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All The Things You Love
by Taima Hiroshima
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Cosgrove is from an old cartoon show called Freakazoid that I used to love as a child (and still do.) Oh yeah, and the thing with the water bottle? I have an aunt that actually did that.
Driving, driving, driving. The scenery flew by. Gregory House pushed just a little harder on the gas. He was just barely over the speed limit, and he had a plan incase he DID get pulled over. He had a bottle of water sitting next to him on the passenger seat. In case Cosgrove did put down the donut for a few minutes, he would spill it in his lap.
When Danno peered in with his flashlight, House intended to look up at him with surliest possible expression and say; "Do you *mind? I'm sort of in a rush here!!"
And that was the truth. House was in a rush. He didn't have to void his bladder, but he did feel a sense of urgency. He drove a little bit faster. The words of the mobster echoed in his ear.
"All the things you love... All the things you love... One by One... One by One...." It was grating on his nerves, sort of like the Gilligan's Island Theme song. You could never get it out of your head, even if you crawled your brains out through your ears.
He drove a little bit faster, feeling like he was racing against the boogeyman. He finally pulled up in front of his place.
He scrambled out of his car as quick as his bum leg would allow and limped up the walk. He'd barely even remembered to lock his car. The Vicodin bottle jingled in his pocket cheerfully as a maraca.
Greg House didn't love much.
But what he did love he kept most jealously.
He knew the fear was unfounded, knew there was really no logical reason to feel this way. He was doing what he could, was saving the sick gay mobster. And inwardly, he had to chuckle at anyone being ashamed of being gay. It wasn't a sarcastic sort of chuckle, more of an ironic one.
He might not be ashamed of it, but he certainly didn't flaunt it. It wasn't something he wanted everyone to know.
The house was dark and empty when he got inside. House looked around, his heart beating just a little faster than he would have liked. He bit down on his lower lip, a holdover from his childhood. Whenever he was anxious, whenever he was fearful, that lip went right between his teeth. Sometimes it was chewed bloody.
("It's such an unattractive habit, Greg. You really must quit, dear." Mother's gentle nagging...)
He closed the door behind him, gently. Somehow, his home always felt like a house in mourning. House took in a deep breath and limped to the couch. A note caught his eye, written in almost unintelligible doctor's scrawl.
'Greg, Went to the store for toilet paper and Cheetos. Be home soon.' The note was left unsigned. Greg smirked to himself. It wasn't like it could really be any big mystery about who had written it anyway.
He crumpled it in his hand indifferently, but couldn't seem to bring himself to throw it away.
"All the things you love... One by One... One by One.." a cold band griped House's heart. He'd already had one small scare.
He limped to his piano and sat down. He put the wadded up note near his sheet music, where it was still in his vision. Greg House liked to look at the things he loved.
He poised his hands, ready to play. Strange, but the only song that came to him was Like A Prayer. He had to be in a certain sort of mood to play caterwauling eighties slut music. And he was in that sort of mood tonight.
One. By. One.
As he finished the song, the door opened. Greg jumped a mile and turned around. There was his Love. The ONE thing he loved.
He stood there holding a small paper sack of groceries. His blond hair fell into his face, and in his minds eye, Greg could see his expression when the mobster had smacked him. Could see the pain reflected in his eye. It caused a pain in his heart that Greg usually tried to dull down with Vicodin.
"H'llo." The Australian said glibly. He went to the kitchen. Greg said nothing but quickly buried the note under some sheet music. Chase walked back out, looking with concern at his boss and lover.
"Are you quite all right?"
"Chase, come here." House said softly. Chase crossed the room and House turned himself around on the bench. Chase stood in front of House, between the man's open knees. House suddenly reached out and wrapped his arms around his waist.
Chase froze for a second. It was very uncharacteristic of House to be affectionate like this. He quickly though, cradled the older man's head, letting his fingers tangle in the thinning hair.
"All the things you love. All the things you love." The song was quickly dying down. House had the thing he loved.
And he wasn't letting go.
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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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