making hay while the sun shines. house. cameron/wilson. pg-13.
title: making hay while the sun shines
type: fanfic
rating: pg-13
summary: a slow burn, bonding and something unexpected. Mostly because she wants to hug him and she’s pretty sure he wouldn’t mind if she did, but you can’t have Cameron petting bunnies. She could lose her job for that.
She leans against the door, shoulder propped up against the wood and cotton slides lower down her arm.
“Still here?”
He doesn’t look up, doesn’t nod. Hair’s a mess, dark and it falls over his forehead, into his eyes. He looks all of twelve, like this- big eyes, messy hair and her fingers tighten over a pen in her pocket, fighting the urge to tug it back.
Instead, her voice lifts. “It’s late.”
This time his neck turns. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s late.” She forces it out, tugs on the sleeves of her scrubs. They’re still a size too big, she’s lost weight, he’s lost love and she’s never been this awkward around him before.
His breath is a spell in the room, pauses needles. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, chest taking vaults up and down. He’s been like this for months now, jumping at his own shadow and weeping at someone elses. Her fingers tighten harder, the plastic slipping out of her grip. She takes a breath, a step. Her hand outstretched-
“Wilson.” It’s quiet, but then so is the room, so it echoes. It is late, lights out. Even Cuddy’s gone home, even House, the old bastard and it’s just her and him and the patients in this hospital, doing nothing but breathing.
His fingers run a line over his brow.
“Allison.”
There’s a please, somewhere in there. A sorry
She takes the hint, the bait. Turns on her heel and she leaves.
“I apologize for the other night.”
Fingers wrapped around her morning coffee, she almost spills it. No weak knees of a harlequin romance but she seems to have trouble keeping a hold of things around him these days. (Mostly because she wants to hug him and she’s pretty sure he wouldn’t mind if she did, but you can’t have Cameron petting bunnies. She could lose her job for that.)
“It’s ok.” It’s sticks in her throat- wrong thing to say and that is not it, that is not what she meant at all.
Her mouth is dry, she swipes a tongue over the curl of her mouth and watches his eyes follow the movement.
“What I meant to say was,” - he’s got his hands in his pockets, now, head bent down almost rueful and her ribs lace of her chest, cutting off the air there- “I know it’s- I know it’s a cliché but I get it. I get what you’re going through,” - she shakes her head, lets the blood settle- “ I do. You know, I do.”
Her eyes fixed to the floor and there is something warm- something hot against her cheeks. She shakes her head again, runs fingers through her hair and stares at the floor. Feet come into sight and when she looks up, he’s there.
“Allison.”
His arms fall around her and this is the wrong way around.
They have lunch.
Wilson rolls up his sleeves, smoothes his tie and looks at the menu and not at her. Her fingers dance over the table top, stop somewhere near the region of his arm, laid out across it. She slides a palm over the back of his hand, leans forward, gently.
“James.”
He jerks under her touch, feet colliding under the dark table cloth that smells of last year.
“Yes, Allison.” His finger looses heat from his collar and she smirks.
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.” And his tongue could tie knots with it’s rapidity.
Smirk widens, tilt of that mouth and she leans closer, brushes it against his. Just once- just to see. Her cheeks go hot, she doesn’t think she’s ever been this unsure. He could push her away, now. Hell, he could cry.
Their fingers twine, he pushes them upwards. Her sigh lands on his lips and rests there.
“Allison.”
It’s his steady voice- all deep and disconcerted. She peeps out from behind the door, all naked limbs and his shirt.
“Yes?” Flutters her eye lashes for good measure.
His shoulders stiffen. So do other parts and he sits down.
“Why is your underwear on my mantel piece?”
Cameron slinks over, her leg hooks over his. Lowers her mouth to his ear- he has the cleanest ears known to man, the softest skin.
“I thought you liked my underwear.” And he shudders against her and his arm is heavy against her wake, catches his breath in the crook of her neck.
“I wouldn’t say that.” He pulls her down, lapful of her and she lets out a gasp. “I like you infinitely better, without it.”
“Bedroom.” It comes out all breathless, all Mills and Boons and heaving bossom but he’s folded away the shirt.
They never make it that far.
His mouth tastes of her on Saturday mornings.
They walk into the hospital, separately. She’s tugging at her collar and he’s smiling like he doesn’t know the red splotch beneath the cotton.
Smack of wood and a cane blocks their stride.
House stumbles, waits- these are not ducklings, this is not his territory. Wilson’s arms fold over his chest, ground firmly held.
Grudgingly- he lets them pass.
“He knows.”
She sounds- shocked. Like she really didn’t expect it.
Wilson is amused. “Of course, he does.” He shifts on the bed, makes room for her.
“How?”
There is a catch in her voice and it falls across the room, into the ridges of his spine. He stiffens.
“Do you care?”
Her eyes meet his- big and wide. There’s concern there and he looks for something more and fists clenching, stomach pulling- he doesn’t find it. She blinks, lashes go up and down, all sooty against her pale skin. “No- no of course not. I just meant- for you. Are you allright?”
His laugh is short, barked out. She reads the traces of bitterness, finer tuned in him than his friendship, more subtle but she reads them all the same. “I’m fine.”
Keys clang and she goes home. It’s their first not fight.
“I apologize.”
He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, quite calm and she cuts off the head of one of her little gingerbread men.
“What for?” Reindeer tie this morning and her voice isn’t cold enough.
“For whatever it is I did that turned Cameron into Martha Stewart, “ he jibes, mouth at the back of her neck, hand sneaking round to her stomach and pressing there.
She swats him away.
“It’s unnecessary.”
At night, he crawls in behind her and she doesn’t throw him out of bed.
He asks on a Saturday. Their doing the laundry, she mixed his whites again and he tells her she should never be left alone with a washing machine and would she please marry him so that he can ensure it never happens?
Saturday, eight in the morning, pancakes on the table, his or hers.
She says yes.
type: fanfic
rating: pg-13
summary: a slow burn, bonding and something unexpected. Mostly because she wants to hug him and she’s pretty sure he wouldn’t mind if she did, but you can’t have Cameron petting bunnies. She could lose her job for that.
She leans against the door, shoulder propped up against the wood and cotton slides lower down her arm.
“Still here?”
He doesn’t look up, doesn’t nod. Hair’s a mess, dark and it falls over his forehead, into his eyes. He looks all of twelve, like this- big eyes, messy hair and her fingers tighten over a pen in her pocket, fighting the urge to tug it back.
Instead, her voice lifts. “It’s late.”
This time his neck turns. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s late.” She forces it out, tugs on the sleeves of her scrubs. They’re still a size too big, she’s lost weight, he’s lost love and she’s never been this awkward around him before.
His breath is a spell in the room, pauses needles. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, chest taking vaults up and down. He’s been like this for months now, jumping at his own shadow and weeping at someone elses. Her fingers tighten harder, the plastic slipping out of her grip. She takes a breath, a step. Her hand outstretched-
“Wilson.” It’s quiet, but then so is the room, so it echoes. It is late, lights out. Even Cuddy’s gone home, even House, the old bastard and it’s just her and him and the patients in this hospital, doing nothing but breathing.
His fingers run a line over his brow.
“Allison.”
There’s a please, somewhere in there. A sorry
She takes the hint, the bait. Turns on her heel and she leaves.
“I apologize for the other night.”
Fingers wrapped around her morning coffee, she almost spills it. No weak knees of a harlequin romance but she seems to have trouble keeping a hold of things around him these days. (Mostly because she wants to hug him and she’s pretty sure he wouldn’t mind if she did, but you can’t have Cameron petting bunnies. She could lose her job for that.)
“It’s ok.” It’s sticks in her throat- wrong thing to say and that is not it, that is not what she meant at all.
Her mouth is dry, she swipes a tongue over the curl of her mouth and watches his eyes follow the movement.
“What I meant to say was,” - he’s got his hands in his pockets, now, head bent down almost rueful and her ribs lace of her chest, cutting off the air there- “I know it’s- I know it’s a cliché but I get it. I get what you’re going through,” - she shakes her head, lets the blood settle- “ I do. You know, I do.”
Her eyes fixed to the floor and there is something warm- something hot against her cheeks. She shakes her head again, runs fingers through her hair and stares at the floor. Feet come into sight and when she looks up, he’s there.
“Allison.”
His arms fall around her and this is the wrong way around.
They have lunch.
Wilson rolls up his sleeves, smoothes his tie and looks at the menu and not at her. Her fingers dance over the table top, stop somewhere near the region of his arm, laid out across it. She slides a palm over the back of his hand, leans forward, gently.
“James.”
He jerks under her touch, feet colliding under the dark table cloth that smells of last year.
“Yes, Allison.” His finger looses heat from his collar and she smirks.
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.” And his tongue could tie knots with it’s rapidity.
Smirk widens, tilt of that mouth and she leans closer, brushes it against his. Just once- just to see. Her cheeks go hot, she doesn’t think she’s ever been this unsure. He could push her away, now. Hell, he could cry.
Their fingers twine, he pushes them upwards. Her sigh lands on his lips and rests there.
“Allison.”
It’s his steady voice- all deep and disconcerted. She peeps out from behind the door, all naked limbs and his shirt.
“Yes?” Flutters her eye lashes for good measure.
His shoulders stiffen. So do other parts and he sits down.
“Why is your underwear on my mantel piece?”
Cameron slinks over, her leg hooks over his. Lowers her mouth to his ear- he has the cleanest ears known to man, the softest skin.
“I thought you liked my underwear.” And he shudders against her and his arm is heavy against her wake, catches his breath in the crook of her neck.
“I wouldn’t say that.” He pulls her down, lapful of her and she lets out a gasp. “I like you infinitely better, without it.”
“Bedroom.” It comes out all breathless, all Mills and Boons and heaving bossom but he’s folded away the shirt.
They never make it that far.
His mouth tastes of her on Saturday mornings.
They walk into the hospital, separately. She’s tugging at her collar and he’s smiling like he doesn’t know the red splotch beneath the cotton.
Smack of wood and a cane blocks their stride.
House stumbles, waits- these are not ducklings, this is not his territory. Wilson’s arms fold over his chest, ground firmly held.
Grudgingly- he lets them pass.
“He knows.”
She sounds- shocked. Like she really didn’t expect it.
Wilson is amused. “Of course, he does.” He shifts on the bed, makes room for her.
“How?”
There is a catch in her voice and it falls across the room, into the ridges of his spine. He stiffens.
“Do you care?”
Her eyes meet his- big and wide. There’s concern there and he looks for something more and fists clenching, stomach pulling- he doesn’t find it. She blinks, lashes go up and down, all sooty against her pale skin. “No- no of course not. I just meant- for you. Are you allright?”
His laugh is short, barked out. She reads the traces of bitterness, finer tuned in him than his friendship, more subtle but she reads them all the same. “I’m fine.”
Keys clang and she goes home. It’s their first not fight.
“I apologize.”
He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, quite calm and she cuts off the head of one of her little gingerbread men.
“What for?” Reindeer tie this morning and her voice isn’t cold enough.
“For whatever it is I did that turned Cameron into Martha Stewart, “ he jibes, mouth at the back of her neck, hand sneaking round to her stomach and pressing there.
She swats him away.
“It’s unnecessary.”
At night, he crawls in behind her and she doesn’t throw him out of bed.
He asks on a Saturday. Their doing the laundry, she mixed his whites again and he tells her she should never be left alone with a washing machine and would she please marry him so that he can ensure it never happens?
Saturday, eight in the morning, pancakes on the table, his or hers.
She says yes.