Author's Note: I've been toying with this idea for a few days now and it seemed ready to come out. This is the first bit of fiction I've written in more than two years. Reviews and concrit are appreciated.
Disclaimer: I do not know, own, or relate to the characters of House M.D. in any other fashion than through my television screen.
He noticed the first one two weeks after his own birthday.
And a dismal birthday it was, with his boss trying to be slick about handing him a birthday card, but throwing it in the trash when he predicted what she had, and then with his subordinate stopping in the middle of her hurried testing to say those blasted words. There is nothing happy about a birthday at his age. It is just another day. It is a day without consequence.
Two weeks later held confidence.
It was on her desk, a pale blue bag, six inches in height, a silver ribbon tying the straps together, white tissue paper artfully sticking out of the top. He watched from a dark corner of his office as she opened it carefully, pulling out a bottle of lotion – he knew the smell, spent hours trying to find it, the sole reason he entered the store – a smile spreading across her face, fading slightly when she failed to find a card. She replaced the bottle, gathered her things, and left the office. He noted the time: 9:45pm.
Another appeared a week later, a smaller bag, this one lilac, same silver ribbon fastening the handles together. She pulled gently at the ribbon, placing it on her desk and unwrapping a book from within. Great Expectations, first edition. She held it to her chest, that ghost of a smile on her face, before searching for a note, even opening the pages of the book – her favorite book, he knew, she quoted it more than once, he imagined her turning the pages until they turned to dust beneath her fingertips – finally giving up and wrapping the book carefully back in the tissue paper. He watched from down the hall this time as she left, gift bag in hand – 9:26pm.
They came periodically, a constant rhythm, always on her last day of the work week, always late at night. She would stop up after clinic in hopes of finding one (and sometimes did), that ghost of a smile, something almost whimsical and reminiscent, playing across her soft features before she would set for home.
He watched carefully, let his sarcasm reflect the truth, but never outright accused. The gift of her favorite foreign tea, 9:54pm – she brewed a cup the day after, the smell lingered for three days - , the small box of expensive chocolates, 8:13pm – the only thing she never shared with the rest of the team, the only time she stayed momentarily before leaving for home, savoring a piece on her tongue - , the fancy fountain pen, 10:07pm – encased in pale blue, her favorite color, she tested it and he saw her shoulders dip in pleasure of the ease with which it wrote - , the antique hair clip, 7:54pm – silver, the perfect accessory to her brunette curls, its shine reflected in her green eyes - , the crystal unicorn figurine, 9:16pm – the most mythical of all creatures, the animal she admired most for loyalty, passion, and honesty – he saw them all, knew where they were coming from, and with each little silver ribbon, his blood ran hot.
It was after the broach – antique silver again, the pearl white cameo centered and shining, something so old looking so new – he stated what they knew, what was unsaid, but it was then he wanted it to be clear.
His fingers were tangled in her hair, the clip once fastened behind her ear forgotten on the floor of his bedroom, her eyes half open but still shining, her breath caught in her chest, lips parted and swollen. She pled wordlessly.
"You're mine," he hissed. She made a move and his grip tightened in her curls, his other hand at her hip, pressing her between himself and the wall, his left leg taking their weight.
"I -"
"Mine," he repeated, his lips against hers, but not giving her the satisfaction of feeling anything more. She knew better than to ask, waited to receive, grateful for any touch at all.
She let out a strangled breath, barely nodding, and his hold loosened. His touch became tender and she melted between a rock and a hard place.
"Jimmy can buy you gifts, but you know who owns you." His words bit the cold air, she shivered at his tone, but nodded again all the same.
"You do, Greg, I'm yours."