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  Unfixable 
 by Flywoman  

 Disclaimer: These characters belong to Fox and to David Shore and his
talented colleagues. I am borrowing them for personal pleasure, not
financial gain. Please don't sue. Thanks: To Chris H. for the lemons.

The music ends, and she is still in your arms, gazing up at you with those
fiercely intelligent eyes that have always laid you bare without even
trying. She says something about never having really had a proper goodbye,
and she kisses you, on the cheek, lingering a little with the false
promise of an eternity of tenderness. And then (because you know that this
is goodbye), you lean forward, tentatively, and after a second's
hesitation she meets you halfway, and a sort of sad arousal flares as your
lips touch, once, twice, three times, her hand shifting to clasp the back
of your neck, before she pulls back and looks at you, then turns and walks
away.

And your heart is suddenly a leaden weight, hauling up a gulp and a sigh
as it plummets towards your shoes, because you are sure that she is going
to walk out that door and you are never going to see her again, and even
if this is the only way that this story can end, you would give anything
for it to end just a little later. But then you see that she has taken
hold of the handle, yet she is not leaving, only locking the door, and
then turning to you with an unspoken question: What about this, Robert? Do
you miss this? 

So you move towards her as she leans against the door with a shy
schoolgirl grin, hands behind her back, invitation in her eyes, and you
know that your colleagues would think you were crazy if they found out,
but you wrap your arms around her, grateful for one more opportunity, even
if it is the last-

Because this, this has always been good-

Starting with that first, unexpected, astonishing time, when you made her
moan so loudly that her neighbors banged on the walls and threatened to
telephone the police, and afterwards you worried that it was only because
shed been so strung out on meth that anyone could have done it, and you
just happened to be handy-

But those doubts were belied by the second time, after she told you that
she only wanted to have sex with you because you were the last co-worker
with whom she was likely to fall in love, and instead of running the other
way like any rational person would have done, you followed her back to
your own apartment and drowned in her intoxicating sweetness like the
strawberry daiquiri that you'd always desired but could never have-

And every one of the times after that, sneaking into the sleep lab,
squeezing into the janitor's closet, sweating through the seat cushions of
your sofa, eventually baptizing your own matrimonial bed-

Because you fit together, every molecule of your body aligning perfectly
with hers, but your mistake lay in thinking that this communion symbolized
something deeper and more enduring than what House would probably call
coincidental biochemical compatibility (in one of his better moods).

So you run your hands over the familiar curves of her body as she clutches
at you like a shipwreck survivor, your mouths meeting hungrily, your blood
pounding in your ears. You stumble with her over to the exam table, the
only likely bed in the room, shedding clothes as you go, yanking a thin
woven blanket from a cabinet to spread over the cold, tacky vinyl. You
suck at her tongue and at her hard little nipples, stroke her damp curls,
push into her at last with the pent-up longing of months.

And when you are lying there entangled afterwards, limp and flushed, you
finally have a chance to think back on all your years together, and you
have to admit that if you allowed yourself to be blindsided, it was your
own damned fault. Her cruel, compassionate mouth said yes and no both,
every step of the way, and you were a fool to think that your certainty
could compensate for her doubts. On some level at least, you must have
always known.

So you think that in a day or two or five, you'll have to admit to
yourself that she was wrong about one thing, that Allison is not the only
person in this room who is unfixable.

And you know that you will never, ever tell anyone about this, especially
Foreman (although you suspect, for some reason, that House might actually
understand).

I'm not going to get too sentimental like those other sticker valentines,
'cause I don't know if you are loving some body. I only know it isn't
mine. -Elvis Costello  
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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 NBC/Universal, 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.