[ ff: for the second time in my life ]
Title: For the Second Time in My Life
Author: Gomey
Rating: G
Spoilers: "No Reason"
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Disclaimer: All known characters and premises belong to their respective owners. So there.
Summary: For the second time in my life, I find myself at someone's bedside.
I watch his eyes close, fingers still weaving through his coarse hair, so reminiscent of his personality: coarse, abrasive, harsh. But as my fingers brush through, there's a softness buried and being gently unearthed.
I withdraw my hand, cursing myself and the tears that still line my eyes. They don't fall, years of controlled emotion refusing to let weakness show. But my eyes are wet, clear for those around me to see.
I envy him, wish I could be like him at times. I often wonder how he's able to just treat a disease, not the patient. A disease attaches on to you, you don't get attached to a disease. A patient...well it presents itself both ways and when a bond is formed, objectivity begins to crumble. And objectivity usually saves lives, not subjectivity. And the more I try to control my emotions, the more I realize how hard it must be for him; how hard it must have been to condition himself not to get personally involved. And I can't help wonder if this defensive intent is aimed at protecting the patient or himself.
And as his eyes flutter ever so slightly, blinking away dreams and pains and medication and memories, I find myself battling the same, only voided of slumber's blanket.
For the second time in my life, I find myself at someone's bedside.
For the second time in my life, it's his.
finis
Author: Gomey
Rating: G
Spoilers: "No Reason"
Pairing: House/Cuddy
Disclaimer: All known characters and premises belong to their respective owners. So there.
Summary: For the second time in my life, I find myself at someone's bedside.
I watch his eyes close, fingers still weaving through his coarse hair, so reminiscent of his personality: coarse, abrasive, harsh. But as my fingers brush through, there's a softness buried and being gently unearthed.
I withdraw my hand, cursing myself and the tears that still line my eyes. They don't fall, years of controlled emotion refusing to let weakness show. But my eyes are wet, clear for those around me to see.
I envy him, wish I could be like him at times. I often wonder how he's able to just treat a disease, not the patient. A disease attaches on to you, you don't get attached to a disease. A patient...well it presents itself both ways and when a bond is formed, objectivity begins to crumble. And objectivity usually saves lives, not subjectivity. And the more I try to control my emotions, the more I realize how hard it must be for him; how hard it must have been to condition himself not to get personally involved. And I can't help wonder if this defensive intent is aimed at protecting the patient or himself.
And as his eyes flutter ever so slightly, blinking away dreams and pains and medication and memories, I find myself battling the same, only voided of slumber's blanket.
For the second time in my life, I find myself at someone's bedside.
For the second time in my life, it's his.
finis