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The Details are Not Essential
by Laura
The Details are Not Essential
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Pilot, Sports Medicine
Feedback: makes me warm and tingly.
Summary: "Then get your ass in here." He nods his head. "And bring the rest of you, too."
::.::.::
He weaves along back roads, hoping to shorten their drive, because the few times he has second-guessed himself have always been outside of work.
In the passenger seat, head lolled back, she's fast asleep. At first he was a bit offended as to the fact that someone fell asleep in his company. Then some common sense crept into his thought; they'd both had long days and he wasn't sure when she had last slept. He doesn't sleep much, mostly because his brain won't shut up, and his leg keeps him awake. It's something else that's out of his hands but up to his leg. As a result he sleeps in three to four hour increments.
The buzzing in his pocket confuses him for a second, but then he realizes: his phone. He takes it from his pocket and checks the display. It's Wilson. He turns the radio down and looks at Allison. It's possible this night could end even more awkward than it began. The vibration in his hand brings him back to the phone. If he doesn't answer he knows Wilson will call back, like a wife who is wondering why her husband is out late and what he's doing. He rolls his eyes as he presses talk.
"What?"
"My, aren't we a little snappish?"
"No. It's just that I've noticed there's a disturbing correlation between this phone and people with whom I have no interest in talking calling me way too often."
"And ... that's not snappish?"
"Did you call me for any other reason besides to exercise your geriatric vocabulary?"
"I'd been back from dinner for a while and you hadn't called."
"I supposed to what, check in with you now? Do I get an allowance, too?"
"You know-"
"Does the wife know you're this needy?"
"I thought you'd be curious about dinner."
"Was the lobster as good as people say it is?"
There's a pause; Wilson sighs.
"Stacy. I meant Stacy."
"Don't want to talk about it."
"Greg-"
"It's six words. Do you need a dictionary?"
"You're still with Cameron, aren't you?"
He shouldn't have answered the phone.
"I was never with Cameron. We've merely been existing in the same space."
"You're going to start using Physics to describe relationships with other people?"
"M-theory just fascinates me," he says, briefly thinking he should pioneer a type of intelligent sarcasm.
He hears Allison shift in her seat, and turns to take a peek at her. It could be the lack of adequate lighting in the car or that he's constantly under the influence of painkillers, but she looks relaxed. It's not him; he's never been conducive to relaxation.
"Hello?"
"There is no relationship," he continues, turning back towards the road. "It's a non-date."
"I doubt she sees it that way. She's got a schoolgirl crush on you."
He pulls into a parking space and turns off the car.
"I was clear about the non-date from the start, did I stutter? And most schoolgirls - I mean, she's got a tattoo."
He could practically hear the rise of Wilson's eyebrows.
"A tattoo?"
"If my powers of observation live up to their reputation, I'd say an inch down and four over from her navel."
"You know this for a fact?"
"It's not conclusive; I'll get back to you after I've extolled to her the virtues of sex with a man who uses a cane."
"Greg-"
"Does it get you off, saying my name so much?"
He turns to look at her again, and is surprised to see that she is awake. More importantly, wide awake and staring right at him. She's drowsy and mischievous; his car is too small.
"We'll talk later when you can hold up your end of the conversation."
He hangs up on Wilson without a first thought and puts the phone back into his pocket.
"Wilson, I'm assuming?"
He's not sure if he should answer her.
"Yes."
"Your conversations with him always seem to end with an insult."
She looks to the building at their right.
"You live here."
The building is imposing by implication alone. Shoulders tensing up, she absentmindedly glides her tongue along the bottom lip on which he bit down earlier. His taste lingers, or she wishes it did.
"And you know this because ..."
She can practically see the wheels in his head turning, trying to figure out how she knows this particular piece of information. After a minute she takes pity on him, although she'd never say.
"You're not the only one that's curious."
He coughs. "We'll expand on that topic another time, but for now we have to hurry."
Without another word he gets out of the car. She promptly exits the car and follows him into the building.
Moments later they're in the elevator staring at distorted reflections of themselves on the inside of its doors. Five floors up, a bell signals their exit from the elevators. Before the doors shut again, he snakes a hand back inside and quickly presses all the floor buttons.
She looks mildly amused, the key word being mildly.
"Do you do that every time you ride in an elevator?"
"No," he responds as he's walking past her, "just when I'm feeling a bit wayward."
Staring at the door of his apartment, she feels the need to lower her voice. "How often is that?"
He slides a key into the knob and unlocks the door. After pushing the door open, he signals for her to enter first.
"All the time," reaches her ears as she enters the apartment.
She stops as she gets past the entryway to look around. The first thing that catches her eye is the piano and she smiles realizing she was right. Every surface seems to be covered with laid open books and scattered magazines.
"Over here," he calls from the rear of the apartment.
She tries to follow the sound of his voice and winds up standing in front of a number of similar looking doorways. If this isn't a metaphor, she thinks.
A tousled head of brown hair peeks through one of the doorways.
"Coming?"
She walks over to him and stops in her tracks. It's his bedroom.
He senses her hesitation.
"Will you grow up? I'm not going to pounce the minute you step foot in the room."
"I know."
"Don't you trust me?"
"I trust you at work."
He leans against the doorframe, a lacrosse ball in the palm of his hand, and starts tossing it up in the air.
"At work. Okay. But we're not at work now; it's the two of us. The only life that hangs in the balance is yours. The relevant question is: do you trust yourself?"
"Of course I do." It's certain situations she doesn't trust.
"Then get your ass in here." He nods his head. "And bring the rest of you, too."
He walks back into the room and leaves her standing in the doorway.
She goes into the room. It's fairly large for a bedroom and has a balcony. He is standing on the balcony, wind causing his shirt to flap around him, with his mouth pressed against the glass making funny faces. She smiles and wonders what she was so anxious about. He waves her over.
She moves towards the balcony, but after two steps half-stumbles over something. Looking down, she sees it's his cane. Funny. She picks it up and throws it on his bed. She glances at his bed and is definitely not wondering which parts his body has touched. (Keep moving.) She takes off her coat and tosses it on the bed near his cane.
He opens the balcony's door. "You're going to miss it."
She tries to step onto the balcony, but he's blocking the doorway.
"Miss what?"
He squints. "You never did tell me why you're here. And I don't mean existentially speaking, either."
"I'm here because I want to be here." It's unsettling the way he leans into her words when she speaks. "Satisfied?"
"Nope." He moves out of her way.
"What are we doing?"
"Who knows? But in five minutes the sun will be rising."
She rests her arms on the railing and looks to the street below.
"What makes you think I've never seen the sun rise?"
He limps over to her, and with his right hand grips the railing for support.
"Never said that."
"Rain, shine, golf ball sized hail; the sun's always there. It's something that people see every day, but hardly take the time to recognize, let alone appreciate."
"You brought me back to your place to see the sun rise?"
"No, to appreciate it. People nowadays are so easily amused by technology. They need to be reminded that something bigger than each one of them exists. Uncontrollable and way more valuable."
She stands up and faces him. "You're as amused by technology as the next person."
"I'm aware." He shifts his stance, briefly wincing. "Everyone needs a reminder now and then."
She noticed his wince. "Leg?"
"It's fine."
It's too late; she's in doctor mode now.
"It's not fine. When was the last time you had anything to eat or drink? At the rally?"
"I said I'm fine."
She puts a hand on her hip.
"Your body says it's not fine. You're pale and sweaty."
"I just need my cane." He grits his teeth. "I'm used to support from the side. Leaning on this railing is killing my thigh."
She smiles softly.
"My cane? It's back in the room somewhere."
Her hand slides off of her hip. "No. I almost tripped over it."
"Then I need to sit."
"Use me." It's out of her mouth quickly, like a breath she'd been holding too long.
"Did you just-"
"Lean on me."
He tries to read her face. She seems genuinely concerned despite his best efforts to prevent it. The wind blows hair away from her face, and he heaves a sigh realizing it took the last of his resolve along with it.
She doesn't want to wait twenty minutes while he stands around thinking about possibilities. After gripping the railing in front of her with one hand she slides her free arm around his waist, hand planted firmly on his side.
"Go ahead. Lean. I won't break," she says, getting a firmer grip on his side.
"But I might," he adds, resignedly.
He leans into her slowly, and is surprised by how strong she is.
"It's okay," she tries to reassure him, "it's just in lieu of your cane."
"Yeah."
He slides his hand underneath her hair and rests it on the base of her neck. When his fingers start drumming on her neck she turns towards him.
"It doesn't change anything," she doesn't lie, but tries for him.
"This," he starts, his hand warm and fingers tight around the back of her neck, he watches her eyes close in response.
"This changes everything."
While her eyes remain closed, she gets a tighter grip on his waist and pretends she can see the sunrise through her eyelids.
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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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