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alwaysright2009-11-08 03:23 pm
amber_v) wrote in alwaysright2009-11-08 03:23 pm
31 October 2007 - Morning
Shrill blares pierced Amber’s mind, tearing her from absolute unconsciousness. At first she didn’t even know what to make of it, what the fuck it could be, and what the fuck she herself was to be bothered by it. Instinctively she threw an arm out, fumbling, finding by sound only. Her hand wrapped around an object, squeezed it; by pure habit her thumb pressed down on the snooze button, and once the noise was gone, she retracted, coiling her arm into her chest, curling into herself.
It was impossible to ignore what was out of her, though. Sunlight insisted its way through the curtains, through her eyelids. Amber groaned, covering her arm with her eyes. Why. Her head hurt. Her eyelids felt huge, her mouth, foul. She ached everywhere, shoulders, back, thighs, ass-- even her vagina was sore. Like she’d overexerted herself.
Or, Amber realized, feeling the heat near her, like she’d overdone the fucking. Pieces came back to her: the crying (oh, god, the crying, why, no wonder her head throbbed), the “baby,” letting Eric—- she flushed. Was surprised by another wave, soft, almost undetectable, of pleasure, as if she were still riding the aftershocks. Amber groaned, covering her face. Sat up, closing her thighs together. Inside, she could feel the memory of his shape, even if she hadn’t been very aware of much at the time.
It was light, too light for when she should be waking up on a weekday. Why? Amber opened her eyes blearily, glanced at the clock. Seven. The time she’d set it for, on Sunday, the last time she’d set her alarm. She hadn’t come home last night, fucking, again, Eric, in his own apartment. “Fuck,” she said, and sprang out of bed, fully alert, trained from years of being on call. “Eric, wake up,” she called out, heading for the bathroom. “I set the alarm too late, we've got no time.” They’d have just about enough time to clean up, get dressed, and maybe grab food to eat on the way. Why did this keep happening? Amber normally woke up well, not brain-dead, spent her morning before work relaxed. It seemed that she always woke up confused, after fucking him. She left the bathroom door open; they wouldn’t have time for separate showers.
It was impossible to ignore what was out of her, though. Sunlight insisted its way through the curtains, through her eyelids. Amber groaned, covering her arm with her eyes. Why. Her head hurt. Her eyelids felt huge, her mouth, foul. She ached everywhere, shoulders, back, thighs, ass-- even her vagina was sore. Like she’d overexerted herself.
Or, Amber realized, feeling the heat near her, like she’d overdone the fucking. Pieces came back to her: the crying (oh, god, the crying, why, no wonder her head throbbed), the “baby,” letting Eric—- she flushed. Was surprised by another wave, soft, almost undetectable, of pleasure, as if she were still riding the aftershocks. Amber groaned, covering her face. Sat up, closing her thighs together. Inside, she could feel the memory of his shape, even if she hadn’t been very aware of much at the time.
It was light, too light for when she should be waking up on a weekday. Why? Amber opened her eyes blearily, glanced at the clock. Seven. The time she’d set it for, on Sunday, the last time she’d set her alarm. She hadn’t come home last night, fucking, again, Eric, in his own apartment. “Fuck,” she said, and sprang out of bed, fully alert, trained from years of being on call. “Eric, wake up,” she called out, heading for the bathroom. “I set the alarm too late, we've got no time.” They’d have just about enough time to clean up, get dressed, and maybe grab food to eat on the way. Why did this keep happening? Amber normally woke up well, not brain-dead, spent her morning before work relaxed. It seemed that she always woke up confused, after fucking him. She left the bathroom door open; they wouldn’t have time for separate showers.
no subject
I'm just glad he could love again. Amber held back a jolt. Yes, she'd lost this round indeed. If it was true or not-- and how could she know, with House-- the fact was that he'd found a weakness of hers. He wouldn't forget, either. She could look forward to more insinuations about Eric's past loves. Right in front of the others, too. Then everyone would know how much that upset her.
It was a lie, or an exaggeration. It had to be. If anyone had left the hospital-- which meant she'd have been a coworker, if she existed, and, jeez, couldn't Eric expand his dating pool-- Amber would've heard about that. The juiciest tales made their way round to even the newest staff. Amber couldn't let herself believe any of this, not until she had the chance to ask Eric himself.
And House, the asshole, didn't even give her the chance to reply. He left with the last word, that trash about her being the rebound. No—that couldn’t be true either, she'd have noticed something like that, like she had the other things bothering Eric, like his work, his brother. But, alone in the room, suddenly quiet after the thud of the door, Amber looked down at her lap. Her hands had curled into themselves of their own accord, tight and hard. Why would she know? What did she really know about Eric?
And then she flushed, hot and angry and furious. Let herself rise to her feet, energy flooding her veins; almost kicked a chair, but didn't, on the off chance that House had his ear to the door, listening in. It was a close call, though. Amber wanted to hit, to smash. She settled for running a hand through her hair, pulling slightly. Fuck. It was happening again. She was making a fool of herself. Over a boy. Forget whether or not Eric had relationships in the past, if he'd loved anyone before-- that was practically a given-- Amber had just very nearly sabotaged her standing in the game. Maybe House had enjoyed this session, and being able to amuse him was probably important in lasting to the final round-- but he couldn't have been impressed. He’d cut her once her wretchedness stopped making him laugh. It was like fucking him: being the joke might get his interest, but it wasn't what counted.
She'd known it this morning, and now she knew it more than ever: being with Eric was making her stupid. Not being able to decide what happened in the bed was nothing compared to the agony of not being able to control her feelings, her actions, her expressions. A week ago, House wouldn't have been able to get to her like this.
Still hot all over, Amber gathered her things. Standing her and seething with impotent rage would do her no good. She'd fucked up, but she'd show House. She'd win. If he wanted a case, she'd get him one. Even if she had to spend all day asking every doctor, nurse, and flunky for a secret mystery patient.