Author's Note: This was not originally written as a one shot. It was intended to be the first chapter of a new fan fic. After reading this, I realized it probably could stand alone, and I could start my newest Huddy fan fic in a different fashion. I will also continue "When that Mockingbird Don't Sing" if you all would like me to. Thank you for reading, and I appreciate your feedback.
Untouchable
The sweet whisper of the waves was hypnotizing, and the palm fronds seemed to dance against the azure atmosphere. The world was rotating, revolving steadily around the sun, and all seemed right. All threats against the peace had diminished, and life was as much a breeze as the one arising from the sea.
What better comfort exists than that of perfection, of predictability? There was no disturbances, no fighting here, just love, love and contentment.
"Can I get you a refill," the bartender offered, his hand already coiled around the glass. He leaned onto the bar, which looked to be cherrywood, and rested on his forearm, waiting patiently, at first, for a response. When his customer did not respond, he repeated his question, hoping to capture the man's attention. Still, the man perched on the stool did not reply, as his eyes were focused elsewhere. The bartender followed his line of vision, before a smirk played on his lips and he nodded his head in understanding.
He ran his fingers through his hair, which was already slicked back from his forehead except for a single strand that dangled just beside his left temple. Initially, he averted his gaze temporarily elsewhere, but he could not resist the urge to look again. The seemingly inattentive customer had been eyeing up a woman seated just a few yards away, and she was, admittedly, unbearably stunning. Her head was overrun by luxuriant curls, and her figure was almost unreal.
"Well isn't she a sight for sore eyes," the bartender teased, raising his eyebrows suggestively. House turned to face him, stifling a laugh as he watched the bartender's performance.
"She's a woman who never has to worry about not getting attention," he prattled, "Not with a body like that." He gave her a once over, scanning from the tips of her polished toes to the top of her head. House looked back over his shoulder towards the woman, and then nodded, "Yeah, I've seen a few lowlifes try get her attention. She doesn't seem interested."
"Oh yeah," the bartender asked, refilling House's empty glass with bourbon, despite the lack of response, "Makes sense, I guess." He shrugged his shoulders, watching the translucent liquid flow from the bottle. He set the drink in front of House, who immediately took a large gulp. He swished it around in his mouth, savoring the flavor before swallowing. It scalded his throat as it trickled downwards into his stomach. "She could have any man she wants."
The two sat in silence, the bartender, who could not have been a day over 25, and House, who sported grays and an unshaven face. "You tried your hand at getting her yet," the younger of the two asked, nudging House's arm with his own.
"Nah," House glanced down at his drink, contemplating whether he wanted to finish it.
The man nearly scoffed, "Why the hell not? Go take a shot at her." The diagnostician shook his head, "I don't really see the point, kid."
"How can you not see the point in hitting on a hottie like her," he seemed perplexed. "Maybe she likes the rugged look," he proposed, figuring that the older man anticipated rejection. He stared at the woman's lips, his brown eyes tracing over them. They were inviting, and her legs, long and lean, looked more delicate than the petals of a rose in the midst of spring. "Well if you don't ask her out, I will."
House stifled a laugh. "What," the bartender asked, offended, "Am I not good enough for her?" The doctor glanced over him, examining his toned biceps and olive skin. His face displayed youth and immaturity, but his eyes were brimming with emptiness. They were an abysmal brown, yet still his lack of passion was easily detectable. He was nothing more than a child with a cherubic face and boyish charm.
"Someone's insecure," House mocked, jabbing at the boy's already inflated ego. Clearly, House was not the man to cater to other's emotions. He was generally honest, painfully so, and his ability to analyze others was, if nothing else, a gift. This particular subject was extraordinarily simple to dissect because there was nothing beneath the surface, no subliminal issues, no depth.
House himself embodied the word depth, as he extended further than the oceans themselves, and withheld a slew of memories, both good and bad, and suppressed emotion. "I don't want to have to kill you," he clarified, "Wouldn't want the world to be deprived of a pretty boy like you." His tone was dripping with sarcasm, though with a man as dense as the bartender, the comment was probably ineffective.
"I see," the man said, bobbing his head, "You're right. You got dibs. You saw her first. If she doesn't want you then I get a shot, though."
"She's mine," House told him in a monotone, staring blankly.
The bartender laughed stridently at House's certainty. Clearly, this woman was a maneater, a cannibal capable of shattering hearts and hollowing souls. After composing himself and regaining self control, he responded, unable to keep a smile from his lips, "And what makes you so sure?"
In one fluid motion, House lifted his glass of bourbon and gulped down the remainder of the alcohol. He licked his lips, the bitter taste resting on his tongue. "We're married," he held up his ring finger, a sinister look in his eyes. After enjoying the look of shock residing on the face of that naive and clueless bartender, House stood from his seat, giving the man $10 as a consolation prize. He limped proudly towards the irresistible woman they had been discussing, the apple of his eye, and lied down in the seat beside her.
"House, get up."
"What," he asked her confusedly, indulging in the blistering sand and the landscape. The waves raced up onto the sand, somehow contrasting the lighter blue hue of the sky. The tide forced its way further and further up to shore, sweeping away some of the sand and leaving behind the remnants of seashells which were dispersed all across the beach.
"Get up," Cuddy urged.
The sea breeze was cool, alleviating some of the humidity, and the flavor of bourbon and salt resonated with his taste buds. He couldn't will his eyes from the picturesque scene, nor could he convince himself to get up from his seat, placed strategically in the shade.
"House, we have work. Get up!" She shook him, her nails digging into the skin on his forearms.
House's eyes snapped open as he tore his arm from Cuddy's tight grasp. His hair reached in three different directions, and he rubbed at his eyes, wiping away the residue of his heavy sleep. "Easy, Cuddles," he retorted, rubbing his arm and the visible token of her wake up call. Five indentations resided within his arm, each surrounded by a red blotch indicating irritation.
"You poor baby," her tone was intolerant and even. "Get up," she commanded, her administrative tone seeping in.
He lifted himself up to rest on his forearms, too stupefied to contend with his boss. Still somewhat engrossed in his dream, the paradise from which he was rudely awoken, his eyes lingered on Cuddy's lips and travelled slowly down her body until the sheets hindered his view. He sighed in content, realizing that he possessed the single most crucial ingredient of his fantasy, even while awake. Extending his arm outward, he touched the skin on her arm, and traced light patterns with the tips of his fingers. It was as if he were checking to see that he was awake, that she was not just a figment of the imagination. He reveled in its smoothness, and he preferred the feeling of her skin against his to any other sensation. Of course, he never told her that.
The affectionate touch stemmed from House's grogginess, his unwillingness to wake up for work, Cuddy assumed. She met his gaze, allowing his icy irises to penetrate her own, and she knew her assumption was wrong. He was not wearing a look that conveyed longing, nor a look of artificial ardor, meant for persuasion. This look was genuine, and she couldn't help but wonder to herself what roused such adoration within him. After a moment, she no longer cared to know the cause. She was too far engaged in the feeling, enthralled by his small, but significant display of appreciation.
Her stern expression faltered and was replaced instantaneously with one that was much softer, more sentimental. She caught his lips with her own, her eyes fluttering and falling shut, and his following suit. "Come on," she said as she pulled away, "We have to get to work."