House fic: he knows his lies by the stain of her lips 1/1
Title: he knows his lies by the stain of her lips
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: House, Cameron, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1576
Rating: R
Spoilers: Pre-Meaning. ♥
Summary: He stares at his leg most of the time, his fingers curling around the curve of his thigh and sliding up and down his skin. Motion is erotic and coarse and he can’t help but wonder if things are actually going to change this time.
Author's Notes: For ladybugkoozl. ♥
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
Samuel Beckett, Murphy (1938)
∅
When the summer smells like the nearly dead and dying, he reads Joyce and starts to scan the New York Times headlines. Because therapy is shit and boring.
He stares at his leg most of the time, his fingers curling around the curve of his thigh and sliding up and down his skin. Motion is erotic and coarse and he can’t help but wonder if things are actually going to change this time.
This time. There’s no such thing as a next time.
So he goes running.
∅
She runs on routine.
Everyday at six with the echoes of Madonna singing are you ready to jump? and the hum of the lawnmowers as her soundtrack. This is her time. Her only time. Her thoughts wander and twists in nooses- she never takes them- and she runs hard.
It’s strangely easier to breathe, here and now and like this. Because these are her moments. And the soundtrack switch in her head makes better sense.
June, she decides to move closer to the hospital.
She sees him on the third week.
∅
He stops so that she doesn’t see him, standing next to a bench and pressing his fingers to his neck to measure his pulse.
It sings: push, push, push and he’s okay with that.
But at the moment, he allows himself the distraction. Watching her as she passes him. (She saw him.) He admires her like an old habit, from a far, far distance. Her legs are long and kissed with a slide of color. And he’s got to stop, stop now because the unattainable can be possible.
If he lets it. One thing at a time.
There’s always some point to be proved.
∅
“Are you stalking me, Cameron?”
She snorts softly, leaning against the hood of her car and tying her shoes. She shields her eyes, meeting his gaze and watching his movements. There’s never been anything choppy about them. Flawless to the point of pain.
Her eyes close. And then open. “Yes,” she deadpans. “And I’m about to burst into tears because I left my disposal camera at home. There goes the efforts for the shrine.”
There’s a chuckle (she thinks) and he shifts, leaning against the hood of the car with her. She raises an eyebrow and he shrugs.
“You live across town.”
“Lived,” she corrects softly. “Neighborhood was getting iffy.”
He seems satisfied. And for the moment she’s glad. It’s about knowing and not knowing how to deal with him. Maybe she’s just not ready.
“Ah,” is all he says.
He doesn’t ask her to run with him (for a moment, though, she wants to watch). And she doesn’t offer, going in the other direction.
∅
He’s not waiting for her. And he’s not watching her either.
He sits on the edge of the bench, waiting for signs of life in the parking lot. He hates the early crowd because these are the people that enjoy what they do. And he doesn’t want to be reminded. (He is the skeptic. This could all go away soon.)
When he sees her though, he stands and twists the ear buds of his iPod around his fingers. He waits for a wince. But nothing’s there. And maybe, maybe he can push a little more today.
“Hey,” he calls.
She looks up, throwing something into her car. She’s cut her hair. And he watches her curiously. Summer and changes, dead and dying- in theory, a lot of this is all the same. He’s reading a lot of philosophy again (after the scotch, of course).
“Hello.”
He doesn’t like that he can’t see her eyes, the dark strands of hair sweeping over them. Her eyes are the most telling part of her. Or maybe this is the stuff he’d like to admit in his head. But doesn’t. Because this shit costs him. And he’s already lost a lot.
“Come on.” This is not an invitation.
Her lips quirk. And she shakes her head. “All right.”
He won’t admit. But he likes that she keeps up.
∅
She never says anything when he pushes himself. And she’ll never admit she likes watching him.
It’s strange, sharing a routine. There’s an intimacy, or rather, they’re defining a string that makes up the complexity between them. A small part. But a part nonetheless. She gets to have this side of him. And she reminds herself every day.
She never ask what he thinks. She’s a smart girl.
She rolls her eyes when he snatches her iPod, muttering that she’s such a girl when he flips over her music selection. Because it’s all rather Victorian, their relationship, two different spheres that seem to want to clash together. (They’ve been avoiding this too long.)
“We should fix this,” he says as they take off towards the sidewalk. (They’ll stretch first. And she’ll laugh because he makes sure she sees him watching her ass.) “Your music sucks.”
“It does not.”
He smirks and she watches, almost in awe, as his fingers slide around his thigh and smooth against his shorts. Sometimes she studies the motion. Sometimes she looks away (has to because she starts to blush). But there’s something about the motion. Something erotic and tangible and real.
“Does too,” he murmurs in amusement, snorting when she grabs her iPod away from him. “It sucks big time.”
She blinks. Because she hears something, leaning against the frame of a bench and stretching her legs. But she humors him all the same.
“Then what do you propose?”
She starts to fall again, and fall hard, when he looks at her like this and like she’s the only who’ll get him in the moment. “Intervention.”
She grins.
∅
He doesn’t run the next day, Saturday, and tells his physical therapist to suck it in French and then lies and tells her that it means that he’s not up to it.
He’s more fascinated that she’s six blocks away, in an old Victorian home, and looking like she belongs where she is. He marvels, privately, at her element. Because he doesn’t know where to begin, figuring her out, and maybe it’s better this way. It’s a painting and then it’s not- there’s a secret here that he’s not supposed to figure out. Because she has to want to tell him.
“Nice place,” he greets when she lets him in.
Her hair is wet and curled at the ends, kissing her neck as she moves back and then steps around him to shut the door.
“Thanks.”
Their conversation is minimalist at best and he doesn’t mind it because there’s an unspoken necessity to the minimalism. He likes words, but only if he can use them. (The silence scares the fucking hell out of him, but he deals.)
She watches him and he shrugs because they’re going to go downtown- although, he hasn’t got a fucking clue to why he told her he was going to take her. One of life’s stupid mysteries, he guesses.
She murmurs something about throwing a pair of jeans on and he sneers and tells her that they better be low-rise. She leaves him with a husky chuckle and the open space of her living room.
There are books and pictures, flowers and color. He can’t imagine Cameron without the color (or maybe it’s Allison, but he doesn’t know what to do with Allison) and starts to wander along the shelves, his fingers brushing against the spines of her books.
He pinpoints parents and friends in photos. And he looks for that one photo, the necessity of satisfying curiosity, but doesn’t find it. He wants to think good for her, but he doesn’t do those things so why bother, in the end.
But when he hears footsteps, he hurls the question at her anyway. Just to see if her exorcisms are as good as he thinks they are.
“What was his name?”
She’s quiet. “Danny.”
There was no hesitation.
∅
“You are not buying Modern English.”
Her laughter is husky as she ducks away from him, gripping the CD. He’s got two in his hand, his funding project for improving your shitty music collection. She’ll never tell him that she doesn’t mind the Stones. Or Clapton. Or that she thinks it’s unbelievably funny when he starts talking about his sworn loathing of the eighties- what he can remember, he tells her.
“Are you paying?” She shoots back.
His fingers curl around her wrist and he towers over her, eyes watching her in amusement. He pries the CD out of her hand- she stifles another laugh- and drops it in a random section with a smirk.
He nods. His answer is late. “I am.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You don’t-”
His hand is on her jaw and his fingers brush against her skin. At some point, she stops breathing and forgets the argument.
“Shut up, Cameron,” he murmurs. “It’s just thirty bucks.”
And he kisses her.
∅
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
He thinks about rites of passage. And maybe, just maybe this is his years too-fucking late. But he’s okay with it. For now- it’ll get to the point where he’ll obsess- and he’ll take the for now.
So he grabs her again, lips bruised and wet, and presses her against the ledge of CDs. His fingers tangle in her hair, the curls twisting around his fingers. And his mouth, simply, slides over hers.
Because he can.
∅
end.
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: House, Cameron, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1576
Rating: R
Spoilers: Pre-Meaning. ♥
Summary: He stares at his leg most of the time, his fingers curling around the curve of his thigh and sliding up and down his skin. Motion is erotic and coarse and he can’t help but wonder if things are actually going to change this time.
Author's Notes: For ladybugkoozl. ♥
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
Samuel Beckett, Murphy (1938)
∅
When the summer smells like the nearly dead and dying, he reads Joyce and starts to scan the New York Times headlines. Because therapy is shit and boring.
He stares at his leg most of the time, his fingers curling around the curve of his thigh and sliding up and down his skin. Motion is erotic and coarse and he can’t help but wonder if things are actually going to change this time.
This time. There’s no such thing as a next time.
So he goes running.
∅
She runs on routine.
Everyday at six with the echoes of Madonna singing are you ready to jump? and the hum of the lawnmowers as her soundtrack. This is her time. Her only time. Her thoughts wander and twists in nooses- she never takes them- and she runs hard.
It’s strangely easier to breathe, here and now and like this. Because these are her moments. And the soundtrack switch in her head makes better sense.
June, she decides to move closer to the hospital.
She sees him on the third week.
∅
He stops so that she doesn’t see him, standing next to a bench and pressing his fingers to his neck to measure his pulse.
It sings: push, push, push and he’s okay with that.
But at the moment, he allows himself the distraction. Watching her as she passes him. (She saw him.) He admires her like an old habit, from a far, far distance. Her legs are long and kissed with a slide of color. And he’s got to stop, stop now because the unattainable can be possible.
If he lets it. One thing at a time.
There’s always some point to be proved.
∅
“Are you stalking me, Cameron?”
She snorts softly, leaning against the hood of her car and tying her shoes. She shields her eyes, meeting his gaze and watching his movements. There’s never been anything choppy about them. Flawless to the point of pain.
Her eyes close. And then open. “Yes,” she deadpans. “And I’m about to burst into tears because I left my disposal camera at home. There goes the efforts for the shrine.”
There’s a chuckle (she thinks) and he shifts, leaning against the hood of the car with her. She raises an eyebrow and he shrugs.
“You live across town.”
“Lived,” she corrects softly. “Neighborhood was getting iffy.”
He seems satisfied. And for the moment she’s glad. It’s about knowing and not knowing how to deal with him. Maybe she’s just not ready.
“Ah,” is all he says.
He doesn’t ask her to run with him (for a moment, though, she wants to watch). And she doesn’t offer, going in the other direction.
∅
He’s not waiting for her. And he’s not watching her either.
He sits on the edge of the bench, waiting for signs of life in the parking lot. He hates the early crowd because these are the people that enjoy what they do. And he doesn’t want to be reminded. (He is the skeptic. This could all go away soon.)
When he sees her though, he stands and twists the ear buds of his iPod around his fingers. He waits for a wince. But nothing’s there. And maybe, maybe he can push a little more today.
“Hey,” he calls.
She looks up, throwing something into her car. She’s cut her hair. And he watches her curiously. Summer and changes, dead and dying- in theory, a lot of this is all the same. He’s reading a lot of philosophy again (after the scotch, of course).
“Hello.”
He doesn’t like that he can’t see her eyes, the dark strands of hair sweeping over them. Her eyes are the most telling part of her. Or maybe this is the stuff he’d like to admit in his head. But doesn’t. Because this shit costs him. And he’s already lost a lot.
“Come on.” This is not an invitation.
Her lips quirk. And she shakes her head. “All right.”
He won’t admit. But he likes that she keeps up.
∅
She never says anything when he pushes himself. And she’ll never admit she likes watching him.
It’s strange, sharing a routine. There’s an intimacy, or rather, they’re defining a string that makes up the complexity between them. A small part. But a part nonetheless. She gets to have this side of him. And she reminds herself every day.
She never ask what he thinks. She’s a smart girl.
She rolls her eyes when he snatches her iPod, muttering that she’s such a girl when he flips over her music selection. Because it’s all rather Victorian, their relationship, two different spheres that seem to want to clash together. (They’ve been avoiding this too long.)
“We should fix this,” he says as they take off towards the sidewalk. (They’ll stretch first. And she’ll laugh because he makes sure she sees him watching her ass.) “Your music sucks.”
“It does not.”
He smirks and she watches, almost in awe, as his fingers slide around his thigh and smooth against his shorts. Sometimes she studies the motion. Sometimes she looks away (has to because she starts to blush). But there’s something about the motion. Something erotic and tangible and real.
“Does too,” he murmurs in amusement, snorting when she grabs her iPod away from him. “It sucks big time.”
She blinks. Because she hears something, leaning against the frame of a bench and stretching her legs. But she humors him all the same.
“Then what do you propose?”
She starts to fall again, and fall hard, when he looks at her like this and like she’s the only who’ll get him in the moment. “Intervention.”
She grins.
∅
He doesn’t run the next day, Saturday, and tells his physical therapist to suck it in French and then lies and tells her that it means that he’s not up to it.
He’s more fascinated that she’s six blocks away, in an old Victorian home, and looking like she belongs where she is. He marvels, privately, at her element. Because he doesn’t know where to begin, figuring her out, and maybe it’s better this way. It’s a painting and then it’s not- there’s a secret here that he’s not supposed to figure out. Because she has to want to tell him.
“Nice place,” he greets when she lets him in.
Her hair is wet and curled at the ends, kissing her neck as she moves back and then steps around him to shut the door.
“Thanks.”
Their conversation is minimalist at best and he doesn’t mind it because there’s an unspoken necessity to the minimalism. He likes words, but only if he can use them. (The silence scares the fucking hell out of him, but he deals.)
She watches him and he shrugs because they’re going to go downtown- although, he hasn’t got a fucking clue to why he told her he was going to take her. One of life’s stupid mysteries, he guesses.
She murmurs something about throwing a pair of jeans on and he sneers and tells her that they better be low-rise. She leaves him with a husky chuckle and the open space of her living room.
There are books and pictures, flowers and color. He can’t imagine Cameron without the color (or maybe it’s Allison, but he doesn’t know what to do with Allison) and starts to wander along the shelves, his fingers brushing against the spines of her books.
He pinpoints parents and friends in photos. And he looks for that one photo, the necessity of satisfying curiosity, but doesn’t find it. He wants to think good for her, but he doesn’t do those things so why bother, in the end.
But when he hears footsteps, he hurls the question at her anyway. Just to see if her exorcisms are as good as he thinks they are.
“What was his name?”
She’s quiet. “Danny.”
There was no hesitation.
∅
“You are not buying Modern English.”
Her laughter is husky as she ducks away from him, gripping the CD. He’s got two in his hand, his funding project for improving your shitty music collection. She’ll never tell him that she doesn’t mind the Stones. Or Clapton. Or that she thinks it’s unbelievably funny when he starts talking about his sworn loathing of the eighties- what he can remember, he tells her.
“Are you paying?” She shoots back.
His fingers curl around her wrist and he towers over her, eyes watching her in amusement. He pries the CD out of her hand- she stifles another laugh- and drops it in a random section with a smirk.
He nods. His answer is late. “I am.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You don’t-”
His hand is on her jaw and his fingers brush against her skin. At some point, she stops breathing and forgets the argument.
“Shut up, Cameron,” he murmurs. “It’s just thirty bucks.”
And he kisses her.
∅
This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
He thinks about rites of passage. And maybe, just maybe this is his years too-fucking late. But he’s okay with it. For now- it’ll get to the point where he’ll obsess- and he’ll take the for now.
So he grabs her again, lips bruised and wet, and presses her against the ledge of CDs. His fingers tangle in her hair, the curls twisting around his fingers. And his mouth, simply, slides over hers.
Because he can.
∅
end.