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Sometimes
by liam22
Sometimes, he wakes up in the morning wishing he'd never met her.
She was just too much for him. Too nice, too pretty, too forgiving.
Too fucking everything.
He knows he doesn't deserve her. There will always be that familiar doubt there, that mocking voice in his head constantly whispering, "One day she'll figure it out. One day she'll want more."
He already knows the end. She will pack up her belongings, leave only a resignation behind. Then she would ride off into the sunset with a fairytale prince who was everything he wasn't. It would hurt. He'd deny it, but it would hurt.
Whoever said "It's better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all" had obviously never met (loved?) Alison Cameron. Things would be easier, if he hadn't had that glimpse of what he could have.
He blames her for that. It is all her fault; after all, she did kiss him first. With every touch of her lips since then, the walls he had skillfully crafted would crack. Sometimes, he would remember their first kiss; she was soft and he could taste the subtleness of her cherry lip balm. The thought of cherries will forever bring him back to that.
He hates himself for those spontaneous soft thoughts, constantly taking the time to remind himself that there is another reason why they are a bad idea. She was making him soft. She no longer tries to change him, perhaps she never wanted to. But, it was happening just the same.
Sometimes, he wishes he could be free of her. Or at least, free to imagine what a disaster their relationship will eventually turn out to be. Assuming had always worked better for him. It was more fun than actually knowing the truth. That way there would always be a lesser chance of people (meaning him, of course) getting hurt. His quota was that people lied, but the philosophical side of him believed that the truth lied too.
It made him miserable, but that always worked for him too. Sometimes, when he would wake up in the morning with her close enough to touch, he remembers he can never be happy. He is just not that kind of person.
But, she is.
She is the kind of person who finds happiness in the small things, joy in the drudgery. The more time he spends with her, the harder it is to make fun of her, of her little habits and quirks. He'll never run out of sarcastic quips, but every once in awhile, he can't help but force himself to silence those hurtful words. After all, she's pretty when she smiles.
Sometimes, when she's smiling that smile at him, all he can see is her walking out the door. He wants to break it; twist it around so she can never smile at him like that again. Then to add to his self loathing, jealousy breaks through. He doesn't want her smiling like that at anyone else either.
Sometimes, he'd be stupid enough to be the one who brings their relationship outside the bedroom (something he always thought would be done by her). A candy bar, a hand on her shoulder, or lower if he thinks no one is looking. He can see her trying not to make anything out of it. She set the rules, but sometimes, when he gets too close in the lab, he wonders if she hopes that he'll break them. He supposes he will eventually. He also supposes that she probably knows that.
A smell wafted in from the kitchen and he groaned. She has ruined perfectly good pancakes with fruit again, hasn't she? He doesn't dwell on the fact that she would never put fruit in his pancakes. It was the principle. She just rolled her eyes, when he told her, and laughingly put a plate full of chocolate chip pancakes in front of him.
Sometimes he wishes they hadn't fallen into this disturbingly domestic pattern. She'll cook. She'll do his laundry. Hell, he even caught her dusting the other day. He has no idea why she gets so much pleasure out of cleaning things. His things. He isn't about to start complaining, that would mean he would have to start doing his own laundry again. Or God forbid, his own cooking.
Sometimes, he wakes up in the morning, wishing he never met her. He gets out of bed and sees her, ever so comfortable, making them breakfast in his kitchen. She smiles at him and greats him with a kiss before going back to flipping pancakes. Blueberry for her. Chocolate chip for him.
Sometimes, he thinks, he wakes up an idiot.
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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 NBC/Universal, 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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