Well, I haven't posted in a while, and this is something I just whipped up yesterday, so I thought I'd post it. I've finished my 50 fics for the House Fic50 challenge, so I'll start posting them soon, but here's something for the in-between time.
A bit different to my usual and preferred style, and I like it (if I do say so myself) but gimme feedback (please). I'm always one for the feedback.
Oh, and HOUSE does not belong to me, not even in my deepest fantasies. Well, it odes in my fantasies, just not in real life, so... oh, you get the picture.
MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD MD
When you first see him again it's very surreal. He looks no different, but very different. You wonder if you look the same: like so much time, but no time at all, has passed.
He's with a woman, with dark hair, very slim. Very slight. They're standing in front of a whiteboard, talking, arguing, something along those lines (although where Greg is concerned, they're most likely arguing).
You're there, an outsider, watching them through the glass as they perform a two-person differential diagnosis, with his other employees (both male, or so Lisa said) out raiding some poor person's home (or so Lisa said). They look oddly… 'together'. You don't mean in the 'couple' sense of the word, but… You don't know what you mean. You just see them, and think: Together. It's a strange thing for you to notice about your ex-lover.
But you know you're right when he moves to stand near her and he leans over her shoulder, purposely invading her personal space, and she, almost imperceptibly, slants her body towards him. They fit, they work, and she reacts positively when he moves even closer to her.
You shiver: you know what having him do that can do to you. He's done it to you immeasurable times.
Did. He did it to you immeasurable times.
You're just debating whether you should venture closer (don't there's no reason it's none of your business anymore) when they save you the trouble, bringing their 'conversation' (argument—you was right) out into the corridor.
It's just like Greg to try and run away, or, when that fails, to take his conflict somewhere more public, where he can get more of an audience, feed off more reactions… although you give the woman a point for not letting him escape. Letting it go is worse than seeing it through, with him.
You make sure you're hidden (you really don't like the idea of him seeing you now—another time, another place, tomorrow, while he's working, busy, less inclined to say no, it's okay, Mark hasn't been getting any worse lately), almost cowering around the corner as they approach, his limp less pronounced than you remember. You wonder how everything about this ungraceful man can seem so infuriatingly graceful.
The woman, the (pretty, no, gorgeous, you can now see) tiny woman is saying something, almost pleading with him to do something, and he has that look on his face. The one that makes you want to laugh, the one that always makes you want to laugh, the one he wears when things get too emotional, when warding off compliments for his piano playing, or when dealing with stupid people, or people who don't agree with him; or all four mixed in one.
"…so you're just going to completely disregard the joint pain?" Brunette asks loudly.
"No, I'm going to ignore it. There's a difference." He reaches out to press 'down' on the elevator keypad and you notice his fingers haven't changed. Should they have?
"Which is?" She looks like she's desperately trying to understand him. You feel sorry for her: sorry, honey, never gonna happen.
"Well, for starters, one starts with 'd', and the other one starts with 'i'."
You would be so frustrated if it was you, but she just takes it all in her stride. You estimate she's been working with Greg for over a year; has to have. If they ever last that long, that's about how long it usually takes to get used to his… idiosyncrasies (you're in a relatively nice mood, stemming from the cup of coffee and new handbag purchased only hours ago).
"House! While you're disregarding the joint pain, he could have some sort of autoimmune disease, like—"
"Lupus?" He's looking expectantly at her, and even in the heat of the argument, her mouth turns up slightly and she has to fight to stay in control.
It's an inside joke, something they share, and it makes you oddly uncomfortable.
Brunette straightens and puts her hands on her hips, just as the elevator car arrives.
"Oh, look. Here's my ride." He turns as the doors ping open and steps inside. Brunette tries following him, but he blocks her way. "Whoa, there, missy. Do you have a ticket?"
The almost-smile is gone now, and so is the jokey mood, which you're grateful for. It's much easier to watch him being a jerk. Especially with incredibly attractive, much much younger, women around. You shake your head slightly, wondering what in the hell you're thinking (don't there's no reason it's none of your business anymore).
"House. Let me in," Brunette demands, and you can visualise her stamping her foot.
"Nope, sorry. No ticket, no ride." He leans sideways, presumably to choose his floor, and waves facetiously as the doors begin to close. "Buh-bye, now."
"Two clinic hours."
An arm appears out of the elevator, stopping the doors, and they slowly open up again. He stares at her with raised eyebrows, looking surprised, and you wonder why three little words have such an affect on him. What exactly is the other woman offering?
"You'll do two of my clinic hours, if I consider the joints in the differential."
She nods. "Yes."
He eyes her again, gauging her offer, attempting to read her and analyse her (another experience you recognise, blue icicles sweeping over your body like a laser, examining you, always assessing you), then steps back out of the elevator, swinging his cane around (it's not the cane you got him for Christmas five years ago, it's a different one, made of darker wood) and pushing ahead of Brunette (you should learn her name, but you don't really care).
"Well, alright then. I start at two."
She catches up to him, saying something you can't hear, and they re-enter the room.
You lean against the wall, and hold your head, a sudden pressure behind your eyes warning of a bad migraine to come.
But it's nothing to do with him, or Brunette, or him and the Brunette. You've been working hard, keeping tabs on Mark, sleeping little, not eating enough, smoking too much… none of which are healthy.
You straighten and decide to take the stairs, avoiding even the slightest risk of seeing him again. You're just… not ready, which you've realised after today—if you're to have any chance of convincing him, any chance at all of even talking coherently to him, you need to go home and rest. And prepare.
Because you've forgotten how wonderfully challenging it is with him.
And that could serve to be your downfall.