House Fic: at last those late summers

[fated_addiction]

I'm late, I'm late! It was kind of a day, yesterday, that all I can say is thank god it's over haha. But this is for the house_cameron holiday ficathon and for peace_and_war who requested: Christmas dinner, House/Cameron, and an argument. I hope you enjoy it!

at last those late summers
house md ; house/cameron ; 2,752 words ; pg
what to give the man that has all the answers. ten years.

-

Her jacket drapes over the sink. The belt hangs awkwardly off to the side, touching the ground in a light skip.

The facet is quiet, even in the empty bathroom; her fingers curl around a paper towel and she runs it under the water, carefully studying it as it folds under the pressure.

“I can feel you staring,” she murmurs; turning off the water, she realizes she hadn’t heard the door open, or shut, or even the odd sense of familiarity that comes with House. Instead, she starts rubbing at the wine stain on her dress. The silk looks almost bruised.

“You seemed busy,” he drawls.

“Obviously.”

“Are we going to talk?” he asks.

“No,” she says bluntly. Her fingers press the paper into the stain and the wine seems to blur, just slightly. She rolls her eyes too. “There’s nothing to say, anyway,” she tells him. She bites back her amusement. “It’s been awhile.”

He looks surprised when she looks up.

Five years ago, she may have been surprised to see him in Chicago, a holiday no less, and walking around the hospital Christmas party like he belong there. But it’s been ten years, and in ten years, Cameron has managed to settle again, calmly reconnecting with a life she never expected to walk back into or be happy in.

Walking out of the bathroom, she slips back into her coat. House is waiting for her, leaning against a wall; there is an enormous amount of tinsel draped over his head, high and awkwardly twisted into the wall.

“Not going back?”

“To the party?” she asks. Her mouth twists. “No,” she says. “I put in appearance. I have to save energy for the family party tomorrow.”

“Family party?” he asks and he moves to her, catching her as she turns to walk down the hall. The elevators are close to her office. Her fingers start to button her jacket and her other hand pulls her gloves from her pocket.

“Family party,” she says finally.

“Oh.”

There is no mention of Princeton, not yet. She catches a glance at her fingers, and the sudden, careful display of surprise at seeing no ring. Her lips curl and she shows some amusement, shrugging.

“How’s Cuddy?” she asks. He blinks.

“Fine,” he answers. He clears his throat. His voice is low: “At her mother’s with the kid, I guess. Or something. Wasn’t invited.”

“Sorry,” she says.

He smirks, but says nothing. He follows her down the hall. She walks briskly, her heels clicking as she fishes her keys out of her coat as well. She half-aware of him still watching her, still waiting, and how strange it is to be easily amused by him and the sudden appearance.

Ten years, she thinks. When they reach her office, she stops, turning to him. She thrusts her gloves into his hand. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs, opening her door. She doesn’t turn her lights on and walks into the room, grabbing a few files off of her desk.

“Quaint,” he says, behind her. He doesn’t turn the lights on either. She scoffs and reaches for a journal too. “Very you,” he says too. “Ironically - you know it’s ridiculously ironic saying that too. And fucking easy.”

“Drink a lot downstairs?” she asks dryly.

“Something like that.”

She turns, catching him when the door shuts behind him. The room isn’t too dark and from the window, the city lights mix and spread against her wall. She watches for a moment, studying the light as it crawls over her bookshelves too, then over and against him at the door.

“You’re different,” he says, and it sounds like there’s this odd taste in his mouth. Her mouth quirks and he shakes his head. He holds her gloves over his cane. “I don’t know - I had a talk to give.”

“I heard.”

“I’ve done six, here, in the last ten years.”

She leans back against her desk. “So I hear.”

There’s a question there, and she knows exactly what it is, what he won’t ask and what she won’t really give him. She wants to tell him that something changed in her when she left, not in the most obvious way; coming home just worked years back into her.

Besides, she thinks. If anyone them really wanted to know, what she was doing or how she was doing, they could find out. She shakes her head. It wasn’t in her to say no.

“I didn’t want to see you,” she says calmly.

“Obviously,” he says.

“What did you expect?”

He shrugs, and she raises an eyebrow. “Answers, I guess. No idea. You’re still the same -” he stops and moves into the room. He doesn’t look around, but tosses the gloves off to the side. He steps closer to her, but not close enough; she’s locked to the desk. “I don’t know what that means.”

“I’m not the same.”

He snorts. “Sure?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, House - you came to the holiday hospital party so that you could tell me that you’re annoyed that I haven’t been curious enough to care about coming to see you at one of your talks.”

“Ten years,” he mutters.

Her gaze is sharp. “If you wanted to talk about how I left,” she says quietly. “You could’ve come and found me yourself.”

“You made me an idiot.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re still a terrible liar.”

“This isn’t about that,” he says. He smirks too and she’s trying not to get angry or frustrated, but it pulls at her, just like it used to

His hands rise and then drop, on either side of her. She keeps her gaze with his, listening to his fingers as they curl into her desk. He shifts too, closer, his legs pressing into hers.

“Boo,” he murmurs and she laughs, half-heartedly, shaking her head. She waits for it though, that feeling, that slow flurry of knots in the bottom of her stomach. Her head feels a little heavy and she reaches up, pulling at the buttons at the collar of her coat. There is nothing to say, she thinks.

But he’s watching her, waiting too, and it’s strange, she thinks too, how some things remain so familiar. She feels her teeth as they slide into her lip. She tugs it lightly and then pushes herself forward, pressing back.

“I’m hungry,” she says. This isn’t sudden.

His brow furrows. It takes a second, and then he hesitates; he moves back to let her pass.

The diner is near her apartment. She doesn’t tell him. There’s no outward declaration of an invitation either. Instead, she slides into the booth first and lets her fingers smooth over her dress. She doesn’t take her coat off, but her fingers move against the buttons.

“It’s snowing,” House says. He stands, for a moment, over the table and grimaces. A waitress passes behind him, but Cameron makes no move to stop her or call her to wait at the table.

“It’s Chicago,” she says and watches the snow as it starts to mat against the window. It moves fast and then slow; the wind, she thinks. The cars outside are fewer and further apart, slowly rolling past the diner. She can’t remember if the morning called for snow. “And it’s winter,” she says too. Her hands brush over her placemat. The paper is outlined in red and in green.

House shrugs. “Whatever.”

They’re quiet. The waitress passes again and Cameron lets it go, studying her hands against the placemat. She listens to House fidget across from her. She’s waiting for that feeling again, she thinks.

Or a comment. There’s no sense of needing to see him either. It’s an odd way to come to terms with acceptance and really, it’s been ten years. Somewhere she stopped waiting to have closure.

“I’m not seeing anyone,” she tells him. She pauses and the waitresses comes, bringing them two empty coffee cups. Cameron points to one of the breakfast specials. When the waitress leaves, Cameron shakes her head too. “I don’t want to get married again,” she says too. “I want kids. I may or may not be in a place where I’m actually ready for them. My family is okay. I mean, let’s be honest - you were waiting for me to come back to you so you could get your sense of closure.”

“Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t blink.

Her mouth curls. “At least you’re not lying.”

“You’re the one who didn’t want to talk.”

“I said that,” she says absently. “Didn’t I?”

He’s watching her in amusement. It sort of comes back then; the party, she was off in the corner talking to one of her colleagues and someone had mentioned that House was here, again, and she had caught her heel in the carpet trying to move away from the conversation. The wine in her hand had merely slipped.

It’s supposed to be funny and maybe, soon, she’ll be able to laugh at it. He’s waiting for something to be the same.

“You didn’t want to talk,” he says again, leaning forward. His elbows skid over the table.

“I didn’t,” she agrees. She leans back in her seat. Her hands brush over the corners of the table. “Have you been waiting ten years to sleep with me, House?” she asks dryly.

He smirks. “Maybe.”

Cameron laughs.

Her fingers drum lightly against the table. She feels his foot shuffle into hers and it’s awkward, so incredibly awkward, and there seems to be less to say than before. She’s almost amused at herself, at him, at this whole thing; it’s just dinner, at some point.

She doesn’t wonder about what he wants. That would be too easy. In the back of her mind, she sees herself standing in his office, telling him in what she thought was some kind of misplaced bravery, then and now, and less of just a need to go. It would’ve happened eventually, Chase had told her later. There was always more of a need in her to come back.

Cameron looks away then and out into the diner. There are a few people here and the waitress has found her way back, behind the counter. There are garlands and tinsel, an odd combination of faux santas and holly littered throughout the front.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she says quietly. Her lips tug, but she doesn’t smile.

“They don’t want me there.”

Her hands still.

“We’ve been off and on - ” he stops and chuckles, shaking his hand. It’s an odd sort of sound coming out of his mouth. “We’re not teenagers,” he mutters. “She makes me feel like a fucking teenager.”

She doesn’t blink. “It’s what you obviously wanted.”

“And you?”

She snorts. “You want to talk about relationships?” That’s rich, she thinks. And it’s really funny how everything is different and yet, very much the same between the two of them.

“Isn’t that what you do?” he asks, and then chuckles again; his amusement is misplaced and ironic, almost like he’s trying to test her. She doesn’t flinch. It’s easier. “Talk about relationships,” he says. Then: “I know nothing about you anymore.”

He looks at her, expectant too. Her lips curl.

“You know enough,” she murmurs.

They’re quiet.

The bathroom light is flickering. It’s a small space and her jacket is draped over the sink as she tries and picks at the stain again. Her knuckles slip under the fabric again.

“You’re staring,” she finds herself saying again. The door’s already halfway open and it’s late, she remembers hazily. They are the only ones left besides the waitress. It’s kind of funny, really.

“Had a phone call,” he doesn’t apologize. I heard you, she doesn’t say. She turns, her hand still underneath the fabric of her dress and leans against the sink. He raises an eyebrow and leans his cane against the door. “The waitress asked how long we were going to be,” he offers and he moves to her, pressing close, gently pulling her fingers away from her dress. “Said something about a few minutes,” he says. “Or whatever.”

“Whatever,” she echoes.

Cameron watches him too. She feels his knuckles graze her throat, catching the slight turn of his mouth. She can feel his fingers too, rubbing away at the fabric where the wine stain still is.

“This isn’t what I expected,” he admits.

She laughs tiredly. “It’s Christmas, House. I’m a little preoccupied.”

It’s a lie and it’s the truth. She barely thinks about what still waits for her at home, tomorrow. It’s her parents and her brother, the insignificant changes to her family, live in the back of her mind.

“Your husband?”

She snorts. “No,” she says. “He didn’t die on Christmas.” She looks up at him. “You would ask that,” she murmurs.

“So why haven’t you come back?” he asks then. His mouth twitches and she can’t help herself, her lips curling too. “You knew I was going to ask that too,” he shrugs. “So I’m asking.”

“There was nothing to go back to.”

It’s more complicated than that: Chase didn’t try and come after her, their marriage was broken and snapped, in her face and his, and House, she imagines, after her confession, had filed her away, so far away because she no longer had any need or use for him. But then she had meant every word she said to him.

“I was fine,” she says too. Her voice is quiet. His fingers relax against her skin. “I was fine in the ER, you know. Working there. I told you too - the first time. I had learned all I needed to know from you and coming back, whether it was because somehow, somehow you looped me into it, or because Cuddy told me to.”

“Are you angry?” he asks.

They stare at each other. He is still waiting for her to say: I blame you.

She laughs softly. She bites her lip and then tells him: “I was.”

“Then - ” he stops, and she looks away, cutting him off. “I meant it,” she manages.

“Oh,” he says.

They’re quiet and she feels his hands grasp her arms. His fingers spread against her skin and he’s leaning into her. She doesn’t know what it means. She doesn’t try to guess; it simply manages to stay whatever it is without him pushing and without her answering.

She feels his hands move too, slowly up her arm, then her shoulders as they run against her back. His fingers curl and his knuckles run lazily against the spine, over the zipper of her dress and she wants, needs to laugh. Her mouth opens and she tries not to say anything , but he’s right here.

“Ten years,” she murmurs.

He scoffs.

“I’m serious.”

House shrugs. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I always thought I did, but - I don’t know.”

It’s sort of appropriate too, she thinks, the two of them, in the bathroom, in the diner. She thinks back to the dark of her office too and then goes to his, as it always went to, as it ultimately does, and thinks that she may or may not kiss him. It would make sense.

She reaches forward, brushing her fingers against his face. They skid over his jaw and then move back, slowly, against his mouth. He makes a sound and it brushes against her skin too.

“I’m not waiting for you,” she says, and she’s serious. She relaxes against him too, her hand lowering and her fingers resting back against his jaw. She doesn’t say anything else.

When he leans in though, her breath catches and his mouth slides over her jaw. He exhales, half-nuzzling her, and there is a part of her that falls back into it again. Her fingers skim his chest and she lets out a long sigh. Don’t do it, she thinks. But she lets him stay close.

House says nothing. He breathes.

He’ll go too, later. She will pay the check. It’s Christmas, after all.

There is a small box on her desk. The office is still dark, days later, and Cameron will not return to a few days after the first; she takes the time and planned for it too, wrote it into the calendar even through it’s been years since she hasn’t had to.

The gift sits there, wrapped in red.