House fic: still life in rooms
still life in rooms
house, m.d, house/cameron, pg-13, 1220 words, spoilers for euphoria, for teenwitch77, by far one of the loveliest people i’ve ever known and my own enabler when it comes to tv shows. and you know it’s true, em.
Trust me, he breathed- except it wasn’t like that, it was give me time and what she heard was what she heard.
i want you to know
he's not coming back
radiohead, knives out
-
Truth is: he doesn’t ask.
Would you?
-
Trust me, he breathed- except it wasn’t like that, it was give me time and what she heard was what she heard.
Her eyes close as she drops to a seat, her hands rise and brush through her hair. The decision is yours (again), weighted by pieces of a relationship- friendship?- that apparently means more than it should. Here’s a thought- it was never about the article, but the continuing promise of having someone there. He listened to her, laughed, and- it doesn’t matter anymore.
A few minutes, she had said; her fingers curl around her cell phone.
She stands again, her fingers skimming the glass. Twenty minutes, counting, and come on house turns in her head over and over again, twisting each time she stills to breathe.
Cameron.
Cuddy’s at the door, leaning against the frame and the sympathy skinning her from the corner. Her palm presses against the glass.
Twenty minutes, she murmurs.
Are you- hesitant, but there. She doesn’t have to turn around to know that the awkwardness will follow.
Her eyes close.
-
It’s not okay.
- he watches her sometimes, quietly dancing over probability of greater things that he can’t understand. How it works? He doesn’t know, he’s into the philosophical pieces of himself, moments. It’s a motivated sense of bullshit, running away from the sense of facts that people refuse to touch.
Bullshit. And yet, he knows what this did to them.
They all know what this did to them. Panic twisting between them, nearly losing one of their own- there’s moment, minute, and particular.
He’s coy with the phone, staring at it quietly. (it’ll never happen)
-
Waiting burns in a memory.
Waiting panics in a surge, thickening in her throat. She wakes up, you know, midnight and brushing the tonight show! rerun. Because she remembers- it’s a thick weight, shoulders slumping, sheets twisted around her legs.
She’s better at hiding this.
You should drink something, he says, from the corner and after she skims a cup of coffee. She rubs her eyes.
You should go to clinic.
He snorts.
She shrugs. Nothing between them, what else can she do?
-
He needs to stop.
Now. He needs to stop.
Curiosities spin viciously, again, like before and it’s not panicking, it’s not panicking. It’s amusing almost, a daunting self-analysis that he knows well and drifts into occasionally.
He’s in pieces, you know. Piece by piece, compartmentalized in instinct of survival. It’s poetic, almost, the marked romantic thought churning in idealism- It’s an admission, silent, brushing self-hatred.
Four weeks anyhow, Foreman’s itching to come back, and he’s not ready to approve it yet. None of them are ready to have him back- it’s the truth, understand, a physical manifestation of what they can and couldn’t do.
Finished?- it’s dictation day, believe or not, and he’s here to avoid being here because it’s been the easiest, remember.
She leans back in her chair. Yeah, she says slowly, finally, mmhmm.
It’s the slow curve of her neck, to the side, her hair spilling against her shoulder. Her eyes close and it fixes a sigh as her lips part.
This is why this can’t happen.
-
She doesn’t sleep as much anymore. But you know this.
Self-evaluation twists in her ears again, turning over and over again. She doesn’t understand why this isn’t succumbing to a plateau- the initial frustration basks in mockery too often, too soon.
But she doesn’t share this.
Running in the park, turning as she spots her place in the distance, she stops and grabs her water bottle. She sighs quietly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Even the quiet loses its momentum.
There’s a shift. She’s surprised- You’re up early.
She snorts- what are you doing here?
He shrugs, his cane scrapping against the dirt of the path. He’s studying her and she’s shifting quietly, dropping her gaze as she pulls at her t-shirt. The strangest thing about talking to him is that it’s not talking to him. It’s never talking to him- nudity stretches viciously, almost suffocating.
And he knows it.
You’re drifting.
I- but stop, here, palms pressing against her thighs and he can’t do much is the fading assertion that she can keep herself steady and still.
His lips curl faintly. I mean, he says slowly, I think your passivity about these moments, however strong (still: this is mockery, long and drawn, as if he’s trying to push her harder) you think you’re being is fucking lame.
The point is- and there is a point- he knows that they’ll never have a conversation, never push open a confession.
So: she stills here- so, you came here to tell me what?
He shrugs. Don’t know.
Right.
Right.
-
Two truths and a lie: should we play?
Drinks sort of slip, okay? It’s almost funny how she looks at him, head cocked to the side with mix confusion.
Yes twisted surprise in him.
So it’s a bar, a mating ritual, and he hears scotch, dry slip from her lips in amusement. He watches her curiously as she leans back, dress black and dusting over her thighs slowly.
This is awkward, he mutters. His fingers curl into fists.
She rolls her eyes, lips staining the glass. He shifts uncomfortably as he watches her tongue sliding against the rim. Details, his poison.
This was your idea, she shoots back; it’s a soft curl of her voice thickening under the hazy lights and some blues song that he stretches away from trying to remember. He rubs his eyes, swing the glass around as he leans back.
I’m clearing him.
Oh.
Yeah, okay, and that’s the end of that. Because the reality of it, like before, small talk twists in his stomach and weights at the end of it all.
Shit, he skims, shit.
She blinks, watching curiously as he moves back and forth- moving, fidgeting, call it what you want, he’s got to deal with it all somehow. He blinks and then leans forward, his hand pressing against her wrist.
She doesn’t move.
-
His mouth is warm.
Midway, on her steps, his fingers tangle on her hair and there’s a grunt as he pushes her back against the door. She doesn’t remember events, step by step, but she’s reacting to him and it’s desperate and strange and- god, really?
His mouth is too warm.
She moans when his tongue slides into her mouth, her hands rising, palms pressing against his chest. Her fingers curl around the ends of his jacket, her teeth skimming the bottom of his lip. He hisses, his hand sliding against her back, down to the curve of her ass and pressing.
Something falls, clicks or clatters- words are spinning too fast in her head, her fingers tightening in his jacket. She can’t think, gripping tighter. She doesn’t know why that this is happening now, here, and she’s slipping out of care.
Breaking away, she slips back and brushes her hair out of her eyes. They watch each other tiredly.
I’m-
She nods, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Yeah, she breathes, stepping back. She kneels, her fingers skimming his cane and handing it up to him.
Yeah, she says quietly.
-
A thought?
They won’t talk about it.
end.
house, m.d, house/cameron, pg-13, 1220 words, spoilers for euphoria, for teenwitch77, by far one of the loveliest people i’ve ever known and my own enabler when it comes to tv shows. and you know it’s true, em.
Trust me, he breathed- except it wasn’t like that, it was give me time and what she heard was what she heard.
i want you to know
he's not coming back
radiohead, knives out
-
Truth is: he doesn’t ask.
Would you?
-
Trust me, he breathed- except it wasn’t like that, it was give me time and what she heard was what she heard.
Her eyes close as she drops to a seat, her hands rise and brush through her hair. The decision is yours (again), weighted by pieces of a relationship- friendship?- that apparently means more than it should. Here’s a thought- it was never about the article, but the continuing promise of having someone there. He listened to her, laughed, and- it doesn’t matter anymore.
A few minutes, she had said; her fingers curl around her cell phone.
She stands again, her fingers skimming the glass. Twenty minutes, counting, and come on house turns in her head over and over again, twisting each time she stills to breathe.
Cameron.
Cuddy’s at the door, leaning against the frame and the sympathy skinning her from the corner. Her palm presses against the glass.
Twenty minutes, she murmurs.
Are you- hesitant, but there. She doesn’t have to turn around to know that the awkwardness will follow.
Her eyes close.
-
It’s not okay.
- he watches her sometimes, quietly dancing over probability of greater things that he can’t understand. How it works? He doesn’t know, he’s into the philosophical pieces of himself, moments. It’s a motivated sense of bullshit, running away from the sense of facts that people refuse to touch.
Bullshit. And yet, he knows what this did to them.
They all know what this did to them. Panic twisting between them, nearly losing one of their own- there’s moment, minute, and particular.
He’s coy with the phone, staring at it quietly. (it’ll never happen)
-
Waiting burns in a memory.
Waiting panics in a surge, thickening in her throat. She wakes up, you know, midnight and brushing the tonight show! rerun. Because she remembers- it’s a thick weight, shoulders slumping, sheets twisted around her legs.
She’s better at hiding this.
You should drink something, he says, from the corner and after she skims a cup of coffee. She rubs her eyes.
You should go to clinic.
He snorts.
She shrugs. Nothing between them, what else can she do?
-
He needs to stop.
Now. He needs to stop.
Curiosities spin viciously, again, like before and it’s not panicking, it’s not panicking. It’s amusing almost, a daunting self-analysis that he knows well and drifts into occasionally.
He’s in pieces, you know. Piece by piece, compartmentalized in instinct of survival. It’s poetic, almost, the marked romantic thought churning in idealism- It’s an admission, silent, brushing self-hatred.
Four weeks anyhow, Foreman’s itching to come back, and he’s not ready to approve it yet. None of them are ready to have him back- it’s the truth, understand, a physical manifestation of what they can and couldn’t do.
Finished?- it’s dictation day, believe or not, and he’s here to avoid being here because it’s been the easiest, remember.
She leans back in her chair. Yeah, she says slowly, finally, mmhmm.
It’s the slow curve of her neck, to the side, her hair spilling against her shoulder. Her eyes close and it fixes a sigh as her lips part.
This is why this can’t happen.
-
She doesn’t sleep as much anymore. But you know this.
Self-evaluation twists in her ears again, turning over and over again. She doesn’t understand why this isn’t succumbing to a plateau- the initial frustration basks in mockery too often, too soon.
But she doesn’t share this.
Running in the park, turning as she spots her place in the distance, she stops and grabs her water bottle. She sighs quietly, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Even the quiet loses its momentum.
There’s a shift. She’s surprised- You’re up early.
She snorts- what are you doing here?
He shrugs, his cane scrapping against the dirt of the path. He’s studying her and she’s shifting quietly, dropping her gaze as she pulls at her t-shirt. The strangest thing about talking to him is that it’s not talking to him. It’s never talking to him- nudity stretches viciously, almost suffocating.
And he knows it.
You’re drifting.
I- but stop, here, palms pressing against her thighs and he can’t do much is the fading assertion that she can keep herself steady and still.
His lips curl faintly. I mean, he says slowly, I think your passivity about these moments, however strong (still: this is mockery, long and drawn, as if he’s trying to push her harder) you think you’re being is fucking lame.
The point is- and there is a point- he knows that they’ll never have a conversation, never push open a confession.
So: she stills here- so, you came here to tell me what?
He shrugs. Don’t know.
Right.
Right.
-
Two truths and a lie: should we play?
Drinks sort of slip, okay? It’s almost funny how she looks at him, head cocked to the side with mix confusion.
Yes twisted surprise in him.
So it’s a bar, a mating ritual, and he hears scotch, dry slip from her lips in amusement. He watches her curiously as she leans back, dress black and dusting over her thighs slowly.
This is awkward, he mutters. His fingers curl into fists.
She rolls her eyes, lips staining the glass. He shifts uncomfortably as he watches her tongue sliding against the rim. Details, his poison.
This was your idea, she shoots back; it’s a soft curl of her voice thickening under the hazy lights and some blues song that he stretches away from trying to remember. He rubs his eyes, swing the glass around as he leans back.
I’m clearing him.
Oh.
Yeah, okay, and that’s the end of that. Because the reality of it, like before, small talk twists in his stomach and weights at the end of it all.
Shit, he skims, shit.
She blinks, watching curiously as he moves back and forth- moving, fidgeting, call it what you want, he’s got to deal with it all somehow. He blinks and then leans forward, his hand pressing against her wrist.
She doesn’t move.
-
His mouth is warm.
Midway, on her steps, his fingers tangle on her hair and there’s a grunt as he pushes her back against the door. She doesn’t remember events, step by step, but she’s reacting to him and it’s desperate and strange and- god, really?
His mouth is too warm.
She moans when his tongue slides into her mouth, her hands rising, palms pressing against his chest. Her fingers curl around the ends of his jacket, her teeth skimming the bottom of his lip. He hisses, his hand sliding against her back, down to the curve of her ass and pressing.
Something falls, clicks or clatters- words are spinning too fast in her head, her fingers tightening in his jacket. She can’t think, gripping tighter. She doesn’t know why that this is happening now, here, and she’s slipping out of care.
Breaking away, she slips back and brushes her hair out of her eyes. They watch each other tiredly.
I’m-
She nods, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Yeah, she breathes, stepping back. She kneels, her fingers skimming his cane and handing it up to him.
Yeah, she says quietly.
-
A thought?
They won’t talk about it.
end.