The case had been solved. It was so insignificant that he forgets all the details already. Sitting at his desk, feet propped up, gameboy in his hand, he spends his time unwillingly. Boredom is not the correct state of mind he is in; it is more like something in between carelessness and a quaint sort of longing to be with another human being. His brain doesn't allow for as generalised versions of it as lonely; admitting it is beyond his powers. He merely sits there, waiting for the minutes to roll by, slowly ticking away on the clock hanging above him.
He has a bottle of Scotch in his desk right now. He is severely tempted to pull the drawer and snatch the bottle. Relieving himself of the heavy pain and craving for her has made him ingenuous; a Vicodin or two in the morning, then two glasses of Scotch, washed down by some strong neutraliser, so that no one will notice. He is sure no one will; when he drinks, he hardly ever changes in posture or mental condition. He is as snappy and sarcastic as always. What he ignores is that the level of his sarcasm has risen to being almost unbearable for those working with him.
From the corner of his eye he sees her enter the conference room. Through the glass walls of his office her form is jagged and broken, a slowly moving shape, lingering at the table, then walking over to the coffee machine. His eyes follow her like a hunter, instantly smelling the perfect scent of strong coffee only she is able to concoct at any time of the day. He craves her coffee, but has no bravery left inside him to walk in and ask it from her. It is like his powers have grown over everyone else, but when it comes to her, nothing left of them. He hardly every dares address her directly anymore, and she doesn't help him in the least. He is fully aware that she hates him bitterly, and after weeks and weeks of guessing and trying, he has given up searching to find out what he did wrong. He is suspended half-way between hopelessness and anger, and he can shift either way, depending on circumstance or the person nearest him.
She stands at the coffee maker, her back towards his office. Her hand is on his cup, her fingers grabbing it for dear life, her knuckles white in the endeavour to keep herself from walking over to him and handing him the cup. She knows he is watching her, and her back is burning under his stare, despite the glass wall and her clothes. She is sure she would feel his eyes glaring from a mile's distance. Silence wraps everything up as she stands there, destitute, sick of the unsaid words and unasked questions that are welling up in her. She hopes he is just as sick of it all. That's her one consolation, hoping that he is miserable too. Yet, stolen glances at him when he is not watching tell her that he is doing just fine. He probably found someone else to fuck. The last thing he needs is an overly sensitive person to remind him of how rough he is. She winces at the thought that he might have been right, that she doesn't love him after all. But coffee wakes her up, so she takes a sip from his cup, holding it with both hands, enjoying the warmth of it radiate through her hands and wrists into her arms, crawling up to her heart. She needs warmth, and the past few weeks have made her so cold she is almost constantly shivering.
-Do me a favour. Give me back my cup.
She turns around. These are the first words spoken to her directly ever since that hateful evening. He is standing in the doorway, leaning on his cane, looking dishevelled and a little unstable. She tries to respond before she grows too familiar with his sight. Because then she would act like before, and she can't have that now.
-You haven't used it for weeks. I thought you didn't like it any more.
He glares at her, his eyes gigantic pools of blue steel, ready to boil over and scorch her dead. She keeps her head up, her palms still covering the cup, a sense of victory starting to form in her rejocing veins, properly warmed by now.
-And the mail in my box has become unmanageable. I will have to file in a complaint if you don't do your job properly.
She raises an eyebrow, wondering if she should feel annoyed or blissful. His voice is neither sarcastic, nor as demanding as it used to be. In fact, she is dumbfounded at his new behaviour. Can it be he is truly angry at her?
-Just what is my job, if I may ask?
She has placed the cup down, and takes a step further. He is taken aback by her approach, but he stays rooted. The mere fact that they are interacting makes him ridiculously happy, and he knows how pathetic he is according to his own standards, but he just doesn't give a damn.
-You work for me. You do as I please –he growls, and she feels a sudden twinge of mad desire in her belly. Her eyelids flutter and her lips part without her knowledge. He sees her breathing become faster, and instantly, a wave of warmth trickles through him from head to toe.
She sees him slightly move in the doorway, and she knows, with a hundred percent certitude, just what he is thinking about. He is the personification of desire, and she has to gather all her strength to keep herself put. She cannot, just cannot succumb to her body's wishes, let alone his, each time she recalls him making love to her. A relationship based on physical need is not a lasting one, she knows. The last thing she wants is wild, gratuitous sex every week or so that might gratify his want, but not hers.
-No –she says, stepping closer. And closer. She is standing right under his glaring eyes, she smells his scent, his warmth, and something faintly sour. She stops analizing, she has to, or she will be lost again.
-I am not a hooker, House. I cannot let you fuck me every time you want. –She winces at the word, her stomach turns, but she continues. –I have feelings for you that would live on if you were impotent.
She touches his arms, she slides his hands up to his shoulders, to his face. She takes his head in her hands, she holds him delicately. Her eyes are so full of her liquid pain that they look twice as large, and despite himself, he feels tears well up in his eyes too.
-I love you, Gregory House –she whispers, before she tenderly kisses him. Her lips are soft and soothing; he feels closer than ever to opening up to her and discarding the familiar prickliness, and it scares the hell out of him- so he drops his cane and pulls her to him. His tongue is aggressively claiming her mouth, and she just doesn't enjoy the kiss anymore. She also feels his erection pushing between her legs, and she suddenly feels sick. She can't breathe as his mouth covers her lips and his tongue roams in search for hers. She is struggling to push him away, but he is worlds stronger and his arms are holding her tight. One hand has shifted to her bottom, and she feels his fingers over her buttocks, his index sliding deftly between them. The bulging at her front is so large that is hurts her, and she just needs to get out of it all before she loses control to him, again, so she takes his lower lip between her teeth and bites on it.
He lets out a painful moan and stares at her unbelievingly.
-You bastard –she says, her tears smeared across her face from his wild kiss. –You just can't deal with me, can you? A good fuck once in a while is acceptable. But commitment, knowing that I actually care, would kill you. Or so you think… you pathetic lonely son of a bitch.
She hisses the last words, as new tears form in the corner of her eye. She pushes him away and steps back. He sees her pain, he sees her disgust, and he is choking under the weight of what he doesn't want to utter, but feels he has to, or he will lose her forever.
-I can't… I… -he stutters, and leans against the doorway to regain his balance. –I need time.
-Time to think when it's best for you, right? –she asks, her eyebrows lifting, her lips turning downwards. –I'm sorry, House. I can't do this.
She turns to leave the room, when his voice floats towards her from somewhere very far.
-Cameron.
She doesn't even stop, as she spurts out the words.
-Go to hell.
And she is gone. He doesn't need to look after her, he knows she is gone from the temperature of the room that has dropped considerably. He feels it in his hands, groping for something to hold on to. He feels it in his leg, suddenly yelling with pain.
Most of all, he feels it inside, the silent emptiness weighing down on him like an endless curtain of leaden ice.
He drops down to a chair.
He stares ahead.
He hears that music again, faint, hardly audible.
And he knows.