Silent Night
Bony fingers fumble with the snap button of a cuff on the bleached denim shirt, the one House was told compliments his eyes. The new lobby mirror, long enough to cover both sitting and standing reflections, reveals a man filling his clothes in pleasant apearance. If not for the snow white hair and wrinkles he'd almost look attractive dressed this sharp, and comforts himself with the fact that age takes less from men than women. Maybe that's why Stacy started creeping though the bases lately.
He shudders through a nervous sigh, irate at himself, at the way mere thought of intimacy makes him edgy like a teenage virgin girl. Two times in as many weeks the attempt failed miserably, and now, facing the third, he feels it a make or break experience, the one to break the thick ice of his fears or hammer the point home that he has forever lost yet another of life's little joys. 'Bitch' They called him, 'whore', that and a whole lot other decidedly un-masculine terms, and here he is, supposedly a free man, his mind proving them right.
Cujo stands abruptly from his corner cot, snapping him out of defeatist thoughts, than walks with calm to the door in announcement of a friendly visitor. No more than five seconds later, the doorbell buzzes. Time has come for an Oscar worthy performance in the best fake-it-till-you-make-it style.
Taking the crutches House makes a half step to the door before leaning one at the side table to open with a smirk plastered to his face, blue eyes genuinely glad to see the dark woman. "Hello, Stacy."
Scarf over exposed cleavage, she stands tiptoe to graze a kiss on his cheek, providing a rousing glance of sumptuous twins, gift box ignored. He is more than glad to find reflexes responding properly to secondary reproductive characteristics. So far so good.
"Merry Yule tide, House." She whispers mere inches from House, making him wonder if there was a hint of seductive to it or if it was just his imagination.
"Merry not-quite-Christmas." House returns just as low and deep-voiced, a little guilty of having to rush the celebration, not because of his unimportant skepticism but a coming storm front. He collects the other crutch and swings around the good foot, her path clear. "Come in."
The two step-hop to the sofa in stride, arms entwined as Stacy provides covert support, as much moral as it is physical. Subtle snapping and smoke welcomes them from the fireplace, amber warmth outlining furniture of the darkened room. Only when they are safely on the sofa, his hands free, do their eyes seek and find the shiny gift-wrapped box.
He forgoes attempts at hiding the clumsiness of his hands, made worse by nerves, and just tears the red and green paper to shreds. The gray cardboard box, small and rough, holds a small wooden plaque reading 'Gregory House, MD' in shiny metallic letters.
"Name plaque." He smirks pleased.
"Fitting hospital décor." She points out.
"Just what I need." He rubs her nose to nose.
Stacy shies away with a surprised, chucking "What was that?"
"Eskimo kiss." He explains innocently while fishing a greeting card from between mugs of creamy eggnog. "Your turn."
Stacy takes the offering of glossy blue paper sprinkled with random bursts of something vaguely silver and neither stellar nor flaky. As she opens it to read, a slip of metal drops to her quickly reacting hand, a key. The key.
Knowing that for house this is a hair's width short of marriage proposal, Stacy can only gape silently.
"You don't have to hire a decorator immediately." He quips at her tomboy taste in interior design.
Without warning she a pounces a full kiss only to have him pull away like stung, head hung. Sullied is how he feels, tainted where they touched him and in what manner, and vice versa.
"What is it?"
"Nothing." He swallows with effort a taste of runny, raw eggwhite down a paradoxically dry throat.
"House, what's wrong?"
"I... I can't." He looks away. "I just."
She pulls away confused, her lips tight. "Why not?"
"Please…" He sounds desperate to avoid the problem.
"What's the matter, it's just a kiss. We've kissed before."
"You've kissed me." He admits with a ghost of correction to his delivery. "You shouldn't - You don't know-"
"Know what? House…"
He leans back, clutching the plaque, sensing Cujo's muzzle desrcend right next to his foot.
Stacy leans into his side, arm embracing him round the waist, other hand on the near shoulder. "Tell me."
House sighs. "After the execution the prison didn't have funds to feed me." He begins innocently enough. "The guards… said I'd have to… earn my keep. After that…"
Her squeeze on the shoulder encourages.
"I wasn't just… used. Wasn't passive. Parts of me… you don't want to come near."
Her hand is soft on his jaw, guiding it up so they can make eye contact. The pity he sees on her face only makes things worse, but she's clever enough to notice his fret and turns to pragmatic, determined to prove exactly what she thinks of his condition and value. Her hands cup his face, bony to bony, lifting it up again only to have him perpetuate avoidance by closing eyes. She moves her fingers lightly from ear to chin in an arch over his cheek bones, polished nails grazing lips.
"Don't…" He groans without much protest.
"Shhh…" The sound comes from closer than assumed, dangerously close.
Full lips carefully capture dry ones, their touch so gentle and persistent in its non invasive attention it melts through his reserved self disdain, his mouth opening to it, returning the affectionate gesture. Running out of air they pull apart only slightly, two pairs of smoky eyes locked together.
"There isn't an inch of you I don't want right next to me." She whispers intently.
Inside of him, a wall starts to crumble. "Come here." He pulls her closer for a straddle, guides her hands round shoulders broadened by limping. Flat palms glide up her sides as he thumbs an imaginary tickle line between armpits and loins, sketching her form behind closed lids. Necking Eskimo style, his breath is a warm caress over exposed skin, in stark contrast to sharp stubble.
Arching in a content sigh she mindlessly reaches up for his nape. Fingers wander the jungle of his curly hair, becoming thick and meaty as they pull him closer, their grip forcefully tight.
He startles wide-eyed from the haunting flashback, a pant exploding to force it at arm's length. Not real. He tells himself repeatedly as breathing settles. To her he says just a short "Don't move." later on.
Stacy nods, hands back on his shoulders, her worry poorly hidden.
Stay here. Stay in the present. House insists, double-checking that his back and rear are tucked safely between sofa cushions, out of sight and reach respectively.
Eyes open.
With both hands he works though the buttons of her shirt one at a time. There's an odd kind of lost focus in his eyes, remarkably half glazed and crystal clear at the same time, as he studies her steadily revealing supple form with fingertips calloused from crutches, a counterpoint of skin. For the first time he takes it slow, retracing once well known paths, reveling in every sensation her presence supplies as he eats her up with eyes and hands.
Musicians hands strum guitar like curves, her every fiber atremble under his skilled touch. He coaxes from her a flattering melody of instinctive sounds which resonate with his own emotions. With confidence restored he feels a gradual swell of heat, blood slowly pooling down low, dizzy from success. He holds back uncertain, for now satisfied with knowing he can still please her. Only on her repeated and almost desperate asking does he allow her to release the hold o his forearms. Few seconds later a muscular front developed by daily drills is exposed to evening cool, and he pulls them together in a skintight embrace. He sighs blissful elation, quiver of excitement building to twitchy jerks under her steadily crescendoing sway, the intoxicating smell of her making him high. They breathe rough from the mad pace of their rhythmic dance, a melody made flesh. He feels her damp heat clutch, claw and clench all over him. Downpour of bliss floods mind and body, melting away every last trace of pain and leaving him comfortably exhausted, she slumped in his arms equally satisfied.
Fire gone out, the air is a chill against hot bodies, silence finding them serenely satisfied, and he welcomes it gladly, its tingle keeping him from slipping into a dream and missing out on the brief window of painlessness.
The moment is long but does not last, and when it's over he speaks up frankly. "Sleep with me."
Stacy sits up straight and frowns confusion at the suggestion.
"Just sleep."
Understanding, she smiles ruefully. "You trust me not to take your other leg?"
The quip has an unintended result of making him actually wonder, but very briefly. "I think I just did."
Stacy nods and cleans the mess with a kitchen cloth waiting on the coffee table next to forgotten treats. Their trek down the short hall is slow with tiredness but not yet hurt. Cujo silently follows after them at a safe distance and lies down behind the footboard, close by but out of sight, his understanding almost uncanny.
Lying under a mountain of covers in their birthday suits alone, the two spoon, House snuggling unusualy close to Stacy in his nightly need of body warmth and security from close company. Like a kid afraid to be left alone in the dark he holds her tight as one would a teddy bear, and hopes she will take it as standard male possessiveness. Or, if she sees through appearance deceptively similar to such common gesture all the way to his uncertainty, at least find it endearing.
As if in answer, Stacy entwines their fingers, wishing him "Sweet dreams" some time later.
His sole reply is a light snore.
