Cure- House, MD

chapter 6: unicorn

I knock softly on the frame of House's open office door, still unsure why he even bothered to keep it open today. He glances up, feigning surprise as if he's shocked to see anyone actually taking him seriously enough to knock.

"Oh, if it isn't Miss Perfect, here to thank me for last night's chivalry," he smirks, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk.

I step inside, trying to keep my expression neutral, though I'm still simmering over the fact that he swiped my pill bottle on his way out. "Just wanted to check on my... property," I say as I take the seat, not missing the way his fingers drum lazily on the desk, seemingly aware of every nerve his actions have struck.

"Property?" He raises an eyebrow, pretending to look confused. "You mean that fancy leather jacket I graciously didn't spill anything on while escorting you home? Or could it be the tiny bottle of moral failure sitting safely in my drawer?"

I narrow my eyes. "House, I didn't give those to you. You stole them."

"Borrowed, actually," he shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Figured it was my duty as your self-appointed temporary life coach to 'hold onto' your vices."

I cross my arms. "Last I checked, I didn't ask for a life coach."

"Doesn't matter." He leans forward, eyes glinting with that all-too-familiar mix of arrogance and intrigue. "You, of all people, should know that patients rarely ask for the cure. They just want relief."

"Relief?" I laugh bitterly. "Right. Because you're some kind of expert on clean living."

"Never claimed to be," he replies, unfazed. "But you should know better, Miss Neurology Whiz, than to think you can hide an addiction right under my nose. Especially when your cocktail of choice just happens to be the same vintage as mine."

I feel a pang of vulnerability flare up, but I swallow it down. "I can handle myself. I'm not some lost cause that needs rescuing."

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Everyone's a lost cause at something. The trick is knowing when to call for a lifeline."

"And you're volunteering for the job?" I snort, attempting to shift back into familiar sarcasm.

He shrugs, eyes skimming me like he's assessing a complicated puzzle he doesn't fully understand. "Maybe I'm curious. Or maybe I just think you're interesting enough to want to keep around a little longer."

Silence falls between us, heavy yet oddly comfortable. House taps his cane on the floor, looking as if he's trying to read every expression flickering across my face.

"Look," he finally says, his voice softer, though his tone retains that sardonic edge. "You're young, you're competent, and by some miracle, you haven't thrown yourself off a cliff after hearing my charming bedside manner. So, if you're going to self-destruct, at least let me watch. Could be a fun project."

"Wow, what an honor," I say dryly, rolling my eyes. "Should I pencil in our next therapy session, or do you want to just break into my place again to rifle through my things?"

House grins, eyes glinting. "I might actually make a house call this time."

I groan, but I can't hide the slight smile pulling at my lips. For all his tactlessness, there's something in his gaze that's uncomfortably honest, as though he sees right through me.

"Just remember," he adds, leaning back in his chair and picking up a rubber band to snap idly between his fingers. "If you're going to self-medicate, at least choose something worth hiding from me next time. Oxycodone is so predictable."