Notes: I wasn't planning to continue this story; initially, I intended for it to be a one-shot. But, evidently, a couple of people liked reading it as much as I liked writing it. I wasn't expecting that. In light of this new development, here's a second chapter! It's much shorter than I would have liked it to be; however, I have exams this week – not much time to write fiction, but I'm still very interested in knowing whether people like where I'm going with this or not. Reviews would be much appreciated.


"Hey. Hey, wake up!" House rapped the floor in front of the sofa loudly with the handle of his cane. He was nearly shouting. "It's nine-thirty; you have negative twenty-nine minutes to get off my couch and out the door."

The half-naked twenty-three-year-old rolled over; nearly falling off the sofa as he propped himself up on his elbows. "What? What time is it?" He squinted; light was seeping in from between the blinds covering the windows, and it was searing his eyes. He shielded his face with his hand, and looked up at the man who had woken him. Greg. The guy from the bar. He smiled as the memories of the previous night flooded back into his mind. "Hey. You look better." He was commenting, of course, on House's sobriety – the night before, the doctor had been plastered out of his mind.

House, still holding the end of his cane in his hand, nudged the bartender with the handle. "Time for you to leave. Get up." He turned around, got his cane back into position, and limped toward the kitchen. He started to load up his backpack, which was sitting on the kitchen table. "I need you out of here. I'm late for work; I'm going to be looking at swollen penises all day if I'm not there in ten minutes."

The bartender sat up on the couch, and stretched his arms. He was clad only in boxer shorts; the rest of his clothes were still lying on House's bedroom floor, where he'd tossed them the night before. His eyes having adjusted to the light, he looked over at House and smiled. "You don't really seem to me as though you're the type to be opposed to looking at swollen dicks, doctor." He stood up, cracking his knuckles as he surveyed the room around him. "I'll be out of your hair as soon as I find my pants..." He turned and looked around. "...Where are they, again...?"

House paused, looked up from zipping his iPod and PSP into the main compartment of his bag, and gave the bartender a look. "Erect penises swollen with blood and penises swollen with pus and genital warts are two completely different things." He looked back down and continued what he was doing. "Your pants are right where you tossed them last night before you shoved me up your butt." When the bartender gave him a questioning look, he added with a jerk of his head, "Down the hall and to your left." The bartender nodded, recognition flashing in his eyes. As House watched the young man scuttle off down the hall, he found himself wishing he could recall the details of the previous night. All he really remembered was getting drunk at the bar, coming home, having sex, and waking up with a headache. How the bartender had talked him into it was beyond him; all he knew was that he'd done it, and that he didn't regret it. Aside from the fact that he'd floated through the experience in a river of whiskey and pills, it had been just as satisfying as any one-night-stand he'd ever had; he was curious as to how, precisely, it had all played out.

Down the hall and to his left, the bartender went around the room collecting and tugging on his clothes as he found them. His jeans and socks were bunched up against the wall; his shirt in a wrinkled bundle beside the bed. As he was buttoning it up, he scanned the room with his eyes out of habit. The bed was un-made, and as he looked it over, he eyed a stain on the left side of it, toward the end. He smirked. For someone who had 'never had sex with a man in his life', Greg had been pretty good.

He was about to leave, but as his eyes took one last look around, he noticed an orange prescription bottle resting on the dresser. Greg had been popping whatever it was full of like candy all night long. Curious, he lifted up and inspected the bottle. Vicodin. The bartender raised his eyebrows as a smile crept onto his face. Either the older man had one hell of a pain problem, or he was an addict. The frequency with which he'd been taking the pills lead the bartender to believe the latter; his cane and the giant scars on his body, however, pushed him more toward the former. He wondered if Greg would satisfy his curiosity if asked. He also wondered if he might be willing to share.

In the meantime, House was getting impatient. The bartender was taking far too long to gather his clothes, and he really needed him out of there. He wasn't crazy about the idea of leaving the young man alone in his apartment; ever since he'd had his stereo stolen, he'd been a bit more cautious about leaving his door open to strangers. By this time, he had his coat and scarf on, and his backpack was slung over his shoulder. After standing in the doorway for a minute or two looking annoyed, he decided to go back to the bedroom and see what was taking so long.

When he entered, he came upon the bartender handling one of his pill bottles. Immediately, he snatched the medication out of the man's hand. "What are you doing?"

The bartender ignored the question; instead responding with one of his own. "You take Vicodin?"

"Yes, I take Vicodin. Not you. Especially not my Vicodin. Now stop trying to infiltrate my stash, and leave already. It's a Wednesday morning; don't you have somewhere you need to be?" House stepped to the side, and made an exaggerated gentlemanly motion; as though he was ushering the bartender out the door.

The bartender took House's cue, and stepped out into the hallway. Had he not known that House was hung-over (and probably not very happy to begin with; otherwise, he likely wouldn't have drank himself stupid the night before), he may have been mildly hurt by how abrupt the older man was being with him. It had been bad enough when Greg had sent him out to the couch after sex; now, the bartender felt, he was being downright mean. It wasn't that he expected affection, or even friendliness – he wasn't that naïve – he just wanted some civility. He was understandably disappointed by the fact that he wasn't getting much in the way of it. Nonetheless, he walked backward down the corridor, talking to House while they made their way back to the living room. "Don't get your panties in a twist; I wasn't going to take any." The two exited the hall. The bartender stopped and stood beside House. "But, I was going to ask if you'd be interested in... sharing, maybe?" He smiled, and looked up at the older man; his expression half-hopeful, and half-deviant.

House laughed sarcastically, and continued to walk toward the apartment door. His back to the bartender, he said, "Something tells me I need them more than you do." He took the young man's coat and scarf off of the hook by the door, and tossed them at him as he picked his bike helmet up from off the floor and tucked it under his arm. "Now get out."

As the bartender pulled his coat on, he looked somewhat dejected. Of all the men he'd ever slept with, Greg seemed to be the most belligerent of them. Most of his flings wouldn't think twice about handing him a few pills or a syringe as a token of thanks for a fun night, but this guy would barely even acknowledge him. The bartender wondered if he was always like this. Part of him admired Greg's wit – he really was clever – but he also hated being treated like dirt. In the end, he settled for rationalising that, perhaps, the older man was just having a bad week. If he hooked up with him again sometime, he reasoned, perhaps he wouldn't be quite so much of an ass. So, instead of arguing, the bartender responded simply with, "Alright."

The two walked out the front doors together in silence, but as they were about to part, the bartender took a gentle hold of House's arm. He looked him in the eye, and smiled. "By the way, I'm Trevor."

House nodded, jerked his arm out of Trevor's grasp, and continued on toward his bike. "Neat," he said – just loudly enough so that he could be heard – as he swung his leg over the seat and revved the motor. By the time he'd begun to drive off in the direction of the hospital, Trevor was well on his way in the opposite direction; off toward the tavern to pick up his car.


His department still void of new cases, House drifted through another day of clinic duty; seeing patients, getting annoyed, popping some Vicodin, and starting the cycle over again. He joined Wilson in the cafeteria for lunch, but didn't say anything to his friend about his Tuesday evening adventure. He was tempted to, if only for the sake of the look that he knew would appear on Wilson's face if he did, but ultimately decided against it. He'd been so drunk, there wasn't much about the night before that he could remember with satisfying enough accuracy to make him eager to share. He could always shock Wilson next time. If there was a next time.

House wasn't entirely certain as to whether the idea of 'next time' appealed to him. Come morning, the bartender – Trevor, was it? – hadn't done much else besides irritate him. Then again, most people irritated him, and this person just so happened to be good for something – and, as he'd said, he came free of charge.

After Wilson left the table, House put his feet up on the chair opposite his own. He pulled his PSP out of his pocket, and turned it on. Seeing as how he frequented the bar in which Trevor worked, it wasn't as though he could avoid him forever. He was at least going to see him again; if it wasn't going to cost him anything, why not let the bartender serve him more than just a few drinks? For a bit of morning-after annoyance, it was worth it. Wasn't it?

As he mashed the buttons on the PSP, House couldn't help but wonder why he was thinking about this as much as he was. He'd scarcely ever given this much thought to a one-nighter in his life; especially not a particularly annoying one. The thought crossed his mind that it might be because this particular one-nighter had happened to be a guy. That would definitely make sense – hell, he'd thought a lot about the first girl he'd slept with, too. But he'd been a high-school senior back then, and even he liked to think that he'd grown up in the thirty or so years since that time, if only a little bit.

It wasn't that he was worried about anything; he certainly knew that sleeping with another man didn't make him gay, no matter how much he'd enjoyed it. He didn't really even like the kid all that much; between his having left late, and his having asked House to share his Vicodin – and whatever other dumb things he'd said and done the night before that House couldn't remember – it really didn't seem as though there had been much to like. Granted, he had given him a ride home. House had to give him that. But how much of that act was pure-hearted kindness, and how much of it was part of a ploy to get into House's pants... well, he wasn't sure. His perception of human nature lead him to lean toward the latter.

Maybe, he thought, he'd go back to the bar in a couple of days and see if the bartender was interested in coming home with him again. For House, this whole 'having gay sex' thing was pretty weird – and House loved weird. He decided he wanted to experience it sober. With a half-smile on his face, he switched off his PSP and got up to return to the clinic. He had a feeling that the bartender wouldn't turn him down.