FicWad

The first time he touches you, it’s filed away as an accident. Stacy has just left; you gave him a ride home. You sit with him for awhile on the couch, watching some random show that neither you nor he really pay attention to; you can’t focus on the glib chirpings of the TV while you’re trying to pretend everything is normal. Everything is ok. Everything is how it was two weeks ago (an eternity, when he was strong and fast and he laughed quickly, and it wasn’t that hard, barking laugh that you hear now). So when his head hits your shoulder, you assume it’s the Vicodin making him sleepy. But his breaths aren’t deep; his muscles don’t relax so you know he isn’t asleep. But it’s shrugged off. You know he needs comfort, needs solace but won’t ask for it. It’s nothing. Nothing you can’t give.

You sleep on his couch years later, (you’re running from your problems to Neverland, to live with the man who is forever a child) and he plays games with you. Steals your food, deletes your calls. You put up with it because House is House. You get even and he smiles up at you, watches as you leave him sprawled out on the hospital floor (and no one rushes to help him). You’re almost asleep that night when you hear him creep towards you (at least, as well as a man with a wooden third leg can creep) and you keep your breath even, move your eyes. Pretend you’re in REM sleep. It’s convincing; he moves without hesitation. His fingers brush the couch and the noise is near your arm; it’s thrown carelessly over your stomach. Then his fingers are on your arm and he’s lightly running the tips over your skin, feeling the muscle beneath. He stops, moves a single finger over the scar on your forearm. It’s a thin line, almost white against your skin. It starts near your elbow and extends almost to your wrist. His fingers trace over the length and meet your wrist; the air seems colder when his heat is taken away. You listen as he moves back to his room, and wonder why you’re blushing slightly.

The next day goes by in a blur and you can’t focus. Your thoughts revolve around him; he’s in your head (whispers in your ear. Are you his next puzzle? Are you something more?). You tell some patients they’re going to live, others that they’ll die. You know you should, but you can’t bring yourself to the level of caring you once had. You feel for your patients, can empathize with their situations, but aren’t affected by them like you used to be. This should worry you, should scare you but you’re too busy obsessing about a touch. Just a touch. Nothing more. But that touch! It was a caress from a lover you didn’t know you had; it was more personal than most of the sex you’ve had (yes, more so than all of your wives combined.) Because when you looked down at them panting under you, rolling their eyes back, calling your name, calling God, you knew you didn’t love them. Liked them all as people, yes. Of course. But love? No. And then they felt it, and the sex stopped.

But ithis . This was new, uncharted and you’re not sure you want it to be. The clock strikes seven and you’re on the way to House’s. You drive around the block a bit, crank up the radio and sing in the car. Have to get rid of energy that you didn’t know you had until you got in the car and your stomach was in knots and your hands began shaking. And then you’re in the hallway of House’s building, wondering how the hell you got there (did you actually drive yourself?). You open the door and House is there and everything’s normal but it’s not. Nothing’s normal anymore and your head aches from trying to figure out how to make it go back (if you call what yours and House’s friendship is normal. Is this what a crazy person feels?).

House looks up at you as you sit down, (opposite end of the couch) Your jacket is off and you roll up your sleeves. Your scar glows in the dim light and you glance at it before looking at the TV. House is looking at you again, or more precisely, your arm.

“How’d that happen?” His voice tries not to betray the curiosity you know he feels.

“Nothing. Just a childhood accident.” You’re lying and he knows it.

“A childhood accident that left a perfectly straight, non-jagged line down your arm? I’m sure.” House actually grabs you now, twisty your arm so he can peer down on the scar (your great mystery). “Aw, Jimmy. Teenage cutter? Was it the only way you could feel control?”

You look him dead in the eye. This is your story, your past and you know he’ll take it from you, make it his joke. His ammunition. But you lick your lips and begin anyway because you know he won’t leave you alone until the truth is told.

“I was thirteen. Erik, my best friend, was dying. We made a pact. He cut me, I cut him. He said this was how he’d stick around; every time I saw the scar I’d think of him. He died before it healed. He was right.”

“Cancer?”

“Yeah.” And you’re looking at the TV, not thinking about how Erik gripped your hand as you held the knife, dug it into his skin until you reached the wrist. Watched the blood leak out. Yours was like a fountain; you avoided all veins and arteries, but god did it bleed. His was slow; it didn’t really clot but it didn’t really gush. You bandaged it for him, and then a week later he was in a box in the ground. You picked at the wound then, made it bleed and he was with you for a moment, beside you saying goodbye.

And then you were left with your stinging arm and stained shirt.

House brings you back to the present. He looks at you, just looks, and you know he’s putting pieces together. But you’re not a puzzle and you don’t like being an inanimate object that’s broken apart just to be put back together. You’re on your feet then in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. House calls your name from the living room, but he calls you James, not Jimmy. Then he’s with you and you want to throw the glass at him. You haven’t talked about Erik in years, haven’t thought about him.

“Yes. Erik is why I’m in oncology. I miss him every day and he’s dead so go ahead. Be an ass. Call me sentimental; call me a wuss, a woman. Whatever. It doesn’t matter, because he was my best friend.” House opens his mouth and you think you see a gleam in his eye so you really try to shut him up.

“And you don’t compare, because all you are is a watered-down version of a man who I’m using to keep my mind off my latest life catastrophe.”

He moves closer to you. You don’t know what’s happening, how things have gotten so convoluted, so strange. But then you remember the start of this; why you’re in this mood to begin with.

“Why did you touch me?” House looks at you, makes his eyes big and pretends to be confused. “Cut the shit, House. I was awake.” He doesn’t say anything at first, but moves even closer and you wonder what will happen if he hits you. You don’t mind the pain, after all, it will only complete the relationship. He pains you in every other way; it’s be nice to have something to show for it this time.

But when the blow doesn’t come you look at him closely. There’s some….look in his eyes that you haven’t seen before. He’s touching your arm again, tracing the scar and you’re confused and tired and want to cry but you don’t because you’re a big boy, and big boys don’t cry (Dad’s voice in your ears), right Jimmy?

You’re looking in his eyes and see that they’ve got flecks of green and for a moment you’re looking at Erik. He’s grown and beautiful and whole. And he smiles at you, puts his hand on your face and says you did well, he’s proud of you and now it’s time to let go. Then House is back and you’re shuddering, hyperventilating over something that happened twenty-two years ago. You should be over it but right now it doesn’t matter; it’s overwhelming and it hurts and every failure you’ve ever had washes over you in a wave and you’re sinking.

And there are still hands on your face but now they’re House’s and you’re moving. You stop in the bedroom and he pushes you down, takes your shoes off and makes you lay. But you don’t want to be alone and you’re crying out to him wordlessly, a groan that startles even you. But now he’s next to you, breathing in and out alive and well. He turns you and you can’t think because his eyes are so intense, so close and so knowing. So you shut your eyes, block out the spotlights and then there’s a pressure on your chest and mouth. His hand is on your heart and it beats into him, pushes blood through your body under him. And his lips are on yours, dry but warm. Thin. They fit in yours well because your lips are big and he massages them, licks them and he tastes like whiskey so when you swallow you feel like you’re intoxicated. You feel like a dam has burst in you and you press into him, entwine yourself in him and hope you can block it out like you always do.

He keeps his hands above your waist until you move yours below his. He’s not trying to take advantage; he wants this to be real maybe? Right now you don’t care, you just want a release and you try to undo his belt but he stops you.

“Not tonight.” You open your eyes to question him but he shushes you. “You’re sad and lonely and you want me to take away the pain. But you need to deal with it, to look it head on and get over it. Because I want you. I don’t want a shell of you, which is what you are now. So I’ll wait.”

And then he’s back to kissing you and it feels good enough for now so you lose yourself, feel his tongue as it plays with yours. You stay like that with him until you’re both tired and you fall asleep with him pressed close (you didn’t think House spooned). When you wake up the night floods back and you feel like you’ve been on a bender. Your head aches and you’re dizzy. House is still asleep but he wakes as you move. He kisses you even though you’ve both got horrible morning breath (House probably enjoys inflicting his on you). You turn on your back and he does too; your shoulders touch. His hand wraps around your wrist, where the scar ends.

“To Erik.” He says, then gets up. “So. What’s for breakfast?” He disappears around the corner.

You lay still for a moment. “To Erik,” you say, then get up to join him.