house fic: The Darker Days of Me and Him 9/10
Title: The Darker Days of Me and Him
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1057
Spoilers: Minor for 'Love Hurts' and small mention of 'Honeymoon'.
Rating: PGish
Summary: In the end, it’s the non-pattern that makes them.
A/N: Part One is here. Part Two is here. Part Three is here. Part Four is here.Part Five is here. Part Six is here. Part Seven is here. Part Eight is here.
All through the rising sun
All through the circling years
You were the only one
Who could have brought me here
PJ Harvey, One Line
viii.
In the end, it’s the non-pattern that makes them.
It’s what she can’t understand and predict about him. It’s what he can’t understand and predict about her. Their personalities and comfort level around each other have already woven together and their function has not changed- it’s the proverbial awakening and awareness of each other.
And while later he’ll claim it was his downfall [and she laughs until it hurts], they will make sense out of the fragments and dark corners. He meets her ghosts and she re-familiarizes herself with his. What is left unsaid still lingers in the silence, but it’s what defines them.
This makes sense.
Hours after her arrival at his place and the crumbling of their allegories and walls, they sit on his couch under an afghan. She leans into the crook of his arm, her eyes closed and her breathing steady. She’ll have to call her apartment at some point with a small, ambiguous lie about why she’s coming back tonight.
He hasn’t stopped touching her and she marvels at sensation. His motions are soft and fleeting. Sometimes she thinks it’s because he’s afraid [you’ll burn someone else]. Mostly, she thinks it’s the same reasoning that she has. One moment of rationality could make all of this disappear. It’s been too long for her [too hard too frightening] and it’s been a hell for him.
This is the only ounce of predictability that she’ll admit to.
“A symbol of defiance,” he murmurs, tracing the lines of her tattoo. “Always managing to surprise me.”
An assumption and an admission.
She shivers as the slow circling of his fingers travel down her arm and rest at the corner of her hip. She almost smiles when they stop to touch her tattoo. His fingers move in a peculiar rhythm. Tentative. Uneven.
“Did you get it because he told you to?”
“No,” she replies with bitter laugh. She’s a bit surprised that he hasn’t asked about the symbol itself. The generic meaning. Or make assumptions. But, like always, she never hesitates in her honesty with him. “I did it because I could.”
“To show him.” And he never fails to understand the things that she could never say to anyone else.
She nods. “To show him.”
“But,” he murmurs. “You loved him.”
She wants to tell him that what happen- what made her relationship with Danny could only be encompassed in those days, those terrible days. There are just things, things of the same sentiment that could fit his relationship with Stacy, that she’ll never be able to describe. Danny and her were a tragedy of words, of a life that never should have happened.
She tells him what she can.
“I convinced myself I did.” That truth sounds so strange coming from her lips. But it fits. Like always. “Which is what, in the end, made it worse.”
“Isn’t that same thing?” They aren’t talking about her and Danny anymore. His fingers are still moving in circles against the side of her hip. She shifts and presses her body closer to his and weighs her answer carefully.
She shakes her head. “No,” she replies slowly. “It isn’t. Danny and I- we were madness in itself. It was a game. A game that he played and I lost.”
And she’ll say nothing more. Those memories, dark and vicious, are things that will be dealt with eventually. She will tell him as best as she can.
A mirroring question is on the tip of her tongue.
“Fascination,” he answers before she asks. His caresses still and his hand presses against her hip. “That’s what we were. Fascination and nothing more.”
She swallows. It’s a brutal answer and she nearly misses the question that unintentionally lurks underneath. She answers with a statement. “You think I’m going to leave you.”
He brushes his lips against her bare shoulder. She can feel the expectation. The sadness. The uncertainty. “Isn’t that how this works?”
“No.” She doesn’t hesitate. And isn’t surprised when he stiffens against her. Her expectations are minimal in the sense that she knows [and he knows] that both their senses of loyalty- to each other- will become the only idealistic aspect of them.
“That’s why this is…” He trails off. He doesn’t do raw honesty well.
“Scary?” She supplies gently. “Utterly unpredictable?”
He nods in agreement. “Undefined.” But that’s a lie.
Her response is guarded. This is an aftermath that is unexpected. The predictability of the questions, their intensity and weight, holds a future. The one they’ve been prolonging. “Does it matter?”
There’s a long pause. “No,” he confesses. She doesn’t have to look up to see him grimace in distaste at the sentiment of his confession. “It doesn’t.”
She presses her lips against the bottom of his chin. “Then?”
“I’m a very difficult man,” he warns half-heartedly. His intentions to avoid any further conversations are obnoxious and obvious. But they’re also endearing. Only because they’ve come this far. “Possessive and-”
Her lips curl into an amused smile. “Obsessive. Insane. And um, an all-around asshole?”
“You’re really not funny.” She can feel his smile against her shoulder. For a moment, they return to the comfortable banter. Him. Her. And those circles that they do.
“Neither are you,” she shoots back. “But I manage to laugh anyway.”
The level of change still manages to remain unclear. There are things they will need to talk about. Confession, if one could call them that, truths that will have to be told. For now, she knows that this- strange, but necessary- will be enough. For him and her and them.
She waits for the final question to come.
“How are you really doing?” Instead the real question comes in the form of his lips kissing her forehead. He doesn’t have to ask and he doesn’t- it’s implied in the silence and the unspoken.
Her lips tremble. Her words are too strong. “I’m not okay.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “But you will be.”
And that is that.
Two days later, he’ll take the weekend and attend her mother’s funeral with her. He’ll scowl when her grandmother calls him a grumpy suitor and then mock her with the plethora of embarrassing stories that seem to spill out at a family dinner.
And slowly, very slowly, she’ll take her mother’s words to heart.
She’s alive.
Promises. Promises.
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1057
Spoilers: Minor for 'Love Hurts' and small mention of 'Honeymoon'.
Rating: PGish
Summary: In the end, it’s the non-pattern that makes them.
A/N: Part One is here. Part Two is here. Part Three is here. Part Four is here.Part Five is here. Part Six is here. Part Seven is here. Part Eight is here.
All through the rising sun
All through the circling years
You were the only one
Who could have brought me here
PJ Harvey, One Line
viii.
In the end, it’s the non-pattern that makes them.
It’s what she can’t understand and predict about him. It’s what he can’t understand and predict about her. Their personalities and comfort level around each other have already woven together and their function has not changed- it’s the proverbial awakening and awareness of each other.
And while later he’ll claim it was his downfall [and she laughs until it hurts], they will make sense out of the fragments and dark corners. He meets her ghosts and she re-familiarizes herself with his. What is left unsaid still lingers in the silence, but it’s what defines them.
This makes sense.
Hours after her arrival at his place and the crumbling of their allegories and walls, they sit on his couch under an afghan. She leans into the crook of his arm, her eyes closed and her breathing steady. She’ll have to call her apartment at some point with a small, ambiguous lie about why she’s coming back tonight.
He hasn’t stopped touching her and she marvels at sensation. His motions are soft and fleeting. Sometimes she thinks it’s because he’s afraid [you’ll burn someone else]. Mostly, she thinks it’s the same reasoning that she has. One moment of rationality could make all of this disappear. It’s been too long for her [too hard too frightening] and it’s been a hell for him.
This is the only ounce of predictability that she’ll admit to.
“A symbol of defiance,” he murmurs, tracing the lines of her tattoo. “Always managing to surprise me.”
An assumption and an admission.
She shivers as the slow circling of his fingers travel down her arm and rest at the corner of her hip. She almost smiles when they stop to touch her tattoo. His fingers move in a peculiar rhythm. Tentative. Uneven.
“Did you get it because he told you to?”
“No,” she replies with bitter laugh. She’s a bit surprised that he hasn’t asked about the symbol itself. The generic meaning. Or make assumptions. But, like always, she never hesitates in her honesty with him. “I did it because I could.”
“To show him.” And he never fails to understand the things that she could never say to anyone else.
She nods. “To show him.”
“But,” he murmurs. “You loved him.”
She wants to tell him that what happen- what made her relationship with Danny could only be encompassed in those days, those terrible days. There are just things, things of the same sentiment that could fit his relationship with Stacy, that she’ll never be able to describe. Danny and her were a tragedy of words, of a life that never should have happened.
She tells him what she can.
“I convinced myself I did.” That truth sounds so strange coming from her lips. But it fits. Like always. “Which is what, in the end, made it worse.”
“Isn’t that same thing?” They aren’t talking about her and Danny anymore. His fingers are still moving in circles against the side of her hip. She shifts and presses her body closer to his and weighs her answer carefully.
She shakes her head. “No,” she replies slowly. “It isn’t. Danny and I- we were madness in itself. It was a game. A game that he played and I lost.”
And she’ll say nothing more. Those memories, dark and vicious, are things that will be dealt with eventually. She will tell him as best as she can.
A mirroring question is on the tip of her tongue.
“Fascination,” he answers before she asks. His caresses still and his hand presses against her hip. “That’s what we were. Fascination and nothing more.”
She swallows. It’s a brutal answer and she nearly misses the question that unintentionally lurks underneath. She answers with a statement. “You think I’m going to leave you.”
He brushes his lips against her bare shoulder. She can feel the expectation. The sadness. The uncertainty. “Isn’t that how this works?”
“No.” She doesn’t hesitate. And isn’t surprised when he stiffens against her. Her expectations are minimal in the sense that she knows [and he knows] that both their senses of loyalty- to each other- will become the only idealistic aspect of them.
“That’s why this is…” He trails off. He doesn’t do raw honesty well.
“Scary?” She supplies gently. “Utterly unpredictable?”
He nods in agreement. “Undefined.” But that’s a lie.
Her response is guarded. This is an aftermath that is unexpected. The predictability of the questions, their intensity and weight, holds a future. The one they’ve been prolonging. “Does it matter?”
There’s a long pause. “No,” he confesses. She doesn’t have to look up to see him grimace in distaste at the sentiment of his confession. “It doesn’t.”
She presses her lips against the bottom of his chin. “Then?”
“I’m a very difficult man,” he warns half-heartedly. His intentions to avoid any further conversations are obnoxious and obvious. But they’re also endearing. Only because they’ve come this far. “Possessive and-”
Her lips curl into an amused smile. “Obsessive. Insane. And um, an all-around asshole?”
“You’re really not funny.” She can feel his smile against her shoulder. For a moment, they return to the comfortable banter. Him. Her. And those circles that they do.
“Neither are you,” she shoots back. “But I manage to laugh anyway.”
The level of change still manages to remain unclear. There are things they will need to talk about. Confession, if one could call them that, truths that will have to be told. For now, she knows that this- strange, but necessary- will be enough. For him and her and them.
She waits for the final question to come.
“How are you really doing?” Instead the real question comes in the form of his lips kissing her forehead. He doesn’t have to ask and he doesn’t- it’s implied in the silence and the unspoken.
Her lips tremble. Her words are too strong. “I’m not okay.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “But you will be.”
And that is that.
Two days later, he’ll take the weekend and attend her mother’s funeral with her. He’ll scowl when her grandmother calls him a grumpy suitor and then mock her with the plethora of embarrassing stories that seem to spill out at a family dinner.
And slowly, very slowly, she’ll take her mother’s words to heart.
She’s alive.
Promises. Promises.