House fic: now, don’t make a sound (backsexy entry)
Title: now, don’t make a sound
Fandom: House
Characters/Pairings: House, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1566
Prompt: 17. "One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar." Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Rating: R
Spoilers: Euphoria. ♥
Summary: he doesn’t feel desperation. Maybe, he should. (It’s starting to twist inside of him, spinning into his head and fucking up all his senses of rationality.) He just keeps watching her. And she keeps watching the floor.
Author's Notes: For _vicodin ♥ Because she keeps me sane even after three glasses of wine. And thank you to gabesaunt for betaing. As well to the both of them, for our success of a ficathon.
::
Where now? Who now? When now? Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable, 1953
::
People like to talk about relationship turning points. He doesn’t.
(He hates it.)
::
He doesn’t exactly go looking for her. But he finds her.
He finds her on the basement level, sitting on the second step, the turn of stairs directly in front of the elevator.
He waits for the go away. But it never comes.
It’s just a small moment.
::
“Eventually, you’re going to have to say something.”
There’s a faint smile on her lips, curling and the fading. So he’ll swear (in his head) that he’s never seen it.
She gives him a little half shrug, her gaze off in the corner. This is about Foreman. And not the rest them. But, inevitably, it’s become about the rest of them. Ties. Strings. Each knot that holds all of them together.
He tries again. Because he hates the silence. “Do you want me to say it?”
She looks up. “Say what?”
He shrugs.
::
Maybe, they’ve been here for an hour. Maybe, it’s been more.
But he doesn’t feel desperation. Maybe, he should. (It’s starting to twist inside of him, spinning into his head and fucking up all his senses of rationality.) He just keeps watching her. And she keeps watching the floor.
Maybe, Chase will join them. Maybe, he won’t.
::
It’s that stray piece of hair that slides over her eyes that makes him lean a little too close and brush his fingers against her cheek.
She looks at him again, her eyes dark and her lips pursed together. He nods and she shrugs like they’ve got an entirely different conversation going on here. Just never said anything.
“I’m going home,” he mutters, his thumb brushes against the line of her jaw. She doesn’t touch him. She doesn’t pull away.
For a moment, her lips start to curl and there’s a shadow of a smile.
“You’re going to say it,” she murmurs.
He stands. “Say what?”
She shakes her head.
::
For a minute, it’s back to routine.
::
There’s a switch in shifts. And she ends up staying.
He stays. (Because he feels pretty fucking guilty.) Because Steve’s become some good ol’ fashioned entertainment. Without sleep.
He stands in the frame of the office door, leaning against it with a wince. Her hands brush against the counter and she leans against it tiredly. It’s Chase’s turn to sleep, he remembers. Or something.
“You should take the couch in Wilson’s office. It might smell funny. But you’re no good to me looking like shit.”
She pulls her hair loose, strand after strand framing the paleness of her face, as she turns to meet his gaze. He hates her eyes, too bright- and yet, still, he can read nothing at all.
“I’ll just wait until it’s my turn.”
The words seem forced and his curiosity grows, his eyes falling to the simple motions that she makes. Her fingers curl around the counter. Her knuckles are almost white. He watches as her eyes close, the lashes kissing her cheeks.
“You’ll still look like shit,” he mutters. (Concern, concern. Oh, fuck concern.)
There’s a curious smile on her lips. Again, faint. Again, there. And he thinks that if this were any other day-
How is this different from any other day?
Her voice is dry. “Do you want me to go fix my makeup?”
He turns. “Nah.”
::
So, it’s weird.
But he thinks nothing of it for the moment. (She floored him, really. Where the hell had that come from?) He thinks of the little things, and the even smaller ones, because screw, Oscar Wilde. He was more of a narcissist anyway.
Thing is, Foreman’s not going to die. He’ll eventually recover. And he’s a long-term kinda of guy when he’s had no sleep- so it works out.
He swings his backpack over his shoulder, brushing his fingers against her hip as he passes by. He smirks when she jumps, meeting his gaze.
It’s all about extending his list of adjectives.
He likes that she jumped.
::
He wishes it started with sex. Because then, then it might be a little easier.
But she’s good with translations, so she knows that his I want a drink can be extended (with the right tone of voice, but he’s guaranteed to fuck even that up) to a I want a drink. With you. Of course, he’s willing to bet that it’s going to sound fucking hilarious in her head.
“Okay,” is what she ends up saying.
And this is how they end up, side by side, him with a glass of scotch and her with a glass of wine.
Her fingers brush against the rim of her glass, slow and lazy circles. He knows he can’t stop watching.
::
Forty minutes of spare conversation. And two trips to the bathroom.
He just can’t take it anymore. He feels the shift again, more here than anything else (he hates confined spaces), but it’s about resolution. And then not. He likes to think of himself as a man of opportunity.
Even though, he’s not. (He’s picky.)
So he leans forward, blaming her in his mind, and presses his mouth against the arch of her neck. His tongue slides against her skin, swirling as she trembles (good), and he lets his fingers brush against her hip.
“What are you doing?” She breathes. Disbelief.
He gives her a little shrug. (He really doesn’t know.) So he feeds himself a line, only to try her too, letting his fingers close around her hip and tugging her a little closer.
“Exploring.”
Her laughter is soft and tired (the weeks), but there. “Fine.”
::
He’s undeniably fascinated by the stretch of skin that dips down to her shoulder.
He slides his fingers down it, watching as she shivers and turns to look up at him. They’re quiet. And maybe, he prefers it that way.
She slides a little closer, pressing against the crook of his arm. Her head falls back, her hair spilling against his arm as they shift around each other. Their seat squeaks. And she laughs. And he smirks against her throat.
He starts to play a little game with himself, it’s not about how many, more about what he discovers.
For instance, slipping his fingers against the waistband of her jeans, brushing a little- just a little- bit of skin, makes her lean forward and against him and dip her mouth against the curve of his throat.
He’ll growl because it’s his reaction. And it’s starting spin out of his reach.
::
There’s an understanding about clichés.
No:
1. “Will you come home with me?”
2. “I’ve been waiting for this for so fucking long.” (He’d rather choke on vomit.)
3. “Let me take you home tonight. Let me take care of you.” (She’d probably laugh. And then check him into an institution. He’d ask her to shoot him too.)
4. There is no number four. (He likes the number four.)
He does take her hand, only for the moment, tugging her out of the booth. He’s sure they smell like scotch and cigarettes. But this is his element, the low curtain of jazz his soundtrack- she’s more comfortable than he’s ever seen her.
(A why didn’t we do this before? almost comes to pass.)
And now, it’s a step further. Just a single step.
He doesn’t open her car door for her. But he kisses her inside.
::
His place. Not hers. (But hers will come later.)
They stumble awkwardly through his place, nearly knocking a table over as they move down the hall to his bedroom. His fingers curl around the hem of her shirt, twisting and pulling over her head.
He wants her vulnerability. He wants her open to him, so he can finally understand why the hell he’s so fucking fascinated by her.
Sliding his palms against her sides, he cups her breasts and brushes his fingers against the lace of her bra. It’s a measure of sound and the way she arches into his hands for him. He wants to see more, he needs to see more- this, detail, it’s what he knew he’d fall to.
“House,” she breathes.
He chuckles. “Nuh-uh. Try again.”
Her eyes are wide, and again, too bright. But he has her gaze, her focus, and the appeal to his selfishness is growing.
“Say it,” he murmurs against her throat, sliding his tongue against her skin. “I want to hear you say it.”
He turns them, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands cup her hips and he tugs her onto his lap, ignoring the sharpness in his leg. This is his moment, fuck everything else. He slides his hand between her legs, his fingers drifting over the insides of her thighs (she lost jeans in the shift of movement).
She moans softly. “You wa-”
It’s a confirmation. And yet, it’s not. He doesn’t still (would you stop touching a beautiful woman in your lap?) and doesn’t think about consequences (why start?), but he watches her, feeling the shift yet again.
Her fingers brush against the buttons of his oxford, plucking them open, one by one. His thumb brushes against her lips.
“Say it.”
Her lips curl and then part, a tuff of air brushing along his jaw. Her mouth moves to his ear and he swears (she’s smiling) that she’s going to burn him. “Greg.”
::end::
Fandom: House
Characters/Pairings: House, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1566
Prompt: 17. "One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar." Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Rating: R
Spoilers: Euphoria. ♥
Summary: he doesn’t feel desperation. Maybe, he should. (It’s starting to twist inside of him, spinning into his head and fucking up all his senses of rationality.) He just keeps watching her. And she keeps watching the floor.
Author's Notes: For _vicodin ♥ Because she keeps me sane even after three glasses of wine. And thank you to gabesaunt for betaing. As well to the both of them, for our success of a ficathon.
::
Where now? Who now? When now? Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable, 1953
::
People like to talk about relationship turning points. He doesn’t.
(He hates it.)
::
He doesn’t exactly go looking for her. But he finds her.
He finds her on the basement level, sitting on the second step, the turn of stairs directly in front of the elevator.
He waits for the go away. But it never comes.
It’s just a small moment.
::
“Eventually, you’re going to have to say something.”
There’s a faint smile on her lips, curling and the fading. So he’ll swear (in his head) that he’s never seen it.
She gives him a little half shrug, her gaze off in the corner. This is about Foreman. And not the rest them. But, inevitably, it’s become about the rest of them. Ties. Strings. Each knot that holds all of them together.
He tries again. Because he hates the silence. “Do you want me to say it?”
She looks up. “Say what?”
He shrugs.
::
Maybe, they’ve been here for an hour. Maybe, it’s been more.
But he doesn’t feel desperation. Maybe, he should. (It’s starting to twist inside of him, spinning into his head and fucking up all his senses of rationality.) He just keeps watching her. And she keeps watching the floor.
Maybe, Chase will join them. Maybe, he won’t.
::
It’s that stray piece of hair that slides over her eyes that makes him lean a little too close and brush his fingers against her cheek.
She looks at him again, her eyes dark and her lips pursed together. He nods and she shrugs like they’ve got an entirely different conversation going on here. Just never said anything.
“I’m going home,” he mutters, his thumb brushes against the line of her jaw. She doesn’t touch him. She doesn’t pull away.
For a moment, her lips start to curl and there’s a shadow of a smile.
“You’re going to say it,” she murmurs.
He stands. “Say what?”
She shakes her head.
::
For a minute, it’s back to routine.
::
There’s a switch in shifts. And she ends up staying.
He stays. (Because he feels pretty fucking guilty.) Because Steve’s become some good ol’ fashioned entertainment. Without sleep.
He stands in the frame of the office door, leaning against it with a wince. Her hands brush against the counter and she leans against it tiredly. It’s Chase’s turn to sleep, he remembers. Or something.
“You should take the couch in Wilson’s office. It might smell funny. But you’re no good to me looking like shit.”
She pulls her hair loose, strand after strand framing the paleness of her face, as she turns to meet his gaze. He hates her eyes, too bright- and yet, still, he can read nothing at all.
“I’ll just wait until it’s my turn.”
The words seem forced and his curiosity grows, his eyes falling to the simple motions that she makes. Her fingers curl around the counter. Her knuckles are almost white. He watches as her eyes close, the lashes kissing her cheeks.
“You’ll still look like shit,” he mutters. (Concern, concern. Oh, fuck concern.)
There’s a curious smile on her lips. Again, faint. Again, there. And he thinks that if this were any other day-
How is this different from any other day?
Her voice is dry. “Do you want me to go fix my makeup?”
He turns. “Nah.”
::
So, it’s weird.
But he thinks nothing of it for the moment. (She floored him, really. Where the hell had that come from?) He thinks of the little things, and the even smaller ones, because screw, Oscar Wilde. He was more of a narcissist anyway.
Thing is, Foreman’s not going to die. He’ll eventually recover. And he’s a long-term kinda of guy when he’s had no sleep- so it works out.
He swings his backpack over his shoulder, brushing his fingers against her hip as he passes by. He smirks when she jumps, meeting his gaze.
It’s all about extending his list of adjectives.
He likes that she jumped.
::
He wishes it started with sex. Because then, then it might be a little easier.
But she’s good with translations, so she knows that his I want a drink can be extended (with the right tone of voice, but he’s guaranteed to fuck even that up) to a I want a drink. With you. Of course, he’s willing to bet that it’s going to sound fucking hilarious in her head.
“Okay,” is what she ends up saying.
And this is how they end up, side by side, him with a glass of scotch and her with a glass of wine.
Her fingers brush against the rim of her glass, slow and lazy circles. He knows he can’t stop watching.
::
Forty minutes of spare conversation. And two trips to the bathroom.
He just can’t take it anymore. He feels the shift again, more here than anything else (he hates confined spaces), but it’s about resolution. And then not. He likes to think of himself as a man of opportunity.
Even though, he’s not. (He’s picky.)
So he leans forward, blaming her in his mind, and presses his mouth against the arch of her neck. His tongue slides against her skin, swirling as she trembles (good), and he lets his fingers brush against her hip.
“What are you doing?” She breathes. Disbelief.
He gives her a little shrug. (He really doesn’t know.) So he feeds himself a line, only to try her too, letting his fingers close around her hip and tugging her a little closer.
“Exploring.”
Her laughter is soft and tired (the weeks), but there. “Fine.”
::
He’s undeniably fascinated by the stretch of skin that dips down to her shoulder.
He slides his fingers down it, watching as she shivers and turns to look up at him. They’re quiet. And maybe, he prefers it that way.
She slides a little closer, pressing against the crook of his arm. Her head falls back, her hair spilling against his arm as they shift around each other. Their seat squeaks. And she laughs. And he smirks against her throat.
He starts to play a little game with himself, it’s not about how many, more about what he discovers.
For instance, slipping his fingers against the waistband of her jeans, brushing a little- just a little- bit of skin, makes her lean forward and against him and dip her mouth against the curve of his throat.
He’ll growl because it’s his reaction. And it’s starting spin out of his reach.
::
There’s an understanding about clichés.
No:
1. “Will you come home with me?”
2. “I’ve been waiting for this for so fucking long.” (He’d rather choke on vomit.)
3. “Let me take you home tonight. Let me take care of you.” (She’d probably laugh. And then check him into an institution. He’d ask her to shoot him too.)
4. There is no number four. (He likes the number four.)
He does take her hand, only for the moment, tugging her out of the booth. He’s sure they smell like scotch and cigarettes. But this is his element, the low curtain of jazz his soundtrack- she’s more comfortable than he’s ever seen her.
(A why didn’t we do this before? almost comes to pass.)
And now, it’s a step further. Just a single step.
He doesn’t open her car door for her. But he kisses her inside.
::
His place. Not hers. (But hers will come later.)
They stumble awkwardly through his place, nearly knocking a table over as they move down the hall to his bedroom. His fingers curl around the hem of her shirt, twisting and pulling over her head.
He wants her vulnerability. He wants her open to him, so he can finally understand why the hell he’s so fucking fascinated by her.
Sliding his palms against her sides, he cups her breasts and brushes his fingers against the lace of her bra. It’s a measure of sound and the way she arches into his hands for him. He wants to see more, he needs to see more- this, detail, it’s what he knew he’d fall to.
“House,” she breathes.
He chuckles. “Nuh-uh. Try again.”
Her eyes are wide, and again, too bright. But he has her gaze, her focus, and the appeal to his selfishness is growing.
“Say it,” he murmurs against her throat, sliding his tongue against her skin. “I want to hear you say it.”
He turns them, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands cup her hips and he tugs her onto his lap, ignoring the sharpness in his leg. This is his moment, fuck everything else. He slides his hand between her legs, his fingers drifting over the insides of her thighs (she lost jeans in the shift of movement).
She moans softly. “You wa-”
It’s a confirmation. And yet, it’s not. He doesn’t still (would you stop touching a beautiful woman in your lap?) and doesn’t think about consequences (why start?), but he watches her, feeling the shift yet again.
Her fingers brush against the buttons of his oxford, plucking them open, one by one. His thumb brushes against her lips.
“Say it.”
Her lips curl and then part, a tuff of air brushing along his jaw. Her mouth moves to his ear and he swears (she’s smiling) that she’s going to burn him. “Greg.”
::end::