Title: Sensibility
Author: Ellie
Rating: R
Summary: How our senses define our relationships, in five, 200
word drabbles

****

He could always hear her coming. The unforgiving flooring of
the hospital did nothing to disguise the sharp staccato of her
impractical heels. From halfway down the hall, he could hear
them herald her arrival.

The rhythm warned what to expect. Normally, she walked with
an easy, steady step that meant a routine visit, all business.
Quicker and lighter when she was in a good mood, or first thing
in the morning, before everything started to trouble her. The
steps rang out louder, faster, sharper when she was agitated,
increasing in direct proportion. Just occasionally he’d hear her,
slower and syncopated, and know she was troubled. They never
said much when she arrived at that pace.

He’d feign listening to his iPod, but such diversions prevented
full use of his early warning system. She never noticed when the
headphones were connected to a mute device.

This evening her steps were slow, heavy. It had been a long
week, and sure enough, she appeared in his office wearing low
heels, less cleavage, and tired eyes.

"It’s late. Why are you still here?"

"Waiting for a reason to go home."

She nodded and walked away, the lightening in her step just
perceptible.

****

One of the many small concessions to her job was a lack of
perfume. Only for outside events did she spritz on a bit of
Chanel before breezing out of her office.

At the end of the week, she enveloped herself in scent, rising
from candles and the steamy bath. Half an hour in the hot,
turquoise water left her feeling relaxed and lethargic. Making
her way to the couch, clad in only her fuzzy robe, she melted
down next to House, head on his shoulder.

When a commercial break interrupted the game, he buried his
nose in the nape of her neck. "You smell like the ocean."

"That’s the goal."

"It’s different. You’re normally just you."

He noticed everything else, it didn’t surprise her he noticed this,
too. "I reserve the right to be girly on occasion."

As he gave her a doubtful look, she knew what he was thinking.
But he just said, "So long as you don’t start smelling like
flowers."

She shook her head. "No, that’s too frou-frou. I like
something clean."

The game returned, and as the pitcher shuffled on the mound, he
said, "Try and find something that smells like cut grass and
horsehide."

****

The lip gloss she’d worn left a faint, lingering taste of melon, just
enough to distract him. It was at odds with the smoky caramel of
the bourbon they were drinking that evening.

She normally refused his offer of bourbon or scotch, instead
seeking out a glass of wine, filled higher than was proper. That
always left her tasting fruity and tannic, and it mingled well with
the liquor when he kissed her.

Tonight she’d taken the proffered tumbler of amber liquid,
downing half of it easily, then leaning over to kiss him. When
she deepened the kiss, lips parting and tongue questioning, he’d
pulled her closer and reciprocated. Yet there was something else
mingling with the taste of alcohol and melon, he thought, as if he
could taste tension and exhaustion the way he could see music
while high.

"Rough week?" he asked, breaking the kiss.

"Yeah. There’s this asshole of a doctor who lives for making
my life difficult."

"Oh no, we can’t have that!" Grinning, he took a sip of liquor
from her glass, fingers covering hers.

"No, we can’t. But somehow he always manages to be right, so
I can’t complain, just clean up the mess."

****

The frigid air of the room raised goose bumps over her exposed
skin as she hurried back to bed, bare feet rushing across the icy
floor.

"Why do you insist on sleeping with the window open when
they’re calling for snow tonight?"

He pulled her close, wrapping one long, warm arm around her
bare, chilled flesh. "The cold makes you seek warmth, thus
me."

She smiled and snuggled closer, enjoying the heat he produced
like a furnace, trapped by the flannel sheets and down comforter,
instantly warming her. "Because giving me a reason to stay this
close would be dishonest."

"I can’t have my reputation tarnished." His hand trailed over
the tender skin of her upper arm, just enough not to tickle. The
fingers continued, across her shoulder, then down her back,
slowly, touch growing firmer.

Just between her scapulas he stopped, kneading. "Attempting to
turn into a camel and store your worries in a hump?"

"Unattractive yet practical. And it would keep me warm."

"But what would potential donors say about a Quasimodo
administrator? Doesn’t say much for our ability to treat
patients."

"Less than you would. Oh, there." She sighed as his fingers
dug into the knotted muscles.

****

Driving rain and howling wind drowned out sound, but the storm
illuminated the room in strobe, revealing flashes of skin, stark
and white. Glancing down, he saw his ravaged thigh, cratered
like the dark side of the moon, caressed by the silky plain of her
calf.

Her fingers jumped towards him, leaping across his body, from
biceps to pectorals. Nail polish caught the lightning and
reflected it, a delayed spark to match those her nails elicited
under his skin. An index finger snagged on his nipple, toying
under his brief gaze. A flash of her hands over her own flesh,
skimming across herself and grazing him, so close to where they
were conjoined.

As her movements grew more frantic astride him, she appeared
even more so, moving in the stop-motion exposures of the storm.
His mind tried to capture each image, each bounce of breast, toss
of hair, ripple of stomach under his hands, the way her eyes
snapped open wide just before she came.

The storm passed, but the final flash of lightning revealed her
sprawled across him, spine a graceful ogee to the curve of her
ass, where his hands rested, arcing across the smooth expanse of
skin.

****
End
****