House/24 - Greg House/Brittany House - Glass Waltz (94)
Title: Glass Waltz (94)
Fandoms: House/24/MI5
Characters/Pairing: Greg House/Brittany House, referenced Brittany House/Michael Colefield and one-sided Brittany House/Jacob Lindsay
Prompt: 074. Corrupt.
Word Count: 2021
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence, and adult subject matter.
Spoilers: None for this part
Summary: A killer's dying wish brings his last victim to life.
Author's Notes: The ninety-fourth chapter of an ongoing novel. All chapter subtitles are from the song "30 Minutes" by TATU. This is a rewrite, and it contains amounts of adult content, violence, and sexual innuendo. Proceed with caution.
Ninety-Four.
All The Wrong Reasons.
make plans or mistakes / to alter our lives
June 21, 2011
10:55 P.M. EST
Princeton, New Jersey
It always starts with just one look.
Six years ago it was pure and unbridled anger, the eyes letting out the punches they couldn't throw with their fists. Over the years, the anger was still there, but there were other things. Vulnerabilities exposed. Understandings never verbalized. Silent pleas for help. Times have changed. Yesterday he just turned forty-two. He's older now. So is she. But who they are, fundamentally, has never changed. Neither has what they are to each other.
He's standing there, in her living room, hands on his hips. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar open, jeans smudged with a little dust and dirt -- and those same old piercing blue eyes, staring right at her like the calmest storm you've ever seen.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Inwardly, he blames himself. He had been there, with her, for part of this -- he should have been there to support her when she was obviously coming apart. He should have trusted her to lead the way but he should have been there to have her back. No matter if they would have punched each other, he should have been around, not on that plane. Even if she had asked him to go. Kyle could have taken care of the boy.
But he has neither the words nor the vulnerability to express that, so he just stares at her.
Brittany stares right back. Her eyes are blank, hollow, distant, like she's been crawling further and further into herself since she got off that plane, and Jake doesn't doubt that she has. "What's wrong with me?" she echoes, giving him a sarcastic, bitter smirk. "My son's got a dysfunctional mother, my husband's still getting over being buried in a fucking coffin, my employer now thinks I'm a little bit insane, and my ex-husband has decided that since we still can't look at each other and not suffer for it, that it's best if he walks out of my entire life, so how's that for things that are fucking wrong?!"
It takes him only a couple of seconds to process that information. Though the last is a bombshell, he doesn't let his face show it. His face remains unchanged as he crosses to stand at the end of the couch, fingertips splayed across the arm, his eyes never leaving hers. His tone is matter-of-fact as he says, "Anyone who leaves somebody during a traumatic experience is a bastard and that's the end of it."
"It was a traumatic experience for him, too, Jake," she replies.
"He's not who I'm concerned with," he tells her.
There's a long, tepid pause between them. His lips are pressed in a thin line, his eyes daring her to contradict him. She just sits there, chewing on her lower lip, mulling over his choice of words. They may hate each other, but hate is an emotion, signifying that even if it's a negative feeling, there are still feelings between them. Still a relationship of some investment. An investment neither of them is comfortable with, but neither is willing to break.
They'll just push the limits over and over again.
"What is it gonna take for you to be functional?" he asks her once she's been cowed. He doesn't say 'okay' because 'okay' is bullshit.
She exhales. "I want my husband and my son to be okay. I want to know my ex-husband doesn't have to run out of my life because of shit we've been through. I want a memory wipe of the last sixteen days."
A quirked eyebrow. "Well, I could do that, but you'd have to be a willing participant."
"Dream on, Hannigan." The barest hint of a smirk plays on her lips. "Even though you already do that."
"All the time," he retorts without missing a beat. "Brittany, your husband, your ex-husband and your son are their own people. You can't judge what will make them okay. Only they can do that. Your husband, is more fucking worried about you, if anyone, and your son is just going to be put under more strain if his mom isn't in one piece. Michael is doing whatever the shit he does. But they are not within your control. Understand that. You do not control their coping process. You have to save yourself first, or you may as well tell them to go fuck themselves."
She's startled by his language. Good. When he has her off-guard, he can get through to her. It's still a battle between the two of them. A battle to get through.
"Jake..."
"Shut up." He's not about to let her get a word in edgewise. "You are not going to turn into the man I used to be after you brought me here."
"Only because you wanted to go," she insisted.
He gives her a sharp look. "That was less than half of it. I was digging my own grave and you know it. I don't like living under the shadow of being a corrupt, dysfunctional, fucked-up son of a bitch and the only reason that I am where I am today is because I knew it would piss you off even more if I stayed, and then I realized that I didn't have anywhere else to go!" His voice is tight. "I am not going to let you go that far for me and then shoot yourself in the fucking head, because you know what, sometimes it does have to be about you, but you have never fucking understood that!"
"That's not how it works for me, Jake!" she snaps back. "I have a husband and a son and..."
"Well, that's the way it'd better start working right now!" He has no problem matching her anger with his own. He's angry that this has happened to her. He's angry that he wasn't there. But he's angriest at her, for not fighting back. He wants her to fight. And he knows he's the best target. He knows he can get her to the breaking point and after years of experience, he knows just how to do it.
"You don't understand the way things work. You want everybody else to be okay before you're okay, but you don't realize that your not being okay affects everybody else. It's like you live in some big world until it comes to you personally, and then you think you live in a fucking bubble. How stupid are you?"
She gets to her feet, staring him down. "Don't talk about shit you know nothing about, Jake."
He just needs to push her a little bit farther. He's saved this one for last. A small smirk spreads over his lips. "Maybe you have a guilt complex? What'd you do, get hot and heavy with the ex-husband while Greg was over here pining for you?"
He has no way of knowing that he's sort of right. All he knows next is that she backhands him, hard. Which is exactly what he wants her to do. He rides the blow, his head snapping around. But Jake's reflexes are as fast -- probably faster -- than his brain, and he reaches up to grab her wrist with one hand, using his other hand to give her a hard shove back into the couch until he's got her pinned there, and then all the niceties and considerations go down the drain. Once a punch is thrown, there are no apologies.
"You know, the sad thing is, I'm almost jealous," he says.
"I'm sure you are," she replies, and kicks him in the midsection, sending him backward onto the coffee table.
There's a smirk on his face as he stands there, shoving things out of the way and backing up into the middle of empty floor space. For once, he's smarter than she is. She has no idea she's playing right into his hands. "You want to do this?" he says. "You really want to throw down, see which one of us is better? Come on. Take the shot."
A pause.
"You know I would."
She does know that. Which is probably why she crosses the room and decks him, hard.
Maybe she's not hitting him. Maybe she's hurting other people. Lindsay, for getting her involved in this in the first place. Michael, for leaving. The people who almost killed her husband. Maybe she's taking a piece out of herself. But she's getting her revenge on someone, something, this whole sad, fucked-up affair.
And Jake Hannigan is an expert at throwing a fight while still making it real.
To him, there is nothing more raw and real than this moment, this fight that seems to go on forever, laying everything on the table. Seeing the real woman behind the many walls and layers she's kept up over the years. Seeing her, for who she really is, he understands. And every punch, every epithet, every move has a meaning. He doesn't know how long it goes on or how much either of them will hurt in the morning, but it doesn't matter. Because both of them are too strong -- they've always known any fight between them would end in a stalemate.
And because all that matters is that she comes back to fight him another day.
He's got her pinned to the wall, nails digging into her wrists, body shoved up against hers, and every muscle in him is screaming in pain. He can feel the cuts and the scrapes and the bruises but it doesn't matter, none of it matters. He can see the open wound on her cheek, the bruises already forming, but those are unimportant. She asked for those. He needs to see into her eyes.
There's blue and brown and then there's acceptance.
Acceptance that there are things in this life that are out of her hands, just like this is out of her hands, as much as she would love to be able to make everything okay.
Jake doesn't say a word. He carefully lifts his right hand and wipes the blood from her cheek with his fingertips. Delicately, carefully, he gets every last drop off her skin. His eyes never leave hers. He watches it all slide into place in her head. The disappointment of defeat. The realization that she's human.
He needed that lesson, too, once upon a time.
She doesn't say a word. She lets him lead her into the bathroom, where he stands there and cleans and bandages every wound and scrape and cut he left on her body. His hands move with the same care and concern that hers did, years ago, in a locker room in New York. After he risked his life to save her husband and paid the price. She took care of him then and he's going to take care of her now.
Brittany stares silently into the mirror. From blankness, to sadness, to disappointment, to the knowledge that she has no choice but to move on, with the wounds she's suffered, without some of the most important people in her life.
But she'll always have somebody there to take their place.
Jake looks her over for a long moment. No doubt thinking back to when these roles were reversed, not so long ago. He leans down, and presses his lips to her uninjured cheek. Just like she did to him, years earlier. Some people might call it payback. To him, it's just something he wants to do.
"If you go, I go," he says, and he damn well means it.
"I can't."
"Then don't." A long pause. "I'm sorry if we broke anything."
"No, you're not."
"You're right, not that much. But it had to be done."
"Yeah, it did." Her eyes meet his. "Just shut up." A swallow. "And don't leave me."
There's a long pause, as Jake Hannigan looks at her looking at herself in the mirror. Looks at himself, looking at her, looking at herself, and what she must be seeing, and what he sees in her. He sees that there's nothing blank.
The two words are the hardest and easiest he's ever said.
"I can't."
Fandoms: House/24/MI5
Characters/Pairing: Greg House/Brittany House, referenced Brittany House/Michael Colefield and one-sided Brittany House/Jacob Lindsay
Prompt: 074. Corrupt.
Word Count: 2021
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence, and adult subject matter.
Spoilers: None for this part
Summary: A killer's dying wish brings his last victim to life.
Author's Notes: The ninety-fourth chapter of an ongoing novel. All chapter subtitles are from the song "30 Minutes" by TATU. This is a rewrite, and it contains amounts of adult content, violence, and sexual innuendo. Proceed with caution.
Ninety-Four.
All The Wrong Reasons.
make plans or mistakes / to alter our lives
June 21, 2011
10:55 P.M. EST
Princeton, New Jersey
It always starts with just one look.
Six years ago it was pure and unbridled anger, the eyes letting out the punches they couldn't throw with their fists. Over the years, the anger was still there, but there were other things. Vulnerabilities exposed. Understandings never verbalized. Silent pleas for help. Times have changed. Yesterday he just turned forty-two. He's older now. So is she. But who they are, fundamentally, has never changed. Neither has what they are to each other.
He's standing there, in her living room, hands on his hips. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar open, jeans smudged with a little dust and dirt -- and those same old piercing blue eyes, staring right at her like the calmest storm you've ever seen.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Inwardly, he blames himself. He had been there, with her, for part of this -- he should have been there to support her when she was obviously coming apart. He should have trusted her to lead the way but he should have been there to have her back. No matter if they would have punched each other, he should have been around, not on that plane. Even if she had asked him to go. Kyle could have taken care of the boy.
But he has neither the words nor the vulnerability to express that, so he just stares at her.
Brittany stares right back. Her eyes are blank, hollow, distant, like she's been crawling further and further into herself since she got off that plane, and Jake doesn't doubt that she has. "What's wrong with me?" she echoes, giving him a sarcastic, bitter smirk. "My son's got a dysfunctional mother, my husband's still getting over being buried in a fucking coffin, my employer now thinks I'm a little bit insane, and my ex-husband has decided that since we still can't look at each other and not suffer for it, that it's best if he walks out of my entire life, so how's that for things that are fucking wrong?!"
It takes him only a couple of seconds to process that information. Though the last is a bombshell, he doesn't let his face show it. His face remains unchanged as he crosses to stand at the end of the couch, fingertips splayed across the arm, his eyes never leaving hers. His tone is matter-of-fact as he says, "Anyone who leaves somebody during a traumatic experience is a bastard and that's the end of it."
"It was a traumatic experience for him, too, Jake," she replies.
"He's not who I'm concerned with," he tells her.
There's a long, tepid pause between them. His lips are pressed in a thin line, his eyes daring her to contradict him. She just sits there, chewing on her lower lip, mulling over his choice of words. They may hate each other, but hate is an emotion, signifying that even if it's a negative feeling, there are still feelings between them. Still a relationship of some investment. An investment neither of them is comfortable with, but neither is willing to break.
They'll just push the limits over and over again.
"What is it gonna take for you to be functional?" he asks her once she's been cowed. He doesn't say 'okay' because 'okay' is bullshit.
She exhales. "I want my husband and my son to be okay. I want to know my ex-husband doesn't have to run out of my life because of shit we've been through. I want a memory wipe of the last sixteen days."
A quirked eyebrow. "Well, I could do that, but you'd have to be a willing participant."
"Dream on, Hannigan." The barest hint of a smirk plays on her lips. "Even though you already do that."
"All the time," he retorts without missing a beat. "Brittany, your husband, your ex-husband and your son are their own people. You can't judge what will make them okay. Only they can do that. Your husband, is more fucking worried about you, if anyone, and your son is just going to be put under more strain if his mom isn't in one piece. Michael is doing whatever the shit he does. But they are not within your control. Understand that. You do not control their coping process. You have to save yourself first, or you may as well tell them to go fuck themselves."
She's startled by his language. Good. When he has her off-guard, he can get through to her. It's still a battle between the two of them. A battle to get through.
"Jake..."
"Shut up." He's not about to let her get a word in edgewise. "You are not going to turn into the man I used to be after you brought me here."
"Only because you wanted to go," she insisted.
He gives her a sharp look. "That was less than half of it. I was digging my own grave and you know it. I don't like living under the shadow of being a corrupt, dysfunctional, fucked-up son of a bitch and the only reason that I am where I am today is because I knew it would piss you off even more if I stayed, and then I realized that I didn't have anywhere else to go!" His voice is tight. "I am not going to let you go that far for me and then shoot yourself in the fucking head, because you know what, sometimes it does have to be about you, but you have never fucking understood that!"
"That's not how it works for me, Jake!" she snaps back. "I have a husband and a son and..."
"Well, that's the way it'd better start working right now!" He has no problem matching her anger with his own. He's angry that this has happened to her. He's angry that he wasn't there. But he's angriest at her, for not fighting back. He wants her to fight. And he knows he's the best target. He knows he can get her to the breaking point and after years of experience, he knows just how to do it.
"You don't understand the way things work. You want everybody else to be okay before you're okay, but you don't realize that your not being okay affects everybody else. It's like you live in some big world until it comes to you personally, and then you think you live in a fucking bubble. How stupid are you?"
She gets to her feet, staring him down. "Don't talk about shit you know nothing about, Jake."
He just needs to push her a little bit farther. He's saved this one for last. A small smirk spreads over his lips. "Maybe you have a guilt complex? What'd you do, get hot and heavy with the ex-husband while Greg was over here pining for you?"
He has no way of knowing that he's sort of right. All he knows next is that she backhands him, hard. Which is exactly what he wants her to do. He rides the blow, his head snapping around. But Jake's reflexes are as fast -- probably faster -- than his brain, and he reaches up to grab her wrist with one hand, using his other hand to give her a hard shove back into the couch until he's got her pinned there, and then all the niceties and considerations go down the drain. Once a punch is thrown, there are no apologies.
"You know, the sad thing is, I'm almost jealous," he says.
"I'm sure you are," she replies, and kicks him in the midsection, sending him backward onto the coffee table.
There's a smirk on his face as he stands there, shoving things out of the way and backing up into the middle of empty floor space. For once, he's smarter than she is. She has no idea she's playing right into his hands. "You want to do this?" he says. "You really want to throw down, see which one of us is better? Come on. Take the shot."
A pause.
"You know I would."
She does know that. Which is probably why she crosses the room and decks him, hard.
Maybe she's not hitting him. Maybe she's hurting other people. Lindsay, for getting her involved in this in the first place. Michael, for leaving. The people who almost killed her husband. Maybe she's taking a piece out of herself. But she's getting her revenge on someone, something, this whole sad, fucked-up affair.
And Jake Hannigan is an expert at throwing a fight while still making it real.
To him, there is nothing more raw and real than this moment, this fight that seems to go on forever, laying everything on the table. Seeing the real woman behind the many walls and layers she's kept up over the years. Seeing her, for who she really is, he understands. And every punch, every epithet, every move has a meaning. He doesn't know how long it goes on or how much either of them will hurt in the morning, but it doesn't matter. Because both of them are too strong -- they've always known any fight between them would end in a stalemate.
And because all that matters is that she comes back to fight him another day.
He's got her pinned to the wall, nails digging into her wrists, body shoved up against hers, and every muscle in him is screaming in pain. He can feel the cuts and the scrapes and the bruises but it doesn't matter, none of it matters. He can see the open wound on her cheek, the bruises already forming, but those are unimportant. She asked for those. He needs to see into her eyes.
There's blue and brown and then there's acceptance.
Acceptance that there are things in this life that are out of her hands, just like this is out of her hands, as much as she would love to be able to make everything okay.
Jake doesn't say a word. He carefully lifts his right hand and wipes the blood from her cheek with his fingertips. Delicately, carefully, he gets every last drop off her skin. His eyes never leave hers. He watches it all slide into place in her head. The disappointment of defeat. The realization that she's human.
He needed that lesson, too, once upon a time.
She doesn't say a word. She lets him lead her into the bathroom, where he stands there and cleans and bandages every wound and scrape and cut he left on her body. His hands move with the same care and concern that hers did, years ago, in a locker room in New York. After he risked his life to save her husband and paid the price. She took care of him then and he's going to take care of her now.
Brittany stares silently into the mirror. From blankness, to sadness, to disappointment, to the knowledge that she has no choice but to move on, with the wounds she's suffered, without some of the most important people in her life.
But she'll always have somebody there to take their place.
Jake looks her over for a long moment. No doubt thinking back to when these roles were reversed, not so long ago. He leans down, and presses his lips to her uninjured cheek. Just like she did to him, years earlier. Some people might call it payback. To him, it's just something he wants to do.
"If you go, I go," he says, and he damn well means it.
"I can't."
"Then don't." A long pause. "I'm sorry if we broke anything."
"No, you're not."
"You're right, not that much. But it had to be done."
"Yeah, it did." Her eyes meet his. "Just shut up." A swallow. "And don't leave me."
There's a long pause, as Jake Hannigan looks at her looking at herself in the mirror. Looks at himself, looking at her, looking at herself, and what she must be seeing, and what he sees in her. He sees that there's nothing blank.
The two words are the hardest and easiest he's ever said.
"I can't."