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9 1/2	By : lot49 Category: G through L > House Views: 10104 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own House, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-:1::-::4::
- 2-::5::
- 3-::6::
- 4-7::8::
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::6::
"This is a nice bathroom."
The deadbolt nocks into place, echoes of the blunt and definitive twist bouncing from ceiling to floor and wall to wall until it pings her squarely in the back of her head. Lifting her eyes to the mirror she catches the harshly lit angles of him standing inside the door, dispassionate gaze flickering across the empty stalls before settling on her. Face marked with mild censure, he leans heavily forward on his cane.
"We didn't finish our conversation."
It comes out loud, unintentionally so, but everything sounds louder here, even the discordant rhythms knocking in his head as he watches her watching his reflection.
"You made me do this. Bring you here. Wear this. This tie. These shoes. I haven't worn these shoes in five years. I hate these shoes."
She doesn't turn as the inverted image tears at his necktie until it's dead and dangling on either side of his collar before moving to wrestle with the top two buttons of his shirt.
"We were talking. Well, actually, you were making stupid Freud analogies. But then you ran away."
And that particular transgression makes him extremely irate because he likes to think he taught her to fight better than that.
"You didn't call me a bastard." The sound of his slick, black loafers clomp steadily forward, a persistent three-quarter beat with every click of his cane. "An asshole. A son of a bitch. You didn't say anything."
He stops directly behind her, a fine string of atoms lingering between them, pulling her hair back over one shoulder. As his mouth touches the spot where her ear meets her jaw, all the heat molecules jump the gap between his chest and her back, traveling in a straight line towards all those centers in her brain that infuriate and make her tremble at the same time.
"You didn't tell me I was wrong."
He doesn't apologize for what he does, never explains or pauses to process his movements, even as he tosses his cane to the countertop, spins her around and lifts her up. He's guided by the sickly sweet taste of Chardonnay at the back of his throat, and something that smells like anger. But he's so deliberate. Everything he does is deliberate, even as he pushes her dress up, her panties down and moves her around the slick marble surface like he's trying to polish the countertop with her ass. He is vexed, he is perturbed, and as his fingers lock onto her knees, pulls them apart and lets them snap back around his hips he has yet another question.
"Am I wrong?"
She closes her eyes, just for a moment, to the sounds of him fumbling with his belt buckle and zipper. "You're wrong."
And he laughs. "I'm never wrong."
Eight years of drugs and persistent pain have hacked away at all the formerly round parts of him, leaving dirty, jagged angles and bristles in their wake. And she feels every single of them; the sharp edges in his hipbones, his cock pressed against her, his voice and the omnipresent bitter drug, his mouth and everything nasty that comes spilling out of it.
"This," he says, "is it." He draws blood with every word, knows exactly what to say to make it hurt, to make her hurt, to cut just a little deeper. "And you can't fix it. Can't glue back all the little pieces with a smile and the amazing powers of," one hand caresses her cheek, the other dipping down between her legs, "this."
There's a tug, then a polite knock at the door.
"She's taking a crap!" he hollers over his shoulder, and startled heels scurry away.
"You don't say no. You never say no. You never tell me to stop. You always let me..." And his lips pull back over his teeth as he exhales with a groan, pushing, oh so deep, inside.
"Wilson told me a secret." Fingernails dig into his shoulder blades and her breath is hot against his neck, her words curling at the base of his spine. "You're afraid. You're afraid I'm going to hurt you. That I'm going break your--"
He thrusts, hard, and repeats it again and again and again, ignoring the persistent clamor of his trembling right leg; he drowns out her words with rough, sharp movements, until the mirror behind her wobbles and shakes.
Fornicating. Copulating. Reaping the benefits of sexual harassment. For unlawful carnal knowlege. F. U. C. K. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking, he'll say, that's all.
That's all.
A four-by-six photo of an old, Italian fisherman slides from the wall and hits the sinktop, the grey, wrinkled face staring up at them in disapproval. With a sneer, he casually slaps it off the counter, where it lands in a satisfying spiderwork of cracked glass.
"You can't hurt me," he chuckles. "You don't know how."
He swipes a soap pump out of the way and presses his hands to the mirror, leans forward, moving deeper, harder, and he is, yes, he is, so very hard and his thigh is howling and more pictures are dropping, another and another and another. Photos falling and crashing; everything falling and crashing around them. The reflection in the mirror that stares back vaguely resembles him at best, and he sees her neck and the trail of her spine and he doesn't, doesn't want, but he can't help himself, should have stayed away, he should have, he, he...
A bolt ripples through his groin, an incandescent ball of fire that nearly blinds him, and he jerks and spasms and comes and it hurts oh god it hurts so bad he thinks his leg might have disintegrated on the spot. He's afraid to look, afraid he might have shot blood instead of spunk. Clutching the bowl of the sink, slamming the other against the paper towel dispenser, through the watery haze of pain, he sees she's dug the dainty little toes of her left foot into his femoral nerve.
Blue. Her toenails are blue. Would you look at that.
"There's my girl." Vision glassy and unfocused, he sags against the counter, trembling, trying not to vomit. "There she is." Leans on her for what feels like a year before pulling out, leaving her aching and empty. There's something beautiful about their little dance of mutual destruction. How she's developing her own sharp edges. "I knew you had it in you."
She doesn't, won't, look at him. Only opens her hand to reveal two white pills resting in her palm.
::::
Fifteen minutes later, she rejoins him at the table. He chokes down his Puttanesca as she sips at her water. They avoid looking at each other.
"You're wrong," she finally says, and the clink of the glass settling on the table sounds a lot like resignation. "But I'm tired of trying."
She makes no comment about how his hand shakes when he grips his fork a little too tightly, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the plate so he doesn't have to see how she's meticulously reapplied her makeup so it doesn't look like she'd been crying.
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9 1/2