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What happens in Vegas.
by Daphne Angel
One
House groaned, feeling a throbbing a pain in his leg and a huge hangover taking control of his body. What the hell?
He didn't remember last night. There he was, in Vegas, on a hospital party celebrating whatever, playing roulette, cards, slots and mixing Vicodin with vodka, which turned out as a terrible idea.
He lifted himself, propping his upper body onto his elbows. The lavish hotel room was a mess. Champagne bottles, roses, condoms...
What the -? Roses? Condoms?
House shifted in bed, looking for any signs of life anywhere in the room. Nothing.
Sighing, he stood up slowly (luckily his cane was by his side, placed caringly by someone he'd screwed last night right on the Persian rug by his bed) and looked around, counting the used-up "Lifestyles". Four, six, one in the bathroom? What did he have for dinner, Viagra?
House shuddered and started getting dressed. He needed coffee and Wilson. Maybe those two would help him remember.
***
"House!"
House sat, closing his eyes at the pain his friend's shout caused, and mumbled a "'Morning". Wilson chuckled, he had never seen his friend looking so pathetically lost and so terribly hung-over.
"How did last night go?"
"Funny you should ask. I don't remember." Muttered House. He hated admitting his defeat.
"What?"
"That's right; make fun of the old cripple. Imagine my surprise as I wake up to a roomful of rose petals and used condoms." Said House sharply, dry swallowing a Vic.
"Wait, you don't remember ANYTHING?"
"God, are you turning blonder by the second or did you screw Cuddy last night?"
"Well, what do you recall?" asked Wilson, carefully. This was going to be a very long talk.
"Cards, roulette, then drinks and I took some pills. And then it's all a blur."
"Wow, you missed a lot." Did Wilson really have to be the one to tell House what he did?"
"Wilson, will you cut to the chase and tell me who I slept with?" House asked irritatedly.
Suddenly his eyes widened.
Chase.
It couldn't be.
***
"Oh my God! I slept with Chase!" thought House, limping around his room. "Pompous, rich, ass-kisser, sexy, irresistible sex-God... Snap out of it!"
He had just gotten home, having taken the first plain back to New Jersey. After he realized exactly what he had done, he stood up, leaving Wilson at his table and nearly running away and locking himself in the room, trying to his from the humiliation.
What was he supposed to do? He couldn't leave his job, it was all he had. He had to face Chase and tell him that night was a mistake. It shouldn't be hard, he'd let the kid down a million times. Though not on such a delicate matter...
Snippets of that night came back to him. House nearly blushed at the memories. Himself kissing Chase right in the casino, strolling `round the city, taking a picture by the fake Eiffel Tower... He'd found the picture in his wallet, a small Polaroid, yet he looked so happy on that one, he was ready to bet it wasn't him. Chase was smiling shyly into the camera, his arm `round House's shoulders. They weren't themselves, they were drunk. But they were happy there.
After the picture, House didn't remember much. He did remember the amazing sex, though. Lots of it. He blushed again, failing to collect himself.
House walked around his room some more, collecting the old clothes from the trip, about to put them in the wash. He took his shirt from that night and brought it to his nose. There it was. Chase's smell. Whether it was him or his cologne, House didn't know. It smelled sweet and spicy. A smile crept onto his lips. Now he looked like a stalker. Sniffing shirts.
Suddenly he felt something beneath his fingers. There, in the small shirt pocket was a small piece of paper. A receipt.
House limped over to the lamp on his table.
"St. Jeremy's Walk-In Chapel
Congratulations!
1 Standard Marriage Packet .................................... $200
For: Gregory House, M.D.
Robert Chase-House M.D."
WHAT THE HELL?
House stared at the little piece of paper as if it bit him. Oh no...
His thoughts were disrupted by a knock on his door.
House gulped and limped over to the front door, ready to yell at whoever was there.
He opened the door.
There, on the porch, dressed in black leather pants, a black silk shirt with a huge suitcase by his hide, was his lawfully wedded husband.
Dr Robert... House.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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