Cure- House, MD

chapter 7: whiskey

The whiskey's warmth spreads through me as House and I sway gently on the porch swing. The night air is cool, filled with the faint sounds of rustling leaves and distant crickets. House is next to me, close enough that our knees occasionally bump as we swing, and he's watching me with that lazy, knowing grin that somehow manages to be both irritating and... disarming.

I tilt my head back, looking up at the stars. "You ever feel like you're not where you're supposed to be?"

"Every time Cuddy drags me into a meeting," he replies, taking a slow sip. "Or are you talking about the more 'profound' kind of disorientation?"

I roll my eyes, biting back a smile. "Forget it. Clearly, you're not in the mood for serious conversation."

He shrugs, still wearing that sly grin. "Oh, I can handle it. But in case you missed the memo, seriousness is overrated. Besides, I thought you were the one who always has things figured out. Is the house of cards starting to wobble?"

I scoff, giving him a sideways look. "Says the man who can't even show up to work on time."

"Says the one I pill robbed," he retorts, leaning closer with a smirk. "Punctuality is for people who don't have anything better to do, anyways."

"Whatever," I roll my eyes. "I just... I thought I'd have my life together by now, you know?"

"Yeah, well, having things 'together' is a myth," he replies, raising his glass like he's toasting to that. "Everyone's just playing their part. Take it from the resident expert in questionable life choices."

Despite myself, I laugh, and clink my glass with his. "That doesn't make me feel better."

"Oh, come on," he drawls, leaning a bit closer, his tone playful. "Everyone's a mess. I'm just more honest about it, and you're still trying to fool yourself."

I roll my eyes, but he's managed to hit closer to the truth than I'd like. "And here I thought you brought whiskey to be charming, not to psychoanalyze me."

He grins, taking a slow sip. "Lucky for you, I'm good at both." He runs his fingers over the rim of his glass, and there's something in his gaze—warm, teasing—that makes my stomach flutter.

"So why'd you actually come?" I ask, feeling bold, the whiskey loosening my words. "Was it just to have someone to argue with?"

He chuckles, giving me a look that's almost—almost—affectionate. "Maybe. Or maybe I just can't get enough of you and your constant need to correct me."

I feel my cheeks warm, and I take another sip, hiding my smile. "You mean you need someone who won't let you get away with everything."

"Or maybe I want someone who'd make me work less hard." He leans in a fraction, eyes gleaming with that mischievous light. "You stay up nights on end, thinking about the cases, thinking about how you could be better, you think about me.. You end up shedding half my workload in one night."

"You're impossible," I mutter, shaking my head.

"That's the general consensus," he says, his smirk softening just a bit. "But hey, for what it's worth, you're not exactly boring."

I glance away, feeling an unfamiliar warmth spread through me, something that's not just the whiskey. "You really think that?"

House doesn't answer right away. He shifts, adjusting his position on the swing so that we're even closer now. His eyes stay locked on mine, the playful smirk creeping up again like he's enjoying this—us—more than he's willing to admit.

"Yeah, I do," he finally says, his voice lighter now, more teasing. "And I think you know it, too. You're sitting here, talking to me—drinking with me—when you could be out there with all those boring, predictable men who think 'romantic' means ordering the same overpriced bottle of wine every date night. It's practically an insult to the concept of living."