Disclaimer- I'm growing a beard here waiting for the day they become mine, until then, I say once more, they don't belong to me
Hendersons Bar 10.18pm
House sat as close to her as he dared. Which wasn't very close at all. Mindful of the fact that she had plainly enjoyed more than 'one for the road' (unless the road in question was the Pan-American Highway), now wouldn't be the right time. To move in closer, to touch her. Wanted to though. Just to feel the warmth of human skin, her skin. But it wouldn't be right. Her sensibilities were compromised, sensory faculties impaired. Basing his judgement on empirical evidence, he concluded that the copious amount of alcohol she'd ingested was the real reason her pupils were dilated, cheeks flushed and breathing seemingly shallow. Nothing to do with her attraction to him. Nope, definitely not. So why then did his symptoms mirror hers so perfectly? A large bourbon hardly constituted intoxication, especially by his standards. He knew it would take at least four or five doubles for him to really feel the effects, to allow him to free his inner House.
She was smiling at him, dreamily, and if he wasn't mistaken, a little too knowingly. As though she could read his unspoken thoughts, see right through his specially reinforced woman-proof armour plating. Even through the heady mist multiple, over-priced cocktails had cast upon her. She merely toyed with the coffee he had placed before her, despite his persistence in asking her to drink it. An act of defiance, he wondered. Or perhaps she felt that sobering up would make her feel as awkward as he now felt. Would mean that anything she said or did couldn't be attributed at a later date to her being under the influence. She's smart, he thought as he ordered another two doubles, both for himself, and a white wine spritzer for her. No way he was ordering anything that was electric blue in colour, adorned garishly with paper parasols and bearing the name of a suggestive sexual practice. Hell, if she didn't intend to slow down with the drinking, he may as well join her in her state of rosy numbness.
Thirty minutes passed. House was decidedly more relaxed. Not quite there yet, but heading in the right direction. The edges were a little more blurred, he had closed the physical divide between them marginally and no longer felt self-conscious as a result of her unblinking stare. Neither one had said much, predominantly due to her inability to string a coherent sentence together and his fear of saying the wrong thing. No longer certain of what was right or wrong. But as he ordered yet another large one, his tongue began to loosen slightly. His body language suggested he was starting to let go, to unclench. He began to feel a warmth wash over him, not dissimilar to the sensation he got from taking too many pills in too short a time frame. But without the bitter aftertaste.
A warmth that fleetingly made him consider the prospect of telling her that she had slipped through the net, gotten past his defences. That teasingly threatened to mention she looked radiant in her drunken state, even with her smudged mascara and smeared lipstick. Perhaps more so because of it. She seemed more womanly, her aura of a vestal virgin now but a distant memory as she emitted a deep, throaty laugh at his scathing comments about Chase's idiocy and impression of Foreman's spinning eyeballs.
A warmth so pervasive, he found himself struggling to keep his emotions in check as she brushed against him on rising from her seat. As she rested her hands on his shoulders whilst standing behind him, pressing her form against him slightly whilst breathily issuing instructions to get the drinks in before she returned from the bathroom. Which he gladly did, relieved that the stirrings he felt, in a region just south of the brain and considerably north of his loins, meant that his heart and soul had not been completely annihilated as a result of earlier betrayals suffered. Merely suppressed, deprived of vital oxygen for the last six years. Buried deep beneath various layers of hurt, regret, bitterness, fear and scorn. Now tentatively reawakened by a mixture of Cameron's deep-seated, unwavering belief in him and a profusion of strong liquor.
Her imminent return from the bathroom filled him with a tingling sense of anticipation and longing, coupled with a gritty realisation that no matter how much older and wiser you got, there was never an easy way to break the ice when it came to laying bare your feelings. Putting your cards on the table. Glancing at his watch he swiftly downed his drink, his courage boosted by the amber liquid burning at his throat. Tried to clear a space in his woolly head, a corner of his addled mind where he could map out how the next part was supposed to go. Clearly unfit to drive, calling a cab was a practicality that had to be observed. But where to? His place? Hers? Neither? Another bar with a later license? What would her take be on it all, what would she want to do? Should he wait for her to suggest the next move? Or should he finally take the lead, call time on this emotionally-fraught pas-de-deux?
She returned, brushing by him again. Unsettled by how the briefest contact of her knee against his as she unceremoniously clambered into her seat, could make him feel that overwhelming rush. How the simple act of spending an eternity rooting through her purse for some unknown article, ultimately unfound, endeared her to him even more. Relishing the moment she became girlishly embarrassed when a fluffy pink key fob tumbled out onto the table and he poked fun at her for owning something so ridiculous that it should rightfully belong to Chase.
'I'll call a cab', he ventured, knowing that a simple statement such as that could not be misconstrued. 'Where shall I say we're headed to?' Placing the onus on her to call the next shot.
'I think I hear my bed calling', she said. With that ambiguous remark ringing in his ears, he made his way to the nearest payphone, wishing he'd had time to consume another drink.