AUTHOR'S NOTE: Based on an idea inspired by the amazing javachic5. And special thanks to my betas, Tiffany and Marika.
DISCLAIMER: If you're reading this, chances are you know they don't belong to me.
It has been a long day, and now the night plays testament to that fact. The rain pours down in sheets, soaking the streets and turning them into pools of dark liquid. The lightning flashes overhead, and the thunder rumbles soon thereafter. She walks quickly down the sidewalk, wrapping her lithe arms tightly around her small frame. Attempting to ward out the chill, yet shivering violently anyway.
She needs to relax. Unwind. De-stress. Which is why she finds herself stepping into the new British-style pub. It has just recently opened near the hospital.
The abrupt warmth that ripples through her upon entering the establishment is a stark contrast to the biting cold. Grateful for the sudden comfort, she takes off her jacket and drapes it over her arm. Takes in the pub. The people. The noises. The music. Loud and fast and lively.
And then she takes in him.
Seated at the piano, his cane propped against its slick side. His fingers moving nimbly across the smooth ivory keys, his intense blue eyes following them in their wake. His face a picture of concentration and . . . peace?
Her heart skips a beat.
She doesn't know how long she stands there, mesmerized by the sight of him. So very different from anything she'd ever seen before, yet so very him. Almost as if she has stepped into some private world, some secret realm, and the picture has suddenly been made clear.
As if on its own accord, her body begins to move toward the table nearest the instrument. She takes a seat. She orders a drink. And she remains there for hours.
He never looks at her. But somehow, inexplicably, she knows that he knows she is there. And when the bar empties and they are the only two patrons that remain, he continues to play.
Almost as if he is playing for her.
It becomes a regular routine. Night after night, she comes to the pub. Sits at the same table. Orders the same drink. And night after night, he is there. Playing the piano. His fingers moving smoothly, majestically over the keys as the strong, rhythmic beat fills the room.
She never looks at him. She sits against the wall, sipping her strawberry daiquiri while her eyes gaze softly upon the table. The music washes over her, striking a resonance deep within her. She finds the troubles of the day begin to vanish.
He never looks at her. He sits on the piano bench, striking the keys in his endless effort while his eyes remain closed in deep concentration. The music emanates from the piano, filling the room and all the spaces in between. His face is relaxed, and she knows that he finds peace in his playing.
They never look at each other. Both are within their own little worlds. Yet somehow, those worlds are inexplicably intertwined.
Neither mentions what's going on. Both are quite content to pretend like nothing's happening. Instead, they come into work day after day and run through their regular routine. Make coffee. Answer e-mail. Diagnose patients. Snark.
Externally, nothing appears to have changed.
Internally, they are fighting a losing battle.
It starts small. Their gazes lock for longer periods of time, the intensity reflected within gradually increasing. When they realize what is happening, they quickly look away. Pretend that nothing is different. But when they make excuses to walk closer together . . . when their hands accidentally brush . . . when she feels a shiver run up her spine and notices that his muscles have clenched . . . she begins to realize that they are headed for defeat.
So when the tension begins to escalate, she is not surprised.
Perhaps the first sign of change is the increase in sarcasm sent her way. He begins to mock her diagnoses, and while this is nothing new, there is a hint of acerbity that was never there before. And when he does, the look in his eyes is guarded, closed off. Almost as if by tearing her down, he is guarding something inside. His inner world, the secret realm that she has begun to inhabit.
She knows without thought that this is the case.
It is when they get a new, utterly baffling case that things come to a head. He is quiet, moody. Begins holing himself up in his office, blasting music through his earphones and throwing that tennis ball against the wall. When she offers opinions, he glowers. When she suggests possible treatments, he sneers. But it is when she proposes a diagnosis that he snaps.
"If you don't have anything intelligent to add, why don't you just go home?" he lashes out at her, emblazoning her with an indecipherable glare. Chase's eyes widen in surprise, while Foreman's narrow in indignation. But she doesn't give either of them a chance to reply on her behalf.
"Maybe I'll just quit," she says softly. Dangerously. Smoldering blue-green embers of ire reflected in her heated glare.
He blinks, and for a moment she swears that she can see emotion flood into his guarded gaze. But it is gone just as soon as it appears, and she wonders if she imagined it. "Maybe you should," he replies, his tone just as unreadable as his eyes.
The words cause a sharp prick to resound in her chest, and she fixes him with an unwieldy gaze. It is full of hurt, of anger, of exasperation . . . of frustration. But then she remembers the rule, and she quickly looks away. Puts her coffee cup on the counter. Grabs her lab coat. Strides from the room. Her last words are, "Maybe I will."
And then she is gone, leaving her colleagues to stare after her in her haste.
She almost doesn't go to the pub that night. Emphatically tells herself not to go. Comes up with every reason in the book why she should not go.
Unfortunately, logic has no place in this game. And even though she is tired of playing, she can't help but go one more round.
But it's time for the rules to change.
It is much like the first night. The rain is coming down in a torrential downpour, cascading through the streets and puddling in the gutters. Lightning illuminates the sky and thunder rumbles deeply overhead. She walks down the sidewalk and into the pub, arms wrapped tightly around her lithe frame in an effort to ward out the chill.
The warmth of the building washes over her as she steps inside.
And the piano music follows soon thereafter. It is quick and loud and audacious, everything that she has come to expect. But tonight, it is different. She cannot place her finger on it immediately. It takes a moment for her to realize that there is an undercurrent to the tone. A quality of tension. Of agitation. A type of feverish intensity that wasn't there before.
Or maybe it's been there all along.
She pauses for a moment, listening. And then she takes off her coat and begins walking slowly toward the piano, each step carefully measured against the linoleum floor. It is as if her body is moving on its own accord. It bypasses her usual table, sauntering instead to the instrument. Leans against its smooth mahogony finish. Allows her blue-green eyes to meet his searing blue-eyed stare.
She does not know how long their eyes lock in this blistering gaze. She only knows that the rules have been altered. And when his fingers stop their frantic movements atop the ivory keys . . . when she ends their heated look by turning around on her high heels. . . when she ambles purposefully toward the door, her hips swaying provocatively . . . He alters them further still.
He follows her home.
There is no small talk. No awkward moments or fumbling platitudes. Days. Months. Years of tension have built to this moment. So when he arrives at her apartment, she is waiting. And when she shuts the door behind him and turns around, he is pulling her to him and crashing his lips against hers. Pushing her against the door and drawing her into a demanding, heated kiss.
She responds immediately, wrapping her hands around the back of his neck and pressing her lips against his. Pushing her tongue into his mouth, engaging in an endless battle with his own. Twirling, twisting, caressing. Running it sensuously along the ribbed roof of his mouth, then wandering to sample the sides.
Devouring him.
He is damp from the rain. Droplets of water fall from his hair, drip onto her shivering frame. She does not notice. The only thing she notices is the feel of his body pressed tightly against hers. The rapidly increasing thump inside her chest and the electricity coursing down her arms and into her stomach. The way his stubble burns against her skin as he breaks their kiss and begins tracing his lips along the hollow of her throat. Claiming her. Marking her.
Devouring her.
Tomorrow, her neck will be red from the tell-tale burn. Tonight, she doesn't care. Instead, she leans her head back against the door to give him better access to her throat. Curls her fingers in his hair and pushes his head closer to her exposed skin, relishing in the feel of his rough lips against her neck. Mewls deeply in her throat as he pushes himself further against her, grinding his hips against hers. Allowing her to see how much he wants this. Wants her.
And when he deprives her of his mouth, causing her to groan and open her own mouth in protest, she is immediately silenced when his lips come in contact with her ear and he whispers, "Bedroom." The word is gruff and urgent, and she is only too willing to comply.
She quickly leads the way, her skin still burning from his kisses. Her mind a foggy haven of need. She almost doesn't notice when he stops just inside the room and grimaces, pulling his vicodin from his pocket. Throwing back two pills and closing his eyes as they take their effect. But as much as she wants this – needs this – she can't help but be concerned.
Her brow furrows, and she opens her mouth to ask if he is okay. But before she can voice the words, his eyelids fly open and he fixes her with those intense blue eyes. And begins advancing on her as a lion advances on its prey. If its prey weren't so eager to be caught.
So when he pulls her to him once again and begins nipping at her neck, she is a willing participant, grabbing ahold of his jacket and backing toward the bed. His cane falls forgotten on the floor, and he tugs urgently on her shirt. "Off," he says in that same gruff voice, causing a shiver to run up her spine. She is eager to comply, but not before first divesting him of his jacket and tossing it to the side of the bed.
After that, the clothes come off quickly. Neither pays any attention to where they land. They are too busy devouring one another with their eyes. Exploring one another with their hands. Feeling, touching, nibbling, sucking. Tumbling backward onto the bed.
She knows that his leg is protesting too much, so she pushes him against her pillows and carefully straddles his hips. Rocks backward onto her heels and takes him in her hand. Grins alluringly when the sudden contact causes him to gasp and buck into her fist, to meet her burning blue-green gaze with his own smoldering blue. Their eyes lock, the months of deprivation suddenly flying out the window. And as she guides him inch by agonizing inch into her eager folds . . . as they groan at the almost overwhelming sensation that immediately washes over them . . . as they develop a steady rhythm and beads of sweat form upon their glistening skin . . .she realizes that they have lost.
But at the same time, she feels like she has won.
It is everything that she thought it would be, and nothing that she imagined. There are no sweet nothings, or declarations of love. No soft, slow touches or tender looks. Instead, their touches are quick and almost rough, their gazes heated. Much like the music he plays every night. And the idea briefly crosses her mind that by looking down into his deep blue eyes, she is falling into heaven.
But the thought escapes her as he moves his calloused fingers underneath her writhing body to clamp upon her clit. Rubbing it in circles, kneading it in time with their thrusts. And suddenly she is moaning as waves of pleasure wrack her body and her walls clench spasmodically around him. And as she collapses onto his sinewy frame, breathless and panting, she hears him groan and feels him pulsate inside of her.
Several moments later, when she has caught her breath and she is capable of movement, she rolls off of him and onto her side.
Looks at him.
He is looking at her.
Those intense cyan eyes, gazing at her steadily. Unblinkingly. Carefully guarding a wealth of emotions. Desire. Affection. Fear. "Hi," he says, his voice low and deep. Like distant thunder. It causes a shiver to run down her spine.
"Hi," she echoes, feeling an abrupt sense of relief that he is still here. Talking. Not running. And is it her imagination, or are the emotions suddenly reflected more prevalently in his eyes?
Perhaps he realizes this, too, because the next words out of his mouth come in the form of a joke. "If you wanted me to give you a raise, all you had to do was ask."
She chuckles and rolls her eyes. Same old House, even after sex. "Pig," she says, swatting his forearm.
"I didn't realize you had a basis for comparison," he replies, grabbing her wrist before she can take it back and pulling her closer. "Any other kinky secrets you'd like to disclose?"
"Mmm," she says, taking advantage of the situation and resting her head on his chest. "I like dirty old men with canes."
"So you are into bestiality," he smirks, breathing in her scent.
"House?" she broaches, turning her head and fixing him with serious eyes.
"Yes, Dr. Cameron?"
"Shut up." And then she grabs his face and captures his lips in another searing kiss.
They have the morning to talk.
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