A/N: I forgot to mention that this is happening after Nothing changes.
Okay, so I'm a sucker for the whole craving business- I think the show is based on making us suffer, not getting the two of them together, only hinting at possibilities. Let's face it: life works like that too- a dream is only a dream until it comes true… Then, it turns into something else.
So, I am intent on making anyone who reads this, suffer. (I hope it won't be because of the badness of the writing LOL.) Reviews are welcome, and thanks for reading!
Cuddy's voice rings in his ears and he sees her in front of him, slender, firm in attitude as always, relentless about paperwork and his neglected duties. After one or two remarks on her cleavage she finally leaves him alone. But just as he starts reveling in the solitude, Wilson bursts in.
-I don't care who's dying, I don't care what I didn't do, I don't care if you screwed someone and she left you –House says, not even looking up.
-I know you don't, but Cuddy is furious. She had to let go of a fairly large sum of money for your sake. That means nothing to you?
-So what? Money comes, money goes. I'll save some daddy's little girl next week and he will donate.
Wilson sits down facing him, arranging his medical gown. House snorts in contempt and swirls around in his chair to face the window. No sunlight comes in. It is his choice. But he likes the idea that he can change that whenever he wants to.
-What is it this time? Out of Vicodin? Out of booze? Someone was smarter than you? Or, Stacey? She's not even working here yet. If you're already suffering, we better find you a good mental course or a… mantra for how to ignore an ex-flame.
Stacey had not been on his mind for fifteen hours, a marvel in itself. His fingers trifle with his cane, a familiar action that never fails to switch off some of the stuff he doesn't like. She had been as transparent that day as a glass leaf about to fall from a winter tree. He had fooled himself that evening that he did not care if she left. Bollocks. He was pissed off for weeks, though of course, he let no one see. How dare she leave just like that? Imposing on him from the distance, forcing him to choose some ignorant imbecile for the team. His authority was badly damaged, and it seemed now that she was beyond caring.
-…House? House.
He is not trained in matters of the heart. He had lost it all when Stacey left him wallow in his despair with one leg. An occasional hooker to alleviate the pain in his groin was just about enough: no feelings, just the pure delight of him exploding inside a warm body. She, on the other hand, loves him. Apparently. For whatever reason. He is not stupid: he told her all that crap only to keep her away. Why hurt someone else, and himself, why go through the misery of uncertain emotions, and when they lead to something tangible, having to relinquish it all, again?
-How do you do it?
-Do what? –asks Wilson, startled.
-How do you take the same path, all over again, and again, and again?
-Meaning…?
He turns to face his friend.
-I will soon lose track of your divorces and ex-wives. How can you put your trust into somebody different, again and again?
-I'm a trusting person. Plus, an idiot –shrugs Wilson.
-I figured that much.
-Is this about Stacey? –asks Wilson, leaning forward. He gets no answer, only more twiddling with the cane. –You have to give her up, House. She is married, and happily so.
-That's that, then –House says, suddenly smartening up and looking at Wilson. He gets up and limps off into the hall, leaving an all puzzled Wilson behind.
She is there with a patient, telling her that her baby is about to die and they can't do anything about it. He only sees her velvety hair flow down on her clean white gown, but he knows her face by heart: compassionate eyes brimming with honest emotion, perfect little mouth slightly turning downward with sympathy, immaculate skin, her whole face shiny with her unmistakable saintly aura. The woman starts weeping and Cameron puts her hand on her arm. Then she leaves her sit in the hall and turns back, seeing him watch her. She is honestly sad and for a moment looks at him, then hangs her head down and walks past him.
Poring over some files is Allison Cameron, petite and fragile. He enters the office and she continues doing whatever she was doing. He goes to get his cup from the desk and has to slightly lean across her: his shirt brushes her hair and she winces for a microsecond. He watches her pressed lips. Not a quiver. Her breast is lifting with the gown, life seeping through her, not stopping, not giving up. He is obstinate enough not to admit that it pisses him off badly. He hobbles to the coffee machine and curses when nothing comes into his cup.
-I'm sorry, I didn't notice it was empty. Here, I'll make some.
She is there within a breath's time, gently ushering him away and with deft femininity prepares his coffee. Her scent is inebriating: soft, gentle, hardly a scent, no perfume except the shampoo in her hair, her skin beaming with warmth and safety. He lingers clumsily, hovering over his cane and her minute body. The craving to feel her clinging to him is slowly getting out of control, he can only think of him holding her, drinking her in, despite his reasonable self, when she turns to him and hands him his cup.
-Here.
Her heart races with inhuman speed feeling him so close to her. Does he wonder about me? What is he thinking of? Why don't I just ask? She knows she can't take it too much longer, but she had made a fool of herself already. She needs that small touch of dignity to manage working with him every day. Apparently he is composed and only watches her with that all too familiar, penetrating glance, eager to perceive all there is in the world. She knows he is curious by nature and dares not persuade herself there is anything else behind it.
She looks after him walking out of the office, her glance glued to his slightly stooped shoulders. He is vulnerable, yet she sees him as strong and incredibly masculine but could never admit this to him. He would sneer at her weakness for his arm and muscular thighs, his wrist and supple fingers. When they are not solving a case, she sometimes watches his every move: he is like a wounded panther, hindered in his movement, yet still preserving a lot of his nimbleness and flexibility. She sometimes imagines him without his cane, healthy and powerful. Just the idea of a whole House makes her breathing faster.
She bites her lip and returns to her work. She can't do more for now.