House Fic: the fool of veils
the fool of veils
at some point, the house becomes too quiet. her story has been told already: the thing is, she’s been married before. house md. house/cameron (chase/cameron). cameron. tentative spoilers for no more mr. nice guy. 4575 words, pg.
notes: prompt #12: pinch, to squeeze or bind. for the with_meaning ficathon. dedicated to mathhhh because she’s just amazing. and you should tell her so.
-
At some point, the house becomes too quiet.
The television is in between murmurs, news and weather, as she tosses the remote back onto the couch. It’s only been an hour or so, being home and eyeing her pager still making up the end of her routine. She caught a lucky break at the end of her hours, a fresh shift giving her some breathing time. Or at least, this is what she tells herself.
Home is empty - Chase is out, according to the note on the kitchen table. Thursdays are part of their deal, a well-managed plan to give themselves separate times for friends and other things. She didn’t read the note, scribbled haphazardly over an empty envelope, and assumed. But there are no groceries in the kitchen so she leaves it at that and tries not to define the state of their relationship according to what’s in the refrigerator.
It’s just that she’s angry still. She could go over the last couple days of the week in her head, overanalyzing and replacing things that she’s wanted to say but keeps her excuses in line instead. She tries just to brush over it, heading to the fridge and ignoring the days old Chinese takeout as she grabs a beer.
She doesn’t even like the beer that he buys.
It seems silly, but it’s too quiet inside right now. She could go upstairs and shower. She could actually go get the groceries and stop lingering too hard on what’s been done and what hasn’t been. It’s funny, even separating herself from her thoughts, but she feels herself being so ridiculous - what happened to them? Her relationship seems to be unfolding into small, almost sheltered pieces that neither of them seem to be in a hurry to fix. Maybe, that’s part of the problem; yet, she’s no longer shying away from an inevitable end, just waiting for him to go first.
A part of her expects this.
So she ignores a debate, taking her beer and heading outside to the stoop to sit down for a little bit. She leaves the front door open so she can hear the phone, unclipping her pager at her hip and letting it rest between her and the railing for the step. She swings the bottle opener between her fingers, glancing out into the neighborhood.
It was quiet when they moved in, part of the appeal that she and Chase bought into from the real estate agent. Young couples. Young families. Close to the park for morning runs. She’s been here before, sort of fragmented back, a few steps behind, where this was something that she wanted. It’s odd, she thinks, how she’s beginning to restructure things in her head, defined ultimately by how she lives with each relationship.
They don’t fit in here. It’s something that he noticed, not her, and with the hours that they keep together, it makes sense. They don’t like each other’s friends, only stumbling into the occasional dinner to keep appearances for the sake of appearances. One week she might work more than he does. The next, he’ll have longer hours and come home late only for bed. There’s the occasional joke about being roommates, but neither of them extend more than that if anything at all.
It’s not that she’s uncomfortable here. She likes this - the slips of time that she has to herself, sitting on the step and watching the neighborhood. She runs early in the mornings and sometimes on nice days, she might sit out here and do work. She knows some names of people, but the cluster of townhouses is still that unfamiliar.
Ultimately, she thinks that most of her anxiety is stemming from the usual change. But she doesn’t touch much of it anymore. She spends a lot of time in her excuses, drifting farther and farther away from what should be talked about. At least, she thinks, between her and Chase.
She stops thinking about it, though, and her gaze rises through the neighborhood. She thinks about going for a run, but there’s no desire to get up and go move. A couple cars come and pass. Someone waves at her and she smiles with no idea of who they are, dipping forward and staring at the bottle opener in her hand. She’s yet to open the beer, putting to the side and stretching out her legs in front of her.
“Nice digs.”
She jumps, her eyes wide and her hand clutching the curl of her sweatshirt. A shit slips out and it’s House, amused and sort of laughing - it’s chuckle, but what does she care? She has no idea where he’s come from and almost kicks herself for not paying attention. She should be used to some of these things by now and she sort of shakes her head, picking up her beer to hide the swelling of her surprise.
“Rent sucks.” She winces. It’s stupid thing to say, the sound of her voice is clearly more than just uneasy.
He seems nothing more than amused. His cane drops to the sidewalk. He’s taking the seat next to her with no qualms, bizarrely comfortable as he stretches his legs out. She forgets that he’s been here before - well, not when she has - to pick up Chase for something. She really doesn’t remember what it was.
He shrugs, nodding to the bottle in her hand. “So does your beer.”
“Not mine,” she says quietly, “not mine and he took the grocery shopping this time. I asked him to get a bottle of wine and he -”
Forgot, she doesn’t finish.
“Bummer.”
“Something like that.”
He presses forward. “So where’s your other half?”
It’s almost funny that he asks, carelessly tossing the question out. If anything, Chase would’ve mentioned that House was coming by; it’s almost to spite her, these days, as if he’s trying, still, to prove some ingenious point to her. She knows exactly what it’s about, refusing to really justify any of the digs. She knows they have problems and that she’s avoiding them, but some of the things that he’s said, it just rotates between breaking her heart and only proving how bad of an idea most of all of this has been.
“It’s Thursday.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Thursdays are my days out,” she shrugs, “and his days out too - Thursdays are better known as the time I can have to regroup and not kill him for leaving the toilet seat up and him accusing me of sleeping with you.”
So it falls, there, and before she even realizes. It’s almost funny and she turns away, pressing her hand over her mouth. She shakes her head, kicking herself for the moment and hoping that he does ignore it. It’s not interesting, she reassures herself, and she dropped it in between other things.
But his response is slow, colored by amusement. “I would remember that.”
“I know.”
The exchange is nothing more than odd, brief as it seems he lingers and moves on. He pulls the bottle of beer from her hands, rolling the neck between his fingers and studying the label. He snorts and she shakes her head, not really caring to explain that this one of the two in her fridge.
“Seriously?”
Her lips curl in amusement. “Want a beer?”
“That shit?”
She gives him a look and he scoffs, handing it back to her. She almost drops it and settles for putting it off to the side. She’s really not into drinking it right now anyhow. Leaning back again, she keeps away from asking him why he’s really here. She knows better than that and is really unprepared for launching into an explanation of other things.
She’s tired too and it’s when she says things too easily, especially right in front of him; she’s notorious for having these breaks with him, whether he talks her into them or not. She lets him too, which is more than part of the problem, allowing herself to fall into that kind of routine.
“You’re slacking.”
She snorts. “There’s still a nurses’ strike.”
“And they’re nurses,” he points out, “”Some of them hot and tragedy, nonetheless.”
She snorts again, picking up the bottle opener and reaching for the beer. She cracks the cap open, wrinkling her nose. She brings it to her lips, ignoring his chuckle as she lets the sour taste slide down her throat. He’s right, she thinks, it’s awful. It’s why she doesn’t drink it to begin with.
But she’s more than desperate in these moments. It’s pathological. She spends more time trying not to be too vulnerable in front of him, afraid what it costs and where it puts her. She doesn’t feel now though, attributing some of her exhaustion that. It’s sort of an odd moment, even now, as she looks towards him.
He’s watching her. “Are we bonding?”
“Could be.”
A small, dry exchange is nothing unusual. The truth is that time seems to favor them and the strange need to push back at each other. More so for her, she thinks. She’s much more comfortable around him, relentless to the idea of standing on her own and doing things much more selfishly. It seems to backfire from time to time, oddly enough, even as she gains pieces of perspective.
“Creepy,” he murmurs.
“Isn’t it?”
But he’s watching her still. She tries not to be obvious with her initial discomfort - after all, there isn’t much to hide. It’s more her debating whether or not she has the answer to a lot of the questions that she remembers lifting from her mouth. She thinks the worst thing for her would be to prove him right; as an extension, she wonders if really, that’s all this attachment is.
She tries not to fold, nonetheless, taking another sip of her beer. The taste still bitter and she’s trying to ignore it, shaking her head.
“There’s something off about you,” he says.
Oh, here we go, she thinks. Her thumb sort of folds over the mouth of her beer and she drags herself into a slouch, leaning forward into her knees. She really doesn’t want to hear this. She really does. It’s a strange sense of indecisiveness, unfolding briefly to be sealed away.
Her voice is dry, nonetheless, and she feels her mouth thinning. “Me?”
“Don’t be cute.”
She smirks. “I’ll try my best.”
She finds herself waiting for the punch, but it really never comes. There’s no edging of disappointment either and she leans back, letting the beer settle behind her so that she can forget it. She looks to him this time, studying how remote it seems to have him here. It occurs to her that he could be looking for Chase again, amused how suddenly there seems to be a drive to have some sort of extension between of them. It’s theirs though, not hers, and there’s this odd feeling of selfishness that rises. It doesn’t mean much of anything because she doesn’t touch, perhaps, only to keep herself out of trouble.
“Sleeping with me, huh?”
He cuts her off and it’s almost half-hearted, his attempt to lead them back to that part of the conversation. She shrugs and he snorts, leaning away from her as if he expected her lack of an answer.
“A torrid love affair.”
He snorts. “Festive.”
“No kidding.”
It’s uncanny how some of these things still latch on to her. At best, she knows that she puts herself into these pockets of situations. But she keeps stealing glances at him, sighing obviously.
“You look ready to bolt,” he says, turning back to watch her. He’s amused. “You’ve got this whole ‘ready to choke’ look on your face.”
“I do not.”
“Too.” He shrugs.
Why is it so hard to talk about? The extent of her feelings for Chase seem to unravel at this point; it’s not like they’re the same thing and it isn’t fair to boat them between comparisons, but she ends up striking at this point. Always leveling them in front of herself. She’s trying to adjust to these reminders, however selfish they maybe, but they shouldn’t be stand-ins for excuses.
But she’s too good at talking herself into circles anyway.
“Why does he think we slept together?”
She looks up, shrugging. She really doesn’t know - it’s all on Chase, those are answers she’s really not meant to get.
“Because he’s crazy,” she mutters.
The anger that she has comes and goes, feeling more misplaced than anything. What she doesn’t like is that it’s become spectacle. It does more than make her uncomfortable, it makes her too vulnerable, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself then.
“He’s in love with you.”
She can’t decide whether he’s mocking her or not, the latter a mere spark of laziness. But she finds herself being honest, relating her answer with a shrug and nothing else. “He isn’t.”
“So is.”
It’s pointed, the argument, and she’s not sure what she’s supposed to be seeing or saying or what, but her frustration is mounting and she’s letting him get to her. She picks up the bottle, half-full, and swings it between her fingertips. It’s beginning to look like something’s wrong with her and she doesn’t want him to see it.
He shrugs. “It makes -”
She’s uncomfortable enough to seem angry, cutting him off and desperate not to hear anymore of it.
“He isn’t,” she snaps, letting the empty bottle crash from her fingertips. It splits against the step, rolling off the side, and scattering between their feet.
She’s quiet. It almost seems as if she’s trying to get herself to believe everything. It would make it easier. It would make it all easier. She doesn’t know why she’s regressing to discomfort. She used to believe that she could do this, that she could move on and make these attempts to assure herself. But even here, here, it’s still almost believing.
“He isn’t.”
There’s a low laugh from House. She shifts uncomfortably, almost reaching for the bottle at her feet. Instead, she toes it and leans closer to the railing of the steps they’re sitting on.
“Why?”
“He just isn’t. Why does it matter?”
She’s quick to try and push the moment away, but she’s slipping just a little bit, her palms opening against her legs. Her thumbs roll over her jeans and she’s trying to think of something else to say, some other way to redirect her conversation.
“You’re flustered,” he points out, “angry, and I’m pretty interested - I need a good laugh. Plus, he went bowling with me. We bond. Over balls.”
She snorts. “Attractive.”
“Undoubtedly.”
So doesn’t dwell on it though, how hard she’s trying to hide from him. From herself too, if she wants to be honest. She brushes her hands against her face, her thumbs rolling into her eyes. Her ears are ringing and there’s a sense of guilt pooling. It should be like this, she thinks. She shouldn’t be this obvious. She should be able to push a little harder.
“You don’t care?”
Her eyes flash. “Of course, I care.”
“Of course, you care.”
He’s mocking her, but she shouldn’t be surprise. She rotates in between these things, going back and forth as she tries to decide what’s better for her. The sense of normalcy that she seems to be seeking is too obvious, too easy, and it’s almost shameful that she keeps pressing for it.
She sighs. And he follows with one as well. She watches as he shifts uncomfortably. Good, she wants to say, good. But there’s nothing in her like that anymore. There is an odd sense of jealousy from time to time, doing nothing more than rising and falling.
“I get it.”
She blinks. “Do you?”
“I get it,” he ignores her, half-grinning as if he swallows some fantastic secret. He leans closer. “You’re using me as an excuse and as sexy as that might be, it’s pretty sad.”
She’s almost disappointed, looking away. She falls for these things too easily and his scoff is the only signal that she gets that she’s being obvious again. She sighs, shaking her head. Of course, it is - she’s thinking only because voicing any excuse would get her into more than just enough trouble.
He’s less than surprised. “Not going to argue?”
“The beer’s not that great -” She sways into lingering, thinking about what she could really say. She knows more than well that he’s not going to do anything that he doesn’t have any used for. What she feels is sort of a mocking disbelief at the whole scenario, at least, from him.
Surprising candid, she just tells him: “I told him. I told him I’d try.”
She looks down again. The neighborhood is too quiet, the sky sort of swallowing into the early evening. She listens for cars, only hearing the murmurs from the traffic outside of the neighborhood. She thinks about groceries, about the next rent check, and folds all her excuses away. It’s not like he’s going to anything with her being honest.
So when he says nothing, she just continues. “I was happy trying,” she shrugs, toeing the step. “I can’t move as fast as he can and I think, I really think that he’s just angry at me for that.”
It’s as far as she’ll go, she thinks. Right now. He’s not the person she should be telling this - as stupid and obvious at that sounds, just to hear it makes her feel a little better. She feels selfish for putting it out like this, but it’s been awhile since she’s felt okay with being this candid.
“You have to ask yourself what you really want.”
“Right,” she snorts, “you borrowing things from Wilson now?”
“You talk to Wilson?”
He looks surprised. She feels more than just amused, setting again in her seat. There’s a distant satisfaction, a small wave of pleasure that she still has just a little bit of hold to get his attention. It’s still a strange thing to come to terms with; it’s not that she doesn’t know that she does it from time to time, it’s the whole idea that he’s still got some kind of hold on her interest.
She shrugs. “He has to eat too. There’s a cafeteria in the hospital.”
“So you say.”
She doesn’t say anything. She finds herself becoming a little amused by these random spurts of conversation that they fall into. She admits something. He presses. It’s the age-old pattern. But nothing comes of it. She wonders if it’s more him than her - actually, she corrects herself. It is more him than her. She knows full well that he’ll never extend beyond really needing something and his own morbid curiosity. It’s what makes him so fascinating, at least, to her.
There’s more to it. She can’t say she can completely understand her attraction to him. Everybody attributes it - ironically, enough - to some pathological need she has to fix him. It’s never been about that though. She wants to know. She’s unsure of how to understand beyond that, but he just pushes this strange curiosity out of her. And sitting here, at least with him even now, it’s the same kind of curiosity that starts to rise.
“I want a beer.”
“The offer’s no longer good,” she smirks, shrugging lazily. “You’re too slow.”
“Bitch.”
She rolls her eyes, muttering something like mature under her breath. Her fingers skim along the step and they’re almost as awkward as teenagers, their choppy exchange amusing.
“You know what I think?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Uh-oh.”
“It’s not a bad idea. Seriously.”
“I’m listening.” She’s skeptical, choosing the to ignore her desire to drift.
But if he were going to laugh, the moment might be here. He just watches her and she doesn’t look away, knowing full well if she steps away from the moment, whatever curiosity she may have will stay stuck. She doesn’t have the time for that anymore, doesn’t have any interest making the time either; it’s a little bit of a lie and, if anything, forsakes all the things that she’s promised herself not to do. It seems a little much, saying it, but it’s the idea in her head that stays necessary to keep.
He smirks. Then stops. Then he smirks again. He reaches for her hand, hovering and then skimming his fingers against the top. Her hand shoots back and he’s derisive, laughing thinly.
“I think you should kiss me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Stop.”
“No, seriously,” he says. He’s pushing her. “Kiss me. Get it over with. Out of your system. Purged. Done. Finished.”
“Right.”
She doesn’t say anything else. It’s not like she hasn’t thought about it - but she’s gone beyond that, at least, even in her head. She doesn’t know what she wants from him and that, in the scheme of things, is more than just the problem. She presses her lips together, edge away from where he sits. She folds her hands over her legs.
He snorts. “You’re apprehensive.”
“Just a little,” she mutters.
“No harm, no foul.”
“Liar.”
But then she looks up at him, her hands suddenly nervous and unwinding against her knees. She presses her fingers over her jeans, her nails scrapping away with a few sighs. She doesn’t know really if there’s anything much to say to him.
“All right.”
His eyes widen. Just a little bit. Or maybe, it’s more of her. She doesn’t know how to pick between the lines anymore with him. It’s what makes this so scary, so uncomfortable because at anytime, anytime she could slip.
He scoffs. “Seriously?”
“Why not?”
“Well.” He rolls his shoulders, “I don’t think I need to point out those things. You were a smart girl.”
He’s being condescending, but it remains odd and half-hearted. She just shakes her head and shrugs.
“You don’t have the balls anyway.”
It’s a little bit of a challenge just as half-hearted as the insult and truth he threw back at her. She doesn’t believe him - well, she doesn’t believe that he’d do anything. He’s got to have selfish consequences. It’s how he’s always functioned. At least, how she remembers.
She’s been treating their relationship like that too. It’s almost unfamiliar in her eyes, the split of the summer really reshaping the perspective that she’s had for the last couple years. It comes down what she wants and cares to want, what she decides whether it’s -
She shakes her head. Look at her, trying to be straight with herself. She sighs, looking up at him.
“But, you’re -”
He kisses her.
For a brief, split second she starts to unravel in second thoughts and uneasiness. But his mouth is too warm and she’s building firmly, her hand stretching to cup his jaw. It doesn’t matter, inside or outside, but she’s kissing him and he’s kissing her back. The line, over and over again, splits in her head and she slides her tongue inside his mouth, a subsequent growl from skimming against her lips.
“What are you doing?” She breathes.
But he’s kissing her again, maybe even to shut her up. There’s too much of an insistence, maybe even between the two of them. She can’t help herself and she only seems to press closer, his arm sliding around her waist. He’s indulging. She’s indulging. And it isn’t supposed to be like this. His teeth tug at her lip and she sighs, pressing her mouth over his again as his fingers slip under her shirt. It gets faster and faster and her head is feeling heavy, her finger sorting over his cheek. Her thumb sweeps underneath his chin and the gesture is suddenly a little too close; he’s breaking away before she realizes it, breathless and confused.
“Out of your system?”
She folds there, but brief. Shaking her head, Cameron stands and sighs. Her hands press over her eyes and she thinks about it, about telling him to just stop. But she knows just as well that there’s never going to be any point to that sense of motivation. Instead, she looks back at him and shakes her head, almost complying and saying something like you win. It’s unraveling in her head, bit by bit, and she’s struggling to formulate some kind of coherency.
But she has honesty.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Her hands move to her hips. “And I - it’s -”
Her mind merely blushes, lingering quietly as she settles and looks down. She’s a little tired all of the sudden, still confused and completely taken out of the moment. Her lips are light, still wet, and his amusement colors her embarrassment.
“It’s not out of your system.”
“Shut up.” But there’s nothing convincing behind her words and she sort of just relents herself to the moment.
“It’s interesting,” he says.
Her eyes darken. “Stop it.”
He seems intent on making her unravel, however quickly and however much he can. She wonders if that’s why he came to see her, if really that’s what he’s investing in. She doesn’t trust that thought.
His lips curl. “You can’t use me as an excuse.”
“I never was,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I never was. And never have been - you’re giving yourself too much credit. Funny, how that works.”
“You’re nervous.”
She holds a hand up. “Stop.”
He shrugs. “Just saying.”
She doesn’t say anything else to him, looking away. She’s uncomfortable, even angry and unfocused. Of course, she thinks, of course, she lets him get to her like this. Is this why Chase is angry with her? What did he say when - stop it, she tells herself. Stop it.
The flurry of thoughts is almost too much and he seems to understand that he’s won something. She’s determined, but has no push to throw something back. Instead, she looks up at him.
His lips tighten. “I should go.”
“You should.”
She watches his mouth relax. House shakes his head and stands, sweeping his hands against his jeans. He twists with a grimace, reaching for his cane.
“This was interesting,” is all he says.
It’s quick. It’s almost cruel. He leaves her with nothing else, turning and ending the conversation on his mark. She sort of stares at him as he moves away, never pausing to look back at her. Odd, though, as the expectation for him to stop slides through her - it’s the last thing that she wants, that she needs, and she steps away too. Her hands sweep up her beer bottle. The sidewalk is a little wet, a small circle of where the rest of it spilled under her foot, and she shakes her head, turning to go back inside the house. Chase said something about being home at six. She just can’t remember if it was this morning or even, yesterday that he did.
Still, her mouth is a little wet. The bottom puckers out as if she can still taste him, feeling him press against her. But she sighs and she frames herself with two sighs, closing her eyes and leaning against the frame of her door. She listens for traffic, waits a few minutes, and then looks for House - just in case, she tells herself. But for what?
For what?
at some point, the house becomes too quiet. her story has been told already: the thing is, she’s been married before. house md. house/cameron (chase/cameron). cameron. tentative spoilers for no more mr. nice guy. 4575 words, pg.
notes: prompt #12: pinch, to squeeze or bind. for the with_meaning ficathon. dedicated to mathhhh because she’s just amazing. and you should tell her so.
-
At some point, the house becomes too quiet.
The television is in between murmurs, news and weather, as she tosses the remote back onto the couch. It’s only been an hour or so, being home and eyeing her pager still making up the end of her routine. She caught a lucky break at the end of her hours, a fresh shift giving her some breathing time. Or at least, this is what she tells herself.
Home is empty - Chase is out, according to the note on the kitchen table. Thursdays are part of their deal, a well-managed plan to give themselves separate times for friends and other things. She didn’t read the note, scribbled haphazardly over an empty envelope, and assumed. But there are no groceries in the kitchen so she leaves it at that and tries not to define the state of their relationship according to what’s in the refrigerator.
It’s just that she’s angry still. She could go over the last couple days of the week in her head, overanalyzing and replacing things that she’s wanted to say but keeps her excuses in line instead. She tries just to brush over it, heading to the fridge and ignoring the days old Chinese takeout as she grabs a beer.
She doesn’t even like the beer that he buys.
It seems silly, but it’s too quiet inside right now. She could go upstairs and shower. She could actually go get the groceries and stop lingering too hard on what’s been done and what hasn’t been. It’s funny, even separating herself from her thoughts, but she feels herself being so ridiculous - what happened to them? Her relationship seems to be unfolding into small, almost sheltered pieces that neither of them seem to be in a hurry to fix. Maybe, that’s part of the problem; yet, she’s no longer shying away from an inevitable end, just waiting for him to go first.
A part of her expects this.
So she ignores a debate, taking her beer and heading outside to the stoop to sit down for a little bit. She leaves the front door open so she can hear the phone, unclipping her pager at her hip and letting it rest between her and the railing for the step. She swings the bottle opener between her fingers, glancing out into the neighborhood.
It was quiet when they moved in, part of the appeal that she and Chase bought into from the real estate agent. Young couples. Young families. Close to the park for morning runs. She’s been here before, sort of fragmented back, a few steps behind, where this was something that she wanted. It’s odd, she thinks, how she’s beginning to restructure things in her head, defined ultimately by how she lives with each relationship.
They don’t fit in here. It’s something that he noticed, not her, and with the hours that they keep together, it makes sense. They don’t like each other’s friends, only stumbling into the occasional dinner to keep appearances for the sake of appearances. One week she might work more than he does. The next, he’ll have longer hours and come home late only for bed. There’s the occasional joke about being roommates, but neither of them extend more than that if anything at all.
It’s not that she’s uncomfortable here. She likes this - the slips of time that she has to herself, sitting on the step and watching the neighborhood. She runs early in the mornings and sometimes on nice days, she might sit out here and do work. She knows some names of people, but the cluster of townhouses is still that unfamiliar.
Ultimately, she thinks that most of her anxiety is stemming from the usual change. But she doesn’t touch much of it anymore. She spends a lot of time in her excuses, drifting farther and farther away from what should be talked about. At least, she thinks, between her and Chase.
She stops thinking about it, though, and her gaze rises through the neighborhood. She thinks about going for a run, but there’s no desire to get up and go move. A couple cars come and pass. Someone waves at her and she smiles with no idea of who they are, dipping forward and staring at the bottle opener in her hand. She’s yet to open the beer, putting to the side and stretching out her legs in front of her.
“Nice digs.”
She jumps, her eyes wide and her hand clutching the curl of her sweatshirt. A shit slips out and it’s House, amused and sort of laughing - it’s chuckle, but what does she care? She has no idea where he’s come from and almost kicks herself for not paying attention. She should be used to some of these things by now and she sort of shakes her head, picking up her beer to hide the swelling of her surprise.
“Rent sucks.” She winces. It’s stupid thing to say, the sound of her voice is clearly more than just uneasy.
He seems nothing more than amused. His cane drops to the sidewalk. He’s taking the seat next to her with no qualms, bizarrely comfortable as he stretches his legs out. She forgets that he’s been here before - well, not when she has - to pick up Chase for something. She really doesn’t remember what it was.
He shrugs, nodding to the bottle in her hand. “So does your beer.”
“Not mine,” she says quietly, “not mine and he took the grocery shopping this time. I asked him to get a bottle of wine and he -”
Forgot, she doesn’t finish.
“Bummer.”
“Something like that.”
He presses forward. “So where’s your other half?”
It’s almost funny that he asks, carelessly tossing the question out. If anything, Chase would’ve mentioned that House was coming by; it’s almost to spite her, these days, as if he’s trying, still, to prove some ingenious point to her. She knows exactly what it’s about, refusing to really justify any of the digs. She knows they have problems and that she’s avoiding them, but some of the things that he’s said, it just rotates between breaking her heart and only proving how bad of an idea most of all of this has been.
“It’s Thursday.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Thursdays are my days out,” she shrugs, “and his days out too - Thursdays are better known as the time I can have to regroup and not kill him for leaving the toilet seat up and him accusing me of sleeping with you.”
So it falls, there, and before she even realizes. It’s almost funny and she turns away, pressing her hand over her mouth. She shakes her head, kicking herself for the moment and hoping that he does ignore it. It’s not interesting, she reassures herself, and she dropped it in between other things.
But his response is slow, colored by amusement. “I would remember that.”
“I know.”
The exchange is nothing more than odd, brief as it seems he lingers and moves on. He pulls the bottle of beer from her hands, rolling the neck between his fingers and studying the label. He snorts and she shakes her head, not really caring to explain that this one of the two in her fridge.
“Seriously?”
Her lips curl in amusement. “Want a beer?”
“That shit?”
She gives him a look and he scoffs, handing it back to her. She almost drops it and settles for putting it off to the side. She’s really not into drinking it right now anyhow. Leaning back again, she keeps away from asking him why he’s really here. She knows better than that and is really unprepared for launching into an explanation of other things.
She’s tired too and it’s when she says things too easily, especially right in front of him; she’s notorious for having these breaks with him, whether he talks her into them or not. She lets him too, which is more than part of the problem, allowing herself to fall into that kind of routine.
“You’re slacking.”
She snorts. “There’s still a nurses’ strike.”
“And they’re nurses,” he points out, “”Some of them hot and tragedy, nonetheless.”
She snorts again, picking up the bottle opener and reaching for the beer. She cracks the cap open, wrinkling her nose. She brings it to her lips, ignoring his chuckle as she lets the sour taste slide down her throat. He’s right, she thinks, it’s awful. It’s why she doesn’t drink it to begin with.
But she’s more than desperate in these moments. It’s pathological. She spends more time trying not to be too vulnerable in front of him, afraid what it costs and where it puts her. She doesn’t feel now though, attributing some of her exhaustion that. It’s sort of an odd moment, even now, as she looks towards him.
He’s watching her. “Are we bonding?”
“Could be.”
A small, dry exchange is nothing unusual. The truth is that time seems to favor them and the strange need to push back at each other. More so for her, she thinks. She’s much more comfortable around him, relentless to the idea of standing on her own and doing things much more selfishly. It seems to backfire from time to time, oddly enough, even as she gains pieces of perspective.
“Creepy,” he murmurs.
“Isn’t it?”
But he’s watching her still. She tries not to be obvious with her initial discomfort - after all, there isn’t much to hide. It’s more her debating whether or not she has the answer to a lot of the questions that she remembers lifting from her mouth. She thinks the worst thing for her would be to prove him right; as an extension, she wonders if really, that’s all this attachment is.
She tries not to fold, nonetheless, taking another sip of her beer. The taste still bitter and she’s trying to ignore it, shaking her head.
“There’s something off about you,” he says.
Oh, here we go, she thinks. Her thumb sort of folds over the mouth of her beer and she drags herself into a slouch, leaning forward into her knees. She really doesn’t want to hear this. She really does. It’s a strange sense of indecisiveness, unfolding briefly to be sealed away.
Her voice is dry, nonetheless, and she feels her mouth thinning. “Me?”
“Don’t be cute.”
She smirks. “I’ll try my best.”
She finds herself waiting for the punch, but it really never comes. There’s no edging of disappointment either and she leans back, letting the beer settle behind her so that she can forget it. She looks to him this time, studying how remote it seems to have him here. It occurs to her that he could be looking for Chase again, amused how suddenly there seems to be a drive to have some sort of extension between of them. It’s theirs though, not hers, and there’s this odd feeling of selfishness that rises. It doesn’t mean much of anything because she doesn’t touch, perhaps, only to keep herself out of trouble.
“Sleeping with me, huh?”
He cuts her off and it’s almost half-hearted, his attempt to lead them back to that part of the conversation. She shrugs and he snorts, leaning away from her as if he expected her lack of an answer.
“A torrid love affair.”
He snorts. “Festive.”
“No kidding.”
It’s uncanny how some of these things still latch on to her. At best, she knows that she puts herself into these pockets of situations. But she keeps stealing glances at him, sighing obviously.
“You look ready to bolt,” he says, turning back to watch her. He’s amused. “You’ve got this whole ‘ready to choke’ look on your face.”
“I do not.”
“Too.” He shrugs.
Why is it so hard to talk about? The extent of her feelings for Chase seem to unravel at this point; it’s not like they’re the same thing and it isn’t fair to boat them between comparisons, but she ends up striking at this point. Always leveling them in front of herself. She’s trying to adjust to these reminders, however selfish they maybe, but they shouldn’t be stand-ins for excuses.
But she’s too good at talking herself into circles anyway.
“Why does he think we slept together?”
She looks up, shrugging. She really doesn’t know - it’s all on Chase, those are answers she’s really not meant to get.
“Because he’s crazy,” she mutters.
The anger that she has comes and goes, feeling more misplaced than anything. What she doesn’t like is that it’s become spectacle. It does more than make her uncomfortable, it makes her too vulnerable, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself then.
“He’s in love with you.”
She can’t decide whether he’s mocking her or not, the latter a mere spark of laziness. But she finds herself being honest, relating her answer with a shrug and nothing else. “He isn’t.”
“So is.”
It’s pointed, the argument, and she’s not sure what she’s supposed to be seeing or saying or what, but her frustration is mounting and she’s letting him get to her. She picks up the bottle, half-full, and swings it between her fingertips. It’s beginning to look like something’s wrong with her and she doesn’t want him to see it.
He shrugs. “It makes -”
She’s uncomfortable enough to seem angry, cutting him off and desperate not to hear anymore of it.
“He isn’t,” she snaps, letting the empty bottle crash from her fingertips. It splits against the step, rolling off the side, and scattering between their feet.
She’s quiet. It almost seems as if she’s trying to get herself to believe everything. It would make it easier. It would make it all easier. She doesn’t know why she’s regressing to discomfort. She used to believe that she could do this, that she could move on and make these attempts to assure herself. But even here, here, it’s still almost believing.
“He isn’t.”
There’s a low laugh from House. She shifts uncomfortably, almost reaching for the bottle at her feet. Instead, she toes it and leans closer to the railing of the steps they’re sitting on.
“Why?”
“He just isn’t. Why does it matter?”
She’s quick to try and push the moment away, but she’s slipping just a little bit, her palms opening against her legs. Her thumbs roll over her jeans and she’s trying to think of something else to say, some other way to redirect her conversation.
“You’re flustered,” he points out, “angry, and I’m pretty interested - I need a good laugh. Plus, he went bowling with me. We bond. Over balls.”
She snorts. “Attractive.”
“Undoubtedly.”
So doesn’t dwell on it though, how hard she’s trying to hide from him. From herself too, if she wants to be honest. She brushes her hands against her face, her thumbs rolling into her eyes. Her ears are ringing and there’s a sense of guilt pooling. It should be like this, she thinks. She shouldn’t be this obvious. She should be able to push a little harder.
“You don’t care?”
Her eyes flash. “Of course, I care.”
“Of course, you care.”
He’s mocking her, but she shouldn’t be surprise. She rotates in between these things, going back and forth as she tries to decide what’s better for her. The sense of normalcy that she seems to be seeking is too obvious, too easy, and it’s almost shameful that she keeps pressing for it.
She sighs. And he follows with one as well. She watches as he shifts uncomfortably. Good, she wants to say, good. But there’s nothing in her like that anymore. There is an odd sense of jealousy from time to time, doing nothing more than rising and falling.
“I get it.”
She blinks. “Do you?”
“I get it,” he ignores her, half-grinning as if he swallows some fantastic secret. He leans closer. “You’re using me as an excuse and as sexy as that might be, it’s pretty sad.”
She’s almost disappointed, looking away. She falls for these things too easily and his scoff is the only signal that she gets that she’s being obvious again. She sighs, shaking her head. Of course, it is - she’s thinking only because voicing any excuse would get her into more than just enough trouble.
He’s less than surprised. “Not going to argue?”
“The beer’s not that great -” She sways into lingering, thinking about what she could really say. She knows more than well that he’s not going to do anything that he doesn’t have any used for. What she feels is sort of a mocking disbelief at the whole scenario, at least, from him.
Surprising candid, she just tells him: “I told him. I told him I’d try.”
She looks down again. The neighborhood is too quiet, the sky sort of swallowing into the early evening. She listens for cars, only hearing the murmurs from the traffic outside of the neighborhood. She thinks about groceries, about the next rent check, and folds all her excuses away. It’s not like he’s going to anything with her being honest.
So when he says nothing, she just continues. “I was happy trying,” she shrugs, toeing the step. “I can’t move as fast as he can and I think, I really think that he’s just angry at me for that.”
It’s as far as she’ll go, she thinks. Right now. He’s not the person she should be telling this - as stupid and obvious at that sounds, just to hear it makes her feel a little better. She feels selfish for putting it out like this, but it’s been awhile since she’s felt okay with being this candid.
“You have to ask yourself what you really want.”
“Right,” she snorts, “you borrowing things from Wilson now?”
“You talk to Wilson?”
He looks surprised. She feels more than just amused, setting again in her seat. There’s a distant satisfaction, a small wave of pleasure that she still has just a little bit of hold to get his attention. It’s still a strange thing to come to terms with; it’s not that she doesn’t know that she does it from time to time, it’s the whole idea that he’s still got some kind of hold on her interest.
She shrugs. “He has to eat too. There’s a cafeteria in the hospital.”
“So you say.”
She doesn’t say anything. She finds herself becoming a little amused by these random spurts of conversation that they fall into. She admits something. He presses. It’s the age-old pattern. But nothing comes of it. She wonders if it’s more him than her - actually, she corrects herself. It is more him than her. She knows full well that he’ll never extend beyond really needing something and his own morbid curiosity. It’s what makes him so fascinating, at least, to her.
There’s more to it. She can’t say she can completely understand her attraction to him. Everybody attributes it - ironically, enough - to some pathological need she has to fix him. It’s never been about that though. She wants to know. She’s unsure of how to understand beyond that, but he just pushes this strange curiosity out of her. And sitting here, at least with him even now, it’s the same kind of curiosity that starts to rise.
“I want a beer.”
“The offer’s no longer good,” she smirks, shrugging lazily. “You’re too slow.”
“Bitch.”
She rolls her eyes, muttering something like mature under her breath. Her fingers skim along the step and they’re almost as awkward as teenagers, their choppy exchange amusing.
“You know what I think?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Uh-oh.”
“It’s not a bad idea. Seriously.”
“I’m listening.” She’s skeptical, choosing the to ignore her desire to drift.
But if he were going to laugh, the moment might be here. He just watches her and she doesn’t look away, knowing full well if she steps away from the moment, whatever curiosity she may have will stay stuck. She doesn’t have the time for that anymore, doesn’t have any interest making the time either; it’s a little bit of a lie and, if anything, forsakes all the things that she’s promised herself not to do. It seems a little much, saying it, but it’s the idea in her head that stays necessary to keep.
He smirks. Then stops. Then he smirks again. He reaches for her hand, hovering and then skimming his fingers against the top. Her hand shoots back and he’s derisive, laughing thinly.
“I think you should kiss me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Stop.”
“No, seriously,” he says. He’s pushing her. “Kiss me. Get it over with. Out of your system. Purged. Done. Finished.”
“Right.”
She doesn’t say anything else. It’s not like she hasn’t thought about it - but she’s gone beyond that, at least, even in her head. She doesn’t know what she wants from him and that, in the scheme of things, is more than just the problem. She presses her lips together, edge away from where he sits. She folds her hands over her legs.
He snorts. “You’re apprehensive.”
“Just a little,” she mutters.
“No harm, no foul.”
“Liar.”
But then she looks up at him, her hands suddenly nervous and unwinding against her knees. She presses her fingers over her jeans, her nails scrapping away with a few sighs. She doesn’t know really if there’s anything much to say to him.
“All right.”
His eyes widen. Just a little bit. Or maybe, it’s more of her. She doesn’t know how to pick between the lines anymore with him. It’s what makes this so scary, so uncomfortable because at anytime, anytime she could slip.
He scoffs. “Seriously?”
“Why not?”
“Well.” He rolls his shoulders, “I don’t think I need to point out those things. You were a smart girl.”
He’s being condescending, but it remains odd and half-hearted. She just shakes her head and shrugs.
“You don’t have the balls anyway.”
It’s a little bit of a challenge just as half-hearted as the insult and truth he threw back at her. She doesn’t believe him - well, she doesn’t believe that he’d do anything. He’s got to have selfish consequences. It’s how he’s always functioned. At least, how she remembers.
She’s been treating their relationship like that too. It’s almost unfamiliar in her eyes, the split of the summer really reshaping the perspective that she’s had for the last couple years. It comes down what she wants and cares to want, what she decides whether it’s -
She shakes her head. Look at her, trying to be straight with herself. She sighs, looking up at him.
“But, you’re -”
He kisses her.
For a brief, split second she starts to unravel in second thoughts and uneasiness. But his mouth is too warm and she’s building firmly, her hand stretching to cup his jaw. It doesn’t matter, inside or outside, but she’s kissing him and he’s kissing her back. The line, over and over again, splits in her head and she slides her tongue inside his mouth, a subsequent growl from skimming against her lips.
“What are you doing?” She breathes.
But he’s kissing her again, maybe even to shut her up. There’s too much of an insistence, maybe even between the two of them. She can’t help herself and she only seems to press closer, his arm sliding around her waist. He’s indulging. She’s indulging. And it isn’t supposed to be like this. His teeth tug at her lip and she sighs, pressing her mouth over his again as his fingers slip under her shirt. It gets faster and faster and her head is feeling heavy, her finger sorting over his cheek. Her thumb sweeps underneath his chin and the gesture is suddenly a little too close; he’s breaking away before she realizes it, breathless and confused.
“Out of your system?”
She folds there, but brief. Shaking her head, Cameron stands and sighs. Her hands press over her eyes and she thinks about it, about telling him to just stop. But she knows just as well that there’s never going to be any point to that sense of motivation. Instead, she looks back at him and shakes her head, almost complying and saying something like you win. It’s unraveling in her head, bit by bit, and she’s struggling to formulate some kind of coherency.
But she has honesty.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Her hands move to her hips. “And I - it’s -”
Her mind merely blushes, lingering quietly as she settles and looks down. She’s a little tired all of the sudden, still confused and completely taken out of the moment. Her lips are light, still wet, and his amusement colors her embarrassment.
“It’s not out of your system.”
“Shut up.” But there’s nothing convincing behind her words and she sort of just relents herself to the moment.
“It’s interesting,” he says.
Her eyes darken. “Stop it.”
He seems intent on making her unravel, however quickly and however much he can. She wonders if that’s why he came to see her, if really that’s what he’s investing in. She doesn’t trust that thought.
His lips curl. “You can’t use me as an excuse.”
“I never was,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I never was. And never have been - you’re giving yourself too much credit. Funny, how that works.”
“You’re nervous.”
She holds a hand up. “Stop.”
He shrugs. “Just saying.”
She doesn’t say anything else to him, looking away. She’s uncomfortable, even angry and unfocused. Of course, she thinks, of course, she lets him get to her like this. Is this why Chase is angry with her? What did he say when - stop it, she tells herself. Stop it.
The flurry of thoughts is almost too much and he seems to understand that he’s won something. She’s determined, but has no push to throw something back. Instead, she looks up at him.
His lips tighten. “I should go.”
“You should.”
She watches his mouth relax. House shakes his head and stands, sweeping his hands against his jeans. He twists with a grimace, reaching for his cane.
“This was interesting,” is all he says.
It’s quick. It’s almost cruel. He leaves her with nothing else, turning and ending the conversation on his mark. She sort of stares at him as he moves away, never pausing to look back at her. Odd, though, as the expectation for him to stop slides through her - it’s the last thing that she wants, that she needs, and she steps away too. Her hands sweep up her beer bottle. The sidewalk is a little wet, a small circle of where the rest of it spilled under her foot, and she shakes her head, turning to go back inside the house. Chase said something about being home at six. She just can’t remember if it was this morning or even, yesterday that he did.
Still, her mouth is a little wet. The bottom puckers out as if she can still taste him, feeling him press against her. But she sighs and she frames herself with two sighs, closing her eyes and leaning against the frame of her door. She listens for traffic, waits a few minutes, and then looks for House - just in case, she tells herself. But for what?
For what?