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You’ve never been the biggest fan of flights. Spending hours in a pressurized container high above the ground with crying babies, incessant talkers, and complete strangers isn’t exactly your idea of a good time. Combine that with your oh-so-wonderful colleague Dr. Gregory House, and you’re faced with a headache-inducing experience on numerous levels.
House defies explanation, at this point. You’ve grown used to him in the time you’ve spent working together, but even over the years, he hasn’t changed much. That is to say, he is very much still an asshole with sadistic tendencies. Still, underneath the prickly exterior, there’s a slightly less prickly but still moderately inconvenient disposition. You’ve known him long enough to know that House isn’t an evil person or anything—he does care about his patients, even if he’d rather kill someone than admit it.
Ordinarily, you are not the unfortunate victim of House’s wrath. Or even his attention. After all, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital is a very busy place. Sure, you’ve crossed paths with him in the break room before; you’ve sat with Dr. Wilson at lunch and been rudely interrupted by House’s unexpected presence. But the patients are typically the targets of his ire.
Which is why you feel particularly slighted by this situation… and this seating arrangement. House and you, sitting next to each other in business class, on a flight across the country to some pretentious medical conference. You were offered as the sacrificial lamb to accompany House to this conference, for reasons you’re still not quite sure of. Maybe Cuddy has it out for you. No, she’s too nice for that. But still! Who decided you’d be the one to listen to his constant complaining?!
And while you love complaining as much as the next guy—even more than the next guy, probably—House’s commentary is getting old fast. First it was the early call time, which you insisted on because airport security is a joke these days; then it was the food, then the coffee, then the seats and the sunlight and the bathroom line and the boarding area and the flight attendants being too perky and the pilots nodding at him even though that’s standard practice—
Anyways. Yeah. Here you are: tens of thousands of feet in the air, sitting next to House, with your Kindle in your lap and a headache already blooming in your temples. You think you’ve read this particular sentence in your book a few times now. For some reason, the repetition isn’t helping it make any more sense.
But things can’t get much worse, right?
Ha. You shouldn’t have let that thought even cross your mind. Because a mere ten minutes after you start counting your blessings and recognizing the privilege of being sent to this conference free of charge, one of the flight attendants is standing in the aisle with a panicked expression.
“Is anyone here a doctor?” she asks, looking around the area hopefully. Her eyes flit over you, thankfully. And for a horribly selfish moment, you contemplate keeping quiet. You don’t know what they need a doctor for. It could be something as simple as altitude sickness, and you’re already running on less sleep than normal and shitty airport coffee.
But House shifts at your side, and you immediately know what he’s going to say before he says it. This doesn’t stop you from trying to jam an elbow into his ribs.
He dodges the attempt. “He is,” House says with a maniacal quirk to his lips, his thumb pointing towards you in the seat next to him. The nearby passengers look over at you curiously.
“Oh, fuck you,” you hiss quietly, getting up from your seat and sneaking out into the aisle. Feeling a bit warm, you take off your sweatshirt and throw it at House, just to have something to channel your anger into. He catches it and grins, tossing it onto your carry-on without fanfare.
“Dinner and a show,” he then says, raising his eyebrows. You try your best to ignore him, instead approaching the flight attendant in the aisle.
“Hey,” you say, trying to be as polite and reassuring as possible. She looks a little freaked out. You make a point to introduce yourself. “It’s all right. I can help.”
“Good,” she says relievedly. “This man here has been unconscious for some time now. He threw up earlier. I think he has a fever too.”
You frown. “Okay, let me see…” you press a hand to his forehead. His skin is warm; his face is slightly flushed and sweaty. He doesn’t react to your touch, which is a bit worrying but not entirely concerning.
Fortunately, he doesn’t seem completely out of it—his eyes flutter and he starts to stir as you remove your hand. “Hi,” you say gently, watching him slowly come back to his surroundings. “How are you feeling?”
“...Okay…” he says, blinking hard.
You introduce yourself. “I’m a doctor,” you explain. “You passed out. Can you tell me how you’re feeling? How long has this been going on?”
“Since… this morning,” he recalls with a frown. “Felt a bit dizzy earlier.”
“Dizzy,” you repeat. This guy isn’t giving you much to go on. “You’re flushed and you have a mild fever. Anything else? Are you in pain?”
“Yeah… my head hurts…” he breaks off, a pained expression on his face. “I don’t feel good.”
“Here,” you hand him the barf bag on the seatback. He looks a little pale and dazed. “Do you have a medical ID?”
“A what?”
You sigh. “I’m going to take a look at your things, okay?” you ask, before rooting through his carry-on. You don’t find his wallet, until you glance at his zip-up hoodie and realize there’s something sticking out of the pocket: a black leather wallet. Perfect.
“Frisking him already?” House pipes up from his seat. “You work quickly.”
“Shut up,” you huff, turning to the flight attendant. She looks moments away from ejecting House from the flight. “He’s a doctor too—just lazy,” you explain.
“I prefer to call it mentoring,” House says with a lazy hand gesture. “Learn by doing and whatnot.”
“The more attention you give him, the worse he gets,” you say to the flight attendant. You take a deep breath and try to refocus, rifling through the man’s wallet. As expected, he doesn’t seem to have a medical ID. Just a driver’s license, a few credit cards, a debit card, a few gift cards…
Bingo. A scuba license.
“Did you dive recently?” you ask the man, leaning in front of him when his head dips. You put a hand on his face, watching in concern as his eyelids droop. “Hey, stay with me for a second. Do you feel any tingling, burning, itching…?”
“Yeah, on my back,” he manages to choke out.
“Do you mind if I look?” you ask gently. “It’ll be quick.”
He nods weakly. You lift up his shirt and instruct him to lean forward a bit, pointedly ignoring House’s wolf whistle in the background. The man’s skin is blotchy and slightly purple. You’re starting to suspect he has decompression sickness.
“Tell me when you last dove,” you instruct him.
“Yesterday,” the man answers.
“Yesterday,” you repeat, struggling to contain your shock. Who in their right mind would go diving the day before a flight?! That’s just asking for sickness. Honestly, it’s a miracle he’s held out this long. You settle for a sigh, getting to your feet and ignoring his questioning gaze.
“Okay,” you announce, turning to the surrounding spectators. The nearby passengers—who were doing a pretty poor job of pretending not to watch—look over at you. “Good news? It’s not contagious.” That wasn’t really your concern, but you’re sure some of them were worried. With their worries placated, you turn to the flight attendant. “But I need to speak to the pilot,” you continue quietly, “preferably now.”
You tune out House’s muttered commentary about dramatics, instead following her down the aisle and heading to the cockpit. The flight attendant opens the cabin door and you explain the situation to the pilot and co-pilot, stressing that the plane needs to coast at a lower altitude to prevent worsening the man’s condition. They agree and you head back to the business area, only to find the flight attendant waiting for you. She must’ve returned to the man’s side after you entered the cabin.
“Is he going to be okay?” she asks worriedly, looking down at him with a concerned frown.
“Yeah, he’ll be fine,” you reassure her, painfully aware of the numerous passengers staring at you. You try to focus on the conversation and the man in front of you. He’s still out of it. “Let’s get him some oxygen. The pilots are taking the plane lower. Long story short, he has the bends.”
“The bends?” she questions. House lets out a loud annoyed breath. How the guy can make breathing sound irritating, you’re not sure. But he does.
“Stress from pressure changes, basically,” you answer the woman, getting the oxygen mask secured to his face. “He went diving yesterday, probably ascended too fast. Then went on this flight, which was yet another pressure change.”
“Oh,” the flight attendant remarks. “That makes sense.”
“Yeah,” you nod, studying him for another moment. You can feel the plane starting to dip slightly, as the pilots start to make adjustments to the flight path. You turn back to the flight attendant. “The pilots are adjusting the flight path to a lower altitude. He should be fine for the rest of the flight, but if you need anything, I’ll be over there.” You point over to the empty seat next to House.
“Thank you so much, Doctor,” the flight attendant says sincerely.
“No problem,” you respond. “And you can drop the title, I’m just another passenger.”
“Okay,” she smiles. Her eyes are sparkling, for some reason. And is it just your imagination, or is she leaning closer to you?
You can’t contemplate the thought for too long, before House is clearing his throat loudly. The strange tension settling over your conversation is broken, and you head back over to your row.
It’s nothing more than a few steps, but for some reason, when you get there, you feel like you just ran a mile. Well, that’s a complete exaggeration. But you do feel unusually tired, and your sinuses are starting to hurt from the pressure. You took a decongestant earlier today, but apparently it isn’t completely getting rid of the headache.
“So,” House says pointedly, something passing across his face too fast for you to notice. His eyes find the flight attendant behind you before looking at you again. “The guy’s going to live. Shame.”
“Yeah, what a shame,” you say sarcastically. “Can you let me in?”
House hums. “You wouldn’t make a poor old man with a bum leg get up, would you?” he says innocently.
You glower. “I hate you,” you say. “So very much.” And you swear that House is purposefully slumping in his seat, just to take up as much leg room as possible. “Seriously?” you scoff under your breath, quite literally having to step over him. You manage to do it, but only barely. Not to mention, he’s right there.
You’re about to make a snarky comment about enjoying the show when the plane hits a quick burst of turbulence. Your balance is thrown for a second and you stumble, reaching for the seatback near you. House reaches out to steady you, his hand finding your hip and keeping you from face planting. It only falls away when you actually manage to get seated.
“Thanks,” you say, finally getting settled in the seat next to him. You’re once again grateful that you’re not in economy class—you hate being in the middle seat.
House doesn’t acknowledge your gratitude or what just happened, as expected. Instead, he just lets out a loud sigh and closes his sudoku book.
“So,” he drawls, “what was your masterful diagnosis? Let me guess: lupus.”
“No, he just has the bends,” you respond. “Fever, headache, nausea, dizziness, and a rash on his back. He went scuba diving yesterday, came up too fast.”
“Ah,” House says, an annoyed scoff leaving his lips. “Of course he did. Elementary, my dear Watson.”
You roll your eyes. “You’d be Watson,” you huff, sending him a judgmental look. “You just sat on your ass and did nothing.”
“Harsh,” he shakes his head. “I volunteered you.”
“That’s not how volunteering works,” you insist. “You sacrificed me.”
“And yet,” House says with a slight raise of his brow, “you helped anyway. Martyr complex.”
You just grit your teeth, choosing not to respond to that. House makes an amused sound under his breath; you get your Kindle out and continue reading. He returns to his sudoku. And for a short moment, everything is normal.
This lasts approximately ten seconds. Because as you look down at the book you were reading, you realize—with no small amount of confusion—that you don’t recognize what page you’re on. You thought you left off near…
No. No way. “You did not just fuck up my book, dude,” you say helplessly, tapping the screen and trying to figure out where you are in the book. It says you’re only on page 74. That’s not right. You were at least halfway through the book when you left it.
“I didn’t just do it,” House corrects you. “I did it while you were playing hero. And don’t call me ‘dude,’ it just makes you look desperate. Not finding the fountain of youth anytime soon.”
“Desperate?” you repeat, squinting at him in disbelief. You look down at your Kindle and try going a few pages ahead. Still more unfamiliar paragraphs. Damn it. “Oh my God, I’m actually going to kill you. What the hell did you do?!”
“Relax, I only went back a few pages,” he says casually, tapping his pencil. “A few hundred pages.”
“Didn’t even bookmark it, absolute psychopath…” you mutter under your breath. “Ugh! Fuck, I have no idea what chapter I was on either.” You stifle a groan and attempt to go through your highlights and notes.
“And Arby being trapped in a cage?” House remarks. “Definitely racially motivated.”
It takes you a few seconds to make sense of that comment. You were just reading Jurassic Park: The Lost World. Arby is one of the characters—a young boy who sneaks on the expedition with the main researcher characters. During the climax of the book, he ends up trapped in a cage that was originally for the Velociraptors. What follows is a sequence where the other characters—who are all white, while Arby is Black—try to free him. You remember reading that yesterday and being put off. You made a note of it when reading.
And, apparently, House read it. “You read my notes?” you ask House disbelievingly. When did he even get a chance to do that?
Oh. Right. When you stepped away to help that passenger. You left your Kindle on the seat, obviously—you didn’t think you had to guard it. Apparently you did. “Didn’t you have better things to be doing?” you frown.
“Not really,” House says with complete and utter boredom. “Have to say, your “yummy” comment on the dinosaur eating the guy’s face? Pretty inspired.”
“Right?” you say instinctually. Then you process what he just said. “I mean— no! Stop it. Don’t read my stuff.”
“That thing doesn’t even have a passcode,” House says with a pointed raise of his eyebrow. “Gotta ramp up your security efforts, dude.” He reaches out to tap the Kindle screen teasingly; you snatch it away from him.
“Well, I didn’t think someone would steal it and read through my shit!” you exclaim. Ugh. He’s really too good at being annoying.
“What, and find your gothic gore and homoeroticism?” House asks. “Right. Because that preference isn’t obvious just from looking at you.” He blatantly looks you up and down.
“Hey,” you object instinctively. “Wait. Actually, I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“Of course you are,” he says flatly. A beat. “Speaking of obvious…” House then says, his eyes finding the flight attendant from earlier. She’s walking down the aisle purposefully, her eyes locked on you. House groans quietly and makes a show of opening his sudoku book again. You can’t ask him what that reaction means before she’s stopping at your row.
“Hi,” the flight attendant says with a smile. She leans over the seat in front of House slightly, putting her closer to him and you. It’s a friendly gesture. “I just wanted to thank you again for your help. I really appreciate it. He’s doing better now.”
“Oh, no problem,” you smile politely. “Thanks for your help. And glad to hear it.”
“He’s gay, move along,” House says with boredom, writing a 3 in the top corner of the puzzle.
“House!” you hiss. That came out of nowhere. You turn to the flight attendant with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about him.”
“I’m not sorry,” House states pointedly. “But I am telling the truth. Use your eyes.”
“I’m so sorry about him,” you say breathlessly. “Again.”
“It’s okay,” she reassures you. A pause. “I was going to ask for your number, though.”
“Oh,” you remark with surprise. House’s presence at your side is really not helping. You feel very self-conscious. He’s looking down at his book, but you just know he’s listening to every fucking word. Fighting off the urge to laugh. Just waiting for you to embarrass yourself. And you’re about to. “He is telling the truth—I’m gay. But… I appreciate your interest.” God, you want to melt into a puddle on the floor and disappear forever.
You can feel House looking at you, a vindictive sneer growing on his lips. You pretend not to notice, giving the flight attendant an apologetic smile. She’s nice about it and soon heads further down the aisle.
“That was gold.” House smirks down at his book.
“No, it wasn’t,” you insist, trying to pretend like your heart isn’t racing from whatever that was.
“It was,” House asserts. “She was all over you earlier, practically shoving her boobs in your face when you were helping that Ariel wannabe. She asks for your number… and then you say you ‘appreciate her interest’? You’re too cute.”
“Shut up,” you say, growing more irritated by the second. House is really testing your patience here. You’ve endured his comments until now, but you’re near your breaking point. “Seriously. My tolerance level for you is about zero right now.” It’s a sincere warning. The constant complaining, the mind games, the endless commentary. You’re about to snap.
“Isn’t it always?” House says with a lopsided smirk.
And that’s when your patience breaks. You reach out and fist a hand in his shirt collar. “House,” you say with dangerous languidity, making a point to look him dead in the eyes. “Mess with me again and I’m faking a medical emergency so rare you’ll spend this entire trip looking like a fucking idiot.”
“Got it?” you ask, shaking him once for good measure. He just stares. You sigh and let go of his shirt collar, rubbing a hand over your face. Your head is killing you. You close your eyes for a few selfish moments, before opening them again and turning to him. “Now. Do you have ibuprofen, or do I have to humiliate myself for that too?”
He stares for a long moment.
You stare right back.
House digs in his bag and hands you the ibuprofen without comment.
“Thank you,” you say begrudgingly, getting your water out of your bag with your free hand.
“Don’t choke,” he mutters sardonically. “There’s no other doctor on board to save you.”
That actually does make you nearly choke. You have to cough into the crook of your arm a few times, clearing your throat.
“Okay,” you say once you can breathe again. “That was funny.”
House’s eyes are locked on his puzzle hard enough to burn through the page. But you can still spot the prideful quirk to his lips, quick as lightning. You just shake your head in disbelief, taking the pills with a few sips of water. Then you run a hand over your face and look out the window, squinting at the sun peeking out through the clouds. The screen in front of you says you’re still about two hours away from arriving. Ugh.
Feeling like you need a break, you get your headphones out and turn them on, putting your favorite playlist on and closing your eyes for a selfish moment. You don’t think you’ll be able to get sleep at this point—you just need a breather. You breathe in and out, slowly unclenching your fists.
When you open your eyes, you feel House’s gaze on the side of your face. Of course, the second you glance over, he’s looking at his sudoku book again—making you second-guess yourself. That’s what House is best at, isn’t it? Making you second-guess yourself. He’s annoyingly good at it.
“Decent job,” House then mutters, so quietly that you don’t really hear it. “Almost passable.”
You frown. There he goes, making you question what you heard. You could’ve sworn you just heard him compliment you. But… no. Absolutely not. There’s no way. The altitude must really be getting to you, because hell would freeze over before House gave anyone—especially you—a compliment.
Still, you nudge your headphones off. “What’d you say?” you ask skeptically.
“I said, ‘Fuck off,’” he spits without hesitation.
“O—kay,” you sigh, entirely unsurprised. Relax. You need to relax. Think happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Being anywhere but here. Free breakfast at the hotel. Free meals, even if they’re shitty. Time away from the hospital. Video games on the hotel Wi-fi.
A measured breath. “We’re getting coffee when we land,” you declare. “And you’re paying.”
House just sighs.