A/N: Well, this just about wraps it up. Who's proud of me for actually finishing this? Yes my friends, my skills are truly amazing. Even though it took me longer to write this than it took me to write, all the other chapters combined. Rawr.

This is the bonus chapter, so if it doesn't necessarily fit the normal format for the rest of this fic. It's just some fluff, though for me fluff is pretty heavy. Just a few warnings;

They talk about their sex lives.

The get plastered.

I'm crap with dialogue.

I just really want there to be four warnings.

Hokay, enough of that. Special thanks out to Fluffy2001, Ivy3, Dr. Rebecca Chase, graybaby1 and Rose1234 for being amazing. I don't have any more chapters to thank people for reviewing in, so you'll have to go thankless.

Sorry kids, no more pony-rides.

So now, without further ado, the House crew getting wasted.

X x X x X

Three knocks on the clear glass door to declare his presence and state the obvious.

Two taps with his cane to make his impatience known.

One smirk just for jazz.

Doctor Gregory House had arrived.

"Password?" Chase asked conceitedly, opening the door a crack, his smugness slightly overshadowed by the four inches of slightly intimidating height his employer held over him.

House rolled his eyes, lifting the bottle of Stolli's. "Foreman broke in. Wilson brought poker cards. You did shit. Move."

Chase smiled his usual you-got-me-there-but-I-still-got-such-a-nice-arse-that-I-don't-need-any-social-skills smile and stepped aside.

"Why did Foreman have to break in?" Wilson asked vaguely, shuffling his beat up red cards. "This is your office. You could have just told the janitors not to lock it."

"Psh, boring," House deadpanned before biting into the cap of the vodka and ripping it off. "What is the password, by the way?"

"Infarction," Foreman supplied haughtily from House way-too-comfortable armchair. (Quality grade D pleather, no?)

"Creative," House nodded, taking a shot of the vodka before offering it around. "Who wants backwash?"

"I brought whiskey," Wilson muttered vaguely, nodding towards the two bottles on the front left-hand corner of his colleague's desk.

"So did I," a sweet, slightly smug voice called from the doorway. Cameron. Damn. Was there anyone not smug today? Other than Wilson. (He really needed a new wife.)

House shot her a slightly dirty look before taking a shot of slightly dirty liquor. God damn.

"No girl's allowed," he explained in strained sarcasm. "Sorry, it's a sexist thing."

Cameron rolled her eyes. "Infarction, right?"

House glanced around the room. "How come she got the password to a boys-only liquor- porn-and-poker-on-the-payroll-but-not-on-duty all-nighter but not me?"

Foreman's unbelievable smirk grew. "Because Chase-"

"-wants to get in her pants again?"

"I was going to say 'can't keep his mouth shut' but that works too."

"Gee Foreman, thanks," Chase muttered in monotone, leaning against the doorway. "Pass the Jack Daniels."

About ten minutes of poker and four hours of drinking later...

"Cameron, ask a question that isn't stupid."

"Best date isn't a stupid question!"

"It's boring and boring sucks. Besides you already asked it twice."

They drank the vodka. They drank the whiskey. Most of it anyway. Two and a half bottles. Maybe. It was kind of hard to focus. And count. Whatever. Wasted didn't even being to describe.

"Fine," Cameron slurred slightly, swaying under slight intoxication. "Best lay?"

They hadn't been able to find glasses (and nobody really felt like risking Cuddy seeing them sneaking around) so they'd just been passing the bottles around and hoping everyone else was keeping their spit in their mouths. (Violators would be shot. Unless that violator just so happens to be House. Then shooting him would be repetitive. They'd just beat him with his cane or something.)

Chase, the poor unfortunate (and, drum role please, most drunk) soul, had chosen that moment to take a shot of spiked-with-something-not-quite-legal liquor, so instead of swallowing, he just sort of choked across the carpet.

"I think Steve wants to go first."

"Steve?" Chase gagged, wishing he had faked sick and not shown up at all.

"Irwin. Who was you're your best bang?"

Chase swallowed hard, and after a few moments of hard consideration, (mostly about how the hell he was at all comparable to the Croc Hunter) shrugged and gave a very articulate, "I dunno."

Shakespeare move on over.

House nodded solemnly from his place on the floor. "That means Cameron."

Cameron blinked a few times, trying to remember why exactly she had come here in the first place. Stupid sexist drunk-a-thon. "I'm too wasted to object."

"That means Chase was her best too. You guys should screw again. Eliminate the sexual tension, ya know?"

Foreman shook his head, and then stopped, due to the fact that the room had the nasty habit of spinning every time he moved. What the hell did House do to that stuff?

"You really shouldn't say that kind of stuff to your employees."

"Is that your way of evading the question?"

"No evading. My wife."

"Which one?"

"The first one."

"Bull."

"Second then."

"Second was your mistress during the first one. Nice choice."

"Shut up House."

"But what about Julie? What about number three?"

"What about shutting up?"

"Then again your best sex didn't have to be with someone you married. Jimmy have you been keeping secrets?"

"I give up."

"Finally. Chase, stop hogging the liquor."

Chase blinked a few times. He was falling asleep. Damnit.

"Wombat, wake up!"

Nothing.

"Wake up or I'll mess up your hair!"

Silence.

"Wait, that's probably impossible. Anybody got any scissors?"

Nothing again.

"Who wants a lock of that shiny yellow hair?"

Cue the wake-up call and...

"Did he die?"

Nothing.

"Whatever. Leave him. I'll crack some town drunk jokes later. Somebody pull that bottle from him."

Cameron took her shoe off and threw it at House. Being drunk sucked when your job already made you feel like you had a hangover. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe she liked her job. She couldn't remember anymore.

House smiled weakly at the shoe sitting across from him. Was it purple or black? It looks black but kind of shined pinkish-blue. Pinkish-blue was purple, right? How come only one of them was shiny?

"Who wants to talk about their worst lay? Foreman, you start off. Ghetto peeps bang all the time, right?"

"Wouldn't you want to finish off the best category before you move on to the worst?"

"Boring. Did it involve an STD?"

"Not exactly."

"How can sex not exactly involve an STD? It either does or it doesn't."

"One word; crabs."

"Shit."

"Ya, shit."

"What the hell are you doing?"

Ladies and Gentlemen, the dragon lady of PPTH.

"Hi Cuddy. Want some vodka?"

"That bottle's empty."

"Ya, but the limey fell asleep on the Jack Daniel's."

"Limey's British," Fore muttered, attempting to focus on House. "Chase is Australian."

House shrugged nonchalantly. "So?"

"So, you can't rag on him for being Australian and British all in the same night. It just doesn't work."

"Pommy then."

"Still British."

"It's a British immigrant to Australia. It's a jab for not being American. Why do you care?"

Cameron opened her mouth to complain about discrimination but shut it again. Stupid alcohol-educed about-to-throw-up-but-not-enough-to-actually-spew sensation. Dang. She was never drinking again.

Cuddy merely rolled her eyes. "What the hell did you to them?"

"Spiked the moonshine."

"With what?"

"I have no fucking idea. How did you know we were drinking?"

"You have glass walls!" Cuddy let out a rather animal and unlady-like cry of frustration. (Audrey Hepburn never freaked out like this. Then again, Lisa Cuddy had never been Audrey Hepburn. Never had. Never...)

She sighed, one thin, elegant hand on her hip. Perfect hands, perfect for playing piano and wearing cotillion gloves. So did House. Playing piano? That he could manage. Being a debutant?

Cuddy needed a drink.

Slowly she walked over to Chase (who even snored pretty!) and pulled the bottle from his fingertips. She lifted it to her mouth, smelling Foreman's danger, feeling Chase's doubt, tasting Cameron's lipstick. Ah, mother's milk.

House tilted his head to the side, happily taking in a mental image he would keep for years. Cuddy and whiskey. Whiskey and Cuddy. It was like peanut butter and jelly. They just went together. But where was the discipline, the bread, that kept everything together?

Placing the empty bottle on the floor, Cuddy strode to the door with a rather enviable grace. "You," she said calmly, indicating around the room, "are all working double clinic hours for a month." She glanced back, their tastes still on her tongue (Wilson's need, House's wit) and sighed. "Somebody make sure Chase is still breathing before you leave." (He had stopped snoring.)

Wilson blinked a few times. "She's good at her job," he observed in a slightly slurred voice.

Foreman nodded again. "And at holding her liquor." (She had drained half a bottle!)

Cameron stared at her bare foot. "And at walking in high heels."

"And at being a bitch," House concluded lightly. "I think they're all some how connected. Now who wants to strip Chase and lock him on the roof?"

Cameron rolled her eyes.

"I should object morally to that." A pause. "Can I do the pants?"

X x X x X

Weak ending? Probably. But you gotta admit, plastered House and friends is pretty sweet.

Since this is it (sad!) comments would be greatly apprihesiated.

And thank you so, so much for reading.