A/N
- As always, thanks to my wonderful beta, Houseketeer for her patience and genius.
- Thanks to snowrabbitses for her lovely comments and encouragement.
- I don't know much about poker – so the tips are from Anthony Holden and Doyle Bunson
21
She watches him toe off his Nike Court Force Low Premium sneakers (he had carefully articulated the name for her, and requested that she repeat it back to him until he was entirely satisfied that she had it right) and bounce back on her bed, stretching his arms behind his head and ah-ing contently.
She observes the shoes – abandoned on her carpet, tipped on their sides, the loosened laces streaming from the eyelets. She had referred to them as brown, but he had corrected her – telling her they were "cappuccino, with bison and sport red accents."
She had laughed, calling him a meterosexual, and had made a mental note to visit the Nike online store for his birthday.
"Comfortable?" she inquires sarcastically.
"Almost," he says, "but I could do with a cold beverage of some description…"
"You know where the kitchen is," she scoffs.
"I do," he responds, "but there's a reason I display a card with the image of a stick figure guy in wheelchair on my bike, and it ain't to enhance my street cred…"
She nods, thinking it's the least she could do for him, really, and turns to pass through the doorway.
"I like limeade best!" he calls after her, "with ice!"
She returns to find him punching pillows behind his back, building himself a cushiony wall of support. She waits for him to cease this activity, before extending her arm, presenting him with a tall, frosted glass: a green drink – ice jingling merrily.
He takes it from her with a quiet: "thanks."
"You'd better not get too settled," she says, moving to the foot of the bed and shedding her stale work clothing piece by piece, "I'm going out."
"Where?"
"Just to a local bar, for drinks."
"Drinks, who with?" he inquires, and she thinks she detects a hint of possessiveness in his tone.
"Some girlfriends."
"Aha," he remarks, turning his attention to his feet.
She watches as he attempts to snag her discarded magenta lace thong with the curled toes of his sock covered left foot.
"I always imagined what you were wearing under those sensible slacks and skirts," he says, "of course I fantasised it was something naughty, but fuck me, I never actually believed you would wear panties this hot every day at work!"
She giggles, pulling a pink, cotton voile dress over her head to cover her fresh, newly selected underwear.
"No seriously," he says, suddenly placing his glass on the side table, crawling to the end of the bed, and reaching out to take her arms, "fuck me, just once before you go."
"I really can't, I've got to…"
He pulls her onto the bed and kisses her quiet with his ice-cold lips and lime flavoured tongue.
"Stay here with me…" he says, laying her across the mattress beneath him.
With a hand fitted under the crease of each knee, he draws her legs up. A back handed flick sends the soft material of her skirt fluttering down her pale thighs to collect around her waist.
"…you know I'm much more fun," he continues temptingly, kissing one of her embarrassingly adolescent, soccer-girl's knees, "I'll go down on you, none of your girlfriends will do you that favour…" he raises his head to look at her, "…and if they do – I want in."
His greedy fingers hook into the band of her underpants and he tugs gently.
"…no don't…" she protests feebly.
Do whatever you want to me…
She raises her hips for him and the flimsy scrap of material is easily removed.
"You know what I'm going to do," he says, flattening his tongue on her kneecap for effect, "and so you're not going to resist."
His thumb wipes away the salvia print of his tongue, soaking it into her skin.
She reaches down, taking a fistful of his shirt and urging him closer.
"You are…" she stalls.
"What?" he prompts her, nudging her nose with his.
Impossible.
Beautiful.
Impossibly beautiful.
"…persuasive…"
"Mm hmm," he hums.
"…and totally right, I'm not going to resist, but after this, I have to go, mmm-kay?"
"Right…"
"More kissing," she requests.
His body rests against hers. Embedding his elbows in the thick down of the feather doona, and framing her face with his hands, he settles in for the kinds of long, deep kisses that shock her system and produce a sort of inertia.
Looking down at her, he smiles before the first kiss, and she feels doused in some sort of invisible chemical, burning and tingling her from the inside out – but only pleasantly so.
She thinks he may actually be making love to her.
Out of the blue, she asks: "why December?" between the intermittent press and purse of their lips.
"December?"
"Why did we first sleep together in December?"
He furrows his brow.
"Why not January last year? Why not February, March, April, May… why did it take us so long?"
"Why does it matter?"
She sighs.
"It doesn't, I suppose."
"Do you want me to…?"
He gestures between her thighs.
She makes note that he knows to ask permission, because he has learnt that on occasion, she is too sensitive and cannot bear to be touched.
She has only ever found this to occur with him.
She nods and he bows his head. She feels his breath and then his tongue – warm again, lapping her clit – flicking softly and then building to a more steady, firm pressure. She has to be careful not to hurt him as she writhes on the bed and her thighs clamp around his ears.
He pauses and in a moment of recovery, she takes the opportunity to speak again.
"I just feel like we've wasted time," she says, "and I don't want to waste any more."
He looks at her, and his fearful expression says he thinks she may be contemplating the M word.
"What I mean is – I like spending time with you," she clarifies.
He nods. "Isn't that what we're doing now?" he says, "spending time?"
It is her turn to nod. "I'm glad you had the keys cut," she says, "I like having you sleep in my bed, and I like sleeping in yours."
"You know why I love doing it at your place?" he says, emphasising the words: 'doing it,' like an oversexed frat boy – obviously desperate to stop the conversation from slipping into the quicksand pit of 'deep and meaningful.'
"Because you don't have to change the sheets?" she cracks, humouring him.
He points to the full length mirror beside her bed.
He props himself up, before moving to sit on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror.
"Come here," he says, holding a hand out to her.
She accepts his hand, and he arranges her to sit between his open legs, facing the mirror also. She regards their reflection. She has never taken notice of this mirror – never seen them together like this. She wants to capture the image – a snapshot, a photograph – and keep it as evidence.
"Watch," he says, as he parts her legs and lifts her skirt.
His hand slips down between her parted thighs and she watches as his fingers work – studies his technique.
She moans helplessly and melts into him, leaning back and inadvertently giving him access to slip his fingers inside her.
She sees his hand disappear behind her back. She hears the chink of his belt buckle, the sharp sound of his zip, the rustle of a condom wrapper and she watches his elbow jerk beside her as he fiddles for a moment.
"Stand," he says.
And when she does, her absence from his lap reveals his exposed cock, standing straight and hard in the reflection of the mirror.
He pulls her back, carefully guiding her to sit down on his erection.
She is wet and ready for him.
His hands clamp her waist and he urges her to move – rising up and sitting back down on him repeatedly.
"Good," he moans, "keep doing that…"
His hand pulls a strap from her shoulder and slips under her bra cup to free her breast.
"Are you watching?" he pants.
His free hand returns between her thighs and he continues to finger her clit.
"Yes…"
She comes at this, gasping and watching her reflection shudder and tremble – watching him watching her – his smug expression. Overwhelmed, she slumps forward, and his arm snakes around her waist, supporting her limp, exhausted body.
"Stay here with me," he whispers, pressing his lips to hear ear, "you don't have to drink with them, you can drink with me."
She finds her head nodding before her mind has even considered this.
………
"Figures you'd suck at poker," he says collecting his chips with a sweep of his broad hand.
"Oh – and why is that?" she contends.
"Because it's a game of cunning, you have to be deceitful, ruthless…. and you're too nice to bluff – it's not in your nature."
"Hmm, I have my moments…' she responds, pouring herself another drink.
"Whoa," he says, raising a brow, eyeing the volume of alcohol in her glass as she adds the soda, "is that a vodka tonic, or a vodka vodka tonic?"
"It's a vodka tonic," she replies with a tight lipped grin.
She eyes his glass – empty, nothing but ice slowly melting, gliding around in the dregs of the apparently substandard scotch she had bought especially for his visits.
She thinks of offering him another drink, but she is too embarrassed to draw attention back to the fact that in his opinion: she doesn't know fine quality Scotch Whiskey.
"Deal again," she gestures to the cards by his right elbow, "I'll show you I can be cunning."
"As you wish," he says, retrieving the cards and cutting the stack before shuffling them neatly into his hand, "just promise you won't cry like a girly girl when I kick your ass again."
"We'll see…"
He waggles his brow at her farcically.
"Ok, lemme give you a tip ssshugar," he says in what sounds to be his best Sean Connery-as-James Bond accent.
His pronunciation is heavy on the 's' sounds, which is highly amusing given his slight lisp. She snorts with laughter, shielding her mouth with her hand, so as not to spray her drink over his face.
"Poker is like a horse," he says, and she quietens herself, leaning in to hear one of his famous metaphors, "it has five letters and two vowels."
She thinks for a second before emitting a slow: "aha-ha!" which quickly develops into a loud guffaw.
"Great 'tip,'" she sniggers.
"Alright," he says, dealing them each five cards, "you want a real tip?"
She nods.
"The good news is that in every deck of fifty-two cards there are: two million, five hundred and ninety-eight thousand, nine hundred and sixty possible hands. The bad news is that you are only going to be dealt one of them. You need to decide how good your hand is at a given moment. Nothing else matters."
"Right," she says, squeezing his knee, before shifting around the table and occupying in the empty chair beside him.
"The idea is for opponents to sit on opposite sides of the table," he says, eyeing her as she makes her advance.
"You're gorgeous," she says, reaching up to stroke his cheek – the pad of her thumb moving against the grain of his whiskers.
"And you're just trying to get a look at my cards," he says softly.
She aims her first kiss at his cheekbone and the second hits the very corner of his mouth – just enough so that she detects a new wetness on her lips.
"You are cunning," he says, "using your looks and charm, that's your ploy – I tell you, it's working. Drape yourself over my lap and I'll be willing to give you anything, let alone a peek at my hand."
She looks at him – there is a softness about his eyes. She ponders the significance of this statement.
I'll be willing to give you anything…
The ring of the telephone interrupts her analysis.
………
"Oh my god," she says, slowly returning the phone to its cradle and facing him.
He looks up from his card shuffling to meet her gaze, but he doesn't inquire about her exclamation of surprise.
"Oh my god!" she repeats.
"I'm assuming you're going to put me out of my misery any minute now..." he says, impassively stacking the plastic poker chips, assembling a tower.
"Liz has gone into labor," she informs him.
"Huh," he mutters, "she's not the first."
"She can't get in contact with Peter," Cameron continues, "she wants me to go with her to the hospital – Princeton General."
He nods, as if to say: what do I care?
"Will you drive me?" she asks.
He stares at her blankly for a moment before asking: "why?" rather harshly.
"I've been drinking," she says.
"So have I," he retorts.
"You've had one," she says, "I've lost count of how many I've had."
"Ah, but my one drink washed down two of these babies," he says, retrieving his faithful yellow plastic bottle from his pocket and rattling it at her, "you've read the label – you know what that means…"
He pops the cap and empties two pills into his hand, before lifting his palm to his mouth, swallowing them.
"That was hours ago, House…" she argues.
"No sense debating it," he says, standing, "you're wasting precious time while your friend is huffing and puffing away in agony."
"No!" she contends, raising her voice, "you're the one wasting precious time with your pathetic excuses."
He moves past her saying, "call a cab – they're very efficient in this city," as he makes his way to the door.
She pauses – dumbfounded by his insensibility, and even more surprised by her surprise at this.
Impulsively, she snatches his arm, halting his escape. With the knowledge that she is about to strike back, her heart beats – pounding in her ears, and the sudden rush of adrenalin is dizzying.
"You're a prize winning asshole" she snaps.
Eyeing his shoes, he nods once in sad agreement.
"I stayed with you," she says, "my friends were expecting me – I should have gone, but I stayed here with you, because you asked me to."
He refuses to look at her.
She releases him, and he skulks into the hallway.
"Where are you going?!" she calls after him, mildly aware that she is shouting into the quiet hallway like a hysterical madwoman, "are you going to drive home?"
At this – he quickens his pace, hobbling faster to the elevator at the end of the hall.
She turns and reaches for the phone, attempting to disregard the choking sensation in her throat, and the tingle of tears behind her eyes – telling herself that she has a more urgent matter at hand.
She calls a cab.
………
Rows and rows of tiny creatures with brand new, peeling skin – an assortment of colors ranging from pink to olive to brown.
Some of them squirm, some cry, some sleep soundly.
She watches behind the glass as nurses scurry between the isles, stopping every now and then to check and fuss.
She feels a hand on her shoulder and turns.
He has flowers – tulips.
"They're not for you," he says, turning to watch the show behind the glass, "they're for Liz."
She nods slowly.
A new father has come to meet his son. The man is tall, burly: a bouncer perhaps? A fireman, a cop, a soldier?
He cries as the nurse arranges the child in his arms.
"You want one of those," House whispers accusingly.
And it hits her.
She comprehends his reason for not wanting to accompany her to Liz's delivery.
And she agrees with him, wholeheartedly.
This is not healthy.
"Let's go," she says.
He nods, and slips an arm through hers.