modes of perception
Title: modes of perception
Author: azuredamsel
Character/Paring: House/Cameron, Wilson/Cameron
Word Count: 1327
Rating: R
Prompt: 28. I wrote my feelings down in a rush/I didn't even check the spelling,/And closed the postcard of a painting/You are just another thing that I have yet to fathom,/Oooh you are just another thing I've yet to fathom. Maximo Park, Postcard of a Painting.
Summary: But that was months ago and today you need someone to touch you. You're not sure who.
Author's Notes: For backsexy. This turned into a huge experiment in syntax, which I guess is what happens when there's existentialism in the mix... If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I hope you enjoy. ♥
It is a question you are intensely concerned with. Neither can you know whether a person loves you. But sometimes you just have to believe or hope.
--Jostein Gaarder
You catch him looking at you a month before your fellowship ends. And you could swear there's something in his eyes. But you look away.
You cared about him for a while but he never noticed. And that's really all there is to it.
)(
There are six roses on your desk when you come back from clinic hours. Of course there's no note. (Wilson has always been good at lying to him, and you've gotten better.)
And you think -- six months and secret kisses in the storage closets. And Wilson becoming James or Jim or Jimmy. (Doctor when you're angry but then he fucks you hard and then he's James when you come.) You think something akin to stability or romance.
But just for a second.
)(
You're eating lunch with Wilson (always Wilson at work unless he's touching you) when he walks into the cafeteria.
(How long does it take, for a secret to shatter into a million pieces?)
You take a bite of your salad so you don't have to say anything. And you try to look bored.
He doesn't say hello. Maybe he just doesn't notice.
But then you feel the tap of his cane against your ankle as he walks by your booth.
When Wilson smiles at you, you wonder if stability is a synonym for something less. For less than a second.
(He doesn't look back.)
)(
This is how it started: You were leaving work the day he finally finished rehab. You smelled like smoke. (You think haze.) And you felt lost --
So maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise that Wilson asked you for dinner. Maybe. He made you forget about subtlety.
(Wilson had sat with you at lunch the day before and you'd made jokes about clinic patients. You're good at cliche.)
And he presses his fingers into the small of your back. And (of course) you're tired of smelling like smoke. So when he peels off your sweater and your camisole and your slacks, you start to feel clean.
And when he unclasps your bra and slides your panties down past your knees (you forget but there were probably kisses and endearments, whispers and moans twining around each other) you feel like something reborn.
In the morning you can still smell the smoke on your fingers. You don't wash it off.
)(
There's a postcard taped to the front of your locker. Something Impressionist. (You like Seraut better. Your mom took you to see it at the Art Institute when you were twelve and you tried to count all of the dots.)
You rip it off and turn it around.
"Who are you?"
It's his handwriting. (You think high school and Sophie's World.)
You open your locker and there are postcards stacked one on top of the other. Forty-eight postcards, one for each month you've worked for him.
And you wonder why it's taken him so fucking long to ask.
)(
Sometimes Wilson will ask you where you're going after your fellowship is done. And sometimes you think of different futures -- head of immunology at Hopkins, teaching at Northwestern. You never mention getting married and having kids.
You don't want to bring him into it. After three tries, the fourth is just as likely to be a failure. (Sometimes you wonder, if you had his baby, whether it would have blue or brown eyes. But usually you stop yourself.) You don't think too much about futility.
You're too busy saving the world.
)(
In the morning you stop at a Border's and pick up a copy of Sophie's World. And a hazelnut mocha, so it's not about him.
Maybe it is.
So you get to the office early (you'd told Wilson you were doing research) and you take out a ruler and open up the book and this is what you underline:
You don't think about the law of cause and effect or about modes of perception when you are in the middle of your first kiss.
You put a slip of paper on the page. You close the book and lay it on his desk. Because if he's going to figure you out he'd better have some big hints.
You sit at your desk and sip your mocha until you realize you're crying. And then you wipe the tears away before anyone can see. (You wonder whose perceptions matter the most.)
)(
In the beginning you used to be unreasonably terrified of screwing Wilson at work. That you'd scream or something and Cuddy (or Chase) would find you.
But that was months ago and today you need someone to touch you. You're not sure who. You see Wilson on your way to clinic hours. There's no file in his hand. So you rest your hand on his belt buckle, just for a minute, and hold out four fingers. (It's not like your codes have ever been very secret.)
He's waiting in Exam Room Four. He kisses you, but you're the one who undoes his tie and fucks him. You make him moan your name until it sounds like some kind of song. ('Allisonallisonallison' and you wonder if anyone can hear. And you sort of hope they can.)
This will disappear in a month. Or he might propose. You kiss him (gently, now) and pat your hair into place.
No one noticed you were missing. It's easier that way.
)(
Your beeper goes off half an hour before you're supposed to be done in the clinic.
It's him. You're not sure if you predicted this or not.
)(
Wilson hasn't moved into your apartment, and you haven't moved into his, not quite.
You like your yellow walls. But not the juxtaposition, him against them. It's not fate, just an accident.
(Something like that.)
Sometimes he'll fall asleep in your bed, and you'll wake up tangled around him. And. You like the way your skin looks against his.
The moonlight changes the color of your walls, just a little. Enough. And you think he could fit in. (You haven't decided what to do about the apartment.)
You're not sure if you're ready for any kind of perfection.
)(
He's waiting on the roof and you think. Predictable. In his sort of way, the threat of jumping off, or something. But he would land on two feet.
Always.
And he smiles, that old smirk you've seen for three years, eleven months, and two days. Maybe obsession is something like love. And you take a step towards him. Or maybe he takes a step. (It doesn't really matter. Steps and the minimizing of distance are what's essential here.)
And you're smiling up at him. You're always his damsel in distress.
And he's leaning down to kiss you. But. Wilson. (James, Jimmy, Doctor Jamesjamesjames.) Modes of perception.
You turn your face up towars him. Part your lips. Cause.
He kisses you (effect) and you think existentialism. How to account for this and your yellow walls and juxtaposition. Perfection and asymptotes and House's lips on your lips and his tongue running against your teeth. He tastes like smoke.
You lean against him. Even as you take a step away. And another.
Another Allison Cameron would be proud about breaking this kiss.
He looks at you like he doesn't know what to make of you. He doesn't know this Allison Cameron. Maybe he never knew an Allison Cameron that actually existed.
But you try anyway. "Gregory House?" (The formality is the most important part. You need to know you tried.)
"Cameron." (It doesn't sound like a song.) Wilson told you how he would wake him up with chromatic scales, after the third wife. And then he would switch to Fur Elise or the Moonlight Sonata, just for added banality.
"No."
And that's all there is to it.
)(
That night, Wilson shows up at your apartment and you're smoking a cigarette and you feel him sigh while he kisses you.
He pulls the ring from his pocket, anyway.
You say yes and think. Maybe.
When you wake up in the middle of the night, you wonder about painting the walls blue.
)(
On the last day of your fellowship, there's a Monet postcard taped to your locker.
"Goodbye," it says.
And you think it's strange that you don't cry. But it doesn't really feel like an ending.
That happened a long time ago.
Author: azuredamsel
Character/Paring: House/Cameron, Wilson/Cameron
Word Count: 1327
Rating: R
Prompt: 28. I wrote my feelings down in a rush/I didn't even check the spelling,/And closed the postcard of a painting/You are just another thing that I have yet to fathom,/Oooh you are just another thing I've yet to fathom. Maximo Park, Postcard of a Painting.
Summary: But that was months ago and today you need someone to touch you. You're not sure who.
Author's Notes: For backsexy. This turned into a huge experiment in syntax, which I guess is what happens when there's existentialism in the mix... If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I hope you enjoy. ♥
It is a question you are intensely concerned with. Neither can you know whether a person loves you. But sometimes you just have to believe or hope.
--Jostein Gaarder
You catch him looking at you a month before your fellowship ends. And you could swear there's something in his eyes. But you look away.
You cared about him for a while but he never noticed. And that's really all there is to it.
)(
There are six roses on your desk when you come back from clinic hours. Of course there's no note. (Wilson has always been good at lying to him, and you've gotten better.)
And you think -- six months and secret kisses in the storage closets. And Wilson becoming James or Jim or Jimmy. (Doctor when you're angry but then he fucks you hard and then he's James when you come.) You think something akin to stability or romance.
But just for a second.
)(
You're eating lunch with Wilson (always Wilson at work unless he's touching you) when he walks into the cafeteria.
(How long does it take, for a secret to shatter into a million pieces?)
You take a bite of your salad so you don't have to say anything. And you try to look bored.
He doesn't say hello. Maybe he just doesn't notice.
But then you feel the tap of his cane against your ankle as he walks by your booth.
When Wilson smiles at you, you wonder if stability is a synonym for something less. For less than a second.
(He doesn't look back.)
)(
This is how it started: You were leaving work the day he finally finished rehab. You smelled like smoke. (You think haze.) And you felt lost --
So maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise that Wilson asked you for dinner. Maybe. He made you forget about subtlety.
(Wilson had sat with you at lunch the day before and you'd made jokes about clinic patients. You're good at cliche.)
And he presses his fingers into the small of your back. And (of course) you're tired of smelling like smoke. So when he peels off your sweater and your camisole and your slacks, you start to feel clean.
And when he unclasps your bra and slides your panties down past your knees (you forget but there were probably kisses and endearments, whispers and moans twining around each other) you feel like something reborn.
In the morning you can still smell the smoke on your fingers. You don't wash it off.
)(
There's a postcard taped to the front of your locker. Something Impressionist. (You like Seraut better. Your mom took you to see it at the Art Institute when you were twelve and you tried to count all of the dots.)
You rip it off and turn it around.
"Who are you?"
It's his handwriting. (You think high school and Sophie's World.)
You open your locker and there are postcards stacked one on top of the other. Forty-eight postcards, one for each month you've worked for him.
And you wonder why it's taken him so fucking long to ask.
)(
Sometimes Wilson will ask you where you're going after your fellowship is done. And sometimes you think of different futures -- head of immunology at Hopkins, teaching at Northwestern. You never mention getting married and having kids.
You don't want to bring him into it. After three tries, the fourth is just as likely to be a failure. (Sometimes you wonder, if you had his baby, whether it would have blue or brown eyes. But usually you stop yourself.) You don't think too much about futility.
You're too busy saving the world.
)(
In the morning you stop at a Border's and pick up a copy of Sophie's World. And a hazelnut mocha, so it's not about him.
Maybe it is.
So you get to the office early (you'd told Wilson you were doing research) and you take out a ruler and open up the book and this is what you underline:
You don't think about the law of cause and effect or about modes of perception when you are in the middle of your first kiss.
You put a slip of paper on the page. You close the book and lay it on his desk. Because if he's going to figure you out he'd better have some big hints.
You sit at your desk and sip your mocha until you realize you're crying. And then you wipe the tears away before anyone can see. (You wonder whose perceptions matter the most.)
)(
In the beginning you used to be unreasonably terrified of screwing Wilson at work. That you'd scream or something and Cuddy (or Chase) would find you.
But that was months ago and today you need someone to touch you. You're not sure who. You see Wilson on your way to clinic hours. There's no file in his hand. So you rest your hand on his belt buckle, just for a minute, and hold out four fingers. (It's not like your codes have ever been very secret.)
He's waiting in Exam Room Four. He kisses you, but you're the one who undoes his tie and fucks him. You make him moan your name until it sounds like some kind of song. ('Allisonallisonallison' and you wonder if anyone can hear. And you sort of hope they can.)
This will disappear in a month. Or he might propose. You kiss him (gently, now) and pat your hair into place.
No one noticed you were missing. It's easier that way.
)(
Your beeper goes off half an hour before you're supposed to be done in the clinic.
It's him. You're not sure if you predicted this or not.
)(
Wilson hasn't moved into your apartment, and you haven't moved into his, not quite.
You like your yellow walls. But not the juxtaposition, him against them. It's not fate, just an accident.
(Something like that.)
Sometimes he'll fall asleep in your bed, and you'll wake up tangled around him. And. You like the way your skin looks against his.
The moonlight changes the color of your walls, just a little. Enough. And you think he could fit in. (You haven't decided what to do about the apartment.)
You're not sure if you're ready for any kind of perfection.
)(
He's waiting on the roof and you think. Predictable. In his sort of way, the threat of jumping off, or something. But he would land on two feet.
Always.
And he smiles, that old smirk you've seen for three years, eleven months, and two days. Maybe obsession is something like love. And you take a step towards him. Or maybe he takes a step. (It doesn't really matter. Steps and the minimizing of distance are what's essential here.)
And you're smiling up at him. You're always his damsel in distress.
And he's leaning down to kiss you. But. Wilson. (James, Jimmy, Doctor Jamesjamesjames.) Modes of perception.
You turn your face up towars him. Part your lips. Cause.
He kisses you (effect) and you think existentialism. How to account for this and your yellow walls and juxtaposition. Perfection and asymptotes and House's lips on your lips and his tongue running against your teeth. He tastes like smoke.
You lean against him. Even as you take a step away. And another.
Another Allison Cameron would be proud about breaking this kiss.
He looks at you like he doesn't know what to make of you. He doesn't know this Allison Cameron. Maybe he never knew an Allison Cameron that actually existed.
But you try anyway. "Gregory House?" (The formality is the most important part. You need to know you tried.)
"Cameron." (It doesn't sound like a song.) Wilson told you how he would wake him up with chromatic scales, after the third wife. And then he would switch to Fur Elise or the Moonlight Sonata, just for added banality.
"No."
And that's all there is to it.
)(
That night, Wilson shows up at your apartment and you're smoking a cigarette and you feel him sigh while he kisses you.
He pulls the ring from his pocket, anyway.
You say yes and think. Maybe.
When you wake up in the middle of the night, you wonder about painting the walls blue.
)(
On the last day of your fellowship, there's a Monet postcard taped to your locker.
"Goodbye," it says.
And you think it's strange that you don't cry. But it doesn't really feel like an ending.
That happened a long time ago.