[House] Fic: Objects in Motion [1]
Title: Objects in Motion
By: _lot49_
Rating: T
Summary: You can't always get what you want...but lies and sabotage make a pretty good start. Cameron moves on. House is passive-aggressive. Wilson is amused. And they say romance is dead. Too bad about the patients, though.
The flip side to Objects at Rest (with 98% less angst).
A/N: I needed to write something more case-involved and not-quite serious because the other piece was giving me a headache. It's horrifically sentimental and a bit silly. Please forgive.
[Other Parts Here]
It begins, as always, with a song.
None of that adolescent bubblegum crap squeaked out by someone named Britney or Avril or some other cute name that inspires pom-poms, cheerleading outfits and chants of 'Oh, Mickey, you're so fine' -- that's more Chase's style. Not that he would normally ever protest cheerleaders, especially paired with trampolines, but tonight...tonight, he's feeling a bit more nostalgic.
Nocturne No. 9 in B rings out, slow and sad, through the soft hammers of his baby grand. He plays it when he's feeling a bit melancholy, even though he's really more Beethoven than Chopin.
Just as Stacy is to Liszt, Valle d'Obermann, specifically. The mountain storm. Intense. Tumultuous, but not without big, flashy displays of showmanship. Wilson...another Wilson. Meredith's slick, baby-faced Harold Hill; The Sadder, Wiser Girl for him. Foreman. Eh. Probably some dead rapper named after an inanimate object. Emcee-Daddy-Dawg-Bling-Bling-Stan.
As for Cameron...
Fingers drift over the first few notes, random patterns that eventually coalesce into Rhapsody in Blue. Interesting. Overly-sentimental, unabashed, painfully romantic pap. Sounds about right up a certain immunologist's alley. Unconsciously, the music begins to segue into But Not For Me.
The silence isn't quite there when he abruptly tugs the fallboard down, grimace accompanying the last few notes lingering in the air, until the sounds finally dissipate.
Gershwin's not his thing, you see.
Reflexes urge his fingers to search for the bottle tucked away in his pocket, and as he works the bitter pill in his mouth, tumbling it over his tongue, he stares out into the empty space of his living room and thinks musicians must be the saddest creatures in the world.
[1]
It's nine-twenty on a Monday morning when he first notices. It. That. Right over her levator scapulae, to be specific. An oval, dime-sized blotch. He sees it when she turns to murmur something to Foreman.
The incongruity of the idea twirls thoughtfully in his head even as the marker moves in sharp strokes on the whiteboard.
"Thirty-five year old woman comes into ER complaining of dizziness, sore throat and chest palpitations." He turns. (There. Near the curve of her collar bone. Petechia, broken capillaries under the skin caused by a focused point of pressure.) "Patient has several rashes, a fever, some unusual bruising. Like that hickey on Dr. Cameron's neck."
(Oops. Did he say the last part out loud?)
There's a moment of appreciative pause at the sudden and abrupt shift in direction, before both Chase and Foreman turn to appraise their charmingly mortified colleague.
"Panic disorder," Cameron mutters weakly, self-consciously pulling the lapels of her lab coat closer.
The left side of House's lip curls up thoughtfully as he strokes his chin; a sound akin to rubbing sandpaper. "Advances have been made in psychiatric care. With regular therapy and antidepressant medication, one you might day be able overcome your--oh." A thumb jerks back at the whiteboard. "You're talking about her. Doesn't explain the rash."
"Symptoms aren't degenerative," supplies Foreman. "Could be an allergy, could be nothing."
"That's great. Chase, give her a couple of Tylenol, a paper bag to breathe into and send her on her way. Case solved. Let's go get a beer." Hobbling with surprising speed towards the door, there's a pause as he swivels, snapping his fingers. "I almost forgot. Patient's also diaphoretic and hypotensive with a heart rate of 250. Oh, and the palpitation's progressed to pulmonary distress."
Ah, silence. Precious, stunned silence. Sometimes, it's just too easy.
"Still wanna go get that beer?" Three pairs of eyes shift to the floor. Sadistic streak suitably appeased, he stumps back to the whiteboard. "Okay, then. Differential diagnosis?"
"Lyme disease," Chase tosses out.
"Dilated cardiomyopathy." Foreman.
"Still doesn't explain the rash."
"Pulmonary sarcoidosis sometimes presents as DCM." And Dr. Cameron's finally found her voice.
"Now that would explain the rash. And the bruising."
At that, she clutches her coat a fraction tighter. He'd be amused if he weren't, for some reason, inexplicably irritated.
"Get her started on antibiotics just in case it's Lyme. Corticosteroids for the sarcoidosis. Echo the heart and test for ACE. Go."
Without further word, the great and powerful House toddles to his office.
Chase is the first out the door, snatching up the case file on the way, leaving the other two behind.
"Good weekend?" There's a slow, knowing smile from Foreman that makes Cameron flush as she closes the lid on her laptop.
"Kind of," she admits with a small smile.
"I'm glad. The whole thing with House was a bad idea from the get-go. It's good to see you're moving on." (There's a slight frown on her face, eyebrows beetling together, but she doesn't reply.) "As for him. He's just being an asshat. A kid throwing a tantrum when he realizes he doesn't have your full attention anymore."
"Yo, MTV Raps!" comes the bellow from said asshat leaning in the adjoining doorway. "Let's get a move on."
See? Foreman mouths, eyebrows accentuating his point. With a quick, sympathetic hand on her shoulder, he also makes his exit.
Dropping her eyes, Cameron returns to packing her laptop. When she looks up again, she nearly yelps at how he's managed to swiftly (and surprisingly) sneak up on her without the obnoxious telltale tap-tap-taps that usually precede his arrival.
Leaning far into her personal space, his head tilts to the right as he gives her a quizzical, contemplative look, before his gaze trails down to her neck once again.
(Her skin is a little pinker than usual, the smattering of freckles on her shoulder standing out in contrast. He inhales briefly, a swift, cunning breath; she smells like sea-salt and the sun.)
Who is he? he doesn't ask, because it sounds needy and desperate. New boytoy? sounds needy and bitter, and he's not terribly interested in the specifics of some anonymous hickey-producing he-man, anyhow; he knows all the mechanics of making one.
"You're wearing a low-cut blouse." It's blunt, almost accusatory. "Not that I don't appreciate the view. However, your lab coat was a little loose as well, a bit off your shoulders. You wanted me to see that."
Cameron's learned, when it comes to things personal, not to trust anything he says; not his words, not with the way he beats, twists and shapes them into submission. At the moment, though, it's the flutter of his breath on her neck that's making her carotid pulse cannonball (and she finds fleeting amusement at the idea of House being single-handedly responsible for Corrigan's p).
He's pointing. He does that. Point. Even hovers, sometimes, close enough to make her itch. Like he's doing now. But he doesn't touch. With the exception of that single handshake, he's never touched her.
And for good reason. Touching invariably progresses to...more touching. Handshakes. Handholding. Even more touching; of the sweaty, sticky, fumbling type. Against the bookcase. Over the conference room table. Atop his desk. (Not that House has thought of that. Well, not often; he is, after all, male and breathing.)
"I didn't even know it was there." It comes out darker, lower than intended and she curses herself for sounding a little too breathless.
He leans back and there's that head tilt again, accompanied by something blank and enigmatic. It makes her distinctly uneasy. "You're learning to lie." A nod. "That's interesting." And then, there's only the click of his cane against the linoleum fading out as he stumps away.
When she buckles the straps on her valise, Cameron is dismayed to find her hands shaking.
Next:
As they amble towards the elevator, House senses the presence of a giant shit-eating grin creeping across Wilson's face. Yep, there it is. And he's humming. Humming. Uh, oh. That can only mean...
"Ya got trouble." It starts off as a barely audible trickle that rapidly escalates into a full-production number. "With a capital 'T,' and that rhymes with 'C,' and that stands for--"
"--the cane I'm going to beat you with, if you don't stop serenading me with musicals."
Download these: But Not For Me, Ella Fitzgerald || Bukowski, Modest Mouse
By: _lot49_
Rating: T
Summary: You can't always get what you want...but lies and sabotage make a pretty good start. Cameron moves on. House is passive-aggressive. Wilson is amused. And they say romance is dead. Too bad about the patients, though.
The flip side to Objects at Rest (with 98% less angst).
A/N: I needed to write something more case-involved and not-quite serious because the other piece was giving me a headache. It's horrifically sentimental and a bit silly. Please forgive.
[Other Parts Here]
It begins, as always, with a song.
None of that adolescent bubblegum crap squeaked out by someone named Britney or Avril or some other cute name that inspires pom-poms, cheerleading outfits and chants of 'Oh, Mickey, you're so fine' -- that's more Chase's style. Not that he would normally ever protest cheerleaders, especially paired with trampolines, but tonight...tonight, he's feeling a bit more nostalgic.
Nocturne No. 9 in B rings out, slow and sad, through the soft hammers of his baby grand. He plays it when he's feeling a bit melancholy, even though he's really more Beethoven than Chopin.
Just as Stacy is to Liszt, Valle d'Obermann, specifically. The mountain storm. Intense. Tumultuous, but not without big, flashy displays of showmanship. Wilson...another Wilson. Meredith's slick, baby-faced Harold Hill; The Sadder, Wiser Girl for him. Foreman. Eh. Probably some dead rapper named after an inanimate object. Emcee-Daddy-Dawg-Bling-Bling-Stan.
As for Cameron...
Fingers drift over the first few notes, random patterns that eventually coalesce into Rhapsody in Blue. Interesting. Overly-sentimental, unabashed, painfully romantic pap. Sounds about right up a certain immunologist's alley. Unconsciously, the music begins to segue into But Not For Me.
The silence isn't quite there when he abruptly tugs the fallboard down, grimace accompanying the last few notes lingering in the air, until the sounds finally dissipate.
Gershwin's not his thing, you see.
Reflexes urge his fingers to search for the bottle tucked away in his pocket, and as he works the bitter pill in his mouth, tumbling it over his tongue, he stares out into the empty space of his living room and thinks musicians must be the saddest creatures in the world.
[1]
It's nine-twenty on a Monday morning when he first notices. It. That. Right over her levator scapulae, to be specific. An oval, dime-sized blotch. He sees it when she turns to murmur something to Foreman.
The incongruity of the idea twirls thoughtfully in his head even as the marker moves in sharp strokes on the whiteboard.
"Thirty-five year old woman comes into ER complaining of dizziness, sore throat and chest palpitations." He turns. (There. Near the curve of her collar bone. Petechia, broken capillaries under the skin caused by a focused point of pressure.) "Patient has several rashes, a fever, some unusual bruising. Like that hickey on Dr. Cameron's neck."
(Oops. Did he say the last part out loud?)
There's a moment of appreciative pause at the sudden and abrupt shift in direction, before both Chase and Foreman turn to appraise their charmingly mortified colleague.
"Panic disorder," Cameron mutters weakly, self-consciously pulling the lapels of her lab coat closer.
The left side of House's lip curls up thoughtfully as he strokes his chin; a sound akin to rubbing sandpaper. "Advances have been made in psychiatric care. With regular therapy and antidepressant medication, one you might day be able overcome your--oh." A thumb jerks back at the whiteboard. "You're talking about her. Doesn't explain the rash."
"Symptoms aren't degenerative," supplies Foreman. "Could be an allergy, could be nothing."
"That's great. Chase, give her a couple of Tylenol, a paper bag to breathe into and send her on her way. Case solved. Let's go get a beer." Hobbling with surprising speed towards the door, there's a pause as he swivels, snapping his fingers. "I almost forgot. Patient's also diaphoretic and hypotensive with a heart rate of 250. Oh, and the palpitation's progressed to pulmonary distress."
Ah, silence. Precious, stunned silence. Sometimes, it's just too easy.
"Still wanna go get that beer?" Three pairs of eyes shift to the floor. Sadistic streak suitably appeased, he stumps back to the whiteboard. "Okay, then. Differential diagnosis?"
"Lyme disease," Chase tosses out.
"Dilated cardiomyopathy." Foreman.
"Still doesn't explain the rash."
"Pulmonary sarcoidosis sometimes presents as DCM." And Dr. Cameron's finally found her voice.
"Now that would explain the rash. And the bruising."
At that, she clutches her coat a fraction tighter. He'd be amused if he weren't, for some reason, inexplicably irritated.
"Get her started on antibiotics just in case it's Lyme. Corticosteroids for the sarcoidosis. Echo the heart and test for ACE. Go."
Without further word, the great and powerful House toddles to his office.
Chase is the first out the door, snatching up the case file on the way, leaving the other two behind.
"Good weekend?" There's a slow, knowing smile from Foreman that makes Cameron flush as she closes the lid on her laptop.
"Kind of," she admits with a small smile.
"I'm glad. The whole thing with House was a bad idea from the get-go. It's good to see you're moving on." (There's a slight frown on her face, eyebrows beetling together, but she doesn't reply.) "As for him. He's just being an asshat. A kid throwing a tantrum when he realizes he doesn't have your full attention anymore."
"Yo, MTV Raps!" comes the bellow from said asshat leaning in the adjoining doorway. "Let's get a move on."
See? Foreman mouths, eyebrows accentuating his point. With a quick, sympathetic hand on her shoulder, he also makes his exit.
Dropping her eyes, Cameron returns to packing her laptop. When she looks up again, she nearly yelps at how he's managed to swiftly (and surprisingly) sneak up on her without the obnoxious telltale tap-tap-taps that usually precede his arrival.
Leaning far into her personal space, his head tilts to the right as he gives her a quizzical, contemplative look, before his gaze trails down to her neck once again.
(Her skin is a little pinker than usual, the smattering of freckles on her shoulder standing out in contrast. He inhales briefly, a swift, cunning breath; she smells like sea-salt and the sun.)
Who is he? he doesn't ask, because it sounds needy and desperate. New boytoy? sounds needy and bitter, and he's not terribly interested in the specifics of some anonymous hickey-producing he-man, anyhow; he knows all the mechanics of making one.
"You're wearing a low-cut blouse." It's blunt, almost accusatory. "Not that I don't appreciate the view. However, your lab coat was a little loose as well, a bit off your shoulders. You wanted me to see that."
Cameron's learned, when it comes to things personal, not to trust anything he says; not his words, not with the way he beats, twists and shapes them into submission. At the moment, though, it's the flutter of his breath on her neck that's making her carotid pulse cannonball (and she finds fleeting amusement at the idea of House being single-handedly responsible for Corrigan's p).
He's pointing. He does that. Point. Even hovers, sometimes, close enough to make her itch. Like he's doing now. But he doesn't touch. With the exception of that single handshake, he's never touched her.
And for good reason. Touching invariably progresses to...more touching. Handshakes. Handholding. Even more touching; of the sweaty, sticky, fumbling type. Against the bookcase. Over the conference room table. Atop his desk. (Not that House has thought of that. Well, not often; he is, after all, male and breathing.)
"I didn't even know it was there." It comes out darker, lower than intended and she curses herself for sounding a little too breathless.
He leans back and there's that head tilt again, accompanied by something blank and enigmatic. It makes her distinctly uneasy. "You're learning to lie." A nod. "That's interesting." And then, there's only the click of his cane against the linoleum fading out as he stumps away.
When she buckles the straps on her valise, Cameron is dismayed to find her hands shaking.
Next:
As they amble towards the elevator, House senses the presence of a giant shit-eating grin creeping across Wilson's face. Yep, there it is. And he's humming. Humming. Uh, oh. That can only mean...
"Ya got trouble." It starts off as a barely audible trickle that rapidly escalates into a full-production number. "With a capital 'T,' and that rhymes with 'C,' and that stands for--"
"--the cane I'm going to beat you with, if you don't stop serenading me with musicals."
Download these: But Not For Me, Ella Fitzgerald || Bukowski, Modest Mouse