So Many Vases, a House/Cam fic in 4 parts
Rating: R
Summary: The challenge is teaching her what's dead and what isn't. She's a terrible judge of people.
Spoilers: Up to 3.3 is fair game. Though nothing is really spoilerish.
The clouds are clearing. But the world is still gray.
For gorenhouseygirl.
And princessklutz04 is the beta of all betas.
i.
I left my cane in the car. And now I wish I hadn't.
There's a cramp in my thigh, and a couple flights of stairs behind me. I wait. And wait. And shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
I think I must be sweating.
She's wearing a dress shirt when she opens the door. A man's dress shirt. It's white, and it covers her blue jeans to the thighs.
"I need an immunologist," I say. And it comes out ragged. But I don't clear my throat because I want her to notice. Ragged and raspy - it's who I am. She's far too soft...
Or is she?
I notice the circles underneath her eyes. I notice her feet are bare. And I notice that she doesn't look happy to see me.
"It's my day off." There's no conviction in her voice.
And I don't apologize. I stare. Her hair is loose, and scattered. She smells like... Like... I can't put my finger on it. I take another breath and inhale it again. It's new. It's pleasant, but it's new... It makes my blood go crazy in my body, and I want the old fragrance back.
"Mine too." I press my lips together and raise my eyebrows. Expectant. But she doesn't react. Her eyes are tired; her shirt is unbuttoned to her breasts. I can see the curve of her bra. It's simple, and white. I need to know more. More of something.
But I don't know what it is.
She moves aside, granting me entrance. And I narrow my gaze on her face. Something is gone. Something has changed. It makes me angry and I don't know why. So I step inside, averting my eyes. And she closes the door behind me. "What's wrong with you?" I glance around her apartment.
Picture frames. Soft lamps and bit of light. But mostly darkness. The room is dim. A perfect haven for a lonely bride, and a lonely glass of wine. I wouldn't be surprised if she were sitting here crying; there's a box of tissues beside the wine. But no flower vases. I was sure I'd find several flower vases.
Dr. Cameron. That's my girl. Doesn't believe in nurturing something that's already dead and bound to wither. The challenge is teaching her what's dead and what isn't. She's a terrible judge of people.
She's holding her hand out, waiting for something. I look at her. Her lips are pink, instead of red. I like them better pink. Unpainted. And soft. And I like her eyes better dark. "Give me the folder," she says on a sigh.
I wonder, briefly, where she got the shirt. I want to take it off of her. Tell her that white is not her color. Tell her that her husband's dead and she's pathetic for crying in his shirts. Right before sticking my thumb down the middle of her breasts and rubbing her there til she hurts.
My leg still aches and I know, this time, that my forehead is damp. I can feel the moisture in my hair. I hand her the folder, taking sudden interest in her feet. She's so pale. So tiny. Her toenails are red. It makes me smile, because I hate her. For painting herself. For another man. I know another man's been rubbing her feet. Sucking her nail polish into his mouth. Biting her ankles, making her squirm. The dress shirt isn't her husband's.
Cameron moves to the sofa and I watch. She's avoiding me. And I love it. I graze my knuckle against the front of my thigh while she pulls her legs underneath her. My collar feels wet. I touch my neck. My Vicodin's still at home.
I didn't think I'd need it, but I do.
The way I need to stop watching her. Watching her movements. Watching her fingers running over the file. Wondering whose back she's been rubbing and gripping. I know it's someone. I know she hides. I know she avoids me for a reason.
I move around the coffee table and over to the sofa. Not to be near her. I'd rather be far, far away. But I'm sweating and I feel like I'm going to pass out. Her carpet is soft, I notice. It feels nice against my shoes and I almost chuckle. It's perfect. This is perfect. Soft, sweet Cameron and her fluffy carpet. I look around for the fluffy, white cat and pink collar to match.
I sit down and lean back and inhale her again. She flinches when my jeans touch her toes. "What are you wearing?" She looks up from the file. She looks at my face. She's wearing those glasses that make her look smart. I know better. She's dark and brilliant and brooding; not as brilliant as I am. But Cameron is not a librarian.
"What?"
"What are you wearing? The fragrance." I run my thumb over my jaw. I do it sometimes, when there's nothing to say. And she's looking at me, thinking. Or maybe she's waiting.
"You're sweating." She tells me. But I already know that.
"Why are you wearing it?"
"I'm - "
"For him?" I'm just as surprised as she is that I said it. But it's too late now to take it back.
"Huh?"
I shake my head. "Never mind. What's wrong with the patient?" My voice becomes lower than usual. I want to rub my thigh. But I don't want Cameron to watch. She will, though. She'll probably try to rub it for me.
"No, House." She removes her glasses. "Why did you say that?"
"Why are you being defensive?" I suppose I don't actually have any proof. I could use her toenail polish for my argument, but she wouldn't cave under that alone. I'm not sure I want to bring up the shirt.
"I'm not. You are."
"No, you are!" I say in a childish voice and stick out my tongue for effect. She gives me her classic you're insufferable look and sets her glasses on the coffee table. "Any ideas?" I press, and point back to the file.
"Maybe." Her face is determined. A challenge.
"Oooh," I afford her my lecherous eyebrow. "Somebody wants a spanking."
"It's from Egypt," she tells me with a steely expression.
"The patient's illness..."
"My perfume."
I lower my eyebrows again. This isn't making sense. But she keeps talking, and I look at her empty tv screen. I can see our reflection. There's a lamp beside us, to Cameron's right. It's so dim, we look like silhouettes.
"I don't know what it's called." She shrugs her shoulders, and I watch through the tv. "I don't read Egyptian."
"Arabic."
"Whatever." The folder is resting in her lap, and she licks her lips, looking back to it. I look away from the tv screen, settling on my leg instead. The right one; the bad one. The one next to Cameron. Her toes are curled up next to it.
She's telling me where she purchased her perfume, and I'm suddenly wondering how to shut her up. Wondering how her fingertips would feel on my thigh. Wondering if she'd know how to rub it. I know that I'll never indulge that thought, but for a brief moment, I do. She's lying on top of me, watching my tv. Some action movie - not our silhouettes. I'm rarely that poetic or romantic or...stupid. (There aren't any flower vases in my house either.) And she's got her fingers on my leg. Working the muscles, I'm feeling sleepy. I wish she would scoot just a little to the left...
"House."
I look to my right where Cameron's sitting and staring. She lays the folder down beside her glasses. And before I can answer, she's off the couch. And halfway into the kitchen.
"Good idea." I call after her. "Get me a beer while you're up." She disappears and I think about all the ways I hate that shirt. Including the way that it's growing on me.
I hate it even more by the time she gets back. And she isn't holding a beer. "You're driving," she reminds me. It sounds like concern. Mixed with a slight disapproval.
"I would be, but at the rate you're assessing that file, I might have to spend the night."
"You're not spending the night." She reclaims her seat, pulling her feet underneath her again. I wonder if she's hiding her toenail polish. Or a bite mark. Or something else I'll notice and stew over. She shouldn't know that it makes me stew. She shouldn't even know that I notice.
"Why not? Could be fun. We can watch old movies. Tell ghost stories." A surge of pain wrenches through my body. I wince only slightly, running my tongue over my lip. "Play flashlight tag. Maybe ‘seven minutes of heaven'..."
"You know what that is?"
"It's not just a children's game." I wink. And she looks away.
There's a cloth in her hands. She's balling it up, and pulling it apart. Playing with the edges and corners. She seems indecisive, but she finally looks at me. Then holds the cloth out in front of me. "It's...you... You look hot," she sighs.
I bite my lip and pretend to be shy. "Thank you," I mutter, and she rolls her eyes. I roll mine in return. "I don't need it."
"You're sweating like a pig."
"Yo mama."
"House - "
"Wanna take this outside?"
She glares for a moment, but the moment dissolves. She looks at the tv and fights a smile. I see her teeth nonetheless. I rarely see her smile like this. It sets off the darkness under her eyes. It compliments the pink of her lips. "Stop being stubborn," she whispers.
But I'm not listening. A mark on her neck has caught my attention. A tiny mark; an indentation. Surrounded by creamy skin. She reminds me of vanilla. Lots and lots of vanilla. Disappearing into her shirt and down between her breasts. Way too sweet. I could overdose, and be sick as hell in the morning.
But somebody already has.
She's wearing his mark, and flaunting it now. It makes me angry; so fucking angry. I don't even realize I'm grinding my teeth until I feel the cloth on my forehead. It's cold, and wet. And I close my eyes. Cautiously, the pressure increases.
"I told you I didn't need it," I manage to breathe. But it feels too good, and I don't pull away.
"You're lying." Her voice is quiet. She doesn't want to make me refuse her. It's not her I'm accepting. I'm accepting the cloth. But of course they're the same to Cameron.
I lay my head against the back of her couch. It feels awkward, and I swear I'll never do it again. Especially when she turns her body towards me, and her knee rubs into my thigh.
"Damn it!" I grasp my leg in my hand and sit up, leaning away. It hurts. And I'm irritated. Forget massaging me - she can't even avoid hurting me. And all I came here for was the file. Not her. Not her couch. Not her cloth.
I start to get up, but she pulls me back down. And presses her hand over mine, on my thigh. I look the other way and steady my voice. "Get off, Cameron." I'm trying. Not to yell. But I've had enough. I don't turn back because the mark will be staring. And I'll make a new mark to smother it out.
I grit my teeth. I want to hurt her. I want to bite her, and break her to pieces. And then put her back together and kiss her into place. I want to kiss her. Badly. Want to taste her. Feel her. Shove into her farther than any man has. I can't stand what she does to me. I can't stand the way she does it. I can't stand that shirt she's wearing.
"I'm sorry," she pleads, a soft stream of air. It brushes against me and I flinch in her grasp. I look around the apartment for distractions. "Is the pain coming back?" She doesn't move her hand.
For a moment, I forget she's referring to my leg. And when I remember, I'm glad. "No," I grumble. "As long as I avoid the flailing knees." I spit the words like she's unfit to live, and attempt to remove her hand.
But she removes it herself. And pushes up from the couch. I'm pretty sure she's going to open the door and ask me nicely to leave. Maybe blush from embarrassment and repeat that she's sorry. Or offer to refocus on the patient.
She doesn't.
She braces a hand on the edge of the couch and...kneels. On her knees. In front of me. I think of everything, but nothing I think of prepares me for what she does to me.
She leans over me, and I'm supposed to stop her. I know I'm supposed to stop her. Her hair cascades in two flowing sections and spreads itself over my jeans. It's dark, and soft, and looks good against the blue of the fabric. "Cameron..." My voice cracks. It's more of a squeak than an actual word. I clear my throat. I'm sweating.
Her lips - her pink, unpainted lips, that I know she's been using on another man - settle gently over my thigh. My hand is in the air, and I don't know where to put it. Because I don't know what she's doing. Her breath is hot, and I should be aroused. But uncertainty's coiling in my stomach.
She makes a seal with her mouth on my jeans, and blows warm air through the fabric.
"Cameron, what -" I stop when the warm air penetrates the muscle. And spreads itself up to my groin. Something erupts from the back of my throat and I stifle it under a breath. I feel like cursing, it feels so good. And then she does it again.
I don't think she knows what she's doing. She's trying to coax the muscle to relax. But everything inside me goes rigid. She moves her lips and does it again. Moves them, and does it again. Everything is warm now; her hair is even warm. Her hands are gripping the cushions beside me. Her shirt is hanging forward, and I can see it all. Her bra, her belly, the top of her pants.
My own pants are beginning to squeeze me.
"Stop." I touch her hair. And evidently, her jaw. Because I feel her neck stretch under my fingers as she lifts her face to look at me. "Stop," I repeat, and I'm feeling embarrassed. I don't want her knowing I have an erection. I've got to find a way to end this.
But I've been staring at her now for 22 seconds. (23, 24.) I count. My fingers are still in her hair. I can't find the words that'll make this okay. I can't stop staring, at the darkness in her eyes. And the mark, his mark, on her neck. So I blink and say stop in my mind ‘til she moves.
She crawls.
Up my stomach, up my chest. Like a cat. Until she's sitting on my lap. I spread my legs, so she slides between them, and she grasps my shirt to stay on the couch.
I'm looking at her - dumbstruck. Too confused to protest. Too aroused to think. I need to get out of here. I need to... I...
She opens my collar and kisses my chest. I lean my head against the back of her couch. I swore I'd never do it again. I swore I'd never let her get to me, too. Her lips are gentle; I can tell she's scared. Her mouth moves to my neck, and she kisses me again.
I've got to get out of here.
Now.
ii.
"She kissed me."
I stand in his office, staring out the window. Staring across at my own office. I'm tapping on the glass; tapping on the floor. Tapping on everything in reach of my cane. This cane is only good for tapping.
My back's to his face, but I know his expression. It's the same one he gave me when I said the word date. Long ago. So long, it feels like yesterday. We both know I'm screwed, but I need to know...
I need to know how badly.
"Who?" He doesn't tell me to stop with the tapping.
I pick up the pace, then I slow it down. The rhythm is scattered and... The balcony's wet. I cock my head at a puddle. "Chase's girlfriend," I mutter. And watch the light as it bends from the puddle, wondering where it ends up.
Wilson is quiet for 22 seconds. I've got a problem with counting.
"Cameron?"
It didn't used to matter - how many seconds. How many days til I solved the puzzle. Because I knew I'd eventually solve it. "She's determined to fix everything. Heal the wounded. Save the dying." I tap extra hard on the floor, and then stop. "Pet the poor cripple and tuck him into bed." I turn around, and he's looking at me. So I turn back and grit my teeth at the glass. "Lust doesn't fit into that."
Wilson is quiet. (7, 8.) I'm about to push open the door and leave -
"Did you...kiss her back?" He pauses before he says the word kiss. This feels like junior high and I should roll my eyes, but I fidget with the light switch instead. I know it annoys him; I can hear his next breath.
"No, she..." I fidget. And roll my eyes, because I'm pausing. I lower my voice; I lick my lips. I touch my knuckle to my thigh. "It wasn't on the mouth."
Wilson knows I should make a joke here. He's learned my habits. He knows when I push, and he knows when I pull. He knows when I'm addicted and headed for the edge. But I don't make a joke. And I don't turn around. I stare at the puddle on the balcony.
"And you think she's..."
"I don't know what she's doing. She's...messing with me. Some kind of game. She's too confident now." Like the way she glares when she thinks I'm wrong. She used to blush and then take a seat; I wanted to give her a backbone. But she's found one now, and I hate her for it. I hate the way that dress shirt fell on her shoulders.
That stupid, white shirt that I can't figure out.
"I think you're the expert on games, House."
"She wants something." I know she wants something.
"Of course it's entirely impossible that she may just...love you."
"She doesn't love me."
"Right. She needs you. Because without the emotionally-scarred, limping bastards in her life, she'd be lost." He clicks his pen closed and lays it on the desk. I know he's wiping his hand over his face. His breathing is muffled for a moment.
I'm close to the glass; my breath fogs it up. "She doesn't even know what love is." And then I push open the door to leave. But Wilson stops me with,
"She's seeing someone."
I turn around. I almost sputter. I want to say I know! and I want to say what? She kissed me. Wilson is wrong. So I settle on "No" and point my finger to the side, somewhere in the direction of the kiss. "She - "
"Two months."
My tone is more desperate than I want it to be. Distance here would be nice. "And how do you know this, and I don't?" But I do. I did. Her toenail polish. And that indentation on the slope of her neck. I find myself gripping the cane of my handle. The handle of my cane. The... Cameron was sitting on my lap.
"She's not stupid, House."
I crinkle my forehead. There's a vase on his desk. It's empty, but the vase is there. There were flowers at some point. A gift from a patient. Remember me when they wither. I know why Cameron hates flowers. "Fine, but why did she tell you?"
"We're friends."
"You don't make friends with women. You chat them out of their panties."
"She likes him. He's nice."
"Nice..." I roll it around on my tongue. It doesn't seem to fit. I hate how everything that makes her happy is everything I hate.
"They frequent the Hahn Haus on campus." He picks up his pen again, and looks at a paper. Pretends he's got things to do. "It's a Friday night - reasonable to assume they'd be there now." He knows he's baited my curiosity.
I turn back to the door and stop gripping my cane. Wilson shouldn't know that I care. "Good for them." The room is silent. Wilson begins scribbling on a paper. I wait for him to stop me, to tell me I'm miserable - for walking away, for being here now. For sweating when Cameron comes near me. But he doesn't, and I can't just leave. "You're encouraging me to ruin something good in her life?"
"She kissed you," he says, like it's just that simple. Then casually looks up from his scribbling. "She wants something."
She wants something.
Not my concern. I push through the glass and splash my cane in the puddle. Good for them, I repeat.
iii.
The air is smokey. I watch from my corner. This used to be a nice German pub with jazz. Now it's a college bar with rock music and idiots. The type of place Cameron would hate - I imagine.
But there she sits, and there he sits. At a little, round table in the middle of the restaurant. With those nose-bleed stools meant to make you feel special. Cameron doesn't like tall stools. She always takes her heels off at the end of the day. She likes being comfortable. And being short. And looking up when I talk to her.
And she likes sitting in the corner, in the dark. In a booth. I shift and prop my leg on the booth across. Swirling the ice in my scotch glass.
I finger the handle of my cane as I watch. She's smiling. At him. He's got dark hair - like that pompous TB guy Cameron swooned over. I can't see his face, but it's just as well. He's leaning on his elbows over the table, telling her something that's making her laugh.
I can make her laugh, but it's always when her alternative is to scream.
There's a candle on the table in front of her, reflecting off her cheeks with a peachy glow. I've already blown my candle out. It smelled like a fruit basket; all I want is scotch. What man likes fruit with his alcohol? But I must admit, Cameron looks good enough to taste right now. I can't blame her...date...for not blowing it out.
Her hair is down. And curly, like it used to be. I hang on to that fact like a lifeline as I sit here. Musing over the strand that falls loose in front of her when she leans a bit closer to...him. Whoever he is. He doesn't own her. I refuse to call him her boyfriend.
Then again, they've been doing this thing for two months. Where is the line drawn? And how could I not have known about this?
Two months. He's nice. She likes him. I'm rude. And I give her hell about everything. And I don't plan to stop just because another man has claimed what I have no rights to. I can't take care of Cameron; she's needy. And young. And I can't make her happy.
I grab for my cane and begin to get up, but it hits me like a heady rush of something, and I sink back into the booth. She kissed me. She kissed me. She wants something. It shouldn't concern me; I shouldn't care. She wants something I probably don't even have. But I wonder for a moment - if I had it, would I give it?
Probably not. Not enough of it, anyway.
I swallow more scotch and look at Cameron. All patches of light and darkness. The flame flickers around in the jar, lighting the shadows underneath her eyes, creating shadows where she's normally bright. Yet hiding what I want to know the most.
What does she want?
I hate this game. It's the only one I can't figure out with scotch. Or with piano keys. Or with twirling my cane til my fingers hurt.
I wait until he goes to the bathroom. To pee out all the beer. Or to put his eyes back in from all the ogling. I hope for the latter, because it'll take him longer. I throw a ten on my table and make my way over to his seat.
Cameron is leaning with her chin on her knuckles. All tank-top and eyelashes and soft, glowing skin. I'm pretty sure this isn't Allison. She's spinning her knife around on the wood of the table. Stopping it at intervals with her finger. And when she sees me, the knife hits her fork and she slaps her hand over both. Gaping at me, parting her lips.
I pull myself into the nose-bleed stool and hook my cane on the table.
She doesn't stop gaping, so I offer my hand. "Gregory House." And she doesn't take it, so I put it back down. I didn't expect her to, anyway. "Remember me?" I press. "Cornered me on your sofa and climbed me like a cat - "
"House..." she shushes. "What are you doing here?"
"Why are we whispering?" I whisper, obnoxiously loud, and she looks around me toward the bathrooms. I lean back against the seat. "Relax. I duck-taped the door to the men's room. He'll be in there for a while."
I've never seen her look this indignant. She actually thinks I'm serious.
She's about to have an outburst, but the waitress brings the food. Cameron smiles, and blushes. Because she knows what it looks like - not even to the meal yet, and she's already changed men. I make sure the waitress sees me leering at Cameron; it makes her blush even more.
"You like him?" I ask, as I pick up a fork. She's cringing, watching me. And watching the men's room. I scrunch my nose at the plate below me. "What is this?"
"House...what... What?" She flops her hands in the air. "What?" It's clearly all she can think of.
"I was going to ask you the same thing." I put the fork down. "What?"
"What are you talking about?" She's getting more desperate. I can hear it in her voice.
"What are you talking about?"
"House!" Now she's glaring.
From batting her eyelashes, to gaping, to blushing. Flailing. And now she's glaring. I'm better off without this. Without a woman. If only insanity weren't adorable...
I really don't know why I'm here.
"Do you want to ruin this? Is that what you want?" She isn't yelling. But her eyes are big. She's waiting for an answer. Waiting for me to hurt her further.
I look at the table. At the wood. And follow the direction of the grain. "Ruin what?"
She sighs. "This...relationship...I have with Elijah."
I look up from the table, for two reasons. One, because she paused before she said relationship. Two, because, "Elijah?"
"That's his name."
I crinkle my forehead. "It takes a special kind of arrogant to name your kid after a prophet." She's tilting her head at me, pleading. For something. I never know what. For me to leave, or to stay, or to... There is no in-between. I purse my lips, and look around the bar. Tap my finger on the table as I lower my voice. "I asked you a question."
When I finally look at her, she isn't angry. She's just waiting. Watching me. With her hands in her lap. Breathing as steadily as she can.
"Do you like him?" I repeat. Flinching only slightly under the strength of her gaze. But I hold it this time; I don't look away.
"You left," she says. It's more breath than substance.
I shake my head. "Not what I asked." But she shakes her head in return. She's going to try to lay this on me. "Forget it," I tell her, and grab my cane.
"Don't - "
"No, you don't, Cameron. You don't have a clue what you want."
"Me?" she shrieks.
"Yes."
"What about you? You left! You pushed me off you - "
I move to stand up, but I feel someone coming. And I know who it is before I see him.
Cameron shuts up when she sees him, and immediately gasps out, "Elijah..." She's a terrible, terrible liar.
So this is her boy-toy. I look him over. Strong face, broad shoulders, nicely dressed. And he's clean-shaven. I begin to analyze the implications, then decide that I don't even care.
"Elijah, this is my boss - Dr. House."
He smiles at me. And it's not a Mark-Warner, this-is-my-woman, smile. I'm sitting in his chair; I'm fighting with his date. I conclude that he's an oblivious idiot. Or maybe he's cheating on her, and just doesn't care. Either way, he doesn't deserve her.
He holds out his hand for my shaking.
And I know this is where I decide.
I look at his hand. I look at my shoes. I look at Cameron, and she's pleading. I'm pretty sure I know what she's pleading for now.
So I look him in the face, quickly shake his hand, hop out of his chair, and limp around him toward the door of the bar.
The night air is cool when I step outside. I lean against the brick wall under the awning, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket. I'm an idiot for coming here. For walking away. For telling Wilson. For hiring Cameron. I knew this wouldn't end well when I hired her.
She's too damn enticing, and I don't want it anymore. I don't want the mystery. I don't want the game. I don't want to watch her, or drown her in scotch, or play my piano a little harder to press her out of my fingertips.
But here she comes, out the door, and runs right past me yelling my name.
I wonder how long I can watch her.
iv.
She's yelled my last name twice already, and now she's looking around. Out in the distance. At all the cars. Looking for the limping run-away.
I'm watching her - though I can't really see her. It's dark. And the red neon light of the open sign ends right where she begins. It's splayed over the right side of my jacket, my jeans; traces a path up the sidewalk to her, ending at the heels of her shoes. At the heels of her long, long jeans. But she's in the shadows, and all I can see is a puff of air as she sighs.
For the first time, I notice, the air is cold. It's no longer breezy. Just still, and cold. Cameron turns around with a crunching of her heel.
It's then that she sees me. But I can't see her.
I don't move, or talk. I just shift against the wall, fingering the lining inside the pocket of my jacket. Rubbing my free hand against the wood of my cane.
"I know what I want," she says, and I curse her for breaking the silence, with this. She followed me out here, for this. No you don't is my only reaction, but I still don't move. Or talk. Just focus on the neon pavement.
And then she steps forward. Into the light. Streaks of red from the open sign reflect against her slender body, and my eyes are drawn to her shoulders. Her arms are bare. Her jacket's inside. Clearly, she intends to go back.
This is what she means by what she wants. I admire her for telling me. But I hate her for it, too. Because I'm headed home to an empty house, and tonight, it becomes a problem. A problem that's Cameron's fault.
I nod. "Okay." There's nothing to my voice when I say it. I feel nothing - at hearing the echo. At seeing a puff of her breath in the darkness. At losing everything that makes me great. I'm going to watch her leave.
She doesn't leave.
"Okay, you're dismissed?" I try again. But she doesn't budge. She's looking at me, head slightly cocked to the side. I don't want her pity - the empty man with the empty house - she mocks me with the way she stares.
Her lips are not pink; they're red tonight. Red, like her toenails. Red, like everything painted and prettied - and all for the man in that restaurant. I want to wipe the paint away, with the whiskers on my jaw. With the ache in my fingers. I want to scratch her, hurt her. Put her on the back of my motorcycle, and taste her where her neck meets her shoulder.
I want to tell her she belongs to me. And wrap her in my sheets tonight.
Instead, she'll go home with him.
I start to leave, but she stops me with - "Okay?"
It's shy, and broken. And now I'm confused. "Is that not what you wanted?" I furrow my brow.
She doesn't answer. So I push away from the building, and remove my hand from my pocket. It's sweaty, and I wiggle my fingers. Feeling the air pass between them. She watches me walk around her. I step from the curb into the parking lot.
"What do you want?" She turns to face me, and finds herself facing my back instead.
"I want to go home." And so I keep walking.
"Why did you come here!" She's yelling now. It bounces off a row of cars in the lot, and echoes around me. I refuse to stop. Her heels begin crunching on the pavement behind me. Louder and louder. Closer and closer.
I feel her hand on the back of my jacket.
Abruptly, I stop, and she runs right into me. She jumps when I turn to face her. My cane lands somewhere - I don't know where. She jumps again when my hand slides against her, and I pull her toward me. In a lapse of judgement.
I hate the word judgement and I hate the way she feels. I hate that her hair is soft in my fingers and her back is warm to my touch. I smell her when I breathe. My fingers react, and I hate her, I hate her, for smelling of woman. Because that smell - it melts my blood, and spills me into somewhere...I'll never escape.
Every man is entitled to a moment of weakness. This is mine, and I claim it for now. Because it doesn't really matter anymore. This weakness will kill me from the outside in.
Somebody pushes and somebody pulls. I think she's pushing, but I can't be sure. My cheek is on her neck; the skin there is satin. I rub her with my stubble, and it touches her throat. She swallows and shivers and swallows again, pressing my shoulder with her chin.
We're tangling, touching. My skin is burning. I want to stop. I want to keep going. I don't want Cameron to feel my confusion, or my need pulsing hot underneath. The need is what scares me. It's a concept I can do without.
But pain - pain is a concept I know and revere. The pain is soon to follow.
I pull her tighter and feel every bone in her body against me. She starts to writhe. But I don't let her go. Merciful was then. Back in the bar. Need is now and I want her broken when she walks back inside. I want her distracted when he lays her down, and tells her she belongs to him.
We lean against a car - I don't know whose - and Cameron slides her hands into my jacket. She's rubbing and gripping my shirt and my back. Hard, at first. And then slowly. In circles. She rests her head on my shoulder. I swear I've forgotten what I'm doing here. I think I've forgotten my name.
A group comes, laughing, out of the bar. It's loud, and the sound of her hands in my jacket slows and eventually stills. I close my eyes. Because the night is cold. I want it to bite; I'm a masochist. But this blanket of woman has got to be everything I need and want to forget.
"He gave me a flower." It comes out of nowhere. Her voice is soft. Her shirt is soft, too, and I run a calloused finger against it. Brushing a pile of her hair aside.
I chuckle then, slowly removing my hands from her back. Remembering where she belongs. "Guess you'll be shopping for vases this weekend." I try to step away, an inch or two, but her hands are still inside my jacket. I breathe on her cheek, and I wait. There's nothing else I can do.
"Guess so." She says it to the ground. But the words are warm on my shoulder. She finally drops her hands, and I take a step back. Gaining some distance between us.
I find my cane on the ground beside me. It's time to go home. I've finally solved the unsolvable puzzle - and she's going shopping for a flower vase. She is still a terrible judge of people, a terrible liar, and a hypocrite.
And I am ten times so. For walking away. .
"Go back inside," I tell her.
"I don't want to."
"He wants you to."
She grabs my arm. And I just can't do it. I just can't ruin her perception of life. Her false sense of hope. Her happiness.
She doesn't look happy right now.
She pulls me back, and I pull away. She'll go shopping for vases this weekend. And surround herself with dying flowers. Dying memories. Dying men. They're dying more slowly than I am. She's better off this way.
"Like you care about his feelings..." she scoffs.
We're playing tug of war with my sleeve, and I steady myself on my cane. "I may be an emotionally-scarred, limping bastard, but I know what it feels like. Go back inside."
"No." She takes my chin in her hand and kisses me.
There's a moment where I don't have a clue what she's doing. Another, where I'm not sure I care. I've never felt anything as abrupt and defiant as her mouth on mine right now. It shocks me; it knocks the air from my chest. I'm not responding, so she pulls away. Her eyes as defiant as her kiss.
"You're an ass," she informs me. "A stubborn, sarcastic, insensitive ass - "
I thread my fingers against the back of her neck, and kiss her, as she did me. But her lips are warm and pliant. I soften, and weaken. And the need returns. She tremors. Sighs. Then breaks the kiss
"- and I want to go home with you," she finishes.
I shake my head.
But the need eats the weakness. And they both eat me.
Slowly, she reaches into my jacket. Into the breast pocket. And removes a flower. Licking my kiss from her bottom lip, she hands me the flower. Then turns toward the restaurant, and goes back inside.
She's back a moment later with her jacket.
Summary: The challenge is teaching her what's dead and what isn't. She's a terrible judge of people.
Spoilers: Up to 3.3 is fair game. Though nothing is really spoilerish.
The clouds are clearing. But the world is still gray.
For gorenhouseygirl.
And princessklutz04 is the beta of all betas.
i.
I left my cane in the car. And now I wish I hadn't.
There's a cramp in my thigh, and a couple flights of stairs behind me. I wait. And wait. And shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
I think I must be sweating.
She's wearing a dress shirt when she opens the door. A man's dress shirt. It's white, and it covers her blue jeans to the thighs.
"I need an immunologist," I say. And it comes out ragged. But I don't clear my throat because I want her to notice. Ragged and raspy - it's who I am. She's far too soft...
Or is she?
I notice the circles underneath her eyes. I notice her feet are bare. And I notice that she doesn't look happy to see me.
"It's my day off." There's no conviction in her voice.
And I don't apologize. I stare. Her hair is loose, and scattered. She smells like... Like... I can't put my finger on it. I take another breath and inhale it again. It's new. It's pleasant, but it's new... It makes my blood go crazy in my body, and I want the old fragrance back.
"Mine too." I press my lips together and raise my eyebrows. Expectant. But she doesn't react. Her eyes are tired; her shirt is unbuttoned to her breasts. I can see the curve of her bra. It's simple, and white. I need to know more. More of something.
But I don't know what it is.
She moves aside, granting me entrance. And I narrow my gaze on her face. Something is gone. Something has changed. It makes me angry and I don't know why. So I step inside, averting my eyes. And she closes the door behind me. "What's wrong with you?" I glance around her apartment.
Picture frames. Soft lamps and bit of light. But mostly darkness. The room is dim. A perfect haven for a lonely bride, and a lonely glass of wine. I wouldn't be surprised if she were sitting here crying; there's a box of tissues beside the wine. But no flower vases. I was sure I'd find several flower vases.
Dr. Cameron. That's my girl. Doesn't believe in nurturing something that's already dead and bound to wither. The challenge is teaching her what's dead and what isn't. She's a terrible judge of people.
She's holding her hand out, waiting for something. I look at her. Her lips are pink, instead of red. I like them better pink. Unpainted. And soft. And I like her eyes better dark. "Give me the folder," she says on a sigh.
I wonder, briefly, where she got the shirt. I want to take it off of her. Tell her that white is not her color. Tell her that her husband's dead and she's pathetic for crying in his shirts. Right before sticking my thumb down the middle of her breasts and rubbing her there til she hurts.
My leg still aches and I know, this time, that my forehead is damp. I can feel the moisture in my hair. I hand her the folder, taking sudden interest in her feet. She's so pale. So tiny. Her toenails are red. It makes me smile, because I hate her. For painting herself. For another man. I know another man's been rubbing her feet. Sucking her nail polish into his mouth. Biting her ankles, making her squirm. The dress shirt isn't her husband's.
Cameron moves to the sofa and I watch. She's avoiding me. And I love it. I graze my knuckle against the front of my thigh while she pulls her legs underneath her. My collar feels wet. I touch my neck. My Vicodin's still at home.
I didn't think I'd need it, but I do.
The way I need to stop watching her. Watching her movements. Watching her fingers running over the file. Wondering whose back she's been rubbing and gripping. I know it's someone. I know she hides. I know she avoids me for a reason.
I move around the coffee table and over to the sofa. Not to be near her. I'd rather be far, far away. But I'm sweating and I feel like I'm going to pass out. Her carpet is soft, I notice. It feels nice against my shoes and I almost chuckle. It's perfect. This is perfect. Soft, sweet Cameron and her fluffy carpet. I look around for the fluffy, white cat and pink collar to match.
I sit down and lean back and inhale her again. She flinches when my jeans touch her toes. "What are you wearing?" She looks up from the file. She looks at my face. She's wearing those glasses that make her look smart. I know better. She's dark and brilliant and brooding; not as brilliant as I am. But Cameron is not a librarian.
"What?"
"What are you wearing? The fragrance." I run my thumb over my jaw. I do it sometimes, when there's nothing to say. And she's looking at me, thinking. Or maybe she's waiting.
"You're sweating." She tells me. But I already know that.
"Why are you wearing it?"
"I'm - "
"For him?" I'm just as surprised as she is that I said it. But it's too late now to take it back.
"Huh?"
I shake my head. "Never mind. What's wrong with the patient?" My voice becomes lower than usual. I want to rub my thigh. But I don't want Cameron to watch. She will, though. She'll probably try to rub it for me.
"No, House." She removes her glasses. "Why did you say that?"
"Why are you being defensive?" I suppose I don't actually have any proof. I could use her toenail polish for my argument, but she wouldn't cave under that alone. I'm not sure I want to bring up the shirt.
"I'm not. You are."
"No, you are!" I say in a childish voice and stick out my tongue for effect. She gives me her classic you're insufferable look and sets her glasses on the coffee table. "Any ideas?" I press, and point back to the file.
"Maybe." Her face is determined. A challenge.
"Oooh," I afford her my lecherous eyebrow. "Somebody wants a spanking."
"It's from Egypt," she tells me with a steely expression.
"The patient's illness..."
"My perfume."
I lower my eyebrows again. This isn't making sense. But she keeps talking, and I look at her empty tv screen. I can see our reflection. There's a lamp beside us, to Cameron's right. It's so dim, we look like silhouettes.
"I don't know what it's called." She shrugs her shoulders, and I watch through the tv. "I don't read Egyptian."
"Arabic."
"Whatever." The folder is resting in her lap, and she licks her lips, looking back to it. I look away from the tv screen, settling on my leg instead. The right one; the bad one. The one next to Cameron. Her toes are curled up next to it.
She's telling me where she purchased her perfume, and I'm suddenly wondering how to shut her up. Wondering how her fingertips would feel on my thigh. Wondering if she'd know how to rub it. I know that I'll never indulge that thought, but for a brief moment, I do. She's lying on top of me, watching my tv. Some action movie - not our silhouettes. I'm rarely that poetic or romantic or...stupid. (There aren't any flower vases in my house either.) And she's got her fingers on my leg. Working the muscles, I'm feeling sleepy. I wish she would scoot just a little to the left...
"House."
I look to my right where Cameron's sitting and staring. She lays the folder down beside her glasses. And before I can answer, she's off the couch. And halfway into the kitchen.
"Good idea." I call after her. "Get me a beer while you're up." She disappears and I think about all the ways I hate that shirt. Including the way that it's growing on me.
I hate it even more by the time she gets back. And she isn't holding a beer. "You're driving," she reminds me. It sounds like concern. Mixed with a slight disapproval.
"I would be, but at the rate you're assessing that file, I might have to spend the night."
"You're not spending the night." She reclaims her seat, pulling her feet underneath her again. I wonder if she's hiding her toenail polish. Or a bite mark. Or something else I'll notice and stew over. She shouldn't know that it makes me stew. She shouldn't even know that I notice.
"Why not? Could be fun. We can watch old movies. Tell ghost stories." A surge of pain wrenches through my body. I wince only slightly, running my tongue over my lip. "Play flashlight tag. Maybe ‘seven minutes of heaven'..."
"You know what that is?"
"It's not just a children's game." I wink. And she looks away.
There's a cloth in her hands. She's balling it up, and pulling it apart. Playing with the edges and corners. She seems indecisive, but she finally looks at me. Then holds the cloth out in front of me. "It's...you... You look hot," she sighs.
I bite my lip and pretend to be shy. "Thank you," I mutter, and she rolls her eyes. I roll mine in return. "I don't need it."
"You're sweating like a pig."
"Yo mama."
"House - "
"Wanna take this outside?"
She glares for a moment, but the moment dissolves. She looks at the tv and fights a smile. I see her teeth nonetheless. I rarely see her smile like this. It sets off the darkness under her eyes. It compliments the pink of her lips. "Stop being stubborn," she whispers.
But I'm not listening. A mark on her neck has caught my attention. A tiny mark; an indentation. Surrounded by creamy skin. She reminds me of vanilla. Lots and lots of vanilla. Disappearing into her shirt and down between her breasts. Way too sweet. I could overdose, and be sick as hell in the morning.
But somebody already has.
She's wearing his mark, and flaunting it now. It makes me angry; so fucking angry. I don't even realize I'm grinding my teeth until I feel the cloth on my forehead. It's cold, and wet. And I close my eyes. Cautiously, the pressure increases.
"I told you I didn't need it," I manage to breathe. But it feels too good, and I don't pull away.
"You're lying." Her voice is quiet. She doesn't want to make me refuse her. It's not her I'm accepting. I'm accepting the cloth. But of course they're the same to Cameron.
I lay my head against the back of her couch. It feels awkward, and I swear I'll never do it again. Especially when she turns her body towards me, and her knee rubs into my thigh.
"Damn it!" I grasp my leg in my hand and sit up, leaning away. It hurts. And I'm irritated. Forget massaging me - she can't even avoid hurting me. And all I came here for was the file. Not her. Not her couch. Not her cloth.
I start to get up, but she pulls me back down. And presses her hand over mine, on my thigh. I look the other way and steady my voice. "Get off, Cameron." I'm trying. Not to yell. But I've had enough. I don't turn back because the mark will be staring. And I'll make a new mark to smother it out.
I grit my teeth. I want to hurt her. I want to bite her, and break her to pieces. And then put her back together and kiss her into place. I want to kiss her. Badly. Want to taste her. Feel her. Shove into her farther than any man has. I can't stand what she does to me. I can't stand the way she does it. I can't stand that shirt she's wearing.
"I'm sorry," she pleads, a soft stream of air. It brushes against me and I flinch in her grasp. I look around the apartment for distractions. "Is the pain coming back?" She doesn't move her hand.
For a moment, I forget she's referring to my leg. And when I remember, I'm glad. "No," I grumble. "As long as I avoid the flailing knees." I spit the words like she's unfit to live, and attempt to remove her hand.
But she removes it herself. And pushes up from the couch. I'm pretty sure she's going to open the door and ask me nicely to leave. Maybe blush from embarrassment and repeat that she's sorry. Or offer to refocus on the patient.
She doesn't.
She braces a hand on the edge of the couch and...kneels. On her knees. In front of me. I think of everything, but nothing I think of prepares me for what she does to me.
She leans over me, and I'm supposed to stop her. I know I'm supposed to stop her. Her hair cascades in two flowing sections and spreads itself over my jeans. It's dark, and soft, and looks good against the blue of the fabric. "Cameron..." My voice cracks. It's more of a squeak than an actual word. I clear my throat. I'm sweating.
Her lips - her pink, unpainted lips, that I know she's been using on another man - settle gently over my thigh. My hand is in the air, and I don't know where to put it. Because I don't know what she's doing. Her breath is hot, and I should be aroused. But uncertainty's coiling in my stomach.
She makes a seal with her mouth on my jeans, and blows warm air through the fabric.
"Cameron, what -" I stop when the warm air penetrates the muscle. And spreads itself up to my groin. Something erupts from the back of my throat and I stifle it under a breath. I feel like cursing, it feels so good. And then she does it again.
I don't think she knows what she's doing. She's trying to coax the muscle to relax. But everything inside me goes rigid. She moves her lips and does it again. Moves them, and does it again. Everything is warm now; her hair is even warm. Her hands are gripping the cushions beside me. Her shirt is hanging forward, and I can see it all. Her bra, her belly, the top of her pants.
My own pants are beginning to squeeze me.
"Stop." I touch her hair. And evidently, her jaw. Because I feel her neck stretch under my fingers as she lifts her face to look at me. "Stop," I repeat, and I'm feeling embarrassed. I don't want her knowing I have an erection. I've got to find a way to end this.
But I've been staring at her now for 22 seconds. (23, 24.) I count. My fingers are still in her hair. I can't find the words that'll make this okay. I can't stop staring, at the darkness in her eyes. And the mark, his mark, on her neck. So I blink and say stop in my mind ‘til she moves.
She crawls.
Up my stomach, up my chest. Like a cat. Until she's sitting on my lap. I spread my legs, so she slides between them, and she grasps my shirt to stay on the couch.
I'm looking at her - dumbstruck. Too confused to protest. Too aroused to think. I need to get out of here. I need to... I...
She opens my collar and kisses my chest. I lean my head against the back of her couch. I swore I'd never do it again. I swore I'd never let her get to me, too. Her lips are gentle; I can tell she's scared. Her mouth moves to my neck, and she kisses me again.
I've got to get out of here.
Now.
ii.
"She kissed me."
I stand in his office, staring out the window. Staring across at my own office. I'm tapping on the glass; tapping on the floor. Tapping on everything in reach of my cane. This cane is only good for tapping.
My back's to his face, but I know his expression. It's the same one he gave me when I said the word date. Long ago. So long, it feels like yesterday. We both know I'm screwed, but I need to know...
I need to know how badly.
"Who?" He doesn't tell me to stop with the tapping.
I pick up the pace, then I slow it down. The rhythm is scattered and... The balcony's wet. I cock my head at a puddle. "Chase's girlfriend," I mutter. And watch the light as it bends from the puddle, wondering where it ends up.
Wilson is quiet for 22 seconds. I've got a problem with counting.
"Cameron?"
It didn't used to matter - how many seconds. How many days til I solved the puzzle. Because I knew I'd eventually solve it. "She's determined to fix everything. Heal the wounded. Save the dying." I tap extra hard on the floor, and then stop. "Pet the poor cripple and tuck him into bed." I turn around, and he's looking at me. So I turn back and grit my teeth at the glass. "Lust doesn't fit into that."
Wilson is quiet. (7, 8.) I'm about to push open the door and leave -
"Did you...kiss her back?" He pauses before he says the word kiss. This feels like junior high and I should roll my eyes, but I fidget with the light switch instead. I know it annoys him; I can hear his next breath.
"No, she..." I fidget. And roll my eyes, because I'm pausing. I lower my voice; I lick my lips. I touch my knuckle to my thigh. "It wasn't on the mouth."
Wilson knows I should make a joke here. He's learned my habits. He knows when I push, and he knows when I pull. He knows when I'm addicted and headed for the edge. But I don't make a joke. And I don't turn around. I stare at the puddle on the balcony.
"And you think she's..."
"I don't know what she's doing. She's...messing with me. Some kind of game. She's too confident now." Like the way she glares when she thinks I'm wrong. She used to blush and then take a seat; I wanted to give her a backbone. But she's found one now, and I hate her for it. I hate the way that dress shirt fell on her shoulders.
That stupid, white shirt that I can't figure out.
"I think you're the expert on games, House."
"She wants something." I know she wants something.
"Of course it's entirely impossible that she may just...love you."
"She doesn't love me."
"Right. She needs you. Because without the emotionally-scarred, limping bastards in her life, she'd be lost." He clicks his pen closed and lays it on the desk. I know he's wiping his hand over his face. His breathing is muffled for a moment.
I'm close to the glass; my breath fogs it up. "She doesn't even know what love is." And then I push open the door to leave. But Wilson stops me with,
"She's seeing someone."
I turn around. I almost sputter. I want to say I know! and I want to say what? She kissed me. Wilson is wrong. So I settle on "No" and point my finger to the side, somewhere in the direction of the kiss. "She - "
"Two months."
My tone is more desperate than I want it to be. Distance here would be nice. "And how do you know this, and I don't?" But I do. I did. Her toenail polish. And that indentation on the slope of her neck. I find myself gripping the cane of my handle. The handle of my cane. The... Cameron was sitting on my lap.
"She's not stupid, House."
I crinkle my forehead. There's a vase on his desk. It's empty, but the vase is there. There were flowers at some point. A gift from a patient. Remember me when they wither. I know why Cameron hates flowers. "Fine, but why did she tell you?"
"We're friends."
"You don't make friends with women. You chat them out of their panties."
"She likes him. He's nice."
"Nice..." I roll it around on my tongue. It doesn't seem to fit. I hate how everything that makes her happy is everything I hate.
"They frequent the Hahn Haus on campus." He picks up his pen again, and looks at a paper. Pretends he's got things to do. "It's a Friday night - reasonable to assume they'd be there now." He knows he's baited my curiosity.
I turn back to the door and stop gripping my cane. Wilson shouldn't know that I care. "Good for them." The room is silent. Wilson begins scribbling on a paper. I wait for him to stop me, to tell me I'm miserable - for walking away, for being here now. For sweating when Cameron comes near me. But he doesn't, and I can't just leave. "You're encouraging me to ruin something good in her life?"
"She kissed you," he says, like it's just that simple. Then casually looks up from his scribbling. "She wants something."
She wants something.
Not my concern. I push through the glass and splash my cane in the puddle. Good for them, I repeat.
iii.
The air is smokey. I watch from my corner. This used to be a nice German pub with jazz. Now it's a college bar with rock music and idiots. The type of place Cameron would hate - I imagine.
But there she sits, and there he sits. At a little, round table in the middle of the restaurant. With those nose-bleed stools meant to make you feel special. Cameron doesn't like tall stools. She always takes her heels off at the end of the day. She likes being comfortable. And being short. And looking up when I talk to her.
And she likes sitting in the corner, in the dark. In a booth. I shift and prop my leg on the booth across. Swirling the ice in my scotch glass.
I finger the handle of my cane as I watch. She's smiling. At him. He's got dark hair - like that pompous TB guy Cameron swooned over. I can't see his face, but it's just as well. He's leaning on his elbows over the table, telling her something that's making her laugh.
I can make her laugh, but it's always when her alternative is to scream.
There's a candle on the table in front of her, reflecting off her cheeks with a peachy glow. I've already blown my candle out. It smelled like a fruit basket; all I want is scotch. What man likes fruit with his alcohol? But I must admit, Cameron looks good enough to taste right now. I can't blame her...date...for not blowing it out.
Her hair is down. And curly, like it used to be. I hang on to that fact like a lifeline as I sit here. Musing over the strand that falls loose in front of her when she leans a bit closer to...him. Whoever he is. He doesn't own her. I refuse to call him her boyfriend.
Then again, they've been doing this thing for two months. Where is the line drawn? And how could I not have known about this?
Two months. He's nice. She likes him. I'm rude. And I give her hell about everything. And I don't plan to stop just because another man has claimed what I have no rights to. I can't take care of Cameron; she's needy. And young. And I can't make her happy.
I grab for my cane and begin to get up, but it hits me like a heady rush of something, and I sink back into the booth. She kissed me. She kissed me. She wants something. It shouldn't concern me; I shouldn't care. She wants something I probably don't even have. But I wonder for a moment - if I had it, would I give it?
Probably not. Not enough of it, anyway.
I swallow more scotch and look at Cameron. All patches of light and darkness. The flame flickers around in the jar, lighting the shadows underneath her eyes, creating shadows where she's normally bright. Yet hiding what I want to know the most.
What does she want?
I hate this game. It's the only one I can't figure out with scotch. Or with piano keys. Or with twirling my cane til my fingers hurt.
I wait until he goes to the bathroom. To pee out all the beer. Or to put his eyes back in from all the ogling. I hope for the latter, because it'll take him longer. I throw a ten on my table and make my way over to his seat.
Cameron is leaning with her chin on her knuckles. All tank-top and eyelashes and soft, glowing skin. I'm pretty sure this isn't Allison. She's spinning her knife around on the wood of the table. Stopping it at intervals with her finger. And when she sees me, the knife hits her fork and she slaps her hand over both. Gaping at me, parting her lips.
I pull myself into the nose-bleed stool and hook my cane on the table.
She doesn't stop gaping, so I offer my hand. "Gregory House." And she doesn't take it, so I put it back down. I didn't expect her to, anyway. "Remember me?" I press. "Cornered me on your sofa and climbed me like a cat - "
"House..." she shushes. "What are you doing here?"
"Why are we whispering?" I whisper, obnoxiously loud, and she looks around me toward the bathrooms. I lean back against the seat. "Relax. I duck-taped the door to the men's room. He'll be in there for a while."
I've never seen her look this indignant. She actually thinks I'm serious.
She's about to have an outburst, but the waitress brings the food. Cameron smiles, and blushes. Because she knows what it looks like - not even to the meal yet, and she's already changed men. I make sure the waitress sees me leering at Cameron; it makes her blush even more.
"You like him?" I ask, as I pick up a fork. She's cringing, watching me. And watching the men's room. I scrunch my nose at the plate below me. "What is this?"
"House...what... What?" She flops her hands in the air. "What?" It's clearly all she can think of.
"I was going to ask you the same thing." I put the fork down. "What?"
"What are you talking about?" She's getting more desperate. I can hear it in her voice.
"What are you talking about?"
"House!" Now she's glaring.
From batting her eyelashes, to gaping, to blushing. Flailing. And now she's glaring. I'm better off without this. Without a woman. If only insanity weren't adorable...
I really don't know why I'm here.
"Do you want to ruin this? Is that what you want?" She isn't yelling. But her eyes are big. She's waiting for an answer. Waiting for me to hurt her further.
I look at the table. At the wood. And follow the direction of the grain. "Ruin what?"
She sighs. "This...relationship...I have with Elijah."
I look up from the table, for two reasons. One, because she paused before she said relationship. Two, because, "Elijah?"
"That's his name."
I crinkle my forehead. "It takes a special kind of arrogant to name your kid after a prophet." She's tilting her head at me, pleading. For something. I never know what. For me to leave, or to stay, or to... There is no in-between. I purse my lips, and look around the bar. Tap my finger on the table as I lower my voice. "I asked you a question."
When I finally look at her, she isn't angry. She's just waiting. Watching me. With her hands in her lap. Breathing as steadily as she can.
"Do you like him?" I repeat. Flinching only slightly under the strength of her gaze. But I hold it this time; I don't look away.
"You left," she says. It's more breath than substance.
I shake my head. "Not what I asked." But she shakes her head in return. She's going to try to lay this on me. "Forget it," I tell her, and grab my cane.
"Don't - "
"No, you don't, Cameron. You don't have a clue what you want."
"Me?" she shrieks.
"Yes."
"What about you? You left! You pushed me off you - "
I move to stand up, but I feel someone coming. And I know who it is before I see him.
Cameron shuts up when she sees him, and immediately gasps out, "Elijah..." She's a terrible, terrible liar.
So this is her boy-toy. I look him over. Strong face, broad shoulders, nicely dressed. And he's clean-shaven. I begin to analyze the implications, then decide that I don't even care.
"Elijah, this is my boss - Dr. House."
He smiles at me. And it's not a Mark-Warner, this-is-my-woman, smile. I'm sitting in his chair; I'm fighting with his date. I conclude that he's an oblivious idiot. Or maybe he's cheating on her, and just doesn't care. Either way, he doesn't deserve her.
He holds out his hand for my shaking.
And I know this is where I decide.
I look at his hand. I look at my shoes. I look at Cameron, and she's pleading. I'm pretty sure I know what she's pleading for now.
So I look him in the face, quickly shake his hand, hop out of his chair, and limp around him toward the door of the bar.
The night air is cool when I step outside. I lean against the brick wall under the awning, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket. I'm an idiot for coming here. For walking away. For telling Wilson. For hiring Cameron. I knew this wouldn't end well when I hired her.
She's too damn enticing, and I don't want it anymore. I don't want the mystery. I don't want the game. I don't want to watch her, or drown her in scotch, or play my piano a little harder to press her out of my fingertips.
But here she comes, out the door, and runs right past me yelling my name.
I wonder how long I can watch her.
iv.
She's yelled my last name twice already, and now she's looking around. Out in the distance. At all the cars. Looking for the limping run-away.
I'm watching her - though I can't really see her. It's dark. And the red neon light of the open sign ends right where she begins. It's splayed over the right side of my jacket, my jeans; traces a path up the sidewalk to her, ending at the heels of her shoes. At the heels of her long, long jeans. But she's in the shadows, and all I can see is a puff of air as she sighs.
For the first time, I notice, the air is cold. It's no longer breezy. Just still, and cold. Cameron turns around with a crunching of her heel.
It's then that she sees me. But I can't see her.
I don't move, or talk. I just shift against the wall, fingering the lining inside the pocket of my jacket. Rubbing my free hand against the wood of my cane.
"I know what I want," she says, and I curse her for breaking the silence, with this. She followed me out here, for this. No you don't is my only reaction, but I still don't move. Or talk. Just focus on the neon pavement.
And then she steps forward. Into the light. Streaks of red from the open sign reflect against her slender body, and my eyes are drawn to her shoulders. Her arms are bare. Her jacket's inside. Clearly, she intends to go back.
This is what she means by what she wants. I admire her for telling me. But I hate her for it, too. Because I'm headed home to an empty house, and tonight, it becomes a problem. A problem that's Cameron's fault.
I nod. "Okay." There's nothing to my voice when I say it. I feel nothing - at hearing the echo. At seeing a puff of her breath in the darkness. At losing everything that makes me great. I'm going to watch her leave.
She doesn't leave.
"Okay, you're dismissed?" I try again. But she doesn't budge. She's looking at me, head slightly cocked to the side. I don't want her pity - the empty man with the empty house - she mocks me with the way she stares.
Her lips are not pink; they're red tonight. Red, like her toenails. Red, like everything painted and prettied - and all for the man in that restaurant. I want to wipe the paint away, with the whiskers on my jaw. With the ache in my fingers. I want to scratch her, hurt her. Put her on the back of my motorcycle, and taste her where her neck meets her shoulder.
I want to tell her she belongs to me. And wrap her in my sheets tonight.
Instead, she'll go home with him.
I start to leave, but she stops me with - "Okay?"
It's shy, and broken. And now I'm confused. "Is that not what you wanted?" I furrow my brow.
She doesn't answer. So I push away from the building, and remove my hand from my pocket. It's sweaty, and I wiggle my fingers. Feeling the air pass between them. She watches me walk around her. I step from the curb into the parking lot.
"What do you want?" She turns to face me, and finds herself facing my back instead.
"I want to go home." And so I keep walking.
"Why did you come here!" She's yelling now. It bounces off a row of cars in the lot, and echoes around me. I refuse to stop. Her heels begin crunching on the pavement behind me. Louder and louder. Closer and closer.
I feel her hand on the back of my jacket.
Abruptly, I stop, and she runs right into me. She jumps when I turn to face her. My cane lands somewhere - I don't know where. She jumps again when my hand slides against her, and I pull her toward me. In a lapse of judgement.
I hate the word judgement and I hate the way she feels. I hate that her hair is soft in my fingers and her back is warm to my touch. I smell her when I breathe. My fingers react, and I hate her, I hate her, for smelling of woman. Because that smell - it melts my blood, and spills me into somewhere...I'll never escape.
Every man is entitled to a moment of weakness. This is mine, and I claim it for now. Because it doesn't really matter anymore. This weakness will kill me from the outside in.
Somebody pushes and somebody pulls. I think she's pushing, but I can't be sure. My cheek is on her neck; the skin there is satin. I rub her with my stubble, and it touches her throat. She swallows and shivers and swallows again, pressing my shoulder with her chin.
We're tangling, touching. My skin is burning. I want to stop. I want to keep going. I don't want Cameron to feel my confusion, or my need pulsing hot underneath. The need is what scares me. It's a concept I can do without.
But pain - pain is a concept I know and revere. The pain is soon to follow.
I pull her tighter and feel every bone in her body against me. She starts to writhe. But I don't let her go. Merciful was then. Back in the bar. Need is now and I want her broken when she walks back inside. I want her distracted when he lays her down, and tells her she belongs to him.
We lean against a car - I don't know whose - and Cameron slides her hands into my jacket. She's rubbing and gripping my shirt and my back. Hard, at first. And then slowly. In circles. She rests her head on my shoulder. I swear I've forgotten what I'm doing here. I think I've forgotten my name.
A group comes, laughing, out of the bar. It's loud, and the sound of her hands in my jacket slows and eventually stills. I close my eyes. Because the night is cold. I want it to bite; I'm a masochist. But this blanket of woman has got to be everything I need and want to forget.
"He gave me a flower." It comes out of nowhere. Her voice is soft. Her shirt is soft, too, and I run a calloused finger against it. Brushing a pile of her hair aside.
I chuckle then, slowly removing my hands from her back. Remembering where she belongs. "Guess you'll be shopping for vases this weekend." I try to step away, an inch or two, but her hands are still inside my jacket. I breathe on her cheek, and I wait. There's nothing else I can do.
"Guess so." She says it to the ground. But the words are warm on my shoulder. She finally drops her hands, and I take a step back. Gaining some distance between us.
I find my cane on the ground beside me. It's time to go home. I've finally solved the unsolvable puzzle - and she's going shopping for a flower vase. She is still a terrible judge of people, a terrible liar, and a hypocrite.
And I am ten times so. For walking away. .
"Go back inside," I tell her.
"I don't want to."
"He wants you to."
She grabs my arm. And I just can't do it. I just can't ruin her perception of life. Her false sense of hope. Her happiness.
She doesn't look happy right now.
She pulls me back, and I pull away. She'll go shopping for vases this weekend. And surround herself with dying flowers. Dying memories. Dying men. They're dying more slowly than I am. She's better off this way.
"Like you care about his feelings..." she scoffs.
We're playing tug of war with my sleeve, and I steady myself on my cane. "I may be an emotionally-scarred, limping bastard, but I know what it feels like. Go back inside."
"No." She takes my chin in her hand and kisses me.
There's a moment where I don't have a clue what she's doing. Another, where I'm not sure I care. I've never felt anything as abrupt and defiant as her mouth on mine right now. It shocks me; it knocks the air from my chest. I'm not responding, so she pulls away. Her eyes as defiant as her kiss.
"You're an ass," she informs me. "A stubborn, sarcastic, insensitive ass - "
I thread my fingers against the back of her neck, and kiss her, as she did me. But her lips are warm and pliant. I soften, and weaken. And the need returns. She tremors. Sighs. Then breaks the kiss
"- and I want to go home with you," she finishes.
I shake my head.
But the need eats the weakness. And they both eat me.
Slowly, she reaches into my jacket. Into the breast pocket. And removes a flower. Licking my kiss from her bottom lip, she hands me the flower. Then turns toward the restaurant, and goes back inside.
She's back a moment later with her jacket.