Can't You See It, 10/?
Oct. 18th, 2011 10:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
damigellaChapter 1 and warnings. Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,
I scan his words again and again. Oh God. I can't believe it. Did he just say he's afraid of loving me back? Could he? Does he?
I take a deep breath, and immediately hope and happiness fade away. I must have misunderstood. Of course. Just wishful thinking on my part, dreams that cannot come true. Another deep breath, and another, as my heart slows down its mad race and slowly goes back to its normal rhythm.
A hand lands gently on mine, its unexpected warmth speeds my heart up again.
"Wilson?"
There is unmistakably tenderness in his voice. "Remember, I've had a lot of time to think after I found out that what you wanted from me wasn't just friendship anymore."
That's true. I'm scared to hear what comes next.
"My handful of same-sex experiments goes back to college, and we're both damaged goods with multiple failed relationships behind. It may very well not work. But we could try."
I open my mouth, then close it. I wait. The hand above mine puts slightly more weight on my fingers.
"Wilson, don't kick me out of your life. Please."
He really sounds sincere, damn it. I hide my face in my hands. It doesn't make a difference since I can't see anyway, but it still helps me to collect my thoughts. Apparently there's more bitterness inside me than I can hold.
"I gave the best of me to that fucking hospital for years, and the moment I'm down they just kick me out. Not even the decency of talking to me in person. How can I ever trust anyone or anything again? And you in particular?"
"Dr. Cortes had warned me that it would not be easy. The written apology to Cuddy was actually her idea, to help the process a bit."
I'm not sure whether I'm more surprised by the idea of House asking Princeton Plainsboro's Head Psychologist for advice, or by her ignoring years of mockery and actually answering. "You talked to Cortes?"
"I had to apologize to her first. Profusely."
I can hear his smile. "You... did you also talk to my therapist?"
"No, of course not." There's a short pause. "But Cortes did. She made sure your therapist didn't insist in discussing me."
I guess I'll have to thank her. If House doesn't use her help just to break my heart again.
I hear a chair moving, and soon House pulls me up to a standing position; my face is pressed against a shoulder whose smell I know too well. A soft beard brushes my forehead lightly, is replaced by warm breath, then by two lips. As they press against my skin the beard makes contact again, sending shivers through my back which is held by two strong, welcoming arms. I lean on him and then I pull back, as he staggers under my weight: his thigh must have given way.
"Maybe we should continue this discussion in a more comfortable place."
He leans on me, heavily, as we slowly move towards the bedroom. When we arrive there, he steps away and limps over to the window, pulls the thick curtains closed: the light remains switched off and the room is plunged in darkness. I collapse down on my side of the bed and take out my pants before curling up under the blanket in my underwear.
House sits down on the other side: the mattress moves under his weight as he removes his sneakers (I think they must be sneakers, at least they're rubber soled) then, so it seems, his socks. I can hear plastic being screwed, - unscrewed really, since the next sound is dry swallowing.
"Sorry. I forgot my pills."
There's pain in his voice. Physical pain, not psychological. He forgot a painkiller to talk to me. I desperately want to believe him, and at the same time am overwhelmed by fear. It's dark and I'm blind, and yet I keep seeing, alternately, the car driven by House coming towards me, and the view from inside my Volvo skidding, losing control, heading straight for the cement wall.
House stops massaging his thigh and moves closer to me. His left hand glides under my neck, pulling our heads closer, although not to the point of touching.
"Thank you for making me comfortable. For caring for me, now and in the past."
Is it the first time House says thank you? I search my memory, but all I can think of is the present, his warmth in front of me, the quiet ebb and flow of his breath close to my ears. Being in the dark together suddenly feels right, and I wonder if this was House's own idea, or a suggestion by Cortes.
Then I have an idea myself. A crazy one, but then I am officially crazy now.
"House, can I look at you? I mean, at your whole body, not just your face?"
The pause may not be noticeable for others, but I've known him for close to two decades now.
"If it helps you to trust me."
"Can you remove your jeans, please, and come under the comforter?"
This time the silence stretches out before an answer comes. "Sure."
Soon there's warmth all along my right side; I turn towards him, place my hands on his shoulders, and start gliding down. He gasps when my fingertips brush his nipples through the thin cotton jersey; almost moves away when one gets hooked in the band of his boxers (another new pair, it seems). But I carefully avoid his crotch and my hands land on their final destination, on either side of his right thigh.
I can feel House's body stiffening near me, but he doesn't move away while my fingers study the disaster area. I've seen it before, of course. But this is different, I think as I trace the boundary between scar tissue and healthy skin, then feel the very special texture of old scar tissue, which continues deep below the skin. My right hand skims down to the much subtler traces of the self surgery.
I don't know why, but he feels fragile to me now. Defenseless, and I feel the need to comfort him as I often wanted to but never did when I was healthy and whole. I cover his thigh with light, closed-lipped kisses, starting just below the rim of the boxers and going down until the knee, then I move up again, this time using the tip of my tongue and not just my hands to investigate all the scars, old and new.
House drinks air like a resurfacing diver, and I realize he has been holding his breath since I started touching the scar. "Should I stop?"
"Yes." Pause. "No." Pause. Swallowing sounds. "I don't know," he breaths in small gasps now, "I thought I'd never allow anyone to do that. But Cuddy did, and... I didn't stop her."
It takes trust, I realize, to give me access to this most vulnerable part of himself. And the darkness is at the same time a help and a source of fear; he cannot read emotions in my face any more than I can read his.
"Do you miss her?"
I wish he could forget her. Completely. They were not a good match, and their love only made them hurt each other deeper. But it is impossible.
"Every day, Wilson." His whole body is shivering now. He grabs my hand, not roughly, and drags it to his face until my fingers meet wetness, a wetness with a salty taste.
"I used to go back with my thoughts again and again, analyzing, thinking what I could have done differently. But of course we never had a chance."
"No."
There's resentment in his voice. "So why did you try and push me in her arms? Insist I should give her what she wanted, even though it drove me insane, drove me back to drugs?"
Now it's my turn to shiver. I grasp his thigh as a raft, and I struggle to find words. To sink in the dark corner of my memory where I store painful recollections of mistakes. "I'm sorry. I just hoped... You had wanted her so long."
"Yeah, well. I also wanted Vicodin, but neither were good for me. Come closer."
His arms are strong, and he easily moves me so that our bodies are level; he hugs me and our thighs end up intertwined.
"Do you trust me now?"
Do I? I find the answer and it surprises me.
"Yes. You won't leave."
"I won't leave, and you will not throw me out. Because we've both seen that we're better off together than apart."
And then it hits me. Out of my lips pours a jumbled mess of love declarations, of regrets for lost occasions and past mistakes, of desperation at the idea of a parasitic life, unable to work, unable to have fun, unable even to see the beloved face in front of me.
House listens in silence, waiting for me to be done. Who knows when that would be, were it not for the fact that some part of me is so happy it's noticeable. I feel my cheeks turn crimson and pull my hips away while I try to disentangle my legs from his.
"I... I am so sorry House." I don't know what I was saying anymore, and I'm terribly ashamed by my lack of self control.
House's soft laughter fills the room, makes me relax. He pulls me close again, my erection nestling against his warm, soft crotch. "No need to worry. You're a man, it happens."
He pauses as his fingers delicately caress my forehead, my eyebrows, my eyelids. It takes me a while to understand it's his way to look into my eyes. I let my thumbs brush his eyelashes, thinking that if I could have my sight back for one second I would use it to look into his eyes.
"How long have you been having sex only with yourself?"
I should be offended, but I just answer. "Since Sam."
"Christ, no wonder you went mad. I should have checked back when I gave you ten days to get laid, but I was so confused back then." He pauses. I think he's chasing away bad memories. "We'll have to fix that, eventually."
I nod, my eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of his embrace. I feel, incredibly, safe. Even my body's uncontrolled behavior doesn't embarrass me any more.
Which doesn't mean I don't get nervous when some time later (just a minute or much more? did I doze off?) House extricates himself from our embrace, sits up and pulls on his jeans again. I miss his touch immediately.
"I can't be in bed all day. Take your time in getting up and call if you need me, I'll be in the kitchen."
It's four fifty-one. "Isn't it early for dinner?"
"I'm not going to cook."
I scan his words again and again. Oh God. I can't believe it. Did he just say he's afraid of loving me back? Could he? Does he?
I take a deep breath, and immediately hope and happiness fade away. I must have misunderstood. Of course. Just wishful thinking on my part, dreams that cannot come true. Another deep breath, and another, as my heart slows down its mad race and slowly goes back to its normal rhythm.
A hand lands gently on mine, its unexpected warmth speeds my heart up again.
"Wilson?"
There is unmistakably tenderness in his voice. "Remember, I've had a lot of time to think after I found out that what you wanted from me wasn't just friendship anymore."
That's true. I'm scared to hear what comes next.
"My handful of same-sex experiments goes back to college, and we're both damaged goods with multiple failed relationships behind. It may very well not work. But we could try."
I open my mouth, then close it. I wait. The hand above mine puts slightly more weight on my fingers.
"Wilson, don't kick me out of your life. Please."
He really sounds sincere, damn it. I hide my face in my hands. It doesn't make a difference since I can't see anyway, but it still helps me to collect my thoughts. Apparently there's more bitterness inside me than I can hold.
"I gave the best of me to that fucking hospital for years, and the moment I'm down they just kick me out. Not even the decency of talking to me in person. How can I ever trust anyone or anything again? And you in particular?"
"Dr. Cortes had warned me that it would not be easy. The written apology to Cuddy was actually her idea, to help the process a bit."
I'm not sure whether I'm more surprised by the idea of House asking Princeton Plainsboro's Head Psychologist for advice, or by her ignoring years of mockery and actually answering. "You talked to Cortes?"
"I had to apologize to her first. Profusely."
I can hear his smile. "You... did you also talk to my therapist?"
"No, of course not." There's a short pause. "But Cortes did. She made sure your therapist didn't insist in discussing me."
I guess I'll have to thank her. If House doesn't use her help just to break my heart again.
I hear a chair moving, and soon House pulls me up to a standing position; my face is pressed against a shoulder whose smell I know too well. A soft beard brushes my forehead lightly, is replaced by warm breath, then by two lips. As they press against my skin the beard makes contact again, sending shivers through my back which is held by two strong, welcoming arms. I lean on him and then I pull back, as he staggers under my weight: his thigh must have given way.
"Maybe we should continue this discussion in a more comfortable place."
He leans on me, heavily, as we slowly move towards the bedroom. When we arrive there, he steps away and limps over to the window, pulls the thick curtains closed: the light remains switched off and the room is plunged in darkness. I collapse down on my side of the bed and take out my pants before curling up under the blanket in my underwear.
House sits down on the other side: the mattress moves under his weight as he removes his sneakers (I think they must be sneakers, at least they're rubber soled) then, so it seems, his socks. I can hear plastic being screwed, - unscrewed really, since the next sound is dry swallowing.
"Sorry. I forgot my pills."
There's pain in his voice. Physical pain, not psychological. He forgot a painkiller to talk to me. I desperately want to believe him, and at the same time am overwhelmed by fear. It's dark and I'm blind, and yet I keep seeing, alternately, the car driven by House coming towards me, and the view from inside my Volvo skidding, losing control, heading straight for the cement wall.
House stops massaging his thigh and moves closer to me. His left hand glides under my neck, pulling our heads closer, although not to the point of touching.
"Thank you for making me comfortable. For caring for me, now and in the past."
Is it the first time House says thank you? I search my memory, but all I can think of is the present, his warmth in front of me, the quiet ebb and flow of his breath close to my ears. Being in the dark together suddenly feels right, and I wonder if this was House's own idea, or a suggestion by Cortes.
Then I have an idea myself. A crazy one, but then I am officially crazy now.
"House, can I look at you? I mean, at your whole body, not just your face?"
The pause may not be noticeable for others, but I've known him for close to two decades now.
"If it helps you to trust me."
"Can you remove your jeans, please, and come under the comforter?"
This time the silence stretches out before an answer comes. "Sure."
Soon there's warmth all along my right side; I turn towards him, place my hands on his shoulders, and start gliding down. He gasps when my fingertips brush his nipples through the thin cotton jersey; almost moves away when one gets hooked in the band of his boxers (another new pair, it seems). But I carefully avoid his crotch and my hands land on their final destination, on either side of his right thigh.
I can feel House's body stiffening near me, but he doesn't move away while my fingers study the disaster area. I've seen it before, of course. But this is different, I think as I trace the boundary between scar tissue and healthy skin, then feel the very special texture of old scar tissue, which continues deep below the skin. My right hand skims down to the much subtler traces of the self surgery.
I don't know why, but he feels fragile to me now. Defenseless, and I feel the need to comfort him as I often wanted to but never did when I was healthy and whole. I cover his thigh with light, closed-lipped kisses, starting just below the rim of the boxers and going down until the knee, then I move up again, this time using the tip of my tongue and not just my hands to investigate all the scars, old and new.
House drinks air like a resurfacing diver, and I realize he has been holding his breath since I started touching the scar. "Should I stop?"
"Yes." Pause. "No." Pause. Swallowing sounds. "I don't know," he breaths in small gasps now, "I thought I'd never allow anyone to do that. But Cuddy did, and... I didn't stop her."
It takes trust, I realize, to give me access to this most vulnerable part of himself. And the darkness is at the same time a help and a source of fear; he cannot read emotions in my face any more than I can read his.
"Do you miss her?"
I wish he could forget her. Completely. They were not a good match, and their love only made them hurt each other deeper. But it is impossible.
"Every day, Wilson." His whole body is shivering now. He grabs my hand, not roughly, and drags it to his face until my fingers meet wetness, a wetness with a salty taste.
"I used to go back with my thoughts again and again, analyzing, thinking what I could have done differently. But of course we never had a chance."
"No."
There's resentment in his voice. "So why did you try and push me in her arms? Insist I should give her what she wanted, even though it drove me insane, drove me back to drugs?"
Now it's my turn to shiver. I grasp his thigh as a raft, and I struggle to find words. To sink in the dark corner of my memory where I store painful recollections of mistakes. "I'm sorry. I just hoped... You had wanted her so long."
"Yeah, well. I also wanted Vicodin, but neither were good for me. Come closer."
His arms are strong, and he easily moves me so that our bodies are level; he hugs me and our thighs end up intertwined.
"Do you trust me now?"
Do I? I find the answer and it surprises me.
"Yes. You won't leave."
"I won't leave, and you will not throw me out. Because we've both seen that we're better off together than apart."
And then it hits me. Out of my lips pours a jumbled mess of love declarations, of regrets for lost occasions and past mistakes, of desperation at the idea of a parasitic life, unable to work, unable to have fun, unable even to see the beloved face in front of me.
House listens in silence, waiting for me to be done. Who knows when that would be, were it not for the fact that some part of me is so happy it's noticeable. I feel my cheeks turn crimson and pull my hips away while I try to disentangle my legs from his.
"I... I am so sorry House." I don't know what I was saying anymore, and I'm terribly ashamed by my lack of self control.
House's soft laughter fills the room, makes me relax. He pulls me close again, my erection nestling against his warm, soft crotch. "No need to worry. You're a man, it happens."
He pauses as his fingers delicately caress my forehead, my eyebrows, my eyelids. It takes me a while to understand it's his way to look into my eyes. I let my thumbs brush his eyelashes, thinking that if I could have my sight back for one second I would use it to look into his eyes.
"How long have you been having sex only with yourself?"
I should be offended, but I just answer. "Since Sam."
"Christ, no wonder you went mad. I should have checked back when I gave you ten days to get laid, but I was so confused back then." He pauses. I think he's chasing away bad memories. "We'll have to fix that, eventually."
I nod, my eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of his embrace. I feel, incredibly, safe. Even my body's uncontrolled behavior doesn't embarrass me any more.
Which doesn't mean I don't get nervous when some time later (just a minute or much more? did I doze off?) House extricates himself from our embrace, sits up and pulls on his jeans again. I miss his touch immediately.
"I can't be in bed all day. Take your time in getting up and call if you need me, I'll be in the kitchen."
It's four fifty-one. "Isn't it early for dinner?"
"I'm not going to cook."
