatter as he hooks his cane over the edge of a neighboring mirror, bracing his hip on the sink. The new syringe gets tucked behind his ear as he holds the vial and a few alcohol swabs. Tearing one open, House plucks the shard of glass out of Thirteen’s hand with surprising delicacy before wiping her hand down. Thirteen hisses as the alcohol hits the wound, but doesn’t move until House tugs her other hand over to put pressure.
“Intramuscular?”
A grunt of assent.
“How much?”
“Point five.”
House fills the syringe, flicks it and gets rid of the air. “I’d apologize for the impropriety,” he says as he tugs Thirteen’s pants down on one side, farther than they need to be. His hands are warm. “But we both know I’d be lying.”
He swabs the skin, a small section of her ass that is now freezing cold as the alcohol dries. The needs pops into the skin easily, and Thirteen wonders absently how many injections House has given in his career. How many he’s given just for fun.
The door opens, and someone wearing a nametag says, “Hey! No drugs in -”
“Get out,” House snarls, and the man vanishes with a squeak. He pulls the needle out and presses the swab to her skin for a moment, a spark of pain that vanishes into the cold of the alcohol. Her pants get pulled up, the needle is capped, and it goes back into her purse for lack of a sharps container.
They stand there, House leaning against the sink and staring out the small window, Thirteen dabbing at her hand to see if the bleeding has stopped. Her hands have steadied enough that she can get a band-aid out of her purse, fumble it open and spread it smooth with trembling fingers.
“How did you know?” she asks quietly.
“The lights in there are bad, but they’re not that bad. You dropped a stack of files earlier today.” House shifts, rubs his leg absently. “Also you’re bitchier than usual and you’re not on your period.”
“How the hell do you know when -” Thirteen cuts herself off, holds up a hand as if to fend House’s scrutiny off. “You know, I don’t even want to know.”
The familiar pop of a cap - House tosses back a Vicodin. He glances at her, then shakes another out into his hand. “Want one?” he asks, holding it up.
Thirteen - hurts. She hurts and she’s tired and right now she wants just about everything to be over. She raises a hand slightly to take the pill, but it’s shaking, shaking so much that she puts it back down. The drugs would be nice, but not at the cost of her dignity.
She’s about to shake her head when House takes a step towards her, pill held up. She looks into his eyes - they’re the same color as the lights, the same color as the walls. Nearly the same color as his skin. Thirteen opens her mouth and House places the pill inside, thumb just brushing her lower lip. It’s an intimacy and a benediction and a sharing of sins all in a 10 milligram tablet.
Their eyes stay locked until Thirteen tilts her head back and swallows. Her mouth opens on a sigh.
“Give me your car keys.”
She hands them over automatically, before asking, “Why?” God, she must really be out of it.
“Because you’re now on Vicodin plus four or five drinks plus whatever the hell I just put in your ass, so I’d rather you not crash your car before I can still get work out of you.”
“So what, you’re just planning on using me until I drop?” Thirteen loops her arm around House’s free elbow and they both ignore when she stumbles on their way through the club.
“Sure. You won’t be any good to me when you can’t intubate someone or give an injection, hell - you won’t even be useful as a receptionist, they have to be able to write.”
The transition from the hot, stuffy, loud interior to the silent night outside is like a slap in the face. “You’ve never even heard of the concept of tact, have you?” Thirteen says, breath steaming on the air.
“Tact…tact…nope. Must have missed that day in med school.” They walk along the sidewalk, streetlights shining off the puddles on the street. It’s technically spring, but winter bites at the back of Thirteen’s throat, at where her neckline dips and where her wrists are bare. They pass her car, continue on until they get to House’s beater.
The trip home is slow and surreal. Thirteen rests her forehead against the window, letting the world go by in streaks of sodium yellow and night dark. The New Jersey streets are almost pretty, the glitter of moonlight and streetlight off of glass and water making a kaleidoscope of the wee hours of the night.
Thirteen blinks slowly. Her apartment is in front of her, three steps and a blue door, the call of a shower and warm bed on the other side. She unclicks her seatbelt and then just sits, staring out the window. The car’s engine clicks over quietly as it cools.
“Do you want to come inside?” She regrets the words as soon as they come out of her mouth, but they’re now there sitting in the car along with them.
House smiles, something not directed at Thirteen but rather at himself. “Slot this into ‘regrets you’ll have when you’re eighty’,” he mutters to himself, barely audible. “You need to go inside and ride out whatever the hell is in your system, and get some sleep so you can be at work on Monday,” he says, somewhat louder. After a pause he reaches over and pats the extremely neutral area of her forearm, awkwardly.
Thirteen chuffs a laugh out through her nose, before looking up and flicking her bangs out of her eyes. “Don’t hurt yourself saying it,” she says, opening the car door and getting out carefully. Time and the injection have done their job - she’s steady on her feet, although the Vicodin is making everything hazy.
She turns, stares at the bodega across the street with her hand on the open door. “Thanks,” she says, not looking into the car, not elaborating what she’s thanking him for. There’s no response, she doesn’t expect one. Shutting the door, she slings her purse over her shoulder and fishes her keys out of her pocket. Three steps up and the blue door opens and she’s inside, safe and sound with the night on the other side.
Thirteen takes one deep breath, then another. There’s a cough in the street as House’s car starts up and drives away. She smiles to herself, letting her head thunk against the wall. Gregory House, infamous misanthrope. And yet - he didn’t drive away until she was inside.
Asshole.