Dealing - Chapter 2
It's his leg – his damned useless leg – that pushes them apart.
Time has lost all meaning and he has no idea how long they've been stood this way, his weight pressing her up against the glass door, the two of them locked in this unbalanced embrace, exploring and tasting each other with a growing hunger that wipes rational thought from his mind. His leg though, can't forget. He's dimly aware of fatigue beginning to tremble his muscles and then pain rears its familiar, ugly head, bringing a gasp to his lips – a sharp inhalation of stolen air that drags her mouth from his, her brow furrowing in concern.
"House?"
He can't help a grimace, can't hide his weakness, and pain and frustration combine to dampen his ardour, bringing him back to earth with a bump. All the usual doubts and fears rush back to shore on that tide of pain and he turns his face from her as he struggles to right himself, pre-empting the disappointment he has taught himself to expect. They talk over each other, words blurting out in a jumble, her voice low and cautious, his tight with tension:
"Are you..?"
"I need to…"
She is all concern and understanding and, if she notices his refusal to look her in the eye, she doesn't refer to it as her small hands on his chest help push his weight backwards until he can balance himself more steadily between the cane and his good leg. He leans heavily on the cane, tremors shaking his remaining thigh muscles, and her hands feel warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. He doesn't feel any more in control of himself, of his body, standing upright than he did leaning precariously against the office door. She is a lead weight pulling him off balance, tilting his comfortable world, and this sensation of vertigo frightens him.
They don't speak a word but she seems to know what he is thinking, what he wants, and her warm hands stay with him, moving to his arm and back as she helps him stiffly turn and stumble with careful, excruciating steps to his desk. As he leans with relief against the hard edge of the desk, he wonders if she sees his right leg physically shudder and twitch when relieved of his weight. He stares at the floor and asks himself if he cares if she saw. His world has shifted and a part of him knows that things can never be the same now. He can't decide how to feel about that other than tired and hopeless. He's done everything he swore to himself he wouldn't and now she's seen all his weaknesses, physical and metaphorical, and he almost hates himself for that. He reaches blindly in his pocket for his faithful Vicodin, the familiar rattle of the bottle a comfort in itself, promising numbness from pain, numbness from the world. Closing his eyes as he tips his head back to swallow the bitter pill, he wonders how long he'll need to ignore her before she leaves him alone.
The silence lasts months, endless years, and he feels her eyes on him as though her gaze were able to lights flames along his skin. He stays perched on the edge of the desk, staring moodily at the floor, even after he hears the door to the conference room open and swing closed behind her.
He won't look at her but she can see his pain in the tightness around his eyes, the tension in his posture, the way he holds himself so carefully, so controlled. She sees more than he realises. She can see him withdraw as the familiar pain reminds him of who he is, of the boundaries he has set on his life. He is rebuilding walls even as she watches – and there is nothing she can do to prevent it.
She is unwilling to let go; having once touched the fire and warmth he hides behind those carefully constructed walls, she hates to be pushed aside into the cold again. She holds on to him physically even as he withdraws emotionally, warming her hands at the meagre flame of continued contact. She guides his awkward, shaky steps towards the desk, feeling the tension in his arms and back even through the lightest touch.
His relief is evident as he rests his weight on the desk, overtaxed muscles trembling and jerking his leg even as he stretches it out in front of him. His face is turned from her and she lets her hands fall away, breaking that last remaining connection between them as he fumbles the pill bottle from his jacket pocket. When he stretches his long neck to swallow, his eyes are stubbornly closed, pain pinching at the angles of his face.
She remembers that last time they stood here like this – she baring her soul in his living room.. and he unable to meet her gaze, staring at the floor until she left. In some ways it seems a metaphor for their whole relationship; she spends her time watching from afar, so close to what she wants but unable to touch; he looking anywhere but at her, refusing to see, stubbornly closing his eyes so as not to have to deal with what lay before him.
The difference now though is that she knows what lies hidden behind those downcast eyes. Just this once, his defences had crumbled and, much as he might rebuild them, shut her out again, she had caught a glimpse of what lay beneath. No matter how hard he tried to deny what had happened, to push her away, she knew now that the walls could be breached.
So she stands there, within touching distance and a million miles away all at the same time. He keeps his gaze stubbornly on the floor, shutting her out physically and emotionally. She wonders what he's thinking. Does out of sight equate to out of mind for the great Dr House? He is waiting, she realises. Waiting for her to walk away.
She obliges.
She lets the door to the conference room swing closed behind her and for a moment she sags against it, the breath escaping her in a shuddering sigh that is equal parts frustration and exhilaration. The glass is cool against her shoulders and she lets her head tip back, her eyes closing as remembered sensation runs through her.. the memory of his weight pressing against her, pinning her to the chill of the glass, his lips warm on hers.
She shakes off the recollection, pressing her hands to her face for a moment, steeling her resolve. When she looks back over her shoulder he is frozen in place, perched on the edge of his desk, long legs stretched out before him. His head is bowed as he stares unseeingly at the office floor. She bites her lip, once again reduced to watching him through glass walls, as he broods in silence. The thought only serves to crystallise her intention.
She is characteristically brisk and efficient in her movements, tidying up the papers and journals on her desk, shutting down the computer, throwing her bag over one shoulder as she grabs her coat. She comes to a halt with her hand on the office door and finds he hasn't moved from where she left him. Pain still haunts his face and he looks…tired. Defeated. She knows him better than he thinks – better than he seems to think he knows her. She can't, she won't, leave him like this. He'll brood and he'll pick and pick until he's ripped the scab off of whatever he's feeling and he's twisted this into something it was never meant to be. She's not going to let him do this to himself – and to her.
He doesn't look up when he hears the door push open again. If he had the energy he'd sigh but he feels like he's sinking, tiredness makes him feel heavy; she makes him feel tired.. and old. He remembers the look on her face as she clung to him, pulling his weight against her, skewing his balance and his perception, that look right before she.. before they.. He pushes those thoughts away, reminding himself of all the reasons why none of this should have happened. Why he shouldn't have let this happen.
But his own thoughts betray him - he can't help but remember that look on her face, the fierceness in her eyes, and how he'd thought to himself right then that she wasn't going to let go, wasn't going to back away from this. He wishes he could decide how that made him feel but right now numbness seems preferable to feeling. If he can just avoid thinking – about all of this, about anything – until he can get home and crack open a bottle of whiskey… maybe an extra Vicodin or two would let him sleep and he could hope this had all been a dream.
He is aware of her without wanting to be – his senses seem to be attuned to her and he feels her approach, as though the warmth of her lithe body could somehow reach across the room to heat his blood and fire his senses. She stands before him, close enough to touch, and he imagines that he can hear the breath whispering from between her lips. A part of him wants nothing more than to reach out to that fire, to feel her warmth once more, press his lips against hers and steal that soft breath from her body. But he knows only too well that fire can burn – and so he sits gingerly upon the desk, thinking longingly of the medicated numbness that usually serves him so well, and stares forlornly at her ridiculous, high-heeled pumps.
A small voice at the back of his mind tells him, "She's not just going to let this go."
He is startled when she reaches out to him, his peripheral vision catching the movement, instinctive reaction jerking his head up and back as she shakes her hand teasingly in front of his nose, the jingling noise explained as he belatedly becomes aware of the car keys in her hand. He feels punch-drunk, unsure of himself, and for once he can't think of an answer when she says calmly, "Come on. I'm driving you home."
It takes him a moment to remember that he doesn't need her pity, not hers or anyone else's, but his spite lacks it's usual fire and his "I don't need you fussing after me, Dr Cameron." sounds lacklustre and formulaic, even to his own ears. Sarcasm by numbers. He sighs.
He risks a glance at her face and finds steel in her gaze. He tries for strength, grasps at conviction, tells her shortly, "I'm fine."
But the heat has slipped from his words, his fury has all burned out. She had set him ablaze with her angry words, stoked the fires with that damn stubborn nature of hers, and then she had pulled him to her, pressing his body into hers, and stolen the heat and warmth from him, breathed his passion out through his lips and left him cold and empty and drained.
She's not going to let this go.
Her voice brooks no disagreement as she steps around him to grab his rucksack.
"You're exhausted and you're in pain," she lectures him, "I doubt you've eaten in at least 10 hours and you've only just taken your Vicodin – you're in no state to drive."
He's not too exhausted to resent her treating him like some idiot clinic patient and he tells her so, "Way to state the obvious, Cameron. Believe it or not, I went to medical school too.."
She throws him a look that speaks volumes, and for a moment he is left to wonder how a woman 20 years his junior can leave him feeling like a recalcitrant child, before her face slips into a sly smile.
"Really, Dr House? I'd never have guessed…"
Teasing him. She's damn well teasing him. Her lightning changes of mood trip him up and he loses the thread of his argument. He lets her bully him into motion, hauling himself up from the desk with a grimace of pain, and looks up defiantly to see she has walked off ahead of him, taking his rucksack with her, leaving him to his private pain, boldly expecting him to just trail along after her. To his surprise, he does.
The walk to the car park exhausts him and in the dark stillness of the car they are silent, she concentrating on her driving, he slumped in the passenger seat, a fine sheen of sweat drying on his forehead as his leg amplifies every imperfection in the road surface. Even through the fatigue and the constant thrum of pain, he is aware of her movements next to him. It feels intimate, oddly comforting, sitting so close beside her in the cramped confines of the vehicle, headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness, the road humming by beneath them. The cessation of movement jerks him from a half-doze and he fumbles for his cane, his fingers brushing hers as she puts the car in park. Her face is unreadable in the dark and then the latch clicks and she is gone.
He exits the car clumsily and is relieved to not find her hovering, offering assistance. She is already unlocking his front door, his house keys the fruits of her search through his rucksack, and he can't decide whether to be amused, annoyed or impressed at her taking liberties with his belongings. It's on the tip of his tongue to tell her he doesn't need walking to the door like a prom date when she pushes the door open and casually steps inside, leaving him to stagger after her, unsure whether to be shocked or indignant as the lights flicker to life in his living room.
When he steps inside he sees his rucksack abandoned beside the piano, her jacket and bag tossed on the floor alongside. The door shuts behind him and he turns to find her leaning against it, her face serious. He feels uncomfortable now; the journey is over and there's nowhere left to go – and all that remains is him, and her, standing here in this room.
He breaks the silence, habitual sarcasm coming to the rescue.
"I'd invite you in but Thursday is hooker night, as I'm sure you know. Gonna be a bit busy…"
He glares at her, suddenly aware of his pulse thundering in his ears, realising too late that sexual innuendo was a bad idea given the circumstances. The air feels charged with tension, a burgeoning electricity that pushes back his exhaustion and sets his nerves tingling. He stubbornly digs his heels in, his defiant gaze daring her to break that awkward silence, to start the conversation she knows he doesn't want to have. She doesn't move, doesn't speak. She leans against the door, regarding him calmly. She is mere feet away. Close enough for him to reach out and touch her, to close the distance between them. He scowls. He won't do it.
She will.
She steps forward without a word and he can't help but take a step back, a frown creasing his face when he sees her slight smile at his reaction. He brazenly holds his ground as she invades his body space, using his own tricks against him, unsettling him, sending his pulse soaring without even touching him. It seems she can unbalance him with a look. For once he can't look away, can't pull his gaze from hers and he feels like he's falling whilst standing still, the ground seeming to tilt away beneath his feet. His hand tightens on his cane. The heat and warmth of her pull at him, drawing him into the gravity well of her orbit and the concept of event horizon flits through his mind even as her hand brushes his cheek and he realises he is lost.
Her voice is low and vibrant, thrilling the blood in his veins, making him realise suddenly that he really doesn't know her at all.
"I think it's your turn," she tells him.
She steps closer and this time he does step back, fighting a rearguard action that he secretly knows is already lost. He's never one to go down without a fight though.
"My turn for what?" He's surprised to find a tremor in his voice as she backs him up another step.
She doesn't answer, and it's not until 3 more stumbling paces bring him bumping up against the door, his cane clattering against the solid wood, that he realises how completely she's outmanoeuvred him.
Her smile is light and teasing but there is no levity in her eyes as she tells him, "Your turn to be pressed up against the door."
Her gaze is locked with his as she very deliberately leans into him, her slight weight pinning him as surely as if she had chained him in place. She is warm and soft and her heat spills through him, flaring in his veins. He can't think straight, can't envision anything beyond the need to cling to that warmth. He tries to tell himself all the reasons why he shouldn't let this happen, tries to tell her.
"I can't.."
She interrupts him by the simple expedient of sliding her body along his as she reaches a hand up to curl around his neck. His words die on a hitched intake of breath.
"Shut up, House." she whispers and she pulls his lips down to meet hers.
TBC….
