Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you fly, you always hope you’ll be seated next to someone attractive, or at least interesting, but it never happens. On this occasion, you think the aisle seat next to you might stay empty - arguably an even better outcome - but then he shows up, late. A tall man in a motorcycle jacket and jeans, somewhat unkempt, with a lined, handsome face and greying hair. He walks along the aisle with a limp, needing to hold onto some of the seat backs he passes, looking cool and nonchalant as he does so. You can’t help but smile when he squeezes in next to you.

“Didn’t mommy tell you not to stare at the cripple?” He swipes as he settles into his seat. Lighthearted, but still with an edge. You have two reactions to this; the first is that one doesn’t usually meet adults who just say things like that, no matter how much they’re thinking it. The second is that his voice is gravelly and kind of harsh and you like it a lot. You’d like to hear him say something nice to you.

Or something meaner, if you’re completely honest.

“Oh - I’m sorry, that’s not why I was-“ Great. You’ve just readily admitted that you were, in fact, staring.

“I know,” he interjects, and doesn’t elaborate. He makes brief eye contact that you think might be a warning, but you’re mainly struck by how blue his eyes are. They’re like a swimming pool.

He turns away from you. Then, he takes out a pill bottle - what is that, valium? Melatonin? - and swallows an uncertain number of pills dry.

You ask him if he’s afraid of flying. And then think oh god, the limp, he’s probably a veteran, and that was probably insensitive, somehow-

“I’m in pain ,” he replies simply.

You notice him paying particular attention to the safety demonstration, which might have lent credence to your ‘afraid of flying’ theory if you didn’t then realise his attention seemed primarily focused on the anatomy of the flight attendant delivering it. Never mind. He does not want to talk, which is fine. But despite the fact that his behaviour thus far has been a small semaphore display of red flags, you already find him completely fascinating. You cast another shy smile at him during takeoff, and he does not reciprocate, not that you expected him to. He has headphones on - which you can hear are playing music, but you can’t make out what. (You briefly imagine a scenario in which the plane goes down and the black box data somehow reveal it’s his fault for using his iPod while the seatbelt sign was on.)

You watch the airport and the city beneath you shrink and fall away, turning into a plastic playset and then into nothing as you rise above the clouds, and everything becomes flat. Then, you retrieve the copy of the New York Times you’d seen in the seat pocket in front of you, seek out the crossword and make a start. It’s something you can always count on to relax you. It’s midweek, so the crossword isn’t too hard, but it will at least take you longer than ten minutes.

“A cruciverbalist, I see.” Your new acquaintance’s voice by your ear startles you. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t actually think ‘cruciverbalist’ is a word, though. You look at him, and he removes his headphones, leaving them around his neck where they continue to emit a faint stream of noise. “Like an employee of mine,” he continues. “Though he can’t seem to do it without chewing his pen like a dog, so you’re already a step up on that front. Iciness.”

“What?”

“You were hovering over 9 down. ‘Unfriendly quality’. Iciness.”

“I can do it by myself.”

He raises his eyebrows, and after a beat you realise the irony.

When the cart comes past, he tells them, “I’d like two of whichever of those dinky little plastic wine bottles have the highest alcohol volume to price ratio.”

The flight attendant smiles thinly. “Red or white?”

“You’re asking a question I‘ve already established isn’t relevant. Oh, and actually, make that three. And two cups.”

The attendant sells him three of the white, which happened to be closer to hand.

He turns to you and says, “Usually, I like to make sure that if someone onboard needs a doctor, I’ll already be passed out. But that’s increasingly hard to accomplish, so if I’m next to someone cute I might as well share.”

He reaches over, pulls your tray table down, and pours you a cup, placing the rest of the bottle next to it. And all the while you’re mainly just revelling in the fact that he thinks you’re cute.

You thank him, for the compliment as well as the free booze. But that joke he made about being too intoxicated to be called upon to help - that… was a joke, wasn’t it? “Are you really a doctor?” You venture. “What were those pills you took before?”

“Nothing,” he replies, as he gets them back out and downs another two with his wine. (You see the label on the pill bottle this time, and wow, he really shouldn’t be doing that.) “Do you usually treat commercial flights as speed-dating events, or is it only when you’re next to someone who scratches your daddy issues just right?”

You’re speechless. What the hell is wrong with him?

…Or with you, that you’re into it?

“Also, if I weren’t a real doctor I probably wouldn’t know that the woman in the row opposite has lung cancer,” he says offhandedly. Seeing your confusion, he adds, “Look at her nails.”

“Her…nails?”

“Don’t worry, she probably already knows. Probably.” He leans over. “Ma’am, are you aware-“

She points at him and says, “Stop it, please.”

That is one wide nail.

“I’m actually trying to go to med school,”you tell him. “Even though college…didn’t go so well the first time.” It’s the truth, but you hesitate because you’re sure he’ll have something disparaging to say about it.

He gasps. “No, don’t do it, you have so much to live for!” He whines, abruptly drenching his voice in mock concern before yanking it back out into the dry air of sarcasm. “You know, medicine is quite well known for being harder than…whatever it was you were doing before.”

“Well, I could do physician associate,” you reply, “But that way, when they ask if there’s a doctor on board, by the time you’ve finished saying ‘I’m a physician associate’ the guy’s already dead.”

This earns you a faint smile. You’re glad you were right that he was the kind of person who’d find that funny rather than in poor taste. “Well, I think you’ll be fine.”He lowers his voice conspiratorially and leans in, eyes widened. “The truth is they let any idiot into med school these days.”

“…Thanks?”

“Thank you . Gratitude that comes with a question mark is my favourite kind. That’s why I gave you that wine.” He leans back.

You drink more.

He drinks more.

You become less interested in the New York Times crossword and more interested in the fact that you do not see a ring on your new friend’s finger.

Nobody on board has a seizure, or a stroke, or starts bleeding from every orifice.

You’re feeling pretty great. The wine has slowed down your thoughts a little, leaving room for more thoughts about him that you don’t often have about strangers. Thoughts that are, if anything, enhanced by the fact that he’s either trying to neg you or is just… like this. “You’re very attractive,” you say, a little louder than intended.

“And you’re a lightweight.” His face is quite close to yours. “Really hits you when you’re in a pressurised cabin, doesn’t it? Like your brain is one of those little pudding cups.”

You try, and fail, to have more dignity than to giggle when what he said barely counted as a joke. He, clearly used to polluting his body, is not too affected by the alcohol and opioid dream team with which he’s chosen to fill his veins, but he definitely seems looser. Maybe nicer, even.

You think about him as a doctor, with a lab coat and all, and struggle to imagine how he would act. Maybe he adopts a totally different personality while at work, and he’s pleasant and polite and caring - or maybe he used to be those things, and is now the type of consultant who doesn’t interact with patients at all. Or maybe he does interact with patients, is a dick to them, and is still too good to be fired.

You think about being his patient, or his lackey. And, naturally, how much you’d like either scenario to involve him talking down to you and shoving you against a wall.

Maybe dreams can come true.

You get closer to him, as much as you can, and rest your head on his shoulder.

You’re sure he’s going to shrug you off. But instead, he lays his hand on your thigh. A quiet, happy jolt goes right through you. You wish you could sit on his lap. (The good half of his lap, anyway. You wouldn’t want to hurt him.)

“I want to kiss you,” you mumble. Wow - you really thought you were going to back out of that one before you actually said it.

“Sucks to be you, then,” he replies, but as he speaks, he leans on you a little more.

You aren’t sleeping yet, but you’re relaxed, enjoying your proximity to him. You feel a little of the deeply-wound tension in him fall away, too, and you’re oddly proud.

At some point, though, you must have fallen asleep, because you wake up, still buzzed but with a slight headache. You reach for your cup, only to find it is now filled with water.

“Pulled a reverse Jesus,” he says. You gulp it down gratefully.

“Um, I…”Your boldness somehow wavers now that the prospect of you two being strangers again is looming. “Can I give you my number?”

“I’ll give you mine,” he counters with a shrug. You’re surprised. He holds out his hand, and it takes a second to realise he’s waiting for you to hand him your phone. You do (and if he’s judging you for having a Hello Kitty charm on it, he doesn’t say anything for once); he quickly keys something in and gives it back. You peer at the screen and see a new contact labelled ‘Go-Getter Greg <3’. You laugh.

You look at him, and he says, “If we had a professional relationship I probably would have put ‘Dr. House’. And I probably wouldn’t have included the heart.”

“House?”

“Yeah, like the thing you live in. …What?”

“No, it’s just a slightly odd name. For a slightly odd guy,” you smile.

He huffs. “If you think I’m only slightly odd, clearly I haven’t done enough to impress you yet. Do you wanna hear me diagnose more passengers? Don’t worry, most of them aren’t even contagious.”

“Actually, yeah, I do.” You’d like to learn from him, after all. And you are curious.

“This time I’ll start with the least life-threatening ones and work my way up. That guy’s eye…”

The seatbelt sign turns on. He keeps talking as the plane descends. (The fact that he can pronounce words like xanthelasma so soon after drinking multiple glasses of wine might be the most impressive part.) And he clearly loves doing this; he probably loves it even more when it’s a real challenge, not just the surface-level things you suppose any doctor would learn to spot.

After you land, as the plane finishes slowly taxiing into place, you dare to ask him, “What about me?”

He’s already getting ready to get up and leave, not that he had many belongings with him. “What about you?”

“What can you tell about me?”

“Chlamydia,” he replies without missing a beat.

“What? But-“

“No, you idiot, I can’t tell anything. Most people don’t have any neon signs. There are just always some who do. Want me to make something up about your kidneys?”

You understand that since he’s being facetious, you don’t need to say ‘no’. “What about…from talking to me?”

He tilts his head. “Mostly that you’re not very good at it. Talking to people, that is.”

There’s a gap in the flow of passengers leaving, and he takes it. Then, somewhat embarrassingly louder as he’s slowly swept away, he adds, “But you are good at preventing me from sleeping.”

As you take your own leave, you think that whatever’s slightly off about Dr. Greg House might be the same thing that’s slightly off about you.

Chapter Text

Flopping onto your bed with your laptop, you open Google and type in ‘gregory house md’. You don’t know what you expect, other than maybe a bare-bones profile on the website of whichever hospital he works at. Of course, there is one: it’s at Princeton Plainsboro, where he is a department head and where you are suddenly infinitely more interested in getting a placement.

But there’s so much more. He is actually famous in the medical field. His name is scattered through journals as a renowned diagnostician who’s dealt with an absurd number of obscure cases. He doesn’t seem to have written much of the medical literature himself, but he’s mentioned over and over and over. He’s the obscure cases guy. There’s even a site that claims to offer personalised medical advice from him by email at a suspicious premium. (You know he has employees, so you assume it’s they who run it, probably with little to none of his input.)

It makes sense to you that someone like that would act the way he does. He’d have been exceptional, anomalous, to begin with, and then had his brain wrung out by years of the burden of…being this, and doing this. And you don’t even know what happened to his leg, yet.

That ‘yet’, you realise, implies not only that you’ve already decided you are going to call, but that you anticipate actually knowing him better.

Eventually, you do call. You wait anxiously as the phone rings - and, to your surprise, is picked up.

“Hello? Speaking?”

Fuck.

That’s not him.

“Um, is-“ Oh god, what are you supposed to refer to him as? “Is Dr. House there?”

In the momentary silence, you assume he probably gave you a completely wrong number - whether on purpose or owing to his intoxication at the time - and whoever is on the other end now thinks this is a new type of crank call.

Then you hear a sigh. “I told him to stop doing this.”

“You know him?” You ask, a little bit too eagerly.

“I’m truly sorry to say this, but on the occasion my friend House has sex without the involvement of an agency , the hapless subject tends to mysteriously end up with my number instead of his. Which I can only assume is so I can experience as many awkward conversations as possible all while he continues to avoid human connection. I’m sure you’re lovely, and that you deserve better.” He is irritated, but you think only about one to two percent of it is directed at you.

“I didn’t sleep with him,”you blurt out. “I mean, I slept next to him. On a flight.”

“…Huh.” He sounds faintly surprised. “And this wasn’t some type of Britney Spears mile high club situation?”

“No! I mean - not that I would necessarily have been opposed to that, but…” Stop talking.

“Well, that’s a little unusual,” he says. In earnest, you think. You want to ask which part is unusual.

“Um- what’s your name?” You ask instead. “So I can change the contact.”

“You…want to keep the contact, which doesn’t even belong to the person you met, who gave you a wrong number on purpose?”

“Because you said you were friends. I mean, obviously if you want me to, I’ll delete it, I just-“

“James,” he replies. “Wilson.”

You hear a muffled but familiar voice shout toward the receiver, what sounds like “He’s stealing you from me!”

The call then abruptly ends.

“Bye,”you mutter into the void. Was he in the room with his friend the whole time?

Were you on speaker?

“Why did you start talking to her the way you talk to me?” House asks, the accusation seeping into his tone.

“If you’d just given your hookup your own number like a functioning adult-“

“Not really a hookup. And I think I can pinpoint exactly where in that interaction your neediness-detecting Geiger counter started crackling up a storm.”

“I’m sorry, which one of us are you jealous of, again?”

Miles away, you change the name to ‘James Wilson (House)’. You keep the heart at the end intact, of course, because you didn’t need to backspace that far, and not at all because you also happened to see the photo of a Dr. James Wilson on the Princeton Plainsboro website.

Half an hour later, he texts you what must be House’s real number, along with the words ‘Good luck’.

Chapter Text

Hey Gregory-

Erase.

Dr House, I loved meeting you.

Erase.

Dr H, it was really interesting meeting you. I’d like to see you again. Coffee some time?

Send. It’s lame, it’s generic, you hate it, but you remind yourself you still don’t actually know him. Or who might be looking at his phone.

You get no reply for four days. Based on the demands of his profession and what his friend said about him avoiding people, four days is pretty damn good. When you see the text is from him, there’s unfortunately no way you aren’t going to check immediately.

Love you to get me coffee. No space for an intern though. GH

To you, that GH might as well be an XO. It’s a signature, and that’s intimate, right? Never mind that he ignored what you clearly meant; if he’d suggested a time for a date, you’d think you were still talking to Dr Wilson.

When deciding on a reply, you think on the crossroads you’re at. You meant it about trying to get into med school, and you’ve just had the good fortune of meeting probably the world’s greatest diagnostician. If you played your cards right maybe he could be your chance. Would you throw that away just because, what, you like his eyes and his sharp wit?

Your left and right brain engage in battle. Then you type something you definitely wouldn’t say in person:

Are you sure? I could do more than get you coffee.

The question is whether or not you add an x, because that changes everything about what you mean. You could do more as in help with his cases. Or you could do more as in let him rail you. (Which you guess would also help with his cases, indirectly. How altruistic!)

You add it, and send. You get a reply hours, not days, later.

Then come save me from clinic hours on Thursday. I hope you know what you’re playing at.

How can you know whether or not y…whatever. He’s interested. Interested is even better than just attracted. You’ve only met this man once, but you both know how desperately you want his attention.

You go back to his first message and cover it up with your thumb so that only ‘Love you’ and his initials are visible. Somehow that idea seems just a few percent less ridiculous than it did a few minutes ago.

“I’ve already interviewed her,” House reasons. It’s not strictly a lie. “And it’s not like we have to pay her or anything.”

“Didn’t you just say she dropped out? She doesn’t sound like a strong candidate,” Cuddy replies. “It’s obvious you just want her around to leer at.”

“She could be an excellent candidate once she’s worked with me,” House counters. “Would you really stifle such a bright young thing’s professional development?”

Cuddy sighs. He’s backing her into a corner the way he always does. “You said it would only be one day a week?”

“Yeah. At least until you see how fast she magically fixes my problems and turns me into the sociable and kind-hearted empath you know I can be.” He’s put on that infuriating faux-earnest voice again.

She looks him in the eye. “Sounds terrifying. But I can’t stop you.”

“Sure you can. You just won’t.”