Soul of the Sufferer, a House/Cam angst in 4 parts

[moonstruck88]

Rating: M
Summary: Like a baby crying on another floor as a leg slowly rots to nothing.
Spoilers: Anything up to episode 2.7 is fair game.
Disclaimer: House isn't mine.


i.

He hugs her tight and she cringes. She doesn't hug back; she plays with the keys in her hand. Let go, let go, please let go of me. Please. But he doesn't seem to notice and it doesn't seem to matter.

"Mmmmm!" he tightens his grip around her arms. "Where have you been all day?" And his voice is playful. Calm. It repels her. It's almost endearing, yet it says to her oh-so-much more.

She makes sure her resentment is obvious. "Same place you've been . . ." she mumbles. It's meant to sting. It's meant to hurt. But her father hugs on and she thinks she'll cry if he doesn't let go sometime soon. She can only cringe for so long.

He hasn't seen her all day, and she hasn't seen him all year. Yet they live under the same lonely roof in the same lonely house on the corner.

*

"Where have you been?" His voice is deep. It's not calm, it's not playful, not endearing. It's pointed and it's gruff and it lulls her in.

"Sorry I'm late," is her small reply, and she settles herself into a chair. White board full of writing. Foreman eating a bagel. Chase like he's half asleep. "New case?"

"Not an answer." He's rough with her. More rough than he was with her yesterday. He stares, and so much (oh-so-much more) is meant by it. And she sees it. Enough to make her tremble inside. Curiosity, possession, a broken promise of whispers and promises. Of roughness followed by gentleness. Of two bodies moving and panting and someone screaming that someone is dying. Of lies that will never be anything.

"I was . . . my car broke down." There's a pause of dead air as Foreman drops his bagel and Chase stops fidgeting with his pen. Cameron looks at Foreman. It seems like he's tried this before. It didn't work with him.

"How many excuses did you mentally scan before landing on the oldest, most stupid one?" Staring with those marbles of fire and ice. They melt her and freeze her and burn her. Hold her wrists while they ravage her.

"Why do you care where I was?"

"Oh, did I give you that impression?" He looks back to the board. "I was actually going for the whole I-should-stop-paying-you-if-you-can't-show-up-on-time effect. Guess I missed it by a hair." He knows. He knows - oh, does he know. She looks at her shoes, at the table, at the desk. At the clock on the wall and the coffee on the counter. He knows. "Tell me where you were."

"Home," she says with an sudden defiance. The only one she can muster.

"Doing what?" he presses and takes a sip of his coffee.

"Brushing my teeth. Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. I don't pay you for brushing your teeth."

"Oh, but you would pay me for, say, picking your coffee up at the store?" She's trying. She's failing.

"Brushing your teeth while picking my coffee up, maybe." He takes another sip and pins her to her chair with his eyes. "But that's not why you're late, is it?" And he holds her there, selfishly, cruelly.

Let go, let go, please let go of me. Please. She doesn't offer an answer.

"Well why stop there? I noticed we were low on sugar." He begins looking all around the conference room. "Muffins. Oooh, and those little chocolate thingies, what are they called?" He props a hand on the top of the white board. "Actually, I think the nurses' station could use some more paper clips. And file folders - they're always asking for those. Make sure you get the blue ones; they're prettier. Oh, and antiseptic; you know, every time we restock that stuff, the hospital uses it up again. Something's wrong there." He scowls and uncaps the marker, then turns back to the board. "When you're done with that, I need a back rub."

The anger flushes over her face and she's looking around for something - anything - to distract her. To keep her from slapping him. To keep her from loving him. To keep her from strangling him and then kissing him back to life.

His marker makes a squeak across the glossy white surface. "Who did you sleep with last night?"

So casual. So easy. All eyes are now on Cameron.

"Can we get back to the differential?" Foreman interjects, never one for mixing work with personal matters.

He knows. House knows that she's hiding. That she's falling. That she's dying. A self-satisfied smirk and it's back to the board. Writing. Pretending. But it burns and they all feel it coming. And no one wants to be there when it does.

Please let go of me. Please.

*

Cringing. She wants to melt. She wants to disappear. It burns and she tries to get away. It doesn't work. It never does.

His hand is on her back and it's supposed to be comforting. But all she can feel is the five tiny shards of his fingertips, piercing through her mind, through her back. Her heart is racing and she's holding her breath. She will never be close to a man.

"How was your day?"

Crying inside. Biting her lip. Muscles clenching and releasing and clenching again.

"Fine," she manages shallowly. Tries to lean away. But he only seems to get closer. The room is spinning, the light is leaving, the world is darkening. Faith is draining and she prays, she prays for unconsciousness.

Never does receive it.

Five years later and her father is lying in a hospital bed. He's cringing, he wants to melt, he wants to disappear when she's not beside him. She only gets farther away. His hand is on his heart and there's five tiny shards piercing through him. He never knows what he did to her, and she's down in the cafeteria when the light leaves the room and the world goes dark.

Six months later and she's married.

ii.

Suffering. Struggling. Breathing. No air.

"How was your day?"

And she's lost when he's there. Falling and crashing and burning and breathing. And living. She just wants to leave.

"Anything interesting happen?"

Heart in her throat. Five tiny shards - on her leg, in her brain, in her soul. A man who gave her everything now takes it all away. He pretends he doesn't see the way she cringes.

He's bound to notice it, some day . . .

"Do I bore you?"

Cameron tears her eyes from the rain and twists around in her chair. Calm blue water washes over her. The calm, lapping lake of his eyes on her soul. The fire is gone. The ice is gone. He is human again, for the moment.

She returns her gaze to the rain. "I'm just waiting for results from the lab."

"Really?" He limps a little closer and stops. "I could have sworn you were brushing your teeth this time." And he fidgets with a figurine at the front of her desk.

She watches him - watches his fingers. Mesmerized. Taken by their length and agility. They are rough and gentle and curious. Every movement is sure and brilliant. She follows his veins up the smooth of his hand and into the cuff of his sleeve. They betray the man - they whisper of time; they beg to be touched. They tell a story Cameron longs to read. And she longs to touch them, to heal them. To soothe them and nurse them to life.

He is staring again. Still calm and gentle and lapping on the shoreline.

"What?"

"You're amazing at dodging questions."

Oh, the irony. "Like you are?"

"See," he points out smugly. And it's back to the fidgeting with his fingers. Cameron could swear he's caressing her desk. Caressing his way to her. "Do I bore you?" He keeps his eyes on the figurine.

"You give me a headache," she offers.

His fingers stop moving and his head rolls back up. "Not what I asked."

"No one is bored with you, House."

"I'm asking about you." Suddenly rough again.

Cameron opens her mouth but no sound comes out. Just a tiny hitch of breath as it dies in her throat, and calls his attention to this disaster. It comes to a standstill. This. Them. The world. The conference room. The sound of House's breath against hers . . . A desk in-between, yet it's far too small.

He is throbbing. He doesn't know where, and he doesn't know why. All he knows is his body is throbbing. It is painful (welcome) aching. It spreads throughout him as he shifts his weight and inches his hand off the desk. His pants are too tight. The room is too small. The girl is too broken and forward.

She is asking him questions with her eyes.

He ignores them.

"Do I bore you," he repeats, more patient and cautious this time.

He touches her knee. It's a simple gesture, like any other father would give, but she jerks her leg away. He notices. This time he notices. And he says something.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm tired and cranky."

And that's as far as the conversation goes. Farther than it ever went.

But his hand is back there tomorrow. And she's cringing again while looking for escape. Her childhood is spent in a prison.

Never. She will never be close to a man.

"You know, I think it was Plato who said that if you close your eyes, you can't see the man standing in front of you. Great escape method."

Cameron opens her eyes, unaware she had even closed them, to find House still standing in front of her. But he had moved closer. Much closer.

"Efficient," his gaze trails over her, "but also very stupid. He forgot to mention that the man can still see you." He can see her. Oh, can he see her. And he owns her; he knows he owns her. He marks her with blue for his keeping. "Then again, what do you expect from a guy who thought the earth was the center of the universe? He was clearly egotistical anyway."

"No," she breathes.

"No?"

"You don't bore me."

Silence. Calm, understanding. He nods his head. "Okay." And then he walks toward the coffee pot.

"That's it?"

"That's it." Then why did you sleep with Chase? is implied. He wants to ask her. He wants to yell at her. He wants to pin her to the wall and make her scream her response in his ear.

"It was a mistake."

"Damn right it was." He rinses a cup out and reaches for the coffee. "Thank goodness for people like Galileo. Plato could not have been wronger." He pours the hot liquid and wonders if Cameron knows he won't drink it. She didn't make it. It's old and stale and without her touch. It's disgusting when made by a man.

He's startled when her breath warms his neck.

iii.

He hadn't noticed her standing there. He hadn't even heard her get up. But he sets his cup on the counter as he turns into Cameron's glare. Glaring. Staring. Challenging him to love her. To hate her. To feel something when he swims in her eyes. She is far too close and she knows it. Throbbing. Oh damn, he's throbbing.

He does the only thing he knows to do.

He smirks at her.

"I'm guessing you're in my face for a reason." He refuses to look away; she almost seems to get closer. "Right," he says, and his voice becomes sultry. "So, do you want it hot and sweaty, or slow and gentle?" His breath seems to mix with hers. "I vote for a meth binge and then you across my desk . . ."

"There's nothing between Chase and I," she asserts. And she can't believe she's ignoring this. Him. His breath. His mouth. His scruff, his cologne, and . . . (trembling) his words on her lips.

House is the first to look away. "Chase is young, he's rich, he's British - "

"Australian."

"And he has great hair." He's back to pouring his coffee. "He fucked you when you were clueless. You like it like that?" She doesn't answer. "I'll have to remember that. In fact, you want to go grab a drink? I've got time right now."

"Stop it!" She yells, and he almost spills his coffee. "Stop it! You ignore it! You pretend you're oblivious!"

"To what, Cameron?" He matches her tone for tone. "To your girlish fantasies? To your - "

"To this! To this, House!" as she gestures wildly with her hands. The hallways outside are beginning to still as people stop to witness the outburst. "And you run away! You hide behind words, words, words . . . . words! You're a coward!"

"If I wanted a sermon I'd go to Wilson - "

"Stop it! Stop it, Da -" And she closes her mouth before the rest can spill out.

Silence. Complete and utter silence. She can't believe what she almost called him.

Dad. She hadn't said it in years. It seems so right, but it seems so wrong. Her face flushes red with the knowledge.

The people in the hallways turn away and keep walking. They're alone (never alone) once again. House's eyes seem to burn straight though her, but she refuses to acknowledge him now. Him. His eyes. This mess she's created.

Finally, it comes. "I remind you of your father." And he's quiet after that. Waiting. Watching. Interpreting. He interprets every move of her lashes. Angry. Embarrassed. Afraid and alone. (Never alone.) "Interesting." He won't let her live this one down. "He's sarcastic, gruff, sexy -"

"He was nothing like you."

His eyes roll over her features and then down to the floor at her feet. "So, not gruff and sexy." She doesn't respond, only stares at the counter, and he swears he hears her breathing grow thicker. "He was a good man," House concludes, looking back to her face.

"He was a man." She offers him her eyes. Begs him to take them and keep them safe. But she knows he won't. No, he will throw them in his pocket and find them days later, spent and on the floor of his bedroom.

"And I'm a man." He steps a bit closer. His voice is low in his throat.

Yes . . . Breathe, breathe. Choking on the words. She ends up nodding instead.

"That's the correlation?" He's a rumble of still air on her cheek - a question, a demand, an abusive caress. He's miles away and far too close.

"You're . . . " too close, she almost manages. But it's wispy, and quiet - more fuel for his torture. And he takes it like gas on the flame.

She's dizzy. His eyes are purple, his mouth is red. The air between them is black, the unsaid. White as her mind goes blank.

She can taste his words as his tongue rolls them toward her. "He hurt you," he finally decides. "Your father."

"No," she takes a step back. His words are too good and too bitter. She can swallow them and never look back. And they will kill her. He will kill her. She will thank him to kill her slowly . . .

House watches her retreat from the counter in her attempt to escape toward the hall. But he halts her with one simple phrase. So truly and jaggedly spoken:

"You are beautifully damaged." And she suddenly stops in mid-stride. He takes the opportunity to limp up behind her, but she refuses to turn around. Just stands there with her hands on the table. "Somebody hurt you."

"My father didn't . . ."

He's taken by her airy response; she'll fall over at any second. He will fall with her when she does. "Turn around."

"No."

"Turn around."

"House . . ." It's almost a whimper. A plea. Don't hurt me. Hurt me.

He takes a step forward and Cameron's whole body goes stiff. She was supposed to melt onto the front of his shirt. Her back to his stomach. A layer of thick air in-between. House tilts his head to the side. He will drive her to the edge and then whisper, jump. And the girl will obey him, willfully.

She feels his hot breath on the back of her ear.

Pounding. Panting. Screaming. Biting her lip, her heart is racing. Color! Color! But all is white and this is a dream she's chasing. The world is blank, and the man is speaking. Hot (hot!) breath on her neck.

"Who hurt you?" She's never heard his voice like this.

"No . . ." It doesn't make sense and she knows it.

He steps forward again, and this time he's finally touching her. His chest, his stomach, his aching member. She responds like he never thought she would, letting out a squeak and gripping the table even harder. She closes her eyes and pants for water. For air. For escape, and (regret) for him.

"Yes," he insists with a whisper in her ear.

What is he trying to do? Recreate the experience of the trauma she's suffered? Arouse her, seduce her, make her hate him, bite him, give in to him?

All of the above is working.

Throbbing, aching. He pushes it down, but the feeling only rises again. A stab of something, of pain, of guilt - that he might actually feel, if only he were a different man. But he doesn't feel. He only wants to.

"What are you so afraid of?" he asks. And it's enough irony again for the both of them.

"Men." She swallows. She leans over the table even further. "You're all the same." She can't believe he's touching her. She can't believe she's letting him. Breathe. Breathe. The feeling is too intense. "You want . . . " she pushes against him slightly, "you want to . . ." She can't finish. She can't.

"To feel?" It rumbles against her back. It pulses through her blood - poison on its way to her heart.

Her silent panting grows quick as he responds to her pushing with shifting.

"To use . . . use us." She's trembling beneath the intensity. "You take, and take, and take . . . . and this," oh damn, oh damn, "you never give back."

He's trying to be as still as possible, to listen, to hear her. But it's all becoming a blur and he doesn't know what to think of it. He's not used to being a blur.

"You've got one thing . . . . one thing on your mind. Always." She feels it when he stops responding to her trembles. "I learned that early on."

He's no longer trying to seduce her. "You're afraid of me." To Cameron, he sounds amused.

Only House knows the pinch in his soul as he moves away from her warm body and returns to the stale pot of coffee.

iv.

Few secrets can escape an investigator, who has opportunity and license to undertake such a quest, and skill to follow it up. A man burdened with a secret should especially avoid the intimacy of his physician.
(Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter)

She followed him.

She knows she shouldn't have. She knows she should leave it alone. But she can't, and she never will be able to.

Thump. Thump. Thump. All the way across the garage. It echoes. Some mellow harmony of all things broken and beautiful. Of life and death and of a few things worth it in-between. Like a baby crying on another floor as a leg slowly rots to nothing. Like a wine glass and a picture of a flowing white dress. Of a smiling man who's six feet under, and a frowning one a few feet away. Thump. Thump. Thump. Each echo tells a painful story, of a past that is long-since dismissed.

But it never does go away. It haunts them at night in a hollow garage. Reality thumps its way to her soul.

"I'm sorry," she says when she sees him. And columns of cement bear the message. So much for the wings of eagles . . .

He already knew she would be there. It's in her nature to want to set things right. His satchel on the roof of his car, he leans on his cane and he turns.

She continues. "Earlier. I shouldn't have spoken."

His eyes blaze a path to hers pitifully. She is so young. So naive. So . . . damned beautiful when she stands broken before him. She thinks he's going to catch her when she falls. Even now. "I shouldn't have hired you." House is no one's salvation.

She wasn't expecting to hear it. "What?"

"We all make mistakes, right? It doesn't mean we can change them, or even that we'd want to. You don't regret saying those things to me." He slouches against his driver's side door. "You only regret my reaction." But Cameron's still gawking at him stupidly. "The same way I don't regret hiring you."

She has no idea what to say now. She thought she'd follow him out here, spout off an apology, and be back to normal tomorrow. Oh, he would make fun of her. He always did. But this? She hadn't prepared for.

"What . . . ." she grips the bottom edge of her vest, "What is wrong with me as an employee?"

"I didn't say there was anything wrong with you." He makes a move to open his car door, but Cameron starts walking briskly toward him. She's clenching. That's never a good sign for him. But he presses on. "I should have let you go that very first week." And he opens the door with a jerk.

"Get tired of the artwork in the lobby?" she spits at him angrily.

"I didn't expect the artwork to be pissy," he returns, and closes the door with a bang. He meets her glare for glare. If it's a fight she wants, who is he to deny it? "You're supposed to look good, not speak, not offend, not apologize. And certainly not expect me to pamper to your neediness." Now he's just trying to hurt her. It's his reckless moment of freedom.

"I can't believe you!" she shouts. "How - "

"Yes, Cameron. Yes, you can." And he gets in her face to emphasize the point. "You believe everything I say. You hang on to my words like they mean something. Like you can taste them. Like you can change them. Like you can heal me by picking me apart."

"I don't want to heal you!" But she does.

"You wanted to heal your husband. Look where that got you." He really wishes she'd stop shouting.

And she does. No sooner than her palm hits his cheek in a smack that echoes around them. It echoes in squares - the walls resounding of her action. A different harmony than before.

His eyes are closed and his face is turned to the side. His cheek is growing red and raw. She can see the shape of her hand through his scruff. It hurts. She knows it hurts. But he doesn't open his eyes.

She thinks she should feel ashamed of herself. But the only thing she feels is relief. No more anger. No more hatred. Just relief and the need to say something.

"I married my husband . . . ." she begins, and still he doesn't turn back to face her, "because I wanted to heal myself." She waits for him to speak. He doesn't. His cheek is redder and she wonders if she hit him too hard. "My father was in the hospital," cautious; she doesn't know if she should tell him this. "I knew he was about to die, and I left the room. To punish the both of us."

House opens his eyes, but he keeps them trained on the pavement beside him. With his lips slightly parted in the aftershock. Glowing red heat on his cheek.

"I married my husband to make up for that." Like she knows exactly why she did it. Like she's sorted through it all and knows her exact intentions. "I was in the room when he died."

"Congratulations," escapes from House's parted lips. "Now they're both dead and you're twice as broken."

He doesn't quite face her, but he rolls his eyes around to hers. His expression isn't amused. It's contemplating, as always, but something more . . . Cameron winces when she realizes her hand is burning. She hadn't been aware of her strength.

"Why'd you leave the room?" he asks her softly.

This is who they are. They jump from topic to topic; never standing still. Never any method to the madness. Yet such gentle . . . rough . . . painfully soothing eyes on her soul, hands on his heart, beauty in this dangerous downfall.

She's surprised at the tone of his voice, but buries it beneath her response. "I told you - "

"And none of this crap about punishment."

"My father touched me every chance he got." She regretted saying it, instantly.

"Wrongly?" he asks, like he doesn't believe it.

"It didn't need to be. I knew what he was thinking, every time." She's paralyzed by the look in his eyes. Something akin to tenderness, mixed in with the curiosity that's him.

After a long enough pause, "Then what was he thinking?"

"The same thing all men think when they put their hands on a woman. I learned at a young enough age - it's never pure. Never."

"He was your father."

"He was still a man." She can't decipher the look he's giving her.

"Ever think that maybe you just thought that was what he was thinking?"

"What?" she scrunches her face in confusion.

And he ignores her. "What am I thinking?"

A standoff. A thousand words pass between them. There's an eye fuck; she swears he means it. It'll happen in the parking lot, smashed against his car, cold pavement and metal and wood; hands on her thighs and his words in her hair. Something sharp, something smooth, something she'll scream when he touches her.

Silence.

"Right now?" she asks.

"Right now. What am I thinking."

"That I'll never guess what you're thinking."

"Cute. If you're going to proclaim omniscience, you might as well make it interesting."

There's a sudden noise in the garage and they both turn to look for the source. But the lighting is dim and the darkness has thickened. Nothing. They're alone (never alone) in the cold cement structure and Cameron wonders how she got there. They'll pretend this didn't happen tomorrow.

The noise forgotten, they both turn back, and House turns his face to Cameron's. Finally. The shock of the smack has worn off, but his face holds a hint of the damage. Both in expression and flush of his cheek.

In her own moment of reckless freedom, Cameron reaches up to touch it.

He pulls away. Her fingers never make contact. And looks at her. Just looks, saying nothing at all for what seems like forever. "Everybody lies," he muses, peering down at her figure, her hand still suspended in the air. And she sighs before lowering her arm. Another change of topic. Bouncing. Back, forth, back, forth. Old, familiar territory. "What will it take?"

She thinks she must have missed something. "For what?"

"You try to run away, you push against me; you tell me I'm a man and a pig. You corner me in the garage just to slap me. Yet, here you are, trying to touch me." Truth. Or something like it. Somewhere they've never been before. "Your mouth says no, but your body says yes." And his tone becomes an accusation. "You want to feel." Dark. Deep. Relentless. "So what will it take? To get your mouth to say yes as well."

"You want into my pants that badly?" Cameron tries her best to be angry. She thinks somewhere in the back of her mind that this is only going downhill. She can't admit that she wants to roll down it and hit the rocky bottom below.

"Does that surprise you?" Flippancy is the only way out. But his soul is squeezing. Hurting.

He seems to get closer as she thinks about leaving. Almost like he (always) read her mind. "No." And she says it: "Are you accusing me of running from my feelings?"

"Maybe."

She smiles a sad smile up at him. "This all sounds . . . vaguely familiar."

"Maybe." Again. His response is quick. His breath becomes hot on her own. "But I don't deny my physical needs." His eyes are sure and unwavering.

"Needs, or wants?"

He almost smiles in return. "There's a difference?" His voice is low in his throat. Almost gravelly. Almost as sad as he feels. (Almost.) He wants to say something. He needs to. But he finds the door handle with his fingers once again, and Cameron backs away as he opens it. "Men are pigs." And he looks at her. "Selfish, isn't it?"

Cameron is waiting for something.

She's waiting for him.

One hand on the door, the other on his cane. He lets go of both as he takes a pinch of her vest and pulls her slowly toward him. He doesn't even think. Just leans in close to her and tries, tries to be human. To tell her. To show her. What he wants. What he needs.

But she can't keep up with his movements. She's trying, trying. But he's pulling her in and she's stepping toward him - the force of his fingers on her vest. Too fast. Too slow. Too sudden. She braces her hands against the car door beside him, and the door falls closed with the pressure. They're both surprised by the resounding thud and they stumble backward with the motion. House ignores the stab in his leg.

He watches. She watches. Neither of them touching or holding. Just blue on blue and a baby crying on another floor. A wine glass, a dress. A smiling man six feet under.

A frowning one.

"Are you going to kiss me?" she breathes.

"If you'd stop talking," he chides. And he waits. For her. To knock some sense into what he's doing. Into what he's going to do. She could sing. She could yell. She could smack him again. "But there's one tiny stipulation."

"Stipulation?" Of course. Nothing is normal with him. With them.

"Don't kiss me back," he orders. But his voice is soft on her lips. She's confused; he can tell by the quirk of her brow. The tiny twitch of her mouth. Anticipation, curiosity, fear and desire; neediness. But none of that matters now.

Her whisper is almost inaudible. "Why?"

Curious.

"I want you to feel." Every bump, every word, every nuance. Every ridge in his lip; every wrinkle. Every taste that is way too bitter; scruff that is way too painful.

He doesn't hold her face up or tangle his fingers in her hair. No. She's going to feel what he's doing, what he's saying. The only part of him touching her is one little pinky finger, looped through her button hole. He hasn't let go of her vest. He doesn't plan to, either.

"Open your mouth."

Edge of the cliff. Don't look down. Just jump, jump to the ground. And Cameron does as she's told.

As soon as her mouth is just barely parted, her eyes just barely opened, he nestles his bottom lip in between both of hers and thoroughly enjoys her reaction. And then he begins to move. Dragging his lip over the underside of hers. He makes sure he does it slowly. Intertwines every ridge in his lips with hers. Fitting the pieces together.

A broken and a beautiful puzzle.

She squirms and grabs a fistful of his blazer. But he pries her hand loose and drops it to the side. She isn't allowed to touch him. The more he moves against her motionless mouth, the more helpless she becomes. The more she squirms. Faster. Harder. She wants to scream. To wrap her arms around the back of his neck and force him to kiss her deeper. Faster. Harder.

He captures her bottom lip in his teeth and gently, slowly, tugs on it. Raping her with every sensation.

She can't pull away for air. She has to breathe in the air he provides her, hot and moist and relentless. Sparks play across the back of her eyelids when his tongue slips inside her mouth. She can't wrap her mind around what he's doing. What she's feeling. How they got here to begin with. He slips it further inside.

She's tasting his tongue. Warm, wet. He's making love to her now. You take, and take, and you never give back. In circles. Lapping. He's taking her. All the same. Selfish. She wants him to take her harder.

He's throbbing. She's squirming. They're sliding down the car. Pain. In his leg. In his heart. She feels the hot burn of his cheek. She had certainly smacked him too hard. "I'm - "

"Not sorry," he mumbles against her lips. And his arms finally snake around her.

She takes it as a sign that she can kiss him, and House does nothing to stop her. They're making love in harmony now.

He can't resist saying it. "Your mouth says yes, your body says yes . . ."

"Shut up."

The puzzle pieces fall into place.

- then, at some inevitable moment, will the soul of the sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in a dark, but transparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into the daylight.
(Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter)