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Forevermore
by hilsonlover
Damn idiot!
Feeling sick! He looked perfectly fine at lunch-time. At least for me he looked fine but I could be biased. Not that it'd be important. His appearance, that is. I'm not that superficial that I'd care what he's wearing today ... or yesterday ... or -
Well, I probably could tell you the color of the socks he wore three days ago: although, I only know this because it's scientifically relevant. The colors and combination of clothes are like bright neon-signs for his mood and the better I know his mood the better I'm able to predict his reactions to anything I say or do. So, my knowledge is just a part of a scientific experiment.
Returning to the question: Why didn't he tell me that he was feeling sick and that he's going home? I mean, I'm able to give comfort! The more I think about it the more it's annoying me. Other drivers get to know about my annoyance as I'm barely driving within the speed-limit and passing other cars rather aggressively. I'm not concerned about his well-being or curious about him leaving work without telling me. I just want to go home.
As I pull in the parking space in front of the house, directly behind his car, I have to smile. I'm reminiscing about us buying this house four years ago; both of us tired and annoyed after a long work-day and looking at house number 497. Expecting it to be a failure - again. From the outside it seemed to be in a good shape and the real-estate agent immediately praised the house in glowing terms which earned him suspicious glances from us. Surprisingly, the inside was even better than the outside; I really had a hard time concealing my excitement. It's a one-storied house near the hospital where everything would fit in and it wouldn't blow our budget.
Tipping the scales was the bathroom. A large bathroom with an extra-shower and - biggest point - a Jacuzzi tub in it. Lover boy's eyes lit up in sheer excitement and I myself was simmering with it. We were both trying to keep our excitement down as we learned from looking at the other 496 houses that we obviously didn't always like the same things ... Anyway, none of us could hide being excited and a very cautious and tentative talk later we both admitted that this was it!
Wow! Four years ago! I don't think either of us have ever been in such a long-lasting relationship before. Sure, we still fight sometimes and the normal bickering is always there but we both plucked up our courage, finally surrendering to the deep attraction that was flaring between us since forever.
Okay, I should get myself a drink before this goofy smile gets stuck on my face and I tell him about my feelings ... Uh, no! There's no need to talk, we already know everything! Talking is overrated anyway.
I expect him to lie on the sofa, rolled up in a blanket, staring at the TV, being a miserable and snuffling mess due to having caught a cold. I'm surprised to see that he's not there. The kitchen seems to be unused too. A grin is spreading over my face as I contemplate him taking a bath, remembering quite a few hot encounters in there.
I'm disappointed when I don't find him in the Jacuzzi and am forced to take into consideration that maybe he really is sick. Which would mean that I will have to take care of him and won't get much sleep for the next three days or so. Whenever he catches a real bad cold he gets a high fever for about two or three days; including a lot of tossing and thrashing in bed. He'll radiate an unhealthy heat, dozing throughout the day, not being coherent most of the time and refusing to eat or drink. I don't know what the worst part of it is. Probably getting some drops of fluid instilled into him. A lot of cooing and petting will be necessary and to be honest - it's scary to see him like this.
So I am not surprised to see him lying stretched out on his side in bed, facing away from the door. I am a bit surprised that he still has his work clothes on and isn't nestled down under a dozen blankets. The snuffling noises are there like I expected. Snuffling is an accompanying noise for colds but these snuffles sound ... different. Like the other snuffles ... the ones you're emitting if you're crying and -
Uh-oh! He's not crying, is he? Oh damn! Crying, he's crying ... Why the heck is he crying? Did he already hear me? I could pretend that I'd never been in here and watch TV and maybe even cook. Yes. That's what I'm going to do.
Despite that I can't move my feet; they are glued to the floor and I'm uncomfortably mesmerized by the sight of violent trembles shaking his whole body, making the bed rattle. The sobs are coming from deep down, forcing my gut to coil up in sympathy and fear. Everything in me tightens in pain at seeing him suffer; the sobs are tearing at my heart. My chest aches, the big lump in my throat aches and my heart aches with an irresistible desire to soothe him, help him, love him.
It hurts to see him hurting.
I'm capable of moving again and before I know what's happening I have rounded the bed, sucking in a deep breath when I take a close look at him. His face is puffy and swollen from too much crying; despite having his eyes squeezed shut the tears run down his cheeks in large streams, leaving wet trails, gathering in a large puddle under his chin on the linen. Heavy sobs are shaking him, one hand is curled around a crinkled tissue, many others are scattered around him.
That is when I recognize the photos and photo-albums laying littered around him on the bed, the nightstand, the floor. His other hand is pressing a photo-frame against his chest, making my body tingle anxiously. I don't want to jump to a conclusion but I fear that I'm right anyway.
I sit down on the bed, startling him with it. His eyes snap open, the brown color barely visible and I'm out of breath at seeing the pain in his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut again, cradles the photo-frame closer to his heart and without saying a word curls into a tight ball, rolls on his other side, turning his back to me.
I'm irritated. Shouldn't he be glad that I'm here? Irritation is making room for anger. How dare he reject me? I just sit there seething in my own anger while I listen to his voice getting more and more hoarse. I'm somewhat startled when he speaks to me, "L-leave me a-alone! Y-you d-don't like seeing m-me cry."
His voice sounds so unfamiliarly coarse and raspy that I don't get the meaning of his words instantly. All anger rushes out of me, replaced with a mixture of guilt and sadness. I know I'm a bastard and that he still has to put up with a lot of shit from me but I would never have guessed that he doesn't want me to be close when he's grieving. Tears are stinging my eyes as I suddenly think that I don't deserve this man. I'm aching all over with the longing to see him happy, smiling, laughing. I shove some of the photos away carefully and stretch out behind him. Tentatively I reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, almost sobbing myself as he flinches away from my touch. He curls himself together even more tightly; his knees are almost touching his chin.
I'm trembling all over too now. I don't know what to do. I've never been good at comforting and he has never been in need of much comfort. I squash the unpleasant thought that maybe I just didn't see his need of receiving comfort. I favor my own neediness much more. At the moment my need is to hold him close, ease his pain somewhat, and give him some kind of comfort. So I put my own need before his, clumsily climb over him, drag and pull forcefully at him until he finally sees no use in struggling against me.
Our hearts beat rapidly and unsteadily when he complies at last, curling around me, causing my body to shake with him. I have a tight lock around his upper body while dropping little kisses on the top of the brown mop of his hair. My own voice sounds strange when I softly ask, "What happened?"
"I ... I g-got a call from m-my brother at noon," he starts to say in between choked sobs, his voice sounding muffled because he's talking into my shirt. He seems to be under the impression that he's able to crawl into me. I have to admit that I wouldn't mind him doing it if it were possible. Word for word he squeezes out everything he heard from his brother about his parents car accident, repeating over and over again that they must have died immediately. I almost can't understand him at the end when he's wailing that he had last seen them four months ago, that he wasn't able to say Goodbye. He wants to go on but nothing comes out, so I finish for him, "And it hurts."
He gives an almost imperceptible nod, clutching to me with an almost painful grip, crying even harder. Tears are stinging my eyes again and I can only think that it hurts so unbelievably to see him hurting. My shirt is drenched after a few minutes, gluing it to me. I swallow hard as I still don't know what I should do. What could I do to help him? I can't even tell him that I love him; I'm incapable of doing that. Wouldn't be very appropriate now anyway although I suddenly have to fight hard against the urge to tell him how much I care about him, how much it hurts me to see him like this, how much I fucking love him.
And I never told him that I do; although this caused a major fight between us two years ago. He was fed up with me not once telling him that I love him albeit being in a relationship with him for about two years. He had asked somewhat desperately, "Will you ever tell me that you love me?" And what did I answer? "No."
On hearing that he turned on his heels, grabbed his jacket and raced out of our home. Before the door closed I was able to shout after him that I could show him that. The furious yelled, "That's not enough!" will be burned in my mind forever. He was gone for 34 hours, not answering his phone, nothing. During those 34 hours I came up with at least two hundred possible ways of telling him that I love him without actually having to say the dreaded line.
When he came back we were standing at the door, staring at each other. He more stated than asked, "You won't ever tell me that you love me, will you?" I wanted to say it because I didn't want to lose him over such a bagatelle but the only syllable escaping my mouth was again "No". He averted his eyes, his hands sinking even deeper in his pockets and I feared that was it. That I destroyed the one thing that worked for me because I'm incapable of saying those three words. Instead he made my heart skip as he sighed and softly prompted, "But you could show me that you do?"
I did exactly that. Since he stayed with me I must have been quite convincing. The smile spreading over my face is quickly gone when I realize that he's still crying; crying about losing his parents who have been an important part of his life even though they didn't see each other often lately. I start to rub his back soothingly, fearing that I'd crush him with the grip I have on him.
I can't relate to his feelings because I don't think that I'd feel the same way if my parents died. Could be linked to the fact that I don't like my parents as much as James loved his. They were easily likeable people, even for me. Agreeable, warm-hearted folks, James' Mom a bit over the top with the caring attitude but at least it explained where he got it from. In my minds eye I recapitulate their unannounced visit about three years ago; James getting all flustered and embarrassed as they put one and one together. Instead of accusing him of living together with me they expressed their surprise. Not about him being gay or loving me. No, about him finally acting on his feelings towards me. It gave me mocking potential for months.
An hour later he's still crying but with less force. His body isn't shaking anymore, it's reduced to light shivering; there's no energy left in him. My energy level is decreasing too while my pain level is quite the opposite. I don't have the heart to shift him somewhat to reach my pills which are laughing at me from the nightstand. He's exhaling a series of shaky breathes, trying to pull himself back together, I'd guess.
When he lifts his face up, my heart forgets to beat for some seconds. It's the most heartrending sight I've ever seen. His hair is sticking out in disarray, his face is completely swollen and his lower lip still quivers. He picks up a tissue to blow his nose and miraculously my pills are pressed into my hand. I quickly swallow two; I'm embarrassed that even now he puts me first. I grab for another tissue and wipe off his face, earning myself a startled look out of puffy eyes, displaying so much pain and loss.
The hurt in his eyes is cutting deep into me, tearing me up. I can hardly breathe; the want to see him unharmed is literally knocking the breath out of me. I cup his face with my hands and kiss him with as much tenderness as I'm able to gather. It's like holding something small, delicate, and even fragile in my hands. Suddenly the urge to tell him that I love him attacks me and before I'm able to do anything against it I blurt, "This ... this might not be the best moment to tell you but ... but I love you. I mean, really love you. In fairy-tale style, like loving you forevermore."
He freezes laying half on top of me, making me squirm beneath him until he chuckles and pillows his head on my chest. A few seconds later he lifts his head up again and looks at me. I'd love him even more if it were possible as he says, "Yeah, you already showed me that you love me when you held me the last hour and let me cry. But I wouldn't mind hearing you say it again because I love you too."
I still don't know if I deserve him and of course he's still hurting but me saying this little line seems to be helping him. I no longer mind saying it again and again.
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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