House Fic: two coins with no sides
notes: So I’ve got some major catching up to do, fic-wise and comment-wise BUT it’s porn battle time. So, you know. I'm trying to get my feet wet, so to speak.
two coins with no sides
at a year, couples’ therapy is waiting for an appointment - she’s a seasoned pro, they forget. house md. house/cameron. prompt: reunion. all season five spoilers. 2,874 words, adult.
--
He stands in the doorway, staring.
“I heard you were taking it easy," she says finally. He shrugs and steps into the sleep room, kicking the door close with the back of his cane.
“Something like that.”
His shoulders are rigid, but the circles under his eyes are familiar. He’s been back for a week, at least, and outside, there is the start of the second winter storm. She should know. The weatherman has been singing about an early, heavy winter for the last couple weeks.
"Right."
Her mouth is tight and she shifts, resettling on the bed. It’s been barely an hour into her break. She’s called home already. The emergency room is still ringing in her ears, a busy two hours. She doesn't mind. The sleep room is almost this odd, old friend. Lately, it's been another place to hide.
But House, he sits next to her on the bed without asking. She looks away, unwilling to relax. There’s a grunt, from him, and she shifts her legs into a cross underneath her. Her hands drop to her knees.
"You're avoiding me," he says.
"I'm tired," she lies.
Her fingers uncurl over her knees, running idly over the arch of her scrubs. Next to her, the window is opening to a hazy sketching of car lights and snow. They are on the fifth floor. No one uses this room. The one on the third floor is the most accessible. She remembers Foreman telling her a while ago, for some sort of reason. Maybe, it was a joke.
“That’s an excuse,” his voice is dry. “I thought you didn’t do excuses.”
His tongue drawls over thought and you as she shivers a little, looking back up at him. She shrugs, to feign nonchalance, and bites back her curiosity. “It’s late.”
“It’s always late.”
House is baiting her and she is baiting House, completely unsure as to why. Her memories come as a calendar, of rumors and answers that she hasn't exactly given herself time to process. She remembers her wedding. She didn't look for him. Of course, she knew he'd never come. And in some ways, she thinks, he probably knew that she'd never ask him to either. It was their own way of being fair, as if it were habit.
But then she hasn't exactly processed his inevitable return either, caught somewhere between then and now, and wondering if she had known, would she have been privy to his extremes. She wonders if she would've let herself too. Probably neither, but it's a question that she keeps asking herself.
“I don’t know what to say to you,” she admits then.
“Nothing.”
He shrugs again, drawing his palm over the head of his cane. The bed shifts underneath them and then he is watching her, his mouth turning with slight amusement. It’s almost sharp. There is heat rising against her cheek. She looks away, then.
“I -”
He scoffs. “We’re just having a conversation, Cameron.”
“We never just have a conversation.” She frames it tightly, her teeth picking at her lip. She swallows too.
House still watches her. The bed shifts again. He's closer, if only to pull her into some sort of game; that never fails, the ultimate suspicion that she's being drawn into something she can't entirely wrap her head around. The question then, falls into the why, why her and why alone. Why she doesn't mind.
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
She shakes her head. “No.” And then, she adds. “People talk.”
He snorts. Her hands drop from her knees, into the bed. She looks up at him.
“Most people are morons,” he tells her, as if he has always been telling her, and this intimacy, wherever it comes from, is something that has already been explained.
Liars too, she doesn't say or offer. Offering would mean she understands. Offering would also mean an acknowledgment, which is neither here nor there. Instead, she stays quiet and her fingers turn into the bed again. The sheets are packed, neatly folded into each corner. The room, at glance, looks unused. There’s a strange smell, a mix of cigarettes and soap. The hospital always cleans empty rooms.
“How’s it feel?”
Her fingers twist in the sheets, pulling what she can into her hands as she meets his gaze. They're cool but coarse, and rub against her palms. She knows what he's asking. She knows what she could say. It’s the funny thing about the spurts of advice that he's given her. The difference between then and now is that she was caught up too, almost indefinitely in the idea of her chances. Call it moving on, call it attempting to face forward. Call it whatever it needs to be called, but, she thinks, she make responsibility with her own choices.
“You really don’t want to know.” Or care, she almost adds. Her mouth curls with slight amusement too.
She leans back against the wall. There’s another bed in the room, a strange excuse for bunk beds that fits behind the door. It’s like camp, in all its ironies, and the two of them are hidden by the lack of interest in the room too. There’s nowhere to run. She makes no effort.
“No. But apparently, I’m supposed to try as part of my therapy and social re-introduction.”
Her laughter is sharp, but it falls and rolls right into a scoff. She shakes her head and then he moves too, closer again and then resting against the wall. His cane drops, clattering over the bare floor and skidding somewhere under their feet. House makes no effort to reach for it. She follows in stride.
“It’s still strange.”
She admits it slowly, as if to fall to old habits. "Eight months of strange."
"Your choice."
"It was."
There are things she won't be able to tell him. Not that she can't, but there's still that idea of trust. She doesn't and she does, and the fluctuation lays blame entirely on the months that led up to his breakdown last year, starting from Amber and ending weeks after Kutner. It's been coming though and she thinks they all knew to a fashion, and in their own degrees, but it's not an excuse for the things that have changed.
"You look good."
She says slowly and then regrets it, watching as he smirks. He shakes his head. The words change direction, pulling them both into an awkward, almost shared sense of amusement. She can feel the heat in her cheeks again and brushes her hair back, only to let her hand fall over his without thinking.
It jumps back, and his smirks stays, as she draws her hands into her lap again. They are nervous. Her fingers lace and she swallows. Her skin feels tight. She doesn't know why.
“I don’t believe you,” he says.
“You usually don’t," she shrugs. She manages to sound steady.
His hand moves then, over his leg and then pressing down into his thigh. It's a fixed gesture, the acknowledgment that his pain is still, in fact, there and that of course, there's something that won't change. She's fascinated still by his fingers and the way they sort of play over his jeans, along the arch of his leg and then, as if to hide, they tuck briefly behind the crook of his knee. He's repetitive and that's comforting to her, for whatever reason, as if there's something, even small, that she still knows.
"I don't," he agrees absently. His hand pulls away from his leg and then drops over her arm. Without thinking, she relaxes, focused and confused, as he catches her.
His fingers trail up to her shoulder, grazing her skin, and then they walk back down her arm, over the small nook of her elbow, and down to her wrist. They stop at the base of her palm and she stares, at his hand and then hers, pulling her hand back. But he catches it, his fingers wrapping around her ring finger, as he presses his thumb over the band.
"Salary appropriate."
"Shut up," she snaps. She's flushed. Her eyes narrow and she pulls her hand away, dropping it back into the bed between the two of them. She doesn't look away.
He still smirks. The corners of his mouth seem to turn further, almost as if he were entirely too pleased with himself.
“We’re happy,” she says. It's an excuse. She pauses, her fingers drifting over the base of her ring. It’s a little warm. She forgot to take it off this morning. She still wonders if she believes herself.
He shakes her head. They're going in circles, like children, waiting for someone to act. There is no minding of circumstances, but the memory itself does stand between them. She knows how it goes in her own head: the date, the subsequent failure, and then suddenly, years of odds and ends. There is always something here. That cannot be undone - she knows it, he knows it too.
"We are."
He chuckles, and she stands, the excuse written into her almost instantly. She knows as well as he does. There shouldn't be any more questions to ask. It begins and ends like always. It either is or isn't, and that, without House being here, is still what she's been facing alone.
"We are," she says again. She's insistent, shifting. She is standing between his legs now, caught and framing her hips with her hands. Her fingers tuck into a fist. "And please, don't be a patronizing ass."
"I'm not."
He hasn't asked her anything. He won't. She tries not to push one of her sneakers off, if only to throw it at his head. The frustration, also familiar, is building inside of her. She feels it in her throat, almost ready to burst, as he keeps watching her without blinking. All of it feels too much like a reminder.
But then he grabs her hands, fast and breaking anticipation. His hands skid away from her fingers, only to wrap tightly around her wrists as he pulls her down hard. She stumbles forward, almost into him, and the pressure cracks at her knees, throwing them off as she nearly drops into the bed. His mouth is on hers then, without any sense of a warning, his hands pulling away from hers and into her hair.
His lips are dry, tight, and she opens her mouth back onto his, breathing as his hands twist into her hair. She feels them tangle, scraping her teeth over his lip and then growling. The sound is muffled. She doesn't think and her body shifts, pulling itself into his lap. Her legs straddle his thighs and her hands move to steady over his shoulders, ignoring the sharp hiss over her mouth.
It's your choice that plays back in her head, almost as a rush as her hands start to slide down his shirt. Her fingers are picking at his buttons, pulling as he deepens the kiss. His tongue is in her mouth, heavy and slick as it slides over hers. She shivers. There’s tear between them, muffled as his hands pull away from her hair and under her shirt. His palms are hot, coarse as they draw back to pull at her shirt.
It goes over her head and to the floor, soundlessly as she tries to regain something, "I -"
Only she stops herself to kiss him again.
And when she stops thinking, it becomes sort of a blur; they are a mess of hands, pulling at what's left of clothes. His shirt comes off with a hard pull, the fabric clenched between her hands. His mouth moves away from hers and then drops, brushing sloppily along the column of her throat. Her moan is soft, her hands coming to cup the back of his neck as she pulls herself further into his lap. He licks along the base of skin, to her shoulder, and then sinks his teeth inside. She gasps and starts to grind against him.
He makes a noise from the back of his throat, muffled over her skin as it throbs. She pulls at his jeans and they twist, her hands almost too anxious. They’re blind and he pulls back, only to usher her to stand. He’s breathing heavily as he studies her, as if to give her an out.
Neither of them says anything.
In the room, she feels inexplicably vulnerable. The light still fizzes over their head. Behind the door, the hospital remains silent and unmoving. She should be nervous. Her fingers pick at the waistband of her scrubs, hesitant even as she pushes them down.
Slowly, she slides herself back into his lap. His hands immediately pull at his own jeans. The belt falls open, muffling the sound of his zipper as his fingers pull it down. They watch each other and his gaze is almost too heavy for her, searching for something she doesn’t really understand.
But she settles close, her hands framing his face as she kisses him first, this time. She pushes them back against the wall, opening her mouth again. She slides her tongue against his lip, rolling it into his mouth and pressing it against his teeth. He makes another sound, weak, as his hand fixes on sliding between her legs. She feels his fingers press into her thighs. It feels like a hesitation.
"Tell me to stop," she breathes, then. Her lips move over his mouth still. "Tell me."
Her only answer is silence, and the way his hand crawls over her back, pulling at the clasp of her bra. It breaks with a snap and he's kissing her again, harder as if it would be enough, enough right then. Her hips begin to roll into his hand, his fingers sliding underneath the fabric of her underwear. They press along her clit, rubbing slowly. She gasps into his mouth. There’s no particular rhythm, even as his thumb starts to stroke her thigh.
She's dizzy. His mouth moves away from hers, back down her throat and along her shoulder. She tries to close her eyes. Her skin flushes steadily, the heat rushing as he moves his lips against her breasts. His free hand cups one, his thumb rolling lightly against her nipple. It drops and then his lips close over it, sucking as he slides a finger inside of her.
Everything feels tight. There is a pull that winds into knots in her stomach, her fingers digging into his hair. He seems content to watch her - she feels him, his gaze, as if he were almost willing her to unravel. She doesn’t know what to think, falling into the motion of his hand as his finger slides in and out of her.
In her head, there is no room for mantras. She forgets what is outside, and the ring slick around her finger. Her hips rock faster against his hand, another finger sliding inside of her and twisting. She moans and her eyes close tightly, her hands dropping against his shoulders to balance herself. His thumb slides away from her thigh, brushing over her clit. He rubs slowly, as he watches her - she's too aware, well aware of his gaze.
It’s what gets her again.
She fills the room then, her lips parting in pants and sighs. They are shaky and heavy and he leans into her, his mouth sliding over her shoulder.
“Maybe,” he breathes thickly, “I should give you my therapist’s number.”
The insinuation is there. His tongue slides over his teeth marks on her shoulder, tracing each wedge carefully. Her ears are ringing loudly and she can feel herself say something, but she’s past the point of caring.
When she comes, she cries out and her mouth buries over his. The sensation is hard, brutal. She kisses with her teeth, almost to punish him right back. The sound rolls against his mouth, swallowed as he pushes back into her mouth.
There is a hand in her hair again, dragging through the strands. The ponytail is gone and she can’t remember if she had one before or after, if it matters either. His fingers brush against the back of her neck too, stroking the small patch of skin. She tries to relax and not think, selfish for the moment. Her head drops against his shoulder and her eyes close.
His mouth brushes over her ear. "Because the thing is you’ve never wanted me to stop."
When he pulls back, she's breathless and confused. Her eyes are wide. His fingers slide away from her neck, down her spine and along the small of her back. The room quiets again.
Later in the hallway, a nurse passes them walking.
She smiles at Cameron, ignores House. Cameron tries not blush and manages a nod. Her throat is tight. The nurse doesn’t see the wrinkles, turning the corner.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Cameron says. She is fidgeting with her shirt again, right in the middle of a lie. She won't look at him. She thinks she's forgotten how to, for the moment, at the very least.
He’s absent, watching her. "Right."
The elevator is in view. Here, the point is his.
two coins with no sides
at a year, couples’ therapy is waiting for an appointment - she’s a seasoned pro, they forget. house md. house/cameron. prompt: reunion. all season five spoilers. 2,874 words, adult.
--
He stands in the doorway, staring.
“I heard you were taking it easy," she says finally. He shrugs and steps into the sleep room, kicking the door close with the back of his cane.
“Something like that.”
His shoulders are rigid, but the circles under his eyes are familiar. He’s been back for a week, at least, and outside, there is the start of the second winter storm. She should know. The weatherman has been singing about an early, heavy winter for the last couple weeks.
"Right."
Her mouth is tight and she shifts, resettling on the bed. It’s been barely an hour into her break. She’s called home already. The emergency room is still ringing in her ears, a busy two hours. She doesn't mind. The sleep room is almost this odd, old friend. Lately, it's been another place to hide.
But House, he sits next to her on the bed without asking. She looks away, unwilling to relax. There’s a grunt, from him, and she shifts her legs into a cross underneath her. Her hands drop to her knees.
"You're avoiding me," he says.
"I'm tired," she lies.
Her fingers uncurl over her knees, running idly over the arch of her scrubs. Next to her, the window is opening to a hazy sketching of car lights and snow. They are on the fifth floor. No one uses this room. The one on the third floor is the most accessible. She remembers Foreman telling her a while ago, for some sort of reason. Maybe, it was a joke.
“That’s an excuse,” his voice is dry. “I thought you didn’t do excuses.”
His tongue drawls over thought and you as she shivers a little, looking back up at him. She shrugs, to feign nonchalance, and bites back her curiosity. “It’s late.”
“It’s always late.”
House is baiting her and she is baiting House, completely unsure as to why. Her memories come as a calendar, of rumors and answers that she hasn't exactly given herself time to process. She remembers her wedding. She didn't look for him. Of course, she knew he'd never come. And in some ways, she thinks, he probably knew that she'd never ask him to either. It was their own way of being fair, as if it were habit.
But then she hasn't exactly processed his inevitable return either, caught somewhere between then and now, and wondering if she had known, would she have been privy to his extremes. She wonders if she would've let herself too. Probably neither, but it's a question that she keeps asking herself.
“I don’t know what to say to you,” she admits then.
“Nothing.”
He shrugs again, drawing his palm over the head of his cane. The bed shifts underneath them and then he is watching her, his mouth turning with slight amusement. It’s almost sharp. There is heat rising against her cheek. She looks away, then.
“I -”
He scoffs. “We’re just having a conversation, Cameron.”
“We never just have a conversation.” She frames it tightly, her teeth picking at her lip. She swallows too.
House still watches her. The bed shifts again. He's closer, if only to pull her into some sort of game; that never fails, the ultimate suspicion that she's being drawn into something she can't entirely wrap her head around. The question then, falls into the why, why her and why alone. Why she doesn't mind.
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
She shakes her head. “No.” And then, she adds. “People talk.”
He snorts. Her hands drop from her knees, into the bed. She looks up at him.
“Most people are morons,” he tells her, as if he has always been telling her, and this intimacy, wherever it comes from, is something that has already been explained.
Liars too, she doesn't say or offer. Offering would mean she understands. Offering would also mean an acknowledgment, which is neither here nor there. Instead, she stays quiet and her fingers turn into the bed again. The sheets are packed, neatly folded into each corner. The room, at glance, looks unused. There’s a strange smell, a mix of cigarettes and soap. The hospital always cleans empty rooms.
“How’s it feel?”
Her fingers twist in the sheets, pulling what she can into her hands as she meets his gaze. They're cool but coarse, and rub against her palms. She knows what he's asking. She knows what she could say. It’s the funny thing about the spurts of advice that he's given her. The difference between then and now is that she was caught up too, almost indefinitely in the idea of her chances. Call it moving on, call it attempting to face forward. Call it whatever it needs to be called, but, she thinks, she make responsibility with her own choices.
“You really don’t want to know.” Or care, she almost adds. Her mouth curls with slight amusement too.
She leans back against the wall. There’s another bed in the room, a strange excuse for bunk beds that fits behind the door. It’s like camp, in all its ironies, and the two of them are hidden by the lack of interest in the room too. There’s nowhere to run. She makes no effort.
“No. But apparently, I’m supposed to try as part of my therapy and social re-introduction.”
Her laughter is sharp, but it falls and rolls right into a scoff. She shakes her head and then he moves too, closer again and then resting against the wall. His cane drops, clattering over the bare floor and skidding somewhere under their feet. House makes no effort to reach for it. She follows in stride.
“It’s still strange.”
She admits it slowly, as if to fall to old habits. "Eight months of strange."
"Your choice."
"It was."
There are things she won't be able to tell him. Not that she can't, but there's still that idea of trust. She doesn't and she does, and the fluctuation lays blame entirely on the months that led up to his breakdown last year, starting from Amber and ending weeks after Kutner. It's been coming though and she thinks they all knew to a fashion, and in their own degrees, but it's not an excuse for the things that have changed.
"You look good."
She says slowly and then regrets it, watching as he smirks. He shakes his head. The words change direction, pulling them both into an awkward, almost shared sense of amusement. She can feel the heat in her cheeks again and brushes her hair back, only to let her hand fall over his without thinking.
It jumps back, and his smirks stays, as she draws her hands into her lap again. They are nervous. Her fingers lace and she swallows. Her skin feels tight. She doesn't know why.
“I don’t believe you,” he says.
“You usually don’t," she shrugs. She manages to sound steady.
His hand moves then, over his leg and then pressing down into his thigh. It's a fixed gesture, the acknowledgment that his pain is still, in fact, there and that of course, there's something that won't change. She's fascinated still by his fingers and the way they sort of play over his jeans, along the arch of his leg and then, as if to hide, they tuck briefly behind the crook of his knee. He's repetitive and that's comforting to her, for whatever reason, as if there's something, even small, that she still knows.
"I don't," he agrees absently. His hand pulls away from his leg and then drops over her arm. Without thinking, she relaxes, focused and confused, as he catches her.
His fingers trail up to her shoulder, grazing her skin, and then they walk back down her arm, over the small nook of her elbow, and down to her wrist. They stop at the base of her palm and she stares, at his hand and then hers, pulling her hand back. But he catches it, his fingers wrapping around her ring finger, as he presses his thumb over the band.
"Salary appropriate."
"Shut up," she snaps. She's flushed. Her eyes narrow and she pulls her hand away, dropping it back into the bed between the two of them. She doesn't look away.
He still smirks. The corners of his mouth seem to turn further, almost as if he were entirely too pleased with himself.
“We’re happy,” she says. It's an excuse. She pauses, her fingers drifting over the base of her ring. It’s a little warm. She forgot to take it off this morning. She still wonders if she believes herself.
He shakes her head. They're going in circles, like children, waiting for someone to act. There is no minding of circumstances, but the memory itself does stand between them. She knows how it goes in her own head: the date, the subsequent failure, and then suddenly, years of odds and ends. There is always something here. That cannot be undone - she knows it, he knows it too.
"We are."
He chuckles, and she stands, the excuse written into her almost instantly. She knows as well as he does. There shouldn't be any more questions to ask. It begins and ends like always. It either is or isn't, and that, without House being here, is still what she's been facing alone.
"We are," she says again. She's insistent, shifting. She is standing between his legs now, caught and framing her hips with her hands. Her fingers tuck into a fist. "And please, don't be a patronizing ass."
"I'm not."
He hasn't asked her anything. He won't. She tries not to push one of her sneakers off, if only to throw it at his head. The frustration, also familiar, is building inside of her. She feels it in her throat, almost ready to burst, as he keeps watching her without blinking. All of it feels too much like a reminder.
But then he grabs her hands, fast and breaking anticipation. His hands skid away from her fingers, only to wrap tightly around her wrists as he pulls her down hard. She stumbles forward, almost into him, and the pressure cracks at her knees, throwing them off as she nearly drops into the bed. His mouth is on hers then, without any sense of a warning, his hands pulling away from hers and into her hair.
His lips are dry, tight, and she opens her mouth back onto his, breathing as his hands twist into her hair. She feels them tangle, scraping her teeth over his lip and then growling. The sound is muffled. She doesn't think and her body shifts, pulling itself into his lap. Her legs straddle his thighs and her hands move to steady over his shoulders, ignoring the sharp hiss over her mouth.
It's your choice that plays back in her head, almost as a rush as her hands start to slide down his shirt. Her fingers are picking at his buttons, pulling as he deepens the kiss. His tongue is in her mouth, heavy and slick as it slides over hers. She shivers. There’s tear between them, muffled as his hands pull away from her hair and under her shirt. His palms are hot, coarse as they draw back to pull at her shirt.
It goes over her head and to the floor, soundlessly as she tries to regain something, "I -"
Only she stops herself to kiss him again.
And when she stops thinking, it becomes sort of a blur; they are a mess of hands, pulling at what's left of clothes. His shirt comes off with a hard pull, the fabric clenched between her hands. His mouth moves away from hers and then drops, brushing sloppily along the column of her throat. Her moan is soft, her hands coming to cup the back of his neck as she pulls herself further into his lap. He licks along the base of skin, to her shoulder, and then sinks his teeth inside. She gasps and starts to grind against him.
He makes a noise from the back of his throat, muffled over her skin as it throbs. She pulls at his jeans and they twist, her hands almost too anxious. They’re blind and he pulls back, only to usher her to stand. He’s breathing heavily as he studies her, as if to give her an out.
Neither of them says anything.
In the room, she feels inexplicably vulnerable. The light still fizzes over their head. Behind the door, the hospital remains silent and unmoving. She should be nervous. Her fingers pick at the waistband of her scrubs, hesitant even as she pushes them down.
Slowly, she slides herself back into his lap. His hands immediately pull at his own jeans. The belt falls open, muffling the sound of his zipper as his fingers pull it down. They watch each other and his gaze is almost too heavy for her, searching for something she doesn’t really understand.
But she settles close, her hands framing his face as she kisses him first, this time. She pushes them back against the wall, opening her mouth again. She slides her tongue against his lip, rolling it into his mouth and pressing it against his teeth. He makes another sound, weak, as his hand fixes on sliding between her legs. She feels his fingers press into her thighs. It feels like a hesitation.
"Tell me to stop," she breathes, then. Her lips move over his mouth still. "Tell me."
Her only answer is silence, and the way his hand crawls over her back, pulling at the clasp of her bra. It breaks with a snap and he's kissing her again, harder as if it would be enough, enough right then. Her hips begin to roll into his hand, his fingers sliding underneath the fabric of her underwear. They press along her clit, rubbing slowly. She gasps into his mouth. There’s no particular rhythm, even as his thumb starts to stroke her thigh.
She's dizzy. His mouth moves away from hers, back down her throat and along her shoulder. She tries to close her eyes. Her skin flushes steadily, the heat rushing as he moves his lips against her breasts. His free hand cups one, his thumb rolling lightly against her nipple. It drops and then his lips close over it, sucking as he slides a finger inside of her.
Everything feels tight. There is a pull that winds into knots in her stomach, her fingers digging into his hair. He seems content to watch her - she feels him, his gaze, as if he were almost willing her to unravel. She doesn’t know what to think, falling into the motion of his hand as his finger slides in and out of her.
In her head, there is no room for mantras. She forgets what is outside, and the ring slick around her finger. Her hips rock faster against his hand, another finger sliding inside of her and twisting. She moans and her eyes close tightly, her hands dropping against his shoulders to balance herself. His thumb slides away from her thigh, brushing over her clit. He rubs slowly, as he watches her - she's too aware, well aware of his gaze.
It’s what gets her again.
She fills the room then, her lips parting in pants and sighs. They are shaky and heavy and he leans into her, his mouth sliding over her shoulder.
“Maybe,” he breathes thickly, “I should give you my therapist’s number.”
The insinuation is there. His tongue slides over his teeth marks on her shoulder, tracing each wedge carefully. Her ears are ringing loudly and she can feel herself say something, but she’s past the point of caring.
When she comes, she cries out and her mouth buries over his. The sensation is hard, brutal. She kisses with her teeth, almost to punish him right back. The sound rolls against his mouth, swallowed as he pushes back into her mouth.
There is a hand in her hair again, dragging through the strands. The ponytail is gone and she can’t remember if she had one before or after, if it matters either. His fingers brush against the back of her neck too, stroking the small patch of skin. She tries to relax and not think, selfish for the moment. Her head drops against his shoulder and her eyes close.
His mouth brushes over her ear. "Because the thing is you’ve never wanted me to stop."
When he pulls back, she's breathless and confused. Her eyes are wide. His fingers slide away from her neck, down her spine and along the small of her back. The room quiets again.
Later in the hallway, a nurse passes them walking.
She smiles at Cameron, ignores House. Cameron tries not blush and manages a nod. Her throat is tight. The nurse doesn’t see the wrinkles, turning the corner.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Cameron says. She is fidgeting with her shirt again, right in the middle of a lie. She won't look at him. She thinks she's forgotten how to, for the moment, at the very least.
He’s absent, watching her. "Right."
The elevator is in view. Here, the point is his.