House Fic: road maps to mexico
notes: for the ever-so-fantastic, blueheronz! happy birthday, m’dear. i hope your day is awesome.
road maps to mexico
over the counter, the kit sits and stays closed. we’ll come back over to indian summers. house md. house/cameron. post-ep for locked in. 1,862 words, pg.
-
Over the counter, the kit sits and stays closed. The television is whining about the weekend weather again, charming itself against news spoilers about Jersey murders and tax days. No one is listening, and the slight crowd from the afternoon is gone, left to nurses and a few doctors that linger around.
Her shift is over in another ten minutes, but her hands continue to fold over files. She's sitting alone at the desk, her legs crossed underneath her. She'll be late again. She doesn’t remember where she put her music player. Her fingers tangle briefly in the cords of her headphones, her thumbs twisting over the lines and then pulling away to shuffle back against her legs. She presses her palms over her knees and frowns, looking around.
A cluster of nurses carry a conversation and a laugh by her, touring through the empty beds as they peel away leftover sheets and empty charts. Sometimes, the emergency room has this eerie, almost unnecessary quiet to it. It’s never constant, like many of the places she’s become familiar. The thing is, Cameron thinks, she's okay with where she is.
She sees him through the doors though, as they open and pulse automatically, drawing himself up to full height and heading over to her. She pushes back away from her work, shaking her head and sighing. It’s still habit, readying herself for whatever charge of anxieties he likes to throw around. Mostly, they have absolutely no purpose to the moment; more and more, she's left amused and almost curious. She knows not to touch that stuff anymore.
"Your bandage job sucks," he calls.
Her eyes roll and he stops, pressed into the desk, as he looks down at her with slight bemusement. He leans against the desk. She shrugs and stands, pushing the chair back with her foot and moving to grab the kit. It was a mix of Wilson and Cuddy, their idea for her to come up and check on him, as they were preoccupied with whatever it was that he was doing before his accident.
You’re neutral, Foreman told her once. It’s not that she doesn't care, it's that she knows - House will tell you when he needs something and if the circumstances are right, he might even tell you because he wants to. It’s been that way forever, she thinks, and it’s almost too strange to watch as people try and make that change.
She doesn't get the need to shuffle around this concept, as if he were a child, or pick apart every facet of what he does, as if it'll reveal some grand clue. Then again, she often reminds herself that she's not in this anymore.
"Funny," she drawls finally. Opening the kit, her hand reaches for his arm, "I seem to be able to recall this thing that you have - it's called, I don't know, a medical degree? You have two hands too, you know.”
"Those scrubs do nothing for you."
He bites back and she snorts, shaking her head. Her fingers are careful. She doesn't look at him, but starts to peel away her bandage from earlier in the day. It unravels slowly, her thumb sliding over the top of his wrist, tracing the deep wedges of lines. They spread into a distinct row, creased tightly into his skin. She’s almost fascinated. She pulls back her attention, looking up at him briefly.
His gaze is heavy, a feature as of late; everybody's convinced that he's meriting a big change, if change even the right word. She gets that things happen, that things are processed into motion, and really, if any of them are honest, the air around him hasn't been the same since the bus accident and even his dad's death. There are things that he won't process or hide to process, that much she allows herself to keep, and it's almost curious to see how everything is reworking itself back into view.
"My patient said that God sent me to him."
It's almost a joke. Her mouth curls slightly and she reaches for a swab, pressing it into his cut. He hisses hard and she rolls her fingers into his skin, keeping pressure while she cleans it.
"God, huh?"
He nods. "God."
There's this childish pause of distaste, his mouth wrinkling. It's followed by a faint sigh as he swallows it back. She laughs, despite herself, the sound soft and husky as she shakes her head in amusement. The weight of his gaze shifts and she’s almost pressed into memory, keeping herself away for the moment. She finishes cleaning the cut. The gravel is gone and pieces of whatever he did fall into are as well. She lets her fingers brush over it once more, biting her lip as she nearly steps in between his legs. She keeps herself aware of space.
He’s watching her still and little by little, Cameron falls into an old gesture. Her hands relax and her fingers press into his skin, running lightly. She folds his sleeve back, taking the cuff and pushing it down to his elbow. There are the odd scratches still, scattered and thin against his arm. His skin is still red and angry, flushed even as she checks the rest of his arm. It’s a little too dry.
"They did a lousy job," she mutters, frowning. She shakes her head too, reaching for another swab. She brushes it idly against his skin, turning his arm to see that she caught everything. His knees press back into her leg and she's wondering what else he's hiding. It’s none of her business, she reminds herself.
Pulling back, she discards the swabs for later and reaches for a clean bandage. Her fingers work faster now, winding the fabric around his injury and clipping the end so that she can clean it tomorrow. Because, she thinks, if anything he'll come back to annoy her about something.
Lately, it's been this odd cross of information, notices that go back and forth between her and Chase - Chase has mentioned it to her before, stuck in between amusement and annoyance. It bothers him more, that House finds them sometimes. But for her, like she said to House earlier, she made the decision to quit. She's okay with her decision, like many facets of her relationship with time.
"There."
He frowns. "That's it?"
She pulls her hands back, shrugging even as her fingers graze his. They’re warm, coarse, and she folds her arms across her chest, leaving the kit open and waiting behind him.
"That's it," she says.
She could shrug too, but House takes her gaze and holds it; they're quiet, and over them the emergency room seems to fluctuate, the doors opening to the faint, distinct call of sirens running closer. His knees are still pressing into her leg and for whatever reason, this closeness, new and old, doesn't bother her. It’s strange, less of a coming-to-terms moment, and more of an acceptance that was already there.
Her teeth slide over her lip. He seems to be regarding her with some kind of curiosity. It’s a different setting, with little or no regard to the kind of relationship they had before when she was working for him. She can exist outside of this and with that in mind, it's a shift in perspective regarding how they act and understand each other. She can feel him, mixing recognition with something she doesn't quite understand. Everything is still changing.
"This is a waste."
His voice is heavy, as he stands, breaking away from her gaze. He shuffles forward, wrapping his fingers back around his cane. His hand adjusts over it awkwardly, and he shifts his weight, steadying himself into walking into her space. He stops and his mouth curls back into amusement. He reaches forward, pulling at the collar of her shirt. His fingers graze over her skin and he shakes his head.
"Seriously," he smirks. "There was no dress code working for me."
"Go away."
She tries to smack his hand away, but he catches it, his fingers wrapping into the palm of her hand. They’re tight, heavy, and fall into the lines of her hand too easily. Her cheeks flush and she stares up at him, almost defiantly, waiting for him to make another move.
"Really?"
He shrugs. "You started it."
And what does that mean, she wants to ask - but she knows when she’s being baited. Her mouth closes and tightens, her eyes narrowing as he peels his fingers away from her hand, one by one. His fingers linger, his thumb sliding into a slow circle over her palm, before he drops his hands back away. She pulls her hands back, stepping around him and back to the desk. She can still feel the flush, her mouth twisting.
She drops back into her seat, sliding the chair forward and reaching for the kit. She closes the top, eyeing him and then settling back with her legs crossed underneath her. Cocking her head to the side, she follows him as he turns, back into the desk, and waits. As if there were something to say - something to say means anything these days, different or old, all on this recycled sense of movement. She doesn't get it and with that, there's this tiny sensation of him trying to pull her back into what he knows.
"You can annoy me tomorrow," she offers quietly. She still gives an out.
It doesn't mean that he'll be back either. Sometimes he is, sometimes there's a large space of days. His hand drops over the desk and he picks at one of the files. The gesture itself stands as too simple to be anything than what it is, but the hesitation seems to swallow it anyway. There’s never been any particular person for him and from what she does understand, he spends too much of his habits still looking. It isn’t even about someone else, he just hides things underneath that.
He shrugs. There’s a slight mutter of whatever, lost to the bark of laughter behind him. The room seems to walk back into the fold, into their space, and the familiarity of her daily noise is heavy again. She keeps his gaze and then shrugs back, as if to say she's fine with that too. There doesn't need to be anything to say.
But House is often predictable, hating the silence and needing to keep the last word. That hasn't change. She knows it never will.
"I'll think about it."
There’s no you miss me or a push back into instances and opportunities. There is, however, a growing awareness. He looks uncomfortable. She almost misses it. He lets the room swallow him, stepping back and away from the desk. The nurses scatter as they see him. The sirens sneak through the door again. Vaguely, she remembers a list of things she's supposed to pick up. But he steals one more glance and there's a slight turn of his mouth. It might be affection. It might not be. She’s left to watching him walk away.
These moments still vary, even with change.
road maps to mexico
over the counter, the kit sits and stays closed. we’ll come back over to indian summers. house md. house/cameron. post-ep for locked in. 1,862 words, pg.
-
Over the counter, the kit sits and stays closed. The television is whining about the weekend weather again, charming itself against news spoilers about Jersey murders and tax days. No one is listening, and the slight crowd from the afternoon is gone, left to nurses and a few doctors that linger around.
Her shift is over in another ten minutes, but her hands continue to fold over files. She's sitting alone at the desk, her legs crossed underneath her. She'll be late again. She doesn’t remember where she put her music player. Her fingers tangle briefly in the cords of her headphones, her thumbs twisting over the lines and then pulling away to shuffle back against her legs. She presses her palms over her knees and frowns, looking around.
A cluster of nurses carry a conversation and a laugh by her, touring through the empty beds as they peel away leftover sheets and empty charts. Sometimes, the emergency room has this eerie, almost unnecessary quiet to it. It’s never constant, like many of the places she’s become familiar. The thing is, Cameron thinks, she's okay with where she is.
She sees him through the doors though, as they open and pulse automatically, drawing himself up to full height and heading over to her. She pushes back away from her work, shaking her head and sighing. It’s still habit, readying herself for whatever charge of anxieties he likes to throw around. Mostly, they have absolutely no purpose to the moment; more and more, she's left amused and almost curious. She knows not to touch that stuff anymore.
"Your bandage job sucks," he calls.
Her eyes roll and he stops, pressed into the desk, as he looks down at her with slight bemusement. He leans against the desk. She shrugs and stands, pushing the chair back with her foot and moving to grab the kit. It was a mix of Wilson and Cuddy, their idea for her to come up and check on him, as they were preoccupied with whatever it was that he was doing before his accident.
You’re neutral, Foreman told her once. It’s not that she doesn't care, it's that she knows - House will tell you when he needs something and if the circumstances are right, he might even tell you because he wants to. It’s been that way forever, she thinks, and it’s almost too strange to watch as people try and make that change.
She doesn't get the need to shuffle around this concept, as if he were a child, or pick apart every facet of what he does, as if it'll reveal some grand clue. Then again, she often reminds herself that she's not in this anymore.
"Funny," she drawls finally. Opening the kit, her hand reaches for his arm, "I seem to be able to recall this thing that you have - it's called, I don't know, a medical degree? You have two hands too, you know.”
"Those scrubs do nothing for you."
He bites back and she snorts, shaking her head. Her fingers are careful. She doesn't look at him, but starts to peel away her bandage from earlier in the day. It unravels slowly, her thumb sliding over the top of his wrist, tracing the deep wedges of lines. They spread into a distinct row, creased tightly into his skin. She’s almost fascinated. She pulls back her attention, looking up at him briefly.
His gaze is heavy, a feature as of late; everybody's convinced that he's meriting a big change, if change even the right word. She gets that things happen, that things are processed into motion, and really, if any of them are honest, the air around him hasn't been the same since the bus accident and even his dad's death. There are things that he won't process or hide to process, that much she allows herself to keep, and it's almost curious to see how everything is reworking itself back into view.
"My patient said that God sent me to him."
It's almost a joke. Her mouth curls slightly and she reaches for a swab, pressing it into his cut. He hisses hard and she rolls her fingers into his skin, keeping pressure while she cleans it.
"God, huh?"
He nods. "God."
There's this childish pause of distaste, his mouth wrinkling. It's followed by a faint sigh as he swallows it back. She laughs, despite herself, the sound soft and husky as she shakes her head in amusement. The weight of his gaze shifts and she’s almost pressed into memory, keeping herself away for the moment. She finishes cleaning the cut. The gravel is gone and pieces of whatever he did fall into are as well. She lets her fingers brush over it once more, biting her lip as she nearly steps in between his legs. She keeps herself aware of space.
He’s watching her still and little by little, Cameron falls into an old gesture. Her hands relax and her fingers press into his skin, running lightly. She folds his sleeve back, taking the cuff and pushing it down to his elbow. There are the odd scratches still, scattered and thin against his arm. His skin is still red and angry, flushed even as she checks the rest of his arm. It’s a little too dry.
"They did a lousy job," she mutters, frowning. She shakes her head too, reaching for another swab. She brushes it idly against his skin, turning his arm to see that she caught everything. His knees press back into her leg and she's wondering what else he's hiding. It’s none of her business, she reminds herself.
Pulling back, she discards the swabs for later and reaches for a clean bandage. Her fingers work faster now, winding the fabric around his injury and clipping the end so that she can clean it tomorrow. Because, she thinks, if anything he'll come back to annoy her about something.
Lately, it's been this odd cross of information, notices that go back and forth between her and Chase - Chase has mentioned it to her before, stuck in between amusement and annoyance. It bothers him more, that House finds them sometimes. But for her, like she said to House earlier, she made the decision to quit. She's okay with her decision, like many facets of her relationship with time.
"There."
He frowns. "That's it?"
She pulls her hands back, shrugging even as her fingers graze his. They’re warm, coarse, and she folds her arms across her chest, leaving the kit open and waiting behind him.
"That's it," she says.
She could shrug too, but House takes her gaze and holds it; they're quiet, and over them the emergency room seems to fluctuate, the doors opening to the faint, distinct call of sirens running closer. His knees are still pressing into her leg and for whatever reason, this closeness, new and old, doesn't bother her. It’s strange, less of a coming-to-terms moment, and more of an acceptance that was already there.
Her teeth slide over her lip. He seems to be regarding her with some kind of curiosity. It’s a different setting, with little or no regard to the kind of relationship they had before when she was working for him. She can exist outside of this and with that in mind, it's a shift in perspective regarding how they act and understand each other. She can feel him, mixing recognition with something she doesn't quite understand. Everything is still changing.
"This is a waste."
His voice is heavy, as he stands, breaking away from her gaze. He shuffles forward, wrapping his fingers back around his cane. His hand adjusts over it awkwardly, and he shifts his weight, steadying himself into walking into her space. He stops and his mouth curls back into amusement. He reaches forward, pulling at the collar of her shirt. His fingers graze over her skin and he shakes his head.
"Seriously," he smirks. "There was no dress code working for me."
"Go away."
She tries to smack his hand away, but he catches it, his fingers wrapping into the palm of her hand. They’re tight, heavy, and fall into the lines of her hand too easily. Her cheeks flush and she stares up at him, almost defiantly, waiting for him to make another move.
"Really?"
He shrugs. "You started it."
And what does that mean, she wants to ask - but she knows when she’s being baited. Her mouth closes and tightens, her eyes narrowing as he peels his fingers away from her hand, one by one. His fingers linger, his thumb sliding into a slow circle over her palm, before he drops his hands back away. She pulls her hands back, stepping around him and back to the desk. She can still feel the flush, her mouth twisting.
She drops back into her seat, sliding the chair forward and reaching for the kit. She closes the top, eyeing him and then settling back with her legs crossed underneath her. Cocking her head to the side, she follows him as he turns, back into the desk, and waits. As if there were something to say - something to say means anything these days, different or old, all on this recycled sense of movement. She doesn't get it and with that, there's this tiny sensation of him trying to pull her back into what he knows.
"You can annoy me tomorrow," she offers quietly. She still gives an out.
It doesn't mean that he'll be back either. Sometimes he is, sometimes there's a large space of days. His hand drops over the desk and he picks at one of the files. The gesture itself stands as too simple to be anything than what it is, but the hesitation seems to swallow it anyway. There’s never been any particular person for him and from what she does understand, he spends too much of his habits still looking. It isn’t even about someone else, he just hides things underneath that.
He shrugs. There’s a slight mutter of whatever, lost to the bark of laughter behind him. The room seems to walk back into the fold, into their space, and the familiarity of her daily noise is heavy again. She keeps his gaze and then shrugs back, as if to say she's fine with that too. There doesn't need to be anything to say.
But House is often predictable, hating the silence and needing to keep the last word. That hasn't change. She knows it never will.
"I'll think about it."
There’s no you miss me or a push back into instances and opportunities. There is, however, a growing awareness. He looks uncomfortable. She almost misses it. He lets the room swallow him, stepping back and away from the desk. The nurses scatter as they see him. The sirens sneak through the door again. Vaguely, she remembers a list of things she's supposed to pick up. But he steals one more glance and there's a slight turn of his mouth. It might be affection. It might not be. She’s left to watching him walk away.
These moments still vary, even with change.