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A Pretty Taste For Paradox
by Laura
A Pretty Taste For Paradox
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Sports Medicine
Feedback: Don't crush me.
Summary: Ten hours later she's in his apartment, at his piano, and he's overwhelmed by her dreadfully vibrant cacophony.
::.::.::
He slides his hand from her neck and into his pocket to prevent the gesture from becoming habitual.
Her eyes open as she shifts against him. His hand returns to the base of her neck.
"You're not supposed to look directly at the sun."
"True."
"It's supposedly bad for our eyes," she whispers against his shoulder.
He looks at her and wonders why people can't just enjoy something. Take it for what it is.
"Probably."
"I'd hate to miss the rest of this, but where's the bathroom?"
He slides his hand away again and grips the railing in her place.
"You're not missing much. The sun will be here tomorrow."
"I know." She moves her arm from around his waist. "It's not the sun I think won't be here tomorrow."
"This," he begins, but then realizes what she's implying.
The closest he can come to looking her in the eye is to stare at the ground near her feet. Why would she wear boots with a two-inch heel to a monster truck rally?
"The bathroom?" she tries again.
"Left." His gaze stays on the ground. "Two doors down."
"Thanks."
His head doesn't come back up until she's gone from sight. The fleeting affects of the rising sun have painted his portrait onto the glass of the balcony door. He stares at his reflection; a moment captured in light and atmosphere, and feels the weight of every single bone in his weary frame.
He walks back into his bedroom, closing the balcony door quietly behind him. He limps over to his bed. First shrugging off his jacket, then button down shirt, he tosses them on the bed. With a groan he sits down, then flops backwards on the bed and stares at the ceiling. Arms folded behind his head, he's curious as to why she is still there. She's the first thing in a long time he can't fully comprehend; he's irritated, not au fait (French always comes back to him an insult) due to lack of information. Knowledge was his first drug and she may be the fix that kills him.
::.::.::
His bathroom was virtually spotless and she stifles the urge to ask him what he uses to clean his mirrors.
Upon entering his bedroom, she's both amused and concerned about what she sees in front of her. It's her boss, a constant source of frustration and arousal, fast asleep. He's flat on his back with arms above his head. She's never seen him so unguarded and walks closer to get a better look.
Her gaze travels to his face first. He appears younger when resting. There's a twitch in his jaw; apparently he grinds his teeth while sleeping. He's probably not used to being quiet for so long. His neck gives way into broad shoulders. Watching the rise and fall of his chest underneath an old t-shirt, she counts each breath and wants them all for herself. Moving further down his body, she stops when her gaze lands on his groin. She remembers the way he felt pressed against her, with insistent hands and eyes blazing a trail for his mouth to follow. At the hospital, watching him with patients, his touch is impersonal, a means by which to find facts that solve anatomical puzzles. There is so much tied up in his touch, but hours ago for a transitory moment, it had only been her.
The shoes she had put on hours before were starting to bother her feet. She sits down on the edge of the bed and one at a time unzips her boots and slides them off her feet. Suddenly craving salt, she leaves the boots on the floor by the bed and heads towards the kitchen.
Standing in front of the opened refrigerator, she's counted two half eaten cartons of Chinese food, four slices of pizza, one cheeseburger and a greasy brown paper bag of which the contents can't be anything healthy. She decides to look through his cabinets, hoping to find something edible. The kitchen is dusty and she suspects he doesn't spend much time there. Still, there are books scattered on the counter and the small table nearby.
She finds, of all things, animal crackers in a cabinet above the stove. Compared with the other food she's discovered, the animal crackers are a welcome find. Taking a handful of crackers she steps out of the kitchen and decides to take a look around. He won't mind. Not as long as he doesn't find out, anyway.
Somewhat methodical in the strangest of times, she goes back to where it had begun. The piano. It was the first thing she had seen when she entered the apartment. This entire situation so far had been a not-so-clear-cut journey of chances taken and feelings that are usually ignored and most definitely left unsaid. The piano is another piece of him that she'll take with her when she leaves, regardless of what happens between them. She presses down on the keys with a palm of her hand. It sounds like the musical equivalent of a car accident. Undeterred, she sits down on the bench to try again. One key at a time won't hurt. She can't make a single key sound that bad.
::.::.::
He wakes up in a panic and jumps out of bed. His leg protests, naturally.
"Fucking motherfucker!"
The pills are ever-present in his pocket. He takes one out and dry swallows it.
He forgets about his leg sometimes. The few seconds after he wakes up, but before he collects his thoughts, the infarction and its consequences don't exist. If he moves that's all blown to shit. When he doesn't move it's nice for a few seconds to not have a physical reminder of his own limitations.
Turning around to get his cane from the bed, he hears a noise. Actually, it's more of a bang. Then he looks at the bed and sees the various items strewn across it. Cane, coat, shirt, and coat. He edges closer to take the cane and his foot hits something; a leather boot. After doing the apparel arithmetic he remembers. Allison.
'My aim is true ...'
He makes a mental note to stop listening to Elvis Costello, who encourages errant thoughts. The sound of her torturing his baby grand shakes him from reflection. He takes off his shoes, making sure to throw them out of the way so he doesn't trip over them later, and heads towards the gut-wrenching sound of a grief-stricken arpeggio.
Upon reaching the threshold of the room, he sees her, head bowed and sitting in front of his piano. It's very personal and makes him apprehensive. He had intended to see some angry, bone crunching, metal on metal action contained in the glory that is monster trucks. Ten hours later she's in his apartment, at his piano, and he's overwhelmed by her dreadfully vibrant cacophony. He should go over to her, if only to prevent the assisted suicide of his piano. Eyes following the grain in his hardwood floor, he agonizes over the inability to self-confidently make choices outside of work.
Go to her. Don't go to her. Breathe. Go to her. Don't go to her. Don't. Don't.
He stares at the ground, willing it to keep his secrets, and pretends he can make this decision.
Breathe. Do nothing. Do something. Breathe. React.
Getting a firmer grip on his cane and a steadier grip on his nerves, he starts to make his way to her. By walking with his cane in sync with her erratic playing, he manages to walk up behind her undetected. He can smell himself on her and wishes her hands were somewhere else.
::.::.::
This is harder than she remembers. Brief lessons over a few summer vacations did little to increase whatever musical aptitude she did have. She stops in mid-play when she feels something hard pressed into her lower back. Kneecaps. There's a shadow looming over the piano, which can only mean he's awake and standing directly behind her.
"Have a nice look around?"
She turns around and is greeted with the middle of his torso.
"Up here," he says, rather firmly.
That's a new tone. She looks up at him staring down at her with a smirk. Men and smirks are never a good combination.
"Thought you could figure me out by poking about the place?"
"I'm not sure-"
"A summation contrived from a cursory glance? One look and you've got me pegged?"
"I never said that," she says. "I was curious."
"I'm not one for mundane analogies, but you've heard of the cat that suffers an untimely death at the hands of curiosity?"
"At work I get paid while listening to you speak."
He leans down and scrunches his features together. "And?"
"We're not at work now." She slides over. "Sit."
"Fine," he replies, with a sneer.
He sits down next to her and moves to lean his cane against the piano, but then changes his mind. Instead he lays it across both of their laps. The handle lands, intentionally and not without a small amount of force, nestled between her denim-covered thighs.
"So sorry. Polished wood is hard to control sometimes," he smiles.
The look in his eye insinuates he's jealous of the cane.
"Let me."
He reaches to remove the cane from her lap, but she puts a hand out to stop him.
"Leave it."
He's wary of her response.
"Why?"
"Unlike most people I can handle what you throw at me."
"What do you want? A plaque commemorating your backbone?"
She grins and decides to back off of him. When she presses another key he flinches.
"Stop that," he says, and covers her right hand with his own to keep her from striking another key.
"You know this is a piano?"
"It wasn't that bad," she defends.
"Yeah, and I'm going to get up and do a jig."
"You make it sound as if I had the piano begging for its life," she laughs.
He trails his fingers along a few keys. "Don't be so dramatic."
"Maybe you need some drama."
She'll never be a piano player, but when her palm touches the side of his face she brings out the best in him, and his eyes sing just for her.
She straddles the bench and moves closer to him. With a hand on the inside of his knee, she leans forward and kisses the underside of his jaw. Her tongue traces the curve of his cheek and she plants a kiss in front of his ear. He shudders when she bites down on his earlobe. With his eyes closed and head spinning, she slides a hand between them and cups him through his jeans.
"Another cane?" she whispers against his neck.
His erection responds, twitching in her hand, and she squeezes hard.
"No," he growls.
He shoves her hand off of him and then grabs both of her wrists, pinning her arms to her side.
"This still wasn't a date."
She nods and takes a deep breath. He steals her next one when he kisses her back.
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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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