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Push
by michelleann68
We sit thigh to thigh on the small piano bench. His hands hover over the keys. I look down and watch the grace his hands discover as he gently presses the ivory. I'm not sure what to do with my hands they seem out of place on my lap. I never learned how to play. So no breaking into some sappy complicated piano duo. I lay my hand gently on his thigh not wanting to disturb his rhythm. But needing to feel contact. As I slide my hand over his damaged leg, in some ways, it feels dead and cold. I make my way across his thigh and my fingers seek out his femoral artery. The pulse is strong and speaks to the life that courses through him
I am not even sure what tune my fingers are hammering out on the piano. I am lost in thought trying to figure out what I can give James. I know that it feels good to sit here next to him and enjoy the warmth of his hand as he trails down the Satorious muscle towards the vee of my legs. His warmth starts to bring parts of me that are long past dead back to life. The hands that he uses to save lives are used to bring parts of me to life. I'm not nave and will not be saved by his loving touch. That's what happens when housewives write romance novels to escape their generic dull lives. No, I know that if I am to be whole again I need to save myself. I just don't want to do that right now. I want to feel free of pain and responsibility. Right now, I want to go someplace and just get lost knowing that tomorrow reality will rear it's ugly lying head again. But tonight I can let the music and James create a cocoon where I can forget who I pretend to be for a little while.
I feel his thigh tense up. Maybe this touching is getting to him, but certainly not in the way I want it to. Time to change strategy. I slide my hand back up his thigh and around his back to the waist of his jeans. My finger teases the fabric away from his skin; I slide my hand in and press it against the warmth of his back.
I stop playing for a second. A glance over and see a sly smile creep over his face. When you spend your time pushing people away and avoiding physical contact it is a little halting to experience actual skin to skin contact. I can't say I mind, but it's foreign to me. People do not get this close. I don't let them. His hand feels so good pressed up against my sacrum I can feel his fingers teasing my tense muscles gently and firmly releasing the tension I've held onto and wear as a shield.
Boy, his back is tense, not that I am surprised. It feels nice to skate my hand over his warm back and to touch his skin. I am surprised how much I need contact to feel my skin against someone else; I realize how lonely I have made myself. I lean in and breathe the scent that clings to him. Chinese food, coffee, hospital, but underneath it all is the clean musky scent of just Greg. I make a bold move and press my nose into his neck. Inhale. A quiet stillness settles over the room.
WOW, I suck in a deep breathe and struggle against making any sudden moves.. His nose presses to my neck and his hair falls forward, brushing against my ear. I stop playing, now too distracted to think about notes or keys, rhythms or melodies. I turn into him and start to unbutton his shirt. I enjoy the feeling of his skin quivering in anticipation as my fingers graze his warm stomach.
Now, I am the one distracted. I turn my head and press my lips to the spot right below his ear. My tongue tastes him, a mix of all the flavors that invade his life play upon my tongue. I can taste the soap he used this morning, the antiseptic odor that defines the hospital, and lemon, from the lemon oil the cleaning lady uses to polish the furniture throughout the house. I close my eyes against the desire to bite him, mark him and give him a reminder that I am always with him. My hands return to the hem of his shirt and I start to pull it off.
His hands are on my t-shirt and he starts to pull it off. I realize I need to pull myself off him to help facilitate this forward progress. As I lean back, I hesitate before I open my eyes. Large parts of me are afraid of what I will see in his brown eyes. Pity? Sympathy? Fear? I do know one thing. I want to confront myself and some part of me wants his healing balm and patience to touch my soul. I open my eyes and meet his gaze. My heart stops for only a second. Oh, I am sure it didn't really stop. I am a doctor after all, so I know about these things. But time does seem to pause it allows me time to catch up with what I see. Hope. Not what I expected at all.
I pull his t-shirt off and look at him. His eyes are closed against my gaze. He can be such a coward. I will him to open his eyes and not to look at me but into me. Slowly his worn blue eyes open and I feel him stop. We are both looking into each other and searching for answers, or more likely searching for reasons not to stay, reasons why we are both better living in shadows and not in the light. I doubt he has looked at himself honestly for a long time, confronted his fears and faced the emotional pain that has crippled him far more then the infarction. I don't want to rush, but I know I need to push.
James' eyes are just open in this moment to me. I can see his pain, his anguish and his hope. I feel like I am invading him, traveling someplace foreign to me. I am outside myself and in unknown territory. Truth be told, I really want to make a crack about him giving me goo goo eyes or some such smart remark that will bring us both back to the ground and to a reality we both would rather escape from or ignore completely. I have to fight nature and stay put, find and live in this moment. To distract my self I use my hands to find his waist and skirt his ribs, my hands move up his chest and I push his shirt off his shoulders and lean forward to taste him.
It's a good sign that he did not bolt or make some crack about how I was looking at him. His lips press against my naked shoulder, I inhale the smell of his hair, and he bites me, rubs his stubbled chin and scratches my newly irritated skin. Suddenly, a thousand tiny little fires are ignited across my shoulder, and down my back. They burn in the best possible way. The irritation is welcome and serves as a reminder that we are both made of flesh and blood. A deep moan escapes my throat. He continues to saturate my shoulder and neck with warm soft kisses. I follow his lead and use my hands to map out his back. I dig my fingers into his erector spinae and follow the muscles up to his rib cage, and mentally count his false ribs. His back is full of knots and tension. I feel his body relax into mine. I pull him close and try to remain in this moment. Not to rush or anticipate where it is leading.
He has skilled hands but it would take a lot to fix my broken body, certainly more then a damn good massage. I relax into him and for a moment, I feel safe. The walls that are built up high around me shake and small fissures develop. I work my lips up his neck dragging my teeth over his Adams apple and up to his chin. I leave a wet trail across his jaw and move towards his ear. I try to find words to whisper into his ear, but at this moment, I am without a coherent thought.
His mouth is pressed to my ear and his heavy breath makes every hair on my body stand at attention. I move my hand back to his face and use my thumb to stroke his cheek, bending my head down I kiss a trail across his shoulder and leave him a bite to match the one I have. We do need to talk to discuss all that goes unsaid between us. But today is not that day and this is not the time. This bench is hard and it is hard to move around. I know I am uncomfortable, and would like to stretch out someplace and feast on his body. I tilt his face towards mine. His eyes are closed against this reality, I gently stroke his cheek, and he slowly opens his eyes, ready to be here with me, ready to feel something and to accept a gentle loving touch.
My eyes are open and the fear is gone. Oh, I am a realist and know that it will be back the second we break this spell that we have both cast over the room. But for now, I am just going to accept amnesty from being me. My hand cards through the silk of his hair. I tip his head back a little allowing his mouth to come into clear view. Not one to miss an opportunity I lean forward and press my lips to his. This kiss is more urgent and has a certain degree of hunger attached. Now, he becomes the aggressor. He sweeps his tongue into my mouth and I feel consumed by the passion in his grip and with the urgency in which he assaults my mouth. I lean forward seeking control of this kiss but as I do I start to slip. Damn bench. Reality comes crashing down and the pain stabs through my leg. I yell out in pain.
I feel him slip forward, and immediately react. I grab his shoulder and push him back, but the pain is back. The respite is over. He looks up, shakes his head and looks around for relief. He spots the Vicodin next to his chair, grabs his cane and limps hard over to the drugs, his escape. I know that the moment will be gone and his shell will re-close. I am almost afraid to admit I need the physical contact more then he does. He wraps himself in a Vicodin blanket and buries himself safe in his shell. I let the pain that I see all around me penetrate me and I just want to forget for a while. I spin around on the bench and face him. His back is to me and I stand up and walk over. He dry swallows, I am not sure how many, and it's not my place to count. I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around him, facing my fear of being rejected, just asking for what I want.
I swallow two pills and tilt my head back and wait to feel the fingers of the drugs permeate the pain that throbs in my leg, and numb the nagging voices that tell me I am going to face imminent rejection. I hear him get up and brace my self for the excuse that he needs to get home to his wife, and the lie that he calls a marriage. I don't hear him turn to leave but feel his steps advancing on me. He runs his hands around my waist, presses his chest to my back, and lays his cheek against my shoulder blades. I feel his slow breathing and work to slow mine down to meet his pace. I take his hands in mine and rub my fingers against his palm. I bring his hand up to my mouth and drag my teeth along his index finger, he leans further into me and I support more of his weight, accepting him into my space.
His leg has gotta hurt and as nice as it is to lean against him and feel his tongue make short work of my finger, we really need to lay down so he can rest his leg. I pull my hand away from him and rub it against his chest to break the moment. I stand up a little taller and whisper in his ear. "Let's go lay down, and get more comfortable", I feel his body relax into mine a little, I guess he likes the suggestion. Grabbing his cane, he turns into me. His eyes meet mine in a question. 'Yes, Greg' I think to myself 'I am a big boy and know what I am doing'. I decide that might not be the best response. I choose instead to say what he needs to hear, but really more importantly, what I have to ask for. "I want to be here, I want to be with you", my voice in some ways feels disconnected as it comes out of my mouth. Apparently satisfied with my answer, he limps awkwardly towards his bedroom. I pick up my shirt and his t-shirt and follow; it would be nice if he could give a little here. But this is Gregory House the man who never asks for what he really needs. I pad after him into his bedroom. He is just standing there; a wide swath of blue light is diffused through the room making it feel cool. I drop the shirts on the floor and move over to him. His eyes are slightly glazed. The Vicodin are working. How many did he take If I ask him now would not result in a desired response. I step in front of him, wrap my arms around him, and pull him gently into me. In a way, I want him to learn to lean on me and not just the drugs. Another conversation that is best left to another day and time.
It is almost as if I can feel the grains of Vicodin rushing through my body and fuzzing all the edges. I stand in a daze at the base of my bed, not sure on the next course of action. I close my eyes and enjoy the little feeling of light-headedness that envelops me. Damn, I'm hungry; we should have eaten Italian that would have stayed with me longer. Ever attentive, James follows me in, and I hear him drop something to the ground. I am going to assume it is our shirts, but I feel too good in this newly drugged state to even care.. I hear him walk up next to me and step in front. If I open my eyes, I might lose my balance, with all the emotions that are fighting to escape, so I stand still and feel him wrap his arms around me and pull me gently into him. I find words that did not come earlier, the drugs allowing me to protect myself a little, offering a shell or maybe some mortar to patch up the fissures. "Push 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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