He doesn't normally sit in the Oncology lounge and do paperwork but the other options are his office or hotel room and neither appeal. It's late anyway; even the janitor's long gone. A radio is playing music softly in the background and he's stretched out on a couch. If he closes his eyes it could almost be home.
For a moment he does just that; leans back and closes his eyes. Of course it isn't home. But with the pile of paperwork out of sight he can listen to the music instead. He doesn't recognize the first few records. It's late-night radio and the tunes are inoffensive and forgettable and he's never been a big follower of music anyway. There's a commercial break and he phases the noise out, his eyelids growing heavy.
With a jerk he wakes up again. The music's back on and it sounds familiar. It takes a second but recognition makes him smile. Howard Keel is the singer - pin-up of the 1950's and a heartthrob for many grandmothers, including his own. Memories are nudging at him, begging to be let out and with a sigh he shuffles further down into the couch and closes his eyes. They're there in his minds eye, so vivid he wants to reach out and touch them both: his grandmother standing in her kitchen singing along with Howard, his grandfather rolling his eyes and making them all laugh.
The summer he and his brothers spent with their grandparents he was nine years old. He wasn't sure whose idea it had been - his parents or his grandparents - but he remembers how excited he'd been. He loves his parents but he's not sure his elder brother David ever did and the arguments between them had always ended in tears. Waving goodbye to his parents that summer, he'd felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
Nearly thirty years on, his expectations of life jaded, he remembers that summer as being idyllic. Most mornings he'd wake up early and lie quietly, listening to the sound of his brothers breathing. They were sharing a huge bed but they always ended up curled next to each other, their limbs touching. Cocooned under the sheets he'd wait for the sound of his grandparents going downstairs, impatiently listening for the radio to be switched on. That was his signal to slip out of bed. His grandmother would kiss him good morning and his grandfather would give him a hug. It was the summer he learnt how to cook.
He sighs. On the radio Howard's finished singing, replaced by another inoffensive tune. He knows he should get up and finish the paperwork but he's tired and there's nothing to go home to and the memories are still too vivid. Closing his eyes, he lets his mind wander again. He doesn't have a lot of vivid childhood memories, he thinks, not like the summer one. Mostly they're a vague collection of images and smells. The ones he can remember have sharper edges. They feature his father and David.
He's often wondered what he would be like as a father. Would he have such high expectations for his children? Expectations that were important enough to push his own child away? He hopes not, although he's never been sure. He can remember the shouting, the crying, the sound of gravel crunching under his shoes as he'd chased after his brother. Grabbing David's hand in a vice-like grip he'd begged him to stay. And every time his brother had walked away.
He swallows hard, crossing his arms and curling further into the cushions. He misses that touch from his brother, the feel of fingers curled around his. He misses waking up in the morning, the warmth of a body next to his, listening to the sound of someone breathing.
The last person he'd really touched was Grace. Delicate and beautiful, with eyes full of pain and fear he'd been unable to resist enveloping her in a comforting hug. She'd hugged him back, her warmth seeping through his skin. She'd reminded him that he was still alive. He brushes that thought away, the guilt still too raw and close to the surface. Instead he concentrates on the good memories; Howard Keel and the smell of breakfast cooking, playing with his brothers in his grandparent's yard…
A light touch on his shoulder wakes him. Blinking away sleep, he finds House watching him, his expression thoughtful.
"Thought you'd gone home."
Shaking his head, he sits up and stretches. A quick glance at his watch tells him it's almost midnight. Surprised, he looks up at House. "You're working late."
"Had a case." The unfortunate patient is dismissed with a disgusted shrug. "Want to get takeout?"
He tidies up the discarded paperwork while he considers House's offer. He knows how the evening will go: they'll end up sitting in front of the TV, their knees just touching. There'll be laughter and alcohol and he'll end up sleeping on the couch. It'd be perfect. But the memories are too strong tonight and so is the craving; he wants warmth and touching and skin.
House is still watching, his expression intrigued. For a split second he considers explaining it to him, one addict to another. But his friend doesn't do touching, not in the conventional way. And he suspects House knows anyway – he didn't protest when he decided not to move back in after Grace left.
Instead, he shrugs his jacket on. "How about we go to the diner? On me," he adds, before House can say anything. Not waiting for an answer he grabs his papers and heads for the door, leaving behind the sound of the radio playing.