the breakdown of metaphor (1/3)
Title: the breakdown of metaphor (1/3)
Author: azuredamsel
Pairings: House/Wilson, House/Cameron, Wilson/Cameron, House/Wilson/Cameron
Rating: R
Word Count: 1502
Summary: But you're wondering about that park bench. How many Dr. Camerons there are in the world. How many might be named Allison. And how many used to have a crush on you. All metaphors break down somewhere.
Notes: For fated_addiction, because she's lovely. There will be three parts from the perspective of all involved parties. I hope you enjoy. ♥
All metaphor breaks down somewhere. That is the beauty of it. It is touch and go with the metaphor, and until you have lived with it long enough you don't know where it is going. You don't know how much you can get out of it and when it will cease to yield.
--Robert Frost
You wonder briefly if this means it's the end of the world.
Wilson finds you in an empty exam room and asked you to take a vacation. Somewhere exotic. (Fiji, Greece, or Tokyo. Brasilia, he mentions, even Havana.)
You tell him you'd run away with Fidel and that you'd heard the song about turning Japanese one too many times.
You tell him Miami. South Beach.
You watch as he pictures the gay couples holding hands. (It's the sort of smile on his face.) The women in bikinis. (Wilson never can make up his mind.)
You think about the Everglades, because you've never managed to see an alligator close up. It's the kind of thing you should get around to at some point.
Wilson nods and then he kisses you. You get hard, right on cue, and he fucks you. (Cuddy doesn't realize she pays you for sex in the clinic.)
You decide you're going to buy him new ties in Miami, and then you're going to use them to tie him to the bed while you fuck him and fuck him and fuck him. You never said you weren't immature.
.
It's in the taxi to the airport that you see her name (maybe). Some bum gets off a bench, and there's an ad for an AIDS clinic: Drs. Schmitt, Cameron, and Jones. And you wonder if that's why Cuddy looked a little smug when you told her you were going to Miami. (She never did get around to having the baby. Eventually you stopped bringing it up.)
The air inside the cab is close and sticky and you can barely feel Wilson next to you until he crosses his left ankle over your right. And you think about fucking him right there, your tongue on his cock while he tries not to make a sound. (You always tell Wilson that he moans when he comes. It's worth it until he refuses to cook you breakfast.) But it's too hot in the cab and so predictable.
You put your hand on the front of his pants anyway. He's looking out the window (apparently palm trees still excite him) but you can feel that he's hard.
But you're wondering about that park bench. How many Dr. Camerons there are in the world. How many might be named Allison. And how many used to have a crush on you.
(When you call it a crush, the whole thing pops like a soap bubble.)
You unzip Wilson's fly and slip your hand into his boxers, and watch as his breath frosts the window glass despite the heat.
.
There's a phone book in the hotel room. Wilson falls asleep with his shirt unbuttoned. You ruffle his hair while you flip through the yellow pages.
Dr. Cameron is Allison Cameron.
There's a half-page ad and a toll-free number. It's just as hopeful as Cameron would have made it three years ago.
You almost thinks of her as "your" Cameron. It doesn't really matter.
Wilson snores a little, just over the sound of the air conditioning. And you think, what the hell, it's free.
You're pretty sure she knows you'd dial this number. Cameron was always such a little saint that sometimes you start thinking about her like she's some kind of goddess.
(Which makes her your goddess by implication.)
Someone picks up the phone. You're expecting a secretary or a nurse. Maybe Brenda relocated to Miami, or something, to work for Cameron.
But it's Allison Cameron on the phone and it's such a cliche. She even sounds happy, but you can hear the exhaustion in her voice.
"Hello, this is the Dade County AIDS clinic. This is Doctor Cameron, how may I help you?"
"Cameron." You're stuck on her name. (Your little goddess.)
"Is this--?"
"Cameron."
"House?"
"Didn't I teach you to make assumptions?" You're so, so good at being an ass.
"Sometimes." She kept the backbone after she left you. (She looked good standing up straight in your office. Like some kind of statue or light or something. An idol, your little goddess.)
"When are you done with work?"
"Why does it matter?" You taught her to be just a little too suspicious of you. (Jimmy starts snoring louder so you walk away from him and sit on the air conditioner in front of the window. Your ass starts to freeze, right on cue.)
"Because everything I ask matters. As a matter of course."
"You're in Princeton. Do you need a consult? I have a minute." You can hear voices in the background. She was never as good at lying as she thought.
"I'm in Miami. You don't have a minute." You hang up the phone. (Ass.)
It's way too easy to find her name in the phone book.
.
You leave Wilson a note, of course.
Jimmy--
I'm visiting Allison Cameron. Rent a car.
You close the door softly; he doesn't wake up. (You always find yourself over-simplifying him.)
By some quirk of fate, there's a cab waiting at the hotel door. The air conditioning works, but the car smells like smoke. Not that you mind. You could use a glass of scotch.
After you give the cabbie her address, you fall asleep until the cab stops somewhere in the Miami suburbs. Cameron's house is tiny and mustard yellow. (The walls in her old apartment were yellow, too.) Of course there are hurricane tiles on the roof, and a ficus tree in front of the house. Cameron has always been good at the cliches.
She doesn't answer the doorbell, but you figured she wouldn't be home. So you settle yourself (with the help of a hell of a lot of Vicodin) on her front porch and wait to see Allison Cameron for the first time in three years. (Thirty-six months. One hundred fifty six weeks. Days and days and days.) You stare at the leaves of the ficus tree and think about puzzles. If there are any new cases at the hospital. But Cuddy would've called.
The sun starts licking at the top of the door when she drives up in a used Honda Civic. You can't read her face -- it's not like you ever could. (The little goddess who could always royally fuck with your mind.) You wonder if she's found a boyfriend. It's not like she was in love with you when she left. But she's always been so good at being a martyr.
Cameron doesn't look surprised as she walks up to you. She just unlocks her door. She knows better than to offer you a hand. You pull yourself up and don't think about your right leg. Just about Allison Cameron. She's just as pale as she was in Jersey (you think alabaster) and there are violet half-circles under her eyes. Still a martyr. Always.
"You have a minute now," you tell her as you follow her into the sun room.
"Why are you here?" Her voice echoes a little off the tiles.
"Wilson." You inject a few thousand shades of meaning into the word.
"Oh." You can't tell what she's thinking; you can only see her ponytail. "So, are you two, you two?" She turns her face toward you. A little smile.
You say "yes." But then you lean forward and kiss her.
So you're not sure what that means. (And what, if she's your little goddess, that makes you. There's a lie in every cliche.) But you're sure it's simple and that the past three years have been leading up to this. Whatever it is.
She slides her tongue against your teeth. You're pretty sure that's an invitation.
(You want to make her moans echo around the sun room.) You accept.
.
You wake up in her bed when the doorbell rings and you know it's Wilson. But you let Allison pull on a tank top and shorts and run to the door.
Once she's run out (and you've stared at her ass) you pull on your boxers. If it's not Wilson (but you know it is), you can always play the disgruntled boyfriend. You're plenty intimidating for that.
You can hear his voice echoing in the sun room. "Allison?"
You'd forgotten that he called her by her first name. As if they were friends.
"James," she says. There's a smile in her voice, and something else. As if there's something between them. But you've always been suspicious.
And curious.
You limp over to the door and he's hugging her so that her tits squash against his stomach and suddenly you want want want this. You want him to lean down and kiss her and for his cock to brush against her clit and to watch while they come. Like some kind of god.
(Myths break when people stop believing in them.)
You realize that they're looking at you and that you're hard in pretty much the same instant. And you know they see, and this is why:
Because Cameron turns back to him with a delicious kind of languor and she stands on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to his. You see Wilson slip her some tongue. Watch as he works his hand under her tank top, his fingers on her nipples.
Sometimes you wonder about the end of the world. And if things (metaphors and cliches and political systems) break down like this.
With the beginnings of moans.
Author: azuredamsel
Pairings: House/Wilson, House/Cameron, Wilson/Cameron, House/Wilson/Cameron
Rating: R
Word Count: 1502
Summary: But you're wondering about that park bench. How many Dr. Camerons there are in the world. How many might be named Allison. And how many used to have a crush on you. All metaphors break down somewhere.
Notes: For fated_addiction, because she's lovely. There will be three parts from the perspective of all involved parties. I hope you enjoy. ♥
All metaphor breaks down somewhere. That is the beauty of it. It is touch and go with the metaphor, and until you have lived with it long enough you don't know where it is going. You don't know how much you can get out of it and when it will cease to yield.
--Robert Frost
You wonder briefly if this means it's the end of the world.
Wilson finds you in an empty exam room and asked you to take a vacation. Somewhere exotic. (Fiji, Greece, or Tokyo. Brasilia, he mentions, even Havana.)
You tell him you'd run away with Fidel and that you'd heard the song about turning Japanese one too many times.
You tell him Miami. South Beach.
You watch as he pictures the gay couples holding hands. (It's the sort of smile on his face.) The women in bikinis. (Wilson never can make up his mind.)
You think about the Everglades, because you've never managed to see an alligator close up. It's the kind of thing you should get around to at some point.
Wilson nods and then he kisses you. You get hard, right on cue, and he fucks you. (Cuddy doesn't realize she pays you for sex in the clinic.)
You decide you're going to buy him new ties in Miami, and then you're going to use them to tie him to the bed while you fuck him and fuck him and fuck him. You never said you weren't immature.
.
It's in the taxi to the airport that you see her name (maybe). Some bum gets off a bench, and there's an ad for an AIDS clinic: Drs. Schmitt, Cameron, and Jones. And you wonder if that's why Cuddy looked a little smug when you told her you were going to Miami. (She never did get around to having the baby. Eventually you stopped bringing it up.)
The air inside the cab is close and sticky and you can barely feel Wilson next to you until he crosses his left ankle over your right. And you think about fucking him right there, your tongue on his cock while he tries not to make a sound. (You always tell Wilson that he moans when he comes. It's worth it until he refuses to cook you breakfast.) But it's too hot in the cab and so predictable.
You put your hand on the front of his pants anyway. He's looking out the window (apparently palm trees still excite him) but you can feel that he's hard.
But you're wondering about that park bench. How many Dr. Camerons there are in the world. How many might be named Allison. And how many used to have a crush on you.
(When you call it a crush, the whole thing pops like a soap bubble.)
You unzip Wilson's fly and slip your hand into his boxers, and watch as his breath frosts the window glass despite the heat.
.
There's a phone book in the hotel room. Wilson falls asleep with his shirt unbuttoned. You ruffle his hair while you flip through the yellow pages.
Dr. Cameron is Allison Cameron.
There's a half-page ad and a toll-free number. It's just as hopeful as Cameron would have made it three years ago.
You almost thinks of her as "your" Cameron. It doesn't really matter.
Wilson snores a little, just over the sound of the air conditioning. And you think, what the hell, it's free.
You're pretty sure she knows you'd dial this number. Cameron was always such a little saint that sometimes you start thinking about her like she's some kind of goddess.
(Which makes her your goddess by implication.)
Someone picks up the phone. You're expecting a secretary or a nurse. Maybe Brenda relocated to Miami, or something, to work for Cameron.
But it's Allison Cameron on the phone and it's such a cliche. She even sounds happy, but you can hear the exhaustion in her voice.
"Hello, this is the Dade County AIDS clinic. This is Doctor Cameron, how may I help you?"
"Cameron." You're stuck on her name. (Your little goddess.)
"Is this--?"
"Cameron."
"House?"
"Didn't I teach you to make assumptions?" You're so, so good at being an ass.
"Sometimes." She kept the backbone after she left you. (She looked good standing up straight in your office. Like some kind of statue or light or something. An idol, your little goddess.)
"When are you done with work?"
"Why does it matter?" You taught her to be just a little too suspicious of you. (Jimmy starts snoring louder so you walk away from him and sit on the air conditioner in front of the window. Your ass starts to freeze, right on cue.)
"Because everything I ask matters. As a matter of course."
"You're in Princeton. Do you need a consult? I have a minute." You can hear voices in the background. She was never as good at lying as she thought.
"I'm in Miami. You don't have a minute." You hang up the phone. (Ass.)
It's way too easy to find her name in the phone book.
.
You leave Wilson a note, of course.
Jimmy--
I'm visiting Allison Cameron. Rent a car.
You close the door softly; he doesn't wake up. (You always find yourself over-simplifying him.)
By some quirk of fate, there's a cab waiting at the hotel door. The air conditioning works, but the car smells like smoke. Not that you mind. You could use a glass of scotch.
After you give the cabbie her address, you fall asleep until the cab stops somewhere in the Miami suburbs. Cameron's house is tiny and mustard yellow. (The walls in her old apartment were yellow, too.) Of course there are hurricane tiles on the roof, and a ficus tree in front of the house. Cameron has always been good at the cliches.
She doesn't answer the doorbell, but you figured she wouldn't be home. So you settle yourself (with the help of a hell of a lot of Vicodin) on her front porch and wait to see Allison Cameron for the first time in three years. (Thirty-six months. One hundred fifty six weeks. Days and days and days.) You stare at the leaves of the ficus tree and think about puzzles. If there are any new cases at the hospital. But Cuddy would've called.
The sun starts licking at the top of the door when she drives up in a used Honda Civic. You can't read her face -- it's not like you ever could. (The little goddess who could always royally fuck with your mind.) You wonder if she's found a boyfriend. It's not like she was in love with you when she left. But she's always been so good at being a martyr.
Cameron doesn't look surprised as she walks up to you. She just unlocks her door. She knows better than to offer you a hand. You pull yourself up and don't think about your right leg. Just about Allison Cameron. She's just as pale as she was in Jersey (you think alabaster) and there are violet half-circles under her eyes. Still a martyr. Always.
"You have a minute now," you tell her as you follow her into the sun room.
"Why are you here?" Her voice echoes a little off the tiles.
"Wilson." You inject a few thousand shades of meaning into the word.
"Oh." You can't tell what she's thinking; you can only see her ponytail. "So, are you two, you two?" She turns her face toward you. A little smile.
You say "yes." But then you lean forward and kiss her.
So you're not sure what that means. (And what, if she's your little goddess, that makes you. There's a lie in every cliche.) But you're sure it's simple and that the past three years have been leading up to this. Whatever it is.
She slides her tongue against your teeth. You're pretty sure that's an invitation.
(You want to make her moans echo around the sun room.) You accept.
.
You wake up in her bed when the doorbell rings and you know it's Wilson. But you let Allison pull on a tank top and shorts and run to the door.
Once she's run out (and you've stared at her ass) you pull on your boxers. If it's not Wilson (but you know it is), you can always play the disgruntled boyfriend. You're plenty intimidating for that.
You can hear his voice echoing in the sun room. "Allison?"
You'd forgotten that he called her by her first name. As if they were friends.
"James," she says. There's a smile in her voice, and something else. As if there's something between them. But you've always been suspicious.
And curious.
You limp over to the door and he's hugging her so that her tits squash against his stomach and suddenly you want want want this. You want him to lean down and kiss her and for his cock to brush against her clit and to watch while they come. Like some kind of god.
(Myths break when people stop believing in them.)
You realize that they're looking at you and that you're hard in pretty much the same instant. And you know they see, and this is why:
Because Cameron turns back to him with a delicious kind of languor and she stands on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to his. You see Wilson slip her some tongue. Watch as he works his hand under her tank top, his fingers on her nipples.
Sometimes you wonder about the end of the world. And if things (metaphors and cliches and political systems) break down like this.
With the beginnings of moans.