It was easier than expected to work with House, she had found, if you were able to do as he asked, the impossible, and let him treat you like crap but still stand up for yourself. And Remy could, for some reason. She could channel her inner doormat, but still fight back and keep him happy. Happy-ish.
It was harder than expected to work with House when he was in more pain than usual. You don't really work, you scuttle about as he shouts the odds, she'd been told, you do differentials on the move. This wasn't quite like what Foreman had warned her about though. She'd seen House in pain, seen him brood, found both acts interesting, fascinating, found him interesting, but this was almost...pathetic and she hadn't been ready for that.
He was sitting at his desk, leg stretched out in front of him, rubbing his thigh, head in his other hand. The lights were off and just the moonlight, the streetlights, lit up his office, the blinds closed to the corridor.
"College must've been really good to be suffering so badly now." He looked up at her as she came further into his office. "Or you had a really good past life," she continued.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Emily Dickinson, 'For each ecstatic instant we must an anguish pay'," she said, standing in the darkness.
"Dickinson was a crazy cat lady," she huffed out a little laughter.
"Maybe." She moved to sit opposite him. She wasn't going to ask if he was okay, it was obvious that he really, really wasn't, but the urge was there. To show she cared, to just say the obvious because it was the obvious. She wasn't going to ask. "You need anything?" she tried instead.
"I can see what we have in morgue."
"No one over forty," he said, his voice gruffer than usual. In the dark she could still see his body twitch involuntarily in pain, he hadn't stopped rubbing his leg since she had walked in. She wanted to do something.
"So college wasn't a blast?" she asked conversationally, reaching out for the bottle of scotch she noticed on the desk. When he didn't stop her, she poured a glass and took a swig, pushing it over to him.
"It was okay," he said, taking a swig of his own. In the dim light there was confusion on his face, and she smiled. She liked being a mystery to the man who knew everything, liked confusing him. "Didn't read as much as you obviously did."
"That was high school." Her mother had not long died, books were all-encompassing and she had needed that. Still did. He didn't even need to know.
"Was better." She took another swig of scotch. "You need something stronger than this."
"Stronger than scotch?"
"Absinthe?" she tried.
"Throw some morphine in and you have a date."
"Okay," she said standing up. He stopped still.
"Yeah, why not?"
"Never mind." He went to get up and she moved around the desk, putting a hand on his shoulder to hold him down.
"Wait there, I'll be back with some morphine." He nodded and she left him sitting at his desk.
He had no idea what was going on. He hadn't expected Thirteen to so readily give him drugs and alcohol, no one else did. Most people tried to talk him out of it. He hadn't expected her to help herself to his scotch, and this was the longest personal conversation he'd had with the young woman and he still didn't know anything about her. Finally a tiny smirk made it's a way through the pain, amused by Thirteen's evasiveness. It was a skill.
It hadn't expected her to come back with a needle, but the door opened and she flicked the light switch, twirling the hypodermic in her fingers. He pushed himself up with his cane, and started to undo his belt, pausing at the look of surprise on her face.
"I want it in my spine."
"Are you sure?"
"Very fucking sure," he grumbled. She nodded and watched as he opened his trousers and turned around, pulling them down a little to reveal the line of his black boxers.
"You wanna lie down or something House?"
"Just do it Thirteen." She walked up to him as he braced himself on the edge of his desk, pulling up his t-shirt and running her hand over his back, feeling for the right place. When she found it, she didn't hesitate, injecting him with the drug and he realised he had never checked to make sure she wasn't just giving him a placebo. Wouldn't be the first time, but she wasn't like Cuddy, she wasn't interested in stopping his drug use, just his pain. The needle slid out and he almost fell onto the desk, her small hands grabbing him in time, arms wrapping around him to hold him up. He grumbled and struggled out of her hold. She let him and took a few steps back as he rearranged his clothes.
"I'll drive you home," she said, "we'll get something to drink on the way."
He didn't say anything, wasn't sure what to say to a woman who was pretty much giving him everything he wanted, at the moment at least.
"What about a blow job?"
"Never going to happen House," she said with a grin. He wanted to grin back, but couldn't feel it getting past the agony that was shooting through his spine from his leg. He hoped the morphine kicked in soon. "Come on," she said, tossing her hair. He nodded, grabbing his cane and backpack. He half expected her to take it from him, carry it for him, but she didn't, simply flicking the light off as she walked into the little conference room, grabbing her own bag and jacket. He followed, finding himself pleased with her.
"Want to get something to eat?" he asked, stepping into the lift behind her.
"What do you like?" he asked, "pizza, Chinese?"
"Not fussy," she said casually.
"Now you're just being awkward," he said, frowning at the pain rather than her, "which isn't mysterious, just fucking annoying." She laughed.
"I'm just not fussy about having either pizza or Chinese food House, I like both."
"Right." He sighed, and felt his muscles relax just a touch.
"Morphine kicking in?" she asked.
"I think so."
She hadn't really expected to be driving House to his apartment, stopping to pick up alcohol and pizza on the way. He was quiet in her car, hand clutching his leg still, head back against the seat, eyes closed. In the flickering street light filtering into her car he looked a little better than he had done in his office.
"On the left," he muttered, eyes opening, and she looked to where he indicated, before pulling up outside the building.
She hesitated when the engine died, waiting for him to move first, she had never expected this scenario in working for House. She liked it though.
Inside he collapsed on the sofa, straight away, eyes closed, jaw slack. This was the morphine, she mused, looking around for his kitchen.
"On the left," he muttered again, and she smiled. When she came back with plates and glasses, he'd already taken a bite of pizza, the bottle of Absinthe open in his hand. She sat next to him and grabbed a slice.
"Feeling better?" she asked.
"Yeah," he breathed, handing her the bottle. She took a drink, making a face and he smirked. "Can't hold your alcohol Thirteen?"
"I can just fine thanks," she replied taking another swig.
Thirteen amused him, he decided, closing his eyes as the pain subsided a little. Even morphine didn't help entirely, not at the dose his fellow had evidently given him. Better then nothing, which was all he would've gotten from anyone else.
"Why d'you give me the morphine?" he asked.
"You needed it," she said.
"Do you ever say more than the bare minimum?"
"I try not to." He smirked.
"Nothing to say?" he asked.
"Plenty to say."
"Like what?" he pushed.
"Is it true you slept with Cuddy in college?"
"Yeah," he said, "see it's not that hard to tell people things."
"I think Cuddy is hot." He felt his neck snap as he turned to look at her.
"She's evil you know."
"I know. No one that sexy can be good."
"It's her ass."
"Pure evil," Thirteen said, laughing.
"I miss her ass."
"I would too." She took a long drag of the Absinthe and made another face, that was probably all he was going to get out of her tonight, he figured. He had a suspicion she didn't say much more when she was drunk. She wouldn't even be drinking of she did.
She hadn't expected to wake up under a blanket. It wasn't quite laid over her body, more dumped into her lap, but it was there. She didn't remember falling to sleep stretched out either and she looked at her watch to check the time. Three am. She smiled and sat up, wondering if she should drive him or go back to sleep.
She wasn't wearing her shoes.
She almost jumped out of her skin when House padded into the room through the darkness, wearing just pyjama pants, his limp heavy without his cane.
"Hey," he muttered. His hair was sticking up, his silhouette making her grin. He grabbed a pill bottle from the piano. "Did I wake you?"
"I was already awake."
"You can stay," he told her, "probably should," he added, "Absinthe packs a punch."
"There's a t-shirt there for you to sleep in."
"Thanks," she mumbled. "Feeling better?"
"Yeah," he swallowed a couple of pills, keeping a hold of the bottle, "night."
"Night." She watched him walk back to his bedroom, and shook the blanket out. A t-shirt fell to the floor and she picked it up, changing into it without a thought.
Still no idea as to what was going on, but the alcohol was still pounding through her blood and House was feeling better so she could figure it out in the morning.
He threw the cushion at her and she sat up, the bewildered look on her face making him laugh.
"What the..." She looked around and he was kinda glad to see she was wearing his old ACDC t-shirt. Though, she probably hadn't realised exactly what was on the shirt last night.
"Up," he repeated, "coffee, work, bagels, not necessarily in that order."
"What time is it?" she asked standing up. The t-shirt went down to her thighs, and he wasn't sure the irony was worth loosing out on seeing her ass if he had given her a smaller, less funny t-shirt.
"Just gone nine."
"Fuck," she grabbed her jeans and pulled them on.
"I'll buy you coffee on the way to work."
"Are you serious?" he said, he still hadn't dressed, and he scratched his head. "Even Wilson made me coffee."
"Wilson would bend over if you asked him too," she said. She pulled the t-shirt off and he felt like he was still in the middle of the morphine induced dream he'd had last night about petite brunettes and purple dragons. She was standing in her bra, in his living room, without trying to cover up.
She was really hot. And really screwed up. She was willing to show him more of her body than her mind. He found his voice again when she pulled her top on.
"Maybe so, but you're in my apartment and I want coffee."
"Do you need a ride to work?"
"Then get dressed."
"I need to shower. Make some coffee." He turned around and left her in his living room. Maybe she'd just drive off and go to work, but he doubted it. He was starting to figure her out, in relation to him, and the way she reacted to and around him.
"Oh, very funny t-shirt House!" she called out.
"You can keep it!" He yelled back, before turning the shower on.
He came out of his bedroom, dressed for work, and found her in his kitchen, two coffees and a bag of doughnuts on his table, Thirteen reading his newspaper. She had gone out for coffee, a compromise. He smirked and grabbed the unopened coffee.
"Finally," she said, folding the paper.
"Oh don't worry so much, I'm your boss remember."
"Yes, but I don't want to get in your boss's bad books," she said with a little grin. "And by good books, I mean thong."
"Then we'd better get going," he said. He grabbed his backpack and a doughnut and waited for her to move. She finished her coffee and left it on the table, grabbing the bag of doughnuts and leading him out of his own apartment and to her car.
"Good thing we don't have a patient."
"Maybe," he shrugged and got into her car. "Your car is purple."
"I like purple," she said with an amused grin.
"You might be able to get into Cuddy's good books."
"Cause I like purple?" she asked with a frown
"And by good books I mean thong too."
"Where have you been?" Kuntner asked when Thirteen walked in, hair still damp from her shower, clothes creased in odd angles from being folded in her locker for a little too long.
"Sorry, time got away from me," she said, taking a seat at the conference table, nodding at House. He tapped his cane on the white board.
"Time got away from you?" Foreman said, eyebrow raised.
"Time is an illusion, Foreman," House said, "lunchtime doubly so."
"Douglas Adams," Remy said with a grin.
"Wow, you did read a lot in highschool," House said.
"Too much. Should've watched more tv."
"Or had more sex," he suggested, almost ignoring the others in the room with him.
"I had enough sex."
"Can we talk about this later? We have a new patient," Foreman cut in.
"He never wants to hear about teenagers having sex," House said, still looking at Thirteen.
"We'll talk about it later," she told him. "Chinese?"
"Are you two..." Kutner said, "dating?"
"No." They said together.
"Thirteen wants Cuddy's ass not mine."
"So do you."
"Yes, but I've had her ass."
"You'd have it back," she stated.
"No, no, let them continue," Taub said with a laugh.
"Seriously, later," Thirteen said. "And you're paying, Wilson's your bitch, not me."
"No, you're nobody's bitch."
"Unless it's Cuddy's."
"Sorry, so, new patient, let's talk about sick people and not the idea of Thirteen and Cuddy having sex, what do you say Kutner?" He looked at the man who was staring at Thirteen.
"Cuddy is hot," he said.
Over the differential, they both realised that they'd just made a friend out of each other. And no one would ever have expected that.