House fic: a series of unending discussions on the mechanics of discourse 1/1
Title: a series of unending discussions on the mechanics of discourse
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: House, Cameron, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1349
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: TB or not TB. ♥
Summary: You don’t know what you’re looking for. A glimpse of leg, a slip of fabric- there’s a list in your head but touching it, means touching her. And you’ve got your ghosts, here and alive. A limb and a woman, your ode to the mother-fucking foundation of god and religion and whichever category that they fit under.
Author's Notes: For gabesaunt. ♥
It was like so, but wasn't.
Richard Powers, Galatea 2.2 (1995)
You’re an asshole. But you have the girl. (Grand, grand illusions, moron.)
You wonder about myth and whether or not paternity tests are on again on Maury because you’d really like to watch it. You’re not in the mood to read about Lindsay Lohan in the Star (Nurse-fucking-Brenda needs better taste in tabloids). But you sit. Because it’s motion and there’s motion you can afford.
You have the girl, you repeat. In your head. Because people already think you’re crazy and there’s no need to make them smug assholes on top of that. (You’re the asshole on the top of the food chain, here.)
You don’t like her. And by all laws of the universe, she should hate your fucking guts. Because that’s how it works. And, if you think about it, you’ve been an even bigger asshole to her than most people. And she took it. For the most part.
You used to think she liked puppies. And fluffy kitties. You could toss in a couple metaphors and move on- the point is, you used to think a lot of things. Because assumptions are easier. (And you like pissing her off.)
But she isn’t like that. You’ve seen nine different sides of Allison Cameron. Some of it is due to coincidence (fuck you, you take what you can) and most of it is just incidental. But you take and you watch. Because she’s the only one that you haven’t figured out.
The thing is, she continues to evade you like a pro.
You let your fingers slide against the frame of your desk, cool metal against your skin. You can hear her in the other room. It’s late. But she’s sorting mail because she didn’t do it this morning.
(You don’t have to do it, Stacy told her. It’s like nine counts of sexual harassment and sexism. It’s Allison that breathes and shakes her head because she’s the one in the world that Stacy doesn’t understand. Everybody needs a routine.)
You can’t help yourself. “No dinner with Dr. Dipshit?”
There’s a snort of amusement in the other room. But no answer. You listen. Because it’s easier to listen, listen hard and well. There’s a click. Taps- keyboard. You hear a rustle of paper and fabric and can almost see her, glasses perched on her nose tossing things into piles. There’s always a lot of crap in the trashcan anyhow.
“Come on,” you say. “Indulge a little. We used to be such good friends.”
There’s a smile in her voice, but you can’t tell the color. And even if you could, it would be-
“I hate seafood,” is all she says.
And then she’s at the door, leaning against the frame. You watch her fingers brush against the hem of her skirt, cursing silently as they skim (briefly) her thigh. You breathe and there’s how’s this for fucking humanity? as you think about Stacy. And Mark. And the things that your curiosity damns you to.
Most things are about a point.
But she’s here. And you can’t pick a fucking point.
You think it’s because maybe she’s been here all along and maybe there’s no sidestepping any of this. Which fucking sucks, speaking of coincidence, because you know Stacy is going to leave. And she’s still going to be here.
“He’ll ask you again.” You want her to know that you know. You know that he’s trying to take her away from this (she’s an asset to any game) and you know she’s amused and nothing more than that.
“I like snow. And showers.”
It’s a marvel, indirectly. That she knows that you know. And you know that she knows. Because time (a bitch) has give the two of you a series of moments that neither of you know what to do with. Or rather, you don’t. Forgetting her for the moment has cost you. It was a lousy plan.
Your fingers curl. There’s a bottle of scotch in your bottom drawer. Waiting for you. (But you’ve got cigars at home and Christ, it’s a day for a good cigar.)
“Sit.”
She blinks. “Why-”
She’s already going to the chair across from you, but you shake your head. You pat the spot on the desk in front of you, pushing a pile of journals off and watching them as they crash to the floor. She snorts. You smirk.
“Seriously?”
The smirk stays, lazy and amused. “Seriously,” you pause and dig- because you are you- since it’s all about the methodology. “Unless, you want to go and hold Sebastian’s hand on his last night here.”
She rolls her eyes, watching you as you pull the bottle of scotch out and slam it against your desk. You wait for her reaction (you live for them) and she doesn’t disappoint, her fingers brushing against the cap.
“I’m not going to get drunk with you,” she says quietly. (You’re getting predictable.)
You snort. And maybe you’re not disappointed. (You are, you’re a bastard. Time for the vocabulary change.)
“You should.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I really shouldn’t.”
You don’t know what you’re looking for. A glimpse of leg, a slip of fabric- there’s a list in your head but touching it, means touching her. And you’ve got your ghosts, here and alive. A limb and a woman, your ode to the mother-fucking foundation of god and religion and whichever category that they fit under.
You’re an asshole. So the dig, the next one, isn’t a surprise to her. (You’re more surprised that she doesn’t leave yet.)
“What’s the matter? Scared?” Your voice is bland and you’re half-assing it. You know you’re half-assing it. You just don’t know what to do with her anymore. What number is this last ditch effort?
“No.”
You don’t know what to do with this kind of honesty, slow and there. Because you don’t expect it. And she knows you don’t. There’s something more to all of this. You hate it all. You just need something to understand.
She shakes her head. And you don’t stop her when she moves, the rustle of her skirt against the metal of your desk. You watch her, you watch her for a slip up- but she’s good. She’s learned.
And you just want something to believe. She has to be that one.
“Goodnight,” she offers.
You say nothing. Because it’ll cost you. Instead you stand wince, moving to her and to the frame of the door. You block her exit, your gaze falling to the desk that she uses (it’s really hers). The mail is stacked and done. Filing is finished. Her long red coat is draped over the chair-
You can’t let her go yet. Don’t know.
Your fingers brush against the line of her jaw, her eyes going a little wide and then wider. (You press against her. You have to because there’s pain.) Because this, this is the first invasion of space. You think about kissing her. But you shouldn’t, your hand cupping her jaw.
“I’m going to be a moron,” you murmur.
She says nothing. (You hate her silence.) And it becomes, here and now, your mission to get one reaction before she goes.
You kiss her.
You kiss her and there’s a warning screaming in the back of your head. But her lips are warm and wet and so fucking pliable that you ignore it a little too easily. Your tongue sweeps along her bottom lip and into her mouth. There’s a moan (She’s lapping away at the inside of your mouth and Christ, you start to think about her on her knees-). And you feel her fingers curl in the lapels of your jacket.
You drown her in weight. And she swallows you in sensation. Because this, this can’t happen again. You have a point to prove and this-
She leaves you first.
Breathing, you watch her slide away from you. And you know, you know you can have the girl. That she’s here. Right here.
“Night,” you offer. Because you’re an ass.
But she says nothing.
She’s a smart girl. Your girl.
∅
end.
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: House, Cameron, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1349
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: TB or not TB. ♥
Summary: You don’t know what you’re looking for. A glimpse of leg, a slip of fabric- there’s a list in your head but touching it, means touching her. And you’ve got your ghosts, here and alive. A limb and a woman, your ode to the mother-fucking foundation of god and religion and whichever category that they fit under.
Author's Notes: For gabesaunt. ♥
It was like so, but wasn't.
Richard Powers, Galatea 2.2 (1995)
You’re an asshole. But you have the girl. (Grand, grand illusions, moron.)
You wonder about myth and whether or not paternity tests are on again on Maury because you’d really like to watch it. You’re not in the mood to read about Lindsay Lohan in the Star (Nurse-fucking-Brenda needs better taste in tabloids). But you sit. Because it’s motion and there’s motion you can afford.
You have the girl, you repeat. In your head. Because people already think you’re crazy and there’s no need to make them smug assholes on top of that. (You’re the asshole on the top of the food chain, here.)
You don’t like her. And by all laws of the universe, she should hate your fucking guts. Because that’s how it works. And, if you think about it, you’ve been an even bigger asshole to her than most people. And she took it. For the most part.
You used to think she liked puppies. And fluffy kitties. You could toss in a couple metaphors and move on- the point is, you used to think a lot of things. Because assumptions are easier. (And you like pissing her off.)
But she isn’t like that. You’ve seen nine different sides of Allison Cameron. Some of it is due to coincidence (fuck you, you take what you can) and most of it is just incidental. But you take and you watch. Because she’s the only one that you haven’t figured out.
The thing is, she continues to evade you like a pro.
You let your fingers slide against the frame of your desk, cool metal against your skin. You can hear her in the other room. It’s late. But she’s sorting mail because she didn’t do it this morning.
(You don’t have to do it, Stacy told her. It’s like nine counts of sexual harassment and sexism. It’s Allison that breathes and shakes her head because she’s the one in the world that Stacy doesn’t understand. Everybody needs a routine.)
You can’t help yourself. “No dinner with Dr. Dipshit?”
There’s a snort of amusement in the other room. But no answer. You listen. Because it’s easier to listen, listen hard and well. There’s a click. Taps- keyboard. You hear a rustle of paper and fabric and can almost see her, glasses perched on her nose tossing things into piles. There’s always a lot of crap in the trashcan anyhow.
“Come on,” you say. “Indulge a little. We used to be such good friends.”
There’s a smile in her voice, but you can’t tell the color. And even if you could, it would be-
“I hate seafood,” is all she says.
And then she’s at the door, leaning against the frame. You watch her fingers brush against the hem of her skirt, cursing silently as they skim (briefly) her thigh. You breathe and there’s how’s this for fucking humanity? as you think about Stacy. And Mark. And the things that your curiosity damns you to.
Most things are about a point.
But she’s here. And you can’t pick a fucking point.
You think it’s because maybe she’s been here all along and maybe there’s no sidestepping any of this. Which fucking sucks, speaking of coincidence, because you know Stacy is going to leave. And she’s still going to be here.
“He’ll ask you again.” You want her to know that you know. You know that he’s trying to take her away from this (she’s an asset to any game) and you know she’s amused and nothing more than that.
“I like snow. And showers.”
It’s a marvel, indirectly. That she knows that you know. And you know that she knows. Because time (a bitch) has give the two of you a series of moments that neither of you know what to do with. Or rather, you don’t. Forgetting her for the moment has cost you. It was a lousy plan.
Your fingers curl. There’s a bottle of scotch in your bottom drawer. Waiting for you. (But you’ve got cigars at home and Christ, it’s a day for a good cigar.)
“Sit.”
She blinks. “Why-”
She’s already going to the chair across from you, but you shake your head. You pat the spot on the desk in front of you, pushing a pile of journals off and watching them as they crash to the floor. She snorts. You smirk.
“Seriously?”
The smirk stays, lazy and amused. “Seriously,” you pause and dig- because you are you- since it’s all about the methodology. “Unless, you want to go and hold Sebastian’s hand on his last night here.”
She rolls her eyes, watching you as you pull the bottle of scotch out and slam it against your desk. You wait for her reaction (you live for them) and she doesn’t disappoint, her fingers brushing against the cap.
“I’m not going to get drunk with you,” she says quietly. (You’re getting predictable.)
You snort. And maybe you’re not disappointed. (You are, you’re a bastard. Time for the vocabulary change.)
“You should.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I really shouldn’t.”
You don’t know what you’re looking for. A glimpse of leg, a slip of fabric- there’s a list in your head but touching it, means touching her. And you’ve got your ghosts, here and alive. A limb and a woman, your ode to the mother-fucking foundation of god and religion and whichever category that they fit under.
You’re an asshole. So the dig, the next one, isn’t a surprise to her. (You’re more surprised that she doesn’t leave yet.)
“What’s the matter? Scared?” Your voice is bland and you’re half-assing it. You know you’re half-assing it. You just don’t know what to do with her anymore. What number is this last ditch effort?
“No.”
You don’t know what to do with this kind of honesty, slow and there. Because you don’t expect it. And she knows you don’t. There’s something more to all of this. You hate it all. You just need something to understand.
She shakes her head. And you don’t stop her when she moves, the rustle of her skirt against the metal of your desk. You watch her, you watch her for a slip up- but she’s good. She’s learned.
And you just want something to believe. She has to be that one.
“Goodnight,” she offers.
You say nothing. Because it’ll cost you. Instead you stand wince, moving to her and to the frame of the door. You block her exit, your gaze falling to the desk that she uses (it’s really hers). The mail is stacked and done. Filing is finished. Her long red coat is draped over the chair-
You can’t let her go yet. Don’t know.
Your fingers brush against the line of her jaw, her eyes going a little wide and then wider. (You press against her. You have to because there’s pain.) Because this, this is the first invasion of space. You think about kissing her. But you shouldn’t, your hand cupping her jaw.
“I’m going to be a moron,” you murmur.
She says nothing. (You hate her silence.) And it becomes, here and now, your mission to get one reaction before she goes.
You kiss her.
You kiss her and there’s a warning screaming in the back of your head. But her lips are warm and wet and so fucking pliable that you ignore it a little too easily. Your tongue sweeps along her bottom lip and into her mouth. There’s a moan (She’s lapping away at the inside of your mouth and Christ, you start to think about her on her knees-). And you feel her fingers curl in the lapels of your jacket.
You drown her in weight. And she swallows you in sensation. Because this, this can’t happen again. You have a point to prove and this-
She leaves you first.
Breathing, you watch her slide away from you. And you know, you know you can have the girl. That she’s here. Right here.
“Night,” you offer. Because you’re an ass.
But she says nothing.
She’s a smart girl. Your girl.
∅
end.