A/N: This is just a short drabble that I worked out while writing part three of Houdini. With nothing better to do, I decided to post it and see what happens. As always, reviews are nice.
If this show were mine, I would be rich. I am not rich, therefore it is not mine. Shame.
It burns.
The bourbon flows down his throat. It's a chaser to the four familiar pills he'd taken a few moments before. They haven't had a chance to kick in yet. The drink will take the edge off in the interim.
It burns.
It always does.
Her eyes had been fixed on him for the past week. Conference room, hallway, elevator, lab –it didn't matter. She was there, and she was staring at him. He tried to ignore it, tried to make sarcastic comments and nasty jokes. It didn't work. Nothing works.
It burns.
He didn't expect it to.
They wind up alone in his office. Foreman and Chase have gone for the night. Wilson is out at dinner with some nurse, drug-rep, or wife. He can't remember which. Maybe it's all three. Hell of a party that would make. She's sorting mail. He finds it strange given the late hour. An unnecessarily sharp barb escapes his lips. Something to do with her current attire. Her reply is less creative, yet just as effective.
'Fuck off, House.'
It burns.
He takes her advice.
The chair in the corner of the room soon becomes the site of much fumbling, clawing, and saliva exchange. He's not sure how it started, but god is he glad it did. For a few minutes he's able to escape the constant throbbing and twitching of his bad thigh to indulge in a far more pleasant sensation.
It burns.
But it feels so good.
They make it to her bedroom before he gives into the animalistic urge to rid her of her clothing. He makes a mental note to add a dry-cleaning-and-clothing-repair stipend to her paycheck this month. She laughs and he realizes that he said it aloud. He laughs, too.
It burns.
And he likes it.
The act itself is better than he'd thought it would be. For a while he almost feels human again. Almost. He could tell that she enjoyed herself. The jagged lines running across his back and shoulders are testament to that. They lay in silence until she falls asleep. He's about to succumb to the darkness when it hits him.
It burns.
What the hell is he doing here.
Ten minutes later he's speeding down the freeway. No time for second thoughts or second chances. He doesn't deserve them. The lights are on and the liquor cabinet is calling his name. Tonight he won't play the piano. All that will come out are sappy love songs. He's not in the mood. Instead he sits in his chair with his pills and his booze and wonders why life is so goddamned unfair, why he can't be happy for one-fucking-time.
The last thought he has before falling into a drunken stupor is of her.
He thinks of how she looked, how she felt, and how she was so alive under his fingers, his hands, his body.
He thinks of the tears she'll cry when she notices that he's gone.
He thinks of the burning exactly where his heart should be.
Differential diagnosis, anyone?