Author's Note: Goshy, where to begin with this note? Ah, House isn't mine and neither is anything that is owned that happens to be mentioned in this fic. Um, yeah. It's interesting…weird…but w/e. I likey. (Probably too florid and overdone, but again, w/e). It's a little stream-of-conscience thingy that popped into my head when I was working on my new ficcy. Which is coming. Promise.

If dreams are like movies, the memories are films about ghosts.

--Counting Crows, Mrs. Potter's Lullaby

She runs every jagged cliché through his hair and wonders how high he must be. Her head kills her (as it always does for various reasons), but perhaps she can sponge the Vicodin remnants off his lips. Plundering tongues (Captain Hook), exploring hands (Francis Drake), and delusional thoughts (John Brown) crowd this space God meant for two. Inane historical figures…God, she loves history. Maybe that's why her husband dies even in her fantasies—the past is unchanging; she realizes she must accept the pain that thrives upon this parasitic relationship.

"Take my hand," he tells her in a thousand useless daydreams. But just not now.

She thinks of DNA and genes as they fall onto the bed. When he pulls her clothes off, she moves onto the law and muses.

She recollects spending a summer watching her father preside over trials. She thinks of how reasonable doubt and human sympathy allows guilty people roam free and how false charges and vendettas make innocent people fester in jail (Twelve people deciding fate…something so intrinsically wrong, yet so traditionally right). Law requires a detachment of emotions—her sister's field, not hers.

And her father's gavel pounds in her ears and thumps through her brain. Alice in Wonderland…"I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date!" What could ever be so important? This life provides entertainment but none that beckons her like it somehow entrances the rabbit. (Isn't the rabbit a symbol of something? She asks her pained mind. No response.)

She listens as he runs over the medical aspects of sex. Like Diana explaining her newest network shows, he must resort back to medicine. Ah, so he has a comfort zone…

So, she embraces the pain like it's an old high school friend. It let's her remember the past…he felt cancer…hurts more than an infarction. But it allows her to forget its name and address the next day. Spin, revolve, and spin.

She notices that he tolerates the pain like it's a relative who's worn out their welcome. And his nasty Rottweiler (aptly named Vicodin) chases them away when he can't stand it anymore. Scare, crumble, and scare.

Mantras permeate through her head: crime rates and EKG measurements. Potassium pills and xenophobic xylophones, forced alliterations, pain, pain, and…oh…pleasure.

;';

There are deep ruminations and reminisces on nothing as she lies next to him. She contemplates the pain and refuses to swallow Tylenol because she likes to feel the lump of irritated electrical impulses move up and down her brain—pulsating behind her eye. Why does it hurt? Can't you think it away? (Stop thinking.) Can't you wish it away? (What are wishes?) Can't you make it GO AWAY? (Stalwart threats that are empty and hollow…)

And she can never be like the man who sits next to her—he hates philosophizing about pain.

So, she uses her ESP(N) to tell him he's not alone (but he is. How can she be comforting?) Her pain magnifies, eases, and stretches. Her head hurts.

Maybe she thinks too much. God, can't she ever fall asleep without meaningless thoughts? She wants to cuddle (she fears rejection.) She wants warm safety (she knows cold insecurity.) Take this Sabbath day and the one with the bad haircut. Lines and lines, poetry and fiction…he's tantalizingly close and…

Close your eyes and let your mind drift.

And it's the pressure of fingertips (NOT her own) on her temples that make her wary…he speaks (leaning close)…his breath does not soother her hot ear.

"Care to introduce me to your imaginary friend? I'm not afraid of threesomes. Wilson, Stacy, and I…ah, the good ole days. Maybe you can coerce Chase—"

"Dr. House," she breathes and speaks in the word (she eats it in her tangible Alphabits…H-O-U-S-E made of wheat.)

"Meet my headache."

"Dr. Cameron," he smirks, "meet my infarction."

END