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End of the Day Comes Too Soon and Tomorrow'€™s Hard to Tell
by Laura
End of the Day Comes Too Soon and Tomorrow's Hard to Tell
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Pilot, Sports Medicine
Feedback: I'd be appreciative.
Summary: His breath hitting her cheek, there's a different look in his eyes now; it makes her warm, impatient, and downright unsure about her place in the universe.
Random: I was writing an essay for English, concerning beauty; it was open-ended. About seven pages into it I thought of this story, and realized quite suddenly that I wasn't finished with it. Not even close.
::.::.::
It's a painfully typical roadside diner.
"What the hell kind of name is `Diner-topia'?" He asks while opening the door of the diner.
She walks in ahead of him and wonders if it's at all possible to find acerbic comments sexy, because she's dangerously close to something.
::.::.::
They'd driven for a while; he'd grumbled his way through three radio stations before she gave him a glare. Having hardly been in any situations that warranted said glare, she took pride in its effectiveness.
"Fine," tilting his head towards the radio, "you find something. I'm sure there's a station that plays sappy love songs sung by the children of actual musicians. No doubt they have a slew of commercials for teeth-whitening and home mortgages at fixed rates for thirty years."
She stared at him with an amused look on her face. Thinks it might be past his bedtime.
"What?" His right hand leaves the steering wheel and goes to his thigh. Fingers drumming, palm thumping against denim, he was living proof of Einstein's relativity theory. The seconds were passing slowly. He swears he can feel each one move through him, bringing little changes.
"You're funny."
"I'm literally a hoot. Two hoots if I'm liquored up good enough."
Squinting, "That's not what I meant. When you go into your rants you get this glazed-over look in your eyes while staring off into the distance. Lost to the world."
First resort, "You're so attentive. When you grow up you should be some type of--" waves his hand around, for effect, "doctor. You know, `First do no harm', and all those other pretty idioms."
"Attentiveness doesn't have anything to do with it. You said so yourself."
He gives her a `you're-telling-me-what-I said-?' face. Along with the bulk of faces he makes, she just shakes it off, unaffected.
Leaning a few inches closer to him, "You said you hired me because I'm aesthetically pleasing."
"About that," moving his hand back to the wheel as he stops at a red light, "the Greeks thought that beauty lies in the symmetry of an object."
"You're claiming an ancient civilization is to blame for the pretense under which you hired me?"
Smiles, but it's brief, "The distance from your brow to your hairline," his steady, surprisingly graceful hand brushes hair away from her forehead, "compared to, let's say ... the distance from your nose to your chin," his thumb and forefinger, inches apart, touch her face. It's a whisper and it's gone a breath later.
"I think ..."
His breath hitting her cheek, there's a different look in his eyes now; it makes her warm, impatient, and downright unsure about her place in the universe.
"We should--"
A car horn interrupts her reply, but he continues regardless of the traffic pattern.
"Beauty, in its most basic terms, is simplicity. One section of your face is inversely proportional to the other, and for the majority of the population, that's pleasing to the eyes. But--"
The car's horn interrupts again. He pays it no mind.
"We as humans, thinking, feeling creatures, can't deal with beauty in just its most basic form. Our reaction to an object, whether it's a puddle of oil on a driveway or a ninety-pound supermodel, is beauty at its most complex. The ability to evoke emotion, to wrench it from us, willing or not; it's satisfying, invigorating, or just maddening. It's chemical processes and the escalated beat of one's heart."
A few irritated drivers are moving around his car now, their passing sometimes accented with a crude gesture or comment. He's heard it all before. She hasn't, but at the moment feels like she's stuck, and not just in a sea of pissed off strangers.
"In ten or twenty years I'll look different, everyone will. Our habits, our environment, and maybe some luck," he rolls his eyes, "looks are fleeting."
"There's always, on some level, a response--"
"Things change but stay the same."
"Yes. The good thing about being human is that beauty doesn't go away. It's fixed, not relative. It's impossible to compare two things on looks alone; beauty is infinitely subjective. Fifty years from now your symmetrical, well-proportioned face all but guarantees that I would--"
There's knocking on his window, just another in a long line of interruptions. Like a flipped switch, he's already annoyed before the window is completely down.
"Yes?"
Allison leans forward to glance outside his window. It's an average looking man, late twenties to early thirties. The look on his face suggests that he's not in agreement with House's improvisational parking.
"I have to be somewhere, you know."
"And just how does getting out of your car to talk to complete strangers help you get there faster?"
She muffles her laughter. Judging by the look the man gives her she didn't do it too well.
Average looking man is becoming annoyed by House's nonchalant attitude.
"You're in the middle of the street. You're blocking traffic!"
"Both of those statements are, in fact, true. One could say blatantly obvious."
"I'm calling the police. I don't have to deal with this shit!"
"You want to call the police? Put me in my place? Be a big, tough man? Be my guest. But first," he turns around and reaches for something behind his seat.
Scared that he's going to pull out some intricately carved homemade weapon, she grabs his forearm. He looks down, as if to make a point that she's touching him, and then up at her.
"Greg--"
Quietly, "Don't worry your pretty little ass. Just sit tight a moment longer."
Letting go of his arm, she trusts he's not going to do anything stupid. That fact makes her feel slightly ridiculous.
He turns back around quickly - with his cane. Average looking man doesn't look impressed by the cane. Most aren't.
"So what? It's a cane."
"You're such a clever little man, aren't you? Try looking at things from my perspective. I could say that you're harassing me; I'm a poor, lonely, defenseless man with a limp. Pressing the gas pedal for extended periods of time makes my leg hurt, oh so bad. You're going to look like a real bastard, huh?"
Average man's face turns several shades of red, and then he turns around and walks away.
Leaning out of the window, "Wait! Come back! We haven't done each other's hair yet! At least tell me where you got those shoes!"
Before he has the chance to yell any other comments at the retreating man's back, she grabs his collar and pulls him back into the car.
He stares at her, an incredulous look on his face.
Shrugging, "I wanted to get your attention."
Trying to straighten his now crooked collar, he addresses her. "A simple `Greg?' would've sufficed. But what am I thinking? Only civilized people use language instead of force."
"You don't listen to most of what people say to you. Unless you're going to use it to throw back into someone's face. Besides," turning up the song that's playing on the radio, "this way is more fun."
He doesn't respond to the fact that she repeated his own words from earlier back to him. Not sure if that's a good sign or not, she stares out her window.
His foot eases off of the brake, and they're once again on their way.
Minutes later she sees movement out of the corner of her eye, and turns towards him. His hand is back on this thigh again; she notices he's playing along with the song on the radio. She's a little surprised that he knows `Excitable Boy', but more surprised that he knows how to play the piano. Noticing her staring at his hand, still keeping up with the music, he stops abruptly. Turning back towards the window, she wonders what else he's ashamed of.
::.::.::
Now they're at this diner, predictably in the middle of nowhere. It's somewhere; he just doesn't care for it much. They've been inside the diner for less than a minute and two people have already smiled at him. That kind of unabridged friendliness nauseates him to no end.
A waitress walks up to them. Looks to be mid-thirties, according to the nametag her name is Bobbie, and she has three pens in her blonde hair. He's sure she's not aware of that fact, and she may even have a stapler in there she doesn't know about.
"You guys doing good today?"
She decides to cut him off before he says something to get them both kicked out of the diner. She's really hungry.
"We're good, thanks." She just knows that he's glaring at her.
"You guys want the counter or a table?"
"A table would be good," thinking for a second, "actually, a booth would be better."
Bobbie pastes on her customer service smile, "Follow me."
As they're trailing behind the waitress, he leans down and whispers, "A booth? Are we going to share a milkshake and talk about study hall?"
Slightly annoyed for thinking of him, "Your leg. I thought you'd be more comfortable."
"Oh," as they arrive at the table.
"I'll be back in a few minutes with the menus, hmm?" Bobbie says.
He watches Bobbie leave, and silently prays that her service is better than her sentence structure.
Meanwhile, Allison slides into the booth and takes off her jacket, which she throws next to her on the worn vinyl seat.
He clears his throat.
She sees him standing next to her. "Scoot."
Confused, "What?"
Exasperated sigh. "You know. Scoot. Intransitive verb, Scandinavian origin; it means to move swiftly or to slide while seated. Example: Scoot over and let me sit down."
"Thanks for the life-changing etymology lesson, Professor House. I've never loved words until this exact moment."
Grinning, "You have hidden sarcasm. I knew it."
Smiling, because him grinning warrants that, "Anyway. You really want me to move?"
"No, I just like wasting breath. Yes! Move so I can sit down."
She moves over and he slides into the booth. He tosses his cane on the seat opposite them and puts his leg up next to it.
Groaning, "Ah, that's glorious."
Noticing his foot on the other seat, "Is your leg bothering you?"
"My leg," taking his Vicodin bottle from his pocket, he takes a pill out, swallowing it dry. Cap back on, he returns the bottle to his pocket.
"My leg is always bothering me. If it's not the pain it's the impaired mobility."
Menus appear in front of them. "You guys want a drink?"
Bobbie's back and smiling.
He's too quick this time, "Yes. I'll have coffee. None of that decaf monstrosity, either."
"So," turning to her, "what do you want?"
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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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