| |
Share This Motion as Well
by Laura
Share This Motion as Well
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Pilot, Sports Medicine
Feedback: For the provided snark?
Summary: The defiant look on her face and hand on her hip are more than suggesting he's wrong.
::.::.::
They walk back towards the car, and with nearly every step his cane wrestles with the loose gravel in the parking lot. He'd give anything for some firm ground right now.
"Will you hurry?"
He watches her walk ahead of him through his expelled breaths, which linger longer than usual because of the temperature.
"And all this time I was under the impression that this cane made me walk faster than I used to."
She beats him to the car again; she's standing by the left front tire, food in one hand and the other is playing with the pass that's still around her neck. He'd lose to her forever because there's something about her that makes the end of a journey worthwhile. He doesn't dwell on that too long, he deals better with facts, something concrete. He has the urge to take out some paper and a pen and try to break her down into numbers. A proof, with reasoning principles he'd be able to find some truth in her, or make this entire situation more tangible, just a little more in his control.
"What are you thinking?"
He's been standing at the car, apparently for a few minutes, unaware. With a tilt of his head he tries to make this believable.
"Validation by numbers. Searching for truth in the universal language."
"Love?"
"No, I-"
His uncharacteristic loss of words makes her chuckle.
"Math. I meant math."
She doesn't respond, but the slight purse of her lips suggests she knew all along.
"Where are your keys?"
"Are you my mother, now? Because I've got to tell you, if you are we're going to have some serious Oedipal issues to deal with."
"I'm not going to touch that," holding her hand out, "but hand over the car keys, please."
"You don't think I can drive?"
"I want to drive your car."
"The reason?"
"If you want to use logic to explain every choice I've made, you've picked the wrong person to take on a not-date."
He pretends to mull over her statement. Really, though, he's singing to himself in his head. With a suitcase in my hand ...
"Greg?"
Whoa, the blue light was my baby ... and the red light was my mind.
"Hello?"
"I've thought it over. You can drive."
She grabs the keys from his outstretched hand.
"It's not polite to snatch."
The defiant look on her face and hand on her hip are more than suggesting he's wrong.
"You'd already made up your mind. You just wanted me to squirm."
"I'm sure you squirming would just cap off this night perfectly-"
"Morning."
He glances at his watch; it's 1:53 a.m. Damn, she's right. Moving on.
"Is it past your bedtime? I'll warm up a cup of milk for you before you go to bed."
"Don't worry about me." As she's opening the car door, "I can go all night."
He walks around to the passenger side door. After he opens it, he tosses his cane on the backseat, and then gets in the car.
She starts the car and waits for his predictable epigram, at her expense, no less.
Turning towards her, he puts a hand on the back of her seat. The other hand is resting on the word `airbag', etched onto the dashboard in front of his seat.
"One can only assume that when you said-"
"When I said I could go all night," putting a hand on either side of his mouth, she squeezes until his lips pucker, "I meant it every way you can take it."
Her hands slide off of his face, purposefully slow if you ask him, and she fastens her seatbelt. Still in his leering/lewd comment position from a moment earlier, his eyes go wide when she reaches down between them with her right hand.
"Tell me what to do."
"Uh-"
Hearing the familiar sounds of the car switching into drive, he coughs with the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"You're going to give me directions, right?"
"Yes. While I'm making scathing, yet accurate, comments about female drivers."
"Good. Fasten your seatbelt," as she turns the radio on, searching for a song. "Something might happen."
The words "I never seen a light move like yours ..." whisper from the radio, and he's passing time by counting streetlights.
"Take a right up here."
"Sure, boss."
Ten minutes go by and he can still feel her hands on his face and her words at his ears. He thinks of the road that they're leaving behind, at fifty-seven m.p.h., and knows there isn't any going back.
"Take another right at the next light."
"Where exactly are we going?"
He sighs and his breath fogs over a portion of the window to his right. With a flourish of his index finger, he writes a question mark in the condensation. For a few seconds he stares at the interrogative mark, and then wipes it off with the palm of his hand.
"I'm not sure, but we'll know when we get there."
She eyes him curiously and keeps driving.
Please post a comment on this story.
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.
|
|
|