Author's Note: Set during that one episode...during that one season...:P The one in the FIRST season with the monster trucks. I'm so lazy. Can't bare to get off my butt and find out what my fic is based on, heavens no...But just a random one shot. No point to it, really. I was just bored at one o' clock in the morning, ha. Without further adieu...
Race you to the car.
"Nice," he responds, and the corners of your lips twist upwards wryly, although the sardonic expression on his features doesn't stop you from jogging ahead a few feet. The night has been enjoyable. Fun, even. You know House like the back of your hand (at least this is what you like to think) and when his caustic commentary isn't directed at you personally, merely in the spirit of conversation, you know he is enjoying himself. And you think he has been quite a bit. There is a familiarity between the two of you that wasn't there before. You embrace it openly.
"I thought so." You quip, remaining glib, trying to keep the mood of the night on its pedestal. He nods, that ridiculous baseball cap bobbing on his head and he resembles a dog on a dashboard for a second. Your thin, coy smile widens in a way that only he can induce. If life were a sickness he would be the medication, you think, and your eyes drop with a shread of embarassment that you could have such thoughts about your boss. It is improper, you argue, ethically, not only morally but in the mind of good business as well. There is an age difference. A severe lifestyle barrier -- but still you find him fascinating, addicting. Where others shy away from his abrasive detatchment you draw yourself nearer; you wave your hands through the flames as if it doesn't burn. Except it does.
You slow down and he catches up with you. You are parked nearby, but intentionally meander so that the rare companionable silence can thrive between you both. You like the comfort he provides even with his silence. His shoulder brushes yours with his erratic step, and you like that too. You like everything about him. Especially when you catch a glimpse of that hiding character -- that small sliver of Gregory amongst the array of House. You like when you can be Allison instead of Cameron. But then again, you wouldn't really know.
This is the first time it has happened.
"So. Monster trucks," he muses, the corners of his lips twisting dryly. "Better than saving lives?" You catch the coy glint in his eye, that little sadistic sparkle that lingers over his words like a shadow. You roll your eyes; a practiced motion. You walk backwards until your back is against your car, your fingers searching your pockets for the keys as you make a point to keep your attention on him. He will only be Greg for a little bit longer, after all. You shift the cotton candy in your hands.
"Should I point out the irony in one of the trucks being called the Grave Digger?" You return, quirking a brow and biting your lower lip as you pull the keys from your pocket and fumble without looking to put them in the key hole. He smirks rarely and drops his eyes bemusedly, taking a swaggering step forwards. He reaches to steal another piece of your cotton candy. You forget about the keys and almost drop them as you stand on the tips of your toes, holding the remaining treat above your head like a mother hiding the cookie jar. Except mommy's little boy is all grown up now and about a foot taller. Woops. But you don't think about that. You just raise your eyes to his and smile charmingly. "I think you've had enough, young man."
"Really?" He questions, his voice gravelly. You're not sure you like this game anymore, you think, as he steps even closer and reaches his arm upwards, pulling a piece of pink fluff from the stick. His eyes lock on yours and you can't look away. They seem like to pools of rainwater -- cold and reflective, glittering with moonlit effulgence. You swallow. He swallows. Your former struggle to hold on to your keys is reversed and now your knuckles are white with the unconcsious pressure you're squeezing them with. You feel his breath on your face, curling in steamy tendrils, materializing, mixing with yours. You smell the dissolved sugar like a coating of molasses as he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that feels more like an earthquake than anything. You suddenly become aware of how tightly you have pressed yourself against the car, how tantalizingly close he is. His hand is still wrapped around yours, holding the cotton candy indirectly.
And then you just sort of..drift. Or something. If you were thinking rationally you would have opted with seizure, but you are not thinking rationally. You are wondering. Wondering how you ended up pressed against the side of the car and how his hand feels so warm against yours and oh how sweet his breath smells and wow did he just take a step closer and what do you do and did you just move forwards and how in the world is he swaying to meet you and what do you do? Your mind is racing. You wonder when the human anatomy changed -- obviously the heart has taken up residence in the esophogus.
His lips touch yours. You don't remember how you got to this point. All you know is the gentle, lingering first kiss. His lips brush yours like butterfly wings and you pull back, shellshocked. He isn't quite as moved, you think. His hand is still holding yours, and you are still pulling a statue of liberty with the cotton candy. You want to lower your arm and wrap it around his neck or something, but soon his other hand has found your free one and he is pushing you gingerly against the car, closing the remaining space between your body and his. You kiss him again and give up on moving your arms. You know he likes to have control. You suppose this is one of those things. One of those House things.
You taste the cotton candy he bought and rightfully stole, all sugary and sticky. Beneath the saccharine warmth is something more bitter, something with a tang -- spices, you think. And then you realize it is him you are tasting and not the candy. The spices become clearer as his tongue pokes insistantly at your lips, forcing them to part as he explores your mouth brazenly. Scotch, you think. You know he keeps it in his bottom drawer. Something medicinal. You assume the vicodine. There is something more, you think, musing on it for a moment as you sigh into his mouth, but are distracted before you can decipher it. Either way, he tastes good. Better than you expected, and in all honesty, you have done your fair share of fantasizing. You think he would taste good even with out the aid of the cotton candy.
He lets go of your hand and you simultaneously drop the keys to the ground. You don't care. You take advantage of either his trust or his laziness and move your hand to the back of his neck, encouraging, pleading. You feel him pull back slightly at the contact but you hold him to it carefully. Now it is your lips doing the insisting, now it is you taking control. Your eyes are shut. They are closed partially because you couldn't imagine anything more blissful and partially because you don't want to look at him, afraid of what you will see. Your tongue runs along the inside of his mouth thoroughly, gently, with that childish hesitance that he teases you about. He smirks into your mouth as if he can read your thoughts. You frown pensively and pull away for a fleeting second; surfacing for air.
This is it, you think. He'll say something snarky and malignant and that will be that. But he doesn't. You can feel his chuckle, you know it holds no warmth, but it doesn't deter you. You have wanted this for a long time. You are going to hold on to it tightly. Your fingers curl the tresses of hair at the nape of his neck, fingertips dancing across his skin like a musician warming their instrament. He leans forwards and kisses the corner of your mouth and you shift to respond, though he doesn't take it up again. You close your eyes, tilting your head back to give him better access as his lips trace a rough and arduous path from your chin to your neck. He is not cautious or chary. His stubble rubs your skin raw, his teeth are abrasive and coarse. You know there will be marks tomorrow. You know this is one of his tests. You know you will ace it...though you will hide the evidence beneath a turtle neck for work.
As his lips begin to advance, his free hand massaging your stomach methodically, rising tenatively beneath your shirt, your own hand shifts to his chin and you make him look at you. His pale eyes are clouded like a summer storm -- you know that this storm might be more devastating. "House," you breathe, your eyes fluttering. He shifts his cane, which, you realize, has been pressing into your side. You wonder if you will have a cane-shaped bruise. "Stop." Your command is less faltering than you thought it would be. Your eyes meet his.
You both no nothing will come of this. That he will continue to be evasive and obnoxious. You know that what you want doesn't matter to him. That nothing matters to him. But part of you argues quietly -- if nothing matters, then why is he here? You know there are a thousand justifications. You just conveniently forget all of them to placate your own racing heart. His hand drops onto the ground as he bends to retrieve your keys. You accept them silently. He takes a step backwards and finally releases your upper hand. He doesn't seemed disgruntled at all. You are the one who is affected. You are the one who is shaking like a leaf. He is standing like an oak tree, strong and unwavering. You open your mouth to speak, but those probing eyes are too much. You can't. A shiver shoots down your spine like lightning -- mirroring the splinter of neon light that streaks through the sky above for a second. You open the car door and slide inside. He is still standing there, rooted firmly to the spot. You wonder if lightning strikes at oak trees.
"Here," you murmur, and hand him the cotton candy. He smiles, looks down, takes it. You think there is something cruel tucked in the corner of his grin, and so you shut the door and drive away. And for all you know he is still standing there when you get home. You feel as if you have been struck by lightning. You wonder if lightning strikes at fragile, broken autumn leaves.
But as you curl onto your couch with a book, you are about to lift the coffee to your lips when you realize something. A lingering sweetness in your mouth. You savor it guiltily for a second, and wish you hadn't given him the cotton candy.