Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine and I make no money with this story. All rights belong to the owner of the T.V. Series House M.D.

I got the idea for this oneshot after I saw a man with a cane limp by and the idea hasn't left me since. It definitely reminded me of my all time favorite, Dr. House, and made me re-watch episode after episode instead of attending lectures like I should. Anyway, a bit of booze, some cigarettes and a lot of good music – in particular St. James Infirmary from Hugh Laurie – later, and this bit of writing came into existence. I sincerely doubt that I'll write much more stories about House until my main FF for HP is finished, but I do hope that you'll enjoy it.

Chinese Take-out

Oneshot by Eilyfe

It is said that our eyes are the windows to our soul, that things we desperately want to hide could still be revealed through them – in the blink of an eye if you will. Eyes, two of them if the person is healthy, are conscious sense organs with the ability to unveil our innermost secrets; they have the potential to lay bare our very own soul.

He had always prided himself in his uncanny ability to read and to analyze other people's feelings, had always felt superior when he managed to interpret what the person across was thinking – gestures, small twitches in the face, the list was endless and everything told a story of its own. Yet, nothing did it quite as easily as the windows to the soul; a strange name, but oddly fitting.

So, why then did he feel nothing of the usual satisfaction even though he had been right?

Another shot of bourbon, another drag from the cigar and yet another song played on the piano – and intermingled with it all, questions he couldn't answer which was quite unlike him. What he had told her was nothing but the truth and – as always – the truth had been ugly business. Why though did he feel something as pitiful as guilt, when all he had done had been to be himself? Obscuring his opinion and talking around the actual issue, never being honest in this life or the next; that wasn't him and she knew it. Why then had she looked at him like that? Accusing, like she really had expected something different.

His nimble fingers flew over the ivory keys and the music echoed through the condo and maybe, if he was lucky, waking the old crone that had rented the apartment above him.

It wasn't his fault after all, was it? She should have known better...

Still, it bothered him.

And what made the whole thing worse was that he even acknowledged that it bothered him. Just the reason escaped him and no matter how many more glasses of bourbon followed, he never came even close to an acceptable answer. The clock ticked away, its hands slowly reaching the point of midnight, and the music remained his only companion in these lonely hours.

Women, he decided after all, were strange creatures. Theoretically, he had no need for them and yet, practically, he couldn't live without them. "And that is why god invented hookers," he muttered and chuckled. It sounded hollow.

And it was a sad moment indeed, when even his wit left him and he had to resort to bad jokes about his old time nemesis. God, Wilson would have a field day with his current state of mind.

What a girl.

He took another drag from his cigar, before walking over to the couch – his cane thumped rhythmically in tandem with his footsteps. Again, why was he even considering what he was about to do? He snorted and put on his trusted leather jacket. The answer was rather obvious in the end; because as troublesome and confusing as women were, he was even more screwed up.

Unfortunately, outside of medical business, logic and rationality had nothing in common with one Gregory House, at all.

The night lights of New Jersey flew by as he sped through the streets, but when he finally reached his destination – the roar of his bike's engine slowly dying down – he hesitated. House wasn't an indecisive man by nature, but when snark, wit and sarcasm failed, his awkwardness shone through; it was a highly annoying character trait.

Nothing could be done now anyway as he had already knocked on the door and it would take but seconds for it to open. There was no time to reconsider and that was probably for the best, he thought and a suffering sigh escaped him.


She sounded sad, but strangely enough also curious and it didn't escape him that she still wore the same dress she had worn hours ago. Well, that was it. He was no man for many words, had never been one and would probably never be; as always he let actions speak for him.

"Chinese," he said and held up a small plastic bag with a sheepish grin.

It was truly fascinating how quickly the sadness left her eyes, to be replaced with confusion and later with understanding and happiness.

"You're a moron," she answered and with two steps was in reach of him, her lips looking ever so inviting.

Indeed, women were truly strange creatures, he thought when he felt her body mold into his own.

And the Chinese takeout bag? Well, it probably was forgotten on the floor.

It's kinda short, but like House once mentioned to Chase: size doesn't always matter. I hope you had fun and if you have any questions just pm me, or leave a comment. I'll try my best to answer them.

So far,