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Thawing
by gena
He's always cold. He wraps himself in layers; humor, sarcasm, bitterness, anything to stave off a chill that isn't so much of the flesh but of the heart. He chafes his hands with yo-yos, the damn cane, and even his piano in a effort to distract himself from the gnawing bite of the cold. And it works - for a while, then it seeps back in, stealing his strength, his resolve and all he wants is to set himself aflame, to burn. He carries within him the memory of fire - of a heat so intense it had charred his heart, blackening it, destroying it from the inside out. He'd survived somehow, coughing up ashes for years, creating a barren circle around himself that others can not cross. No one, least of all himself, knew that a sliver of that great muscle still remained, it hadn't been incinerated nor had it been removed with the muscles from his thigh. He longs for the warmth he can remember, so he pulls his garments a bit closer around him, knowing ultimately that the ones he's chosen will keep out the warmth he longs for but unable to stop himself. He's always cold.
He hates the cold. It drives him to seek warmth wherever he can find it. He wraps his arms around himself, holding tight in a battle he fears he will lose. He doesn't know why he ends up shivering, he offers everything he has and still comes away with only frost in his hands. They look at him, those first shy glances, eyes sparking like embers and he thinks "Oh, there's fire." And rushes into their arms, burrowing into the heat. But it's an illusion, one that begins to fade with time until he sees that the spark was no more than reflected light on ice. Those are the times he tries to shelter himself, pulling his white coat tight and chafing his hands over files. He can fan the tiniest hint of appreciation into a roar of gratitude with one of his smiles and his soft voice, his kind eyes. Sometimes he feels that the cold has seeped into his heart, and the flicker their thankfulness ignites is not real, but it warms him just the same. Never for long, but it thaws him for a time and allows him to seek out another. He walks slowly, his steps almost painful, as he searches for the source of everlasting heat.
They come together. Ice and frost. Two cold figures huddling close, seeking warmth where coldness rules the world. Instinct alone, draws them together, others see the ice in one and after a while feel the frost in the other. But in each other they see sunshine and blue skies. Spring lurks underneath the snow. Alone, unheeding of pretense, they shed their coats, laying aside the layers and garments and cloaks they have each carefully donned. In the dim light of a small apartment, the beautiful notes of a piano the only sound besides their breathing, the thaw sets in. Frost and ice, ice and frost, they warm each other, their bodies pressed tightly together, the vapor of their breath mingling until it resembles steam. Hearts begin to race, pounding like steel on flint until suddenly there is flame, loneliness melts until it pours from their skin, slick and musky. Heat, fire, warmth - love. Basking in the glow of what they share, neither man feels the cold anymore.
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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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