TITLE: Chapter 6: A House Is Not a Home

AUTHOR: new_raven

PAIRING: House/Chris suggested

RATING: PG-13ish

WARNINGS: none

SUMMARY: House gives Chris a ride home.

DISCLAIMER: House and his pretty friends don't belong to me.

SOUNDTRACK:

It was late. House was in his office, playing his PS3, and waiting for the team to come back with test results. Most of the lights were off, and he was sitting just out of view from the windows. He looked up when someone walked into the outer office. They didn't see him, and went directly to the mini fridge.

Chris grabbed a cup of Jell-O and a bottle of water, out of the fridge. As she hunted for the plastic spoons, she discovered a box of stale doughnuts. She paused for a moment, deciding how to juggle her spoils; eventually she stuffed the water bottle into her pocket. Then she carefully stabbed the spoon against the foil lid of the Jell-O, until it tore a snug hole, for the spoon to rest in.

She picked up a doughnut and closed the box, making as little noise as she could. House cleared his throat, just as she was slipping the doughnut over the spoons handle. Chris jumped. She managed to keep her grip on the cup, but the doughnut flew across the room, and landed with a soft thud in one of the chairs.

"It's a little late to be stealing carbs, isn't it?" House was leaning against the door frame, with his arms crossed in front of him.

Chris glared at him, not really angry, but annoyed at being caught. "No one's going to eat these anyway." She picked up the doughnut and took a bite.

"What services do candy stripers offer at this hour?" House raised his brows.

"I'm not candy striping." She shook her head. "I'm working on a file retirement… for Dr. Wilson."

"Traitor."

"He was going to hire a temp. I made an offer that's way cheaper than an agency. Plus I can make my own hours and he doesn't have to share his office during the day."

"And his office is right next to mine." House wasn't sure if this was her design or Wilson's, but he was sure it was not just a coincidence.

Chris rolled her eyes. "Again, not everything revolves around you. I'm babysitting for Dr. Fergusson next week. How is that about you?"

"Maybe we live on the same bus route? Maybe we have the same shoe size. I don't know how a stalker's mind works."

"I'm getting a clearer picture of yours though." She shook her head and laughed, as she moved towards the door. "Goodnight House."

"Goodnight, " he said after she was out of earshot.

A few hours later, House was leaving and couldn't resist stopping by Wilson's office. He opened the door and stuck his head in. There were two stacks of numbered boxes near the door. Chris was curled on the sofa, surrounded by more boxes and files, with a highlighter in one hand, and several papers in the other. Her eyes were closed and her head tilted toward the soft cushion.

House didn't want to wake her. He had almost decided to leave, when the highlighter slipped from Chris's fingers, with a soft thud and a streak of blue down the center of the file list. The movement and noise woke her. She capped the marker, stretched her arms, and arched her back, before noticing House in the door.

"Jeez, who's the stalker now?" She was startled when she saw him and snapped her arms down to her sides.

"I'm leaving. I thought you might need a ride." House said.

"Uh," her face went blank. "No, I'm good. I've got a few more hours in me. Thanks though."

"I've slept on that couch before. Don't repeat my mistakes."He didn't smile, but his voice was friendly enough, not threatening. It certainly shouldn't have elicited the amount of fear she was trying to hide.

She didn't respond but caught her bottom lip in her teeth. She never brought people home. The neighborhood was bad enough, but it was the possibility of someone knowing where she lived, and coming by while she wasn't home that stopped her. No one, not even the state appointed social workers, knew what her mother was really like.

"I assume you live with your mom, and won't be inviting me in for adrink." He clarified his intentions, or lack of intentions, but he doubted that they were the cause of her apprehension.

This almost made her laugh. The idea of him being in her house was absurd. The only thing they had to drink at her house was off brand cola, in a Pepsi bottle that she refilled every other day, so her mother would think it was the real thing. No, she would not be inviting him in for a drink, but she didn't want to make him curious, and she certainly didn't want him to mistake her hesitance for rejection.

"Yeah… ok, give me like three minutes to clean this up." She motioned to the mess around her.

She placed a new numbered box on top of the others, and then stacked her other supplies neatly on one of the book shelves. She turned out the lights, locked up, and followed House down the corridor. As they passed his office, she saw that his staff was still there. She felt a flopping sensation in her stomach, as she tried not to think of what they must be thinking.

They were quiet in the elevator. She tried to remember the last time she was in his car, but that night was very fuzzy in her head. She followed him not expecting to see the orange motorcycle in the vacant parking lot. House handed her the helmet. He laughed a little when her eyes grew wider.

"Um… I…" She gulped.

"What, are you afraid to ride a motorcycle?"

"No." She couldn't say she was afraid of being so close to him, or that she might not want to let go, when they stopped. She couldn't say she was afraid what people would think of them, or that she was afraid what he would think, when he saw where she lived. "How am I supposed to give you directions?"

"You could tell me before we leave," he answered.

She nodded, as he climbed on the bike. Watching his face, for recognition or judgment, she told him where her house was. Then she put on the helmet and climbed on behind him, holding his shoulder for balance. She sat board straight, with her arms at her sides.

"You're going to want to hold onto something," he said. She nodded even though he couldn't see it.

When he started the engine, she still tried to keep her back straight. Her left hand grasped his hip, and she held the right stiffly between their bodies. As they rode she began to calm down. The warm air felt incredible as it rushed over her. Her body relaxed against his, and she let her right hand slip around his waist. His abs were tight, under the thin t-shirt he wore, and she had to close her fist to resist running her fingers over them. She thought she felt him laugh.

As they approached her neighborhood, she could feel the tension coming back. The houses on this street, all looked like concrete boxes, with more bricks and siding missing than left on the walls. She pointed out a few turns to him, and soon they were riding down her street. She wanted to let him pass her house, but he seemed to realize they were near, and slowed down. She pointed to the small dilapidated house, with more weeds than grass in the yard, and no car in the broken, over-grown driveway.

She slid off the bike, not wanting him to sense her reluctance, and removed her helmet. She stood awkwardly, holding the helmet and hoping he would keep his word, and not ask to come in. He took it from her.

"Do I have to walk you to your door?" Was all that he said.

She shook her head, offered him a forced smile, and thanked him for the ride. He watched as she climbed the front steps, the first of which had been replaced with cinder blocks, some time ago. She avoided the soft spot in the top step without effort or thought, and waved over her shoulder at him while she unlocked the two deadbolts, and then hurried inside.

She relocked the door, and then watched through the peep hole as House rode away. She turned around and leaned against the door, with a sigh and a smile.

"Sarah?" Her mother's voice called from the living room, illuminated only by the TV screen.

"It's Chris, Mom."

"Why aren't you at your friend's?" The older woman didn't look up.

"I decided I'd rather come home and watch a movie with you. What are we watching?" Chris asked her.

"Jurassic Park."

"I should have known. How about some popcorn?" She offered.

"And Pepsi," her mother added.

Chris poured oil and kernels into a pot and set the lid slightly ajar. While it heated, she poured two glasses of the off-brand cola, and set them on the coffee table. When the corn was popped, she poured it in a bowl and placed it next to the sodas. She grabbed a blanket and lay on the tattered couch, with her head in her mother's lap. She held the bowl of popcorn on her chest.

"Did you have a good day at school?" Her mother asked.

"Yeah."

"Did you make good grades?"

"Straight A's," this was always Chris's response.

"That's good."

"I like a boy." Chris could no longer predict what might upset her mother. They rarely departed from the topics of school, dinner, or their small collection of VHS tapes, but Chris couldn't resist the urge to tell her about him.

"Boys are trouble." Her mother's eyes never left the TV, and her voice held little emotion.

Chris could imagine her mother saying this, with a laugh in her voice, and a smile on her face. Sherrice Ramirez had once been vibrant and funny. She had been the kind of woman who was never lonely, and never bored. She was the kind of mom that would pull her daughters out of school early, to go see a matinee movie, on her rare day off work.

She hadn't always been the most stable parent. Chris had more "uncles" and "stepdads" that she could remember. All that changed when Sherrice got pregnant with Sarah. Her dad married Sherrice and adopted Chris. They'd been a family, until he died in a car accident. Sherrice had never been the same after his death, but she had still been a good mom. She was supportive after the attack, and when she found out the girls were pregnant. Sarah's death had pushed her over the edge. She had been slipping farther and farther away, ever since that day.

"This boy is lots of trouble." Chris told her.

"Is he nice?" Sherrice stroked her daughter's hair. Chris knew it didn't mean her mother was lucid, but it was soothing none the less.

"He's nice to me." Chris shrugged.

"Does Sarah like him?"

"I don't know. I don't think they've met." Chris didn't let her voice crack, and focused on the TV. Had she been hoping for motherly advice? "Oh look this is the best part."

A velociraptor raced across the screen, squawking after a child. Chris handed her mother the popcorn and sat up. She tucked the blanket around her mom's shoulders, and said goodnight.

Chris's room was just big enough to fit her twin bed, a dresser, and a small bookshelf. The only light came from a bulb screwed into a fixture in the ceiling. There was a frame and screws for a shade, but it was long gone by the time they moved in. There were a few cracks in the ceiling, but they didn't leak when it rained, like the ones in the kitchen.

The one small window had been covered with a thick, floral bedspread for security and privacy. The walls were bare except for two pictures of guardian angels; one had hung over her bed since she was a child, and the other had hung over Sarah's. There was a stack of library books in the corner by the closet.

Her shelves were crammed with books of every shape, size, and topic. The collection was in constant rotation, as she found a box of travel guides on the street, or a newer World Almanac or foreign language dictionary at a thrift store. The top shelf held tattered copies of her favorite novels, and a set of Dr. Seuss books that had survived her childhood. She had read The Cat in the Hat to Sarah, so many times as a kid, that Sarah had known the words by heart, before she'd learned to read.

She undressed and packed her backpack, for the next day. After she flipped off the light switch by the door, she hurried and jumped into her bed, remembering the night she'd stepped on a huge cockroach as she made her way to the bathroom in the dark. She hated this place.