House Fic: a history of anniversary gold
a history of anniversary gold
for teenwitch77. house. cameron. chase. arizona (hints of house/cameron). general. 1368 words. pg13.
she signs the lease in blue; he picks green instead.
I don't want to be crippled and cracked
Shoulders, wrists, knees and back
Ground to dust and ash
Crawling on all fours
(radiohead) bones
They have neighbors.
An older couple, open to the last hours of their lives; new, it’s disconnecting, but Chase is smiling politely enough for the both of them as they coo and grin and sigh remember when too much.
This is her idea not his, skepticism his sudden, ironic forte. He’s just as vulnerable as she is, they’re trying and it’s turning into something more, something possible, except she’s not there yet, as fast. She has a curious lack of response to all of this, big moves, sudden moves, and opening the last couple years of her life to intimacy.
It’ll come, she tells herself, it’ll come.
She signs the lease in blue; he picks green instead.
-
The bedroom is yellow.
He hates it, she laughs, and it’s a source of amusement for the both of them, disappearing to the Home Depot for more things than they’d like to. But Chase is out buying nails, the wrong size again, and she’s reminding herself Robert not Chase, the old habits too much of a fixture still.
It feels like May still, after all.
She stands around boxes, the supplement idealism surrounding her legs. She’s promising herself that she could be ready again, except that this courses in a different way, too many ways, and so she leaves it alone.
But Cameron moves around, curls and flexes her fingers for a new habit, touches the sheets, the old sheets from her bed that they brought; she’s making a list, a quick list, for the sudden occupation of other things. She’s afraid, you know, of thinking too hard. Possibility holds this curious opening, bad to worse, and, yes, for context and it’s purpose, it’s her patterned habit.
“Bed’s not going to move.”
She jumps, he’s framing the door, amusement turning his mouth as he swings the bag in his hand. He’s got a hammer in the other and their keys, the bandage from this morning around his thumb.
“Shut up,” she mutters, blushing.
He grins, she grins, and for awhile, she thinks it’s going to be okay.
-
It isn’t semantics; there are boxes instead of a faint I love you, but then again, really, she’s getting too far ahead of herself.
They ignore cable, picking the radio and job applications to settle over. He’s sure, she’s glad he’s sure, but she’s really not. There’s a sense of misdirection from before; no regret, of course, if anything, she was ready to go and ready to move on. It’s different now, different in the sense of a choice in a particular direction. She’s always had a better grip on her ethics and work choices, but even now, this seems to par with the standards of everything personal and that, inevitably, worries her more.
“Okay?”
His mouth is against her neck, a soft smile as the glow of heat rises through the window. It’s early enough, they’ll go for a run. She smiles a sigh, brushing her fingers against his hand on her stomach. Flat and under her t-shirt, it doesn’t make her blush but she’s settled and that is it, isn’t it?
“Yeah,” she says quietly, her eyes brushing close, “Just thinking about unpacking.”
He laughs and his legs shuffle, his knees pressing against the back of hers. She turns though, to her stomach and a gaze goes to him. She smiles softly, brushing her fingers against his mouth. It’s too sudden, so her hand drops and she ignores the plague of uncertainty again.
“Heard from your brother?” He’s careful because he knows and knows a lot; it’s the one thing that does slip, perhaps, more than anything, a larger reason of why things came to be. He brushes his mouth against her forehead.
She shakes her head. “No.”
It’s all she offers, but she’s absent. Her fingers slide against the waist of his sweatpants, lowering them against his thigh. He shifts closer and she smiles a little, the sound of his breathing sharper.
“Worried?”
She bites an answer, shrugging and pressing her mouth against his throat. His hand drops to her hip, along her leg, and it’s almost funny, the sense of domesticity that they both had and have, little kids playing house in the spirit of the icons of tradition.
Her lips part, the offer as his hand draws against her breast. She loses the words and closes her eyes. “It’ll be ninety-seven today.”
He doesn’t laugh.
-
It may work.
Really, just for a little while, it may work.
He pushes her to talk, over dinner, after his interview and another good interview. It’s as if he’s waiting, but she’s not touching that. His knees are pressing against hers as they sit, over pasta and wine, and it’s a little unnerving the sense of settling, again and again.
“I’m still angry,” he tells her quietly, staring at his hands, “It can go well now, but it was never my choice, you know?”
She’s thinking about the spread of their room, the small bed and what’s left for drawers. Her mother drops kitchen recommendations on both their cell phones and it’s more than just unnerving, but she’s silent for that course. There are just going to be things, she tries to reassure herself.
“Yeah.”
It’s all she offers; she’s had the structure of three choices, to leave in self-righteousness, to come back with motive, and then, finally, on her own, to go and stand away. It’s so strange, the last choice, and the weight that suddenly left her. She feels stuck in the same sense as well, but she’ll never admit it to him or to anyone. Some things are harder to break, some habits uglier to write.
“But it is,” she sighs, brushing her fingers against his knuckles, “what is. And probably for the best -”
Her words are unintentionally dry, but forced. If he knows, he says nothing because he knows and because there’s still a few lines that run between the two of them. There is affection and maybe, she’ll learn more than to adore Chase -
It’s about steps, right?
-
“I don’t know about the job,” he says in bed.
She keeps her eyes closed.
-
Chase stays proactive.
She watches him, interview after interview, voicing on ties and postures; she’s the good girlfriend, for that, she’s almost okay. The two of them rise into this sense of predictability: up in the morning, lunch, then dinner.
She’s writing again.
In the back of her head, she’s always considered an academic push on things. She doesn’t tell him, it’s to herself, and her uncertainty remains to be a larger factor. She has a handle of some steps, no handle on others.
But she’s writing again.
There’s considered publishing, several possibilities on ethics and turns in the field. She’s tentative, sectioning herself in an effort to understand the course of this direction - this is about semantics, she thinks.
He meets her at home for a late dinner, pulling her back for takeout as they open on their couch. He’s watching her, she’s away, and finally, he puts the chicken on the table and moves to her, his palms over her cheeks.
“Talk,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing against hers.
She sighs against his, leaning into the embrace and almost dropping her dinner. He laughs, she rolls her eyes, but the level of something starts to change and the conversation is going to drop.
“I’m not sure.” She pauses, her forehead against his. “I’m not sure if I can yet.”
He never does say anything, watching her often and straying off to the side. He nods, pulling her closer and his mouth over hers, almost too tightly.
She never keeps to the thought that she’s glad, there are no voices at all.
-
She gets the email first.
It’s vague, the curiosity, and her fingers are already poised over the keys in answer. Her teeth push into her lip and she thinks, suddenly, as she’s already acting.
Cuddy: - heard you have several interests open to you for-
She writes it, in a few months, and stares idly at the cursor.
-
There is a three week split, coming.
She’s looking back. She’s sure he knows.
-
for teenwitch77. house. cameron. chase. arizona (hints of house/cameron). general. 1368 words. pg13.
she signs the lease in blue; he picks green instead.
I don't want to be crippled and cracked
Shoulders, wrists, knees and back
Ground to dust and ash
Crawling on all fours
(radiohead) bones
They have neighbors.
An older couple, open to the last hours of their lives; new, it’s disconnecting, but Chase is smiling politely enough for the both of them as they coo and grin and sigh remember when too much.
This is her idea not his, skepticism his sudden, ironic forte. He’s just as vulnerable as she is, they’re trying and it’s turning into something more, something possible, except she’s not there yet, as fast. She has a curious lack of response to all of this, big moves, sudden moves, and opening the last couple years of her life to intimacy.
It’ll come, she tells herself, it’ll come.
She signs the lease in blue; he picks green instead.
-
The bedroom is yellow.
He hates it, she laughs, and it’s a source of amusement for the both of them, disappearing to the Home Depot for more things than they’d like to. But Chase is out buying nails, the wrong size again, and she’s reminding herself Robert not Chase, the old habits too much of a fixture still.
It feels like May still, after all.
She stands around boxes, the supplement idealism surrounding her legs. She’s promising herself that she could be ready again, except that this courses in a different way, too many ways, and so she leaves it alone.
But Cameron moves around, curls and flexes her fingers for a new habit, touches the sheets, the old sheets from her bed that they brought; she’s making a list, a quick list, for the sudden occupation of other things. She’s afraid, you know, of thinking too hard. Possibility holds this curious opening, bad to worse, and, yes, for context and it’s purpose, it’s her patterned habit.
“Bed’s not going to move.”
She jumps, he’s framing the door, amusement turning his mouth as he swings the bag in his hand. He’s got a hammer in the other and their keys, the bandage from this morning around his thumb.
“Shut up,” she mutters, blushing.
He grins, she grins, and for awhile, she thinks it’s going to be okay.
-
It isn’t semantics; there are boxes instead of a faint I love you, but then again, really, she’s getting too far ahead of herself.
They ignore cable, picking the radio and job applications to settle over. He’s sure, she’s glad he’s sure, but she’s really not. There’s a sense of misdirection from before; no regret, of course, if anything, she was ready to go and ready to move on. It’s different now, different in the sense of a choice in a particular direction. She’s always had a better grip on her ethics and work choices, but even now, this seems to par with the standards of everything personal and that, inevitably, worries her more.
“Okay?”
His mouth is against her neck, a soft smile as the glow of heat rises through the window. It’s early enough, they’ll go for a run. She smiles a sigh, brushing her fingers against his hand on her stomach. Flat and under her t-shirt, it doesn’t make her blush but she’s settled and that is it, isn’t it?
“Yeah,” she says quietly, her eyes brushing close, “Just thinking about unpacking.”
He laughs and his legs shuffle, his knees pressing against the back of hers. She turns though, to her stomach and a gaze goes to him. She smiles softly, brushing her fingers against his mouth. It’s too sudden, so her hand drops and she ignores the plague of uncertainty again.
“Heard from your brother?” He’s careful because he knows and knows a lot; it’s the one thing that does slip, perhaps, more than anything, a larger reason of why things came to be. He brushes his mouth against her forehead.
She shakes her head. “No.”
It’s all she offers, but she’s absent. Her fingers slide against the waist of his sweatpants, lowering them against his thigh. He shifts closer and she smiles a little, the sound of his breathing sharper.
“Worried?”
She bites an answer, shrugging and pressing her mouth against his throat. His hand drops to her hip, along her leg, and it’s almost funny, the sense of domesticity that they both had and have, little kids playing house in the spirit of the icons of tradition.
Her lips part, the offer as his hand draws against her breast. She loses the words and closes her eyes. “It’ll be ninety-seven today.”
He doesn’t laugh.
-
It may work.
Really, just for a little while, it may work.
He pushes her to talk, over dinner, after his interview and another good interview. It’s as if he’s waiting, but she’s not touching that. His knees are pressing against hers as they sit, over pasta and wine, and it’s a little unnerving the sense of settling, again and again.
“I’m still angry,” he tells her quietly, staring at his hands, “It can go well now, but it was never my choice, you know?”
She’s thinking about the spread of their room, the small bed and what’s left for drawers. Her mother drops kitchen recommendations on both their cell phones and it’s more than just unnerving, but she’s silent for that course. There are just going to be things, she tries to reassure herself.
“Yeah.”
It’s all she offers; she’s had the structure of three choices, to leave in self-righteousness, to come back with motive, and then, finally, on her own, to go and stand away. It’s so strange, the last choice, and the weight that suddenly left her. She feels stuck in the same sense as well, but she’ll never admit it to him or to anyone. Some things are harder to break, some habits uglier to write.
“But it is,” she sighs, brushing her fingers against his knuckles, “what is. And probably for the best -”
Her words are unintentionally dry, but forced. If he knows, he says nothing because he knows and because there’s still a few lines that run between the two of them. There is affection and maybe, she’ll learn more than to adore Chase -
It’s about steps, right?
-
“I don’t know about the job,” he says in bed.
She keeps her eyes closed.
-
Chase stays proactive.
She watches him, interview after interview, voicing on ties and postures; she’s the good girlfriend, for that, she’s almost okay. The two of them rise into this sense of predictability: up in the morning, lunch, then dinner.
She’s writing again.
In the back of her head, she’s always considered an academic push on things. She doesn’t tell him, it’s to herself, and her uncertainty remains to be a larger factor. She has a handle of some steps, no handle on others.
But she’s writing again.
There’s considered publishing, several possibilities on ethics and turns in the field. She’s tentative, sectioning herself in an effort to understand the course of this direction - this is about semantics, she thinks.
He meets her at home for a late dinner, pulling her back for takeout as they open on their couch. He’s watching her, she’s away, and finally, he puts the chicken on the table and moves to her, his palms over her cheeks.
“Talk,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing against hers.
She sighs against his, leaning into the embrace and almost dropping her dinner. He laughs, she rolls her eyes, but the level of something starts to change and the conversation is going to drop.
“I’m not sure.” She pauses, her forehead against his. “I’m not sure if I can yet.”
He never does say anything, watching her often and straying off to the side. He nods, pulling her closer and his mouth over hers, almost too tightly.
She never keeps to the thought that she’s glad, there are no voices at all.
-
She gets the email first.
It’s vague, the curiosity, and her fingers are already poised over the keys in answer. Her teeth push into her lip and she thinks, suddenly, as she’s already acting.
Cuddy: - heard you have several interests open to you for-
She writes it, in a few months, and stares idly at the cursor.
-
There is a three week split, coming.
She’s looking back. She’s sure he knows.
-