Chapter 1: Enough is Never Enough
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters of House M.D. All characters/thematic concepts are owned kwa David pwani and Co.
The distinct sound of wood courting hardwood resonated throughout House’s once-empty, recluse apartment, the hollow bachelor’s pad that had served as his proscenium stage and knew him all too well. The stage that had tacitly reciprocated a promise: to never leave. Unlike Stacey, his indigenous thigh muscle, and his once “less miserable” outlook on life, his apartment had never negated au forsaken him. In fact, if his apartment walls could talk, nay, whisper, hell, do sign language, they would bleed a sanguine indifference towards his ever-potent Vicodin addiction, and Bourbon-induced molestation of all 88 keys of his prized Baby Grand piano. But, tonight, on his stage, he was not performing a monologue. Mono implies 1, right? Tonight, he was gently cradling in his arms someone he’s always reluctantly, and precariously held in the ominous pit of his heart: Cuddy. Although he’d never admit it, not even to Wilson, he’s always had a predacious, and recurring air of comradery, respect, and pure lov… Could it be love? ‘No’, he thought. He didn’t upendo her. However, she was his anchor, always inching him closer to the pwani when he seemed to be slipping, wandering helplessly into the depths of the daunting sea alone.
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She’d helped him detox. House couldn’t believe it. Of course, House knew that if he’d told Cuddy that he needed her that she would help; new demon child au not. But the way her soft hands had caressed his weathered shoulders as he vomited, the fashion in which she beautifully, and completely Cuddy-like prevented a Vicodin- induced replace, which would cause him months, no, years in that damned psychiatrist’s office. He liked it. He liked her. He could get used to this. Easily.
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House was pulled out of his endless reverie when he saw a luscious mountain of raven hair peaking out beneath the horizon of his silk sheets. He wondered if he’d woken her. The machungwa, chungwa morning haze penetrated his window panes and illuminated her gorgeous features. House had never seen her zaidi lovely than now. But then again, maybe he was biased since he’d just ardently, and completely inconsistent with his character, made lov… uh hermm… slept with her. As soon as her cerulean stained irises opened, his vision blurred, and all he could see were the insides of his eyelids. He panicked.
“CUDDY!! CUDDY!!”, he moaned. Where was she, and why couldn’t he gaze at her gloriously naked body?
“Cuddy”, he screamed. His desperate rant was interrupted kwa a small hand. Someone was shaking him.. Was it Cuddy? He opened his eyes to find a sultry young lady resembling a Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman shaking him. Her miles of gaudy jewelry vibrated as she tried to wake him. Her mascara bled down her soft cheeks, as she shockingly observed his strange behavior. Who has Cuddy? And why was he screaming for her?
“Listen, hot shot”, she uttered, “I’ve got ovv’a clien’s to see tonight. ‘Ju gunna pay up o’ not,” she asked with a thick English accent.
Realization washed over his jaded face as he recognized that he’d let Cuddy slip away.. again. She’d helped him detox, and she’d quietly dressed in his languid state, and left. He needed her. He couldn’t have her leave. Not again.
House hastily paid the impatient hooker, and with much inner-glee relieved her of her duties. As he closed the door, he realized that “Little Little Greg” wanted Cuddy as much as his rational and irrational mind did. He snatched up his keys from his mahogany dresser, and winced as a bolt of pain dissipated through his leg. He made his way towards the elevators and silently and with the speed of lightning, began to strategize. He had to convince Cuddy that her leaving was a mistake. That he needed her. That he never wanted to spend another restless, wretched night out of her warm, and loving embrace.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters of House M.D. All characters/thematic concepts are owned kwa David pwani and Co.
The distinct sound of wood courting hardwood resonated throughout House’s once-empty, recluse apartment, the hollow bachelor’s pad that had served as his proscenium stage and knew him all too well. The stage that had tacitly reciprocated a promise: to never leave. Unlike Stacey, his indigenous thigh muscle, and his once “less miserable” outlook on life, his apartment had never negated au forsaken him. In fact, if his apartment walls could talk, nay, whisper, hell, do sign language, they would bleed a sanguine indifference towards his ever-potent Vicodin addiction, and Bourbon-induced molestation of all 88 keys of his prized Baby Grand piano. But, tonight, on his stage, he was not performing a monologue. Mono implies 1, right? Tonight, he was gently cradling in his arms someone he’s always reluctantly, and precariously held in the ominous pit of his heart: Cuddy. Although he’d never admit it, not even to Wilson, he’s always had a predacious, and recurring air of comradery, respect, and pure lov… Could it be love? ‘No’, he thought. He didn’t upendo her. However, she was his anchor, always inching him closer to the pwani when he seemed to be slipping, wandering helplessly into the depths of the daunting sea alone.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
She’d helped him detox. House couldn’t believe it. Of course, House knew that if he’d told Cuddy that he needed her that she would help; new demon child au not. But the way her soft hands had caressed his weathered shoulders as he vomited, the fashion in which she beautifully, and completely Cuddy-like prevented a Vicodin- induced replace, which would cause him months, no, years in that damned psychiatrist’s office. He liked it. He liked her. He could get used to this. Easily.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
House was pulled out of his endless reverie when he saw a luscious mountain of raven hair peaking out beneath the horizon of his silk sheets. He wondered if he’d woken her. The machungwa, chungwa morning haze penetrated his window panes and illuminated her gorgeous features. House had never seen her zaidi lovely than now. But then again, maybe he was biased since he’d just ardently, and completely inconsistent with his character, made lov… uh hermm… slept with her. As soon as her cerulean stained irises opened, his vision blurred, and all he could see were the insides of his eyelids. He panicked.
“CUDDY!! CUDDY!!”, he moaned. Where was she, and why couldn’t he gaze at her gloriously naked body?
“Cuddy”, he screamed. His desperate rant was interrupted kwa a small hand. Someone was shaking him.. Was it Cuddy? He opened his eyes to find a sultry young lady resembling a Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman shaking him. Her miles of gaudy jewelry vibrated as she tried to wake him. Her mascara bled down her soft cheeks, as she shockingly observed his strange behavior. Who has Cuddy? And why was he screaming for her?
“Listen, hot shot”, she uttered, “I’ve got ovv’a clien’s to see tonight. ‘Ju gunna pay up o’ not,” she asked with a thick English accent.
Realization washed over his jaded face as he recognized that he’d let Cuddy slip away.. again. She’d helped him detox, and she’d quietly dressed in his languid state, and left. He needed her. He couldn’t have her leave. Not again.
House hastily paid the impatient hooker, and with much inner-glee relieved her of her duties. As he closed the door, he realized that “Little Little Greg” wanted Cuddy as much as his rational and irrational mind did. He snatched up his keys from his mahogany dresser, and winced as a bolt of pain dissipated through his leg. He made his way towards the elevators and silently and with the speed of lightning, began to strategize. He had to convince Cuddy that her leaving was a mistake. That he needed her. That he never wanted to spend another restless, wretched night out of her warm, and loving embrace.
