Pretend It's Okay (Bluestone 42 Fanfic)

Chapter Seven:

Chapter 7: (Karmin's POV)

"So what about you?" I tease, nudging House with my right shoulder bone, barely brushing his mid-arm.

"What about me?" He mocks me, trying to get me to be more specific. I roll my eyes as he shoulders me back, his hazel eyes never leaving the scenery before us.

"What is your story? I mean besides growing up to be a sexist douche at first meet." I joke, his eyes rolling melodramatically.

"You swear I handed you an apron and cooking pots when you arrived, had Bird cleaning our rooms, and Mary was pleasuring us. You make me seem so bad." House continues, an upward lip half smile, half smirk.

"You practically handed me cooking pots in your acting introduction." I play along, chuckling a bit at the end. I knew he meant only well and he was teasing about the things he said. I look back down to the pad in my lap and turn the page, deciding to finish the girl later. I wanted to do something more inspirational, meaningful to me. I look beside me, pencil sketching exactly what I saw, just a bunch of random light lines, eventually going to be darkened to make some kind of picture. "So how did the infamous Mr. House end up in hot, deserted, restless Afghanistain?"

"I needed to get away from the ridiculousness of my parents' differences, get away from what my father criticized my life to be low lifed, meaningless, a mistake. I decided to join the army, then got sent to the bomb threat department and now I am here." He shrugs as if it were no big deal, but something had caught my attention. "What?" He inquires, giving me a weird glance after I do a double take and then settle on his facial features.

"Your dad judged you? What was his job or is?" I ask, completely denying him the right to question my actions further.

"He's a big corporate CEO. Why?"

"What did you do before you became this?"

"I worked in a retirement home. It wasn't enough for him." House shrugs, paying no attention to me as he changes his perception to the sandy valleys of Afghan.

I look back down to my drawing, continuing it as my mind fogs up with a bunch of questions I should ask, though I can't. As I finish the sketch, I hear a loud buzz from my right, House's amazing colored eyes looking over at me with worry specked within the green. "Did you voice something?" I suggest.

"I called your name about sixty times." He rolls his eyes at my absent mind before he looks to my lap at the gray colored paper, originally immaculate, now shaded. "Who is that? It looks like a man walking." House details my drawing in his own words.

I gaze down to my lap, slightly seeing the same thing, a man. But my vision, perception of the drawing was deeper, much much deeper. "I don't know." I whisper, but with as guilty as I sounded, I did sound as if I knew. I shake my head clear of my thoughts and look back to the distance, feeling House's eyes on me.

"What do you see?" He replies, his left hand clamping on my right shoulder.

"A man walking," I half-heartedly admit, preparing myself for a much harder push from House, but he doesn't press.

"What is he walking down?"

"A dirt path," I give a half answer, my true opinion not really there.

"Mine too. How do two people see the same thing?" House muses. I look back to him to see complete awe coloring his wonderfully bright eyes. His tanned skin had a thin sheet of sweat building due to the incredible true heat of the desert.

"Art is truly an expressive hobby. Different pictures tell different stories and abstract art are made to be seen in different perspectives. If two people can see the same thing, it says they are similar in a certain aspect." I begin truthfully, but then realize the blaze in his eyes brighten,the air tense. We were not the same in any way. "But my drawing is not abstract and can be seen by many as a man walking a long, vast path to nowhere in particular view."

His eyes seem to dull with sadness as he turns his head away from me. "Why?" He whispers, though I could hear it, I knew he was asking only himself.

"Why what?" I speak up, his head snapping towards me. "I heard you."

He sighs, then something flashes in his eyes as f he were debating something. "I am asking why you push everyone away and lie about your true opinions. Why are you so unpredictable yet predictable simultaneously all while having this aura of welcoming though you know only to push people away, block them out?" He thinks aloud.

Because it's easier, I think to myself silently. I knew he wouldn't hear it, couldn't hear it.

"How? How can that possibly be easier? If anything, it seems to make things of life more complex." He argues.

"I told you Towerblock, we aren't the same in any way." I sigh. He gapes at me and goes to speak, to fight, but we both hear scurrying feet. I turn to find Simon running our way. "What ha-"

"Nick was shot and we're under attack." Was his reply before I jump up, leaving my sketch pad and pencil behind in complete shock. I race down the pathway, hoping to kick the guy's ass that hurt my captain.