New Vibration
House fanfiction. Missing scenes from "Hunting." Chase/Cameron, mentions of House/Cameron. NC-17 (Part 1 is R).
Link to Part 1
No Regrets ~ Part 2
It's like throwing himself out of a helicopter onto a slope of virgin powder -- the roaring in his ears, the delicious inevitability, the sudden rush of speed. Cameron returns his kiss with painful ferocity, but he kisses back even harder, running his hands up her arms and crowding against her. She clutches at his bare back, her hands burning against his skin. His pelvis dances against hers, establishing the rhythm. He drives her backwards, his hands trying to touch her everywhere at once, his mouth meeting hers in every possible way, making up for months of deprivation in a desperate rush.
They fight for mastery. Cameron tries to pull him toward a door -- her bedroom? -- but he shoves her up against the nearest wall, needing to hold her still, needing more. She squirms, her hands fumbling at the fly of his jeans, and he pins her hips roughly with his.
"My turn now," he pants, pulling at her shirt with both hands. He shoves it up over her head and holds it there for a moment, looking at her, his right hand holding both her wrists and his left hand running down the side of her face, her neck, and her beautiful bare breast. He grins at her surprised expression, and then the need overcomes him and he grinds himself into her, kissing her again, letting go of her wrists so he can run his hands down her bare ribs and circle her delicate waist. She clutches at his butt and rubs her breasts against his chest, until he thinks he will explode inside his pants. Or die.
From nowhere, a memory falls into his mind, and he laughs out loud.
"Have you ever taken a life?" he asks her.
Cameron looks at him blankly, and he takes advantage of the moment to unsnap and unzip her trousers. Damned tight women's jeans -- in the time it takes for him to undo them and push them over her hips, she has his unfastened and they fall to the ground with his jocks. Their breathing is so loud he can barely hear the music; their heartbeats drown out the thumping of the sound system.
He finally has her jeans and knickers pushed down now, and she is naked and he is naked, and it feels like his whole life has been building to this moment. He drops his mouth to her breast and she moans and arches against him and scratches his back with her fingernails. Jesus. He's never actually had a woman do that before. But then, bad boy or not, he's never before had sex with a woman who was high on meth, which might explain it. Or maybe it's just a Cameron thing. It hurts, and he sucks harder on her nipple and grabs her ass with both hands. She pulls his head up and bites his bottom lip, and he can't remember being more turned on, ever.
He wants to take her against the wall, but her knees seem to be buckling and she's sliding down, her hands pulling insistently at his shoulders. He drops down to his knees without breaking the kiss and stops her with a growl when she tries to fall further. She glares back at him.
"Come on, then," she rasps, squeezing his biceps. He gropes for his jeans, which are still around one of his ankles, and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. With the same desperate deftness he uses with a trach kit or an epi, he pulls out the strip of three condoms he always carries, rips open one package, and rolls it on. She rocks frantically against him and he has to hold her still with one hand as he performs a quick testing caress with the other. She's not as wet as she should be considering the way she's whimpering and wiggling -- a side-effect of meth -- and he blesses the self-lubricating condom.
He positions himself against her, prepared to go slowly, but she grabs his wrist and tugs, and he ends up surging into her in one long control-threatening thrust. She is looking up at him with wide bold eyes, but he has to shut his own eyes and bury his mouth in her neck, trying to not-come, not-come, not-come as he pushes into her, using his hands to protect her from being slammed against the cold wall.
He's trying to remember what he knows about the effects of crystal meth on orgasmic response -- immediate climaxes for some users, and long-delayed ones for others -- when he realizes from the sounds she's making that Cameron -- thank you Mary, Mother of God! -- appears to be part of the first group and she's... just... on the edge. He sets her off by squeezing her bottom and giving her a high, extra-hard stroke, then pushes hard with his pelvic bone against hers until she stops quivering around him and he's free to stroke to his own climax and collapse sideways with her, boneless and panting on the bare wooden floor.
*
Chase woke up, realizing several things at once. On the negative side, the floor was very hard, the lights were too bright, the music Cameron was playing sucked, and he really needed to dispose of the condom. On the positive side, someone was trailing a warm finger down his spine. He pushed himself up to lean his back against the wall and looked cautiously at her.
Cameron was sitting straight-backed and cross-legged, her hair spilling over her shoulders even more wildly than before. She'd put on her knickers and nothing else -- possibly because he'd been sleeping on her other clothes -- and she wordlessly offered him a wicker trash can and a wet washcloth, which he gratefully accepted. Her pupils were still huge and dark.
"How much did you take?" he asked, glancing sidelong at her as he cleaned himself.
"Two lines of meth," she said, reaching out a hand to run along his leg.
Perseverant behavior, he thought. She wasn't going to want to stop anytime soon. Hours, maybe. He'd be lucky to get any sleep at all.
"Did you take the ecstasy?"
She shook her head. One good thing, at least, though it might have helped her relax a bit. He touched her knee and spoke gently.
"I think you might have used a little too much methamphetamine," he said. "The first time always gives you the biggest rush, and..."
"Are you speaking from experience?" she snapped. She was scowling, but her hand was still stroking his calf.
"I'm just saying..." He sighed and looked down, letting his hair fall over his eyes. "Forget it."
He was going to regret this -- he knew that with the same dull certainty he always knew it. It wouldn't make the top five in his all-time list of Spectacular Robert Chase Screw-ups -- it might not even make the top five for the year -- but he'd be sorry later. Tomorrow, maybe. Right now, though, he felt... pretty good. Useful. Needed. And Cameron's fingers had wandered up his leg into interesting territory. He met her eyes and smiled.
"Look, don't you have a bed or something?"
He didn't manage to give her the hour-long orgasm she'd once mentioned, but he did get her off four more times -- a new record for him, though again you had to consider the meth -- in the time it took to use up the two remaining condoms.
Between the second and third times, she fell into a talking jag. At first, it was amusing.
"What does that mean -- 'women glow and men thunder'? It's dumb."
"'Women glow and men plunder,' not 'thunder'," he said. "And I've no idea. 'Chunder' means to puke, though."
Later, it was dull.
"His parents seemed really nice, though. Normal."
"Um-hmmm."
"He said his dad was like me, that he always tells the truth. As if it was something bad. Do you think there's something wrong with telling the truth?"
"Yes."
"He said his mother was nice, and she doesn't have much of a sense of humor, and... that she doesn't like conflict."
"Tough luck for her living with House, then."
"Wilson says he thinks they're disappointed in him."
Finally, it became unbearable.
"He doesn't know how lucky he is to have his parents alive and wanting to visit him."
"Hmm."
"Your father seems nice. Do you--"
He silenced her with his hands and his lips and the weight of his body. It was too bad he couldn't do that every time she was a pain in the ass.
Finally, painstakingly, he managed to lull her into a light doze. On his way out of her apartment, he scooped up the remaining drugs to flush down his own toilet.
He drove slowly home, not thinking of anything at all.
* * *
Cameron learned several things about Chase that night. He smiled a lot more when he was having sex than he did at work, though he talked even less. He was just as orally-fixated as ever; she'd probably have to wear turtlenecks for the next few days. He fell asleep after he came, every time, for twelve minutes. She'd timed it. And he was beautiful.
She's always known that Chase was cute, of course. Pretty. Sexy. Everyone knew that. But now she knew that he was beautiful -- his body, his smile. His eyes.
Not that that mattered.
She'd woken to find him sitting fully dressed on the edge of her bed, his hair shining in a beam from the streetlight outside her window. He was holding her wrist, taking her pulse.
"I need to go," he said. "Shower... change." She blinked, looking at her clock radio. 3:24 AM. He put her hand down and stood up, backing away slightly as he spoke.
"You should be all right. If anything feels weird, give me a call. Unless you get tachycardia, then call 9-1-1." She nodded, feeling like a clinic patient. Dr. Chase and his bedside manner.
"Try to get some rest. You probably shouldn't come in tomorrow until you've... slept it off. House will understand." He melted out the door with a farewell tilt of his head.
She snuggled under the covers and buried her face in the pillow, trying to recapture her dream. Something about... Wait. She frowned and opened her eyes. Of course she had to go in to work. She had to get Kalvin's test results. She sat up, drumming her fingers on the mattress. If he was negative for sarcoidosis...
Chase probably would take the day off if he were in her situation. Not that anything like this would ever happen to Chase. He was like... like a fish swimming through the weeds and corals, darting aside whenever anything threatened to touch him. Unconsciously, she rose and began tidying the room, putting away her drycleaning and organizing her dressing table, her mind racing. Her thoughts turned against her like a cornered animal. She'd been insane to think she could act like Chase -- take pleasure the way he did -- when she wasn't like him. It had taken her years to figure out how to deal with pain and loss. Maybe it wasn't everyone's way, but it was her way: face her own feelings, confront her fears, tell the truth, be the same person to everyone. It was either that or develop a hard shell and not feel anything at all. She couldn't give up her principles; they were the only thing she could depend on.
Chase was nice. But she couldn't respect him or trust him. He was lazy and self-centered. He slid by, using his charm and his money and his good looks and his quick, clever brain. Yes, it worked most of the time, but not always. It hadn't worked with the McGinley woman last summer. It hadn't worked with Vogler. It wasn't enough.
She might have continued cataloguing Chase's shortcomings for hours, if she hadn't wandered into the bathroom to hang up a towel and noticed some mildew on the grout.
By the time she got to work that morning, she was more than ten minutes late and she hadn't managed to tame her hair or fix her face. On the other hand, all the tile in her bathroom was sparkling clean. So was the bathroom mirror, and the cabinet under the sink, and the kitchen countertop and the top of her refrigerator.
She stepped into the elevator and stabbed the button, willing herself not to grind her teeth or tap her foot. Just as the doors were about to close they were pushed back by a cane and House was outlined against the morning light. For a moment she saw him as a stranger and he looked... old. Wrinkled and a bit flabby beneath his too-short cycling jacket, coarse compared to the smooth golden beauty of Chase. Then he stepped in and began speaking to her. His gravelly voice rumbled in her ears and she could feel his energy and his relentless intelligence and curiosity wrap around her like a garment. House. Yes.
And why the hell was he carrying a rat? Before she could find out, her restless attention was caught by the raised voice of the patient, Kalvin. She hurried to see what was wrong.
When she and House finally arrived at Diagnostics, Foreman and Chase were already there, watching them curiously as they came through the door. Chase was drinking coffee, looking completely -- and annoyingly -- normal. She met his eyes and he jerked his chin in a tiny nod of acknowledgement.
*
Nonverbal communication can be tricky. Different people can see the same gestures and interpret them differently. This was what passed between Cameron and Chase, as Cameron saw it:
"I'm fine, okay?"
"All right."
Foreman, distracted by the fact that they'd both arrived late, Cameron looking terrible and House inexplicably carrying a rat, missed the brief exchange.
This is what House saw:
"We've got a secret."
"Yes."
Steve McQueen, blinking against the brightness and the strong stink of coffee and marker fumes, also did not notice the interaction.
As for Chase, he understood the unspoken conversation rather like this:
"Thanks, mate."
"No worries."
* * *
Acknowledgements:
Characters, situations, and everything else belong to David Shore, Bryan Singer, Fox, Bad Hat, and associated powers-that-be. "Have you ever taken a life" from House MD 1.03 "Occam's Razor. Lyrics from "Down Under" by Men at Work.
Link to Part 1
No Regrets ~ Part 2
It's like throwing himself out of a helicopter onto a slope of virgin powder -- the roaring in his ears, the delicious inevitability, the sudden rush of speed. Cameron returns his kiss with painful ferocity, but he kisses back even harder, running his hands up her arms and crowding against her. She clutches at his bare back, her hands burning against his skin. His pelvis dances against hers, establishing the rhythm. He drives her backwards, his hands trying to touch her everywhere at once, his mouth meeting hers in every possible way, making up for months of deprivation in a desperate rush.
They fight for mastery. Cameron tries to pull him toward a door -- her bedroom? -- but he shoves her up against the nearest wall, needing to hold her still, needing more. She squirms, her hands fumbling at the fly of his jeans, and he pins her hips roughly with his.
"My turn now," he pants, pulling at her shirt with both hands. He shoves it up over her head and holds it there for a moment, looking at her, his right hand holding both her wrists and his left hand running down the side of her face, her neck, and her beautiful bare breast. He grins at her surprised expression, and then the need overcomes him and he grinds himself into her, kissing her again, letting go of her wrists so he can run his hands down her bare ribs and circle her delicate waist. She clutches at his butt and rubs her breasts against his chest, until he thinks he will explode inside his pants. Or die.
From nowhere, a memory falls into his mind, and he laughs out loud.
"Have you ever taken a life?" he asks her.
Cameron looks at him blankly, and he takes advantage of the moment to unsnap and unzip her trousers. Damned tight women's jeans -- in the time it takes for him to undo them and push them over her hips, she has his unfastened and they fall to the ground with his jocks. Their breathing is so loud he can barely hear the music; their heartbeats drown out the thumping of the sound system.
He finally has her jeans and knickers pushed down now, and she is naked and he is naked, and it feels like his whole life has been building to this moment. He drops his mouth to her breast and she moans and arches against him and scratches his back with her fingernails. Jesus. He's never actually had a woman do that before. But then, bad boy or not, he's never before had sex with a woman who was high on meth, which might explain it. Or maybe it's just a Cameron thing. It hurts, and he sucks harder on her nipple and grabs her ass with both hands. She pulls his head up and bites his bottom lip, and he can't remember being more turned on, ever.
He wants to take her against the wall, but her knees seem to be buckling and she's sliding down, her hands pulling insistently at his shoulders. He drops down to his knees without breaking the kiss and stops her with a growl when she tries to fall further. She glares back at him.
"Come on, then," she rasps, squeezing his biceps. He gropes for his jeans, which are still around one of his ankles, and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. With the same desperate deftness he uses with a trach kit or an epi, he pulls out the strip of three condoms he always carries, rips open one package, and rolls it on. She rocks frantically against him and he has to hold her still with one hand as he performs a quick testing caress with the other. She's not as wet as she should be considering the way she's whimpering and wiggling -- a side-effect of meth -- and he blesses the self-lubricating condom.
He positions himself against her, prepared to go slowly, but she grabs his wrist and tugs, and he ends up surging into her in one long control-threatening thrust. She is looking up at him with wide bold eyes, but he has to shut his own eyes and bury his mouth in her neck, trying to not-come, not-come, not-come as he pushes into her, using his hands to protect her from being slammed against the cold wall.
He's trying to remember what he knows about the effects of crystal meth on orgasmic response -- immediate climaxes for some users, and long-delayed ones for others -- when he realizes from the sounds she's making that Cameron -- thank you Mary, Mother of God! -- appears to be part of the first group and she's... just... on the edge. He sets her off by squeezing her bottom and giving her a high, extra-hard stroke, then pushes hard with his pelvic bone against hers until she stops quivering around him and he's free to stroke to his own climax and collapse sideways with her, boneless and panting on the bare wooden floor.
*
Chase woke up, realizing several things at once. On the negative side, the floor was very hard, the lights were too bright, the music Cameron was playing sucked, and he really needed to dispose of the condom. On the positive side, someone was trailing a warm finger down his spine. He pushed himself up to lean his back against the wall and looked cautiously at her.
Cameron was sitting straight-backed and cross-legged, her hair spilling over her shoulders even more wildly than before. She'd put on her knickers and nothing else -- possibly because he'd been sleeping on her other clothes -- and she wordlessly offered him a wicker trash can and a wet washcloth, which he gratefully accepted. Her pupils were still huge and dark.
"How much did you take?" he asked, glancing sidelong at her as he cleaned himself.
"Two lines of meth," she said, reaching out a hand to run along his leg.
Perseverant behavior, he thought. She wasn't going to want to stop anytime soon. Hours, maybe. He'd be lucky to get any sleep at all.
"Did you take the ecstasy?"
She shook her head. One good thing, at least, though it might have helped her relax a bit. He touched her knee and spoke gently.
"I think you might have used a little too much methamphetamine," he said. "The first time always gives you the biggest rush, and..."
"Are you speaking from experience?" she snapped. She was scowling, but her hand was still stroking his calf.
"I'm just saying..." He sighed and looked down, letting his hair fall over his eyes. "Forget it."
He was going to regret this -- he knew that with the same dull certainty he always knew it. It wouldn't make the top five in his all-time list of Spectacular Robert Chase Screw-ups -- it might not even make the top five for the year -- but he'd be sorry later. Tomorrow, maybe. Right now, though, he felt... pretty good. Useful. Needed. And Cameron's fingers had wandered up his leg into interesting territory. He met her eyes and smiled.
"Look, don't you have a bed or something?"
He didn't manage to give her the hour-long orgasm she'd once mentioned, but he did get her off four more times -- a new record for him, though again you had to consider the meth -- in the time it took to use up the two remaining condoms.
Between the second and third times, she fell into a talking jag. At first, it was amusing.
"What does that mean -- 'women glow and men thunder'? It's dumb."
"'Women glow and men plunder,' not 'thunder'," he said. "And I've no idea. 'Chunder' means to puke, though."
Later, it was dull.
"His parents seemed really nice, though. Normal."
"Um-hmmm."
"He said his dad was like me, that he always tells the truth. As if it was something bad. Do you think there's something wrong with telling the truth?"
"Yes."
"He said his mother was nice, and she doesn't have much of a sense of humor, and... that she doesn't like conflict."
"Tough luck for her living with House, then."
"Wilson says he thinks they're disappointed in him."
Finally, it became unbearable.
"He doesn't know how lucky he is to have his parents alive and wanting to visit him."
"Hmm."
"Your father seems nice. Do you--"
He silenced her with his hands and his lips and the weight of his body. It was too bad he couldn't do that every time she was a pain in the ass.
Finally, painstakingly, he managed to lull her into a light doze. On his way out of her apartment, he scooped up the remaining drugs to flush down his own toilet.
He drove slowly home, not thinking of anything at all.
* * *
Cameron learned several things about Chase that night. He smiled a lot more when he was having sex than he did at work, though he talked even less. He was just as orally-fixated as ever; she'd probably have to wear turtlenecks for the next few days. He fell asleep after he came, every time, for twelve minutes. She'd timed it. And he was beautiful.
She's always known that Chase was cute, of course. Pretty. Sexy. Everyone knew that. But now she knew that he was beautiful -- his body, his smile. His eyes.
Not that that mattered.
She'd woken to find him sitting fully dressed on the edge of her bed, his hair shining in a beam from the streetlight outside her window. He was holding her wrist, taking her pulse.
"I need to go," he said. "Shower... change." She blinked, looking at her clock radio. 3:24 AM. He put her hand down and stood up, backing away slightly as he spoke.
"You should be all right. If anything feels weird, give me a call. Unless you get tachycardia, then call 9-1-1." She nodded, feeling like a clinic patient. Dr. Chase and his bedside manner.
"Try to get some rest. You probably shouldn't come in tomorrow until you've... slept it off. House will understand." He melted out the door with a farewell tilt of his head.
She snuggled under the covers and buried her face in the pillow, trying to recapture her dream. Something about... Wait. She frowned and opened her eyes. Of course she had to go in to work. She had to get Kalvin's test results. She sat up, drumming her fingers on the mattress. If he was negative for sarcoidosis...
Chase probably would take the day off if he were in her situation. Not that anything like this would ever happen to Chase. He was like... like a fish swimming through the weeds and corals, darting aside whenever anything threatened to touch him. Unconsciously, she rose and began tidying the room, putting away her drycleaning and organizing her dressing table, her mind racing. Her thoughts turned against her like a cornered animal. She'd been insane to think she could act like Chase -- take pleasure the way he did -- when she wasn't like him. It had taken her years to figure out how to deal with pain and loss. Maybe it wasn't everyone's way, but it was her way: face her own feelings, confront her fears, tell the truth, be the same person to everyone. It was either that or develop a hard shell and not feel anything at all. She couldn't give up her principles; they were the only thing she could depend on.
Chase was nice. But she couldn't respect him or trust him. He was lazy and self-centered. He slid by, using his charm and his money and his good looks and his quick, clever brain. Yes, it worked most of the time, but not always. It hadn't worked with the McGinley woman last summer. It hadn't worked with Vogler. It wasn't enough.
She might have continued cataloguing Chase's shortcomings for hours, if she hadn't wandered into the bathroom to hang up a towel and noticed some mildew on the grout.
By the time she got to work that morning, she was more than ten minutes late and she hadn't managed to tame her hair or fix her face. On the other hand, all the tile in her bathroom was sparkling clean. So was the bathroom mirror, and the cabinet under the sink, and the kitchen countertop and the top of her refrigerator.
She stepped into the elevator and stabbed the button, willing herself not to grind her teeth or tap her foot. Just as the doors were about to close they were pushed back by a cane and House was outlined against the morning light. For a moment she saw him as a stranger and he looked... old. Wrinkled and a bit flabby beneath his too-short cycling jacket, coarse compared to the smooth golden beauty of Chase. Then he stepped in and began speaking to her. His gravelly voice rumbled in her ears and she could feel his energy and his relentless intelligence and curiosity wrap around her like a garment. House. Yes.
And why the hell was he carrying a rat? Before she could find out, her restless attention was caught by the raised voice of the patient, Kalvin. She hurried to see what was wrong.
When she and House finally arrived at Diagnostics, Foreman and Chase were already there, watching them curiously as they came through the door. Chase was drinking coffee, looking completely -- and annoyingly -- normal. She met his eyes and he jerked his chin in a tiny nod of acknowledgement.
*
Nonverbal communication can be tricky. Different people can see the same gestures and interpret them differently. This was what passed between Cameron and Chase, as Cameron saw it:
"I'm fine, okay?"
"All right."
Foreman, distracted by the fact that they'd both arrived late, Cameron looking terrible and House inexplicably carrying a rat, missed the brief exchange.
This is what House saw:
"We've got a secret."
"Yes."
Steve McQueen, blinking against the brightness and the strong stink of coffee and marker fumes, also did not notice the interaction.
As for Chase, he understood the unspoken conversation rather like this:
"Thanks, mate."
"No worries."
* * *
Acknowledgements:
Characters, situations, and everything else belong to David Shore, Bryan Singer, Fox, Bad Hat, and associated powers-that-be. "Have you ever taken a life" from House MD 1.03 "Occam's Razor. Lyrics from "Down Under" by Men at Work.