House fic: Cheap Radio Songs (House/Cameron)
Hey, look a House ficlet. House/Cameron, R, 500 words.
Thanks to lordessrenegade, who saved this fic from being a future regret. Title and cut-text from Bulletproof Weeks, by Matt Nathanson.
Cheap Radio Songs
She shows up on his doorstep at some point in the night that falls under the category of too late. He answers the door in his tired shirt and rumpled face.
She expects a snide remark, but he doesn't give it to her. His shoulders slump and his eyes stare forward. His hand rests, exhausted, on the doorknob.
There's a bottle of scotch in his hand, and the TV flickers a car chase onto the couch. The sound of gunshots rips through the space between them.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
She shrugs, and her eyes feel sad.
"People die," he says.
"I know," she says.
He sighs. "Everyone's dying."
A flare of irritation rises, warm, through her chest. "That's bullshit," she says.
He gives half of the hint of a smile and pulls the door open for her.
They sit on very opposite ends of the couch. The movie flickers between them. She blinks as little as possible, lets the light burn into her retinas so maybe she won't have to see what she's doing here.
It doesn't work. She kisses him as the credits roll.
His hands reach up as if through water, cup the sides of her neck. "Cameron," he whispers against her lips, but it's a warning, not a plea. She ignores him, and he takes that.
She feels like she's drowning. She pulls herself to his surface and breathes.
It's all so very cliché, but she's gotten used to that.
He pulls her through the living room, awkwardly, limping along in front of her until he turns and tumbles her onto the bed. It should be romantic, but neither one of them lets it get there.
She blinks for a moment too long, and her shirt and his are off. He lies against her, skin to heated skin. She turns her head and watches the streetlights stay still through the window.
She blinks again, and her clothes are splattered like evidence on the floor. She winces and thinks of wiping her prints.
He slides against her, all shaky breaths and bravado. She thought he might be self-conscious, but then again, he might be. No one's self-conscious in the dark.
She reaches up, pulls him towards her.
"Who are you trying to save?" he whispers against her neck.
She gasps instead of speaking, because she (has never been) isn't really sure.
They don't finish together, because this isn't quite as cliché as she might have thought it would be. He barely waits a cursory moment before he leaves. The bathroom light flicks on, then off again.
He comes back and stands in the doorway. Waits.
She slides herself to the floor and starts collecting her clothes as he walks towards the bed and lies down as if that was his intention all along. She's walking through the door when he speaks.
"Cameron, wait."
She pauses, arms full of clothes and her self-respect.
"You don't have to go."
This is a lie.
They both let themselves believe it.
"Okay," she says.
Thanks to lordessrenegade, who saved this fic from being a future regret. Title and cut-text from Bulletproof Weeks, by Matt Nathanson.
Cheap Radio Songs
She shows up on his doorstep at some point in the night that falls under the category of too late. He answers the door in his tired shirt and rumpled face.
She expects a snide remark, but he doesn't give it to her. His shoulders slump and his eyes stare forward. His hand rests, exhausted, on the doorknob.
There's a bottle of scotch in his hand, and the TV flickers a car chase onto the couch. The sound of gunshots rips through the space between them.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
She shrugs, and her eyes feel sad.
"People die," he says.
"I know," she says.
He sighs. "Everyone's dying."
A flare of irritation rises, warm, through her chest. "That's bullshit," she says.
He gives half of the hint of a smile and pulls the door open for her.
They sit on very opposite ends of the couch. The movie flickers between them. She blinks as little as possible, lets the light burn into her retinas so maybe she won't have to see what she's doing here.
It doesn't work. She kisses him as the credits roll.
His hands reach up as if through water, cup the sides of her neck. "Cameron," he whispers against her lips, but it's a warning, not a plea. She ignores him, and he takes that.
She feels like she's drowning. She pulls herself to his surface and breathes.
It's all so very cliché, but she's gotten used to that.
He pulls her through the living room, awkwardly, limping along in front of her until he turns and tumbles her onto the bed. It should be romantic, but neither one of them lets it get there.
She blinks for a moment too long, and her shirt and his are off. He lies against her, skin to heated skin. She turns her head and watches the streetlights stay still through the window.
She blinks again, and her clothes are splattered like evidence on the floor. She winces and thinks of wiping her prints.
He slides against her, all shaky breaths and bravado. She thought he might be self-conscious, but then again, he might be. No one's self-conscious in the dark.
She reaches up, pulls him towards her.
"Who are you trying to save?" he whispers against her neck.
She gasps instead of speaking, because she (has never been) isn't really sure.
They don't finish together, because this isn't quite as cliché as she might have thought it would be. He barely waits a cursory moment before he leaves. The bathroom light flicks on, then off again.
He comes back and stands in the doorway. Waits.
She slides herself to the floor and starts collecting her clothes as he walks towards the bed and lies down as if that was his intention all along. She's walking through the door when he speaks.
"Cameron, wait."
She pauses, arms full of clothes and her self-respect.
"You don't have to go."
This is a lie.
They both let themselves believe it.
"Okay," she says.