House Fic: these holy dances 1/2
notes: i absolutely intended this to be one part and one part only, except it decided not to be? *is amused* but this is could serve as a post-ep and something that kind of stands in between whatever happens tonight. also, this is for surreallis, who’s responsible for giving me the kick in the ass that i needed to get back into to this. *g* and for keeping me sane on Mondays, of course.
these holy dances
“you're you again," he calls out. he doesn't mean to either. one of these things, they’re not like the others. house md. house, house/cameron. spoilers for all season give, up to big baby. 5,752 words, pg.
-
The table faces the window at the end, stretching against the glass in an odd, shapeless form. It’s too late. There’s really no light at night, the parking lot facing through the floors in a glimmer of street lamps and cars. He doesn't know why he came down. There’s bottle of scotch in his hand. It’s not a celebration. He hates celebrations. It’s sort of one of those days, again and again, in cycle that half-merges him in a stupor.
She’s there too. He doesn't mean to see her. Next table over, Cameron's holding a coffee like it's the last one she can have. Two packets of sugar keep her company, stretched and folded into a napkin. He’s amused. He never knows why. Her legs are curled underneath her. She looks smaller. He never really knows her like this. Still though, he's walking to the table. Forgets the solitude that he could have in his office; everybody's gone home, only one of them knowing his habits, and he's got to give it to Foreman for keeping the space. The others, they still learn. He hates teaching.
"You're you again," he calls out.
He doesn't mean to either. But he does, and she's turning to face him. Her frown should be there, but she shrugs. She half-indulges him still, like it's a habit, and raises an eyebrow when she sees the scotch. It’s familiar too. She never said anything. The others, either.
"You're here late," she says instead. "Who would've thought?"
There’s no bite, he expects it, but it's not there. He frowns for a moment too. Then shrugs, carrying the scotch to the table and sitting down across from her. He's invasive, watching for a reaction.
"I like to work in secret."
She snorts, rolling her eyes. The bottle hits the table hard. It cracks loudly against the top. There's a quick surge of pain in his leg, hitting hard. He lets the bottle stand on its own, reaching for his leg and pressing his hand into his jeans. The fabric is coarse, curling into his palm and he keeps himself watching her for the distraction.
She’s studying the bottle. It’s nothing new, he wants to say. But he knows she knows. The third day she worked for him, she found it in between paperwork and something else. She was still blushing then. It was a gift from his father. The only he did right. Two bottles of good scotch. Use them well, he had said. It was like some sort of advice. It was the only thing he really meant. The first bottle is already gone, given and left in a trash somewhere. House doesn't like to keep things.
"What you doing here?"
He shrugs, still picking at his jeans. His nails scratch. "Had the time. It's snowing. I'm not a moron. Do you want the list? It'll kill the awkward conversation."
She shrugs back. But says nothing either, letting his gaze turn to the window. It really isn't snowing. The air is something between wet and eerie, the light casting itself in a hazy glow. He studies her in the glass, the way the slope of her shoulders are rested and not tight. That was the weird thing about the sudden switch with Cuddy. She was miserable. Of course, what he still knows about Cameron is that her intentions stay to remain genuine and kill her every once in awhile. It’s amusing to see her like that.
He waits for a question too. He’s not used to the sudden play that she has. As an admission, it seems too weird. She bit back and it took away a lot of things that he didn't want to know. Or still doesn't know. There’s a sense of indecision about her that he hates and that she hates right back. It was there, a couple days ago, and made know sense to him at all. It's probably why she likes Chase or loves him, as everybody keeps cooing around to believe. He doesn't believe her.
"You're not drunk."
"Unfortunately."
Her mouth turns slightly. "Ah," she murmurs. "It was that kind of day."
There’s a briskness to her voice, reasoned and even. He’s seen her work, once or twice, in the chaos of the emergency. It’s a different, different people, and there was never any panic. She holds her own, blends in, and doesn't seem to care about who sees her and doesn't. He doesn't understand why she went there. It’s very nearly an insult, he thinks, and yet, there's a lot of it that seems to make sense. He doesn't pick at it though. It means he'd have to think.
Leaning forward, the table hisses underneath him. It skids forward. His weight is heavy. His elbows hit the top and he ignores his leg, reaching for the bottle and uncapping the top. He needs a refill on his pills. Slowly, it turns under his fingers and she's watching him. He waits for the feel of curiosity, but it's not there. He expects it to be there. Instead, tightness seems to crawl into his throat. He doesn't know why.
He sighs. "You're here late too."
"Happens."
She gives him nothing. He could ask about Chase. He doesn't want to ask about Chase. It’s easier to keep everyone separate, on par with what he wants to handle and what's there. It makes more sense to him. People are better as categories, what can be brought to surface and what isn't. He’s always amused by who tries to make him care or plays that idea against him. She used that or tried; the difference now is something he can't understand the right way. It bothers him. It's easier to stay away from when she's not close or around. She's really the one that's changed.
But something's happened again. He wants to be angry that she took the time to hold Cuddy's hand. Foreman's better at that stuff anyhow. She's the doctor. She’s got a lot to learn. Or doesn't. There’s a play here that's being held over his head. He doesn't know where to go with it. It shouldn't matter.
"Are you going to ask me?"
Surprised, he looks up at her. His throat wants the scotch.
"Ask you what?"
Cameron's amusement is clear. She cocks her head to the side, studying him. Her hair shifts, the ponytail spilling against her shoulder. His eyes follow a few wisps of hair that slide along her cheeks. They stretch and warm her jaw, lingering as he feels his fingers start to curl.
"Do you want the list?"
He snorts. "Is this you being cute?"
"The coffee's not that strong, unfortunately." Her voice is dry, pointed. Admittedly, he has to say he likes her better like this. There, honest - he doesn't know why, but it feels like he's finally facing what he should know. She’s definitely more entertaining when she pushes back.
There’s more to it. His ears are ringing. His fingers reach for the bottle, curling around the neck. The glass is cool and he's trying not to think about why he'd know there's more to this. Instead, he brings the bottle to his mouth and swallows, letting the alcohol crawl back down his throat.
She coughs. He wants to smirk.
"I think you did it because you miss me and because a part of you is still seeking my approval, despite your questionable choices in relationships. I mean, really. Dying and dead guy. Daddy issues guy. I don't even know what's going to be next."
He takes a deeper swig of the bottle, his lips curling against the mouth. He continues. "But whatever," he shrugs, "you're nothing new. It was a little cute though."
He’s smirking now, as her expression goes cold. Her eyes are hard. He wants to see disappointment, expects to see disappointment, but there's nothing there. He doesn't understand her lack of expression. She shakes her head though and straightens in her seat.
She doesn't say anything. It's like she's holding herself back.
She does let him watch. Or doesn't leave, he has to think. Her fingers curl over the napkin, picking up a sugar packet. It wrinkles under her nail and cracks, fluttering back to the table. It’s only then does he realize that her coffee is empty. He remembers that the nurses actually like Cameron. There's no correlation. He just remembers too that she's been the best thing that's happened to the emergency room. The cases are better sorted, staffing fluctuates less, and she's had three major full nights that she never blinked.
She just doesn't say anything. And he doesn't get that. She doesn't hold anyone's hand. He looks at the other too for that, or rather, he looks at Foreman. Chase seems to be completely comfortable outside the realm of order. He’s grudgingly respects that. He was the quickest to go. He adapted. Foreman didn't. And Cameron, well, it still stands tall to be something that he really just doesn't understand anymore.
"It's funny."
Finally, she says something. Her voice is soft. She coughs and it turns, husky for that moment.
"It's funny," she tells him. "That you waste so much time on insulting people. On trying to pointed about something that really doesn't matter so that when you do have to talk, whoever's on the other side is too pissed off to give you anything but the upper hand. You haven't changed at all."
He frowns. "And you expected something new?"
Her gaze meets his. He has to let her hold it too, curiously trying to study her at the same time. He doesn't know what to make of her like this; he can feel her pick away at what she wants, not what she can, and there are pieces of himself that feel too familiar to care about exposure. He has rules that are self-indulgent, at best, and he doesn't know what she's looking for. That, really, is the biggest problem of it all.
She laughs, then. He’s confused. He tries to frown. The sound is too soft to make any sense. But there's this strange curl of arousal that pushes back at him. He watches as a faint smile starts to turn on her mouth and he doesn't think that there's really been anything genuine to stand between the two of them. Not like this. He’s always been better at coping with different levels of proximity, how to keep her further away like everyone else. People stand only as people. Predictable, at best.
She makes him uncomfortable. She’s not supposed to. He never knows how to handle it. Instead, he doesn't wonder. It’s easier to manage that way.
"I don't have any expectations," slowly, she starts, "and if I did, that would just mean that I clear drank the kool-aid working for you all those years."
He smirks. "Well, you know -"
"It's true. I don't expect anything."
He doesn't know whether it should hurt or not. There’s this strange feeling, a cross between guilt and regret that sort of startles him. It’s been passive before, there too, and yet, he watching her with this curiosity he doesn't want to have. She still has a pull, something that he can never ignore.
"Nice to know."
She shrugs. "You asked."
The conversation remains stilted. It’s not that it can be anything else. It’s like a game against them; before and after, here and there, whatever seems to grow at mind. He doesn't particularly care for it and it works more in her favor, he's coming to believe. She’s still two steps ahead of him, making a break and staring back at him in a way that she's never before. It had been coming, he can admit. It had been coming and he just chose to ignore it.
"This is weird," he says out loud.
She’s curious, but he doesn't expect her to get it. Or maybe, that's exactly it. His eyes move to her mouth and he watches her sigh, her lips parting. She licks them too and he feels himself swallow, unable to look away. His fingers are curling tightly again.
"You could've stayed in your office."
"I know."
The nonchalance is simple. He doesn't shrug and reaches for the bottle again, having forgotten about it. There’s no taste in his mouth and his hand stops, dropping to the table again.
She’s watching him. He wants her to stop. He won't say it because saying it makes this something else. It can't be something else. There are mechanics to that possibility, but that's all he'll give. He knows less and less about her and that, in essence, makes her on par with what she knows about him. There might be a little more to that too, although he's brought himself to believe that the advantage is him, caring less and moving faster through things. Then again, here he is and here she is.
Here, she is.
"I should go."
She breaks the conversation there. She doesn't move though, simply stares at him and holds his gaze. It's the same motion, over and over again, on repeat. It's not fair, but he doesn't know why. There’s softness there, but it isn't his. And if it were, he knows he just wouldn't know. It’s not about caring or not caring, it's about amount and what he can handle. He’s not sure what might've happened if had let himself open up. Then again, opening up is that stupid notion of humanity that he doesn't care for. Or has patience with.
He waits for her to stand, but she doesn't. She leans forward and reaches for the cap of the scotch. It flaps into her fingers and she picks up, studying it. There's a tiny shake of her head and a sigh, soft enough for him to hear or not hear. The decision is his; he just can never fake it. There’s an uncanny draw to reach for her, but how there's no way to know. She’s there. She’s always been there, but now, there's no sense of linearity. He doesn't like that. He doesn't know how and he thinks, if there were such a thing as a grasp in all of then, then maybe he'd have it.
She closes the scotch off for him.
"You should go home," she murmurs. "You can piss people off tomorrow."
He takes her gaze. Reaching forward, his hand falls on her wrist. He doesn't know how. Maybe, she lingered too long. Maybe, she didn't. But she's too soft under his fingers. His thumb sweeps against the lines, retracing them into her skin. She doesn't move. She doesn't say anything. It’s better this way, he thinks. He doesn't need her to. He just doesn't know what he needs.
His mouth is starting to dry, but he's curious, too curious, to pull away. His thumb moves to her palm, sliding along the bridges of her fingers. She makes a tiny sound, husky and warm, and his mind is already running faster and faster to other things, to the way he could've had things. He’s selfish, that much he can admit to, but everything isn't as it should be and his adjustment is still falling to spurts of indecision.
What would she do if he were closer? He forces himself to swallow. "Whatever."
He doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice. The cafeteria is suddenly too empty. He’s aware of things outside. A car or two. Somebody passes the open glass. He can't remember why he came down here to begin with. There was something about the weather, about snow.
Gently, she pulls her hand away.
The tips of his fingers are buzzing warm. He doesn't know why she won't say anything. He’s trying to look at her, but she's already reaching for her coffee cup, empty after all. But he knew that. The levels of his attention are shaky. She mumbles something that sounds like good night, passing the table and him. It’s only then that he lets himself turn and watch her.
Her silhouette is quiet, smaller and smaller in between a few chairs. She reaches the door with a pause, only to drop her cup into the trashcan. Behind him, there's a rumble of tires. Shifts are changing. He’s never here this late. He never really cares to be, still doesn't; things, he thinks, are only relative to change. But she's gone, after losing the coffee cup, disappearing around the door.
It's seems darker in the area. The sugar packets are on the table, over the napkin and still. He’s looking back again, without really being aware, a tightness uncurling in his throat.
It’s only then, there, that he realizes he was waiting for her to turn around.
next part.
these holy dances
“you're you again," he calls out. he doesn't mean to either. one of these things, they’re not like the others. house md. house, house/cameron. spoilers for all season give, up to big baby. 5,752 words, pg.
-
The table faces the window at the end, stretching against the glass in an odd, shapeless form. It’s too late. There’s really no light at night, the parking lot facing through the floors in a glimmer of street lamps and cars. He doesn't know why he came down. There’s bottle of scotch in his hand. It’s not a celebration. He hates celebrations. It’s sort of one of those days, again and again, in cycle that half-merges him in a stupor.
She’s there too. He doesn't mean to see her. Next table over, Cameron's holding a coffee like it's the last one she can have. Two packets of sugar keep her company, stretched and folded into a napkin. He’s amused. He never knows why. Her legs are curled underneath her. She looks smaller. He never really knows her like this. Still though, he's walking to the table. Forgets the solitude that he could have in his office; everybody's gone home, only one of them knowing his habits, and he's got to give it to Foreman for keeping the space. The others, they still learn. He hates teaching.
"You're you again," he calls out.
He doesn't mean to either. But he does, and she's turning to face him. Her frown should be there, but she shrugs. She half-indulges him still, like it's a habit, and raises an eyebrow when she sees the scotch. It’s familiar too. She never said anything. The others, either.
"You're here late," she says instead. "Who would've thought?"
There’s no bite, he expects it, but it's not there. He frowns for a moment too. Then shrugs, carrying the scotch to the table and sitting down across from her. He's invasive, watching for a reaction.
"I like to work in secret."
She snorts, rolling her eyes. The bottle hits the table hard. It cracks loudly against the top. There's a quick surge of pain in his leg, hitting hard. He lets the bottle stand on its own, reaching for his leg and pressing his hand into his jeans. The fabric is coarse, curling into his palm and he keeps himself watching her for the distraction.
She’s studying the bottle. It’s nothing new, he wants to say. But he knows she knows. The third day she worked for him, she found it in between paperwork and something else. She was still blushing then. It was a gift from his father. The only he did right. Two bottles of good scotch. Use them well, he had said. It was like some sort of advice. It was the only thing he really meant. The first bottle is already gone, given and left in a trash somewhere. House doesn't like to keep things.
"What you doing here?"
He shrugs, still picking at his jeans. His nails scratch. "Had the time. It's snowing. I'm not a moron. Do you want the list? It'll kill the awkward conversation."
She shrugs back. But says nothing either, letting his gaze turn to the window. It really isn't snowing. The air is something between wet and eerie, the light casting itself in a hazy glow. He studies her in the glass, the way the slope of her shoulders are rested and not tight. That was the weird thing about the sudden switch with Cuddy. She was miserable. Of course, what he still knows about Cameron is that her intentions stay to remain genuine and kill her every once in awhile. It’s amusing to see her like that.
He waits for a question too. He’s not used to the sudden play that she has. As an admission, it seems too weird. She bit back and it took away a lot of things that he didn't want to know. Or still doesn't know. There’s a sense of indecision about her that he hates and that she hates right back. It was there, a couple days ago, and made know sense to him at all. It's probably why she likes Chase or loves him, as everybody keeps cooing around to believe. He doesn't believe her.
"You're not drunk."
"Unfortunately."
Her mouth turns slightly. "Ah," she murmurs. "It was that kind of day."
There’s a briskness to her voice, reasoned and even. He’s seen her work, once or twice, in the chaos of the emergency. It’s a different, different people, and there was never any panic. She holds her own, blends in, and doesn't seem to care about who sees her and doesn't. He doesn't understand why she went there. It’s very nearly an insult, he thinks, and yet, there's a lot of it that seems to make sense. He doesn't pick at it though. It means he'd have to think.
Leaning forward, the table hisses underneath him. It skids forward. His weight is heavy. His elbows hit the top and he ignores his leg, reaching for the bottle and uncapping the top. He needs a refill on his pills. Slowly, it turns under his fingers and she's watching him. He waits for the feel of curiosity, but it's not there. He expects it to be there. Instead, tightness seems to crawl into his throat. He doesn't know why.
He sighs. "You're here late too."
"Happens."
She gives him nothing. He could ask about Chase. He doesn't want to ask about Chase. It’s easier to keep everyone separate, on par with what he wants to handle and what's there. It makes more sense to him. People are better as categories, what can be brought to surface and what isn't. He’s always amused by who tries to make him care or plays that idea against him. She used that or tried; the difference now is something he can't understand the right way. It bothers him. It's easier to stay away from when she's not close or around. She's really the one that's changed.
But something's happened again. He wants to be angry that she took the time to hold Cuddy's hand. Foreman's better at that stuff anyhow. She's the doctor. She’s got a lot to learn. Or doesn't. There’s a play here that's being held over his head. He doesn't know where to go with it. It shouldn't matter.
"Are you going to ask me?"
Surprised, he looks up at her. His throat wants the scotch.
"Ask you what?"
Cameron's amusement is clear. She cocks her head to the side, studying him. Her hair shifts, the ponytail spilling against her shoulder. His eyes follow a few wisps of hair that slide along her cheeks. They stretch and warm her jaw, lingering as he feels his fingers start to curl.
"Do you want the list?"
He snorts. "Is this you being cute?"
"The coffee's not that strong, unfortunately." Her voice is dry, pointed. Admittedly, he has to say he likes her better like this. There, honest - he doesn't know why, but it feels like he's finally facing what he should know. She’s definitely more entertaining when she pushes back.
There’s more to it. His ears are ringing. His fingers reach for the bottle, curling around the neck. The glass is cool and he's trying not to think about why he'd know there's more to this. Instead, he brings the bottle to his mouth and swallows, letting the alcohol crawl back down his throat.
She coughs. He wants to smirk.
"I think you did it because you miss me and because a part of you is still seeking my approval, despite your questionable choices in relationships. I mean, really. Dying and dead guy. Daddy issues guy. I don't even know what's going to be next."
He takes a deeper swig of the bottle, his lips curling against the mouth. He continues. "But whatever," he shrugs, "you're nothing new. It was a little cute though."
He’s smirking now, as her expression goes cold. Her eyes are hard. He wants to see disappointment, expects to see disappointment, but there's nothing there. He doesn't understand her lack of expression. She shakes her head though and straightens in her seat.
She doesn't say anything. It's like she's holding herself back.
She does let him watch. Or doesn't leave, he has to think. Her fingers curl over the napkin, picking up a sugar packet. It wrinkles under her nail and cracks, fluttering back to the table. It’s only then does he realize that her coffee is empty. He remembers that the nurses actually like Cameron. There's no correlation. He just remembers too that she's been the best thing that's happened to the emergency room. The cases are better sorted, staffing fluctuates less, and she's had three major full nights that she never blinked.
She just doesn't say anything. And he doesn't get that. She doesn't hold anyone's hand. He looks at the other too for that, or rather, he looks at Foreman. Chase seems to be completely comfortable outside the realm of order. He’s grudgingly respects that. He was the quickest to go. He adapted. Foreman didn't. And Cameron, well, it still stands tall to be something that he really just doesn't understand anymore.
"It's funny."
Finally, she says something. Her voice is soft. She coughs and it turns, husky for that moment.
"It's funny," she tells him. "That you waste so much time on insulting people. On trying to pointed about something that really doesn't matter so that when you do have to talk, whoever's on the other side is too pissed off to give you anything but the upper hand. You haven't changed at all."
He frowns. "And you expected something new?"
Her gaze meets his. He has to let her hold it too, curiously trying to study her at the same time. He doesn't know what to make of her like this; he can feel her pick away at what she wants, not what she can, and there are pieces of himself that feel too familiar to care about exposure. He has rules that are self-indulgent, at best, and he doesn't know what she's looking for. That, really, is the biggest problem of it all.
She laughs, then. He’s confused. He tries to frown. The sound is too soft to make any sense. But there's this strange curl of arousal that pushes back at him. He watches as a faint smile starts to turn on her mouth and he doesn't think that there's really been anything genuine to stand between the two of them. Not like this. He’s always been better at coping with different levels of proximity, how to keep her further away like everyone else. People stand only as people. Predictable, at best.
She makes him uncomfortable. She’s not supposed to. He never knows how to handle it. Instead, he doesn't wonder. It’s easier to manage that way.
"I don't have any expectations," slowly, she starts, "and if I did, that would just mean that I clear drank the kool-aid working for you all those years."
He smirks. "Well, you know -"
"It's true. I don't expect anything."
He doesn't know whether it should hurt or not. There’s this strange feeling, a cross between guilt and regret that sort of startles him. It’s been passive before, there too, and yet, he watching her with this curiosity he doesn't want to have. She still has a pull, something that he can never ignore.
"Nice to know."
She shrugs. "You asked."
The conversation remains stilted. It’s not that it can be anything else. It’s like a game against them; before and after, here and there, whatever seems to grow at mind. He doesn't particularly care for it and it works more in her favor, he's coming to believe. She’s still two steps ahead of him, making a break and staring back at him in a way that she's never before. It had been coming, he can admit. It had been coming and he just chose to ignore it.
"This is weird," he says out loud.
She’s curious, but he doesn't expect her to get it. Or maybe, that's exactly it. His eyes move to her mouth and he watches her sigh, her lips parting. She licks them too and he feels himself swallow, unable to look away. His fingers are curling tightly again.
"You could've stayed in your office."
"I know."
The nonchalance is simple. He doesn't shrug and reaches for the bottle again, having forgotten about it. There’s no taste in his mouth and his hand stops, dropping to the table again.
She’s watching him. He wants her to stop. He won't say it because saying it makes this something else. It can't be something else. There are mechanics to that possibility, but that's all he'll give. He knows less and less about her and that, in essence, makes her on par with what she knows about him. There might be a little more to that too, although he's brought himself to believe that the advantage is him, caring less and moving faster through things. Then again, here he is and here she is.
Here, she is.
"I should go."
She breaks the conversation there. She doesn't move though, simply stares at him and holds his gaze. It's the same motion, over and over again, on repeat. It's not fair, but he doesn't know why. There’s softness there, but it isn't his. And if it were, he knows he just wouldn't know. It’s not about caring or not caring, it's about amount and what he can handle. He’s not sure what might've happened if had let himself open up. Then again, opening up is that stupid notion of humanity that he doesn't care for. Or has patience with.
He waits for her to stand, but she doesn't. She leans forward and reaches for the cap of the scotch. It flaps into her fingers and she picks up, studying it. There's a tiny shake of her head and a sigh, soft enough for him to hear or not hear. The decision is his; he just can never fake it. There’s an uncanny draw to reach for her, but how there's no way to know. She’s there. She’s always been there, but now, there's no sense of linearity. He doesn't like that. He doesn't know how and he thinks, if there were such a thing as a grasp in all of then, then maybe he'd have it.
She closes the scotch off for him.
"You should go home," she murmurs. "You can piss people off tomorrow."
He takes her gaze. Reaching forward, his hand falls on her wrist. He doesn't know how. Maybe, she lingered too long. Maybe, she didn't. But she's too soft under his fingers. His thumb sweeps against the lines, retracing them into her skin. She doesn't move. She doesn't say anything. It’s better this way, he thinks. He doesn't need her to. He just doesn't know what he needs.
His mouth is starting to dry, but he's curious, too curious, to pull away. His thumb moves to her palm, sliding along the bridges of her fingers. She makes a tiny sound, husky and warm, and his mind is already running faster and faster to other things, to the way he could've had things. He’s selfish, that much he can admit to, but everything isn't as it should be and his adjustment is still falling to spurts of indecision.
What would she do if he were closer? He forces himself to swallow. "Whatever."
He doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice. The cafeteria is suddenly too empty. He’s aware of things outside. A car or two. Somebody passes the open glass. He can't remember why he came down here to begin with. There was something about the weather, about snow.
Gently, she pulls her hand away.
The tips of his fingers are buzzing warm. He doesn't know why she won't say anything. He’s trying to look at her, but she's already reaching for her coffee cup, empty after all. But he knew that. The levels of his attention are shaky. She mumbles something that sounds like good night, passing the table and him. It’s only then that he lets himself turn and watch her.
Her silhouette is quiet, smaller and smaller in between a few chairs. She reaches the door with a pause, only to drop her cup into the trashcan. Behind him, there's a rumble of tires. Shifts are changing. He’s never here this late. He never really cares to be, still doesn't; things, he thinks, are only relative to change. But she's gone, after losing the coffee cup, disappearing around the door.
It's seems darker in the area. The sugar packets are on the table, over the napkin and still. He’s looking back again, without really being aware, a tightness uncurling in his throat.
It’s only then, there, that he realizes he was waiting for her to turn around.
next part.