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Implicit Function
by Laura
Implicit Function
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Pilot, Sports Medicine
Feedback: If you want.
Summary: Underneath the palm of her hand, the affected beat of his heart is a subtle reminder that neither of them really knows any better.
::.::.::
"I'll have ..."
If she takes any longer he's going to take out a stopwatch and time her. It must be a world record. Some money could be made from this horrid situation.
"Allison."
Scanning the menu like a patient's chart, her lips pressed in a thin line. It's the universal symbol for a woman on the edge; if he says one rude comment or thoughtless remark, she'll be angry. The chance to throw her off balance, even a little bit, is irresistible. His fingers, once splayed on the Formica table, are fidgeting as scenarios fly through his mind at a speed that scares even him. It's a rush, and he marvels as his imagination paints Technicolor possibilities on the backs of his eyelids.
He looks at Bobbie standing there smiling at them. It's a guise; he knows she's thinking of a way to speed things up, too. Mentally saluting her, he turns his attentions back to Allison.
Sliding closer to her, "What's the problem?"
"Give me a second, okay?"
Leaning even closer, he pretends he's glancing at the menu. He's trying to unnerve her; most don't like people in their personal space. With his eyes working their way down the menu he'd so much as memorized minutes earlier, he moves a little closer. He's at the end of the appetizers and ... crap. He just looked down the front of her shirt. It was an accident! He couldn't help himself, really. Why try to fight nature when you can go along with it? He's almost in her lap at this point and he wonders why she hasn't seemed to notice.
Slowly turning her head, she looks at him but speaks to the waitress. "I'll have coffee, too."
Somewhat relieved, "You want anything to eat with that?"
He turns towards Bobbie to reply, but instead, "Ow!"
Allison's hand is on his leg, like a vice, and he wonders what the hell she's been eating.
Suddenly she has a `girl-next-door' smile, which makes what her hand is doing to the muscles in his thigh even more sadistic.
"Yes. Would you mind giving us a few minutes, though?"
"Sure." Bobbie leaves and takes any hope of him getting out of this situation with her.
With no pretense, "What is your problem?"
Feigning innocence, but it's hard with her squeezing the life out of his leg, "Actually, you're the one with the death grip on my--"
"I'm a doctor, I know exactly where my hand is and what it's doing. Answer me."
For the sake of his leg he decides he should just tell her what she wants to know.
"If you insist, I was trying to get freak you out a little. Bother you. You're a real killjoy, but I'm sure you already know that."
"You're a jerk most of the time, but I like you better when you're not trying to be a jerk."
"Golly gee, as long as you like me--"
"You want to do something to freak me out? Be nice to me," letting go of his leg, "it won't kill you."
Anything's got to be better than this, he thinks. He rubs his thigh, hoping the blood is still circulating.
As she picks up the menu again, he considers her statement. For about three seconds. At least she didn't notice him taking a peek down the--
"Do I have to stop wearing low-cut shirts around you?"
Trying not to smile, she's still looking at the menu. He's not fooled.
"Don't flatter yourself. It was accidental."
"You were staring. I thought you'd lost your car keys down the front of my shirt."
"Now that you mention it, I lost a wristwatch last week," he leans forward.
She places a hand on his chest to stop him from moving closer. Or to stop herself. They're sitting hip-to-hip, his arm casually across the back of their seat. If she didn't know any better, she'd be a little anxious. Underneath the palm of her hand, the affected beat of his heart is a subtle reminder that neither of them really knows any better.
"Accelerated heart rate."
She feels the muscles in his chest tense and believes she might've hit a nerve.
With a smirk, "Diagnosis?"
"An underlying case of insanity, aggravated by stress and a negative outlook on life."
"Excellent. Treatment?"
"Try to get more fun out of life--"
"This life?"
Faux-stern look, "It's not polite to interrupt."
"And I'm so concerned with politeness."
"Excuse me," Bobbie's back, with her voice hinting at inconvenience.
She places two cups of coffee on the table. "Did you make up your minds yet?"
"Yes," taking her hand from his chest, "I'd like a tuna melt."
"Anything on the side?"
"No."
"And you, sir?"
"A double bacon cheeseburger with extra lettuce, tomato, and onion. I want it rare. I don't mean rare as in medium-rare, I mean rare. Actually, if it's possible, I'd like to see the thing killed in front of me. Just to make sure."
"Rare," said Bobbie, loud enough to hear three tables away.
"I want to be able to smell the blood coming from it."
"Greg," in a hushed whisper.
Ignoring Allison next to him, "That's all, Bobbie. Thanks for playing."
As soon as Bobbie is out of earshot, "You were doing so well, too."
"Is this an exam of some sort? If I fail, do I get a do-over?"
"No, it's not. But you only get one chance."
"This is my entertainment. I don't understand why people want me to change my behavior."
"It's not so much that," she sighs, deciding whether she should continue.
"I'll save you the trouble," staring her straight in the eye. "The wry comments, the rants, and breaking people's spirits are because I can't stand to sit on the sidelines. That cane, and everything associated with it, is a daily reminder of something I want to forget. I wasn't too personable before this," patting his right leg, "but I had hobbies that I enjoyed, at least."
She's tearing up, even with the lack of centrifuges, and tries to turn away before he notices.
Turning back towards him, "How's your leg?"
"I already told you--"
Shaking her head, "No. I meant from when I grabbed it."
"It's ... okay. You didn't make it worse, if that's what you thought."
"Don't move suddenly," as she turns backwards in her seat. Grasping the back of their booth with one hand, she starts to slide her leg over him.
"It's my leg, not my--"
"Watch out." She slides her other leg over and she's unintentionally straddling him.
"We're in a public place," while his hands move to her sides.
She finishes sliding over him, turns around to give him a dirty look, and then walks to the cashier.
In the meantime, he tries to think of some witty comment in regards to what she just did (there isn't one). He's shocked that his unlimited supply of sarcasm may, very well indeed, be limited.
She comes back to the booth with a big plastic bag. Also present: a smile.
"Could you hand me my coat, please?"
He hands her the coat. As she's putting it on, the hem of her shirt rides up a few inches and he sees what looks like a tattoo peeking out from the waist of her pants. His jaw clenches; half of his blood supply rushes to his face, and the other half goes, not with a whimper but with a bang, to his groin. He's never been in so much trouble.
"Get your coat, we're leaving."
She hands him his cane as he stands up to put on his coat.
"The food?"
Holding up the plastic bag, "Paid for."
Buttoning his coat, "Is this the part when you tell me what's going on?"
"You said you had things you enjoyed?"
He hopes that's a non sequitur. "Yes. Why?"
As she takes his arm to lead him out of the diner, "Show me."
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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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