House, M.D. Pulse

Pulse

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: R

Feedback: Please.

Random: Second story for H/C ficathon; beta thanks to Bellsie, who picked up the letters I seem to drop.

Summary: He's going to let go and she's going to break; at this point they're past emotion and that's how these things end.

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x. _radial  
_

It's early and she doesn't have on her lab coat. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, which leisurely mimics the bend of her neck and movement of her hands as she stands in front of his desk and sorts his mail. There is music playing (House isn't the only one with an iPod), and every few seconds her foot taps along with the beat. He's been there for a few minutes but has yet to enter either the conference room or House's office, instead standing in the hallway and watching Cameron through the glass.

"Window shopping?"

His eyes regrettably turn to House, who's now standing next to him.

"Tuesdays and Thursdays she's half off," he continues, with a smirk.

House always makes him feel defensive just like his father does, and so it's not difficult at times to hate him.

"I'm not," he replies. "Cameron doesn't interest me and I'm already seeing someone."

House snorts.

"Part of that was a lie, but I'll let it slide." He looks at Cameron, now in the conference room, and back to Chase. "Tell me about her."

"Not much to tell," he says, not too eager to talk about his love life.

"Let me guess—typical brunette, likes long walks in the park, has a penchant for five hundred dollar handbags, oh, and don't forget the sexual deviant part."

"She's not like that," Chase defends.

"Don't be shy, it doesn't suit you. Besides, a little S/M is good for the soul," he says. "Any topping from below?"

"You're an ass," he replies, and then tilts his head towards House's office, Cameron now at his desk. "And I have no idea what she sees in you."

Chases walks off before House can offer a self-deprecating response. He isn't sure what Cameron sees in him either, but he catches one last glimpse of her before he leaves to find Wilson, and can't help but to see the exposed strip of skin at her waist as an invitation.

x. _carotid  
_

She keeps a mental catalog of all the ones they lose. It's those people and their unknown maladies, leaving loved ones with unanswered questions, who stay with her. Even the death of her own husband, now reduced to fuzzy memories (veins casting shadows on translucent skin or the bed railing digging into her stomach when she leaned over to hug him) and a box containing his medical records, his death certificate being the veritable cherry on top, didn't stay with her for long, which bothers her. The feeling of absolute emptiness is still there, creeping up from time to time, when she realizes his future was swept away one afternoon with a handful of tissues she'd refused to stop clutching. It's patients that remain with her after they've gone and the one they lost today will be no different. He was thirty-two years old when he died at her hospital.

All this is running through her mind while she gets ready to leave for the night, and it's with one arm slipped into her coat, her other one occupied with her bag, that she turns around and comes face to face with House. He takes a deep breath and she waits for the insult or triple entendre. It never comes. Instead, he moves closer, which is accented with another deep breath, and kisses her. She thought they would gradually get to the point in which they'd trust each other or his capacity to be a bastard would be greatly reduced. She never expected to be cornered in his office like some sort of animal, forced to react one way or another on the basest of levels. She is mad at herself for being taken unawares and at House because after all the hurled insults and trivializing of her feelings, he's the first one to make a move.

They kiss in earnest, their mouths opening up to each other, and though her hand drops her bag, her coat remains on one arm. She refuses to acknowledge any of this, but groans when his tongue slides hot and silky and sharp into her mouth. He presses her further into the corner, against the coat rack. She moves against his body and his body responds. She takes enjoyment in the fact that not everything is in his control. He pushes his knee between her thighs and her legs open for him, as if she had a choice. In the back of her mind, she realizes this shouldn't be happening. She should not be kissing her boss in his office. It definitely should not feel so good; she is shoved in a corner, against a coat rack and manufactured wall. Neither one is fooled; there is no romance there. It should be painful and desperate.

Their lips meet, pull, break apart, and then meet again. Tongues slide over teeth as their hands blindly grope over each other. He leans heavily on her and she realizes this can only last as long as he can continue to stand, which won't be much longer. There was no pretense to the way his hands unfolded onto her, awkward and fumbling, a series of clumsy movements. He shifts, moving his leg closer, and she arches up to him, squeezing her thighs tight around his leg. He buries his face in her neck and she gasps when his mouth burns across her collarbone. He smells like the white powder left behind from latex gloves, antiseptic bought in bulk; he smells like the hospital, he brings it with him wherever he goes.

She thought if he ever were to touch her she'd break apart like glass, hope or other distant things. But when he slides strong weathered hands into her hair, one hundred twenty eight bones cradling her skull, she realizes he's held her together this entire time, since he hired her and treated her as callous as he did everything else. He's going to let go and she's going to break; at this point they're past emotion and that's how these things end.

The end comes eventually, painfully slow, and when it happens she's shaking, her fingers in his back like talons and her eyes squeezed shut. His mouth is pressed open against the fabric of her blouse as he leans heavily on her shoulders. She's supporting nearly all of his weight and he won't dare look her in the eye. They slowly extricate themselves from each other. After a moment, he moves to the right so she can go. She bends down to pick up her bag and walks past him as she slides on her coat. She turns around and nearly speaks, all but calls out his name. There's something in his expression that stops her. He reaches in his pocket when she leaves.

x. _femoral  
_

Two weeks have passed since that night in House's office. Neither has made any mention of it. They deal with fact on a daily basis, evidenced by swollen lymph nodes or obstructed airways. Emotion is the complete opposite of fact and no doubt causes undesirable reactions that people cannot control. Although neither has said a word about what happened, their bodies are a dead giveaway.

She wants him, expects him when she's leaving for the night. It's more than the fumble in his office with her gasping against her throat or him bruising her nipples through two layers of clothes. She tenses up when she's in that corner now; she wants to choke him and leave a mark that is actually visible. But then she sees him with gloved hands or when he uses a stethoscope, standing confident in his disheveled appearance, as he does his job, and he's not House, not anymore, just another colleague.

Moments, she has these moments, flashes of him moving under her, scaling her body like a predator, his hands slipping on her moist hips. She has them all the time, when she was examining a patient in the clinic, in Cuddy's office as she took the blame for something House had done, and driving into work, her hand wrapped around a cup of coffee so tight the Styrofoam crumpled, hot liquid spilling on her pants and passenger seat. It is never when she is in her bed late at night with her pelvis flat against the palm of her hand. Staring at the ceiling with sweat between her breasts, making strange whimpering sounds as she tastes blood, her thumb rubbing lazy circles over her clit, and she'll flick a nipple once, twice, and when she comes she's exhausted and close to tears.

He is all edges, after the fact, after their little lie. He will disappear for hours without a word to anyone or he will be shouting, deadly and firm, asking, "Where the hell are those lab results? Why don't we get an infinite number of monkeys wearing an infinite number of lab coats, put them with the fucking lab equipment, and see if they will eventually get me those results? Or some bastardized Shakespeare?"

He's been spending more time at his piano, as if the bench is an aisle seat on an airplane and he expects take off any second. Eighty-eight keys, seven octaves, and an overused damper make his playing sound romantic as of late, even the mistakes sound tender. When he starts spelling words with the keys, in succession: B-A-D, B-E-D, B-E-G, he's sick of having Wilson as a best friend but using the piano as a confidante.

x. _temporal  
_

He makes no attempt to clean his apartment when she comes over. In fact, he purposely makes it messier. He throws a few dog-eared Playboys on the couch, a towel of questionable filth next to the front door, and a jock strap he hasn't used in seven years sits on his kitchen table, shabby chic at its finest. He flops on his couch with a bag of barbecue potato chips and starts watching surprisingly entertaining lumberjack action on some channel he'll probably never watch again.

Her knock is louder than he expects. He gets up slowly and his cane is slippery in his hand because of the potato chips. He laughs because he's going to fall flat on his ass on the way to the door. However, he makes it to the door and is slightly disappointed the short walk was uneventful. He leans his hot forehead against the cool wood of his front door. She knocks again, this time harder, and as a result the door bounces off of his forehead.

"Shit!" he yells at the door.

He lets Cameron in before she can indirectly give him a concussion. They scurry to opposite sides of the room like two magnets with an opposing permeability. They've done this before and she is hoping for different results, always the scientist.

"This isn't … this isn't anything," he attempts. His eyes flick to her collarbone before he continues. "Weird is one thing but I don't like being a jerk on purpose."

Her frown is back. There's another knock at the door.

"I ordered a pizza," he says, as if it's not the most obvious non sequitur that ever occurred in the history of their avoidance. "Sit. And watch the Playboys, they have resale value."

He answers the door and she sits hesitantly on the couch, as if she expects a trap to spring forth from the cushions. She gets the same feeling in House's office, the dentist, and general admission concerts, the vague feeling that she's elected to be there but will shortly start to silently panic.

He walks over to her with the pizza box in one hand. He nods to the magazines she chose to ignore.

"Page fifty-three, best sex tip ever. Something about women not talking."

He sits down next to her, the cushions emitting a swish in response.

"You'd have to be having sex to employ the tips, right?" she says casually, but with a smug look on her face.

"Ha. We'll have to find you an open mic night at some comedy club," he retorts. He reaches under the couch and pulls out some paper plates. "Classy, huh?" he smirks.

She glances at the television. "Do you always watch shows with sweaty men playing with large pieces of wood?"

He ignores her remark. It won't be the first time.

"Anchovies?" he asks, opening the box.

"No."

He grins and it frightens her a bit.

"Great," he says.

Confused, she follows his gaze, and then smiles despite herself. The entire pizza is covered in anchovies.

"I couldn't have you eating my dinner," he says, pseudo-apologetically.

"You're a bastard," she tells him, as if it's news.

He licks tomato sauce off of his thumb.

"I was wondering when you'd figure that out."


End file.
