Verbalizing
by ALC Punk!

Well, not the second week exactly, because she thinks she remembers being half-drunk during the first week and kissing him sloppily in his office (and he said Cuddy downed the whole glass without breathing, and she thinks that's why she couldn't breathe when his tongue went down her throat).

But, if she wants a proper starting (or an ignoble ending to her career), she marks the second week of her return as the beginning.

"I'm flexible."

"You're young."

"Shut up."

She was surprised when he did.

Less surprised at his inability to perform, but willing to go with it. His hands were good.

Very good.

The third time they're doing this (and it's her apartment this time, and she thinks Wilson knows, but he hasn't said anything), she asks, "Do you get anything from this?"

And he doesn't answer, but the fingers sliding in and out of her twist and his teeth nip at her shoulder.

When she recovers from the orgasm, she gets him on his back and slides him down her throat. Careful of her pressure on his body, oh-so-careful of his leg until he's gasping with effort.

She sits back on her knees and uses her hands, then, watches him as his head drops back and his chest breathes in and his muscles twitch.

Then she has to dig knuckles into his thigh were they're locked again, and wonders if it's worth it.

Weeks slide by, and she smiles at Chase with emptiness and nods at Foreman, and introduces House to full-on intercourse, straddling and slipping and sliding until he's on his side (and her legs are going to cramp, but jesus, this feels good), and she's on her backsidefront. And she feels a sense of accomplishment when they're done, even if she didn't come.

He falls asleep, and she gets herself off with her fingers and the taste of his skin.

It's another two weeks before it occurs to her that all he does is take. His terms, his rules, her body being used. She thinks it's almost fitting, since he never seems to know how to give, anyway.

But it's frustrating. Before, when she was married and there was an end in sight, she felt like she was accomplishing something. Now, she just feels as though there is no end.

Wilson corners her one day to make certain she's using birth control, and she almost laughs in his face.

She slides the condom on with extra care that night.

"Afraid I'll end up impotent, one of these days?"

"No." She meets his eyes.

They don't talk anymore.

She keeps track of the days (she's good at that sort of thing. She even knows his vicodin schedule to the point that she brought him the pills one day--Foreman gave her such an odd look). Days and weeks.

And, inevitably, she knows when his bad days fall (she noticed before, but there was still the professional barrier between them. Now, the barrier is personal, and she thinks it's only slightly less thick). Can almost feel them crawling up her spine.

Those are the days he leaves on time, without saying anything. The days she knows not to follow him, no matter what.

On one of his good days, she drags him into a closet and kisses him.

He never asks why.

On the next bad day, she stands in his office, contemplating the death of her husband, and how anniversaries are never convenient.

A week.

She's sliding onto him, her legs and hips becoming used to this when he stops her, cups her hip with one hand. "Why are you still here?"

"Because."

"I'm easy."

"No."

He lets her go, and they've almost got this down to a science. She gets him off first, and then he returns the favor. Fingers sliding across her skin and she arches into his touch, already covered in sweat, her nerves shivering with skin-to-skin contact.

They're so delicate, she thinks, except not. And the dichotomy of her mental pingpong makes her want to laugh but his hands are caressing down her stomach and his fingers are sliding into her. And her brain stops working for thirty seconds as his mouth closes on her breasts.

Allison doesn't think about whether he's agile enough to be doing this.

"So I'm not just a pity fuck." The words go into her hair.

They jerk her out of drowsy contentment, and she opens her eyes to stare across the room, before giving into the anger. "Would I still be here?"

"Ouch. Struck a nerve, did I?"

"Do you think you're easy? Do you think *this* is easy?" It's harder to turn and look at him because his leg is draped across her, and she doesn't want to hurt him (not physically, anyway, although she's far from certain she can damage him emotionally).

"Well, sure. Show me your tits, smile, suck me off a few times. Bet you're yoga instructor is always impressed with your extensions."

"Fuck. You."

"I thought you'd already done that."

She's glaring into his eyes, words forming in her mind. Something that will rip that self-satisfied smirk from his face, when she notices something. "You don't like me."

"No."

Her hand reaches up and touches his cheek. "Go to sleep."

"Not gonna argue? Stalk off in a snit?"

"You don't like me." Her fingers slide into his hair, holding his head still. "You never said anything about love."

The muscles in his chest twitch, tense. And she knows he wants to pull away. "Well, no, that would be--"

"Cheap? Pathetic?" Her mouth grazes his, "The truth?"

"Didn't say that."

"No. You never did. And you never have to, either."

He makes no response verbally. But his fingers glide along her side, and his eyes close.

It's enough.

-f-

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© 2005 ALC Punk!