House Fic: knees to the ceiling
notes: i swear, swear i had something to say about the episode but, as it turns out, i wrote a post-ep instead? i have a lot to say about the episode, apparently. maybe, i'll make a mix too. but this is for surreallis, who keeps me company by phone every monday lol.
knees to the ceiling
the chain is shapeless. shift, copy, and paste. house md. cameron (house/cameron, chase/cameron). post-ep for saviors. 2,000 words, pg.
-
In the car, their fingers are still laced.
His palm is warm, pressed into hers. The empty lot is watching them, thinned with a few cars and the hazy glow of the lamps; they tower into the roof, peeling into the glass as the light settles onto her knees. The collar of her shirt scratches into her throat, running lightly as she runs her free hand over her shoulder. Her skin is flushed, over embarrassment and exhaustion. Looking up, she meets Chase's gaze with a slow smile, the corners of her mouth still fitted in between surprise and unease.
"My place?" His sigh is soft, and the keys are swaying over his knee. They hang from the ignition, waiting. His place, she thinks. It’s better. She’s not exactly a fan of seeing hers: people to call, people to tell, and she hasn't exactly given herself time to process the moment. It’s scarier that way and she thinks that he knows that too. They still have to talk. They know this the best.
She nods, leaning forward and pressing her lips into his shoulder. One by one, her fingers pluck themselves out from under his as they separate. The tension relaxes. She shifts back into the door, dropping her head against the window. The glass is cool and vibrates into her skin, the radio shuddering back into life. They didn't ride in together. Most days, they don't. She walked. She has the closest place.
Her eyes close to the glow of the car lights. There’s this sharpness to the air, picking at her throat, even as she swallows. She’s ignoring the tightness in her belly. It’s been with her for most of the day, between the climb and the back and forth, the indecision and, ultimately, the decision she's just made. Everything is starting to feel a little faster.
She listens to Chase hum along with the radio. His voice is low as it fumbles into the song. The radio cracks back, pocketing another sigh from him. A siren rises into a murmur from next to them and she opens her eyes again, as the lights flush by them. Out of habit, her hands drop to her knees and tense. It took her weeks to get used to the sound. Now, she doesn't know how to think about it.
But what's there doesn't seem to matter; change, of course, is always immediate and unexpected. There’s this strange inclination to push back, to wonder and persist over what she knows is going to wait for her once all this dies over. She didn't think. Usually, she thinks. She didn't think the first time either. It feels a little like panic and swallowing starts her head into a buzz, a slight sway tightening the flush back into her skin.
And she can feel Chase's gaze settling on her, as the car slows into a stop. The red light hovers over them, spreading into the glass and rolling between them. Her mouth curls slightly and she turns, looking up at him. He’s worried too. He’ll never say it, but that's Chase too. He knows they'll talk.
"I'm okay," she says softly.
Reaching for him, her fingers slide over his arm. Her mouth fits into a slight smile, but her fingers drop. In her head, there's this immediate need to voice away from the moment. She thinks about House. She stops. It’s for another time. It’s always for another time. She remains unfazed by the sudden weight that comes with it too. It doesn't know how to leave.
They will talk. They have to.
The morning finds her back at the elevator though, still pocketing congratulations with a slight smile.
Her bag is heavy over her arm, the strap digging into her shoulders and neck. She lets her fingers slide over the fabric, pulling absently as it scratches into her skin. Her head is a little heavy and she's tired, ignoring the phone in her pocket; people to call, Chase pointed out and there was a tiny argument, as she'd rather see her parents first to give them news. Chase doesn't have parents. She doesn't understand the logic, but there's the sympathy. What he doesn't understand is that she's dropped bombs on them before. And there's no sympathy for that.
But the engagement ring is stranded on a chain, swooped awkwardly around her neck. It plays over her skin, under her t-shirt, only shifting slightly as she moves. Her fingers are nervous. They stay away from it too. She’s never liked too much jewelry, but that's more of an old habit.
Over her head, she watches as the floor numbers stay at six. She watches the hospital in the reflection of the elevator doors, blurred into the morning rush. People are unrecognizable, but the noise is a comfort. She knows her place as she stands, in the corner and watching. This is how it’s always been. She’s a stronger outsider.
But the sound of keys dropping distracts her, and she turns, watching as House stretches to pick them up. His knees are buckling as he curses, his long frame dropping into an extension. His cane shakes against his weight and she stills, curling her hand over the strap of her back. When he looks up, the circles under her eyes are too heavy to be recognizable and she swallows, if only to shape herself away from curiosity. She knows not to help.
"Take a picture," he mutters.
She shrugs, shifting away. Her head turns up to read the elevator, watching as the numbers start to finally sink backwards. The light is dim and the day is starting to pour heavily onto the floor, the heat from the morning working into the lights of the first floor.
"What?"
House pushes forward, taking the spot next to her. "You're not going to reveal something for another heart-to-heart? Are you going to name your first born after me? Because getting my mojo back makes me feel like Oprah."
Her mouth plays at amusement, a slight smile sneaking in briefly. She shrugs, combing her fingers through the ends of her hair. The strands cough and coil, hooking around her thumb. She drops her hand, if only to pick at her collar as she looks up at him again.
Her fingers are nervous. "You don't miss me that much."
The day is already in full replay in her head. Not just one, she reminds herself, but two. And the strangeness of their conversation started in the emergency room, the sudden swell of openness sharp. It’s never been about lying to him, for her, or playing his game; she can throw it back, just like anyone else, but has never been interested. It isn't her. She thinks he knows that. It’s why they are the way they are. This won’t change.
"Where's the ring?" he's sharp too, pointed as he steps closer and into her space, bowing forward, "I mean, there's a ring right? Or did he give you the sock? He would do that."
Silently, her fingers slide into her shirt. They curl around the chain and under his gaze, as his eyes start to darken. She doesn't look away and pulls the chain out. To protect it, she reasoned with Chase. The ring does settle over her shirt and between the zipper of her jacket. Swinging briefly, the chain sways and the ring faces the moment between the two of them. It’s small, simple, and open to a quiet cut of diamonds.
"I don't want anyone to pee on it."
It’s a dry joke and he scoffs, an excuse for her not smile into tension. Things are still too strange.
"Make sense."
He shrugs too. There’s something off color about his voice, too sharp to make sense and heavy enough for her to recognize. In her head, the moment walks backwards and to the previous day. Her head tilts to the side and everything is too open on the floor, even as the elevator buzzes to greet them.
She’s quiet as she steps inside first, picking a corner as he follows. She half-expects him to grab the other side, watching as he takes the space back in front of her. The doors start to close and House is looking down at her, frowning now. His hand reaches forward, his fingers curling around the ring and the chain. Her throat tightens and there's a slight burn as she watches him pull at the chain.
His thumb runs over the diamond, sliding against the loop of gold and back over the chain as his hand stills. There’s this intensity, private, even as she fits into it. She doesn't say anything and reaches for his hand, her fingers curling one by one over his skin. They blanket into the dip between his thumb and his finger. His skin is warm, flushed, and she's almost too aware of the slight, slight tremor.
Her lips part slowly. She lets her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth, away from the nerves. But it fails and her teeth sink into her lip, watching him carefully. His thumb rolls back into her palm, his fingers still cued over her ring. She almost swears she feels them tighten, as if to pull, but they remain steady, steadier as she leans closer to him.
The elevator shudders into movement, climbing each floor slowly. Her focus is steady with him and there's a shift in his mouth, the corners turning and then fading. She tries to will it to change, but fails there too. His fingers start to slip, sliding back into her hand and together they drop between them into a tight grasp.
The weight is heavier than their silence and she looks away from House, studying the link between their hands. There is an awkward steadiness, almost shy, as her fingers feel cool around his hand. His cane shifts forward and presses into her bag. She looks up sharply and he's almost too close.
"You don't want to come back," he says slowly. It isn’t a new observation, but he says it anyway. Maybe to gauge her, maybe not.
She shakes her head, her mouth settling tightly. She’s far from calm and her nerves are threatening to unravel as something stupid, so stupid. She’s trying to sort herself over this but, as usual, she's not thinking clearly. Then again, out of everything, the most she's understood about anything is right here.
"No."
Her ears are ringing, but she feels her mouth start to move. "I don't."
He’s still serious, but his face stumbles into a strange, sorted satisfaction. She thinks she sees approval, mostly for reasons that she's not meant to understand. She could guess. But that, still, is way too dangerous for everything right now. She’s always known that too; it's not about her and House, it's trusting the foundation of what hasn't left her and what she knows, she knows very well is only there when he decides to touch it. Sometimes, she thinks they make each other uneasy about it. It’s also something that she can believe.
"Good."
And it settles then, as his mouth cues into amusement. She knows the amusement. He hides. But it also means something that she's not supposed have yet. It feels like waiting. The elevator shifts, and the doors open to his floor. Slowly, his fingers peel away from hers.
She looks away.
When she takes the ring off from around her neck, she settles it carefully into the shelf of her locker.
Out of habit, of course. She’s always careful, too, too careful. Some things about her haven't changed. This much she does understand. But the ring seems smaller as it rests. She tries to think of different facets: it’s simple, like her, and less of a ghost than she’d thought it would be. There’s a book that stands over it and it fades into the open space, as her mind was working it into being protected.
The chain is shapeless.
knees to the ceiling
the chain is shapeless. shift, copy, and paste. house md. cameron (house/cameron, chase/cameron). post-ep for saviors. 2,000 words, pg.
-
In the car, their fingers are still laced.
His palm is warm, pressed into hers. The empty lot is watching them, thinned with a few cars and the hazy glow of the lamps; they tower into the roof, peeling into the glass as the light settles onto her knees. The collar of her shirt scratches into her throat, running lightly as she runs her free hand over her shoulder. Her skin is flushed, over embarrassment and exhaustion. Looking up, she meets Chase's gaze with a slow smile, the corners of her mouth still fitted in between surprise and unease.
"My place?" His sigh is soft, and the keys are swaying over his knee. They hang from the ignition, waiting. His place, she thinks. It’s better. She’s not exactly a fan of seeing hers: people to call, people to tell, and she hasn't exactly given herself time to process the moment. It’s scarier that way and she thinks that he knows that too. They still have to talk. They know this the best.
She nods, leaning forward and pressing her lips into his shoulder. One by one, her fingers pluck themselves out from under his as they separate. The tension relaxes. She shifts back into the door, dropping her head against the window. The glass is cool and vibrates into her skin, the radio shuddering back into life. They didn't ride in together. Most days, they don't. She walked. She has the closest place.
Her eyes close to the glow of the car lights. There’s this sharpness to the air, picking at her throat, even as she swallows. She’s ignoring the tightness in her belly. It’s been with her for most of the day, between the climb and the back and forth, the indecision and, ultimately, the decision she's just made. Everything is starting to feel a little faster.
She listens to Chase hum along with the radio. His voice is low as it fumbles into the song. The radio cracks back, pocketing another sigh from him. A siren rises into a murmur from next to them and she opens her eyes again, as the lights flush by them. Out of habit, her hands drop to her knees and tense. It took her weeks to get used to the sound. Now, she doesn't know how to think about it.
But what's there doesn't seem to matter; change, of course, is always immediate and unexpected. There’s this strange inclination to push back, to wonder and persist over what she knows is going to wait for her once all this dies over. She didn't think. Usually, she thinks. She didn't think the first time either. It feels a little like panic and swallowing starts her head into a buzz, a slight sway tightening the flush back into her skin.
And she can feel Chase's gaze settling on her, as the car slows into a stop. The red light hovers over them, spreading into the glass and rolling between them. Her mouth curls slightly and she turns, looking up at him. He’s worried too. He’ll never say it, but that's Chase too. He knows they'll talk.
"I'm okay," she says softly.
Reaching for him, her fingers slide over his arm. Her mouth fits into a slight smile, but her fingers drop. In her head, there's this immediate need to voice away from the moment. She thinks about House. She stops. It’s for another time. It’s always for another time. She remains unfazed by the sudden weight that comes with it too. It doesn't know how to leave.
They will talk. They have to.
The morning finds her back at the elevator though, still pocketing congratulations with a slight smile.
Her bag is heavy over her arm, the strap digging into her shoulders and neck. She lets her fingers slide over the fabric, pulling absently as it scratches into her skin. Her head is a little heavy and she's tired, ignoring the phone in her pocket; people to call, Chase pointed out and there was a tiny argument, as she'd rather see her parents first to give them news. Chase doesn't have parents. She doesn't understand the logic, but there's the sympathy. What he doesn't understand is that she's dropped bombs on them before. And there's no sympathy for that.
But the engagement ring is stranded on a chain, swooped awkwardly around her neck. It plays over her skin, under her t-shirt, only shifting slightly as she moves. Her fingers are nervous. They stay away from it too. She’s never liked too much jewelry, but that's more of an old habit.
Over her head, she watches as the floor numbers stay at six. She watches the hospital in the reflection of the elevator doors, blurred into the morning rush. People are unrecognizable, but the noise is a comfort. She knows her place as she stands, in the corner and watching. This is how it’s always been. She’s a stronger outsider.
But the sound of keys dropping distracts her, and she turns, watching as House stretches to pick them up. His knees are buckling as he curses, his long frame dropping into an extension. His cane shakes against his weight and she stills, curling her hand over the strap of her back. When he looks up, the circles under her eyes are too heavy to be recognizable and she swallows, if only to shape herself away from curiosity. She knows not to help.
"Take a picture," he mutters.
She shrugs, shifting away. Her head turns up to read the elevator, watching as the numbers start to finally sink backwards. The light is dim and the day is starting to pour heavily onto the floor, the heat from the morning working into the lights of the first floor.
"What?"
House pushes forward, taking the spot next to her. "You're not going to reveal something for another heart-to-heart? Are you going to name your first born after me? Because getting my mojo back makes me feel like Oprah."
Her mouth plays at amusement, a slight smile sneaking in briefly. She shrugs, combing her fingers through the ends of her hair. The strands cough and coil, hooking around her thumb. She drops her hand, if only to pick at her collar as she looks up at him again.
Her fingers are nervous. "You don't miss me that much."
The day is already in full replay in her head. Not just one, she reminds herself, but two. And the strangeness of their conversation started in the emergency room, the sudden swell of openness sharp. It’s never been about lying to him, for her, or playing his game; she can throw it back, just like anyone else, but has never been interested. It isn't her. She thinks he knows that. It’s why they are the way they are. This won’t change.
"Where's the ring?" he's sharp too, pointed as he steps closer and into her space, bowing forward, "I mean, there's a ring right? Or did he give you the sock? He would do that."
Silently, her fingers slide into her shirt. They curl around the chain and under his gaze, as his eyes start to darken. She doesn't look away and pulls the chain out. To protect it, she reasoned with Chase. The ring does settle over her shirt and between the zipper of her jacket. Swinging briefly, the chain sways and the ring faces the moment between the two of them. It’s small, simple, and open to a quiet cut of diamonds.
"I don't want anyone to pee on it."
It’s a dry joke and he scoffs, an excuse for her not smile into tension. Things are still too strange.
"Make sense."
He shrugs too. There’s something off color about his voice, too sharp to make sense and heavy enough for her to recognize. In her head, the moment walks backwards and to the previous day. Her head tilts to the side and everything is too open on the floor, even as the elevator buzzes to greet them.
She’s quiet as she steps inside first, picking a corner as he follows. She half-expects him to grab the other side, watching as he takes the space back in front of her. The doors start to close and House is looking down at her, frowning now. His hand reaches forward, his fingers curling around the ring and the chain. Her throat tightens and there's a slight burn as she watches him pull at the chain.
His thumb runs over the diamond, sliding against the loop of gold and back over the chain as his hand stills. There’s this intensity, private, even as she fits into it. She doesn't say anything and reaches for his hand, her fingers curling one by one over his skin. They blanket into the dip between his thumb and his finger. His skin is warm, flushed, and she's almost too aware of the slight, slight tremor.
Her lips part slowly. She lets her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth, away from the nerves. But it fails and her teeth sink into her lip, watching him carefully. His thumb rolls back into her palm, his fingers still cued over her ring. She almost swears she feels them tighten, as if to pull, but they remain steady, steadier as she leans closer to him.
The elevator shudders into movement, climbing each floor slowly. Her focus is steady with him and there's a shift in his mouth, the corners turning and then fading. She tries to will it to change, but fails there too. His fingers start to slip, sliding back into her hand and together they drop between them into a tight grasp.
The weight is heavier than their silence and she looks away from House, studying the link between their hands. There is an awkward steadiness, almost shy, as her fingers feel cool around his hand. His cane shifts forward and presses into her bag. She looks up sharply and he's almost too close.
"You don't want to come back," he says slowly. It isn’t a new observation, but he says it anyway. Maybe to gauge her, maybe not.
She shakes her head, her mouth settling tightly. She’s far from calm and her nerves are threatening to unravel as something stupid, so stupid. She’s trying to sort herself over this but, as usual, she's not thinking clearly. Then again, out of everything, the most she's understood about anything is right here.
"No."
Her ears are ringing, but she feels her mouth start to move. "I don't."
He’s still serious, but his face stumbles into a strange, sorted satisfaction. She thinks she sees approval, mostly for reasons that she's not meant to understand. She could guess. But that, still, is way too dangerous for everything right now. She’s always known that too; it's not about her and House, it's trusting the foundation of what hasn't left her and what she knows, she knows very well is only there when he decides to touch it. Sometimes, she thinks they make each other uneasy about it. It’s also something that she can believe.
"Good."
And it settles then, as his mouth cues into amusement. She knows the amusement. He hides. But it also means something that she's not supposed have yet. It feels like waiting. The elevator shifts, and the doors open to his floor. Slowly, his fingers peel away from hers.
She looks away.
When she takes the ring off from around her neck, she settles it carefully into the shelf of her locker.
Out of habit, of course. She’s always careful, too, too careful. Some things about her haven't changed. This much she does understand. But the ring seems smaller as it rests. She tries to think of different facets: it’s simple, like her, and less of a ghost than she’d thought it would be. There’s a book that stands over it and it fades into the open space, as her mind was working it into being protected.
The chain is shapeless.