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Fallen
by OldHamster
"Shit!"
You are on the floor beside your bed, your attempt to get into the living room aborted by your traitorous leg.
The pain jolted you awake at 6 a.m. You sat up, reached for the ever-present vial, dry-swallowed a Vicodin and swung your legs over the side of the mattress. Your plan was to go and lie on the couch until the drug took effect, so your thrashing and groaning wouldn't awaken her.
No such luck. One lurching step in the direction of the dresser, where your cane leaned, and the leg gave out. You fell to the floor, cursing. Which, of course, has caused the very thing you were hoping to avoid. She's awake.
"Greg!" She's kneeling on the bed, looking down at you with panic in her eyes. "What happened?"
"I've fallen and I can't get up," you say, instinctively falling back on humor to mask your humiliation. "Having a bad leg day. Why can't I just have bad hair days like normal people?"
She jumps off the bed. "Here, let's get you up. Lean on me."
"I can't put all my weight on you," you protest. She's so small; you'll crush her.
"You can, and you will." Her tone reminds you of Cuddy in full Boss Lady mode. She fetches your cane, places it in your left hand and pulls your right arm around her shoulders. "No arguments, Gregory. Up."
She only calls you Gregory when she means business -- much as you only call her Ally when you're dead serious. You sigh in resignation.
Between the cane supporting your left side and her supporting your right -- Allison Cameron, the world's most beautiful crutch, you think absently -- you are able to struggle back onto the bed. She takes your ankles in her hands and swings your legs up onto the mattress, then gently guides your head back onto the pillow.
The fall had taken your mind off the shooting pain. Now it's back, along with the disgust at yourself, your helplessness. You hate being dependent on others, even for a moment.
"Oh, man." You grimace, groan, massage your thigh, willing the pain to subside. It's not listening.
"Did you take a pill?" she asks, stroking your hair.
You nod. "Hasn't kicked in yet. Give it a few minutes."
Your pain-addled mind flashes back to the first time you took her to bed. You were torn between leaving the light on, so you could look at her, and turning it off so she wouldn't see you. Desire trumped embarrassment, and the light stayed on. You dreaded what you'd see on her face when she saw your ruined thigh. Revulsion, or worse, pity.
You saw neither. Only tenderness. She'd caressed the puckered, mangled skin and planted a succession of soft kisses along the length of the scar. Her fetish for damaged men? No, you knew somehow it wasn't that. She was embracing the damage because it was part of you, not because she thought she could love it away.
Now her hand is on your thigh again, resting just below where your own hand is futilely trying to squeeze the pain into submission. Her eyes have the same tenderness you saw that night.
"I want to help," she says softly. "Show me what to do."
You don't think it will do any good, but you place your hand over hers and guide it to the spot where it hurts the most. Your fingers press down on hers, silently directing her to the places where touch has occasionally helped to bring the pain down from a scream to a dull roar. It's not going to work this time, you tell yourself.
But it does.
It's as if her fingers have a direct line to your aching muscle. Slowly, the pain begins to release its grip. She is using both hands now, and they feel like the comforting words of a mother calming a child who's awakened hysterical from a nightmare.
You sigh with relief. It still hurts, it will always hurt, but on the 1-to-10 pain scale you doctors use, it's gone from a 15 to a 4.
You watch her. Her hands working, her head bent in concentration, sleep-mussed hair falling over her shoulders. You have made love dozens of times over the past year, but this is the most intimate moment you've ever shared.
You love her. You're not shy about using the L word, but since the first time you said it to each other, you've both used it casually most of the time, to wrap up a night together or a phone conversation. "Love you, bye." You love her the way you love your music, your motorcycle, your whiskey, your work. The way you loved Stacy. She makes you happy, she eases your pain. What's not to love?
But watching her massage your maimed leg, you realize there's been something missing.
Trust.
It's been a long time since you trusted anyone. You learned at an early age not to trust your parents. Your father hurt you; your mother allowed it. You trusted Stacy, but she betrayed you twice, first by authorizing the surgery that left you crippled, then by leaving. You trusted Wilson, but he turned you in, albeit for your own good. You've forgiven them, but their actions put the razor wire atop the wall you've built around your heart.
Until now.
I trust her.
No matter how many times you tried to push her away, with cruel comments, with outright "leave me alone" words and actions, you always knew that she cared and always would, even when you thought you didn't want her to. Even when she was seeing Chase, you believed that her heart wasn't in it, and you secretly hoped you were right. And you were.
Even after you became lovers, the wall stayed up. You believed that at any moment, something you'd said or done -- or failed to -- would drive her away. But she stayed. I can be as stubborn as you, Gregory House, her actions said. Keep pushing. I'm not moving ... unless it's to push back.
You remember a patient named Harvey, a woman named Annette. She was a dominatrix, and he was her -- lover? Friend? Client? All of the above? You asked her how it was possible that anyone could take pleasure in pain, when you'd give anything to be free of pain.
"It's not about pain," she'd said. "It's about being open and completely vulnerable to another person. If you can learn to be that deeply trusting, it changes you."
It changes you. It's changed me.
The realization washes over you, and it's almost like an orgasm, but not in your loins -- in your heart. It's bursting, breaking out of its cage. The part of you that can still think is invaded by thoughts of the Grinch's small heart growing three sizes that day, of the walls of Jericho tumbling down.
I love her. But now I've fallen in love with her. Falling. Someone needs to catch me. Allison, I trust you ... catch me ...
You want to call her name, but the only sound that comes out is a sob.
She looks up, sees a tear trickling from your eye, and pulls her hands away as if they'd just touched a hot surface. "Oh! I'm hurting you."
"No, no, far from it." You struggle to regain control of your runaway emotion. "You're helping. More than you know."
"But why ... ?" She touches your cheek, regarding the tear quizzically before brushing it away with her thumb.
"Long story. Let's just say ... I've fallen and I can't get up. And this time I don't want to. Come here."
She smiles. She understands. She always does. She lies down beside you, and as you hold her, the sleep that was so rudely interrupted returns to claim you both.
You dream of falling. She is there to catch you.
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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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