Hands
Thirteen has beautiful hands.
Long, slender fingers, perfectly maincured nails, soft skin; steady and calm and soothing. Everything a doctor's hands should be, and then some.
I first noticed how exquisite they are when we worked on a case together. It sounds so ridiculous now, but she was probing the patient's veins with the tips of her fingers in order to draw some blood. I was watching her intently, trying to mentally catalogue her every move so that I could do it the same way and score some brownie points with Dr. House. As I watched her, I couldn't help getting caught up in the movement of her hands. Her fingers are just so... elegant.
Of course, I don't tell her about my little obsession. Nor do I tell her about the dreams I've had where she sneaks into my bedroom late at night--yeah, it's corny, I know--and undresses me, then caresses me and maps my body with those long, slender fingers. I don't tell her that, when she has to snap me out of a daydream, it's her I'm usually thinking about.
I just go on about my business and pretend it doesn't kill me when I see her flirting with Big Love. At least, I think she flirts with him. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they're just friends. It's not like it matters, anyway, because I don't have a chance with her. She's above me, and I hate her for it.
I'm sitting alone in the on-call room (enjoying a very rare moment of down time) when she comes in. She walks over to the coffee pot and examines what's in it by gently sloshing it around a bit. When she's satisfied that it hasn't yet made the complete transformation from dark roast into motor oil, she pours herself a cup and stretches out on the couch.
I set my magazine down and watch her quietly for a few moments, allowing my eyes to travel up and down her body leisurely, taking it all in, storing it away for later when I'm alone and lonely, or just horny. Eventually, she realizes that I'm staring at her, so she sits up and looks at me, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched in curiosity.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask her, trying to sound annoyed as I pick up my magazine again.
"You were looking at me first," she says, the smallest of grins tugging at the corners of her perfect lips. "So, why were you looking at me?" she asks.
"No reason," I say quickly. I was only wishing I could touch you right now, is what I'm thinking.
"What magazine is that?"
"People."
"Anything interesting in there?"
I shrug my shoulders. "Britney Spears got to see her kids last weekend, then she partied until she passed out."
She lets out a little laugh at that, and I can't help thinking it's the cutest laugh I've ever heard. It even makes me smile a little, much to my own dismay. I'm supposed to dislike her, not smile stupidly at her when she crinkles her nose in that sexy-cute way that she always does.
"How long have you been in here?" she asks me, as she gets up and comes over to the table I'm sitting at. She takes a seat across from me and sets her coffee down on the table.
"Half an hour, I guess," I reply.
"Really? Wow. And House hasn't been harassing you the whole time?"
"Surprisingly, no. It's kind of a relief."
"I know the feeling. I actually had a couple hours off yesterday. You know what I did?"
"No. What?"
"I slept... in my own bed. Then I came back here."
"Mm, sleep sounds like a really good idea, but I don't think I would be able to get much right now anyway. Not with this shoulder killing me."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know. I lifted that fat guy out of bed last week and I think I pulled something. It's been sore ever since."
"You should get a massage."
I scoff at that. Her suggestion is ridiculous, but I can't believe how much I'm actually enjoying this banter between us. "Like I have the time or the money for that," I say.
She nods her understanding. "You know, my aunt was a massage therapist. She taught me some techniques. I could try to work that out for you, if you want, while we're both just sitting here doing nothing," she says.
I tense up a little at her offer. It's bad enough I can barely function when she's standing near, much less suffer through her giving me a massage because that would mean she would have to use her hands. Those oh-so-perfect hands that I desperately want on me right now, touching me in all the places I'm aching for her. I have to shake my head to clear the cobwebs before I can answer her.
"If you don't mind." What?! No, Amber! That is NOT what you were supposed to say! The answer was supposed to be NO! NO, NO, NO! Now look what you've gotten yourself into.
She gets up and moves to stand behind me, then the next thing I know is the feeling of her hands gently kneading the sore muscles of my shoulders. I have to admit, it feels pretty damn good. Who am I kidding? It feels really freakin' good, but that's kind of a given.
Thirteen pushes her thumbs into my back, moving them in a circular motion, and my head involuntarily tilts forward to one side. I close my eyes and groan loudly as I feel the knots begin to untangle.
"Am I pressing too hard?" Thirteen asks softly.
"Mm-mm, not at all," I assure her.
"You are really tense, you know that? I can feel it. You're all in knots."
"It hurts."
"The pressing or the knots?"
"Knots."
"Okay. Just tell me if I hurt you."
"'Kay."
Thirteen continues to work quietly for another ten minutes. She stops massaging my shoulders just as I'm about to drop off to sleep. She goes to pull her hands back, but for some reason I move my own hands up to stop them. It's like I can't control myself, like someone that isn't me has snuck into my body and taken over me, causing me to do things that would be typically uncharacteristic of me.
"What's wrong?" Thirteen asks.
"Don't stop," I say, blushing slightly when I realize just how much I sound like a cheap porn star.
"Sorry, but my hands hurt."
"Please don't stop." The words just keep coming and the hole I'm digging just keeps getting bigger. Sooner or later, it'll be big enough for me to bury myself in, and then I'll disappear and pretend like none of this ever happened.
"What's going on, Amber?"
I let out a heavy sigh and turn to face her. It's all or nothing, Volakis. Tell her. "I think I'm in love with you," I blurt. Nicely done, retard! Now she thinks you're some nutjob with a crush.
"You're what?" Thirteen asks, pulling her hands back quickly.
"I think I love you."
"Are you out of your mind?"
"No. I don't think so, anyway."
She takes a few steps back from me, clearly shocked and confused.
"Hey," I say, "it's okay. I'm not crazy. I just--I don't know what happened. I went from hating your guts to daydreaming about you. I can't stop thinking about you. And I'm just as freaked out about it as you are."
"I don't think that's possible," Thirteen says, shaking her head slowly. "Why? I mean, wha--how? When?"
"Your hands," I admit. "It's your hands."
"My hands?"
"They're beautiful."
"But they're just... hands."
"I know that."
"Then why?"
"Because I think you're amazing," I admit, and I'm a little surprised at myself because even I didn't see that coming.
Thirteen takes a few more steps back. I stand finally on shaky legs and walk over to her, grabbing her hands to keep her from going anywhere. When she doesn't protest, I reach out to her and push a few loose strands of dark hair behind her ear and cup her cheek.
Slowly, I lean forward, closing the gap between us until our lips meet in a gentle kiss. She doesn't fight me, but she doesn't exactly return the favor eagerly either. She just stands there, letting me kiss her in the middle of the on-call room, where anyone could walk in at any minute. It's probably the most risky thing I've ever done, and I don't really care because right now I'm feeling unusually brave and one of my wildest dreams is coming true.
I move my hands up and run my fingers through her hair, pulling her closer to me as I increase the pressure, kissing harder, my tongue sliding more aggressively past hers. Finally, her hands settle on the small of my back and she relaxes into me, kissing me back.
When I pull away from her, it's only because we're both out of breath. I rest my forehead against hers and breathe deeply, watch her chest heave as she tries to catch her breath as well.
"Jesus, Thirteen," I say softly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Remy," she whispers.
"What?"
"My name is Remy."
"Remy," I repeat. I like--no, love the way that sounds. "That's beautiful."
She blushes immediately. "Thanks."
"You're not freaked out that I kissed you?"
"I thought I would be, but I'm not. Is that weird?"
"Not to me, it isn't. I've been wanting to do that for weeks."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because we're supposed to be enemies. And I don't think Dr. House would approve."
"Screw House."
She pulls me forward and kisses me hard, stealing my breath away once again. Her hands are slipping underneath my shirt and teasing my skin when my pager goes off. I try to ignore it, but then hers starts beeping as well. We break apart and stare at each other for a moment.
"I guess this was too good to be true, huh?" Remy asks, leaning her forehead against mine again.
"We can always continue this later," I say, chewing on my bottom lip as I gauge her reaction to that statement.
"Dinner after shift?" she asks breathlessly.
"I would love to," I reply. Really, what else would I say?
She smiles and gives me a quick kiss. "Let's go tend to our patient," she says, as she heads out of the on-call room.
I wait a few moments, wait for the tingling in my lips and lower extremities to fade away, then I follow her out with this ridiculously huge smile plastered on my face.
Later, we--the six of us residents that remain--are sitting in House's office.
Well, it's more like we're all crowding around his desk. I'm leaning over, my hands supporting my weight on the edge of the desk, and I'm very aware of the fact that Remy is standing dangerously close to me. She's leaning on the desk, too, and the pinky finger on her right hand is subtlely resting on my finger. I try to pretend that I don't notice, and I pray that no one else in the crowded room notices.
I'm having difficulties paying attention to anything House is babbling on about, especially now that Remy's finger has gone from gently resting on my finger to slowly running up and down my hand. Somehow, she's managed to get closer to me; her body seems to have molded itself to mine, and I can feel the soft curve of her hip pressing firmly against me. It takes everything I have to keep from fainting.
"Cutthroat bitch," I hear House say, his eyes trained on me. "Hello? Is anyone home? Snap out of it," he says, snapping his fingers very close to my face to get my attention.
"What?" I ask.
"I asked you a question about your patient," House replies.
"Oh. What was it?" I ask, trying to play innocent, but it's obvious that House knows something is going on.
"What's his blood type?" House asks.
"Um, he's an A," Remy answers for me. It's a good thing, too, because I had no idea.
"Is your name Cutthroat Bitch?" House asks, turning his attention to Remy and glaring at her.
Remy puts her head down, but I can see the smile curving her lips.
"A," I say. When House turns to me, I smile at him.
"Right," he says slowly, looking between me and Remy. "Thirteen," he continues.
"Yes, Dr. House?" Remy asks.
"You and Cutthroat Bitch take your patient down to get an MRI," the good doctor instructs.
Like good little puppies, Remy and I make our way out of the room, our little secret still kept safely between us. Although, with House, I highly doubt that this blissful ignorance will last very long.