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Breaking the Girl
by Valerie
I am a man
Cut from the know
Rarely do friends
Come and then go
She was a girl
Soft but estranged
We were the two
Our lives rearranged
Part One: Cameron
They didn't see it in him, the emotion, the caring, and the regret. They thought he didn't feel but she knew better. He hides so firmly behind his intelligence and wit but his eyes give it away. They thought he didn't display emotions but that wasn't it. He can't express them in words; he might limp in the physical sense but he is a gymnast when it comes to words, yet only when used in defense. In those naked raw moments they escape him and the only way he can convey them is through touch.
It had started off innocent enough. A date to a monster truck rally, something she probably wouldn't have bothered attending if it hadn't been him that asked. Slowly they started spending more time together outside of work; a casual dinner after shift here, a piano concert there. She remembers that night like its on slow motion. They were both hurting; the death of the patient had roused old wounds in each. He had turned his body to face her from his seat on the piano bench, his scotch glass slowly leaving a condensation on the smooth black surface. He had been playing melancholy tunes all night and with a serious look said, "Come here". She had risen and gone to him, straddling the piano bench so she was facing him directly. He just looked at her a moment, raising his had to stroke her face. She had closed her eyes at the contact, so desperately needed. He had kissed her then, at first slow and savoring. She responded in kind, desire and need causing her to deepen it.
No words were spoken as a fire was lit between them, fueled with by despair. She learned that night that Greggory House was a deeply emotional man. Every emotion he poured into her as he touched her. Trying to bury his desperation in her. She was no different, frantically trying to subsume him into herself and vice versa. His touch burned with a bittersweet passion laced with despair and dread. Dread that this connection would not last. That what the other saw in each other would disappear. It is why she had been so persistent to help him, because if she could help him, maybe there was hope for herself, just maybe she could feel again. She didn't count on him inspiring the feelings, but she saw too much of her own pain reflected in him.
They "relationship" continued, furtive moments of longing colored by anguish. It wasn't a relationship the way others would think of it if they knew. They acted the same at work, though she suspected Wilson had an idea of what was going on. No they had a purely physical relationship, there were no cards or poetry, neither of them did romance and that wasn't what they were in it for, it was about release. It was purely physical, but she knew that was a lie even as she thought it. There was too much emotion conveyed to be only physical, even if the emotion didn't always directly relate to each other.
She remembered the first time she made love to him. No desperation, except the yearning to have him return her feelings. She had fallen for him, the gruff and sarcastic man, not the doctor, or the bastard, but the man, the man she had gotten to see exposed and vulnerable through their night time activities, the had more silent conversations than actual ones but he said so much more in silence then he ever did when he spoke, except on those rare occasions when she would breach his barriers and draw it out of him.
Not that it wasn't a mutual thing; he had a way of reaching inside of her with only a look. They had been sitting in his apartment, him at the piano and her listening, one of the more frequent ways they spent their nights together. He was playing such a melancholy piece and somehow they ended up talking about his past, the vulnerability and stripped emotion she felt from him hit her and she realized as he sat there and played that she loved him. She loved him a man and not a means to her salvation.
That was the night she decided to convey it, not in words but in touch. He knew, he could tell immediately that she wasn't trying to loose herself in him but draw him back in to the present, to feel that she was there with him, for him. He never did know how to respond to emotion and it was too much for him. They next day he barely spoke to her and they didn't spend any nights together in his bed for 2 weeks.
It didn't last. Like the addict he is he returned to her, she could take away a pain the vicodin couldn't touch. Yet still it was about the escape for him. She knew he cared for her, knew he felt for her, but he couldn't love her, it scared him too much to let her in that deep. And so she has been stuck in limbo, unable to truly be with him. Slowly what had once been her comfort was becoming her pain, but then she was an addict to. Didn't he see what this was doing to her? She thought so, but he was too destitute and her to far gone to stop it and so they created their own desolation.
Twisting and turning
Your feelings are burning
You're breaking the girl
**************************************************************************************
She was the girl
Left alone
Feeling the need
To make me her home
Part Two: House
He had watched her hair swish as she walked back to the lab to meet with the other 2 stooges. He knew the question of pregnancy was bugging her, so he wasn't surprised when she poised the question to him; he'd been expecting it really. She was such a mystery, a puzzle really, and he everyone knows he's a sucker for a puzzle. But it was more than that if he was honest to himself, something he was loath to do. He could see it in her, in those wide eyes of hers. She had the same kicked puppy look Wilson would get from time to time, but there was steel behind it. She was a locked box like him; she just didn't wear it on the surface as much. It had been a spur of the moment idea to invite her, after Wilson had been unable to go he though he'd just resell them, but the talk of pregnancy reminded him of the time with the sick babies and he had felt a twang of guilt for upsetting her, yet also a twang of curiosity. Thinking back on it he knew that other than Wilson there was no one else he would want to go with, for some reason he knew he could stand her company and that made him even more curious. It was such a simple last minute decision that would change both of their lives.
He had had a good time, better than he expected really and slowly they started spending more time together. Instead of lonely dinners of take out Chinese they would go to a dinner close to the hospital. He had invited her to a piano recital of one of his favorite pianists; he knew she'd appreciate it and not ruin the moment with talk. She always spoke so personally, her questions probing and blunt. Somehow she knew it was the only way to get him to answer and not spit out a blithe meaningless remark couched in sarcasm.
He remembers the night it happened. The patient's death had been hard on both of them and their old wounds were raw that night and they had kissed, there on his piano bench. He had been slow at first, testing her, and she had responded with eagerness, he body arching towards his. That night he finally released his pent up emotions against all logical reason. At first he had been worried that she would be hurt; play the girl and want demonstrative displays of emotion from him, but he soon realized that she gained a similar release from being with him and so they continued to spend time together, usually at his place, with him at the piano and her listening, unless it was one of the times when he was teaching her to play. She had the perfect hands for it.
All went well for a while, but just like that night be remembers the night it all changed, her and her damned pithy questions, drawing him out of his solitude. He hated that. He couldn't hide from her. Yet it was such a release to have human company and not need to speak. More was said without words anyways. Her words were powerful though he was left feeling stripped raw. It was different that night. She wasn't loosing herself; she was drawing him back to her. She was making love to him. It was so overwhelming he just couldn't stand it. If he were still able to access that inner part of him he would realize it was what he needed to really start healing, but he was too cut off, even from himself, to be that self-aware. And so he had stopped it. He had barely looked at her the next day and the next two weeks were cold and lonelier than usual.
Of course it didn't last. He was an addict after all and she had become his new drug. He didn't even notice his leg as much around her, it was like it faded in to the background. She accepted him back, though he isn't sure why, perhaps because she was as weak and damaged as him. He knew it was hurting her, and in truth it was hurting him too though he refused to acknowledge it. He knew he should end it. He knew he should give her what she needed. He just couldn't. He couldn't give her what she wanted, what she needed. He couldn't heal her. He might be a doctor but he wasn't a healer. This was the one cure he couldn't give, and he hated himself for it.
She meant you no harm
Think you're so clever
But now you must sever
You're breaking the girl
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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