House fic: Child Psychology
For: no1_antielitist
Title: Child Psychology
Character(s)/Paring(s): House, Cameron, House/Cameron
Rating: Harmless
Word Count: 877
Prompt: House/Cameron//where he restricts her movement via cane.
Summary: A flashback to the vices of the playground. Cameron attempts to rationalize and House, House enjoys being annoying.
Author's Notes: All I can say is that I love having days off. I really love having days off. And four more days. <3
Irritation is too kind of a word. Infuriated is too obnoxiously strong. So somewhere, as per usual, Allison Cameron finds herself dealing with the restrictions of the extensive adjectives that she could apply to the ever-changing relationship she has with House. But this, this moment had to top it all.
In retrospect, the cane is privy to the kind of personality that is part of the extensive mystery of House. Dark, stained oak wood- Foreman and Chase have abused the ‘pimp’ cane joke one too many times- and flawless, an obvious edge in the endless abyss of his personality. Or something.
But right now, right now, she decides she’s more annoyed to indulge in anything reflective. Her voice is anything, but amused. “You’re an ass.”
The handle of the cane is curved around her hip, sneaking under the heavy starch of her lab coat. She alternates between glaring at him and staring at him dumbfounded because this is something, some breach of whatever safe distance that was laden between the two of them. But, thinking about it, even that thought was presumptuous and disillusioning. If there was one constant, any constant, she knew it was not to trust the equity of her relationship with House. Everything is too indefinite to be definite.
“I’m enjoying myself way too much,” he murmurs.
Obviously, she thinks.
He sits in one of the chairs by the door, his legs stretched out lazily in front of him. His amusement is clear, his childish sense of gloating is starting to rise and she still, still clings to a dissolving irritation and her own amusement rises to conflict.
Her response is dry. “Because this is really conducive to finishing your clinic hours.”
His snort fills the room and he tugs her forward, nearly causing her to stumble into him. He smirks again, staring up at her with a third thread, curiosity. “Do I ever do them?”
“No.”
“Then?”
She sticks to what she knows. The promise of getting involved in whatever rise of circumstance seems to be occurring is just not a good idea. But a part of her, a dormant part of her, seems to dwindle in it anyway.
“Let me reiterate the concept of how big of an ass you are at this moment,” she replies. Her sarcasm is as every bit as scathing as it is quiet and if he pushes- but she remains into keeping a constant of superficial control.
“Ooo.” His voice is daunting, a huff of amusement that dives into the unreadable. She should go, but she doesn’t move. The cane blocks any escape. “I like it when you get frisky.”
“And let me just say that you’re also terribly lucky,” she interjects, her fingers curling around the wood of the cane, “that I’m too tired to hit you right now.”
“Word for word, Cameron. Does this mean that-”
He seems to be daring her, or it could be her disillusioning herself again. If anything, her relationship with House was better described as an flux of seasons. Winter and fall were much safer- She winces at the indulgence of her own analogy.
“Finish that,” she warns, “with anything remotely sexual and I’ll find the energy to hit you with no problems, House. In fact, why don’t you- I’ll see what I can muster up.”
“Coffee.”
The word breaks into the room, a strange caress in the mix of the chaotic resolve that they seem to be falling into. Unbelievable, but she doesn’t finishes the thought.
She blinks. “What?”
She recognizes the invitation, but it doesn’t register. This a moment that is testament to the strangeness of their relationship, the pull and the push, the timeless and disregarded for the walls of protection that- at least with her- have been forced to be put up.
She tries to move, again, and with no success. She draws another smirk from him, at her discomfort and her daze, but then it fades. Because he watches her. Seriously and unbidden. A soft sigh slips from her lips.
“Coffee,” he says easily. He thinks her reaction is out of resignation. “You know the stuff that you make every morning. The stuff that’s the only thing drinkable in this place-”
She holds up her hand. “All right.”
“What?”
“All right,” she repeats.
She slips into the recourse of amusement, watching him with a strange sense of affection. He watches her, his eyes dark. She steadies her gaze with his as the struggle, a strange moment passes between them because she’s never been here before. Not like this. Perhaps, she finds herself musing. Perhaps this is finally the end result of all the things they seem to dance around. Maybe-
“That’s it?” His confusion cuts her thoughts off.
“That’s it.”
“That’s it,” he echoes. His lips curl into a lazy smirk, masking his obvious surprise. But she catches it. “You’re easy.”
She snorts. Her hands push the cane away and she steps forward, her fingers brushing against his. She peers down at him, still sitting and it never occurs to her that she’s close. Too close, but at some point it ceases to matter.
“No,” she murmurs, finally drifting back into amusement. Her lips graze his jaw. “You are.”
She leaves him like this.
finished.
Title: Child Psychology
Character(s)/Paring(s): House, Cameron, House/Cameron
Rating: Harmless
Word Count: 877
Prompt: House/Cameron//where he restricts her movement via cane.
Summary: A flashback to the vices of the playground. Cameron attempts to rationalize and House, House enjoys being annoying.
Author's Notes: All I can say is that I love having days off. I really love having days off. And four more days. <3
Irritation is too kind of a word. Infuriated is too obnoxiously strong. So somewhere, as per usual, Allison Cameron finds herself dealing with the restrictions of the extensive adjectives that she could apply to the ever-changing relationship she has with House. But this, this moment had to top it all.
In retrospect, the cane is privy to the kind of personality that is part of the extensive mystery of House. Dark, stained oak wood- Foreman and Chase have abused the ‘pimp’ cane joke one too many times- and flawless, an obvious edge in the endless abyss of his personality. Or something.
But right now, right now, she decides she’s more annoyed to indulge in anything reflective. Her voice is anything, but amused. “You’re an ass.”
The handle of the cane is curved around her hip, sneaking under the heavy starch of her lab coat. She alternates between glaring at him and staring at him dumbfounded because this is something, some breach of whatever safe distance that was laden between the two of them. But, thinking about it, even that thought was presumptuous and disillusioning. If there was one constant, any constant, she knew it was not to trust the equity of her relationship with House. Everything is too indefinite to be definite.
“I’m enjoying myself way too much,” he murmurs.
Obviously, she thinks.
He sits in one of the chairs by the door, his legs stretched out lazily in front of him. His amusement is clear, his childish sense of gloating is starting to rise and she still, still clings to a dissolving irritation and her own amusement rises to conflict.
Her response is dry. “Because this is really conducive to finishing your clinic hours.”
His snort fills the room and he tugs her forward, nearly causing her to stumble into him. He smirks again, staring up at her with a third thread, curiosity. “Do I ever do them?”
“No.”
“Then?”
She sticks to what she knows. The promise of getting involved in whatever rise of circumstance seems to be occurring is just not a good idea. But a part of her, a dormant part of her, seems to dwindle in it anyway.
“Let me reiterate the concept of how big of an ass you are at this moment,” she replies. Her sarcasm is as every bit as scathing as it is quiet and if he pushes- but she remains into keeping a constant of superficial control.
“Ooo.” His voice is daunting, a huff of amusement that dives into the unreadable. She should go, but she doesn’t move. The cane blocks any escape. “I like it when you get frisky.”
“And let me just say that you’re also terribly lucky,” she interjects, her fingers curling around the wood of the cane, “that I’m too tired to hit you right now.”
“Word for word, Cameron. Does this mean that-”
He seems to be daring her, or it could be her disillusioning herself again. If anything, her relationship with House was better described as an flux of seasons. Winter and fall were much safer- She winces at the indulgence of her own analogy.
“Finish that,” she warns, “with anything remotely sexual and I’ll find the energy to hit you with no problems, House. In fact, why don’t you- I’ll see what I can muster up.”
“Coffee.”
The word breaks into the room, a strange caress in the mix of the chaotic resolve that they seem to be falling into. Unbelievable, but she doesn’t finishes the thought.
She blinks. “What?”
She recognizes the invitation, but it doesn’t register. This a moment that is testament to the strangeness of their relationship, the pull and the push, the timeless and disregarded for the walls of protection that- at least with her- have been forced to be put up.
She tries to move, again, and with no success. She draws another smirk from him, at her discomfort and her daze, but then it fades. Because he watches her. Seriously and unbidden. A soft sigh slips from her lips.
“Coffee,” he says easily. He thinks her reaction is out of resignation. “You know the stuff that you make every morning. The stuff that’s the only thing drinkable in this place-”
She holds up her hand. “All right.”
“What?”
“All right,” she repeats.
She slips into the recourse of amusement, watching him with a strange sense of affection. He watches her, his eyes dark. She steadies her gaze with his as the struggle, a strange moment passes between them because she’s never been here before. Not like this. Perhaps, she finds herself musing. Perhaps this is finally the end result of all the things they seem to dance around. Maybe-
“That’s it?” His confusion cuts her thoughts off.
“That’s it.”
“That’s it,” he echoes. His lips curl into a lazy smirk, masking his obvious surprise. But she catches it. “You’re easy.”
She snorts. Her hands push the cane away and she steps forward, her fingers brushing against his. She peers down at him, still sitting and it never occurs to her that she’s close. Too close, but at some point it ceases to matter.
“No,” she murmurs, finally drifting back into amusement. Her lips graze his jaw. “You are.”
She leaves him like this.
finished.