Notes: Written for the drabble meme over at LiveJournal, dedicated to Lauren.


Attraction

There's this game they play.

It isn't so much a game that has a name—they've never acknowledged it enough to give it one—but it's ever afoot. Much like in chess, they make their moves in turn. Back and forth: to and fro.

He leans a little further back in the reception desk chair to change perspective and he holds his breath in concentration. It's a swishy, summery skirt today, bright and flowery. He hikes it up with painstaking effort, the lightweight fabric hanging off the end of his cane like a theatre curtain.

She is an easy target, oblivious as she leans over the desk to sign off for the day. He is almost there, expecting the bottom hem of her panties, which he imagines is lacy, to appear within sight any moment now.

The definitive sound of the pen being returned to the pen cup is accompanied by a high-pitched yelp when she steps back and feels the cold rubber tip against her thigh. She pivots in surprised horror, knocking over the flowers on the desk in the process. On the floor the vase shatters, water spreads and the lilies seem to wilt promptly.

She glares. Most people know better than to get her going. He thrives on it.

"Doctor House is going to clean this up all by himself," she announces to everybody within earshot, and he knows playing the cripple card isn't going to work anymore now. She leaves and he stares at her ass right up until it disappears from his sight.

Checkmate, he thinks and he lifts himself out of the chair to do as his boss orders.

Tomorrow they start over.