Author's Note: Hello! (Or, "hola" because I've been dying to say that to someone all week.) And lemonjelly was right… I got it out by Wednesday. (A cookie for you, my dear.) Anyway, for reviews, which I happened to get a lot of, I'd like to thank: prinnie (I might check your fic out; this week's been crazy busy and it's just… Ugh), lemonjelly (trust me, I know how you feel; well, actually, now I do because I'm perfectly healthy as well; thank goodness you're better!), lijep (did you get my cookie? I hope you did, and yes, you're review rocked. When I find the time (ha!), I'm tempted to look at your story about Stacey), Chromo26 (well, they have brain capacity, and trust me, I would know because I know some of them. But, eh, like me, people are busy, but I still found the time to read your wonderful review), Scrubs (well, the grade was better, and I think I deserved it. Oh, and thank you for reviewing my sister story; she was so happy!), Gomes (You rock! Nine reviews for nine chapters! Now that made me giddy! Good gracious, thank you so much! You get the award for being my hundredth reviewer!), and FriendsHolic (I'm just a sucker for great reviews like yours, you know?)

Disclaimer: Same rhyme as last time people: Hello, hello! If I owned House I wouldn't be writing fan fiction! (Oh, no!) And pain is not what I want as an infliction… From the makers of House. Lame, yes, as always, but I tried, right? (Or I didn't because I had the same thing last time.)

Spoilers: I can finally give an affirmative, "No!" There are no spoilers in this chapter, far from them, actually.

Note: I know right now that some of you might not like this chapter. Personally, I do, but that's because I'm not one of dialogue's hugest fans. A warning now in case you think you might need it: There is not one word of dialogue in this chapter. Zip, nada, zero. Really, I'm considering this more of an introduction chapter for what's going to happen next. Plus, the idea popped into my head, and I couldn't deny it true words, right?


Chapter Ten: Skin

The skin will keep everything in when everything else is let out, for in your eyes it is a savior no doubt.

The skin was a wall, and it did hold in everything. The other organs, the bones, the blood. And it was worn down as it progressed in years, aging with its owner. Skin became flawed, faded, wrinkled, like an old picture hanging in the sunlight for much too long. It curled at the edges, creased in the most humiliating areas, but it continued to fulfill its duty regardless of its appearance.

It was persistent no matter how people mocked it or held it in contempt. Not surprisingly, it was House's favorite organ. The heart pumped, the lungs respired, and the liver secreted, ah, but the skin, the skin was like him. It was him, and he was the skin. The heart was famed for what it did, along with the lungs, and, of course, the liver. But the skin, although important, was ridiculed more often by others, including its owner. Even he was guilty of gazing upon sunken eyes, deep frown lines, and, as always, wrinkled epidermis. But, that did not ebb his love for this unique organ. No, rather, it made it grow stronger, more secure, better.

Now if only that was the case between his other relationship.

Honestly, he did love her, and he loved that life within her. But something inside him, something faint and wispy, held him, coddled him, and whispered into his ears warnings of what could become of him if he did love them.

And it scared him. It scared him to a point where his heart began to palpitate fiercely whenever he became too intimate, too close. It throbbed in his chest, beating, beating. He would take a step towards her. Thump. And another. Thump, thump. He would be so close now that the scent of her lingering perfume was pungent on the air.

At that point, he almost always stopped, for this force stronger than adrenaline that conquered his heart pained him.

And that force was fear.

Fear was contagious, and, most of the time, sensed. Palsy hands, a racing heart, sweaty palms, shrunken pupils, shorten breathes. A wave of nausea took the stomach. Hairs on the nape of the neck erected themselves. And discomfort was apparent.

Of course, he knew she never noticed, and, even if she did, who's to say she didn't turn her head in the opposite direction and pay no mind to it? But she didn't, or she wouldn't, for just as he loved to feed on her vulnerabilities, she liked to feed on his.

Oh, and how wonderful it tasted.

Let the sweet juice of another's vulnerabilities drip down your chin, leaving a sweet path to be kissed. And let that splendid liquid flow, for when you release someone of their weaknesses, they will most likely not be missed.


Blood flowed clumsily through the nose when she was slapped in the face, but under the skin in safety it streamed with agility and grace

She pricked lightly at her skin on her arms with one of her nails, watching the color fade for a mere second before returning with a vengeance.

It amazed her how the blood flowed through the veins, pulsing along in a river of forever-red tide without halting until death stealthily approached and attacked. Each blood cell, each platelet, and each ounce of plasma and hemoglobin created something so nourishing and refreshing. Blood cleared the mind and fed the nerves. Yet, when a person was murdered, what was clearly visible spilling from the chest where the weapon had penetrated? The blood. Red was considered an angry color, a color of untainted antagonism and rage. But seeing red, she thought, was totally inaccurate. When she was angry, her vision blurred with the ire, not changed a different color. But she was probably being too literal.

Then again, being literal might have saved her from what she was experiencing now. Truly, the word "sleeping" had been taken to another extreme. Had she only been sleeping as the word clearly stated, she would have not been pregnant, but, she would, at least for one night, been able to say that when she awoke in the morning in her own bed, she didn't awake alone. But, no, she had not just slept in her bed; rather, she had done the opposite. She had been wide-awake, alert, nimble, agile. All bodily functions became rapid and sporadic, and everything became rough at the edges like sandpaper.

And yet another comparison of House formed in her mind.

Sandpaper and House, House and sandpaper. He was rough and always would be, but, of course, it was his duty to smooth over others, to kill their points, one of their mechanisms of defense.

And, not surprisingly, this contradicted House's comparison of himself. He was the skin; he was the defense, the shield. But, he knew he wore down even the mightiest of the mortals, the most powerful of the people. So maybe he was like sandpaper; so maybe he was like skin; so maybe he was like every comparison that found itself lost in the corridors of their minds.

She thought sandpaper and insanity, and he thought skin and melancholy. Still, he thought there was more logic in his comparison, for tears of sadness fell onto the skin and stained it.

It didn't matter. He was House, and House was him. Greg House to friends, Dr. House to patients, Gregory House at the more formal moments, and Dr. Gregory House at the most formal moments.

But, what was he to her? Greg? Gregory? Dr. House? Or was it just plain House?

Lover?

No, no, not lover. He didn't love her.

Liar?

He did lie to himself, to her, and to everyone. He lied about loving her. But why? Was it a compulsion, a nasty impulse that clawed his back until it was satisfied? Was he truly in denial, forever unable to speak of his admiration for her and this life that was presently inside of her? But that would not be so forever. Three months left for three humans involved in three separate actions. One was denying and lying, one was lying and dying from heartache, and the other was sighing with contentment as it rested.

And those responsible for this being envied that contentment, resented it with all their might. They coveted the contentment, yearned for it. They yearned for that protection. But, most of all, they yearned for that smooth skin, the new shield forming and growing and protecting, as always, the owner.

It was not vanity, they thought, if one needed the skin of a child for reasons of security. The skin of a young person may have been thin at times, but it was strong and immaculate. Flawless, too, and perfect, at least for a little while.

Perfection, absolute balance. Why couldn't they have equilibrium?

Why could they only have their old skin?

Skin is in, and skin is out; skin is extroverted and introverted too. But keep it prime, for skin grows weak and brittle when it has nothing to do.


Author's Note: Same jazz as always: read, which you've probably done by now, and review as you wish. Constructive criticism is welcome, and thank you once again!