Fic: Lead Me Upstairs (22/23)
Title: Lead Me Upstairs (22/23)
Author: nomad1328
Rating: T
Summary: Stacy decides to take the edge off
Thanks joe_pike_junior for sticking with me. And also everyone else who has continued reading this story for 2 long years. (!!)
She can tell that the stairs to his apartment still give him trouble- despite it having been seven years since he'd lost full use of his leg. It would probably always give him trouble, maybe even more as he ages, as he gets old and frail. He's frail already, she can see that now. His blustery character makes her forget that he is a vulnerable man, subject to wild swings of melancholy and giddiness. It's this human instability that she fell in love with, this glimmer that makes her want him all the more. He's something of a cocky bastard, but she is a female and he has the capability to turn her legs to Jello. He's not like Mark- Mark is the rock, the confidant, the stoic, solid man. House is something else that is altogether indescribable except in melodramatic romance novels. He's the guy that she shouldn't have given a second glance. But here she is outside of his apartment, moving towards something she definitely shouldn't be doing. His hand is too tight on the handle of his cane and he whispers a curse as the tip nearly slips on a patch of errant ice that the salt hasn't yet melted. She catches herself staring and then he catches her too. House looks back over his shoulder as he pushes through the first entryway into the building.
“You're not backing out on me are you?” His brows lift, worried, a little cautious in that way that he always denies.
Stacy barely gave it a second thought when he came to her a little less than an hour before. She was done for the day. Her normal concentration levels were broken through by rememberance of his mouth on her's, her fingertips raking over pectorals. The tension was insurmountable except by one method and his offer was the pebble that finally broke through the already fractured glass of her inhibition. Her answer was an unequivocal yes. She'd craved him since Baltimore, since she'd started blaming herself for Mark's condition just as much as she blamed herself for Greg's. And he was always there, in her face, the scent of his detergent and his soap invading her senses, reminding her body what she'd been missing and what she'd done.
In the weeks after the infarction, he'd needed help everywhere. She remembers easing him into the Wilson's bathtub, rubbing at his bared shoulders, still tense with pain, washing his hair and asking him if he didn't want to shave, or to maybe take the edge off in some other way. They had most of the day before their hosts would be back. Her hand had wandered down, but he'd slapped it away, turning his face to the tiled wall. It was the first time, but not the last, that he would refuse her. After the infarction, he took what he needed and rarely expected her to follow.
Maybe that is the difference now. Maybe this selfishness has prevailed. Maybe he's just too tired to reciprocate. He won't be tonight- not when he's trying to win her over. She knows he will give as good as he gets. But for how long?
She shakes her head, bites her lip and holds the thick wool coat around her waist, keeping the chill of New Jersey winter from seeping past the fabric to her skin. She couldn't back out now if she wanted, not with the promise of what lay ahead for them tonight. She's missed him.
In a gesture that has never been characteristic, he takes her coat at the door, pulling it over her shoulders and tossing it on the couch. His arms encircle her from behind and she feels warm breath on her neck, but he stands motionless. She sighs and lets herself lean a little. They have all night and he makes it worth her time.
It's after midnight when she wakes, her shoulder cramping from lying on her side. She's still pressed up against him and his forearm rests on her waist, the hand limp in sleep. She shifts, feels his left leg slide between hers and his arm tightens. For a moment, she is sure he wants her again but then there's a whispered groan and he rolls to his back, leaving her cold.
“You okay?” She asks. Her mind recoils at her words, wants to take them back. He hasn't been okay in a long time.
“Yeah.”
Stacy breathes a sigh of relief. “What do you want to do?”
“Thought that was obvious,” he grumbles and she can tell he's irritated anyway. He's sparing her direct commentary in favor of another roll in the hay. He won't fight her now. He shifts again and she hears the pop of the pill bottle as he opens it and dumps a few into his hand. She wonders if they help him with this aspect of his life. Medication has its side effects and Greg is not immune. She thinks he may have mixed in another sort of pill tonight and she could care less.
“One day soon, we're going to have to talk about this,” she sighs, turning towards him. But for now, she's content not to. She wraps a hand around him again and reaches downwards, her intention clear. They have to make use of their time now.
“But not now.”
“No. Not now.”
This time is slower, easier on them both now that the tension is released. They lay silent for an hour afterwards, catching their breath and letting their hands roam in an effort to see if the third time is the charm.
The phone intercepts the movement of his hands and Greg shifts, almost angry, to answer it. If she stays here, it won't be the last time this happens. House is his job. The intensity of a life forsaken or a life saved; the repeated assertion that life, physical and real, is the only thing that matters to him. That it continue, that disease be fought and destroyed. She wonders if he fights his own at all, or if he only projects his fight onto everyone else that he saves.
She listens to his conversation for a moment and then he rolls to face her, picking up where they left off. They'll have time for conversation later.
When they do meet, there is no conversation. He's always been direct with her and their predicament is no exception. There's a choice to be made. No matter how many times she practices the conversation with Mark, it never comes out right. When it comes to logic, she normally chooses the right path, but this time she's willing to take a chance. When House comes to her, she's made her decision and he's reversed his. She goes home and lets Mark wrap his arms around her instead.
.
Author: nomad1328
Rating: T
Summary: Stacy decides to take the edge off
Thanks joe_pike_junior for sticking with me. And also everyone else who has continued reading this story for 2 long years. (!!)
She can tell that the stairs to his apartment still give him trouble- despite it having been seven years since he'd lost full use of his leg. It would probably always give him trouble, maybe even more as he ages, as he gets old and frail. He's frail already, she can see that now. His blustery character makes her forget that he is a vulnerable man, subject to wild swings of melancholy and giddiness. It's this human instability that she fell in love with, this glimmer that makes her want him all the more. He's something of a cocky bastard, but she is a female and he has the capability to turn her legs to Jello. He's not like Mark- Mark is the rock, the confidant, the stoic, solid man. House is something else that is altogether indescribable except in melodramatic romance novels. He's the guy that she shouldn't have given a second glance. But here she is outside of his apartment, moving towards something she definitely shouldn't be doing. His hand is too tight on the handle of his cane and he whispers a curse as the tip nearly slips on a patch of errant ice that the salt hasn't yet melted. She catches herself staring and then he catches her too. House looks back over his shoulder as he pushes through the first entryway into the building.
“You're not backing out on me are you?” His brows lift, worried, a little cautious in that way that he always denies.
Stacy barely gave it a second thought when he came to her a little less than an hour before. She was done for the day. Her normal concentration levels were broken through by rememberance of his mouth on her's, her fingertips raking over pectorals. The tension was insurmountable except by one method and his offer was the pebble that finally broke through the already fractured glass of her inhibition. Her answer was an unequivocal yes. She'd craved him since Baltimore, since she'd started blaming herself for Mark's condition just as much as she blamed herself for Greg's. And he was always there, in her face, the scent of his detergent and his soap invading her senses, reminding her body what she'd been missing and what she'd done.
In the weeks after the infarction, he'd needed help everywhere. She remembers easing him into the Wilson's bathtub, rubbing at his bared shoulders, still tense with pain, washing his hair and asking him if he didn't want to shave, or to maybe take the edge off in some other way. They had most of the day before their hosts would be back. Her hand had wandered down, but he'd slapped it away, turning his face to the tiled wall. It was the first time, but not the last, that he would refuse her. After the infarction, he took what he needed and rarely expected her to follow.
Maybe that is the difference now. Maybe this selfishness has prevailed. Maybe he's just too tired to reciprocate. He won't be tonight- not when he's trying to win her over. She knows he will give as good as he gets. But for how long?
She shakes her head, bites her lip and holds the thick wool coat around her waist, keeping the chill of New Jersey winter from seeping past the fabric to her skin. She couldn't back out now if she wanted, not with the promise of what lay ahead for them tonight. She's missed him.
In a gesture that has never been characteristic, he takes her coat at the door, pulling it over her shoulders and tossing it on the couch. His arms encircle her from behind and she feels warm breath on her neck, but he stands motionless. She sighs and lets herself lean a little. They have all night and he makes it worth her time.
It's after midnight when she wakes, her shoulder cramping from lying on her side. She's still pressed up against him and his forearm rests on her waist, the hand limp in sleep. She shifts, feels his left leg slide between hers and his arm tightens. For a moment, she is sure he wants her again but then there's a whispered groan and he rolls to his back, leaving her cold.
“You okay?” She asks. Her mind recoils at her words, wants to take them back. He hasn't been okay in a long time.
“Yeah.”
Stacy breathes a sigh of relief. “What do you want to do?”
“Thought that was obvious,” he grumbles and she can tell he's irritated anyway. He's sparing her direct commentary in favor of another roll in the hay. He won't fight her now. He shifts again and she hears the pop of the pill bottle as he opens it and dumps a few into his hand. She wonders if they help him with this aspect of his life. Medication has its side effects and Greg is not immune. She thinks he may have mixed in another sort of pill tonight and she could care less.
“One day soon, we're going to have to talk about this,” she sighs, turning towards him. But for now, she's content not to. She wraps a hand around him again and reaches downwards, her intention clear. They have to make use of their time now.
“But not now.”
“No. Not now.”
This time is slower, easier on them both now that the tension is released. They lay silent for an hour afterwards, catching their breath and letting their hands roam in an effort to see if the third time is the charm.
The phone intercepts the movement of his hands and Greg shifts, almost angry, to answer it. If she stays here, it won't be the last time this happens. House is his job. The intensity of a life forsaken or a life saved; the repeated assertion that life, physical and real, is the only thing that matters to him. That it continue, that disease be fought and destroyed. She wonders if he fights his own at all, or if he only projects his fight onto everyone else that he saves.
She listens to his conversation for a moment and then he rolls to face her, picking up where they left off. They'll have time for conversation later.
When they do meet, there is no conversation. He's always been direct with her and their predicament is no exception. There's a choice to be made. No matter how many times she practices the conversation with Mark, it never comes out right. When it comes to logic, she normally chooses the right path, but this time she's willing to take a chance. When House comes to her, she's made her decision and he's reversed his. She goes home and lets Mark wrap his arms around her instead.
.