Author's Note: And look! I got it out by Tuesday! Yippee! Okay, so anyway, for reviewing the last chapter, I would like to thank: FriendsHolic (no, she kind of forgot it, and, by the way, great review!), Scrubs (four months, and yes, it is in chronological order; I read somewhere that morning sickness ends around the fourth month; oh yes, and thanks for the A!), prinnie (I was thinking of you as I wrote that ending; this chapter is a little different), Chromo26 (Stacey may come a little later, and that was a great idea and review), Little Lunar Wolf (well, here it is… On Tuesday. I figured you guys would appreciate it), lemonjelly (Jade, you make me laugh, dear. I guess that calendar might not be all the accurate after I post this, and yes, there was a typo; you are very observant), lijep (oh yes, I was flattered. Hee hee, I was thinking of you as I simultaneously thought: Should I post this on Tuesday instead of Wednesday?), and MutantJediBauer (I cannot express my admiration for that review! My goodness, thank you!)
Disclaimer: You know, I'm going to put this: If I have a disclaimer, isn't it obvious that I don't own House? Why don't they just have us put the word "disclaimer"; I would get the point.
Spoilers: Probably not. But, if you find one, I'll give you a cookie.
Note: Well, I have four notes. One is that last part of the chapter, right after the part where I state the love each other, was pre-written. So, if it sounds a little different, that's why. The second is this is also not one of my favorite chapters; it's pretty good, but not great. And three, I have to write chapter nine, which many take a little time. Chances are I'll have it up by next Monday, if not sooner. And the last is: this is a long chapter, so enjoy! Thanks again guys!
Chapter Eight: Interruption
And it had been a month since that wonderful day. It had been four months since those glorious few hours where they each lowered themselves to an equal position and allowed themselves to be squared, and it had been only but a moment since last she had had another arousal.
And, reviving from it, she stood, feebly, in the middle of her bedroom, wondering, waiting, contemplating.
Had it been only four months ago since she had awoken to the sight of his face? Awoken to the smell of his cologne, awoken whilst lying in the gentle curve of his body? It felt like years, eras, eons. But, it had happened, and there was no reversing it now.
She strode forward, sauntering lightly over to the side of the bed on which he slept. Even in her subconscious state, she had felt his chest rising and falling.
Air filled and air escaped. Air filled and air escaped. It was a simple pattern that would not cease until death.
She felt the silken linen under her fingertips, the ever so slight indent from his body not present to the eye but to the touch.
But her eyes quickly darted upward, breaking their gentle gaze from the sheets. She had become obsessed, and she did not know why.
Sighing, she exited the house. He had a spell over her, a curse that hypnotized her and entranced her to a point where an unhealthy obsession had begun to form. And he held this power over her like a pendulum, letting it liberally swing by a single thread over her head, allowing her to devour her dignity to obtain it.
But she could not obtain it. He practiced his tactics, used them extensively only to learn how to use them to torture her. Every other horribly ghastly action he committed was purely practice.
And now she would help him practice something else. Or would it be him to help her practice? Either way, she needed to confront the matter that had been created four months ago.
Sweet penance for your actions will get you nowhere, and it will drag you under, letting your screams echo beneath the dirt like thunder.
She sat in her office, eyes closed, chair turned to see the picturesque view from the window, and hands clasping a cup of a tea that rested on her lap. Her muscles became more lax, lazily sinking into the green wave of material on the chair, allowing her to drift away into her own private fantasy in solitude.
That was, until, House thought it was appropriate to slink into her office, undeterred, and stand in the center of the room and wait for her to turn around. Not that it mattered if she did or not; he had already destroyed the privacy she had.
He stood, impatiently, before deciding to take action. Slowly, he limped over to her desk and made his way around it, positioning himself next to the emerald-colored chair. He bent down, his lips in close proximity to her ear, and, strangely enough, he found himself tempted to kiss her cheek, the gentle feel of her hair on his face causing pure ecstasy.
But, he decided the more responsible action was to awaken her.
"Boo."
She jumped slightly, spilling some of the tea onto her hand and the chair.
"Why you bast-…"
"How nice to see you too, Dr. Cuddy. Tell me: Do you always dream about Wilson in a Speedo at work, or was it Chase in leather low-riders?"
She retrieved a tissue from the box on her desk, wrapping her injured hand in it, and, she also managed to glare fiercely at him.
"So, it's okay if you shirk your duties, but when I do it you have to come barging in my office to reprimand me?"
"Actually, I came in here to invite you to something, but, it appears as though you don't want me here; I'll just go. Don't worry. I'll show myself out."
Sighing with defeat, she apathetically questioned:
"No, wait. What did you want to invite me to? If it's to ask me to a wet T-shirt contest, you've come to the wrong woman."
"Fortunately, no. Just meet me up on the roof at eight o' clock tonight. I want to show you something."
"And that something is…?"
"You'll see."
With that, he triumphantly walked out of the office, the matter that had occupied both of their minds earlier on the brink of being resolved.
And now you must wait, for the clock to strike eight, barred outside of his presence by an invisible gate.
She sat slouched against the edge of the roof, sighing as she looked up towards the sky. For some reason, she was surprised by his tardiness, even though the chances were he was only performing this cruel trick to strengthen the nefarious life-long conspiracy that he had planned out for her torture and her torture only.
How could love be so brutal to the heart?
But it wasn't love, she thought. No, it was merely a twisted game of pseudo emotions, like fool's gold. To the naked eye, it was as real as the air itself, but, upon closer inspection under the microscope, one could easily discern the distinction between the two.
And now they were under the microscope, staring back up at the lens as the lens looked down at them. And love was visible, but she would never admit it. She was lost in eternal denial. That was, until someone could rescue her.
And that someone was the man who was, with difficulty, making his way up the staircase to the roof.
He stumbled onto the roof, dust billowing about his legs as he staggered towards her.
"Sorry I'm late. Internet porn. Amber couldn't resist the cursor."
"Right. Well, if you have nothing more to say, I guess I should go to something productive."
She wondered how good it would feel to hold a cigarette in her hand right now, letting the white paper curl at the end as the smoke ate away at it. So, she stood, moving swiftly towards the door.
But, just as she reached for the handle, he grabbed her fragile wrist lightly, fingering the creamy skin.
"No, I do."
And, with that, he pulled her towards him, allowing their lips to crash together like overlapping waves on the shore.
Tongues entered and escaped, entered and escaped. Passion flooded their minds, conquering all thoughts of malice.
And then they released each other, allowing the reality simmering in the back of their minds to finally boil over.
They did love each other.
And, ritually so, he touched his body fully to hers; the feeling of her bone structure through his clothing created a shield, and, through it, he had lowered his defenses. Emotion moved about liberally, like a dancer claiming the stage, and, she positioned a hand on the side of his face, pricking her fingers. It was all too clichéd. The stars were held within the womb of the sky, but then they fell to the horizon, as if to kiss it. Qualms stalked into the darkness, silently moving about like a night prowler, and, softly, they began to sing with the wind. And he swam within the blue of her eyes. Her proximity to him was one that had never been dreamed, and, even though they were teetering on the edge of extremely intimacy once again, he could not leave his area of security. He pulled away ever so slightly and gazed at his shadow. Insecurity. His own being was still contacting her own, the shield no longer a sign of a merge, but rather, a symbol of weakness. Then he felt it.
A kick.
Slowly, he parted himself completely from her body.
Inside, a mask of happiness had spawned, and it looked for features of his to cover, but, it disappeared quickly as it had come. She had adorned her face with a morose expression, as if to speak solely with the language of her body and nothing more. Their love had become a silent movie, a secretive romance conceived beneath the onlookers of existence. And yet, in the minds of these invisible spectators, it was realized that this show of emotion was about more than an enamored man and woman. It was about a man trying to admit his feelings for a woman and his child and a woman trying to do the same.
And vulnerability. And insecurity. They were laced in between the lines.
So, now, it was only appropriate to contemplate on the subject of life.
Life was a like a day. Each one started with a sunset, a glowing radiance witnessed by those who cared enough to be witnesses to it.
But, life was also like an hourglass. From the moment of conception, the sands of time began to fall. If luck was present, birth would become a reality. A glimmering, stinging reality, but, a reality none the less. But if the blessing had gone astray, then the breakdown commenced. Infinitesimal atoms began to separate, one by one falling into the vacuum of death even before true life. But, this was true life, wasn't it? In the womb, life was teeming from every aspect, held from within, waiting to be released.
But, under the moon, it was not just life that was visible.
It was death and life. It was the death of a romantic moment and the life of a communication that used only the eyes to send a message.
To touch bone and blood and brain, no, it was not the same, as to touch a life that was within the walls of the skin.
He could easily fondle the components of life, for it was his job. But, he would never be able to hold or touch or feel the life that was held in her at this moment in time. And he would always be able to close the eyes of the dead, but he would never be able to open those of the living. Or maybe it was his eyes that would never be capable of opening upon the dawn of life.
Newly freed feelings meandered from his mind and contorted his lips into a slight frown, and yet, at the same time, a slight smile.
He was contradicting himself again.
There might have been oxygen in water, but, like his feelings, he would never be skilled enough to obtain and control it.
But, if he was not able to love this being within her, then why did her gaze gently and adoringly upon those images?
Those were mere pictures and nothing more. This was the real thing.
He could always rehearse the play, but when it came to time to perform the actual presentation, he would slink into the darkness, and not a word he would say, for that was how he was. He would help you build to the climax, and then he would leave and let you fall, watching with dancing eyes, watching it all.
And that's who he was. He would help build, create, model, but then he would silently leave. He had done it all of his life, and he was not about to chance his ways.
He could forgo experiencing this child's life; it was not a problem. Yet, his actions reflected sadness as he walked past her, opening the door and carefully making his way down the stairs by way of modified limping.
Like her, he loved that baby, and he hated it too.
And she watched him go, glaring at him with an intense anger that had lain in the bottom of her heart. She made her way over to the side of the roof, and she sat. The stars had crawled back up from the horizon, and now she stared at them.
Another kick came from her abdomen, and, realizing that it epitomized the destruction of that second moment she could have had to confess her feelings, she cried.
There had been an interruption in the sequence of action, an anomaly in the plan.
And, for that, she also cried.
Do not allow interruptions to interfere. Rather, ignore it and allow your emotions to flow freely my dear.
Author's Note: Yes, it's the same as usual. Read and review as you wish—although I would prefer "review". ;) Thanks guys!
