House Fic: we rewrite ourselves
we rewrite ourselves
they won’t see him. inevitability, when the two of them are involved, there tends to be a choice of indecisions. house. house/cameron (chase/cameron). an elevator. house md. general season four spoilers. 5687 words, pg13.
notes: for blueheronz. a very belated birthday gift. semi-unbeta’d due to the impromptu boston trip of mine. also for the free_neutrality’s promptapalooza shindig using the prompt ‘habit’ and house/cameron.
-
They’re in the hallway, in front of him, cornered off from the door.
The mouth of the party is at a dull hum, the crowd pinching deeper into the small room. He can’t remember who or what it’s for, not that he cares or has a choice in making a decision to be there. It’s office politics, it’s hospital politics, and it’s everything that he has no reason to be attached or attach himself to. But he’s here, of course, with nothing more the objective annoyance and it really is what it is.
He’s snuck out by now or, really, he’s just left. It’s a record of a whole hour and some minutes - he tosses a smirk at Cuddy before he stepped out, shrugging when she sort of gave that look of hope. Hope for what, begs the question, and she, like everyone else, knows that if there’s nothing of interest to even remotely keep him in place, then he’s not going to stay.
He’s fumbling with his jacket when he catches the back of Chase and the side of Cameron, obviously having a moment that isn’t meant for anybody to see. He can feel the frostiness between them, just by look at her - it’s her mouth, the way it folds into a thin line. Her eyes are dark and she’s not completely looking at Chase, but the tension is thick. Her hands are at the skirt of her dress, a little full and he watches her fingers try fists. She’s trying to be objective, which amuses him, and he leans into the corner, hidden, just so he can watch her hands clench and unclench.
They won’t see him.
“What are you doing?”
She’s practically snarling at the other man. She stops herself though, turns, and House watches Chase’s hands go glue themselves to his hips. It’s funny, how few and far he sees the two of them and how much he is really struggling to recognize. Not that he cares, but there’s this infuriating need to understand too. He’s lost something, but he doesn’t know how much of it - peculiar as it seems - he’s lost.
“We talked about it.”
Chase seems unfazed, however, as if this were something that’s happened before. He turns towards the corner, gaze down, and House finds himself tensing. It’s not that he cares about being seen, but it’s almost as if he’s taking the moment too.
“Talked about what -” But Cameron stops herself, her gaze dropping. Her eyes close and there’s a sigh, some strange admission of guilt that he does recognize. House finds himself fascinated all over again, trying to use an excuse to stay.
There is no control to any of his curiosity and with her, it comes and goes and comes and goes as it pleases. It remains peculiar because he doesn’t see here and isn’t really affected by her presence or lack of it; still, when the time is there and when he seeks her out with no cause, he finds himself fascinated. Somehow, it’s even subtle. It’s there, it makes sure that he knows, and he cuts it off.
Chase is weary as well and that shows too much; wondering what he’s seeing, he watches the change in positions again. Cameron is a step back and then, suddenly, another. It’s as if the distance is too necessary between the two of them and she’s trying to keep it that way.
“Come back inside.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” she snaps, “seriously. I can’t believe you trapped me into that. I walked right into that. It was embarrassing.”
Ah, he thinks. And there it is. There’s no surprise that she breaks first, subjectivity the inherent weakness that she has. There’s that frown of hers, her lips pursing tightly again. House’s eyes go to her legs, perhaps too long, but it’s not like she knows. He should be here. He doesn’t care.
“I said we were talking about it.”
Chase is unapologetic, shaking his head. There’s mild disgust between them, much more of a discomfort from her head. And this, too, is what House finds curious. It’s like he’s watching the de-evolution of a relationship, two people at different places. Maybe forced. Maybe not.
What he can and cannot relate too is not important - but still, his eyes go to Cameron again and he watches the tension rise in her shoulders. His eyes follow the line and up to her neck, pausing and stroking, as always, the possibility that he’d never take.
Behind him, the party gets a little loud. He turns, just in case, resting his back against the wall and watching a couple stumble out. It’s a fundraiser, he sort of remembers, and his hand goes to his tie. His fingers slide along the wrinkles of his tie, stroking lazily. When the couple passes to the other end, he goes back to watching.
They’re close again and she’s angrier - he’s admittedly fascinated by this particular change, the sudden openness of her face, of the way she just sort of lets go. He won’t outwardly admit his own attractiveness to her like this, but watching, even waiting to see something, raises a sense of arousal.
Cameron shakes her head.
“I know what you said. And I know what I said to you. But bringing it up like that, in front of people - are you trying to prove something again? This isn’t the time or place and the more you pull crap like this, the more I’m not going to want to talk about it at all.”
Chase throws his hands up. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
But she doesn’t answer. He watches her fumble forward, practically ripping her shaw and purse from Chase’s hands. It’s almost to appropriate for him to stumble into them, but he’s patient and more interested in her reaction, than his. Whatever relationship was there with Chase, mentoring or not, is almost broken. He’s not completely interested in a reunion or patching things up; there’s Foreman and that, there, is big enough reminder for everything else.
He still doesn’t know how to feel about the three of them, again, being here and in front of them. They’re disconnected and then they’re not. At times, he looks at the other three and thinks routine with fitted nostalgia just so he doesn’t have thinking about missing things. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to admit that, but looking at Cameron, now even and in particular, there’s this indirect pull that he’s been looking for.
“Allison-”
It’s half-hearted and Cameron is sighing, shaking her head. The wrap of her shawl covers her breasts, the peak of skin even more of a sigh of interest for him. But he looks away, ducking.
“I’ll see you at home,” is all she says, that he hears, quick and brisk.
Instead, he waits.
He keeps his gaze down, only peeking as Chase moves away. The stance is predictable: slouched, shoulders tight, and his hands deep into his pockets as he makes his way back to the party. House then pushes himself off the wall, his fingers sliding along his jacket. Chase doesn’t miss him. He quirks his amusement in the other man’s direction, earning a scowl but nothing more to satisfy the rest of his curiosity.
Shrugging, he moves towards the elevators. He spots Cameron, his eyes sliding along the curve of her back. He didn’t see her all night, he thinks, not to say that he looked or anything. There’s something, still, attractive about how she stands by herself - she’s open, sure, and angry, of course, but that pull of curiosity seems to linger around him.
“Hold the elevator.”
He can’t help himself, his voice dry. She doesn’t turn to see him, but her shoulders drop and all of the sudden; the tension has completely disappeared from her. Whether it’s because of him or some indirect reaction, he doesn’t care, but seems to feed the curiosity even more.
“It’s not here yet,” she murmurs.
He shrugs. “You look like you’d leave me.”
“Probably.”
His lips curl. Closer, he eyes her without any sense of boundaries. There’s her perfume, light between them, and he licks his lips. He rocks back and forth against his cane, sliding his thumb along the handle as his eyes go to her breasts. The shawl peeks loosely over them and he has to lick his lips.
“Nice dress.”
Her amusement is brief, but she barely glances at him. “Nice tie.”
“I know. It’s quirky.”
There’s a fumble of a smile across her mouth and her shoulders start to set into an easier place as she relaxes even more. He steps a little closer, his hand shoving into his pocket as he rocks his cane underneath the other.
“Lover’s quarrel?”
He can’t help himself. It’s the only indication that he could’ve possibly seen something that he shouldn’t have and he keeps his gaze on her, seeing if he can pick apart something, anything, that is familiar or not.
She’s quiet.
“You were watching.”
He can’t tell if it’s an accusation or an observation. He tilts his head to the side, watching the elevator finally start to rise to their floor. So he sort of shrugs as an acknowledgement, offering nothing else to her, as the tension drops and then rises again.
“I was.”
“So then you know.”
It’s a stupid thing to say. It’s a really stupid thing to say, one of those moments that gives away more than he intends to is sort of rising to the surface. He doesn’t need it and, for the first time, he’s stuck on the fact that she might not want it either.
But still, still he can’t help himself.
He snorts. “That’s a boring thing to say.”
There’s a strange sense of detachment from her end and from the conversation. She doesn’t really say anything, whether there’s an opportunity to say something or not. He’s surprised because lately, if and when he sees her, she seems to take a shot back without any hesitation. It’s a change, something he’s a little unsure of.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Obviously,” he snorts again. But he lets it go.
The elevator is cold when it opens.
He almost slips into a corner, a wad of puddles in front of him from the rain outside. He curses under his breath, rolling his eyes and leaning heavily into the wall instead of his cane. It’s been an all day thing - he tried to use weather as an excuse, but sort of lost himself between clinic incentives and vacations.
He takes to looking at her again, watching as she settles on the opposite side. It stays awkward and imposing, the air between them. Her back presses against the wall, her hands curling around the railing. Neither of them makes any effort to press the floor for the garage. She gives in first though, sighing loudly and reaching for the buttons.
Then he plays.
“How’s life then?” He’s dry, biting, and gauging whatever reaction he can take for himself. “You know, with your epic battles to become Mother Theresa.”
“Really?”
“What?”
She snorts. “It’s not like I’ve been gone for ten years,” she murmurs, rolling her eyes. “I’m not stupid and I do remember how big of an ass you can be when you’re bored, miserable, and trying to take someone with you.”
“Ah. But you’re already there.”
He smirks. She flinches. This is really about the game; something to do with everybody, how far and how hard he can push. The difference - and there’s a difference - with Cameron is that there’s usually something more, something can hold, and one more piece to the puzzle. He thinks he’s problem is somewhere around there. It works with this kind of distance and she’s grouped with the others - he has no resounding curiosity unless they’re face to face.
Here she is.
He starts again. “I mean, I get it - you and Chase bonding over the unfortunate circumstances of our partings. You miss me.”
“Grow up.”
“No fun,” he sings, his mouth turning, “I mean, at least tell me that I’m going to get an invite to the wedding or, well, you know, your first born.”
“You’re not funny.”
There’s an odd curl of her lips, a smile but not a smile. She leans her head back against the elevator wall, her fingers curling around the bars. He’s fascinated really, by the ups and downs of her reactions. It’s peculiar and unexpected; chalking it up to some from of exhaustion on his part is too easy, but he feels like it has something to do with watching her less - or rather, wanting to watch her more, to put her back into a particular place.
“You’re smiling.”
“You wish,” she murmurs.
But he doesn’t hear her.
There’s a low wail first. The elevator jolts up and then down, the lights snapping off. He grunts, his knee turning in. His cane slips from his hand and clatters across the floor. He doesn’t hear her. He doesn’t hear her - his ears are ringing. The floor sort of sways, back and forth, and there’s no other sound but cables moaning. It’s a little bit of screeching too, but the pressure in his leg is almost too much. He lowers himself slowly to the ground, breathing as his back slides back against the wall.
The elevator stops suddenly.
“Fuck,” he snarls.
They’re quiet now, listening for that sound again - it was a screech, maybe, or even a thick line of scrapping. He thinks wires and malfunctions with a big fuck you. He should’ve taken the clinic hours instead of swallowing socializing and politics. He blames Cuddy for this and his own patterns. God, he’s got stop being easy.
“You okay?”
She’s distant, the sound of her voice too faint. He closes his eyes, his hand fumbling against his thigh. His fingers press into his trousers and he rubs, trying to dull the rising pain.
He snorts. “Stupid question.”
There’s no answer, just a sharp hiss from outside the doors. The lights stay off and he can’t see her, a surge of strange panic working its way up his throat. He takes a deep breath, then a step forward, and then another deep breath for the routine. He keeps the hesitation in his voice.
“Cameron?”
“Here.”
He reaches up to guide himself, his hand sliding along the metal bar. He can make her out in the corner, her head dipped down. Her hand drops and he guides himself to the corner, reaching her. He stops though as his knuckles brush against hers. She’s still, tense, and he imagines, even briefly, that look she gets, the wrinkle in her mouth and how she closes her eyes when she falls to a moment.
The emergency lights blink. He covers her hand with his.
He doesn’t think about it. She doesn’t say anything. It’s quiet and he listens for any sound of any more stress, but the silence seems to stay steady and predictable for a moment.
Her voice is soft. “Why did the lights go?”
“Don’t know.”
He’s sharper than she is. He finds himself growing more and more aware of the space or, rather, lack of space between them and for them. He drops his hand away from hers, reaching up behind him. His fingers start to curl, cueing over the elevator rail. He sighs though, starting to resettle against the wall. There’s a slow pain along his thigh, dulling briefly.
He sighs. “Where’s your phone?”
“In my bag,” she says, slowly, “but I don’t get reception. Where’s yours?”
“The car.”
“Ah.”
His brow furrows. “Ah?”
“Well, what can I do? Cry hysterically?”
She snaps back at him. He looks down instead; trying to assesses the moment as best he can. His mind is sort of blank and there’s a moment where he wants to laugh and think of course.
“Were you drinking?”
“What has that have anything to do with anything?”
“Something to do,” he almost smirks.
She snorts.
He shrugs and says nothing. It’s peculiar to him, he thinks, that there’s no sign of nerves. He can make her out, his eyes adjusting lazily to the lack of light. The emergency lights seem nothing more than blurring and he knows that she’s close. It seems enough.
The only indication of something along that line is her hands, folded and grazing her hips. He watches as she sighs tiredly, leaning her shoulder into the wall. He waits for it, waits for some sort of sign that he’s right but it’s almost as if she deliberately avoids anything else.
“You’re cranky.”
“Obviously,” she mutters darkly. “What gave it away?”
“Want to talk about it?”
She snorts. “With you?”
House rolls his eyes. He gives in though, partly because his leg is starting to ache and standing holds no motivation for him. But sitting down in front of her makes him almost hesitant and too aware of the jump between simple moments and complicated; it’s a movement that holds nothing of value, a mere exposure of his obvious vulnerabilities.
“He asked you.”
It’s a shot in the dark. He knows they’re together - the idea in itself sort of amuses him. Whether it’s completely serious or not, it remains to be seen. He could care less. What interests him is her non-reaction to all of this or rather, the way she seems vehemently opposed to the obvious idea of more.
If that’s it.
She’s tense. “What?”
“I saw,” he shrugs, “or heard your stupid argument. I was morbidly curious and you were blocking the elevator.”
“Right.”
She’s quiet and he’s waiting for the push - he wants the push. It gives them a sense of a predictable balance and he’s starting to become too aware of the space again, between them and otherwise.
It all depends on what she’ll tell him, he thinks. It’s between what sleeps and those odd twists of decisions that she makes in front of him - slips, sure, and sometimes they seem unconsciously there.
“Yes,” she says after awhile.
He sort of perks up - if it means what he thinks it means, he feels like laughing. It so predictable, really, of Chase in this infatuation. He’s not invested in figuring this out, or, so he tells himself, and yet, here, he finds himself waiting for her to say something more.
He shifts. “What?”
“He asked me.”
So they’re not engaged. He wonders where Wilson gets his information. Dating, okay, but engaged brings an entire spectrum of other things that amuses him. It’s light enough where he can make her out, but he can’t completely see any of her expressions.
“So.”
She sighs. “I said no.”
“You said no.”
She doesn’t say anything but he can feel her shift closer. It causes him to tense and he presses his knuckle into the floor. He sighs and she sighs and it’s too long in this closed space.
So he bites again.
“I figured that’s what you’re looking for,” he stretches his legs out in front of him. “The whole nine yards - cohabitation, procreation, and a white fence to match. You’re historically that predictable.”
There’s a shift in space. He hears her sigh and looks down. She feels closer then before and he can make out better, watching as her hands sort of sway along her legs.
“I don’t want to do it again.”
It comes out of nowhere. He’s surprised how candid the one answer makes her, the sudden jolt of honesty that slips. It’s not an invitation and yet, the significance of her honesty always makes him nervous.
He sighs. “Right.”
She shakes her head, her hands stilling over her knees. There’s a pause, short, as she looks up at him. The motion is enough - he can imagine her eyes, the way they sort of darken when she’s pressed into this kind of conversation. There’s an allure to it. But the light is too bad and it’s so strange; it’s like he misses her and he’s not entirely sure of how or why he should place all of this between them.
“I can’t do it again,” she says quietly. “I don’t have it in me.”
He doesn’t know what to do with that. He sighs, pressing his hand into his leg. He looks away even though there’s nothing to look at it. There’s too much of a strain here, not enough room to press away.
He almost winces. “You say that now.”
Her brow furrows. “I’m not asking -”
“You brought it up.”
It’s an easy redirect and she snorts, muttering something about being in the elevator too long. They’re quiet again.
So it stays somewhere between sighs and mutterings. The reality of this is that he has no idea what to say to her. He never has. There’s something that she has that almost brushes intimidation. While he’s fascinated at how open she can be, how honest and almost, really, how brutal she can push back when she pushes. And yet, it’s almost too much for him.
It’s why he tends to go on the merit of curiosity and similarity. Women are women and nothing more. He does think about Stacy from time to time and there’s a lot of what ifs that linger. But there’s no chance for him to be that again, to be someone who has something to give. Then again, he doesn’t know if he really knows. If he wants to know. The idea of a relationship holds too much. Maybe he can handle. Maybe he can’t. He spends too much time feeling too old, too done, and even, to a certain extent, too lonely.
This is habit.
He looks to her again, studying her openly. It’s not like she’ll turn and look. A part of him relishes the idea that he can still make her a little uneasy. But he doesn’t know what to make of how close they are, how they’ve decided to sit. Maybe it’s predictably human. He doesn’t know.
She sighs. “Think they’re coming?”
“Obviously not,” he mutters. “At least, we’re not falling.”
“At least.”
There’s a snort from her.
But he gets uncomfortable again, the silence falling faster between the two of them. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. He latches on to the last piece of conversation, not because he cares but because it’s pretty damn interesting to even have her squirm just a little bit.
“You really wouldn’t?”
She bites back. “Would you?”
“I’m not that kind of guy,” he throws back dryly.
He swears her lips curl in amusement. He watches as she shifts carefully towards him, just a little closer, her back pressing against the wall. He feels a slight brush of discomfort - it’s more of not knowing what to do with this kind of closeness than the act in itself. But she settles and he tries to ignore it.
“Not afraid of plummeting?”
She snorts. “We’re between the first two floors.”
“Still scary.”
“Could be.”
It’s the silence again. He shifts and he shifts, pulling one leg up. He drops his forehead against his knee and tries again, really, not to think about things like proximity and space. It’s the generality that bothers him, perhaps, even more so sharing this. It’s not so much in words, it’s the way they seem to fall into these odd spurts of something. He doesn’t want to call it an understanding, but it’s something.
So he pushes again.
“You look okay,” he observes, “out of all of them, you look okay - Chase looks like he wants to rip my throat out and Foreman’s still useless.”
“I thought I was predictable.”
“You are.”
He’s halfway between a compliment and an insult, uncertain about the direction that he wants to go. It could be that she’s watching him, that her gaze seems more than just unwavering. He isn’t sure if he has it in him - they’ve been there before, time and time again; there’s been that large moment, coupled by a series of small ones that he’s pushed himself away from understanding.
But she’s close.
“I still don’t understand.”
Her lips purse. He gets a shrug.
“I never said you had to.”
It’s so close, so close right there, the promise of an admission. He sort of tastes it, shifting to distract himself. His hands curl at his sides, as he tries and listens for any indication of the power turning on for them to get out. He doesn’t know what he can say, if there’s anything to say at all even beyond pushing it off. It’s the problem that he has with her - it’s almost intimidation, if anything less than that.
“Right.”
She sighs. “Right.”
They let the silence in this time. He keeps his head to his knees, his hands uncurling and rising to wrap around his leg. He listens to her instead, the shifts in breathing, in the way she sits. Her dress was black but that seems less of a memory than everything else. Long legs. Her breasts - she took her wrap off, right? The space is just that tight, that uncomfortable, and he tries to apply the scenario to everyone else.
He breaks first, of course.
“Tight space.”
“Tell me about it.” There’s dry amusement in her voice, wavering, if nothing less, and she seems - he’d like to think - just as unsettled as he is.
“The power should be back on,” she mutters.
“You don’t know that.”
She coughs. “Stop.”
“What?”
But she says nothing. He can’t stand the silence, can’t stand the fact that she’s sitting here with him and he can’t even pick apart what he saw before; it offers significance that he doesn’t understand, but could understand if he wanted to. It’s always been the same for him.
Maybe, this is what bothers him most of all. He can’t turn it off and on, like they can. Like she can. It just seems to happen, regardless of what he intends to say or do. She makes him uncomfortable and that, he wonders, is something she should be aware of. How much of it though is a question he’ll never completely present to her. She won’t answer it - or maybe, she will. He just has no desire to find out.
He’s the better liar.
“You’re trying too hard,” she suddenly breaks the silence.
She turns towards him, her dress spilling over her knees. She crosses them underneath her and it’s almost as if she’s pressing closer. It’s the sensation of the idea, of how close she can be.
She touches his hand. And it’s becoming something different.
“Assumption.”
He watches her blink. “What?”
“You’re assuming I care that much.”
There’s that strange sort of smile again and he can see it. Her hair slides against her cheek and she bats it back.
“You don’t,” she replies. It’s confident and a sudden change in the energy of the conversation. It should amuse him. It doesn’t.
So he drops the first thing that comes to mind. “What if I did?”
“Now, you’re being childish.”
“And you’re assuming.”
He almost rolls his eyes, but he’s too curious. The line of her mouth is in view and he thinks about it, but briefly. There’s no need to press that hard, that far, and pull up a variety of new consequences.
Her lips press tightly. “There’s nothing else to do.”
But he’s still stuck. He doesn’t have any reason to kiss her, but he’s thinking about it again. Like before, earlier in the night - his eyes peeling to the curve of her throat, that rush, comes back again. Maybe, it’s the proximity. Maybe, his boredom has turned him towards some sense of irrelevant desperation. Maybe, he just has too many answers. But he leans forward out some sense of loyalty to his curiosity and his hand, just his hand, rises out of its own accord. He drags his thumb over her lip and she starts to breathe a little faster, her eyes widening slightly as he takes a little more of her space.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
He kisses her.
He’s waiting for extraordinary, but loses the thought as his mouth starts to move over hers. Her lips are softer, her hand suddenly framing his jaw. He’s not sure if she’s kissing him or if he’s touch pushing too hard.
“I -”
“Shut up,” she says against his mouth.
She’s kissing him back then, her mouth warmer and her tongue slipping along his lip. She sighs into his mouth and he has to pull her closer - there’s no sense of reason, but he wants to taste her. He wants to know how to push her, how to take all these responses that shouldn’t be his.
But he can feel her fingers curl around his jacket, her breasts pressing against his arm, and the position is too damn awkward. He doesn’t care. He just doesn’t care and threads his hand through her hair, tugging lightly as he deepens the kiss and she moans. There’s no space now and he’s not going to be able to let this go.
He breaks first again.
Her eyes are still closed. Her fingers are still curled around his jacket. They’re pressing into each, close and awkward and seemingly unaware of the insensibility of their proximity.
It’s too much.
“It doesn’t mean that anything’s going to happen,” he mutters darkly.
“I -” And it doesn’t seem to occur to her, if anything, that he’s almost slipping in front of her. Or maybe it does and maybe, like everything else, he’s been right about what she can really handle.
The smile that he sees is just a smile, slow and misplaced. There’s fitting of nostalgia, something that he doesn’t understand and probably, it’s just going to be one of those things.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?”
It’s an odd thing to say. Then again, most of the things between them, whether said or done, are odd and forgotten. Half the time, he wonders that it’s significance instead of everything else.
“Maybe,” he says, but it’s hesitant.
The lights come on.
It’s different when he can really see her. It adds to the awareness and neither of them seem careful enough to suddenly break away. He can’t read her either and it should bother him, even in the moment, but nothing seems to rise within him. All he’s aware of is her mouth, the way she suddenly presses her lips together - maybe, it’s to erase the taste, maybe it’s not.
He breaks the moment again. “You going to get up?”
“Yeah.”
“Now?”
“In a minute,” she murmurs.
He says nothing about her hesitation. If he did, it would be misplaced and the whole thing would be too forced, too open for him. He’s still sort of reeling, trying to make his way back to an understanding of habit. But what habit? What exactly is he looking for?
She stands then and he watches the dress slide around her legs. He flashes a half-smirk when she catches him blatantly looking, but she turns instead. She reaches for her things and he takes the opportunity to stand, so she doesn’t watch. His cane sort of stumbles out of his hand and he almost slips, grunting and steadying. He keeps his gaze on her and forces himself to stand. There’s a sharp pain, but he ignores it.
Whatever’s easier, he thinks.
The elevator does start to move and it’s less of jolt then before. It’s almost anticlimactic and he’s amused, less and less drawn to what’s just happened. It’s the notion, the inclination that he has - nothing sticks, he just can’t handle it in front of anyone. It’ll come back and he’ll wonder, but -
She’s watching him.
“What?”
She snorts. “Nothing.”
And when she looks away, he wonders again. He really wonders how far he can push her, how much she’s willing to allow herself to follow again. His lips still burn, a little too much. He doesn’t want to be stuck and, yet, here he is.
He pushes. For curiosity, he tries to think.
“Want a ride?”
There’s a long pause and he regrets the sudden question, the way her mouth seems to line firmly is no cause for any indication of what she’s thinking or what she might be thinking. He wants to know. He doesn’t want to know. And it’s a struggle, really, trying to place and predict where this could be going by any means.
“I-”
He can only see her thoughts. It’s out of character. What does it mean? Is he going to do something? He doesn’t think about the things and the allure of consequences never really touches the surface. Perhaps, he’s letting too much go or maybe, he’s just redirecting. He’s never too sure and habits are really not a particular interest.
He shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Fine,” it’s too quick, she’s almost breathless, and the moment he thinks he’s let go too fast. There could’ve been a little something, something quicker that he could’ve held over her head.
If that’s what it’s about.
The elevator opens to empty floor. People are still upstairs. He doesn’t think to check his watch. There could be an hour, maybe two left. He doesn’t care. It’s politics, remember, and it’s something he doesn’t need.
Her lips purse. He looks away.
He lets her go first, if only to watch her, and there’s a bit of a pause as she stops to slide into her jacket. He watches her hands here, the way her fingers curl seemingly out of old nerves.
“House.”
He watches her sigh, her hands tucking into her pockets at her hips. She looks just as awkward as he feels, if not more, because the answer comes with her turn back. There’s another sigh and then she nods.
“Yeah,” she finally agrees, “okay.”
House stops to let her follow.
they won’t see him. inevitability, when the two of them are involved, there tends to be a choice of indecisions. house. house/cameron (chase/cameron). an elevator. house md. general season four spoilers. 5687 words, pg13.
notes: for blueheronz. a very belated birthday gift. semi-unbeta’d due to the impromptu boston trip of mine. also for the free_neutrality’s promptapalooza shindig using the prompt ‘habit’ and house/cameron.
-
They’re in the hallway, in front of him, cornered off from the door.
The mouth of the party is at a dull hum, the crowd pinching deeper into the small room. He can’t remember who or what it’s for, not that he cares or has a choice in making a decision to be there. It’s office politics, it’s hospital politics, and it’s everything that he has no reason to be attached or attach himself to. But he’s here, of course, with nothing more the objective annoyance and it really is what it is.
He’s snuck out by now or, really, he’s just left. It’s a record of a whole hour and some minutes - he tosses a smirk at Cuddy before he stepped out, shrugging when she sort of gave that look of hope. Hope for what, begs the question, and she, like everyone else, knows that if there’s nothing of interest to even remotely keep him in place, then he’s not going to stay.
He’s fumbling with his jacket when he catches the back of Chase and the side of Cameron, obviously having a moment that isn’t meant for anybody to see. He can feel the frostiness between them, just by look at her - it’s her mouth, the way it folds into a thin line. Her eyes are dark and she’s not completely looking at Chase, but the tension is thick. Her hands are at the skirt of her dress, a little full and he watches her fingers try fists. She’s trying to be objective, which amuses him, and he leans into the corner, hidden, just so he can watch her hands clench and unclench.
They won’t see him.
“What are you doing?”
She’s practically snarling at the other man. She stops herself though, turns, and House watches Chase’s hands go glue themselves to his hips. It’s funny, how few and far he sees the two of them and how much he is really struggling to recognize. Not that he cares, but there’s this infuriating need to understand too. He’s lost something, but he doesn’t know how much of it - peculiar as it seems - he’s lost.
“We talked about it.”
Chase seems unfazed, however, as if this were something that’s happened before. He turns towards the corner, gaze down, and House finds himself tensing. It’s not that he cares about being seen, but it’s almost as if he’s taking the moment too.
“Talked about what -” But Cameron stops herself, her gaze dropping. Her eyes close and there’s a sigh, some strange admission of guilt that he does recognize. House finds himself fascinated all over again, trying to use an excuse to stay.
There is no control to any of his curiosity and with her, it comes and goes and comes and goes as it pleases. It remains peculiar because he doesn’t see here and isn’t really affected by her presence or lack of it; still, when the time is there and when he seeks her out with no cause, he finds himself fascinated. Somehow, it’s even subtle. It’s there, it makes sure that he knows, and he cuts it off.
Chase is weary as well and that shows too much; wondering what he’s seeing, he watches the change in positions again. Cameron is a step back and then, suddenly, another. It’s as if the distance is too necessary between the two of them and she’s trying to keep it that way.
“Come back inside.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” she snaps, “seriously. I can’t believe you trapped me into that. I walked right into that. It was embarrassing.”
Ah, he thinks. And there it is. There’s no surprise that she breaks first, subjectivity the inherent weakness that she has. There’s that frown of hers, her lips pursing tightly again. House’s eyes go to her legs, perhaps too long, but it’s not like she knows. He should be here. He doesn’t care.
“I said we were talking about it.”
Chase is unapologetic, shaking his head. There’s mild disgust between them, much more of a discomfort from her head. And this, too, is what House finds curious. It’s like he’s watching the de-evolution of a relationship, two people at different places. Maybe forced. Maybe not.
What he can and cannot relate too is not important - but still, his eyes go to Cameron again and he watches the tension rise in her shoulders. His eyes follow the line and up to her neck, pausing and stroking, as always, the possibility that he’d never take.
Behind him, the party gets a little loud. He turns, just in case, resting his back against the wall and watching a couple stumble out. It’s a fundraiser, he sort of remembers, and his hand goes to his tie. His fingers slide along the wrinkles of his tie, stroking lazily. When the couple passes to the other end, he goes back to watching.
They’re close again and she’s angrier - he’s admittedly fascinated by this particular change, the sudden openness of her face, of the way she just sort of lets go. He won’t outwardly admit his own attractiveness to her like this, but watching, even waiting to see something, raises a sense of arousal.
Cameron shakes her head.
“I know what you said. And I know what I said to you. But bringing it up like that, in front of people - are you trying to prove something again? This isn’t the time or place and the more you pull crap like this, the more I’m not going to want to talk about it at all.”
Chase throws his hands up. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
But she doesn’t answer. He watches her fumble forward, practically ripping her shaw and purse from Chase’s hands. It’s almost to appropriate for him to stumble into them, but he’s patient and more interested in her reaction, than his. Whatever relationship was there with Chase, mentoring or not, is almost broken. He’s not completely interested in a reunion or patching things up; there’s Foreman and that, there, is big enough reminder for everything else.
He still doesn’t know how to feel about the three of them, again, being here and in front of them. They’re disconnected and then they’re not. At times, he looks at the other three and thinks routine with fitted nostalgia just so he doesn’t have thinking about missing things. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to admit that, but looking at Cameron, now even and in particular, there’s this indirect pull that he’s been looking for.
“Allison-”
It’s half-hearted and Cameron is sighing, shaking her head. The wrap of her shawl covers her breasts, the peak of skin even more of a sigh of interest for him. But he looks away, ducking.
“I’ll see you at home,” is all she says, that he hears, quick and brisk.
Instead, he waits.
He keeps his gaze down, only peeking as Chase moves away. The stance is predictable: slouched, shoulders tight, and his hands deep into his pockets as he makes his way back to the party. House then pushes himself off the wall, his fingers sliding along his jacket. Chase doesn’t miss him. He quirks his amusement in the other man’s direction, earning a scowl but nothing more to satisfy the rest of his curiosity.
Shrugging, he moves towards the elevators. He spots Cameron, his eyes sliding along the curve of her back. He didn’t see her all night, he thinks, not to say that he looked or anything. There’s something, still, attractive about how she stands by herself - she’s open, sure, and angry, of course, but that pull of curiosity seems to linger around him.
“Hold the elevator.”
He can’t help himself, his voice dry. She doesn’t turn to see him, but her shoulders drop and all of the sudden; the tension has completely disappeared from her. Whether it’s because of him or some indirect reaction, he doesn’t care, but seems to feed the curiosity even more.
“It’s not here yet,” she murmurs.
He shrugs. “You look like you’d leave me.”
“Probably.”
His lips curl. Closer, he eyes her without any sense of boundaries. There’s her perfume, light between them, and he licks his lips. He rocks back and forth against his cane, sliding his thumb along the handle as his eyes go to her breasts. The shawl peeks loosely over them and he has to lick his lips.
“Nice dress.”
Her amusement is brief, but she barely glances at him. “Nice tie.”
“I know. It’s quirky.”
There’s a fumble of a smile across her mouth and her shoulders start to set into an easier place as she relaxes even more. He steps a little closer, his hand shoving into his pocket as he rocks his cane underneath the other.
“Lover’s quarrel?”
He can’t help himself. It’s the only indication that he could’ve possibly seen something that he shouldn’t have and he keeps his gaze on her, seeing if he can pick apart something, anything, that is familiar or not.
She’s quiet.
“You were watching.”
He can’t tell if it’s an accusation or an observation. He tilts his head to the side, watching the elevator finally start to rise to their floor. So he sort of shrugs as an acknowledgement, offering nothing else to her, as the tension drops and then rises again.
“I was.”
“So then you know.”
It’s a stupid thing to say. It’s a really stupid thing to say, one of those moments that gives away more than he intends to is sort of rising to the surface. He doesn’t need it and, for the first time, he’s stuck on the fact that she might not want it either.
But still, still he can’t help himself.
He snorts. “That’s a boring thing to say.”
There’s a strange sense of detachment from her end and from the conversation. She doesn’t really say anything, whether there’s an opportunity to say something or not. He’s surprised because lately, if and when he sees her, she seems to take a shot back without any hesitation. It’s a change, something he’s a little unsure of.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Obviously,” he snorts again. But he lets it go.
The elevator is cold when it opens.
He almost slips into a corner, a wad of puddles in front of him from the rain outside. He curses under his breath, rolling his eyes and leaning heavily into the wall instead of his cane. It’s been an all day thing - he tried to use weather as an excuse, but sort of lost himself between clinic incentives and vacations.
He takes to looking at her again, watching as she settles on the opposite side. It stays awkward and imposing, the air between them. Her back presses against the wall, her hands curling around the railing. Neither of them makes any effort to press the floor for the garage. She gives in first though, sighing loudly and reaching for the buttons.
Then he plays.
“How’s life then?” He’s dry, biting, and gauging whatever reaction he can take for himself. “You know, with your epic battles to become Mother Theresa.”
“Really?”
“What?”
She snorts. “It’s not like I’ve been gone for ten years,” she murmurs, rolling her eyes. “I’m not stupid and I do remember how big of an ass you can be when you’re bored, miserable, and trying to take someone with you.”
“Ah. But you’re already there.”
He smirks. She flinches. This is really about the game; something to do with everybody, how far and how hard he can push. The difference - and there’s a difference - with Cameron is that there’s usually something more, something can hold, and one more piece to the puzzle. He thinks he’s problem is somewhere around there. It works with this kind of distance and she’s grouped with the others - he has no resounding curiosity unless they’re face to face.
Here she is.
He starts again. “I mean, I get it - you and Chase bonding over the unfortunate circumstances of our partings. You miss me.”
“Grow up.”
“No fun,” he sings, his mouth turning, “I mean, at least tell me that I’m going to get an invite to the wedding or, well, you know, your first born.”
“You’re not funny.”
There’s an odd curl of her lips, a smile but not a smile. She leans her head back against the elevator wall, her fingers curling around the bars. He’s fascinated really, by the ups and downs of her reactions. It’s peculiar and unexpected; chalking it up to some from of exhaustion on his part is too easy, but he feels like it has something to do with watching her less - or rather, wanting to watch her more, to put her back into a particular place.
“You’re smiling.”
“You wish,” she murmurs.
But he doesn’t hear her.
There’s a low wail first. The elevator jolts up and then down, the lights snapping off. He grunts, his knee turning in. His cane slips from his hand and clatters across the floor. He doesn’t hear her. He doesn’t hear her - his ears are ringing. The floor sort of sways, back and forth, and there’s no other sound but cables moaning. It’s a little bit of screeching too, but the pressure in his leg is almost too much. He lowers himself slowly to the ground, breathing as his back slides back against the wall.
The elevator stops suddenly.
“Fuck,” he snarls.
They’re quiet now, listening for that sound again - it was a screech, maybe, or even a thick line of scrapping. He thinks wires and malfunctions with a big fuck you. He should’ve taken the clinic hours instead of swallowing socializing and politics. He blames Cuddy for this and his own patterns. God, he’s got stop being easy.
“You okay?”
She’s distant, the sound of her voice too faint. He closes his eyes, his hand fumbling against his thigh. His fingers press into his trousers and he rubs, trying to dull the rising pain.
He snorts. “Stupid question.”
There’s no answer, just a sharp hiss from outside the doors. The lights stay off and he can’t see her, a surge of strange panic working its way up his throat. He takes a deep breath, then a step forward, and then another deep breath for the routine. He keeps the hesitation in his voice.
“Cameron?”
“Here.”
He reaches up to guide himself, his hand sliding along the metal bar. He can make her out in the corner, her head dipped down. Her hand drops and he guides himself to the corner, reaching her. He stops though as his knuckles brush against hers. She’s still, tense, and he imagines, even briefly, that look she gets, the wrinkle in her mouth and how she closes her eyes when she falls to a moment.
The emergency lights blink. He covers her hand with his.
He doesn’t think about it. She doesn’t say anything. It’s quiet and he listens for any sound of any more stress, but the silence seems to stay steady and predictable for a moment.
Her voice is soft. “Why did the lights go?”
“Don’t know.”
He’s sharper than she is. He finds himself growing more and more aware of the space or, rather, lack of space between them and for them. He drops his hand away from hers, reaching up behind him. His fingers start to curl, cueing over the elevator rail. He sighs though, starting to resettle against the wall. There’s a slow pain along his thigh, dulling briefly.
He sighs. “Where’s your phone?”
“In my bag,” she says, slowly, “but I don’t get reception. Where’s yours?”
“The car.”
“Ah.”
His brow furrows. “Ah?”
“Well, what can I do? Cry hysterically?”
She snaps back at him. He looks down instead; trying to assesses the moment as best he can. His mind is sort of blank and there’s a moment where he wants to laugh and think of course.
“Were you drinking?”
“What has that have anything to do with anything?”
“Something to do,” he almost smirks.
She snorts.
He shrugs and says nothing. It’s peculiar to him, he thinks, that there’s no sign of nerves. He can make her out, his eyes adjusting lazily to the lack of light. The emergency lights seem nothing more than blurring and he knows that she’s close. It seems enough.
The only indication of something along that line is her hands, folded and grazing her hips. He watches as she sighs tiredly, leaning her shoulder into the wall. He waits for it, waits for some sort of sign that he’s right but it’s almost as if she deliberately avoids anything else.
“You’re cranky.”
“Obviously,” she mutters darkly. “What gave it away?”
“Want to talk about it?”
She snorts. “With you?”
House rolls his eyes. He gives in though, partly because his leg is starting to ache and standing holds no motivation for him. But sitting down in front of her makes him almost hesitant and too aware of the jump between simple moments and complicated; it’s a movement that holds nothing of value, a mere exposure of his obvious vulnerabilities.
“He asked you.”
It’s a shot in the dark. He knows they’re together - the idea in itself sort of amuses him. Whether it’s completely serious or not, it remains to be seen. He could care less. What interests him is her non-reaction to all of this or rather, the way she seems vehemently opposed to the obvious idea of more.
If that’s it.
She’s tense. “What?”
“I saw,” he shrugs, “or heard your stupid argument. I was morbidly curious and you were blocking the elevator.”
“Right.”
She’s quiet and he’s waiting for the push - he wants the push. It gives them a sense of a predictable balance and he’s starting to become too aware of the space again, between them and otherwise.
It all depends on what she’ll tell him, he thinks. It’s between what sleeps and those odd twists of decisions that she makes in front of him - slips, sure, and sometimes they seem unconsciously there.
“Yes,” she says after awhile.
He sort of perks up - if it means what he thinks it means, he feels like laughing. It so predictable, really, of Chase in this infatuation. He’s not invested in figuring this out, or, so he tells himself, and yet, here, he finds himself waiting for her to say something more.
He shifts. “What?”
“He asked me.”
So they’re not engaged. He wonders where Wilson gets his information. Dating, okay, but engaged brings an entire spectrum of other things that amuses him. It’s light enough where he can make her out, but he can’t completely see any of her expressions.
“So.”
She sighs. “I said no.”
“You said no.”
She doesn’t say anything but he can feel her shift closer. It causes him to tense and he presses his knuckle into the floor. He sighs and she sighs and it’s too long in this closed space.
So he bites again.
“I figured that’s what you’re looking for,” he stretches his legs out in front of him. “The whole nine yards - cohabitation, procreation, and a white fence to match. You’re historically that predictable.”
There’s a shift in space. He hears her sigh and looks down. She feels closer then before and he can make out better, watching as her hands sort of sway along her legs.
“I don’t want to do it again.”
It comes out of nowhere. He’s surprised how candid the one answer makes her, the sudden jolt of honesty that slips. It’s not an invitation and yet, the significance of her honesty always makes him nervous.
He sighs. “Right.”
She shakes her head, her hands stilling over her knees. There’s a pause, short, as she looks up at him. The motion is enough - he can imagine her eyes, the way they sort of darken when she’s pressed into this kind of conversation. There’s an allure to it. But the light is too bad and it’s so strange; it’s like he misses her and he’s not entirely sure of how or why he should place all of this between them.
“I can’t do it again,” she says quietly. “I don’t have it in me.”
He doesn’t know what to do with that. He sighs, pressing his hand into his leg. He looks away even though there’s nothing to look at it. There’s too much of a strain here, not enough room to press away.
He almost winces. “You say that now.”
Her brow furrows. “I’m not asking -”
“You brought it up.”
It’s an easy redirect and she snorts, muttering something about being in the elevator too long. They’re quiet again.
So it stays somewhere between sighs and mutterings. The reality of this is that he has no idea what to say to her. He never has. There’s something that she has that almost brushes intimidation. While he’s fascinated at how open she can be, how honest and almost, really, how brutal she can push back when she pushes. And yet, it’s almost too much for him.
It’s why he tends to go on the merit of curiosity and similarity. Women are women and nothing more. He does think about Stacy from time to time and there’s a lot of what ifs that linger. But there’s no chance for him to be that again, to be someone who has something to give. Then again, he doesn’t know if he really knows. If he wants to know. The idea of a relationship holds too much. Maybe he can handle. Maybe he can’t. He spends too much time feeling too old, too done, and even, to a certain extent, too lonely.
This is habit.
He looks to her again, studying her openly. It’s not like she’ll turn and look. A part of him relishes the idea that he can still make her a little uneasy. But he doesn’t know what to make of how close they are, how they’ve decided to sit. Maybe it’s predictably human. He doesn’t know.
She sighs. “Think they’re coming?”
“Obviously not,” he mutters. “At least, we’re not falling.”
“At least.”
There’s a snort from her.
But he gets uncomfortable again, the silence falling faster between the two of them. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. He latches on to the last piece of conversation, not because he cares but because it’s pretty damn interesting to even have her squirm just a little bit.
“You really wouldn’t?”
She bites back. “Would you?”
“I’m not that kind of guy,” he throws back dryly.
He swears her lips curl in amusement. He watches as she shifts carefully towards him, just a little closer, her back pressing against the wall. He feels a slight brush of discomfort - it’s more of not knowing what to do with this kind of closeness than the act in itself. But she settles and he tries to ignore it.
“Not afraid of plummeting?”
She snorts. “We’re between the first two floors.”
“Still scary.”
“Could be.”
It’s the silence again. He shifts and he shifts, pulling one leg up. He drops his forehead against his knee and tries again, really, not to think about things like proximity and space. It’s the generality that bothers him, perhaps, even more so sharing this. It’s not so much in words, it’s the way they seem to fall into these odd spurts of something. He doesn’t want to call it an understanding, but it’s something.
So he pushes again.
“You look okay,” he observes, “out of all of them, you look okay - Chase looks like he wants to rip my throat out and Foreman’s still useless.”
“I thought I was predictable.”
“You are.”
He’s halfway between a compliment and an insult, uncertain about the direction that he wants to go. It could be that she’s watching him, that her gaze seems more than just unwavering. He isn’t sure if he has it in him - they’ve been there before, time and time again; there’s been that large moment, coupled by a series of small ones that he’s pushed himself away from understanding.
But she’s close.
“I still don’t understand.”
Her lips purse. He gets a shrug.
“I never said you had to.”
It’s so close, so close right there, the promise of an admission. He sort of tastes it, shifting to distract himself. His hands curl at his sides, as he tries and listens for any indication of the power turning on for them to get out. He doesn’t know what he can say, if there’s anything to say at all even beyond pushing it off. It’s the problem that he has with her - it’s almost intimidation, if anything less than that.
“Right.”
She sighs. “Right.”
They let the silence in this time. He keeps his head to his knees, his hands uncurling and rising to wrap around his leg. He listens to her instead, the shifts in breathing, in the way she sits. Her dress was black but that seems less of a memory than everything else. Long legs. Her breasts - she took her wrap off, right? The space is just that tight, that uncomfortable, and he tries to apply the scenario to everyone else.
He breaks first, of course.
“Tight space.”
“Tell me about it.” There’s dry amusement in her voice, wavering, if nothing less, and she seems - he’d like to think - just as unsettled as he is.
“The power should be back on,” she mutters.
“You don’t know that.”
She coughs. “Stop.”
“What?”
But she says nothing. He can’t stand the silence, can’t stand the fact that she’s sitting here with him and he can’t even pick apart what he saw before; it offers significance that he doesn’t understand, but could understand if he wanted to. It’s always been the same for him.
Maybe, this is what bothers him most of all. He can’t turn it off and on, like they can. Like she can. It just seems to happen, regardless of what he intends to say or do. She makes him uncomfortable and that, he wonders, is something she should be aware of. How much of it though is a question he’ll never completely present to her. She won’t answer it - or maybe, she will. He just has no desire to find out.
He’s the better liar.
“You’re trying too hard,” she suddenly breaks the silence.
She turns towards him, her dress spilling over her knees. She crosses them underneath her and it’s almost as if she’s pressing closer. It’s the sensation of the idea, of how close she can be.
She touches his hand. And it’s becoming something different.
“Assumption.”
He watches her blink. “What?”
“You’re assuming I care that much.”
There’s that strange sort of smile again and he can see it. Her hair slides against her cheek and she bats it back.
“You don’t,” she replies. It’s confident and a sudden change in the energy of the conversation. It should amuse him. It doesn’t.
So he drops the first thing that comes to mind. “What if I did?”
“Now, you’re being childish.”
“And you’re assuming.”
He almost rolls his eyes, but he’s too curious. The line of her mouth is in view and he thinks about it, but briefly. There’s no need to press that hard, that far, and pull up a variety of new consequences.
Her lips press tightly. “There’s nothing else to do.”
But he’s still stuck. He doesn’t have any reason to kiss her, but he’s thinking about it again. Like before, earlier in the night - his eyes peeling to the curve of her throat, that rush, comes back again. Maybe, it’s the proximity. Maybe, his boredom has turned him towards some sense of irrelevant desperation. Maybe, he just has too many answers. But he leans forward out some sense of loyalty to his curiosity and his hand, just his hand, rises out of its own accord. He drags his thumb over her lip and she starts to breathe a little faster, her eyes widening slightly as he takes a little more of her space.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
He kisses her.
He’s waiting for extraordinary, but loses the thought as his mouth starts to move over hers. Her lips are softer, her hand suddenly framing his jaw. He’s not sure if she’s kissing him or if he’s touch pushing too hard.
“I -”
“Shut up,” she says against his mouth.
She’s kissing him back then, her mouth warmer and her tongue slipping along his lip. She sighs into his mouth and he has to pull her closer - there’s no sense of reason, but he wants to taste her. He wants to know how to push her, how to take all these responses that shouldn’t be his.
But he can feel her fingers curl around his jacket, her breasts pressing against his arm, and the position is too damn awkward. He doesn’t care. He just doesn’t care and threads his hand through her hair, tugging lightly as he deepens the kiss and she moans. There’s no space now and he’s not going to be able to let this go.
He breaks first again.
Her eyes are still closed. Her fingers are still curled around his jacket. They’re pressing into each, close and awkward and seemingly unaware of the insensibility of their proximity.
It’s too much.
“It doesn’t mean that anything’s going to happen,” he mutters darkly.
“I -” And it doesn’t seem to occur to her, if anything, that he’s almost slipping in front of her. Or maybe it does and maybe, like everything else, he’s been right about what she can really handle.
The smile that he sees is just a smile, slow and misplaced. There’s fitting of nostalgia, something that he doesn’t understand and probably, it’s just going to be one of those things.
“It doesn’t matter, does it?”
It’s an odd thing to say. Then again, most of the things between them, whether said or done, are odd and forgotten. Half the time, he wonders that it’s significance instead of everything else.
“Maybe,” he says, but it’s hesitant.
The lights come on.
It’s different when he can really see her. It adds to the awareness and neither of them seem careful enough to suddenly break away. He can’t read her either and it should bother him, even in the moment, but nothing seems to rise within him. All he’s aware of is her mouth, the way she suddenly presses her lips together - maybe, it’s to erase the taste, maybe it’s not.
He breaks the moment again. “You going to get up?”
“Yeah.”
“Now?”
“In a minute,” she murmurs.
He says nothing about her hesitation. If he did, it would be misplaced and the whole thing would be too forced, too open for him. He’s still sort of reeling, trying to make his way back to an understanding of habit. But what habit? What exactly is he looking for?
She stands then and he watches the dress slide around her legs. He flashes a half-smirk when she catches him blatantly looking, but she turns instead. She reaches for her things and he takes the opportunity to stand, so she doesn’t watch. His cane sort of stumbles out of his hand and he almost slips, grunting and steadying. He keeps his gaze on her and forces himself to stand. There’s a sharp pain, but he ignores it.
Whatever’s easier, he thinks.
The elevator does start to move and it’s less of jolt then before. It’s almost anticlimactic and he’s amused, less and less drawn to what’s just happened. It’s the notion, the inclination that he has - nothing sticks, he just can’t handle it in front of anyone. It’ll come back and he’ll wonder, but -
She’s watching him.
“What?”
She snorts. “Nothing.”
And when she looks away, he wonders again. He really wonders how far he can push her, how much she’s willing to allow herself to follow again. His lips still burn, a little too much. He doesn’t want to be stuck and, yet, here he is.
He pushes. For curiosity, he tries to think.
“Want a ride?”
There’s a long pause and he regrets the sudden question, the way her mouth seems to line firmly is no cause for any indication of what she’s thinking or what she might be thinking. He wants to know. He doesn’t want to know. And it’s a struggle, really, trying to place and predict where this could be going by any means.
“I-”
He can only see her thoughts. It’s out of character. What does it mean? Is he going to do something? He doesn’t think about the things and the allure of consequences never really touches the surface. Perhaps, he’s letting too much go or maybe, he’s just redirecting. He’s never too sure and habits are really not a particular interest.
He shrugs. “Whatever.”
“Fine,” it’s too quick, she’s almost breathless, and the moment he thinks he’s let go too fast. There could’ve been a little something, something quicker that he could’ve held over her head.
If that’s what it’s about.
The elevator opens to empty floor. People are still upstairs. He doesn’t think to check his watch. There could be an hour, maybe two left. He doesn’t care. It’s politics, remember, and it’s something he doesn’t need.
Her lips purse. He looks away.
He lets her go first, if only to watch her, and there’s a bit of a pause as she stops to slide into her jacket. He watches her hands here, the way her fingers curl seemingly out of old nerves.
“House.”
He watches her sigh, her hands tucking into her pockets at her hips. She looks just as awkward as he feels, if not more, because the answer comes with her turn back. There’s another sigh and then she nods.
“Yeah,” she finally agrees, “okay.”
House stops to let her follow.