Guardian Angel
Languid stroke of hand over bare chest erases the blossoming cherry garden from his mind, anchoring him firmly to the reality in which he lies nude, helpless on his back and half covered by a more insulated body. Hard-wired memory of overwhelmingly negative experiences from last few years throws an alarm switch in his mind, rushing heart rate and labored breathing battling a deafening duel in prosthetic ears. Thin film of chilling sweat bathes a body tense with painful tremors. The other person lifts from him unexpectedly, giving a moment of opportunity to a message shot from deep within his subconscious, spoken in Milton's voice.
Fight back.
When the hand returns across the chest to pin him down at the opposite shoulder, his other arm lashes out with feral violence.
"GET OFF ME!!!" He shouts, heedless to the pain in striking palm. Fury is the new fuel behind his tension, hands fisted ready at his sides. "Touch me an' I'll kill you!!!"
Nostrils flare a bull's rage, hot breath puffed in and out. In his mind's eye he stands tall and proud on healthy runner's legs, shoulders squared. Growing younger, stronger and more whole by the second, he is quickly as powerful as in the peak of lacrosse days, fearlessly facing off an unseen enemy that cowers hidden in the thick darkness. Right now, the throbbing in his limbs is not pain but life.
Except it's only an endorphin high, trickling away till he's marooned on the twin reefs of exhaustion and ache. Only then does Wilson's voice reach him through light-sucking fog, pulling him back like a fish tangled up in a net. Reality crashes back, landing him in a tired, broken body laid on its back, vulnerably exposed to elements and aggression.
"Come on, House, wake up." The man half-demands, half-pleads, voice close by and at ear level.
The presence is comforting for about three seconds, until memory and senses provide a humiliating realization – that he is butt naked in the presence of both his friend and lover, and oh god, that must have been her he struck. He winces, wanting nothing more than to curl under a blanket and die of shame, except the covers got flung out of reach in the strugle. Getting them back would mean rolling over, which would display the beauty of scarred and morbidly scrawled back, than on top of that the show of him crawling on three limbs like some circus freak.
"Leave me alone." He squeezes out, eyes shut tight in childish denial of the situation.
Wilson rises with the squeal of shoes on floor and popping of aging kneecaps, sheet rustling at Greg's feet.
"Leave it." He whispers curtly. "Just go. Both of you. Leave me alone."
Two pairs of feet pat away, followed by a clack of shutting door. It takes him five whole minutes just to switch head and toes, untangle the flimsy sheet and wrap himself up in it, shivering from cold dampness. Traces of tepid wetness on cheeks join the one over his upper lip and forehead just in time for a gentle knocking.
"Go away."Voice broken from shouting and first tears mumbles softly into a linen wrapped arm.
Squeal of hinges goes against his wishes.
"I said go away." He repeats, more dejected than angry.
"I saw Wilson out." Stacy informs as she tiptoes barefoot across the wool rug. "Can I join you?"
He wants to say 'Yes' but fears it would sound pathetic. He wants to say 'No' except his voice would be a dead giveaway of his state and that would be pathetic too. He's torn between feeling abandoned and invaded and sort of wishes Cujo would just plop down over him like he was some lost skier, all two hundred pounds of bone-crushing furry warmth. But the dog apparently deferred to a human proven trustworthy and she has no more clue on what to do now than House.
Curled up in fetal pose with his sensitive front to the footboard, House feels the mattress give behind him, somewhere at the edge of his bed. The crater moves towards the center and closer, until it's just behind his back. Soft arm reaches over him, blanket folds slipping past him like some massive curtain before fluttering lightly across his chilled body and further back over hers. Under a shared cover Stacy sneaks one hand to his, fisted round a ball of linen, only to have him pull it under his armpit, refusing to relinquish the puny bit of cover.
Not discouraged, she scoots up closer, and he's vaguely aware of rougher cloth being pressed between them, a male shirt.
"Come here."
Her arm reaches around him, lining up with his in imitation of last night's cuddle. Other one slips under his curved neck to wrap round chest, pulling him over. One bare leg covers his, thigh to thigh, foot falling over his tangled calves, now sandwiched between her own. She plants a light kiss at his nape before resting her cheek over the spot. They're so close he can feel her heart beating on his spine, chest pressing up to broad back.
"Sorry." He mumbles.
"Forget it." Her words reverberate through his chest. "I was warned on time."
He is silent for a long while, torn between the bliss of ignorance and a need to know, or rather the want of having his hopes confirmed. Even so, he doesn't dare hope it might be love. The one time he used the word she had his thigh carved up. Now, he's in no condition for a rerun. And yet, despite fear of disappointment, he asks it.
"Why do you like me?"
At first she is so silent he considers scoring one for the self-deprecating side, but when she answers, it vindicates the nervous wait. "I never stopped."
"Even when- ? …you know."
"Oh I was frustrated at what I though you were doing and I grieved for what became of you. but I couldn't stop liking you. Not even when I was with Mark."
"Did you like him?"
"He was… plan B."
He wants so much to believe it, believe she really does like him, for whatever insane reason, but can't deny the worm of doubt undermining his mood. Before he can allow himself the luxury of that belief, he needs more proof. "I've changed." He pushes back still, sounding as if he accepted solitude but hoping that she'll brush the argument away effortlessly.
"And I haven't?" She meets his hopes and then snuggles up to him.
Reassured, he calms just enough to relax in her embrace. As soon as he lets go of doubt, the simple gesture of being held makes his head swim with intoxicating fog of contentment. It's remarkable how so small a thing communicates such a wellspring of blessings: of being wanted and accepted, supported, protected and cared for, encouraged and comforted… valued.
Even if he can't yet see what's so valuable about him, the knowledge that he is valued and therefore won't be harmed, enables him to find trust enough to show the most vulnerable of sides, his need of certain others. Slowly, nervously, he releases the death grip on drenched sheet in silent, tacit permission of its removal.
Not moving her hand much, she pries one corner of it from between his chest and arm, peeling fabric form goose bumped skin. Under the blanket's shade it's almost impossible to make out individual letters of the damning tattoo, but lashing marks are an obvious relief across his curved back.
Instead of suspected tracing of scars, her delicate finger outlines underlying anatomy with surgical precision, moving from the pit of nape over high deltoid, down the groove halving his triceps and back up to where arm meets torso. From there it follows the twisting seam of large dorsal muscle, all the way to the small of back, returning through the midline groove over undulating vertebra of an arched spine.
If there is a gesture more symbolic of seeing past the ugly surface to an inner worth, he can't think of it.
She follows the blade of scapula to the start of ribs her fingers easily slip between. When her lips begin filling outlined area with soft pecks, they do so blind to its glaring texture and pigmentation, moving seamlessly over patches of scarred, scrawled and spotless skin.
When she's done kissing, fingertips stroking lightly along the muscle fibers, Stacy rests her head between his shoulder blades. "Why haven't you removed it yet?" She asks in a kind of off-handed wondering aloud.
He sighs wearily, not wanting to talk about it. But he knows she'll press it, and even if he gets away this time, it's only a matter of time before it surfaces again. "It's a reminder."
"You want to be reminded of that?"
"It's not like I can forget. And believe me, I've tried."
"I know, but, don't you think it would be easier without it?"
"He still owns me." House sounds defeated.
"What?"
"Read it."
The blanket lifts just enough for sunlight to fall cool over his back. Her fingers brush a multitude of long horizontal strokes over him, and he reads the first clauses from memory until the touch stills at the suspected phrase.
"Good god…" She whispers. "It's a caretaking contract."
"My copy." He confirms.
"Thompson took responsibility for you? Because of the leg!?" Stumped, Stacy blabbers on. "… and control over all your things… and you gave up right to terminate it, no matter what he does."
House snorts a burst of half-hysterical laughter. "That's not the worst part."
"What do you mean?"
"Check the last clause." He urges against himself.
"The penance is to continue as long as the below signed is alive. In the event that the Client becomes for any reason unable to continue arranging the penance of the below signed, the responsibility passes to the Client's current legal representative…" Her voice fades to disbelief.
"Paper version wasn't in the manor." He explains. "He's got it."
"And you think-?"
"It's by the book, isn't it?" He asks, sort of, with all the time he spent thinking about it, he's got a pretty good guess at her answer. "I mean if you take the rules literately. There's nothing in there that would make it... I dunno... not be valid."
Her silence is reply enough.
He sighs. "Figures."
"Well if it were secret, that means no one affirmed it." She suggests an overriding flaw.
"There are two copies." He counters bitterly. "And he made sure I can't 'conveniently misplace' mine. Plus there were henchmen."
"…witnesses…" She follows, ever more depressed for him. "Full verbal."
She pulls over tighter still, as if trying to blend with him. "That's why you refused Wilson. You really couldn't have him as caretaker. Legally. At least not... And you gave the settlement away."
He nods. "You know now why it's so hard to go back to work?" House seeks understanding in a rather rhetorical question. "Its just, who am I kidding…" He huffs, fighting the fog in red-hot eyes. "It's a fuckin' house of cards." Fist slams soft mattress.
"House…" She pulls it back against his abdomen, kneading a soft, soothing massage. "It means nothing, it might as well be The Hobbit. In Klingon. Written with Mayan glyphs. Spirit of the law beats letter of the law. Every. Time."
"I know!" He yells, exasperated from frustration, his voice breaking.
"Then why?"
"I could erase it tomorrow, wouldn't mean a thing unless he's behind bars." Voice is barely audible scraping.
"Well…" She pops her chin on his triceps, curiously looking at the back side of his face."Thompson's business is leveled right?"
He frowns a frustrated lack of understanding, throwing a 'So?' look her way.
"So the way I see it, he's lost all connections." She says with a hint of I-know-something-you-don't to it. "He can't do anything to you through someone else. So as long as he's not in the states, you're safe. And if he ever comes back, he'll end up in jail. And if he's dumb enough to go after you, he'll run into Cujo. Or Clarence. Or both."
"Stacy…" House is suddenly insecure.
"Hmm?"
He sneaks his fingers between hers, injuries be damned, and grips tightly.
Stacy squeezes back carefully. "I love you too."
