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Hit Me
by michelleann68
It is 7:16 pm on a Friday night and I really don't know what to do next. Ok, Ok, that's not strictly true. I know what to do. It is not like I have never been in this position before. But yeah, I just let the awkward silence fill the room. I am sitting in my green club chair and have a luke-warm cup of coffee in my hand. I tap a lazy melody on the side of the cup,.
He sits across the room and flips through old People Magazines, I left strewn about with other more scholarly works. I am waiting for an update on Jessica and Nick, but really what I am waiting for is an update on us. What seemed so easy and natural in my office, no longer feels attainable. I can feel it slipping away from me. I don't know why this seems so hard, so foreign, maybe it's fear. No one has delved below my surface of sarcasm and snark in a long time. I've worked hard to keep the world at arms length and for the past eight years that has worked, for the most part. Stacy walked out on me. She was unable to deal with the overwhelming sense of grief and loss that I felt. I didn't just lose the function of my leg. I lost something much greater then that. I lost the sense of who I am and what I am all about.
James has been the constant through all of this. He stood next to me, or behind me when I needed a push. Could that be love? No matter what kind of bastard I am- he stays put. He can give as much as he gets that's for certain. That kind of loyalty is certainly appreciated. Every one else respected. No, that is not the right word. Feared, that's a better choice. They fear me, what I will say or how I will act. But Cameron was right about one thing- I do care. But that's also the problem. I wish I didn't. This leg is a consistent reminder of all the people who didn't care. The doctors who refused look beyond the obvious. Co-workers who were fed up, that I spoke my mind and questioned everything and everyone, and Stacy. Stacy said she loved me, Stacy promised to stay, but she was like everyone else. She lied and she left. But not James. He is my consistent companion. I have done everything to push him away. He looks beyond my anger and pain. Sometimes I think he is the only person who truly knows the "real" me. Or at least remembers the man I once was. He understands that everyday I struggle, to survive this life, in constant emotional and physical pain.
He sees me honestly, an addict with no desire to change. But he also knows the part of me that screams in pain and has to lash out first before I get rejected, ignored, or abandoned again. Yet, I know, even if the words are unspoken. He loves me. He loves me beyond rational or physical love, it's not like he doesn't want my body, even though it is broken, I felt that today. He sees right into my fractured soul. It's that he sees all that and still accepts me. That scares me and feels like such a responsibility, one I have spent years ignoring and trying to shun. I don't want to carry it. I don't think my broken body can carry the weight. So, I admire him and chastise him and keep emotionally distant. I did until today. He offered me a touch of what I did not want to need, but what I needed to want. God, I am morose tonight. I mentally re-check myself and I set the cup down and stand up to stretch my good leg, and what is left of the other.
I grab my cane and walked over to my piano. This piano has become my muse. When words fail me, or when the pain rises up in me at night the ivory keys have offered me a release. To numb the pain and transport me someplace beautiful, away from this place I am tethered to. I feel his eyes watch me. I start the journey to the bench. I turn to face him. I gesture with my head for him to join me. But, he does not move. I guess he needs to hear the words, for me to take off part of the thick mask that protects me from the world. I know that I am safe. I need to tell him what we both know in words, not gestures. It really is the least I can do. "James, please join me."
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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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