A/N: Now this took a slightly different turn than the one I planned. Hoping it is at least kindof realistic, and without giving out any spoilers, I'll follow the path the story is showing me. PS: Thanks so much for the reviews, they do keep me going, and I am so glad you guys are reading this and liking it. Thanks a bunch! PPS: Apologies for grammar mistakes, not my native tongue, I do envy all of you who were born into this wonderful language…
CHAPTER 12
-Dammit Chase, you can't even deal with an MR now? Let me know when you three guys can figure it out. I'll be watching General hospital.
With that, House storms (yes, storms) into his office and slams the door. He is extremely edgy this morning, he knows it's his leg, it's the Vicodin shortage (having to wait one more hour until the next shipment arrives), it's the three impotent, helpless, imbecile doctors he has to put up with every single day of his life. And Cuddy, irate, looking like a witch, flaming eyes, and mouth spilling flames and snakes, pestering him about stupid rules and clinic duty. Wilson, well, he is absent. Had taken a week off to visit parents. Or whatever. He doesn't even remember where he went. Things people tell him are like sea waves, they reach him, then go back instantly, and the next wave is always different, there is no way he can remember things. He doesn't want to. Remembering is hurtful.
Three weeks, three fucking weeks and he has not been able to reach her. She is there, working, helping, but a completely different person. Sometimes he wonders if it was best he let her go, just, well, fire her, or tell her to disappear, for good. What he has to put up from her is, to put it bluntly and mildly, hell.
He slumps into his chair, switches on his TV set. He sees the movement on the screen, but has no idea what the hell is going on. From the corner of his eye he is following sounds and moves outside him, like a bat, catching all kinds of subtle noises, cramping his neck and straining his ears to grasp everything around him. It is the only way he can justify being there. By pretending that he's part of everything and everyone. This is where his curiosity has been leading to all his life, he knows it; he hates it, but it's an undeniable fact.
There she is, lithe as a gazelle, slim and petite, so fucking beautiful. And he had her. Oh god how he had her, all wet and juicy and moving under his muscles, moaning his name into his mouth GOD when he recalls those moments he is on fire and he can hardly control himself, he feels he will burst, explode, evaporate into thin air, dissolve and become what he has always dreaded: nothing. To be honest, he is nothing as it is. Old, bitter, a miserable bastard. Has no life, has no friends, has no family. Has no future.
He has tried everything. He has tried to talk to her. He tried to be nice. He asked her how she was doing. He even left a book on her desk. No flowers, not his thing, but a book, sensible, cultural, intellectual. And she likes books. She thanked him, took the book, but nothing else. She is not rude to him; even on his worst days she is polite and even kind, her words are soft and mellow, her glance quick to kindle and warm. But he knows something is different.
He bites his lip, his eyes following the stupid soap characters, but his senses following her every move. She passes him, his nostrils detect her smell, and he stops breathing, wanting to keep her inside his lungs, live on her scent, feed on it, then he has to exhale and let her out of his system. She is gone behind the glass door, and he sits there, wistful and alone.
God, he needs air. He hobbles to the window and opens it. He doesn't register what time of day it might be, and he doesn't care. Time spent at the hospital and at home doesn't really make any difference to him any more. At work at least he is busy for a few hours. At home, he has nothing else to do but swallow Chinese food and watch stupid shows and tolerate the occasional good-boy Wilson. He doesn't play his piano any more. Once in a while he ponders about these things and wonders if he is a lost case, whether he should go ask professional help. Then he feels relieved: the real loonies don't consider themselves sick. He is aware, very much so, that he is slipping away from life, but cannot grab onto anything.
Warm flower scent floats in from outside, as he stands, his eyes fixed on a blurry point in space across the road. Some song reaches his ears in ripples of melody, words half understood and half mocked by the afternoon wind. Then his vision clears and he sees her beside her car. She disappears within a few seconds, and the physical distance grows painfully, his leg starting to hurt like crazy, so he has to sit down, curse under his breath, and rub his thigh with both his hands.
After a while, it gets easier. All the dark thoughts retreat for a short time, and his mind is lucid enough for him to decide: he must go and talk to her. Force her to listen to him if he has to. Otherwise he will go insane.
……………………………
Outside her door he doesn't give himself time to think, or remember, or ruminate on things past and irretrievable. He knocks, waits. Knocks again. Then pounds on the door.
-You have to wake up my neighbours? –she asks, face calm as a morning pond.
-We have to talk –he replies, literally pushing her in.
She doesn't resist him. He walks in, sits down, she closes the door and sits down too. She looks resolute and strong. He has never felt so attracted to her.
-Look.
He searches her eyes, finds them. They are deep lakes of sorrow and pain and pride and longing. He knows he has one shot. One single shot. If he screws up, he loses her for good.
-I am really sorry… about what I did. I wish I could do it back. I hate to see what I did to you… I hate work like this… I hate myself most of all.
She sits there with lips pressed tight, never moving or turning away.
-Please say what you feel… let's talk it out… hit me… ruin me… punish me… do what you want, just please get it out of your system and move on, cos this is… this is killing me –he finishes, his voice rasping and trailing off.
-Why? –she asks, folding her arms.
-Why what?
-Why now? Why do you care now? You had me. You had me good. The whole night, I assume. You did what you wanted from me, you have been wanting this ever since you hired me. A good body, a good brain, a good fuck, you thought. Well, was I?
Her voice hits his senses like gigantic rocks that he cannot avoid. Her eyes pierce his skin, he feels sweaty and smoldering inside his clothes, he feels horrible, she is so beautiful and so right.
-Was I? –she repeats her question, standing up, walking towards him, stopping just one step from him. She looks down on him, and he holds her gaze, his hand wants to move to grab her, hold her, smother her, keep her to himself forever. His breathing is rapid and shallow, he feels the first bead of perspiration trickle down his forehead, and he can't breathe any more, he stands up, towers over her, so minute and fearless, like a miniature amazon. She is feline and perfect, and she is so close that he reaches out and touches her, and she doesn't pull away. His hands are pressed onto her arms, judging from her expression they must hurt, but he is beyond control, he is hurting in more than one way, and his head is spinning from all the things that want to get out.