TRACES OF HER PRESENCE
INTRODUCTION: Post-canon, AU, in the vein of my other stories (namely, House and Dominika stay together and Wilson survives). Dominika has an errand to attend to, keeping her away from home for a night. House, alone, reflects. Brief appearance by Wilson towards the end. I wish you a pleasant reading. Feel free to leave a review, whether positive or negative.
Gregory House opened the door, limping into his dark apartment. It felt strange, weird, to be greeted by silence and absence of light. He'd lived like that for the greatest part of the last fifteen years, yet as of late this had changed. He exhaled, shutting the door, reminding himself that it was only temporary, she would be back home tomorrow. Nonetheless, this didn't help ease the depression-like feeling governing him. Normally, upon hearing the familiar sound of keys at the door, she would rush to greet him, giving him a hug and whispering, "I've missed you", before asking him about his day in the hospital. She'd insist he takes his shoes off, an aspect of the culture she was brought up within that she'd retained, then handing him a pair of slippers she'd bought him. He would say something in a jesting manner, having once remarked, "It's not Kiev here, you know", which resulted in a chuckle and a response, "Correct form is Kyiv", leading him to just exhale and oblige her. Growing bolder, she'd even requested from Wilson to take his own shoes off, basically all the times he'd dropped by for a visit. Wilson being Wilson, he had granted her request immediately and remarked, "It's really more comfortable this way". House glanced at the slippers she'd left on the familiar spot. He fleetingly thought of removing his shoes, but just left them on. He sighed, his mind replaying one of the first times she'd requested he takes his shoes off. He'd grimaced, but she insisted his feet would be better if they were not being constantly constricted, leaning on him and playfully adding, "I know many things about proper care of feet, trust me", and he'd complied with her wishes. Tonight, however, it had no meaning, given her absence. He sighed again, hobbling all the way to the couch.
The couch... Every evening, after dinner, they'd sit there, watching films and engaging in conversation. After she was done with the dishes, he'd pat the space next to him and invite her to take a seat. He missed her abilities in maintaining a conversation. All this time they were really together, she'd impressed him more than once with her intellectual prowess. House had always considered it difficult to find people with whom he'd really enjoy discussing, exchanging perspectives and viewpoints, in a great variety of topics, to boot. Even when his views and Dominika's differed, she'd always hold on her own edge and build a strong case for her argument. On the evenings they weren't in the mood for serious conversation, they enjoyed sharing stories and relating incidents from their lives. He'd even told her about being briefly a male cheerleader, which she thought was a lie, but then he showed her the photograph, quipping, "Everybody lies, but between us it's different". In return, she'd told him about a funny prank she'd pulled on a classmate who had poked fun at her. As odd as it might seem, he'd grown particularly fond of learning more about her childhood, the people she associated with and her life before their first meeting in general. He couldn't suppress a little laugh, reminiscing on how little interest he'd first shown when he had to memorize those details about her family. Yet, were anybody to ask him now, naming her siblings would be as easy as saying that one plus one equals two. And it was not only their names, but many things regarding them that he could recall with no effort. Absently, the diagnostician patted the space next to him on the couch, as if she were there.
Feeling a pang of hunger, he took hold of his phone and called for a delivery. In the past, he'd often relied on deliveries, but now it didn't look normal. Truth be told, he'd got used to eating homemade food. Every day, she would surprise him with a new dish, demonstrating her expertise and skill in this domain. "Part of my House-wife duties", she liked to quip every time he complimented her culinary skills, the pun never failing to make her smile. He recalled now how, some days earlier, he'd told her about the time he went on a cooking spree and how he "saved Wilson's balls" in the cooking class. She'd giggled like crazy because of that phrase. A couple of times they'd prepared something together, focusing more on each other and exchanging quips and light jests rather than concentrating exclusively on cooking. However, it wasn't just the taste and quality of the food he missed most sorely. What was more significant was her company, the looks she gave him when they supped, her occasional reminder that he should eat more slowly, because this makes it all the more enjoyable. Frequently, she'd leave large portions of her food uneaten when he'd finished and he would chide her to eat more, accompanying his suggestion with remarks like, "A canary eats more than you do". She'd respond she needs to take care, lest she puts on weight, making him retort that, if she kept with this habit, he'd mistake her for a toothpick. Lost in his reflections, he almost failed to notice the delivery guy knocking on his door.
Having to rise abruptly from the couch and walk the distance to the door made his leg hurt much. He instinctively rubbed the sore thigh, trying to ease the tensed muscle. Each time he was in so much pain, Dominika would offer to help him, adjusting her position and rubbing his thigh with those deft hands. She'd alternate among various techniques, employing the whole range of techniques familiar to her from her career as an aesthetician/therapist. Often, she accompanied her rubbing with whistling or humming one song or another, trying to distract him from the pain overwhelming him. It usually resulted in the muscle relaxing a little and the pain levels somewhat dropping. He remembered the first time he'd shown her his aching thigh. Although she was obviously horrified at how the morons had mangled his limb, she didn't recoil, neither did she say anything, except an occasional admonition for him to relax and a reassurance everything was gonna be alright. He mused that, in the course of all those months, only after she'd started taking care of his leg, he somehow restricted his use of Vicodin. He still took many pills on a daily basis, especially when in his workplace, but fewer than before their marriage acquired substance. Turns out she's my new medication, as well, he told himself, as he kept rubbing his aching limb.
Given that the pain level refused to get lower, he decided to dull it with some alcohol. His wife was never a fan of drinking, he reflected, save for an occasional treat of nalyvka. She'd made some for him, as per his own request, which he found absolutely enjoyable. When he expressed his approval, commenting on the fine taste, she compared his reaction to that of her father, the teetotaler and then remarked on how her uncle Mykola had taught her to prepare the drink, clandestinely. Since then, he'd tried to make her join him for a glass, sometimes succeeding, but most of the time she'd just say that it's more healthy not to succumb to temptation. Once, he'd responded, "Isn't this too much of a religious nonsense concept?". "Being hijacked by religion doesn't make it invalid", had been her first reply, but immediately afterwards she'd whispered into his ear, "There's one temptation I always succumb to. That's you", before lightly kissing him on the cheek. He drained his glass in one swift gulp.
Tilting his head backwards, he cast a look at the direction where the stereo was to be found. The device she used to play the songs serving as musical accompaniments to her dance routine. She always treated her body like a temple, keeping a strict discipline in avoiding smoking and alcoholic drinks, while maintaining her steady exercise program. Exercise, or, rather, dancercise. When he'd first found her doing her dance aerobics, back then when her green card hadn't been approved of, he'd looked at her bewildered as she started swaying and jumping up and down. "Fun, and good for the butt", that was how she'd described her activity. Since then, it had been countless times that he'd watched her indulge that hobby of hers. It soon became obvious that she not only didn't feel in any way repulsed by his attention, on the contrary, she seemed to be genuinely complimented. She'd add something to her movements, giving her swaying a more sensual spice, effectively tantalizing him with her charms. Even before they became a couple in deed, he couldn't help but admit to himself he was hooked on watching her, but, on the same time, it wasn't only the carnal satisfaction he had in mind when thinking of her. Although unable to phrase it properly, he knew there was something deeper binding them, like a dainty cord made out of the purest silk. The first day after they had made love, he'd suggested he rehearses some tune in his electric guitar for her to dance to. She liked the idea, giving her enthusiastic approval. "Enjoy the show", she'd whispered with a wink just as he was grabbing his instrument. From that moment, they would repeat the activity every now and then, to their mutual satisfaction. Fleetingly, House thought of playing "Every Heartbeat", her favourite song, on the stereo, but ultimately let himself be deterred from it.
He let his gaze get fixed on the portrait of Shevchenko she'd brought with her when she moved in. He'd made a jest when he first saw the portrait, which she'd ignored, proceeding to put it on proper display. Supposedly, this was just part of the scheme to fool the immigration officials, but now it was plain to see that each of the items she'd strategically placed throughout the apartment had a meaning, symbolized something for her. House was aware, in principle, of the migrant's need to consciously display their roots, but didn't have a firsthand experience of that before he met Dominika. Her accent, in unison with her pride in her origins, made him coin his special term for her, "Old ball and Ukraine". Everybody else would find it stupid or tasteless, he mused, but she had just laughed, maybe she'd even welcomed being called by a moniker as an indication of intimacy and closeness with him. She never called him by any nickname, but was one of the very few people he allowed to call him by his first name. He usually didn't like to be addressed in an informal or casual tone, preferring to have others refer to him by his surname. As a matter of fact, it was only his mother and, very rarely, Wilson, who called him Greg. Yet, with Dominika, it was again different. The way she called his name had something unique, something that made him feel appreciated and secure, something that made him feel like he could be himself and not have to conform to any standards.
The light was illuminating the room perfectly, yet it still seemed dark and cold. Suddenly, the place he'd occupied for all those years seemed inhospitable, due to her absence. Amazing, he thought, how different his entire world felt once she'd entered his life. He wanted nothing more than to feel her next to him, to feel her snuggling up to him, placing her head on his shoulder. Nothing more than to run his fingers through her silky brown hair and give her a light kiss on the top of her head. It's just incredible, he mused, how passionate they still were for each other, after all those months they were together. Every night felt like their first night, when they surrendered to their thirst for each other, oblivious to anything else, as if the world consisted only of the two of them and their need to be together.
House reached for his phone again and dialled Wilson's number. "Wilson, what are you doin' tonight?", he asked. "Just chilling out at home, why?", his friend replied. "You up for a boys' night?", House enquired. "Last time I heard that, I had to do much more babysitting than I wanted to", the oncologist responded. "Nah, this time it's for real", he promised, and Wilson answered he was coming.
It was shortly before noon when Dominika returned home. She opened the door and looked around, searching for her husband. "Greg?", she called him, but she received no answer. Momentarily, she felt anxious, but on the very next moment there was no mystery. Her husband was lying asleep on the couch, with Doctor Wilson having passed out on the floor. Empty bottles were occupying considerable space on the coffee table. Wilson was opening his eyes, looking confused. Dominika strode over next to him and softly asked, "What happened here, Dr. Wilson?". "Oh, G-Good morning", Wilson managed to say. "Last night, your husband called me and invited me over for a boys'night. We had a lot of drinks and... Uh!", he explained, rubbing his temples, obviously having a hangover, before adding, "Look, I remembered to take my shoes off. Oh, God, what's the time?". "It's just before noon", Dominika answered. "Gotta fix you both some coffee, you wake him up", she suggested, pointing towards House, still asleep. "Yes, yes", the oncologist muttered, subsequently prodding his friend's shoulder. "House, House, wake up!", he said a little too loud. "What the...?", House uttered, opening his eyes, adding, "Oh, crap". "It's almost noon", Wilson informed him. "Your wife just returned. She's making us both some coffee", he further clarified. The diagnostician stood up and, taking hold of his cane, limped towards the kitchen, while Wilson was checking his phone, for any messages or calls from the hospital. House sneaked up behind his wife and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, briefly startling her. "I missed you", he whispered, adding, "A lot". "Me too", she responded, handing him his cup. "Here, your coffee", she said, before pouring another cup, "And that for Dr. Wilson". Taking a sip of the liquid, House looked at her directly in the eyes, declaring, "I'm very lucky to have you here", as the mid-day sun illuminated the room.