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Empty Abstraction
by Laura
Empty Abstraction
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: NC17
Feedback: May I have another?
Random: Thanks to Valerie. You were man enough to take this (regrettably) as is, and woman enough to utterly break it apart.
Summary: House marks the spot.
::.::
It's the same routine each and every morning.
When he wakes up he is in horrible pain; his leg will feel as if it's on fire. But he won't take any Vicodin, not yet. Though, after he gets out of bed and before his fingers grasp the handle of his cane, he will reach for the pills. It's instinctive now, a sure sign his body has stopped fighting. He doesn't like to think about it much, defeated is defeated.
He walks into the bathroom and hangs his cane from a hook on the back of the door. The shower is turned on and the water temperature is adjusted accordingly; he likes it hot, unbearably so.
A full-length mirror hangs on the wall next to his sink. He's not vain, it was on the wall when he first arrived, but he couldn't care less about the dcor of his bathroom. He undresses quickly and stands in front of the mirror. Even with his disabled leg he is in good shape. The occasional cigar and more-than-occasional drink aren't good for him, but his diet is relatively healthy and he exercises as much as he can. He swims, only a few laps per week, but it keeps his endurance high, and ensures whatever limited mobility his leg has retained.
At least ten minutes will be spent scrutinizing his body. He's searching for anatomical red flags, anything indicative of the numerous diseases or conditions about which he's learned over the years. The infarction caught him off guard and he resents the fact that it wasn't properly diagnosed. That incident was the impetus behind his near obsessive thirst for medical knowledge. He is very smart, he is aware of this, but any person of considerable intelligence knows that one never stops learning. His home littered with medical journals and newspaper clippings where most people would have framed pictures of their loved ones or a cheap souvenir from a summer spent on the Rhine. After his eyes have guaranteed a clean bill of health, for the most part, he steps into the shower.
He is immediately aware of two things when he wakes in the morning, the latter of these two being an erection. Rolling over and burying it in the folds of his comforter is usually what occurs. He may or may not move his hips; he enjoys the pressure and friction derived from the ridges in his mattress.
As a result, when he does step into the shower, with water so hot that it practically peels the skin off of his body, he will be bent at the waist; it is not because of his leg. Once under the spray and surrounded by its billowing steam, he will turn around, facing the rear of the shower. At that time will bow slightly, until the spray hits a certain spot on his back, and brace himself with his left hand on the tiled wall in front of him. His right hand will rotate clockwise and then counter-clockwise, cracking the bones in his wrist. Eyes closed, he'll grasp his erection with the newly loosened hand. The first contact is always palm down, at the base with a thumb and two fingers; it'd be a pinch if it weren't for the space between the utilized digits. His palm glides along his length, increasing in fingers for every inch traveled. A sensation of knuckles and calluses cascade over his tip; he's then palm up and working his way back to himself.
This will go on for five to seven minutes. The tempo increases or decreases depending on his mood and the day of the week. He is nothing if not inventive; he stands backwards and bent because, at that angle, he will come onto the shower floor. A swirl of soap and DNA will easily drain from the shower of its own accord, leaving him with nothing to clean. He holds his breath throughout his entire climax. The light-headedness amidst the sounds of his frantic movement makes the experience more intense for him.
And so, when the opportunity presents itself, he decides Cameron should hold her breath, too.
::.::
He watches her all the time. It'd be creepy if he weren't as equally observant of everything else around him.
He has memorized the purposeful stride which causes her lab coat to flap and flutter behind her like the tail of a kite. The arch of her eyebrow, elegant in response to a wry comment, is a conveyed hyperbola. Judging by the level of her shoulders, there is a six-degree differential in the curve of her spine, though she's well within the limits of normal. She is rough with any sort of handle, whether it's to a door or the trunk of her car. Her fingertips will be white with desperation, hanging on for dear life from an endless array of inanimate objects. Save for the occasional slam or squeal, they suffer in silence.
He still has yet to discover the motivation behind Chase's oral fixation. At a given point in time Chase has had in his mouth a pen, the knuckles of his index and middle finger, and the ring that takes up residence on his fourth finger. Not to mention the urine specimen container with which he was playing with the corners of his mouth, curled upwards in a smile, no doubt.
Foreman is subtle, mostly just annoyance flashing across his features in varying amounts. He also likes to walk around with his left hand in his pocket while his right gestures wildly, accentuating his words. After some minutes of this the right hand will slip into his pocket as well. Additionally, he's been known to raise his eyebrows in defiance of a diagnosis. This he will adamantly deny.
Wilson, on the other hand, is like reading a frustrated book. After spending any amount of time with him most are aware of his first habit. His hands move to his hips a lot, as though he's a model continuously standing at the end of a runway, striking a pose. He laughs nervously when he doesn't like where the conversation is headed and if he's uncomfortable he stares at his shoes instead of a person's face. He rubs that spot on the back of his neck at such a rate chances are he will need a skin graft in the near future.
He notices nearly everything that goes on around him. Cameron is different in that he wants her to notice him. He wants to make it impossible for her to forget him.
This can be accomplished, he decides, by bending her over the front of his desk and slamming into her from behind. She needs to experience him as a storm that leaves scraped kneecaps and bruised thighs in its wake. He wants to brand each of her hips with his mouth. The space between her shoulder blades scorched by the palm of his hand because when he growls at her to "Stay down," he will mean it and push her down harder, breasts flattened against the unfinished paperwork on his desk. The sturdy wood of his cane would muffle her screams. The intensity only to be discovered days later when he finds several bite marks on his cane that she left behind. It's at that point he would talk with Cuddy to ensure his employees have adequate dental care.
Cameron and he need to have a talk.
::.::
She had been walking to her car.
"Cameron." He didn't say her name. He spit it out like a commanding officer issuing an order.
The reverberation of his voice off of every surface in the parking garage startles her. She stops in her tracks as her car keys hit the ground with an off-key jingle.
"Dr. Cameron," he repeats.
She glances over her right shoulder and sees House ten feet away, standing directly in the middle of an empty parking space. It's freaking her out. (She's still turned on though, when in House's company it's her default position.)
"Yes?" she says.
She squats down to pick up her keys. Before she has a chance to grab them, the end of his cane comes out of nowhere and pins her keys to the ground. She glares at him; he's smirking.
"This is quite the situation we've made for ourselves," he declares.
"Actually, it's you that's preventing me from leaving."
"Big picture," he says, "learn to see it."
"Fortune cookie wisdom is so sexy," she says, trying to pull her keys out from under the rubber tip of his cane.
He shrugs and takes a glance around the garage.
"Wow, it's like we're on the same level or something," he gushes. "If I squint I might be able to see your aura."
When he was busy with his snark he accidentally let up on her keys. She snatched them from the ground before he said `squint'.
"Bye," she says as she walks away.
"We should fuck," he shouts at her as she reaches her car.
She blushes feverishly as `fuck' echoes throughout the garage; she must've misheard.
"What did you say?" she yells, brow knit together in confusion, and refusing to turn around.
There's no reply. For a minute she assumes he left but then thinks she's not that lucky.
"We should fuck," he whispers, from right behind her.
She flinches, not realizing he was that close.
"Why sex?" she asks, her breath fogging up the car window.
"Not have sex, I said fuck," he says.
"Why fuck?" she asks, angrily.
"You're proper; `please' and `thank you' and a guaranteed smile for strangers," he says, moving her hair aside to expose her neck. He lowers his head and scrapes his chin along the skin above her collar. "Fuck is not proper," he whispers, hot breath against her hairline. "Fuck is raw, sweaty, and unforgiving to the point of begging."
Her head turns to the left. "I don't beg-"
He interrupts her by stepping closer, forcing her body against the car. Her keys, followed by her purse and coat, fall to the ground unnoticed.
"For anything or anyone," she adds.
When her hands move to the car's roof he takes advantage and presses against her harder. The ever-present prescription bottle in his right front pocket is digging, almost painfully, into her lower back. (She thinks, using a precise twirl of her hips, she can twist off the cap.) She squirms as his knuckles graze her cheek. He puts his cane on the roof and places a long, drawn out kiss below her ear.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, which I'm not, but your nipples are hard enough to cut glass right now. You're begging for something."
He turns her around and limps towards the front of the car, pulling her behind him. He pushes her so she's sitting on the hood and spreads her legs with his knee. Then he grabs her waist, ass squealing across the hood of the car, and holds her against him. He shifts, to the left, to the right and to the left a little more until he feels her pelvis respond with a thrust. House marks the spot.
"You're saying that because it justifies your actions," she retorts, clutching his forearms.
"Thanks, Freud, but I'm more of a Rorschach guy," he taunts, leaning towards her neck. "Tell me what this looks like."
He bites down on her neck, directly above the collarbone. She writhes with pain and with pleasure, legs wrapping tightly around him; her body's betrayal. Her fingers dig into his arms through two layers of clothes; it hurts and causes him to bite down even harder. He lets go a few seconds later, running his tongue over the newly broken skin. She shudders; he's feeling very smug and very hard.
"That hurt," she says, sounding surprised.
He clears his throat. "Were you scared?" he asks.
"Yes," she admits.
He starts to speak, but hesitates; the grip on her waist loosens.
"Of me?" he wants to know.
His jaw is pressed against her temple and the uttered words graze her skin.
"No," she says, quickly, pulling back to look at him. "Us. We're a trainwreck."
Small movements are exaggerated when holding onto a man with a limp and the shifting of her weight propels him backward, with her holding on for dear life. His cane is not a tool with which to garner sympathy and as he stands he falls, their combined weight increasing gravity's expected wrath. They hit the ground hard, he on his back and her on top of him. Neither is suspecting this turn of events.
"Ouch," he says, lifting a hand to rub the back of his head. "Foreshadowing, you think?"
She moves to stand up and leans on his chest for leverage.
"Hey!" he shouts. "Most people would be careful of a cripple on the ground."
"I'm sorry," she apologies, standing up. "Are you okay?"
He sits up and brushes the dirt from his jacket. "Any chance I had at becoming a world-renowned interpretive dancer is gone," he says to her, "but I think this doctor thing is going to work out better for me."
She crosses her arms in front of her, giving him a look that indicates she wants a straight answer and not a quip.
"I'm fine," he says, carefully standing up. Realizing his cane is still on the roof of her car, he leans on a nearby concrete column with a loud sigh. "I want to see you later," he finishes, apparently on non sequitur duty.
Having knocked him to the ground seconds before, she's unsure of what to make from his request. A million uncertainties are running through her mind. Questions lead to specifics and she's too tired to analyze her life tonight, she asks the one question he will answer.
"When?"
"Seven," he replies.
"Okay," she agrees, taking his cane from the roof of the car.
She walks over to him, hands it over without a word, and then walks back to her car and leaves. He realizes, watching her taillights disappear from sight, that he had been in a parking garage, with her, and didn't make one Deep Throat joke. He glances downwards as his erection twitches, struggling upwards inside his pants.
::.::
It's 7:03 p.m. when she knocks on his door. His intention is to demand an apology from her. He opens the door; she's still in the outfit she wore to work but the look in her eye is far from proper. He opens his mouth to speak.
"Don't," she says, ushering him back as she steps inside the apartment.
She locks the door behind her and shrugs out of her jacket, leaving it in a pile by the door.
"Kitchen?" she asks.
He points and she walks to the other room.
He's confused, she's going to what, cook for him now? He heads to the kitchen to see what she's doing. He finds her standing facing the wall, thin fingers of her left hand resting on the edge of the countertop. A glass of water is in her other hand, being consumed frighteningly fast. A final audible gulp and she places the glass on the counter; she's finished.
"Come here," she tells him.
He doesn't think that's a good idea, but (as usual) his curiosity gets the better of him. He walks over to her.
"Hmm," she mutters.
Sweat is breaking out across his forehead and he feels like ten kinds of useless. She smiles, he knew that smile, practically trademarked that smile, and, oh, is it too late for him.
She moves closer to him and then drops to her knees, rubbing against him and running her hands over his body all the way down. Button, zipper, her thumbs hook into his belt loops, her fingers slide feverishly into his waistband, and she tugs: pants and underwear are down to his knees.
He starts getting hard as soon as the air hits him and he really should've cornered her in the parking garage sometime ago.
She stares at his swollen cock, nestled between thighs, startling against the brown patch of pubic hair. She takes it in her mouth before she actually sees it. He's moaning with a few swirls of her tongue.
"Christ," he says, as his eyes roll to the back of his head.
She's good, she is very good, recognizing when to jerk like mad and when to draw back, lick softly, and gasp. She thinks about Stacy, wondering if she moved her head in the same slow, deliberate way. Did she ask how he liked it? Did he tell her not too hard, quicker, use her teeth, no hands, play with that soft spot behind his balls, take all the time she wanted?
The clock ticked with her questions while she heard him groaning quietly as he touched her hair and pushed his hips slowly against her face. He's nearly outside of his body, void of any shape, reluctantly a puddle.
She braces her hands on his thighs, but it's when he's not in her mouth anymore that gets his attention.
"I don't like it, you fighting me all the time," she says.
He shakes his head impatiently, eyes wild and breathing heavily.
A flurry of hands, lips, and jaws, interspersed with his foul language, is followed by her nose buried his groin and mouth wrapped around his cock like a second skin. Her hands grip the backs of his thighs to move him closer. His hand is on the back of her head and she hates, really hates when men do that so she takes both of his wrists and pins them to the wall.
She shifts and her collar slides away from her neck. He looks down and sees the bite mark he left, her flesh in his mouth and her pulse on his tongue; she exhales through her nose, it's more than he can take. And when his wood cane hits the wood floor, with what can be described as a `loud, wooden sound', she becomes very aroused by the knowledge that the only thing keeping him standing upright is her face shoved into his crotch. He comes in the back of her throat with contorted features and a low growl. She swallows and it is good to the last drop.
He tugs his pants back up and walks over to the sofa, flopping down on it. He stares at her out of the corner of his eye; she's still kneeled in the spot he'd left her and she stares right back. He blinks and then takes off his shirt.
"Are you praying? Pious doesn't suit you," he says.
She stands up with a smile and walks over to him with a purpose.
"I was wondering what I see in you," she replies.
He clears off the coffee table in front of him, hastily dumping the items on the floor next to his feet.
"Don't feel like talking."
She crosses her arms. "You sure have a funny way of showing it."
He grabs her by the waist, nearly causing her to fall, and pulls her to him.
"You show me something," he says, trying to find the zipper on her slacks.
He finds the zipper and helps her out of her pants.
"Take off your own shirt," he tells her.
"Will your leg be okay?"
He rolls his eyes. "My knees are great, though," he says, looking down as he takes off his own pants. "I've been told I have the knees of a twenty-seven year old."
He looks up when he's finished talking. She's naked and within arms reach. There's nothing else to think about.
He touches her side lightly with cummings echoing through his head. His hand slides from her side down along the faint camber of her hip. He closes his eyes as his palm glides across her stomach. He thought it was poetic, being able to touch a woman that freely. Turning her to the side, his hands traveled along her back, low across her waist, and down the slope of her ass. He pressed his fingers into the spaces between her ribs and tucked his thumbs into the creases underneath her breasts. Underneath his hands the softness of her skin whispered its revelations.
"House?" she asks, slightly concerned about his state of mind.
Their hearts are pounding now; they can sense the acceleration. He removes his hands from her body.
He points, "Lean over this table and keep your hands where I can see them."
She moves quickly to her knees at the end of the coffee table. Its surface is cold and she shivers as she firmly grips the edges of the table. He kneels behind her, situating himself between her legs. He runs his hand down her back, settling it on her hip. He slides his other hand between her thighs, rubbing his thumb at her opening, lightly teasing, and threatening. His thumb is gone when she backs against his hand, she hates him for it, adds it to the list.
He straightened up and put an arm around her waist, yanked her towards him with her ass in the air. Her arms are stretched towards the edges of the coffee table and her face is pressed into a copy of People Magazine that he forgot to move. He pulled her arms to him, took her hands, and placed them on the backs of her thighs. With his hands on top of hers, her pulled her open, apart, exposed to him by her own hands.
"Okay?" he asks.
She swallowed, "Yes."
He nudged her closer to the table with his hips, and then, as if she were leading him to ruin, he sighed heavily. His back arched, spanned, and with a low grunt he entered her. It was with such presumption and so effortless that she thought she'd cry.
He leaned on her almost completely, his heavy weight on her back, and began to slowly thrust. They started moving together, gradually penetrating deeper. The steady rhythm was killing her. She kept shoving her ass against him, eager for him to speed up. Her breath fluttered the glossy pages of the open magazine.
Their thighs were sticking and slapping while he winced from the strain on his bad leg. She felt like some sort of human ottoman, bracing herself on the table against his onslaught while the hair on his chest and stomach rasped against her skin.
After a few minutes, with a small chuckle, he put both hands on her hips, slowing her down, letting her know it was okay, that she'd be okay. It was unexpected, as anything close to tender from House would be, and with a delicate arch of her back, a small shudder, she came. It was the expression she wore, the attempts to stifle the weird and wonderful noises she made when she came, and the trembling of her shoulders that caused him to get there himself.
She straightened to slow her breathing, leaning against his chest. He cupped her breasts in his hands, squeezed them gently, and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her to him.
"What now?" she asks, concerned.
He glances at her, back bent, hunched once again over the table. His eyes hurt for her. He closes them but it makes no difference. He lifts her hair and lays it over her shoulder. He stares for a minute at her bare back. Then he leans his forehead against her, resting between her shoulder blades.
"I'll buy a larger coffee table," he replies, wearily.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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