I.
"I don't know. Maybe we could."
The sentence lingers in the dark air between.
Three minutes ago there had been a high five. An eye roll from Cameron. A smirk from House. A touch of hands.
And then: "We solved it all by ourselves. Without Cuddy or Chase or Wilson or Foreman. Especially not Foreman. How smart are we?"
She'd smiled. Smiled at the patient before them who was saying his own special prayer to his own special God about how grateful he was that it was an unusual case of arthritis and not a stroke. Smiled at House as they'd walked to the door and slid it open, letting the January air creep around their collars and sleeves.
She shivered and he smirked.
"We rock," he said eyeing her carefully.
"We so totally do," she agreed, shifting her notes from one arm to the other. Feeling like she could indulge him in just about any level of silliness at that precise moment. Because he was brilliant. Because he was right. Again. Because he was House and he made everything so good and so bad about her time at the hospital.
He high-fived her and let his grip slide from her palm down to her wrist and then fall back to his side.
"Maybe we should get a drink," he mused, like he was asking himself more than he was asking her.
"I guess." She said but she didn't sound too sure.
"You're wearing new glasses?" He enquired taking the notes from her and tucking them under his arm.
She followed him to the elevator touching her face nervously. "Um, no. These are my old glasses. A patient accidentally knocked my regular eyewear whilst he was convulsing."
"Damn those patients and their meddlesome ways."
And now they were stood side by side in the elevator and neither of them spoke.
Close proximity and euphoria were a desperately bad combination and standing at opposite sides of the small square seemed to be a choice they'd both subconsciously made.
"So, we could go eat? If you eat?" He said ducking his head down into the folder of notes.
"I don't know. Maybe we could." She said taking her glasses off and tucking them into the top pocket of her lab coat. She took a moment to study the top of his forehead, needing to decrease it, to plant a kiss where his hairline began, but not daring to take that final step forward.
"So." He said when the elevator stopped and they both emerged into the dark hallway. "Is that a maybe or a yes?"
"Yes." She whispered and suddenly everything went into overdrive. She raced away to ready herself. Showered in the locker room. Dried her hair under the hand dryer. Dressed in a black blouse she'd found at the back of her locker. Buttoned it up. Left a couple of buttons undone and sprayed perfume where her collar bone protruded. Everything was happening quickly, pushing forward, moving towards something. And her pulse. Her pulse echoed around her head and she was still feeling dizzy from the heat of the shower as she stepped out into the cold night air and waited in the doorway.
A plan came and went in her mind and she tried to shake it but it kept on creeping back in. What they would do. They. Us. Them. We. Tonight. A meal and drinks. Like any other couple. And people would be looking at them as they sat. Arms and legs almost touching. Opposite each other in a restaurant under moonlight and amongst vases of flowers. And people might notice how he cocked his head to the side when she spoke and how she nervously trailed her hand over the back of her neck and tucked away stray locks of hair whenever she met his glance. They would be intimate. They would unravel each other. And everything that said that they shouldn't or wouldn't would be inaudible over the sounds of pleasure and desire. All the secrets and the half-saids would dissolve like the rain and the snow under the beads of sweat sliding down the valley between their chests.
"Hey," he said, sliding around the door and placing his cane down with force onto the tarmac.
"Hey," she replied, drawing herself off the wall and stepping towards him.
Anticipation surged through her veins making her shake but she could pretend it was down to the weather. She tried to control her breathing. She was aware of everything around her. Every murmur she made. Every movement. Every hair standing on end down her spine.
And then she realised that he wasn't wearing his jacket. And he didn't have his bag with him.
"Look," he said, his breath rising into the night. "I just got paged. We've got a new patient. Coming here in ten minutes."
"Right," she whispered. But she couldn't put two and two together and for a second she didn't know why this mattered when she was going to feel his hands wrapped around her waist and his mouth on her breasts and she'd be grabbing the muscles on his back and drawing him into her and…
"You go ahead. You go home. I'll page Foreman. You go get some sleep."
He shrugged in apology. There was regret in his voice. It was bitter and it was harsh and it stopped the circular motion of the plan in her mind.
Deflated, she looked at the ground. He shouldn't see. He shouldn't ever know how desperately she'd wanted this. How her whole body shook with his imagined touch. How wet she could become if only he'd…
"Go on. Get into your car before you freeze to death," He lent back against the wall. Preparing his waiting stance.
She started to move away. Concentrating on not falling over as she made her way across the icy parking lots.
"It never ends, does it?" He shouted after her.
She turned, hiding bitter disappointment with a slight smile: "We'll never run out of sick people will we?" It was a little too quiet for him to hear but she was glad because she knew he was really talking about them.