A/N: This is my first House fic ever, so...yeah. Any crappiness, please attribute it to the virginal fic-writing-ness for this fandom.Crazy amounts of thanks go to Leslie for betaing, and...yeah...pushing me to watch the damn show in the first place.And House doesn't belong to me. Other than that, enjoy.
The dark permeates into his living room, a dim light in the neighboring room, applying the slightest bit of light. Constantly surrounded by silence and darkness, he can feel the waves of pain working through his soul. It's more than physical pain. An ascension from one stage to another. But he takes the Vicodin anyway. It's a placebo for his emotional status if nothing else.
He sits, a glass of scotch placed above the instrument. Nimble fingers find the keys, sliding over the smoothness. He wonders if her skin would feel this smooth. His mind suddenly fills with images that protrude from the haze of pain, of her and him, a tangled mass of limbs. He clenches his jaw, knowing the unattainability of the image. It was his doing. He pushed her away.
He applies gentle pressure, and the notes begin to flow from his fingers. He wonders if it'd be the same flowing music if he applied the pressure against her, wanton and aroused. His fingers gain the slightest bit of velocity and sweat as the image conjures in his mind. The notes jar the silence of the room, but he doesn't notice it. He pauses a second, and the music stops. The palms of his hands slam against the keys forcefully, and the noise disturbs him. He takes a sip of the scotch.
He clenches his jaw again, and he can see the vivid image of them again. It's a memory not yet fulfilled, he can see them writhing, moaning, moving as a whole, and he shakes his head to clear it. The scotch isn't doing anything, it's adding to this flux of anxiety. His pulse is rising, beating erratically. He wonders if this would be the same reaction she'd illicit. He wondered how she'd feel beneath him. He downs the last of the scotch.
His fingers tentatively press against the keys again, the slow, painful melody evoking things he doesn't want to relive. She's beautiful, but in the way that colored glass shards glimmer against the light. It's her fragility, vulnerability. She's almost like something out of Shakespeare. But the heroines in tragedies aren't supposed to love again. They waste away, or die in poetic, symbolic ways that he could never comprehend. But he was never the sacrificial type.
He remembers when she threatened to leave. The melody changes pitch, shifting to a lower octave, deeper tones with a darker meaning. He corrects himself. She didn't threaten. She suggested. He had glanced at her then, tried to stare past all the physical layers to see whether she was being honest. He knew they hated it, but he did it for himself. She had stared him back, challenged him, and he knew. He never really accepted it.
He knows he doesn't love her. His walls were built too high and too secure for anything to penetrate it without his knowledge. He's never been one to take betrayal without a millennium of bitterness, and Stacy is no exception. He knows he could love her if he tried. There are too many good reasons to avoid loving her, and there are too few to pursue it. And he's tired of searching. He needs a guarantee before he searches futilely again. But life doesn't give guarantees. And neither does he.
His thoughts are given a reprieve as he finally allows himself to listen to the music. It could be a symphony, if he tried. In the depths of his mind, he can vaguely pick up the striking tones of the cello, the dramatic tones of the violin, the soothing harmony of the horns. He supposes that's the story of his life. He's miserable, but he could be happy. But happiness is overrated. And everybody lies. The music is tuned out again. Somehow, his mantras are failing him.
He thinks of their failed attempt at a date, his harsh refusal of her affections, but despite the disastrous night, it is the gesture he tried to make that sticks in his mind. The flower, hastily thrown in the refrigerator. If he left it there, how long would it have been before it started to wilt and die? He regards it as a symbol of her. Beautiful. Untouchable. Yet, how long can the fragile object stand in the midst of something stronger? And how will it begin to die? He wonders what could have happened. He always had a weakness for reveling in the past.
He wonders about the details. How she looks when she just wakes up, how soft her skin is, the feeling of her lips against his, whether she sings in the shower…it's the details that manage to steal him away from reality. He stops playing, and rises, deciding to leave the scotch glass on the piano. He shuts off the light, and retreats into the darkness of his bedroom. He takes a Vicodin and falls on the bed, deciding to give in to weakness of pain and fatigue. He breathes the dark, embracing it. But he can't stop himself from wondering how the darkness would feel if she was there with her lightness and softness. His eyelids flutter closed, and he shrugs the world off his shoulders, determined to forget about himself, if only for a few hours.
Will you pleeeeease click teh shiny button for the author? Hm? She appreciates it. I assure you.