Then he's something else.
His chin rests on the long wooden stick, planted firmly on the floor, moving a bit in a nonexistant wind. Unconsciously his body is rotating with the earth. A slight weave as his eyes bore into the words he wrote. He's not looking for an answer. I told you. He knows the answer. And House is House. He's got to have it his way. He's always right.
She's gonna die.
Boring.
...If boring meant staying up late at night, unable to sleep. Not because of insomnia. But because of guilt. It's not his fault. But he thinks so anyway.
A pause in office ruminations. Eyes flicker to the door, waiting for an unknown person. Cameron Stacy Wilson Cuddy Foreman Chase, the list could go on and on. Shifting slightly in the chair, he leans back, dipping his hand in his coat pocket to retrieve the bottle.
Vicodin. He knows without looking. He can shut his eyes and hear them clack against each other. It's his addiction. The one stronger then any bond he thinks he might have. Or want.
It takes away his pain. And he sometimes takes a few more, trying to see if it'll tear away the layers. But it never does. The hurt in his chest, the weighing guilt, the thoughts constantly berating his mind. They don't go away. And it all just ends in restless sleep.
Sometimes he doesn't sleep. He just lays in bed staring at the offwhite ceiling, his good leg bent at the knee, remembering that he can without consequence...Maybe he'll get that ceiling painted.
Self pity is for morons.
Along with apologies, thank yous, and you're welcomes.
Love fits along there somewhere as well. He just doesn't know where to put it. So he ignores it because it hurts. A lot. Vicodin won't help. Love sucks.
If it looks like hurt, feels like hurt...it's a kangaroo.
He raises his hand to eye level, blue staring at the thick veins on his hands. Boy, vampires would love him. His fingers that have been nibbled on before, been touched, have touched, been held, have held.
...He can count the amount of people he's ever loved on that one hand.
It had been an
evening. One of those nights where one could shut their eyes and
pretend they're in Paris because of the low tones that were spoken by
neighbors, and the serenading music that wafted out of an open
apartment window. They had spent the day tearing around on the
lacross field, a for fun game that ended up with fits of laughter and
snarky remarks. House was pushing her into the apartment now
with his hips, arms clasped around her waist, saying between kisses,
nuzzles, and thoughtless murmers. "I have a surprise for you."
His breath tickles her neck when he speaks. She could still
smell the sunshine on his skin. The light smell of a day that you
know will weigh heavy in your memory. Already then she knew this was
one of those days. The days that in memory were made of nothing but
his face, his smell, his words, the bass in his voice that send
shivers down her spine. Her arms were wrapped around him and
she let him lead her, not willing to spare any concentration on
anything other than him. Between the trail of light kisses on his
neck she said: "Surprise?" "Yes. And it's not
just sex. Though it should be." He ushers her into the
apartment. Dim lights, soft music coming from their apartment,
candlelight, and dinner. Pre-meditated. A well prepared meal of
chicken and several other things that deserved to be in a resturant.
They're dirty, caked with sweat from the outside. Tanned from the
generous sun. But it doesn't matter. To House nothing really matters.
Nothing ever mattered. But tonight, yesterday, the day before, the
days past and in the future...Stacy would always matter. His
lips capture hers, tongue searching for a taste he was hungry for.
Pushing her gently towards dining room table. Eat first, dessert
later. But it's hard to pull away. Only when he pulls away
Stacy becomes aware that there's a world around them. She turns to
see the room, the candles, takes it all in. "You are amazing.
How did you…?" Actually, she doesn't want to know. It's too
good and she doesn't want it sullied by the mundane. Her hand
reaches to find his. She doesn't need to look. They always find each
other, no matter what. They take the few steps across the room to the
table. The food smells so delicious that Stacy can think of only one
thing she'd rather taste, so she turns her head to kiss him once
more. He grins against her kiss. Nuzzling his face into her
neck, butterfly kisses to soft skin. She smells of fresh shampoo and
good times. He kisses her again, successfully distracted by her
essence. Her. Already forgetting the plans he'd made. It was so easy
to forget when she was there. He's happy because she's happy. And he
says so through, "You smell like dirt and I love it."
Another deep kiss. The comment left her stunned for a moment,
but the tension dissolves into the kiss. Her fingertips run lightly
down his arm, the arm that she had seen him flex and play Lacrosse
with earlier, the arm that she knew would hold her when she needed
it. She draws back to look into his eyes. She always felt
like there was a strange and secret side to him, just visible in his
eyes. A twisty smile: "So you like me dirty?" Pale
eyes, looking down at her. He is amused. Thankful for her cleverness,
he responds,"Oh boy. If you want to go there..." He lets
his suggestive sentence linger as he reaches in for a kiss. He
adds,"I like you any way you are." He stares at her for a
moment, watching her eyes watch him. She's his savior and she
knows it. She just has to say the word and Gregory House would lay
down his life for her. Fall on his knees and shout, 'Hallelujah!"
Praise the Lord for sending him an angel. He wasn't religious, but he
knew how to be thankful.
The clock reads 6:04PM. He dozed in front of the board, his forehead pressed against the white. 'yster' from 'hysterical blindness' smeared, no doubt some left on his skin.
Backwards, like his life.
He reaches for his cane which had fallen against the chair and pushes himself up. His leg protests and he offers two Vicodin to placate it.
Hobbling to his desk and pulling open the drawer, his hand plows for a mirror. Score. He can't remember why he has one, but it's sure useful now. He rubs at the black mark with some spit until it goes away.
Somewhere during that short moment, he wishes everything else could be so easy.
Putting away the mirror, he thinks of Cameron.
It'll never be that easy.