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Morning Thoughts
by Wayland
She looked down at the face of the man who lay still sleeping, in the circle of her arms. In the early light of a summer's morning creeping around the edge of her drapes, she could scarcely believe that what she knew must be real, was real. She had waited, lately mostly without hope, for this day to come. Now it had and she asked herself what it had taught her about the enigma she had been trying to decode for years.
She considered the facade. Everything about his appearance announced "I don't care", from the untidy thatch and unshaven face to the too short jackets and tortured dress shirts, yet it was plain that maintaining that precise length of stubble was far more troublesome than simply a lazy man's intermittent shaving would be. It had not escaped her notice either, that the abused shirts as well as his suit jackets were of the very best quality. The same went for the tuxedo he wore on the formal occasions he could not escape. That fitted him beautifully, she thought, so he had to spoil the effect by wearing it with sneakers. She guessed the tuxedo dated back to the time before the infarction, with all its consequences for his self image.
So this was the care-less front of a man of taste, a perfectionist whose shabbiness was expensive, like his appreciation of books and pictures and fine furniture. She had only that one brief entry into his apartment, and that in a tense moment, but she had absorbed the impression of quality along with the bachelor clutter.
It was interesting to her that everything he associated closely with himself was not quite right, not damaged exactly, but a poor fit. Was she herself a poor fit? Was that why she had at last prevailed? She could not pretend to decipher the workings of the extraordinary brain that presently idled beside her; shielded behind closed lids. Only occasional half-concealed messages reached her, camouflaged within layer upon layer of confusing (confused?) signals.
Actions, she could attest, were what mattered. What was revealed about a person when you slept with them, she thought, was more than this very guarded individual would have bargained for. Not the mere familiarity of the other's body, though this she both relished and had longed for. Sexual response was learned, just like any other and was the sum of an individual's experience, plus their own assertion of personality and need. Ego, selfishness, a determination to control; all these she had encountered in the handful of relationships that formed her past. She had not known what to expect from him, only an intense desire to find out.
She had always regarded the not infrequent references to hookers as largely a distraction, to throw others off their game or keep them guessing. She was even more convinced that this was the case now, He simply did not behave around her in the manner of a man who was frequently intimate with women, whether he had paid for the privilege or not. They were both, in truth, a little rusty at this game, as an ache from underused muscles could attest.
She had reasoned that she could safely assume he would be skilled enough, if it mattered to him how she felt. Passion, yes, she had hoped for that. What took her by surprise was his generosity and great tenderness. That she had not bargained for, any more than she had expected him to remain so close, their limbs entangled, until the shrilling of the nerves in his damaged leg demanded he move.
That was not part of the facade.
She felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath her palm, while her gaze examined his sleeping face minutely. The long features, too long to be classically handsome but given definition by the not-quite-a-beard; the pulse beating at the left temple, just beside his eye and which became more prominent in times of stress; the sensitive mouth and just below it, on the right side of his jaw, the small patch of greying whiskers, which she privately considered cute. A sign of ageing, yes; she didn't care. She knew, better than most, that youth's bloom could be deceptive; had learned to live in the moment.
A small sound, between a snore and a snort and his eyes flicked open. For a moment their bright blue gaze was open, honest, then like the shutter of a camera, but soundlessly, the view was veiled. Not hostile, but inaccessible. He pulled himself upright and turning away from her, sat on the edge of the bed, only his back exposed.
"Any chance of coffee?" he said.
She smiled to herself behind the shelter of his broad shoulders.
"I think that can be arranged, House", she said, and plucking her hastily discarded robe from the floor beside her, arrived in a standing position with considerable grace, under the circumstances.
"Not `Greg'?" he said, eyebrows raised. "I was sure you would want it to be `Greg'."
"Too risky", she said. "Besides, I can say `House' twenty different ways."
"I noticed", he said. Suddenly a smile, as brief as it was boyish, flashed out, revealing the rarely seen dimples under the scruff.
Oh yes, she thought, it was definitely going to be worth it. END
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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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