We’re All in Love With Conjunctions, a house, m.d. fanfic

We're All in Love With Conjunctions

By: Emmy

Spoilers: None.

Disclaimer: …

Summary: If a picture is worth a thousand words then what is the price of an action? Two thousand? A million? Maybe only three. Maybe he knows, maybe. But –here he stops. Some things aren't his. xOneshotx

A/N: Um. Writer's block is gone, thank goodness, and this is my piece offering. I hope it's alright. Again, the story and the quote are probably too abstractly connected for anyone but me to get it, but who cares? Enjoy if you can and review if you will.

011.should I bite my tongue, until blood soaks my shirt;
we'll never fall apart, tell me why this hurts so much

If a picture is worth a thousand words then what is the price of an action? Two thousand? A million? Maybe only three. Maybe he knows, maybe. But –here he stops.

Some things aren't his.

"It's funny," she says, except she's not laughing because it isn't funny at all. Just a thought. Maybe half of one.

He's standing next to her. Shoulder to shoulder and a million miles apart. When he turns his head to study her profile he thinks, a frown buried in the wrinkle between his brows.

"Sometimes," he murmurs, because this isn't about the truth anymore.

She shakes her head and a stray curl slips from her ponytail and catches on her lashes. She flicks it away slowly, thoughtfully. And (it's just delusions and exhaustion and. And.) he thinks about what he doesn't own.

"Always."

It's firm and it's not. Just a contrast and parts to a greater whole that's fucking confusing. Maybe he's getting caught on details again. He's learning though. He's learnt enough to know, know, questions and answers just dance in circles, and, yet, the rhythm is addictive.

He shrugs his shoulders and his index finger brushes her wrist.

Maybe by accident and maybe not.

He finds her sitting on a wall outside the hospital. She's taken her hair out and it rolls and weaves down her neck, collecting behind her shoulder blades. She's fiddling with her hair band and watching him approach. Her head is tilted and her shoulders curled. She's swinging her legs a little, almost carelessly (he traces them with his eyes and, fuck, sometimes the grass really is greener on the other side).

"What?" he demands, because there's something there, and then not quite.

"Yes," she agrees slowly, "why, where, how and when?"

This is a chance and it tastes strangely of intimacy. It's a little out of place and he thinks maybe, maybe, but stops himself. There's a ghost of danger in this, but there's a ghost of danger in everything.

"You like questions for the answers," he tells her.

It's a statement more than anything else. He's used to this by now and he thinks, so is she. There's a glint of humour in her eyes, but it's dulled by everything else she's seen and known and lived.

It's this that he likes most about her, she's seen more than her age warrants and (he wonders how much of life is death and if she tastes like she smells. She must, at least a little, because there are tastebuds in your nose and really. But never mind) that demands at least a little respect.

"I like questions for the questions. You like questions for the answers. Stop projecting." The humour colours her words a warm yellow.

"Maybe," he indulges, and sits next to her.

"Definitely," she corrects and runs a hand along the handle of his cane gently. She pauses curiously at the point where his hand and the cane meet. Tentatively traces the line of his thumb before returning her attention to her hair elastic.

"Maybe," he insists and almost smiles.

Maybe what? Echoes in his mind and he thinks, but then he doesn't.

Halfway through a differential, he notices the dark lines under her eyes. He pauses and licks his lips. Takes a step towards her.

"You're tired," he informs her.

"I know," she murmurs and traces the edge of an empty coffee cup, "it happens."

"You look it though," he replies, and feels oddly pleased with himself.

She breathes a laugh and meets his eyes steadily (it's then he thinks maybe, but catches himself). He returns his attention to the patient when Foreman does an odd little cough in his throat.

The maybe still haunts, and it's getting harder to shake.

He falls asleep at his desk one night when he hasn't slept for who knows how long and really it's not his fault. It rarely is. He wakes tired and sore and with frustration curling inside of him. It's morning and he's surprised he made it so long without waking up. He thinks sometimes the pain will finish him, because he doesn't believe in happy endings anymore.

There's a storm raging outside his window and he thinks that maybe, he'll cope alright.

She comes in looking rained-on and tired. She brushes past him when he laughs at her, and he pretends not to care. He's gotten good at it. She slips her coat over her shoulders and accidentally sandwiches the dripping ends of her hair inside. He wonders at it, thoughts steadily spiralling to a conclusion he's scared of. Maybe he's a coward. He wouldn't be all that surprised if he was.

He pulls it out for her and blames circumstance (circumstance can't defend itself) and leaves his fingers curled in her locks. He notes with a disjointed fascination that it feels almost silky and wonders if she forgot to wash out the conditioner. But then. Then. Maybe she didn't and it just is.

Then he thinks about showers and skin and maybe, but forcibly removes himself from that train of thought.

It's too dangerous for moments with company.

"What are you doing?" she whispers and her voice pulls at him.

He can't see her face, just her back and hair and how still she's gone all of a sudden. He smooths it one last time and puts his hands on his cane and holds on tight. When she turns he dares to look her in the eyes and she's curious and something darker as well. He thinks he knows and hopes he doesn't.

"It's curly," he tells her.

"I know," she agrees, and lets him off the hook. Maybe for comfort and maybe for something else. "I straightened it last night too."

He reaches out and slides his fingers along a piece that's framing her face. His knuckles brush her cheek and he knows, knows, that he isn't the only one that's a little breathless for the quiet in this.

"Never mind," he pauses and breathes in, "I like it curly."

"Yeah?" she asks, and he isn't sure if she's teasing him or flirting or simply amused.

He nods and thinks to himself a little. Tries not to notice the colour in her cheeks or the curve of her lips.

"Maybe," he says at last.

It tastes forbidden and right.

He decides that he and Wilson will eat lunch with them because he doesn't like the way Chase is looking at her. He's shared her enough, he thinks, but she's still his. The possession is dark and real and natural. She's wearing a top that he's pretty sure she doesn't know makes her look like that (she wouldn't have worn it to work otherwise). So he pulls a seat over and sits next to her.

His knee brushes hers and he remembers maybe whispering in the air between them. He can still hear the echo of it, he's just not sure if that makes him crazy or sane (maybe both and maybe neither).

Wilson looks at him a little oddly and he wonders how much he thinks he knows. Then he thinks that maybe he has no right to think that and wonders instead how much he thinks he knows himself.

Nothing certain, he concludes, and decides that he's being haunted by in-betweens.

When he takes one of the croutons from her sad looking Caesar salad it's repayment for everything and nothing at all. It's still a justification, even if it's crap, so he leaves it at that. He grins at her frown and crunches loudly enough to make Chase wince. She just rolls her eyes and a smile ghosts along her lips. Maybe, he thinks, Maybe.

It's just a small moment. Maybe.

He finds her in the lab. He isn't exactly looking for her, but there you go. She's bent over the microscope and a strand of hair is dangling past her face. He thinks it's almost charming, and blames old age and fucked up legs.

She straightens when he comes in and steps a little to the side so he can look too. He dips his head down to the eyepiece and stares at the perfectly healthy cells of a perfectly sick person. He wonders at it all.

And maybe brushes his hand against hers.

Except then he's holding it and isn't quite sure when either of them grew brave enough to face this. Maybe they didn't and it's all just a coincidence. Or a conspiracy.

Her hand is a little cold and soft. He can tell by memory that when she gets back to the conference room she'll attack her moisturiser bottle and then they'll feel a little oily. Because that's what she always does.

"She's clean," he says, more as a way to break the silence then anything else.

She nods and leans her shoulder against his arm. They both look at their laced fingers. She smiles a little and nods, before tilting her head to look up at his face.

"Maybe," she murmurs, and doesn't move at all.

"Nah," he corrects lightly, "Definitely."

And it's the certainty that scares him most.

He thinks that maybe every action has its own worth. That some grouped together can change their meaning. It's a matter of perspective and how much detail is lost in the wider picture.

His and hers gather up and translate into three words. It's what he expected and what he didn't. Three words he guessed, but it still tastes wrong. It's the words that are different, and there's relief and fear in that both.

Just three words:

This could work.

Maybe.

.end.