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I think it started when I visited House at his apartment. He’d been hurting himself, an attempt to distract himself from the pain of his thigh in the absence of Vicodin.
He’d cut himself this time, and while I bandaged his arm, he had such a strange expression on his face as he was watching me. I can’t explain it. Like he was tired, exhausted from keeping up the battle. Exhausted from trying to defy us all, from trying to deny that he had a big problem. Though which was the bigger problem - Tritter or the Vicodin – was anybody’s guess.
Maybe I wanted to see more of the human side of him. The House I used to think he was, before Stacy came and left, and he retreated into his Vicodin and his pain. The House who used to help people because it was right. Not just for entertainment purposes.
When I heard later that he had apologized to Wilson, I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the fact that House was finally taking steps, however small, to reconnect with someone who was probably the most significant person in his life. Or it seemed so, anyway. Maybe it was the fact that House had checked himself into rehab and seemed to be finally making an effort. I’d been working for him for more than two years, and I’d never seen him do anything – except the failed attempt with the ketamine - to change himself.
Whatever the reason, as if of their own will, my arms were suddenly around him. But when I pressed my body against his, I felt him tense. Resisting. And I knew it had been a mistake.
I let him go, not meeting his eyes. “I’d better go,” I mumbled. I raced out of there, not wanting to hear anything he had to say, not wanting to see the look on his face.
He’d probably only accuse me of crushing on him again, after all.
*~*~*
Some time later, when I hear that he’s beaten the rap, I don’t know how to feel. The PPTH grapevine is full of whispers, that Cuddy perjured herself, that House was getting Vicodin on the sly while in rehab. I sigh inwardly. I should’ve seen this coming. People change, but House isn’t people.
His first day back, he’s smug and superior. More smug and superior than usual. He spends a day just doing clinic work, though, and that surprises me. If the rumours are true, then he’s got as much dirt on Cuddy as she does on him, so why saddle himself with a task he hates?
But even though this might be a positive sign, a sign that things won’t go back to the status quo, I’m not going to let myself feel hopeful again. I’ve been down that road with him too many times. The times when I looked up from some task or test to find him watching me. The times he seemed to be flirting with me. The times he seemed to be challenging me to stand up to him, to make him take notice of me. Even the rare – so rare – times he would try to comfort me.
Every time I thought things were on the verge of changing, in the end nothing ever did. And, I remind myself now, nothing ever will. House is House, he won’t change.
So when the sharp rap comes at my door that night, I figure it can’t be who I think it is. It sure sounds like wood striking on wood, and there’s only one person I know who knocks like that. But it won’t be House. He doesn’t do social calls. It’s not him coming to unburden himself, anyway. He’s probably come on a whim, to snark at me, or to pick me apart, just to amuse himself.
Maybe it’s not even him.
I turn off the treadmill and wrap the towel around my neck. Despite myself, walking to the door causes unwelcome memories to come back to me. Memories of another time when I opened my front door to him like this, sweaty and out of breath. When he all but begged me to come back to PPTH. Sometimes I wondered how they could be the same person – the man who had showed up at my place that day to ask me to come back, and the man who was, these days, coldly mocking at best.
I open the door, and it is him. Leaning against the doorframe looking uncomfortable. It really does feel like a time-warp, as if he’s come again to ask me back.
“Hi,” he says, oddly subdued. He shifts from foot to foot, seemingly waiting for something, but I don’t say anything. What exactly am I supposed to say?
As the silence grows, he looks more and more uncomfortable. “Can I come in?” he finally asks, holding up a grease-spotted paper sack. “I brought an offering.” I try not to notice how his eyes dart up and down the length of my body. I try not to remember that I’m just wearing a tank top and some loose sweatpants.
I should probably make some excuse and shut the door in his face. He’s given me plenty of opportunities to see why this would never work.
Instead, though, I open the door wide and let him in. Because this is new, and I’m curious.
He limps in, and I point him in the direction of my kitchen. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” I murmur, deciding that I don’t want to try to do this while I’m hot and coated in sweat and scantily-clad.
I don’t wait for his response as I head off to the bathroom. One quick shower later, and I’m throwing on some jeans and a t-shirt and sweater.
When I step out, I expect to find him rummaging through my things. Maybe in my bedroom, in my panty drawer. Or maybe in my living room, flipping through my wedding album, ready to make some snide remark about the dresses my bridesmaids wore.
Instead he’s sitting at my kitchen table, tapping his cane restlessly on the floor.
I could ask him what he’s doing here, or why he brought food. I could ask him what he wants. But I don’t, for once. I’ve tried asking him direct questions, I’ve tried snarking at him, I’ve tried pleading with him. This time, I think I’ll try patience.
I gather together some plates and cutlery, not surprised when the greasy bag proves to be from a local Chinese take-out place. I thank him politely for bringing the food, but other than that, I just share out the fried rice and Peking Duck, and concentrate on trying to remember the proper technique to use chopsticks.
“You can use a fork, you know,” he finally comments, but it’s still subdued and very unlike his usual tone. “I won’t think any less of you.”
I give him a bit of a smile, then, and I give up the battle and put the chopsticks aside. “Good to know,” I comment.
The silence is awkward, as it usually is between us, but I can deal with it. Because I suspect that as uncomfortable as it makes me, it’s even more uncomfortable for him. He always has to probe, to question. To fill the silences.
He finishes eating and wordlessly gathers all the empty containers, tossing them into the trashcan in the corner. I finish my last few bites and put the soiled dishes in the sink, rinsing them. He’s leaning against the counter, trying to watch me and not watch me at the same time, twiddling his cane awkwardly in his long fingers.
“Coffee?” I ask, because I am still hostess, and some things die hard. Even where House is involved. Especially where House is involved.
“Sure,” he says, ducking his gaze away from mine. He starts to tap the butt of the cane against the floor again. And then, somewhat suddenly, he asks, “Have I ever told you, you make the best coffee?”
It takes me by surprise. He has, but usually it’s been in an insulting fashion. I glance at him, but his face is serious, even if his eyes still won’t meet mine. Apparently he doesn’t mean it as a gibe this time.
I keep my voice cool. “Maybe. Once or twice.”
He nods, then shuffles off into my living room.
When I’m sure I’m alone in my kitchen, I take a deep breath, watching the coffee-maker do its work. This is somehow not as difficult as I expected, but it’s still a strain. I want to know why he’s here, but I don’t want to ask him. He probably won’t answer if I try to ask, I know that.
I bring two steaming mugs with me into the next room, and set them down on the coffee table. He’s just sitting on the couch, fiddling with the remote, but the TV’s not even on. I return briefly to the kitchen for spoons and sugar.
When I come back he’s still there, still fiddling. Still quiet. I pass him a mug, and he takes it with a nod.
I settle back against the cushions, sipping at my own coffee. It’s harder here than it was in the kitchen, I soon discover. There, even with him sitting directly across from me, I had food and chopsticks to focus my attention on. Here, there’s only him and the blank TV screen.
So I stare into my coffee as if it’s suddenly become capable of picking up episodes of Criminal Minds, and I wait.
He says something, so low I don’t catch it the first time. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I look over at him, but he can’t hold my gaze for more than a moment or two. I shouldn’t ask, but I do- “For what?”
Because, I honestly don’t know.
House just shakes his head, frowning. But then his hand comes up, fingers brushing my hair back, and I nearly drop hot coffee all over my lap in surprise.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, eyes darkened and gaze pinned seemingly to my chin. “I never was any good at this. In case that wasn’t immediately obvious.” A hint of snark seems to be returning, but it’s not directed at me.
His fingers move up, brushing against my cheek, and he still won’t meet my eyes. His fingers are colder than I expected, but his touch isn’t – it burns like a brand.
But I like it.
My hands are starting to shake, so when he pulls his hand back I take a moment to put the coffee down. To try to calm myself. I still want to ask him why he came here. I want to ask him what’s changed. I want to hurl myself at him and kiss him. I want to throw him out of here before we do something we’ll both regret.
I don’t know what I want.
“Allison,” he says, and it’s so strange to hear my name from him. Rusty, and hesitant, as if it’s in a foreign language. Maybe it is, to him.
I look at him, and he’s looking, really looking, at me this time. Awkward and diffident. Maybe even afraid. “Yes?” I ask. I’m not making the next move. I don’t even know what it should be, even if I wasn’t afraid of scaring him off. Which I am.
He leans forward suddenly, couch cushions creaking underneath us both, and his fingers find my hair again, plunging in and curling around my head and drawing me forward. I feel his stubble against my lips, and then he’s kissing me.
This isn’t how I pictured this going at all. I stopped myself from fantasizing about House a long while ago, but even when I did fantasize, it was never like this. I imagined him being forceful and angry, pinning me down and taking what he wanted. I pictured him being mocking, saying rude things even as he pulled my clothes off, even as he slid inside me. Even as he made me come. I pictured him as passionate. The man’s a pure hedonist; it’s not much of a stretch. The way he throws himself headlong into cases, into what he wants, I always thought he’d approach sex with the same devouring, all-consuming energy.
But what’s happening between us right now is nothing like any of that. Chaste, careful kisses. Long fingers curled almost shyly around my shoulders. I’ve pictured this happening so many ways, but him acting like a fumbling teenage boy on his first date? Never.
I still want to talk to him, question him, find out what’s going on, but I don’t. I want to take control, but I don’t. If I scare him, he’ll probably bolt out of here.
Instead, I just let him know that I want this. I slide my arms around him, and open my mouth to his kisses. Just that. Just to see what he does.
It seems to make him bolder. His hand fists loosely in my hair and his tongue shoves into my mouth, slipping and pushing. I can’t help moaning a little, and his own breathing catches, as if my response is unexpected. Maybe it is.
I want to touch him, but again I’m careful. I let my hands find the front of his shirt and caress him through the cloth. He makes another noise against my mouth and then he’s moving back and shrugging off his blazer.
He starts unbuttoning his shirt, still clumsy, and I just rest against the couch and watch him, as if House stripping in his rapid, fumbling way is the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed. And it is.
He glances at me occasionally, almost as if he expects me to stop him, or laugh at him, or reject him. But I just watch his every move, even licking my lips when a significant amount of bare skin first becomes revealed, and it seems to reassure him, coax him into continuing.
He’s naked to the waist, all lightly-furred skin and unexpected muscle definition, when he takes a deep breath and reaches for me again, fingertips tugging timidly at the hem of my sweater.
I move to help him, let him pull the sweater up and off my shoulders, my t-shirt over my head. I didn’t bother with a bra earlier, so there’s nothing between our skin at all now when he pulls me against him.
I can’t help rubbing up against him a little, letting the contact tease my nipples. His hands are on my back, callused fingertips exploring my shoulder blades, the back of my neck. Muscle ripples and glides under my palms as I slide them down his sides.
He says my name again, sounding more sure of himself this time. “Greg,” I try, and it tastes good in my mouth. It tastes right.
House presses me back on the couch, sliding between my legs, leaning over me. Stubble tingles as he licks experimentally at the hollow of my throat, then kisses a trail down between my breasts.
I push up against him, wanting. This is starting to feel more like what I was expecting. I ache, pleasantly, but I’m patient. I can feel him against my thigh, hard as a rock even through two layers of denim, and I know I’m not the only one who aches.
His mouth closes around my nipple, sucking and lightly nipping, and I gasp and twist my fingers into his hair. The pads of his fingers tease my other nipple with a gentle tweak, and I say his name again, helplessly.
He chuckles and I brace myself for a snarky comment, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he’s kissing his way further down my body, soft lips and sharp-edged stubble, sitting up to watch my face as he undoes my jeans. As he does, though, he seems awkward again, slow and fumbling. His eyes are back to not meeting mine, sliding away from my gaze. “Just so you know,” he says, “I didn’t come here just to…seduce y-“
“You talk too much,” I cut him off huskily. Do I care any more why he came here? No. Yes. Well, I do, but this is not the time for that conversation. Maybe it’ll never be the time. And right now, I think I could live with that.
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Yeah, I know. It’s a character flaw,” he says, as he pulls my jeans off my hips.
There seems to be a last hesitation on his part before he strips my panties away, but it’s only for a moment; he looks into my face, and he must feel reassured by what he sees there – my eyes heavy-lidded, my tongue coming out to slick across my lips – because he takes them off and tosses them away without further delay.
He leans down, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of my thigh. I squirm and try to spread my legs wider. I won’t beg him, but I don’t think I need to. He’s a smart man, he can take a hint.
Lips brush over my core, and I moan. His tongue probes and prods, working slowly into me, and it feels so good. Like my bones are melting away, but in a good way. His mouth moves upward and starts to suckle me, making all kinds of slurping noises that somehow were never part of my fantasies before, but are more arousing than I would’ve guessed, and there’s no way I can deny him when a finger eases into my body. I push my hips against the slender intruder and tilt my head back on the cushions as I climax, gasping out his name.
He’s still between my legs when my brain finds its way back into the room again, tongue still gently stroking me. He looks up at me, sweat beaded across his brow, impossibly blue eyes intense and just a little bit smug.
He clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing, and I realize he’s still uncertain. It’s cute, endearing. “Don’t suppose you have any protection lying around…Allison?” There’s my name again, odd and welcome as it falls from his mouth.
I nod my head. “In the bedroom. I’ll go get them.” At least something good came of my tussle with Chase so long ago – I always make sure I’ve got condoms nearby. For the next time I decide to blow my inhibitions and common sense all to Hell with drugs.
But this isn’t one of those times.
When I get back, he’s still sitting on my couch. But this time he’s naked and rubbing his thigh. I start to ask him if it hurts, but I stop myself. Of course it hurts, and I don’t want to call attention to his injury right now. Don’t want to do anything that might even have a remote chance of starting him on his usual ‘You want me because I’m damaged’ routine.
Instead, I stand in front of him, tossing the condom next to him on the cushions, and wait. He pulls me into his lap immediately, making me straddle him, those lips going for my nipple again.
The condom gets pressed into service, and then I’m guiding him into me. He’s bigger than I expected, longer and wider, and it’s a snug fit. I move slowly at first, getting used to the stretching inside me. It feels good, better than anything’s felt in awhile.
But somehow, even better than that, is the way he’s watching me. Intense and intent, but nothing clinical about it. He’s enjoying my reaction, my pleasure, savouring it like a rare feast, and to watch this man who is usually so emotionally distant enjoying my reactions like this, to see this side of him? It thrills me, spurs the rise of heat in my belly and the sheen of sweat along my skin.
He’s breathing hard now, fingers tightly pressed to my hips, rock-hard inside me, and I want to come so badly that I slide my hand between us, rubbing my fingertips over my clit in little circles, and his eyes follow my motions, mouth slack with delight. It’s his eyes that I see as I close my own, pleasure washing over me in pinpricks and flashes.
House’s body tightens then, a last hard thrust up into me, and then comes the rhythmic pulsing as he gives in, head back and his eyes now squeezed shut. He collapses back against the cushions, pulling me down with him.
I lie still against him, rising and falling with his breaths, his arms still around me, callused fingertips ghosting up and down my spine. An edge of disquiet comes back, though. Now what? Is this going to be like his affair with Stacy, one roll in the hay and then things just end? I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
His breath ruffles my hair. “Pass me my jeans?”
Silently, I slip off of him and reach for the pile of clothes. When I pass them over, he extracts the bottle from his pocket. “Vicodin,” he says by way of explanation, even though I don’t ask.
It gives me a chance to reflect on what just happened. To wonder if maybe House is capable of change.
I want to feel hope. I want to ask what this all means. If what we just did together means something to him, if this is going to change things. For better or for ill.
But I don’t. Because this is House, and if I try to box him in with words, he’ll find a way to escape. Verbally at first, and then he’ll probably pull his clothes on and leave, and then pretend this never happened.
Maybe.
So I just do what I’ve been doing so far. I wait, and see what he says or does next. I sit next to him on the couch, letting my naked side press against his naked side, and I just wait.
His hand curls around the back of my neck again, and his lips take mine in a fierce kiss. No hesitation, not any more.
I think I have my answer, but he’s not quite done. “So…” House starts. His eyes are sliding everywhere but my face again, but somehow it doesn’t bother me. I think I see the illusion now. Or at least that I recognize what’s buried underneath it. “We should do this again sometime….say, next weekend?”
I smile. It’s progress. “Why not?”