You've shown me awesomeness in a handful of reviews! I thank you for that.
Also, BunchofGrapes wondered about the potential of dialogue in this story. She was wise to do so and I hope she'll find the next chapter agreeable. Dialogue just couldn't come right away, because of internal structure concerns: in their approximation to each other, our two main characters are following a strict pattern of thinking first, speaking next - and if you have a little bit of patience, you'll soon be hearing them speak to each other.
"Are you feeling better?"
Robert asked, gingerly patting her back. Five minutes earlier, the kitchen sink had been the only sight that she could tolerate. Everything else had been wished away, but now she found she was just able to bend her neck far enough to glance at him, and she took a ragged breath.
"Yes." – her temples were pearled with sweat – "Lets just sit down."
He led her to the sofa. She checked her pulse discreetly. He poured himself a glass of wine.
"You'll be on call all day tomorrow again, right?"
She crossed her legs like an indian; he shrugged.
"I'd expect so. But good news is, if we haven't finally figured things out by the evening, we might as well count our losses and go for a long weekend. Certainly, the patient won't care anymore. Any place you'd like to see...?"
He smiled a cold, cheshire cat's smile, then drank up.
"You must try what we talked about last night." She said weakly. "If I'm right..."
"First we must find some proof to back up your hunch." – he interrupted – "It won't have been by my hand if she departs this life. There's only so much a human liver can handle in the way of experiments, you unlikely little Mengele."
She exhaled audibly.
"If it works, do you want me to quote you..?"
"You don't need to." She outlined a small smile, shook her head.
The curtains swelled and waved as the invisible chill of dusk stole into the room.
"So, how does it feel to be back?"
"Things are different now... it doesn't feel like being back at all. Everyone wants to put their feet on the table, and working under Foreman is like working for Idi Amin. Not even Remy can stand him these days. We riot and we sabotage one another. Give me a couple of months, though, and I think I might just have the upper hand."
"Do you think a temporary arrangement is worth such an outpour of cunning?" She raised an eyebrow. He squinted at her.
"Temporary you say? Nothing temporary about becoming Head of Diagnostics. I only need to keep getting more cases right than I do wrong, and for Foreman not to be right in my face whenever I can't help to screw up."
He grimaced comically, then raised his glass, giving her a transactional nod.
"What I mean is" – she said with a thread of voice – "House will come back eventually. What good will all of this have done, then?"
"He'll be back" – Robert parodied her tone – "Don't be ridiculous. He'll be lucky if his drug-induced psychosis doesn't prove chronic. Now, do you happen to know many practising doctors on anti-psychotics?"
"According to Wilson, he's responding to therapy. He's been detoxing."
A dismissive flick of the hand cut her off.
"Getting one's medical license back after a trip to the funny farm is no piece of cake. Best case scenario, he's looking at untreatable physical pain for the rest of his life. He already was in a pretty sad fix when on vicodin, so I doubt he's going to be able to walk upright, let alone think straight now that going bareback has become his only option. You think he's matchless; no-one is really. We're perfectly qualified to take over."
"And yet your patient is dying" – she noted dryly – "Aren't you curious what he would have to say about that?"
"Right now, I assume it would be material worth of "Something Flew Over The Cuckoo Nest", so no. I'll spell it out for your benefit: he is damaged goods. Say he's making a remarkable recovery, and Cuddy takes pity on him: he'll be able to rejoin the team - as nothing more than an advisor. His every epiphany will have to be supervised from now on. Personally, I would rather remember the man at his best; the mere idea of having him parked back in the office like a dismal shadow is surely disturbing enough." – Robert paused for the sake of suspense, then startled her by loudly, theatrically smacking her thigh - "The silver lining is, maybe by then I will be in the position to offer you a job! How would you like being his nurse? He'd get to vent his spleen all over you, you'd get to wipe up his drool while cooing sweet nothings and the rest of us would be able to get the job done in some semblance of peace. I think it's a win-win."
"You don't mean a word you just said."
He stretched his legs, defiantly.
"I kinda do; the man has done himself in."
"I know that." – she interjected, hoarsely – "Aren't you even a little upset for him?"
"Of course I'm very upset for him; but I'm also excited for myself." – he looked out the window and swallowed - "This is a great opportunity. He wouldn't expect me not to take it."
"That's so convenient for you."
"Well, technically, it's convenient for you too"
"We don't need any more money."
"We don't need to overdose on your lofty morals either. Jesus, you're as much of an addict as House is. At least now you're seeing where the stuff leads. I say you grow a backbone and start supporting your husband."
He stood up briskly and, once again, made for the liquor cabinet. Allison was still silent after he had poured himself a second glass of wine, her frame blurry in the darkness. He hesitated; retraced his steps; sat beside her.
"Look, House's mess is entirely of his own making. Still, I'm aware of what I owe him. I do like him. If he allowed it, I would visit."
She unclenched slightly as she murmured:
"I tried to see him yesterday. I drove up to Mayfield and I harassed the reception clerk for fifteen minutes, but he still left me out."
"Hardly surprising" – Robert articulated, warily, stealing a glance at her from the corner of his eye – "Why would you even bother?"
"I needed to see him."
She said simply. He scoffed.
"When don't you."
His eye was dark, despondent. She faintly whispered his name. He sighed.
"You yearn for him."
"I feel for him."
He snickered.
"So you had to go and let him know of the hole he has burnt in your young life. And then, what? Cry on his shoulder till he ends up reassuring you that he's aaalmost out of the woods? Why Allison, what a lovely way to help."
"You know nothing and you're an ingrate." She scowled. "Remember, he forbade Cuddy from opening her mouth in order not to spoil our wedding day."
"And that's why going through a stack of our honeymoon pictures with you will make him all better."
There was a species of gelid, cynical amusement in his face. Her brow furrowed.
"He was sensitive to us. You should value that."
"Nah. Most likely it was Cuddy's idea. The only fact worth mentioning here is your inability to let go. He is a big boy now, and you have yourself to worry about; just let him fly already."
"Since he's obviously soaring up in the sky at this very moment." – she rolled her eyes – "Don't you think he could use some acknowledgement under the circumstances?"
"Not really. He doesn't need the stuff. You do. It's rather worrying"
Her voice came out flat.
"Yes. I am soft and weak. And he's so totally antipode to me that he has no heart at all. What a great excuse for you not to dirty up your hands."
"Blah, blah, blah. Please. The man is hardly spending his days staring at his fellows' pictures with tear-filled eyes. C'mon, - he nudged her - don't sulk. You really don't need to hover. As long as Cuddy and Wilson are on the Princeton Plainsboro board, I assure you House won't end up destitute, sleeping in cardboard boxes in some park."
"That is reassuring". She sighed, abashed and aware of the futility of delving into a stillborn conversation's guts. Instead, she regaled him with a tentative half-smile. "Would you like a bite to wash down that wine? I went to the store today and we have all sorts of goodies."
"Nah." He breathed forth. "I think I'm done with the bottle for the day. Do you want anything?"
"Not really. How about we have ourselves an early night?" She offered. "You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow."
He leaned in, planting a kiss on her hair. She lightly stroked his cheek and attempted to stand up.
"I might have a better idea." He purred, holding her in place. He splayed his hand against her lower abdomen, under her t-shirt. If his fingertips had had eyes, she was sure they would have glowered.
"I'm exhausted."
She whispered.
"You're racked with nerves lately." – he started massaging her shoulder with one hand while the other one battled the buttons of her jeans - "The ER is so not for you. Shame you were not offered back into the team, but then..." - he started pushing her jeans down her hips - "...I could pretty much see it coming; Cuddy has it in for you." – he half cooed, half laughed – "Come, unclench, this is also in your best interest..."
Her chest stung like it had been stuffed with cooking salt.
"I feel drunk."
"All the better for me."
"I mean it."
"Don't be boring. Now, hop on. The sooner you're done here, the sooner you'll be dreaming of sheep." – he kissed her loosely while bringing his hand between her thighs, and then he plunged his fingers into her vagina, breaking her in bluntly. She moaned. He hummed. "You're so tight down there."
He switched on the lamp by the sofa, revealing a malicious glint in his eye. Minutes later she was erratically riding him to orgasm. His hands had a vice-like grip on her hips. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. She felt dry as a bone. The night breeze was coldish. It strained over her breasts, monotonous, steady. It gave her goosebumps. She went back to fragments of a favourite poem by Mallarmé. Reading it, she had once been struck by a flash of recognition. Since then, she had planned to recite it against the chest, against the jarred thigh of her troubled beloved in the middle of a long-overdue, almost abject act of lust. How vividly she had conjured up the sight of his blue eyes crying sparks instead of tears as she took him over! The sound of her own voice akin to pain, to joy. The echo bouncing between them, those words parting his lips sweetly, darkly, full of meaning, travelling down his throat and into his stomach. Now, she bit her tongue. Once more, she intrenched her body. Her mind flew right out the open window. She thought:
The flesh is sad
And:
Nothing
Can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea,
O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp...
A Boredom, made desolate by cruel hope
Still believes
Lost, without masts, without masts, no fertile islands...
But, oh my heart, listen to the sailor!
The day before, a reception clerk at Mayfield had partially caved and promised to bring her bouquet of white and purple flowers to the man that would not see her. He had even asked if she would like him to pass any message along. She had wanted to quickly scribble the obscure words on a note, but then she decided to act on her respect for him by staying silent. She knew her little, lame offering would ring a bell and it would exasperate him. But, maybe, just maybe, it would also make him laugh.
The glum, mastless building had scared her as she managed to wet her lips on the frustrating proximity of him. Tonight, though, she was letting herself be entered, her eyes closed. There was no sea breeze, no oblivion, solace nor recognition to be found in lamplight, in married sex, in married, aborted conversation. She was grief. Her release was forged. No water.