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Tritter's Game
by Essex4
He flags down the bike, and its rider meekly pulls over, climbing off the heavy machine awkwardly. The man then takes off his helmet and limps some steps toward the flashing lights, an ill-fitted and very unconvincing attempt at obliging.
Languidly, Tritter waves the doctor away from his bike and stands, watching the man's awkward, ambling approach closely, not granting him any relief by stepping up himself. He never seriously assumes that House is armed, or anywhere near attempting something, but neither would it do to be unmindful, even for an instant. If the bastard still had both legs whole, Tritter would probably not have seen his tail tonight.
***
When Tritter sees that face from up close again, unshaven and raw, with a deer-in-the-headlights-look to the wide-open eyes that is, he'd bet, very uncharacteristic of the bastard doctor he'd met in the blasted clinic, he feels the hunting fever rise.
Fear, and never, never, never willing, nor able, to admit to it... He would teach the abusive bastard - own him, really... And House has seen already what he is in for.
The oddity, the disparity between the defiant, unflinching attitude and hardly-hidden sneer then, and all that is in the man's bearing out here now, in the darkness, speaks of deep fears, visceral memories. He must to this biker look like an albino ghost in the night. Archetypical images of terror...
Tritter's hunger makes the back of his eyes ache. Tense, cold desire, and the knowledge of victory: He wants this man - physically, yes, too, an impulse he still despises, and not only with the males of the species, if he has made it his tool, like all the other impulses - but much more, mainly, as his slave, utterly subjected, at his mercy.
Finally, a prey worth his effort, after all the time... A bastard to bring down, so very much alike...
***
He is sure that doctor Gregory House did read him clearly enough that afternoon, had been aware of his volatile nature. Even if House didn't really guess then that he was a cop, regardless of his quips, Tritter knows he'd been judged to be a bully instantly.
Bullies, then, both of them, matched nicely.
None of that, particularly not the fact that Tritter himself became a bully out of need, because it didn't do to turn the other cheek on life, would have prevented the man from doing what he has done. Mischief, cruelty, disregard...
House, to Tritter, is a bully by nature.
But he is certain that House has vastly underestimated his, Tritter's, need for revenge, to rule, to dominate - to slowly conquer, and crush, whatever would not yield. And Gregory House could not possibly know that defeat was not a factor in his new enemy's system. Do or die, it is.
Tritter pushes the searing hunger back, that tiger about to pounce, into some dark mental cage, and steps forward slowly, calling the bland, soft-spoken, expressionless neutrality that serves him so well, and scares some people right out of their pants.
Not this one though, even if he can feel the conflicting impulses in the man - this one might be scared shitless, at least momentarily, but would not ever admit it, or really lose it - an ingrained attitude of defiance, an insurmountable 'no' to his own fears - the kind of guy who'd keep his head level even in a burning aeroplane... who would not give up, never give in to his own fears and weaknesses... good to have about in real crises... but he has just one good leg. Pity. Which will not matter just now, it being an advantage that he, Tritter, would not use - for the time being, that is: a fight to look forward to, delicious even, if he admits to the feeling. And he himself to set up the ring, to control all the exits. Nothing but foul play out of this one, doc, not that you'd mind...
This is playtime - the game is up!
He spits out the match and licks his lips. His very own doctor to kill.
'Hands up, and drop those keys.'
His voice is very low, very calm, and very cold, more murmur than speech. Tritter has taken endless care to hone his manners, his bearing, to get across that merciless hair-trigger temper, the dangers that would be in its release, to illustrate the unconditional control he has over it, and demands from others over theirs - and then the fact that he, Tritter, is Justice: the only judge of what is offensive and what is not: his decision counts before court, his decision alone, supported and bolstered by Law.
And it works even on this man House, amusing Tritter faintly and making him feel once more that he is playing in a class entirely of his own by now. This is not your average juvenile delinquent, nor your average grown-up armed street thug or junkie if he does do drugs, but a hard-boiled medico, with a strain of sadism and a strain of defiance, with a nasty sense of humor and, by Tritter's judgement, a person with no restraint or conscience whatsoever.
At least, House has made his way within society's limits most of the time, so far... using its contradictions, exploiting all the byways, playing those limits masterfully... until now. Unusual and dangerous, probably a psychopath. But. From what he's gathered from that rather nice piece of ass (but no ass at all) who acts as the hospital's admin, this doc has yet to do any real harm, but saved numerous lives so far, and is one of a kind, matchless in his field. The adminstrator did in fact implore Tritter to take it easy on her precious doc, and go so far as to implicit bribes if he would... He is too used to that to take offence. So he wouldn't start by damaging the goods - it wouldn't do to bereave the world of a gifted doctor, now would it?
He can feel House's body move away from his hands when he rifles him, and tense under the thin material of his tee when the little tablets scatter. He feels all he wants to anyway. His touches are inconspicious, he knows, for he's a cop, but then, this is a doc. A bit thinnish, all muscle and bone. Nicely toned for a chronic invalid, and using a good after shave for stubble maintenance. Well, the man would not be poor.
*1*
House's on his sofa, sort-of-asleep, heavily under the influence. He tries to stir, and moans. Must have been five of the damn little things that he's had for dinner - a little celebration all by himself, after he finally, finally, managed to get his hand on them again.
He's even been back to the spot where the police bastard stopped him, but whatever might have been left there was crushed and dirty, indistinguishably mixed with the street grime. If Tritter didn't collect the good ones, some junkie sure did.
Half a bottle of The Famous Grouse has done its work in addition, and he been mercifully out cold for about an hour. But something must have stirred him, some noise or movement that shouldn't be there. He can't really move, and that's not because of the stupor alone. He has a vague memory of wrapping himself tightly into several blankets before passing out - but surely, not that tight?
And now there's a hand at his butt, a finger probing his cleft. What a bad joke!
'Oh, leave it, Wilson, you're not gay,' he groans. 'Nor am I! Go away, man!'
The movements stop, a very low chuckle.
'Oh, damn it, if you did have to get yourself kicked out again, and need to stay here, use my bed or the tub, but not my backside. Leave me alone! Damn it, doctor Wilson, get lost, or I'll...'
The finger finds aim again and pushes in, not at all gently.
'Ouch! What was that for? Stop it, you...'
'Doctor House...'
A whisper, voice like treacle, quiet, devoid of emotion and, while not unknown, unfamiliar no less - definitely not Wilson!
House starts.
'Don't move, you'll hurt yourself.'
There's no change in the voice, but now it is unmistakeable. House's whole body goes rigid.
'Right, this is not your boyfriend, doctor...'
'I KNOW that!' House shouts, wide awake now, but finds, trying to get away from the intrusion, that he's almost completely unable to move efficiently, mainly due to booze and blankets. There's no need to hold him down, to bother and restrain him...
'Tritter...,' he grits out.
'Detective Tritter, doctor House. Why aren't you in your bed? Didn't make it there, huh?'
'Now what business of yours...? That asking, what are you doing here in my app... an... on my sofa, yourself?'
'I am teaching a bastard a lesson. Any business of yours is mine, for the time being.'
House tries to shake the hand off, to move into a sitting position, and fails. Damn, he IS handicapped AND wasted today...
'How did you get in...'
Tritter interrupts: 'I'll definitely get in some deeper before I answer that.'
After House's satisfactory little gasp, and another completely vain attempt to struggle up that doesn't need any inhibiting whatsoever on his side, Tritter holds up an orange plastic container in his line of view: 'I see you have gone back to old habits, and laid hands on some of your favorite drug, no doubt with the help of your friends at the hospital, and regardless of court orders... This could be the sack, you know? Could mean trouble for PPTH, too...'
'Nrrrrr...' House growls, and starts to struggle again, more seriously and slightly more effective, but there are still the blankets, he has the back of the couch in his face, his vulnerable leg is exposed, and to try and get up from this position without either moving into Tritter's probing finger, or plainly sitting down on it, is impossible. Without that damn scar, he'd have been off over the couchback minutes ago... He'd damn well never have gotten into this situation in the first place!
'Get lost, you fucking bastard cop!'
'You don't talk to policemen like that, don't you know?' says the bugger, completely unperturbed, and still in that maddening, frighteningly quiet way of his. The man's finger pushes in and moves out, to make the point, not roughly, there's not need for that, but unmistakeably. There is no irony or playfulness whatsoever in Tritter's manner. He's even still chewing one of his blasted matches!
'Damn you, you got no...'
Tritter stops moving and interrupts him again: 'I just got the search warrant signed, and thought it better not to waste time starting... to search likely hiding places... I'm not worried about your calling the police, you know, not even...,' here his voice drops lower still, 'after I'm done with you for tonight.'
Follows a soundless hiss that might pass for a snigger in others.
'Want your phone? Tell the cops about a drug stash, maybe? Or invite your boyfriend Wilson over for some... assistance?'
House doesn't jump for the cheap bait, and shuts up.
Neither moves for some time.
***
Eventually, Tritter starts probing again. He is amazingly gentle, given what House did to him in the same area... House knows that.
'How do you like it? Finger's not as rigid as a thermometer, and warmer, too... Not much danger of my leaving the room without it, either. I've got something bigger for you in store, too.'
House shivers, and tries to move away once more. He fails to get his bad leg over the back rest without using his hands, and Tritter holds him back effortlessly. Pretending to relent, he turns on his back and faces the intruder. The finger does not leave him; Tritter's hand moves with his body, underneath him, warm.
The room is illuminated only by whatever light comes in from the street, and Tritter's dressed in black, or very dark, clothes, so all House can see clearly of him is his head: the regulation haircut white, face ghostly pale, with moonlight-tinted eyes that seem to glow.
They stare at each other.
Just as House makes to speak again, Tritter moves. Can this be experience? His hand goes up like in an uppercut, hard and precise, but is relaxed and only loosely fisted, and the captured middle finger homes in to the hilt. And finds its aim...
House yelps, and bucks upward, thus merely giving his assailant more leverage, who turns him back on his side almost mid-air, and starts to move that finger.
So the next sound is a gasp. It becomes a moan, and then, abruptly, House does give up. The fighting movements become wiggles...
Another hand gropes around his hip, finds his cock and, regardless of the overdose, House is half-hard already.
'A wise man is he who knows when to stop fighting. I shall house-train you yet...'
Again that pale, hissing snigger.
'You may hate the gratification, but even with a mind like yours, being able to handle the self-betrayal, it will be enough to stump any action you might want to take against me, for the time being at the very least... As I said, I have brought you a bigger gift, and I can make sure that you appreciate it, even like it... Your body wants it already...'
House closes his eyes and turns his face away, into the blankets and backrest.
'You needn't think that I'm gay... My preferences are very mixed... But I know that I'm a top, and that you're a bottom if there ever was one... Nice bottom, too. I don't know much about the theory, but I do know that I will see this through. Got that?'
House doesn't bother to react verbally, but starts breathing deeply and steadily.
'So, you are getting ready. Excellent! I'm not sure I prefer the fight, not in you. For now, this will do me as a reply. Later, though... Make sure that you get me right, doctor: I will have you, here, wherever, whenever, in every manner I please. Let me hear it!'
He moves his middle finger over House's prostate once more, and House growls into the fabric.
Tritter waits up a few moments, decides to forego a verbal relpy again, and begins to move his victim into a convenient position for penetration. House is completely limp now.
He takes his finger out, wiggles it under House's nose, then makes ready. He kneels by the sofa, on some cushion. The position is awkward, but the height of things ist excellent. There's all the time in the world, he is sure, while House probably still half-hopes that Wilson might stop by and catch him...
Slowly and reverently, the detective oils his cock, massages oil into the small porthole that cannot have seen many intrusions like this by all evidence, then enters without difficulty, and fucks House very slowly, very languidly, without any rudeness. Eventually, he comes hard, deeply buried into the other man, roaring like a bull when he does.
House is completely dizzy again by that time, the aftermath of too many drugs and the sensations of his body. This is not altogether new to him, but it has been a very long time, and he is just sure he is no bottom... But it's so much easier though to just go with it now...
When Tritter is finished, and after he has removed his tool, House can't remember having been so relaxed in many days, and would have fallen asleep, had the policeman just let him. But Tritter wants to take this all the way: He turns him on his back again, and rubs and massages him until, a very long time later it must be, House thinks with vague satisfaction, he comes, first a trickle, then a strong stream - then he's completely empty, body and soul.
House does not bite off Tritter's fingers when the cop touches them to his lips, to make him taste himself, but licks and suckles them...
'Your body betrays you over and again, right? Wonder why you wanted to keep that leg...'
Tritter has managed to not touch the scar even once, but he can't really have seen it either, at least not while House was awake. So that bait does not feel like one: the fear is gone, the pain has not returned yet, and he faintly wonders how Tritter can move again already while he drifts off, even before the other man's gone.
***
Tritter decides to use the shower, but makes it short. This was much different from what he'd had in mind, from his favorite scenario when starting to train House. He'd somehow been certain that there would be real fight, with the doc without a chance of course, and then a hard, short rape. When he found the man obviously drugged and fast asleep on that couch, he couldn't resist a little game, still rather sure of upcoming struggle.
But this now, it's been - well, peaceful, almost... Almost consensual, not something much noted or valued in his doings... Something that just doesn't happen to him, usually... He feels oddly free and relaxed, wanting to go to sleep - and that, if he's honest with himself, right away, and right next to the other man, but this of course can't be done. Not yet...
He shakes his head at himself, and locks up with his skeleton key. No-one must steal the sleeping doctor.
The search warrant will be ready tomorrow, and he wonders how and when he will meet House again. All his ancient anger and hate for bullies, all the resentment he brought as today's biggest gift by far, are gone, vanished into thin air. The memory of his humiliation in the clinic does not matter any more, has become vague and like someone else's story... tabula rasa... Tritter has not felt so empty, so devoid of anger and hate, so... at peace... since... since... he can't remember, it must be a major part of his life.
It's not his habit to rape suspects though it has happened before, always in circumstances where there was no danger whatsoever of him getting caught, and always only to make his point to some really nasty bastard. Little power games.
But where is that bastard now?
Tritter does not feel guilty either, something which he occasionally does, even if he goes about his business with absolute determination and zeal always, and a clear notion of the whys and whens.
He drives down to the lakeside beyond Faculty Road and goes for a walk, scattering some loving couples and two groups of youngsters on the green that are definitely up to trafficking either drugs or stolen goods.
Usually, he might have brought in the odd boy, but right now he doesn't care. He has to think about what this was, what happened, how this educational disciplinary measure of punishment could have come to bring two haunted men peace, and at the same time. How this has changed his view of House.
Tritter realizes that he knows House now, and that this must be the Biblical sense of the word.
He also realizes that he could read the man with his hands, his skin tonus and things, even before the event. He'll know by his fingertips if the man is on a prescription dose or stoned, or how stoned, and he might just try to wean him of the habit completely, by extra-legal means...
***
With the onset of dawn, House wakes, confused, but very much refreshed. He feels rested and relaxed, and wonders what lacks. Then he remembers and, for an instant, cringes. There is no physical pain... In fact, he realizes, he has not felt so good all year long.
And yet he knows he has been raped.
How can it be that the knowledge of an abominable event, of such violation, does not disturb him, nor does the knowledge that, like Tritter has threatened, that cop surely can, and probably will, have him any time, anywhere he wants, and with retribution to be had only at a very high price for House himself?
How can it be that he, with and after this rape, feels oddly secure, and even at home, with the fact and the man who did it? There is a weird sense of saftey in this that is so close to madness that his mind prefers to go back to sleep again - until brilliant sunlight raises him once more, several hours late for work. And no-one has bothered to call... probably knowing that he is in the draughts as he is.
House is up in a flight and at work, physically utterly relaxed and free of pain but rather emotionally confused which, of course, he is able to unload entirely on his long-suffering team.
Then comes night again, another foreseeably lonely night.
Will the thief of his pills return?
*2*
At times, House ponders Tritter prowling his rooms, fascinated over and again by the precision and delicacy of the movements of that heavy body: a mountain of a man that moves weightlessly, to match exactly any thousandth of a inch... The exquisite, subtle, and unique wholeness of someone so damaged, a person who has become totally conscious of his body and mind, if that was conceivable at all... The fearlessness that must be his heart, and the many hells he must have seen - sought out voluntarily...
Also, he's found that the man is brilliant, totally sub-challenged with all aspects of police work, but that does not seem to matter to him. He's giving every aspect of it the attention due: his only criterion appears to be the quality he delivers. And even though he knows the feeling, House envies him that. All the tension, the craving for justice, and the inconsiderate mercilessness, are based on an equilibrilum so fundamental that nothing appears to be able to shake it...
He did try, didn't he?
Now, all of this is a source of peace and calm to himself, has decided to touch him to share, and he occasionally even is able to admit to himself that he might learn a thing or two from the man.
He does understand the attitude, and on his good days can reach out to it, but surely nothing in the world could make him accept without grumbling, or take serious, not to mention love, his paperwork, or, say, clinic hours. Clinic hours...
When Tritter chooses to hurt him, when he is angry, the punisment he deals out is always devastatingly cruel, and incredibly accurate. House has come to fear those big, dexterous hands but, strangely enough, this fear raises the thrill of their game... There are moments when House craves the punishment extolled still more than he fears it.
Mostly, he's being punished for taking more pills or booze than the other man considers appropriate, or did permit him to take. He is usually right, too, and with the butt-fucking, House finds that he needs notably less of his painkillers.
And Tritter always knows. House is amazed over and again how, just by touching him, the cop knows what he is on, and how much of it. But he's found that he's cued in to Tritter's emotions just as precisely - and, subsequently, that he does know next to nothing else about the man. Tentative questions are ignored, even punished - and he does not really care, either.
He calls Tritter his master under the orders, not minding at all in the course of events while they are together, but when he's alone, his whole being still rebels... and yet craves...
***
House hardly ever says a word during their encounters unless ordered to. It's always Tritter who does the talking, but Tritter does not talk much either. He's also always top.
House does make sounds though, and Tritter likes them very much.
They do not date, but meet irregularly - or rather, Tritter breaks and enters whenever he feels like it; when, for him, the time comes - this can be twice a week or more often, or once a month only. He never comes on Tuesday nights - House has cancelled the regular hooker anyway -, and never mentions House's consumption of drugs now. He acts on it.
***
Tritter watches his slave, who's dozed off almost immediately after he's come, as usual - the girls must just love it.
His hand and his mouth by now know every inch of that well-built, sinewy, haggard body. A finger-tip to a jaw, an ankle, can tell him how his subject is...
This man, his Luciferian pride, his fierce, total defiance of everything that constitutes rule, order, society; the fire of his soul, the absolute devotion to his work of which Tritter by now has seen quite a lot - rather more than the man can be aware of - to healing, impress him. House seems to know no limits.
This freedom - a dangerous thing, but House would not be ruled, not even by him, and regardless of all his offences - if Tritter's honest with himself, and that is his nature, he has to admit that nothing the man has done so far has really, seriously harmed anyone but himself - and if one accepted his disregard for rules as a given, he does know the whats and how-tos to make his world spin... More of his sort, and life would be so much more fun, and much safer simultaneously, paradoxically...
*3*
If House is not at home when he calls, Tritter goes looking for him - not out of worry, but always, still, with a little twinge inside, in the hope of catching him out somewhere with the junkies, striking a deal, needing stronger stuff than prescriptions will yield him.
He invariably fails: two times out of ten, House is in some semi-legal bookie joint or other, not far from his place, chatting up bizarre-looking girls and sex-beasts, without ever taking one home. He has a drink or two there usually, not more, sometimes even herbal tea. There seems to be no system to his intake of food or drink whatsoever, Tritter observes - it is as if the man has no sense of taste, or lacks the inner clockwork that tells most people when and what to eat or drink. The only constant of House's consumption is the Vicodin, and coffee.
In those joints, House also places bets the sheer size of which raise Tritter's hackles - the idiot did on one occasion lose almost double of what a cop his rank earns per month on just one dog, a dog, for God's sake, and without even batting an eyelid. He doesn't make notes on monies spent, just the one mental cross to have the places raided on occasion, but sum total, House does not lose all that much on those days he observes, even including that one big failure.
Tritter has never betted, not once in his life, and is sure he never will. Too much of that is doctored, and even with a "safe" tip, the odds are something only a silly man would take. He's survived his time with Special Forces on this credo alone: very high risks have to be taken sometimes, obviously, but never blindly if it can be helped, which can usually be achieved by hard work. There are, of course, suicide missions, necessary to safe one and all - but none did come his way in his time. If it had, it merely would have been duty, his preparations would still have been perfect, and the sacrifice demanded would have been made in full awareness.
So, he is not a player, and House is nothing but.
And that man, of all people, is a doctor, head of a highly successful department of diagnostics - he rarely fails to chase up the disease, or so they say, and he does not give up as long as the patient's alive, sometimes using means that are as cruel as they are dangerous, cures hardly better than the illness... Apparently, he does not plan a lot. And yet, he digs into his cases like a bulldog into a jamb, never letting go, never relenting, if he comes up all battered and bloodied.
Tritter ponders that, then, with a partner like House, his team would have been invincible in the Force. If always in danger of blowing itself to pieces.
Still, he can't abide the sheer anarchy the man exudes, if he can feel the stuff. It does taste like some corrosive substance, seeping into his brain, his tissues... Oddly limbering, making life feel easier for him, allowing him to see roads where there were only walls before, and none of them, well, completely, illegal... Not that he needs that, but his own self he has explored, honed and refined thoroughly, and if he admits to truth, he is bored with it. Impressed by the achievements of his own will, but bored no less. Not with his job - he knows he is selling himself under value, but this job can be done not merely right, but perfectly, and anew every day as is demanded by the regulation book - and this he does, never looking back.
And yet... House's taste, his sweat, his actions, feel to him like getting a new pair of eyes, like fresh colors to a blind man. Things he has hated, considered crime, even murder implicitly, begin to make sense in the light of the other man's actions, necessary tools for general human advancement, and this new-ness is like oxygen... like a drug.
So he stalks him.
And finds this: the other eight times out of the ten the man is invariably at the hospital, sometimes for 48 hours on cue, without sleep or bothering to eat, thinking and restlessly fighting, pushing his crew to their limits and beyond, all to preserve one humble life or two - while elsewhere, lifes are taken without a second thought, at the stir of a finger... And House's crew, the nurses, even the admin, even some of the other department heads - they all jump at his lifting a finger. He bribes or blackmails them if he has to! Watching House work, making people work, his team springing to life, is like watching a fascinating and quite unpredictable machine setting out to save lifes, whirling mechanisms beyond his ken, operating almost always successful.
Almost invincible - almost. This makes his power over the man, his victory taste so much more sweet...
The man surely is not a bottom at the hospital. In a way he's the heart of the place, or a major part of that, he is what makes it run, literally. More still, he is that which gives it meaning: not merely plodding on against the common cold or hemorrhoids, or other very perishable, minor ailments, in the day clinic - this is what medicine could be, should be (if one discounted the bastard act), what could make you see that a Public Health System is a good idea.
One day, in this light, the man's behaviour towards him in the clinic makes sense to Tritter abruptly. He ponders his new realization for a while, but comes to the conclusion that still, House's act was unforgiveable: he should have done his duty AND his best. No-one in a hospital would force a doctor extraordinaire like House to do clinic hours while vital interests were at stake elsewhere. The administrator surely doesn't look a stickler for rules - wouldn't have employed the bastard doc, if she was. So: lazy bastard no less. Well.
*4*
One night, long after arrest, searches, court, detox, jail, the rape, Tritter decides to drop his cover, and to drop in on House at PPTH. He skirts the desk around two thirty a.m., with fresh coffee and some excellent, freshly made sandwiches. Coppers know where to get such things.
He's made sure that the team have all gone home. He wants to see the man at work alone, and he doesn't want to be seen much himself.
Raising the sandwich bag, he knocks at the office door.
House looks up from his desk, his face in a pool of light. The eyes are red-rimmed, he looks incredibly tired, the stubble on his chin is appallingly long. He does not appear at all surprised, but maybe that's only exhaustion.
Tritter carefully puts the coffee down next to the papers House is pondering, drops into the client's seat, and starts to unpack the sandwiches very neatly and systematically. He has made sure to get a paper plate and napkin for each. While House is still staring on expressionlessly, more at the charts than him, he takes the folder from him, closes it, and puts it to the side of the desk where there sits another cup. He picks it up and smells it. The coffee is not just stale, but ancient: the milk in it has gone bad. Making a face, he sets it aside again. Neatly, he places the sandwiches in front of House, adds some single-serve cups with various dips for extra spice, and says, pointing: 'Pastrami, chicken, cheese. Corned beef was out. Eat.'
He gathers together some plastic spoons and forks, plus the gone coffee, empties that into the corner sink, drops all the stuff into the waste can below, cleans the basin, and turns around.
His issue is eating obediently, but watching him from between his hands. Now House stops chewing, straightening himself, and stares at him. He chews some more, but does not make to speak.
And does he really need to? After some moments, he returns his attention to the sandwich, suddenly ravenous.
House has the Pastrami, half of the chicken sandwich, and the coffee even gets an 'Aaahh' from him that speaks of some tension coming lose. A short look at the other man, who's blended with the shadows on the sofa in the corner, then he grabs his folder and examines the charts again. After some minutes, he's completely lost in his work, oblivious now of the watcher.
Tritter is perfectly content to just observe - that's the long hours of every detective's work anyway.
Half an hour later, or maybe an hour, the still figure behind the desk abruptly jerks to life, pushing an intercom button and giving off some indecipherable jargon. Apparently, the other end is obstinate, but House makes his point, plainly orders things to be done in a very curt and military manner: 'Yes. Yes, right. No... well, get at it! Yes, now, damn it! If anything comes up, call, otherwise I'll be down in...' He looks at his watch. 'at five-thirty sharp, to check results.' Pointedly: 'Good night!' He leans back, stretches, surreptitionsly at first, just neck muscles and hips, then deliberate and languidly - and the lanky frame slumps into the chair a shapeless heap. His face is outside the pool of light of the desk lamp now, but Tritter can see the eyes glow from where he sits, like that of a nocturnal beast, probably watching him, or maybe staring into space.
***
After long minutes, House gets up, stretching liberally again, and advances, limping toward Tritter's seat, without his stick.
Their eyes lock.
'My turn,' is all he says, and Tritter does not move. He complies to the silent demands of sinewy, strong fingers.
When finally skin moves on skin, it says the man is completely sober and clean, a first. And the scar... Tritter feels it, cut deeply into the right thigh, but House does not even whince at the touch.
House moves slowly, there's all the time in the world in a dark hospital. He's buried deep, riding Tritter slowly, patiently expecting the involuntary movements, the tiny, pressed sounds that indicate rising heat, that mark the body's betrayal - his victory, his rise to power.
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This seems rather dark - psychological, too, or purports to be, and was mostly written during one particularly sleepless night under the heavy influence of varieties of codeine, all of which were taken for excellent reasons. Just doesn't let me sleep, the stuff, and makes me itchy. Adverse reaction, probably.
I've honed and teased and nursed this yet am still discontent, but I can't put a finger on the why, and can't do anything more on my own - I'll appreciate any comment!
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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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