I have to admit this story popped out of me when I heard a song yesterday, one of my favourite songs, such a brilliant song, so loaded with feelings and possibilities, and that's when I thought of leaving off from there, since House is himself loaded with possibilities, there is so much that can happen, I simply can't let it all go to waste (giggle). For those of you who like the suffering stuff, I will give you enough of it to make you weak in the knees for weeks LOL. Thanks for reading!
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A week. Seven days since Stacey started work at the hospital. He finds it weird that he had not once felt any uncertainty around her. He had been so desperately wounded when he first heard the news of her returning to his life. What the hell messed his brain up so much?
He is sitting at his desk, tired, bored, unconcerned about mundane things. He had made a slight mistake, wrong meds dosage, Foreman had to correct him with a curious eye. House let it be, and just walked out of their sight. Sometimes exhaustion took over and old cares were like stale bread, better thrown away.
Evening falls and finds him alone, still at his desk, feet propped up, TV set showing nothing but static. She had not talked to him in days now. Even when he had provoked her about her hair not matching a doctor, she had only looked at him and then walked out. He is wondering if it is some game she is playing; if she is ignoring him to piss him off. House is a grown-up kid, he needs the reaction from the ones he played his pranks on. She had not given him any for a long enough time, and he is getting slightly irritated.
She looks at her pager and instantly puts the flask down. Calibrating can wait, he never calls for nothing. Night beckons her through the windows in the hall. She walks briskly, feeling her heart beat faster, but she still has time to look out and bond with the strange, imaginary beasts of her mind. Help me here, she pleads. Alone is what I am no good at any longer, and he is so stubborn.
He sits in the twilight, only an outline of muscle and endless willpower, flesh and weakness. Without the pen in his hand, without his eyes all clouded with cures for unknown illnesses and his professional mind at work, she senses he is at a loss. She knows he has not called her because of work; they have helped her, as they always do, black legions of butterflies inside her, making her instinct more powerful than that of an average woman. At night, always at night is when she is at her peak.
He sees her, unknown figure in the dark, slim and protective, which is funny, because he feels like an elephant next to her, the gazelle. Big and protruding and bumping into her delicacy, not able to fondle her and touch her gently. Being near her is getting more and more of a mental and emotional pain. He wants her, but not like he had wanted Stacey. Not just body and soul. He can't even explain to himself. He sits and watches her in silent pain and rapture, wishing he had the guts to say something. Anything.
-I'm here- she says. She stands in the door, light behind her giving her a thin silhouette of sheen, making it impossible for him to discern any of her face. Her voice is blurred and soft, a bit raucous, and he feels more aroused than he has been for a hell of a long time. If only he could stand up like a man, grab her and make her his own, make her dizzy, make her pant, make her grab him and not want to let go of him ever. If only he were the man he used to be.
But he is House. A cripple, a big mouth when it's about others, but scared to sickly death of his own shadow, his emotions, the possibility that he might deserve a life like everyone else.
The silence is broken by the painful sound of a child laughing in the street, or in a patient's room somewhere near. It crawls inside his room, claims the empty territory between him and her, shakes them both, fearful adults, leaves them struck by their dread. He remembers, he tries to remember- was he ever like that? How did he, how do we all lose the capacity to accept, to marvel at things, to embrace the world and allow it all to seep through us, without a fear, without a wish, just giving without any reason or thinking? He is ashamed for the whole of mankind of which he is part of and stoops his head.
She knows he is afraid. She knows she cannot take that step for him. He must be the one to do it, even if it kills him. She senses that he wants her terribly and it almost destroys her resolution to be strong. Just three steps, three little steps to reach his feet, four steps to his hands folded in his lap, with the cane under them. Five steps to his bowed head, and she could stroke his hair. She could lean over his wistful eyes, luminescent in the night, loaded with his lust for her. She could take his head between her hands, she could kiss him and claim him forever. He would not have the power to resist her this time.
When he looks up, she is not there any more. Instant pain takes possession of his inside, the feeling of loss, a whisper of could have been mingled with the shout of finiteness. His door is left ajar, and if he squints, he can still see her suave figure standing there, blocking the light.