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The Hooker Pt. V - Rides, Diagnoses, and Confessions Pt. II
by Essex4
Do read after part I! They are in direct sequence, I only split them to not have a monster file.
DISCLAIMER: This hooker's mine. Hugh Laurie deplorably isn't, but then, I'm not really into owning people. Also, there is no money whatsoever being made off this, which is almost as deplorable (but only almost). Neither are the characters, ideas, stories etc. of the NBC TV series House, MD, mine.
TO ALL OF YOU who have kindly followed me so far, there is a V2.0 up of The Hooker Pt. III - Returning a Favour, that I'd recommend you to re-read. It has some major changes. Minor changes have also been made in Pt. IV - Sneaking Numbers V2.0.
Hopefully, the old versions will be taken down at some point.
As long as they aren't I'd be interested to know which one you prefer.
Please don't comment on the old versions of III and IV (without the V2.0 in the title), your comments would go down with them, and be lost!
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It's early light outside when I wake the next time, enveloped by a warm, trim body that still smells divine.
I nibble his throat, sleepily and, like a crazy cat, burrow into House's armpit, licking and sniffing. I can't imagine he'll ever smell bad to me.
He stops me, half-asleep at first.
"Ew! What are you doing?!"
"Dessert..."
"You really do like physical, don't you?"
"Sometimes. Something wrong with that?"
"Nnnnnooo..."
Sounding rather doubtful, he manages to roll me away and lands on top of me heavily.
"This has to stop, now!" House orders.
"Right... Time's up anyway... Gotta be somewhere else soon..."
I make to move up, struggling to get out from under him.
He holds me down.
"Whoa! Time's NOT up yet! I'm sure I didn't give you leave at daybreak!"
"Are you inviting me then, to stay for breakfast? Now that is unusual! Most guys want to be rid of the service before they are fully awake..."
Some don't, though.
That evil smile creeps up, slowly.
"Depends on what you would want to eat..."
He can't possibly want it again?!
I stare up at him. I'm leaving, ain't I?
Dr House is edible. Very.
He obliges and moves off me.
I rise.
Collecting my stuff, I move about slowly.
I say: "So you are one of the rest of them, one of those who should have ordered special treatment for their morning glory, and in advance."
It's really very early. I'm in no hurry, even if I had another client to attend to this morning. I can feel Dr House likes to watch me dress, as usual. I still do think we're finished for the night.
There's no sign of disappointment, or intention to bargain, like I would expect from him, like usually happens when guys realize, often to their own surprise, that they don't want rid of me ASAP after an all-nighter, which is the case in about half the cases, or more.
He absolutely would be the type to bargain.
But House is just lying there all naked, eyes unfocused, apparently distracted, and totally slackened.
I think - I am sure, actually - that his every fibre, every nerve, tingles with me, is soaked in my juice, tasting of me, tracing the memory of my skin.
Yes, I am that good. With those who can take it, I am that good.
And he can, too, he's great himself. The ways he did me... There should be more of this, like this--
"Insatiable," he whispers, echoing my thoughts.
"Amazing," he says. "Seems like you can't get enough, ever. Even women tire, I've seen it happen... In you, there's something infinite, as wide and deep as the sea...
"You do not ever. Correct?"
This winds me up, I have no answer. None of his business. What does he know, or care? PSAS, it is. Thank you for the diagnosis, doc.
I oblige, but sweet-talking a john only goes so far.
"It's a dirty job, right; someone's got to do it. And do it good. Might just as well be me."
He snorts. Obviously, this is not what he was on about, and a weak deflection on my part at that, but he plays up to me for once.
"The attitude may make you a good person by most standards, but not a rich person."
I snort. "Does it indeed! Most people will think rather that being a whore, whoring about, and for money the worse, is about as far from being good as anyone can get. Like, absolutely exclusive of the condition. Also, call-girls do become rich - sometimes, some of them, like in any other business."
"Without blackmail, even?"
He doesn't expect an answer to that.
"I reckon it's like you said: someone's got to do it. And why?" Purely rhetorical, that one. He answers himself: "Because always someone wants it, someone's the taker, and that's me, around here. Even though, historically, maybe the offer was there first--"
"I am comparatively rich, you know?"
What is it with him? Doesn't get out a full sentence per fuck on average, then abruptly starts to talk drivel?
"Comparatively, yes... It'd be like having to cope with cleaning vehicles instead of garbage trucks."
I'm sure I look befuddled. Four-wheeled hookers...? Human dustcarts? If my job's - well, stress removal, in a sense... Subtle insults? Well, fairly subtle?
"Euphemisms, like calling a whore an escort. Which term I am quite certain you don't like. Putting down good things religiously because they are inopportune, or socially undesirable, like lust, or drugs. Misdirected designations. It's crap but someone's got to do it. A matter of concept entirely, and not flattering for the taker, see?"
"Wasn't meant to be."
Dr Fusspot probably didn't deserve the retort, seeing as he's making my point for me if by running me down, but it has the merit of being true. I am still evading. House doesn't really take offence, waving a lazy hand in my direction.
"Oh, never mind... Your getting rich on my account would go some way to buy some respect, an image... but I'm sure you can't be as rich as a stockbroker, or an analyst, and that's really expensive euphemisms."
"I guess. Names and numbers are boring, I don't count, if I call. You'll agree that loot is not a euphemism, Dr House. And, to not gloss things over, this is the most roundabout attempt at bargaining I've ever come across!"
I can feel my spirits raise a little. He is crazy, for sure.
He grins.
"Thought you'd understand."
"Not that it helps."
"Pity. One can always try."
I'm trying to unwind while fighting my clothes, but he won't let it happen.
"I saw you count more than once."
"Oh that. Numbers on greenbacks are so different. Tangible facts, see?"
Dr House laughs. "And what about my coming twice?"
I'm hard put to stay honest. This grumbling must be some sort of post-coital depression. I wouldn't normally let it get the better of me, but this guy is asking for it. He'd have to be particularly proud of himself - or what else? -, to start on the subject first place. It's also a new version of the theme. So how dare I say no?
"Three times, I think," I say. "A memorable number - rather good for a man your age, but then, I do not count."
That should do to raise his hackles.
It doesn't. Somehow, numbers, or the self-confirmation, are not the issue with this guy. I'm not sure he noticed the possible insults.
"Yet you know that number."
I am biting back a grin, but not for long. It vanishes all by itself. I've no idea what this is getting at, outside of Dr House fishing for compliments for his staying power, rather in passing - he's unbelievably talkative tonight, and very serious. The few lines House usually squeezes out per hour are of the obvious kind.
Let's find out, then.
"What would matter to a male of the species, what would he refer to after sex, other than size or numbers? I cater to those tastes, that's my job. Size is fine as well, by the way."
I can't leave it be - and with Dr House, it is ok, my bitchiness just makes him laugh. This in turn raises my own hackles.
"You are a client, you pay me well. If I was the average housewife, the situation would be just the same. You pay, you call the tune. You are good, by default."
He laughs again. "And you were, too."
"What, a housewife?"
Thus shutting down the conversation, I pull a face at him, rolling my eyes. He's not stupid, is he? I doubt he's into compliments, or even honest praise - either way, because that would mean showing something of himself, so I assume I ought to be flattered, but what is this...? Too childish, too cheap. I rephrase, and try once more.
"If I wasn't good at my job, if I didn't like it, I wouldn't do it. I ought to be good at my job! I'm a hooker; you're a john, a paying client, okay? Hence, you must be good by default."
"Now aren't we in a lousy mood? Post-coital depression, huh? Spare me your preaching!"
That has done it, finally.
He makes for the loo.
Well, he was good, and knows it, also that I am evading. While this is probably what really puts him out, I wonder what did me, what got into me to show it at all. I fuck them, I take their cash, I fade. All-nighters are more difficult alright, but why here? Maybe his failure to recognize limits? House is permanently transgressing, seems to be habitual - and while I'm not usually a person to mind, it's definitely not in the budget to this extent.
After I hear him thump away in direction of the living room, I make for his bathroom.
Back from there, I get into gear.
From the sofa, in his pajama pants already, House is watching me with a half-smile, appearing to be not at all offended any more for having had my thoughts, or what goes for them at around six in the morning, with next to no sleep and temper strangely off.
"You wouldn't want to... curb my enthusiasm, right? Not just now? I do have something here for you to eat, after all..."
This is proof: Dr House does not ever let up. And he knows how to talk hot.
I do like that open smile. Surely, it is not on often enough - I know I haven't seen this one on before.
He is in good spirits, if a bit bored already. He very likely would be more so if I had answered his questions the usually way. Worse, he has a point - I am pissed off for no good reason I myself can conceive of.
Evasion is a constant in my business. Let's make it plain and simple, then. It's not difficult to sound jaded in reply.
"Alright. So, sweetums," to return that epithet, "do permit me to repeat it for your pleasure: you were good. Great, in fact. Made me pass out, remember? If I only hadn't another date this morning, and you were up to it, we could..."
I wonder if I sound as dishonest as I feel.
He gets up, steps up behind me, grabs round, and jerks the waistband of my skirt towards his loins in one strong move: My fingers are under it to pull it up, and stuck for an instant. By the time they are free he's holding my wrists tightly, and presses into my back hard.
Yes, hard; he's hard again!
"You don't have a morning john."
That's more of an order than a statement.
I bite back the obvious retort with difficulty. Does he truly think he can make me oblige by ordering me about? Anybody else would realize that the approach must antagonize me - then again, this may be what he wants: a little fight... Games...
There's something weird about the situation that makes me wary. His hold on my wrists... I'm not really scared, in all likelihood he's just playing. All the same, images of raped, bleeding whores come to my mind, and with them, the knowledge of official American jurisdiction, stating a hooker can't be raped because of the line of business she's in... Absurd thinking, in the best of cases: by the same token, a bank could not be robbed, right? I might even agree on that last part, if it was enforced by virtue of the first... But then, banks are being bought out by the state of late - I don't think I would want that, being a non-bank... Can't even begin to think what it all would mean if I stuck to the simile.
"Let go of me, bastard doc."
It's more the anger always welling up in me at injustice and idiocy generally than House's faintly scary attitude that does make me struggle. No good: he likes it, rubbing his thing between my cheeks.
He sniggers, his breath tickling my ear, and shoves some.
"You on speed or what?" I'm not amused.
A snort. "Stay the morning, it's another g for you. I want to make love to you; you're not to work, merely to relax."
Now there's a surprise!
I half-turn in his grip to try and catch an eye: "Make love?! You must be kidding! You spell that? That is a four-letter word to either of us!"
This stops him, yet somehow, he's still not ready to take offence. No easy way out.
"Seriously - I want you to be mine, for a couple more hours. To own you. As you are."
"You DO realise that's a silly demand? You had me as I am!"
"Just stay," he says, and lets go of me.
Dr House bends for his jacket, pulls his wallet out and from it, a sheaf of notes, walks over to the safe and drops the lot on top of my bag. He then ambles over to his bar.
I realise he hardly limps, and didn't at all when he came up behind me.
I stare. What is this, a scam? A doctor who fakes a handicap to test his colleagues?
Whatever drives him, loneliness is not a major part of it, I am sure.
"Whiskey?"
Not after dawn, really.
I shake my head slowly, he notices my stare.
"Right... I won't either... You're good for me, surely better than booze, probably better than Ketamine."
Ketamine? Ket?! He is mad!
"What have you got to do with the god drug? Not many in their right mind dare tread that ground!"
"Took it once as an anaesthetic, it fixed my leg for months. I will not take it again because of the other things it did. You fix my leg for hours on cue. And, I generally like drugs."
"A-ha..."
I try hard not to show it, but I am puzzled. Am I a drug?
I'm sure I need to think, only my mind's a blank momentarily. Too much sex can do that, and this is not common-line. At least, my ill humor is lifting.
Long, complicated terms from the old days, before this job chose me, tickertape through my mind like poetry, garlands of black on white with not much meaning attached: tryptamine, dextromethorphane, opioid receptor antagonist, endorphine, methamphetamine... codeine. Vicodin.
"What have you been taking lately, then?" I ask.
He fully smiles at me: "You."
That smile...
"Me?"
"Well, obviously."
A pun!
"A-haha!"
"They say sex can heal. You are a goddess."
"And you are a maniac. Sex and drug maniac."
Dr House stares at me.
"Stay... Please."
This intensity... It cost him dear to say the one magic word, so it must be major for him. Dr House would call someone a goddess rather than say please... Now why me? I'ts not that I don't like him, but client connectivity is a double-edged sword in prostitution. I've no idea what his motives are - it certainly is not a sudden infatuation with a hooker, Pretty Woman-style.
"I'm sure anyone will do, for you."
"No... Now that was cruel...!
"In any case, anyone's not here now. I can fuck you for hours on end without tiring, and it eases the pain. I need to know why that is."
I dismiss the last sentences. I'm not a human guinea pig, and won't agree to vivisection. Something's hiding in the bulrushes; it must be more than mere curiosity.
Admittedly, I've no pressing business, so I might just as well stay and take his cash.
Should I make him beg? He's an arrogant bastard, presumably fit enough to get down on his knees. Also, I'm positive he will let me feel any concessions I make, later.
"Beg, then."
So, it IS games, after all. Two words to try and earn me another grand.
His eyes cloud over, the lines on his forehead crease more deeply.
"You mean that."
"I do indeed, Dr House. I have to make sure you mean it, and abide by it. Beg, and pray."
"You've been with too many bastards."
"True - and if I'm not mistaken, there's another one of them, big time, in front of me at this instant, who needs to feel that not only is my time precious, but that no further games are on."
"Right."
Awkwardly, he bends, supporting himself on his left arm, and pulls his leg forward and down with his right. There seems to be no pain, nor is he playacting - still, like the other day, I feel ashamed.
I recall what he is, and steel myself.
Once he is kneeling, he straightens his back and gazes up at me.
"I beg you to stay," he says, plainly and honestly. "I adore you, goddess, and shall obey your every order."
Well, then. Godess, it is, really?
I take a step forward, my crotch close to his face.
"Smell yourself on my skin."
Without hesitation, he rucks up the tight skirt and buries his head in the silk of my panties, inhaling deeply.
Then, abruptly, he pushes me over - like the other time, I stumble and land on my back; he's on top of me with one lurching movement, kissing, biting, a greedy devil.
"Stop, you..." One hell of a hot bastard!
He moves up on my body and faces me: "I what? Two can play this game!"
One long finger strokes my cheek, moving aside stray streaks of hair very tenderly; there are breathless greedy kisses to my breasts while the other hand makes do with the strings; in one swift, sudden motion he slips into me, pulling me down onto himself, hitting my core and making me yelp.
His eyes are on mine always.
I throw my head back for the intense feeling, so close to pain, to get away from his eyes, but only make more noises when he starts nibbling my buds through the thin fabric, applying sharp teeth, pulling, twisting.
His hands hold my neck, gently, securely, I feel like a rising flame. His mouth on my breasts makes me ache and contract, and he feels it, uses the control he has gained.
So deep inside of me, so hot on my skin! How can fucking be so fresh, so good, after a night like this?
His eyes are aglow...
I feel I need to get away but there is no space outside of me, I am it all already, he drives me on, I must implode...
With a scream, I come; he follows suit, his pulse in me, simultaneous pleasure, synergy; synchronicity undone, the greatest thing there is, of them all.
I do not faint, oh no, not me, not again!
I do not find it easy though to remember where and what I am...
House's lank form lies slumped on top of me, both of us as much on as off the sofa, which is not as uncomfortable as it sounds - for the time being. It likely will be soon. I move up, pulling him with me, atop of me, limp and utterly undone.
*
When next I wake, it's from his light snore, and probably his weight.
Outside, a brilliant morning sun is up.
Now was this worth a thousand for him? I wonder, once in a while.
I try to move away from under him, but he holds on to me tightly. I suspect he's not all that asleep, but he won't give it away. This time, it's the skin on my shoulder that is all sore from his would-be beard.
I am really, really hungry, I badly need a coffee or two.
What did Dr House say about obeying my every order? Let's see...
I shake him a little.
"How about brunch?"
I nudge him.
"Mmrrrrff."
If it happened, I wouldn't believe it. Naturally, it won't, hence I just holler a bit and make myself a general nuisance - so he would let go of me, let me free or kick me out, that I might leave.
"You said you'd obey my every order, and I order breakfast now! No matter if it's late! Coffee! Goddess calling!!"
Maybe I can get him to take a pee or stuff, and beat it in the meantime. The cash is where it ought to be, all in good order; I can make it to the next cafe or 24/7.
One blue eye opens, clearly awake if bleary, and he says: "Of course, oh goddess, in a sec."
Then, the miracle does happen. Up House gets, and walks - not limps! - to the bathroom.
I'm flabbergasted.
I have a full view of his scar in the morning light.
I've seen it before, but never in bright daylight. It doesn't look as bad as I remember if it sure is bad enough: gnarled, dark, discolored, deep. There must be some big bit of tissue missing from his leg. On the other hand, it seems to me that enough muscle would be left in the thigh to compensate... He's very trim. So, the muscle, or lack thereof, is probably not the real problem.
Fleetingly, I wonder if I should make off while he's gone, but decide I want to see if he could be true to his word. Or what else will happen.
And this is what: from the loo, House drifts over to the kitchen, still with hardly a limp, and starts to clatter about.
I make a dash for it myself. Very likely wouldn't have managed to the next cafe.
Soon, I can smell coffee - apparently, he uses the continental method, and makes the real thing by hand.
When I return, House says, from the kitchen: "There's only toast, no milk, maybe some butter - erh, no, not really -, so, it's black coffee, and dry toast with a tiny leftover of orange jam, bitter Brit type. No eggs, no bacon, no cereals, no juice, no sandwiches..."
"Hm. Don't you have breakfast delivery around here?"
"Baby, this is a student's neigborhood! What do you want, soaked cold veggie scrambled eggs?"
"They need to eat, too!"
"No they don't, or not anything a human being would want, and if they do, they do it elsewhere, cheap, and rather later. This ain't New York City, you know? Unless you want pizza, or Thai again, nothing doing - I should know. I could order us basics from one of the stores, delivery due in about an hour."
I wrap myself in a blanket and walk over.
"Toast is just perfect! Can't really eat in the morning," I lie.
I mean, it's not totally untrue, but at this point, I could stuff my face with half-a-dozen fatburgers if they were to be had, I think. House sure did me, tonight.
"I'm sure we could order hamburgers..."
No, actually rather not.
House is bustling about, trying to clear up the general mess in the kitchen. The massive center table's mostly free, so I move in a chair from the wall, and grab for the toast.
His hand clamps down.
"Let me look at you."
I freeze.
I can't believe it! I honestly forgot to clean up and redo my face in the bathroom, I just can't believe it! That's the basics, the essentials - never show a john your true face, the less in the morning! It hasn't happened before, ever! A night of firsts...
Facing away, I get up and try to bolt, if not with a lot of conviction somehow.
He holds on to my arm.
"Please."
I turn to sit and face him.
Dr House closes in, fully awake now, that impersonal Blue stare fixed on me. His bony fingers move under my eyes, run over my cheeks, trace lines, touch my nose, grab a piece of tissue, pinch and rub a bit here and there, clinically - all the time, he's very close, eyes wide and very serious - then he moves back, looking on, shaking his head slightly as if in disbelief, assessing me as a whole - and slowly drops down to his knees, supporting himself on the table.
"Goddess..."
"Aw, get up, you idiot!"
"You are beautiful. You are real. You make me whole."
"Doctor House, do get up!"
He smiles up at me, mouth opened a bit as if to say 'aah'; he looks beautiful himself - and silly, if that's possible at the same time at all.
I can't help but smile back.
Sexy, silly man!
Eventually he obeys, and rises.
Still, there seems to be no pain for him in the movements.
House grabs another chair from the wall, sits, and pours the coffee. It is very good.
We have the warm dry toast with tiny bits of bitter orange marmalade. It's great with the coffee, tastes like fresh life. This is possibly the best breakfast I've had in years. Odd.
Eating, I stare at him; House stares back. Evidently, that's fine with both of us, lately, staring.
And he is talking today.
I remember the newspaper article about his leg I read on the net that I'm curious about.
I say: "You owe that leg to that girlfriend - ex-wife? - of yours, I believe? Without her, you'd either have only one of them now, or no life at all, I understand..."
"Who would have told you?"
"Something was actually in the papers. The internet, you know..."
"So you've been checking up on me. Wise girl, goddess. And it's all huge BS, of course."
"You would say that, obviously; likely about anything I come up with, just to remain inscrutable, I guess. Yet, no complaints were filed on your behalf, much like in other areas, and the story is officially online today."
"You know your trade, eh?"
House falls silent.
Then: "I didn't want this life."
"Hm. Do you want it now?"
His eyes are steady on mine, and soft, for a change.
"I am coming to think that there's something to it still."
I do think I blush, doesn't matter if he's kidding. This is hopefully not about me, if it would be flattering. I don't want it, I didn't ask for it! If events take this turn, a hooker's life gets really hard, unless she wants to quit her job on the spot to leave town, or to marry, both of which I definitely don't. Adoration is one cute thing, but it gets out of hand easily...
I've got to stop him, I think.
"I just don't get it! You've got a job that can't possibly be boring--"
"Oh yes, you do, and you are healing me. Maybe it's what I craved, what I hoped for as a reward of my work... And my job can be boring... Routine, paperwork... I do my best to avoid that part, though... Interesting you should name 'not boring' among the first things that strike you about my work as you see it..."
"I set great store by not boring," say I, looking at him down my nose haughtily. "So, you do your job because you want something back for it beyond the money and the fame? Most people would consider that highly inappropriate in a doc, on some level, at least..."
"Do you think so, goddess? These are hypocrites..."
"Well, have it from an informed mouth, then: having to strive for salvation - being qualified, even, to sort-of gain-safe your good deeds to show for you with some higher authority, if it's a newly-invested goddess in the flesh - is a very egotistic, puritan idea."
"I never..."
"I wouldn't have expected that from you. I think I should punish you for it."
He buries his face in his hands.
"I never! ...I reckon I started this myself. You are worse than her! What kind of hooker are you anyway, throwing such thoughts at a favorite client before he's ever had his first coffee? And who orders you to shut up at regular, short intervals? You appear to have your ideas very clear! I don't even believe in higher authorities! You excepted, naturally, goddess... Got a degree in philosophy, or what?"
"Close. Methodology. And chemistry. And what favorite client? Also, you're at your third pot of coffee in fact."
"Aw... but you ARE counting."
Dr House contemplates me quietly, with some curiosity this time, head propped on one hand.
He looks very, very delightful.
You wouldn't guess how many sex workers are out there with an academical degree. They prefer not to show it: somehow it doesn't add to sex-appeal - for most men, that is. Unless they count, of course.
Seems House has made up his mind on something.
"I want to make a confession, goddess."
Oops - so stopping him hasn't worked... What would this be? Post-coital effusion, for one, surely. That goddess thing can't go on!
"I don't want that."
"You did ask about my leg, and challenged my notions. If yours are idiotic. So do shut up and listen, let me say my bit."
Back to that level, are we?
"Hey, me being your goddess, you're not supposed either to--"
Ignoring my words, House talks into his hands, elbows on the table top.
"It's the story of this leg... Not the newspaper, nor the internet version."
House breaks off again, but this, I do want to hear, I'm as curious as the next person. So I wait.
He isn't put off, shooting me a glimpse of expectation. Evidently, that confession of his is pressing.
Whatever I say likely won't stop him, yet he seems to need a hand.
"About your girlfriend, about what she did. Which you obviously hate. Even though you'd have to be alive first place to hate her for it."
House is probably relieved I don't tell him off.
"Right. Ex, it is. Stacy, her name was - is - Stacy.
"I had a clot in the quadriceps, an infarction, possibly caused by a minor sports accident like being hit by a golf ball, I never figured it out. This clot wasn't found in time. So, it lead to muscle death, incapacitating and very painful... In the end, I diagnosed it myself, had the clot removed, and refused further treatment. I think that at some point I wanted to make events into sort-of a judgement of god, or chance, after it was manifest that it was too late to prevent or repair the damage. Me and two good legs, or nothing at all.
"While I was in an artificial coma, that woman arrogated to herself the role of deciding instance," the anger still in him after all the time is palpable, making me wonder if it is really about what she did then, "which could be called a judgement of some higher order, I reckon, but to me, it was nothing but a breach of trust. She denied me my patient's rights, and I am a doctor! She's a lawyer, she should have known better!"
Hm, I think, at least one person directly involved sees that line of magnitude clearly.
"I tried and took it with what grace I had left. Judgement had been pronounced and the life sentence doled out; I could only try and cope with the facts when I came to. I could never trust the agent of that judgement again however, so we split. She left me is what everybody says - but trust you me, I made her.
"I know she expected as much, had been aware of the possibility from the start. She risked our relationship for my life. That only aggravated me more. She created the initial distance, not really bothering to bear with me while I got to cope with what she'd bestowed on me. She betrayed me in my sleep - twice, even."
But she did it for love, for the wish for you to live - to do your job or whatever, maybe love her regardless! What is love, other than this?! Many people would do the same to the ones they love, given the chance! She, a lawyer, went beyond the law, violated it, and what's more, did all that for you!
I don't tell him that. Very likely, Dr. House is aware of it anyway. He seems very open...
I wonder where the confession is though, in all this.
Dr House ponders me, assessing for signs of pity or any other emo he could chide me for. He surely is not fishing for them.
"So, this is the tearful bit as was covered by the media. Since you did ask, I'm going to tell you also what happened later. You won't like it, though I believe you might understand, at least."
Well, I guess here it comes, then.
"Like five years later, the woman returns, to the hospital, to me - for a diagnosis, and of her hubby, of all people! She believed in me, trusted me - after all that had happened, can you think?"
"As a doc, I'd suppose, sure..."
Since the question was obviously rhetorical, my interjection is ignored. One can try, no less. House takes his time in telling his tale.
"Hubby has unclear but grave complaints. So, that overbearing woman dares bring her man to me - awkward for all of us, if I enjoyed the needling, aggravating both of them, driving them up the wall.
"And you know what else? She did the same thing to him that she did to me! Worse still, she made me do it!"
He interrupts his narrative to let this sink in.
Wow - someone managing to make HIM do something he doesn't want to? I don't believe it. Either House is lying, or that girl must be really good!
Staring at his hands, or maybe the coffee pot he is holding, House continues: "I know I wanted the hubby to hurt, to suffer from what I was almost certain by then he had. The only way to diagnose him was to give him a shot of a cocktail of substances known to set off attacks. He categorically declined. He didn't believe he was sick, initially. Stacy sort-of blackmailed me into forcing the test on him. She was sure he'd forgive her the breach of trust- what a wimp!
"This kind of diagnostics is ridiculously dangerous - with a neurological disorder, nobody can say in advance what any set of substances might trigger, and any attack of AIP can kill the victim. Even my team stood up to me when he refused - that was the final straw. Just another reason to do it!
"Turns out in the end I am right. The husband has porphyria, and will conceivably spend a lot of time in rehab, and a wheelchair, if not the rest of his life. Bad luck for her - once more.
"They then decided to stay in Princeton for monitoring and rehab. My boss took my ex on as general counsel. This meant having her, and him, around for months, or years.
"At first, I liked the idea. Baiting both of them, making passes and retracting, guilt-tripping her over and again, it was just great!"
Oh, bastard! Having him around in the hospital should be the bugger for a very sick man and his wife, even without the enmity!
"I bet you did enjoy it."
My sarcasm goes undetected.
"Well... Eventually, I... I got after her so much, she tried to have me removed from the hospital by making a malpractice suit against a member of my team backfire..."
I revert to the original issue.
"So you did save his life, right, because she insisted - again?"
"Yes... I did... Sort of... And I hated it!"
"Sort of?"
"I did it, okay? Solved this, like most every other case!"
House is angry and uncomfortable with things, with his confession, with me. But he needs it out and won't stop now.
"Maybe you can imagine..."
Dr House regards me and reads me, displaying some mixture of satisfaction and disappointment.
"Well, I guess you can't... I was very angry about her reappearance in my life. And what a boring git the guy was! She'd traded me for a nagging, jealous, angry, unhappy cripple! Well, he wasn't all of that initially, but I was sure he'd soon be."
Much like you, apart from the boring bit... I don't say it. What I think must be plain reading.
"Also, hubby was afraid of me, hated me, and was cross with her for consulting me. He feared I might win her back, that she would dump him for me.
"This gave me an idea. I would try to seduce her away from him - or pretend to, rather; meanwhile getting some as well, if possible - to see if I could make her, not break up with him, but offer me to return, in so many words. Which I would then decline with the saddest of faces, and the most irrefutable of arguments.
"My little game would take careful engineering - I would have to make sure hubby does not find out. I wanted him to chafe and suspect, enough to become really jealous, yet not enough to demand divorce, and by that grow into the boring nag I'd known him to be immediately in full bloom. This would leave her with him; and what with him being helpless, he would need to think twice with that bird brain of his. I would make her betray HIM as well. Well, as I said, she had betrayed her new man's trust already - now I would make her go all the way, do the real thing."
His tone is conversational.
I'm actually captivated by the tale unrolling before me.
Sex, manipulation, and revenge all in one, on the same person...
"Anyhow, of course I didn't want her to return! You do understand that, do you."
It's not a question. How would I, anyway? His wish to hurt or kill the husband is the only hint so far that could count to the contrary, if it's massive, isn't it?
House looks up at me, eyes radiating and merciless.
Does he read my feelings? He can't give a damn about them, or he wouldn't be fessing up like this.
Goddess, indeed. I shall need priests to deal with such things in my stead, in the future.
Inhaling deeply, he switches into that arrogant lecturing mode of his:
"Stacy did declare I was the one, would always be, and more than once... But that she couldn't be with me...
"Any real attempt on her side to come back to me would have been failure. I'd have been forced to deal with her... Beat her off very cruelly... This, neither of us would have liked, nor some people we both knew."
What, in the light of what House is telling me, would 'beat off very cruelly' mean, by comparison? I shiver slightly, which passes unnoticed. Don't think I want to know.
I clear my throat, I won't budge.
"Well, this all sounds like so much hindsight to me..."
"Yea, and we made lovey-dovey ever after..."
Dr House is neither impressed nor bugged. He simply watches me.
For him, even if he did love Stacy at some point which somehow I don't doubt although it is hard to imagine, she must forever be someone who dared ignore his will, and defied his control in his sleep - which IS a kind of a rape.
"And to say you were, are, missing her is totally off the mark, of course."
"Naturally. Wasn't, am not."
House does go for it, though. Must be Honesty Hour.
"Okay. So there was an instant or two when I truly wanted and hoped - instants only. We both knew it wouldn't work, so no problem here to deflect her and stave her off. In any case, I had to play with all I had - for myself, to find out what truths there were. Oh, and of course to achieve my aim of getting laid by my ex. I knew it would probably hurt, but I'd see it through nevertheless."
House sure does want it out.
"So, this went on for months - baiting her, annoying him..."
Dangling before her what she couldn't have anymore... Given she did really want him back, something I honestly can't believe - but then they say there's a horse for every course. Stacy ought to have been very saddle-sore by the time.
"One day, Stacy told me they would be returning to Smallville, Nowhere, what with hubby having recovered sufficiently, and my hating to have her around. That was my chance! And she did come on..."
Triumphantly: "She played! So I did her - without anyone, including herself, the wiser about my game!
"Next thing, I had this guy Mark kneeling at my feet, practically in tears! At first, I thought Stacy had told him. He jumped out of his wheelchair, throwing himself at me, jeopardizing his rehab to stop me from walking away from his psych-ward gibberish about pushing her away and hating himself... He had no clue about what had happened between me and her, either... Can you believe he came to me of all people for advice?!"
So hubby does have a name.
"Ought to have been a triumph, but I really hated it, all I felt was contempt..."
"Other persons might define such a feeling as pity," I interject.
He looks up, expressionless and without surprise.
"Yea, you would say that... Someone might. I hated it. It reminded me. What difference would the label make anyway? So, his self-abasement put me off. I still cannot understand what she saw - sees - in the wimp. Or what on Earth made a woman who could love such a moron desirable to me."
House may be a brilliant doc, but his logic is perfectly circular here, putting the end before the beginning, even forcing it, like in a self-fulfilling prophecy: Stacy-babe's infidelity with him as proof of her disloyalty to him... It's like her infidelity with him now could justify his pushing her away back then, in retrospect. And his contempt: that man Mark has got to be a moron - not despite, but because he managed to lay hands on and hold on to what House had lost himself by pig-headedness.
A breach of trust is not necessarily infidelity, but this is an attempt to set those two in one. House must have done what he did partly out of guilt, or remorse, regardless of what he claims. He denies the strength that was in that guy's approach to him, forcing the desired, or feared, outcome to fit his definition. Trying to assuage guilt by adding to it fits, too: the man is weird. Also, I don't think it is as rare as it sounds.
"So. I suppose by then I was repelled, probably more than hurt. Luckily, I only realized as much after we... after I'd had her. I was about to abandon the rest of my plan, because I'd found out what I needed to know: I really, truly did NOT want her anymore. Things were/ had become clear for me, and the game could end."
But, of course, those puppets have their own ideas...
"I went to her office to tell her that what had happened between us couldn't happen again, to say I was sorry she'd leave, the better for the greater good, blahblahblah - and Stacy chose that moment to finally come out and say to my face she'd be willing to break up with him... dump her now-handicapped husband for me, to return! At the time, it jarred me, having come to the conclusion I had, and confirmed it - luckily, she hadn't told him first, and putting her off turned out not difficult at all."
For some instants, House seems to ponder.
"So, when she came on like that, naturally I desisted, appealing to her duties as a wife, how she couldn't possibly leave poor Mark alone with his illness, telling her how it won't work out with us even without the drag, how I'd just hurt her over and again - as if I wasn't gleefully doing so, right there! - which would be true even if we'd both really wanted a revival. Much like I'd planned - I did enjoy that bit! I was good - I even managed to make her feel more guilty yet, and instead of yelling at me and scratching my face for the scam, she almost apologized...
"It was max. pain for her - hurt me as well, unexpectedly, gratifying as it was, knowing my game had won - let me know for sure she'd have jilted me as well, sooner rather than later...
"Stacy was heartbroken and humiliated, without ever seeing how I'd played her, and could do nothing but retract. She was down."
Shaking my head, I swallow hard. This story, told with that relaxed pose...
All of this, every part of it, must, however, have been done with that sweet, truest-blue look, the most innocent of faces.
Still, his pain about events is obvious.
I wonder if he ever bothers to hesitate and reconsider before he goes all-in.
Dr House is beyond lying, on some level.
"Absurdly, I am - was pretty much in the same boat with that man. She would betray one cripple for the other, so how much faster would she betray any invalid for a healthy man? Why shouldn't she, even? It would make sense - she herself is healthy, beautiful, a brilliantly successful lawyer..."
Dr House must have terribly bad ideas about people's motives.
Actually, part of what he says is absurd: he's a cripple (besides some other things I could name) by his own definition, if not in a wheelchair - yet that woman Stacy would have come back to him no less - which is obviously considered immaterial, saying more about the man than about anything else. He must have convinced himself of Stacy's thoroughly treacherous nature.
"Well, so far, she's had no luck that way. All her men appear to be struck down by rare, incapacitating illnesses..."
How do an ego like his and that amount of self-loathing go together?
I swallow once more, and make a face. Luckily, House is contemplating his hands again.
To my mind, the average man would likely rather not admit to revenge. He would claim he slept with his ex to make up, because he still loved her, or to put one over on the new lover, yet couldn't bear the responsibility of breaking up a marriage, all of which would be a bunch of even fatter lies. He'd probably shed a few crocodile's tears about how circumstances wouldn't permit them to reunite...
And, of course, a major issue with any man: he would say his ex still wanted him, because he was so good - and believe it, as well. Men are vain. But most of them don't play this consciously, or would admit as much.
Maybe all that is just me...
He seems to be finished.
I should leave.
"It also was confirmation of her persistent attraction to me. That part of it did feel good. ...I loved her at one time or another, you know? Then... today, I've no idea how that could have ever happened."
There.
Dr House relapses into silence, face in hands like before.
Is this it, now?
With him, this does sound marginally different from the crap I usually get. Slightly more honest and meaner, in fact. Ostensibly Dr House, too, needs to build up a reason or an excuse for bedding his ex, if being hot for someone does not have to spell love. Even if he's not lying, and a reunion wouldn't have worked out - which latter bit I don't doubt.
Sex often is tantamount to power, to the male of the species.
He inhales, sounding triumphant once more: "So, I refused to take her back. Spoiled goods, you know."
This makes me hiss through my teeth.
By now, I am cursing myself. I assume I did ask for it, bringing up the subject - he made me, twice at least, and I obliged him. Like you have to invite the vampire in. Blast my curiosity!
"She's not a bad fuck, mind you, not bad at all..."
He looks up, blue eyes wide, all dishonesty: "Nothing compared to you, naturally."
This man can be vile! And it seems he can go one better - or worse, rather - always...
House sees the face I make, reads it, and gives his most wicked smile, pleased to have got to me.
"You are cute when you are upset," he remarks.
What nasty BS! I go for straight, not bothering to try and hide my feelings from him any longer.
Doesn't matter much now anymore, anyway.
"I'm not upset, I'm nauseated. Something else entirely. You took revenge on her for saving your life, for god's sake, and in cold blood if what you told me is true! This is entirely iatrogenic, doctor..."
His eyes are hard as stone.
Ignoring the weak attempt to interrupt and make light, he continues.
"I'd do it again, given the chance. Sure as shooting with the added gratification of annoying any sick husband of hers - while getting some all the same, if possible. I would have contrived something similar had she dared, had she come to me on completely different business, without that klutz attached, if the bore added spice by proxy... What a shame to have to see such a creature replace yourself! Not flattering at all, I tell you!"
House collects himself by inhaling deeply: "I'd've played this differently of course if she was free, if she'd really been free to return. I never wanted that," he repeats, to drive his point home.
His face is flushed, eyes aglow.
Wow, I think, THAT is SO mean! Breakfast was such a nice affair, up to this tale.
I am warned, I think.
Should this john and I ever part on bad terms, I'll need to go to ends to not end up in PPTH in a case of emergency. If I don't leave town altogether at that point - given I still can.
Watching me with a kind of wary of interest himself, as if expecting to be smacked, knowing he should be, House hums, rather than he sings: "'Each man kills the thing he loves... each man kills the thing he loves... dadadah... dadadadum...'".
He adds: "Which does not necessarily mean, in turn, that said man loves, or merely likes, the things he hurts, or kills..."
This makes me swallow hard once more.
Thing? Why, thank you, for half of the species! And what about me? Can I, will I take it all, as long as I feel his cash in my pocket ... his thing in me?
I'll admit I am fazed.
I don't think Dr House is bothered, or cares. He is quietly assessing me.
I need to think.
While there's nothing physically threatening about the man, his demeanour smacks of a deliberate warning to not get close, as if I needed that... He's a job. Some job, to be sure! Dr House seems to be one of those persons who never accept personal or social limits or borders in others, yet cautions them, in this case me, severely to inquire or approach - I never intended to anyway, or wouldn't have, had I known... I never knew affairs would become so personal! The curious question was the wrong question, or the one question too many... I should have asked about the motorbike. Better than stamp collecting any day. Much better than this!
For the time being however, my curiosity about the doc is thoroughly satisfied indeed.
Doctor House knows precisely what he's doing, how to pull just about everybody's strings, how to play people - he enjoys it, and even admits as much. He's a real jerk under that agreeable exterior evidently, outside of bed - much like his manners promise, only worse than anyone could guess: someone you shouldn't cross. Or preferably not meet first place. The honesty doesn't really help.
I never thought that Dr House was entirely likeable. He is sexy, fascinating, good-looking, funny sometimes, but also bad-mannered, unpredictable hence possibly dangerous, and rather demanding to be with for any amount of time, very likely in any capacity. This man knows to how get value for money! Very likely, he'll be pushing his own limits like those of others, but I never could make my mind up if that's an excuse for anything.
The really serious matter is, there appears to be a definite cruel streak in him, as well. If he were a sadist, what kind of sadist? Is he a dangerous john?
I wouldn't have guessed so up till this morning. I'll keep in mind what I learned about him.
In fact, I'd be amazed if I could keep my mind off it for the next few days. To be a success in hustling, you have to learn to not care about what a john tells you, about the insults, the whining, the sweet lies, and forget them ASAP - but in the jumble, there always will be stories and things that get close to you, and stick.
I feel sort-of 'off-the-leash', which in my experience means I need to tread warily, or I'll step right into something.
Doctor House is a huge bastard, he deserves a lesson or two! It won't be worth it though. Our business engagement should end here.
Also, I reckon I've heard the song he hummed before. Must be some old Seventies movie... probably Blue, possibly European.
I'm glad he didn't tell this story earlier the evening. It would have spoiled much of the fun of the night for me.
"Do you really believe all that, yourself? What you just told me?"
"Of course! What kind of question is that?! I know it to be true, and I never told anyone about it yet, like this..."
Why me, then? I don't bother to ask. Certainly, I could have done without this tale.
"That's not what I meant."
"You doubt me?"
"You never lie...? No, actually, I don't doubt a word of it, it was pretty concise - I wonder about your assessment of your own motives. The hindsight bit. Can anyone be such a bastard, really?"
I try to sound disinterested, like an interviewer; successfully, I think.
"Ah -" a mirthless, toneless laugh "- you got me there. My upbringing, maybe? ...Being a good girl, if a hooker, - particularly a hooker -, you'll want to believe that I merely make up for my loss that way, for failing to get that woman back, and nothing I can say will be able sway your belief... You babes are all like that, romantics, always suspecting the best of intentions, even while getting raped, or killed! Hookers only seem to be worse."
"Doctor House, shut up!", I grit out between clenched teeth.
He passes that over completely, like I didn't say a thing. Not the first time tonight.
"Just another female moron, then. Too bad, I'd been hoping."
His voice is bitter and full of contempt.
"Hey! That's the most beastly, sexist thing to say after inflicting a story--"
Once again, he ignores my words, talking over them like I wasn't there. Which I do wish I wasn't, by now.
"You'll manage to convince yourself I can't admit to feeling insulted, or to the pain... Well, wrong! I laid that trap, sprung it, and saw things through... Believe you me, after her betrayal of my trust she was guilt-tripping, and scared enough of my anger to have gone very far in meeting my demands. Great sex that way, by the way... I made her feel that again."
Right. If it is true. If it was, all the more that woman Stacy needed to pick up her heels and run!
He did it all himself. To himself, to her. Does he do it to everybody within reach?
"Another excellent reason against resuming the match!"
Sounds like a sports event that got drained in a flood or something, the way he says it, making me think how some relations could do with referees.
"Her compliance, I mean."
Some people could do with some sort of moral agency, or a sense of proportion, for starters.
"And it was me who broke up."
I get up, and leave the kitchen. Possibly to throw up the coffee.
House comes after me when I'm in the shower, but I've locked the door, surprised at finding a key in the lock at all with this guy, and grateful for it. I'm sore in more than the obvious ways, I have to split.
I wonder what deep waters I might have gotten myself into. And if I can still get out of them while there is time. What natural radar put Lisa off? I don't think I'll ever find out, she's not renowned for honesty about her motives.
Come one, girl, Marnie, I admonish myself, he's only a john, if a bit mad, just another job. Regard him as another cock to suck, like he uses you! You don't have to come back here!
The thought doesn't calm me.
Soaping down, I wonder what kind of woman this Stacy would be... Is she strong, or pliable? Intelligent? She'll have to have liked a good fight.
I'm not sure that what she did to the doc initially is an action that takes strength if you love the person involved - in my opinion, respecting someone's wishes in a situation like that would certainly demand more strength.
To return to her ex for help, because she trusts him, or thinks knowing a famous doc might save the man she loves, again does take strength... or an amazing amount of blinding stupidity.
She allowed herself to be played by House like that: still trusted him. BIG mistake.
Can she really have been unaware of what he did? If she'd feared anything, she wouldn't have come to him with her husband's health issues.
There are people who fail to imagine such meanness as House has shown, in others - including me, most of the time.
How much guilt was in Stacy, to offer to come back to the bastard? How much of it was love?
I'm sure she can't be weak, or even marginally stupid, because neither trait is one House will suffer around for any period of time longer than a night, or the occasional hour, and even then not without the additional gratification of playing nasty tricks, or torturing the poor git in question, I'd bet. No-one ignorant or feeble will last around him. They wilt, or are bashed down, to be precise. Which doesn't necessarily mean that the strong survive in the atmo, I reckon. This House is uninhabitable.
When I return to the living-room fairly composed, House sits on the sofa, watching me.
When I'm finished dressing, he gets up and bars the exit.
"A tribute to the humble worshipper, goddess!"
I may be a coward, but I can't bring myself to tell him to go stuff his head in a pig. Would be fun to see too how he obeyed the order because I'm the goddess.
There's the business side to consider.
He wants to kiss. When he realises that I feel something very close to revulsion, instead of stopping, he uses what he has learned about my body - how and where I like his hands, his mouth... Downside of honestly putting out...
Ultimately, I relax, and surrender. Service wins out.
So we kiss for goodbyes, and that is an odd ballet: he has my head in his hand, he's stroking the skin behind my ears, and he's gentle, hands in my hair, so passionate, his lips on my throat... I still try to refuse him all of it, in the end only turning him on more.
To my own amazement, I find it very hard to not open up to him, to not let him kiss me deeply. It would be great, I bet, regardless of the fact that he's probably the biggest asshole I've met so far, which is saying something, if only about the honesty of the other assholes. I try to remember it's just his smell, a purely visceral reaction. He knows just what to do...
House doesn't really attempt to make for the mouth this time, assessing limits very precisely, and forgoing to cross them for the time being. I get into the mood again, so there's a lot of good dry kissing going on that makes me tingle all over.
This act of balance is very delicate, and sexy and tender, no less. He touches and teases, we move against each other... I can see how his ex couldn't refuse him, sexually.
I don't think I want to throw this assignment just yet, but I am not sure if I have the strength to hang on.
I need to split before I do.
"You didn't really have a morning john today like you said, do you? It's eleven thirty already."
Did he seriously doubt it? Maybe he can't know or realize it, what with that ego of his, but if there had been the usual Wednesday morning appointment, I definitely would have split in good time, and hence been spared the story of the leg and Stacy. Which was definitely worth more than one grand.
I shake my head, then say: "Not today, this regular cancelled - your luck. I need to be someplace at one." Still a lie.
Sometimes, you don't need a reason to make good an escape, yet give one anyway.
I grab my stuff from the safe, including the cash, and do not look back - although my legs feel like moving through water reluctantly. Even if it hadn't been another lie - whatever an appointment could be right now would somehow be very, very difficult to see through.
First that great sex, then that nasty confession...
There being nothing next is worse.
There's always workouts, of course.
"Tuesday next, at eight!" he tells my backside.
Maybe.
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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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