My Life, My Light is Coming Home

Makes you feel real, real good in your bones
When the hunger stops and the truth is known

My life, my light is coming home

~Bob Welch, "Coming Home"

"Say it again," he rasped against her lips as he backed her into the bathroom door, their fingers still entwined. She gazed up at him with the same astonished, enraptured expression she'd worn as she made her confession moments ago.

"Please," he whispered, and she couldn't decide whether his voice or his eyes betrayed more desperation. "Again." She could see as well as hear his breath catch. The hand that wasn't holding his came up to caress his jaw. She met his gaze and held, the backs of her fingers playing against the stubble on his cheek.

"I love you." Her voice was steady despite the heretofore-unshed tears which now spilled over unbidden from the corners of her eyes.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward almost imperceptibly, so that anyone but her would've missed the smile. "Again," he breathed, smiling in earnest when she graced him with a thousand-watt smile of her own, cocking her head to the side and stepping closer to press a kiss along his jaw line.

She met his eyes again, her own sparkling with a happiness she couldn't recall having felt in . . . decades, perhaps. "I love you," she said, and it felt like coming home. She buried her face in the crook of his neck for a moment before kissing him there. "I love you. I . . ." she stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to his forehead, "love . . ." another to the tip of his nose, "you," she spoke against his lips before catching the bottom one between her own. He snaked his arm around her waist, his hand at the small of her back pressing her against him as he responded to the kiss.

They spent the next few minutes like this; kissing, exploring, testing the waters. She felt weightless there in his arms, unencumbered after so many years spent railing against her love for him with every ounce of her strength. So lost was she in the heady sensation of being in his arms that several minutes passed before she realized he was pulling away. She reached up, cradling his face in her palms as she whispered, "What is it?"

"Are you sure this is what you want?" She opened her mouth to answer, but he silenced her with a shake of his head and a press of his finger to her lips. "This morning you were ready to walk down the aisle with Lucas. He's everything you deserve, Lisa. He idolizes you. He wants to be a father to Rachel. I . . . I've made it a point to humiliate you at every opportunity. I've behaved like a jealous brat where Rachel is concerned. If you hadn't walked in here ten minutes ago, I'd have downed that entire bottle of Vicodin, and then chased it with a pint of Jack Daniel's. Be absolutely sure that this is what you want, because once we start down this path I'll never be able to walk away." As if the air weren't already thick enough with irony, his leg chose that instant to give out. He hissed as the muscle seized, biting back the stream of obscenities he would have launched were it not for the present company.

"House," she admonished, "you need to sit down." She came around him, situating his right arm about her shoulders. They maneuvered him toward his bed with her acting as a makeshift crutch. Another spasm seized him as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Gritting his teeth, he ground out, "Ibuprofen. Nightstand drawer." She left his side only long enough to retrieve the bottle of Advil from his nightstand. She shook out four pills, handing them to him before replacing the cap and setting the bottle down. He dry-swallowed all four pills at once and let out an aggrieved sigh, burying his face in his hands.

She practically squirmed with the desire to touch him; to offer him comfort, and sat on her hands to keep from doing so. If there was one thing she knew, it was that he had no tolerance for pity, least of all hers. So she kept her hands still and her voice steady and focused on answering him.

"For the first time in my life, I'm being true to myself. I've spent twenty years running from this, House. I'm tired. Maybe Lucas was everything I should want at this time in my life, but I don't. There has always been a certain . . . dysfunction about the relationship between you and me, but inherent in that is something I must need, or I wouldn't keep coming back to it. I know what I'm getting myself into. You have hurt me like no one else. But you're also the only person who sees exactly who I am, not some idealized version of me.

"I've come at this from every angle, House. I thought about staying with Lucas because he was good with Rachel, but then what example would I be setting for her? I never want her to settle for second best, so I can't either. And in spite of your asinine behavior when she first came to me, I know that a part of you cares about her. Start from there. I'm not walking away again. I get that with you I'll have lower lows than I've ever experienced. We will hurt each other. It's what we do. But I'm not even capable of loving anyone else, House. It's always been you."

He looked up at her, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek, and smiled. "I love you, Lisa," he said before bringing his lips to hers. The kiss started gentle and tentative like the others they'd shared that night, but soon it deepened. He removed her hair tie and tangled his fingers in her raven-dark locks and she cradled his face in her palms. When eventually the need for oxygen could no longer be ignored, she surveyed the wounds he'd sustained during the rescue and the damage he'd done to his bathroom and made her decision. He was still sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for the ache in his thigh to subside. She approached him, taking his hands in hers, and he looked up at her searchingly.

"Come home with me," she whispered, heart leaping into her throat. They both knew exactly what her words implied. For good.