(no subject)
one hundred steps.
House Fic. It's trying to be Gen, but it isn't. There's a relationship in there somewhere.
He gets out of the elevator and turns right. It is one hundred steps from one door to another. He takes his time. First thing in the morning, only two pills into the day's Vicodin, his walk is less of a limp and more of a stutter. He is perpetually interrupted which makes him irritable. He can't walk straight and he can't think straight thoughts. He is easily distracted. His mind, like a child, is easily led. Turning right, he thinks about Cuddy's breasts and her blouses, a loud noise a few floors below him, a plaid skirt crumpled forlornly between the bed and the wall. None of these things mean anything. It is one hundred steps to his office door and he has taken twenty, maybe twenty five. He forces his thoughts into a line which is, if not pleasing, satisfactory.
That morning, they had had coffee at a kitchen counter cluttered with journals and reference books and yesterday's cups. He had been awkward and sullen, already interrupted, in his boxers and the t-shirt which he never takes off anymore, and, on the other side of the table there had been poetry in unmarked skin and draped sunstained cotton. The excellent coffee had turned bitter - nobody likes to be reminded of the ways in which they fail. He'd taken his first pill with that coffee, but it wasn't enough, not even caffiene and drug combined. Every day, it seemed to take more to get that buzz, that rise. Wilson would purse his lips, say words like 'addiction' with his old lady mouth. Addiction. House preffers to think that it just hurts a little more, every day, that hurt builds upon hurt and that this is why the world needs rules. There are rules for the way they are when they're together - they have to be, or the world would run mad. There are only ever two types of situation in life: either you have rules to stop you rushing together or else you need rules to keep you from tearing each other apart. The rules they have are simple; no weekends, no more than two nights in any one bed, no underwear at anybody's house but your own. No drawers. They don't go out to dinner, they order in and end up fucking on the couch. They never ever drive to work together. It's a world away from Stacey. Stacey.
For ten steps, slow steps, he lets himself think about Stacey. Stacey who had loved him, Stacey who had taken her pound of flesh with her when she left. Wilson and Stacey still talked on the phone sometimes - he listened at doors - long, drawn out conversations which recalled sun stains and afternoons and coffee for three in the morning. Wilson and Stacey still talked, but Stacey had closed like a door on him a long time ago.
Thirty steps from the door, House thinks about something else. He thinks about the night before, a body above him, a slip-slide of kisses. Sex had a sharp, faintly musty taste now - maybe its just that as he gets older everything is getting covered in dust. The human body replaces itself once every six months. He just keeps getting history on his lips. He thinks about the moment, there is a moment, the moment afterwards when he feels wiped clean, as though he is radiating heat...the moment when, after-glowing, he realises that nothing, but absolutely nothing, hurts. It's only a moment, but its there.
One hundred steps.
"Good morning, Dr Chase," he says, shouldering open the door.
House Fic. It's trying to be Gen, but it isn't. There's a relationship in there somewhere.
He gets out of the elevator and turns right. It is one hundred steps from one door to another. He takes his time. First thing in the morning, only two pills into the day's Vicodin, his walk is less of a limp and more of a stutter. He is perpetually interrupted which makes him irritable. He can't walk straight and he can't think straight thoughts. He is easily distracted. His mind, like a child, is easily led. Turning right, he thinks about Cuddy's breasts and her blouses, a loud noise a few floors below him, a plaid skirt crumpled forlornly between the bed and the wall. None of these things mean anything. It is one hundred steps to his office door and he has taken twenty, maybe twenty five. He forces his thoughts into a line which is, if not pleasing, satisfactory.
That morning, they had had coffee at a kitchen counter cluttered with journals and reference books and yesterday's cups. He had been awkward and sullen, already interrupted, in his boxers and the t-shirt which he never takes off anymore, and, on the other side of the table there had been poetry in unmarked skin and draped sunstained cotton. The excellent coffee had turned bitter - nobody likes to be reminded of the ways in which they fail. He'd taken his first pill with that coffee, but it wasn't enough, not even caffiene and drug combined. Every day, it seemed to take more to get that buzz, that rise. Wilson would purse his lips, say words like 'addiction' with his old lady mouth. Addiction. House preffers to think that it just hurts a little more, every day, that hurt builds upon hurt and that this is why the world needs rules. There are rules for the way they are when they're together - they have to be, or the world would run mad. There are only ever two types of situation in life: either you have rules to stop you rushing together or else you need rules to keep you from tearing each other apart. The rules they have are simple; no weekends, no more than two nights in any one bed, no underwear at anybody's house but your own. No drawers. They don't go out to dinner, they order in and end up fucking on the couch. They never ever drive to work together. It's a world away from Stacey. Stacey.
For ten steps, slow steps, he lets himself think about Stacey. Stacey who had loved him, Stacey who had taken her pound of flesh with her when she left. Wilson and Stacey still talked on the phone sometimes - he listened at doors - long, drawn out conversations which recalled sun stains and afternoons and coffee for three in the morning. Wilson and Stacey still talked, but Stacey had closed like a door on him a long time ago.
Thirty steps from the door, House thinks about something else. He thinks about the night before, a body above him, a slip-slide of kisses. Sex had a sharp, faintly musty taste now - maybe its just that as he gets older everything is getting covered in dust. The human body replaces itself once every six months. He just keeps getting history on his lips. He thinks about the moment, there is a moment, the moment afterwards when he feels wiped clean, as though he is radiating heat...the moment when, after-glowing, he realises that nothing, but absolutely nothing, hurts. It's only a moment, but its there.
One hundred steps.
"Good morning, Dr Chase," he says, shouldering open the door.