(no subject)
Title: No More False Heavens. No More Damned Magic. [8/9]
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Cameron
Challenge/Prompt: 1theme, “The Reason”
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Het
Copyright: Title taken from “Wide Sargasso Sea” by Jean Rhys
Summary: He tears her apart and then continues eating pasta as though it doesn’t matter.
Author’s Notes: Based around “Love Hurts”, because… because. Why not, right? I liked the idea of the date going off in a completely random direction later.
The Reason House And Cameron Will Never Go On Another Date.
I’ve searched all night for a reason to make him suffer.
Arthur Miller
He tears her apart and then continues eating pasta as though it doesn’t matter. To him, it probably doesn’t. Cameron can’t eat, her stomach is churning, the fork clinks against her teeth in an unsettling fashion, she suddenly starts feeling the blisters her stupid bastard shoes are giving her, and the white corsage on her chest feels more like a burden, too heavy, dragging her inexorably downwards.
House won’t make eye contact. It’s probably just as well, she feels queasy enough as it is without having to splash around in the blue whirlpools he calls eyes. So she doesn’t really eat and concentrates instead on neutral things, like the angle light shines off her cutlery, and how she really should have worn more sensible, and not at all painful, shoes. And then she starts wondering why House bothered putting on a tie and dressing himself up, giving her a beautiful white corsage, and taking her to a reasonably expensive restaurant, if all he wanted to do was tell her that she is obsessed with him and that is deeply pathetic.
Cameron gets the unhappy feeling that she’ll be repeating his words to herself for hours and days and weeks and maybe even months. Embroidered on her soul in House’s cruel needlepoint.
(What I am is what you need; I’m damaged.)
Maybe they’re both damaged, maybe this was never going to work, maybe she shouldn’t have thought she could win with him. But there was shock in his eyes, when she told him that she wanted a date. And some form of strained anxiety that she couldn’t understand. But Cameron knows now that she was building it up, they were all building it up to be a lot more than it is. House won’t let her in to his treacle-thick emotional minefield, and she can talk as much as she wants, he’ll never love her, or care about her.
Cameron blots her lips with a napkin, and the red lipstick that smudges onto the white is so unsettlingly like blood it takes her a moment to remember that House really hasn’t scored a direct hit, she is not wounded, she is not bleeding. She is a little hurt. It’s all right. She’ll live. Maybe she’ll even deal with Chase and Foreman’s humiliating comments tomorrow.
“You really brought this on yourself,” House says conversationally, breaking the awkward silence just as Cameron gets used to it.
“You’ve made your opinions on this whole thing perfectly clear,” she says, tasting forced dignity and something that might be dangerously close to tears.
“You knew how this was going to end,” House continues mercilessly, Cameron wants to lean over and stab him with her dinner knife, and is just toying with how many years in jail she’d get versus the rush of satisfaction (now you know how I feel, you bastard), when a waiter of some kind appears and whisks the plate and cutlery away. It’s disheartening.
“I- I hoped that-”
House rolls his eyes, and Cameron feels herself blush.
“You wilfully ignore reality and all the facts you have in order to feed yourself this sugar-sweet view of the world,” he says, “And it’s not a good quality in a doctor. ‘We can’t cure cancer, let’s decide he has a cold instead’.”
“You have no right-”
“You could have walked out the moment I told you this wasn’t going to work. And you didn’t.”
Cameron feels a headache blossoming behind her eyes. She closes them, and rubs at her temples with her hands, deciding she’ll skip dessert and House can pay. It may be a shitty date, it may have been a soul-destroying day, but she is not paying for her own dinner.
House leans over a little, smile sparkling suddenly as bright as the silverware.
“Your optimism is fascinating.”
“Fuck you,” she says, she’s been holding it in all meal, but it slips out. House merely looks amused, and Cameron realises that he’s right. She knew the evening was going to end like this. And she did it anyway. God, she thinks, I’m so stupid. No wonder-
House pays with Wilson’s credit card and she doesn’t even ask how he got hold of it. All Cameron wants to do is go home, crack open a bottle of white wine, and try to think of anything but what’s happened tonight. She doesn’t look back as she walks out, at least until a bright red car pulls up beside her.
“Want a ride?”
“Are you kidding?”
House lives to keep her off-balance, Cameron knows this, but it still seems painful and a little crazy. Maybe she did drink too much wine, trying to cushion herself from the man opposite her.
“I’ve broken your heart,” House says, “The least I can do is drive you home.”
Cameron stares at him.
“You haven’t broken my heart,” she says, and then: “I don’t want to ride in your giant midlife crisis.”
“It’s not a midlife crisis, it was a gift from the Mafia,” House says.
“Oh, because that’s so much better,” Cameron mutters, but she gets in the side door anyway, leaning her head back against the seat and closing her eyes. She still feels impossibly sick.
Eventually, the car stops.
“I don’t live here,” Cameron points out, it sounds inane, but she can’t think of anything else to say.
“No,” House agrees, “I do. Want to come in for a drink?”
“I-”
“You’ve just been on the date from hell. I have scotch.”
“I-” Cameron has no idea what he’s doing, except that she suspects that he’s discovered something in her reaction to his cruel assessment of her character that interests him. This is never a good sign.
“Wilson gave me condoms that have antibiotics in them,” House adds. She can’t read his smile.
“Jesus Christ,” Cameron mutters, and gets out of the car.
With scotch burning her throat, things start to make a little more sense.
“You like me,” she says.
“You’re drunk,” House replies cheerfully.
“Probably,” Cameron accedes, stretching out on his couch a little more. “But you like me. You just don’t want to. And you don’t want me getting close, so you fed me a load of words that you thought would send me running a mile. Only I didn’t run, so now, finally, you’re interested.”
“You keep letting me do this,” House says, and it’s entirely possible that he’s a little drunk now too. Cameron sighs.
“This was an experiment,” she tells him. “Whether you’ll admit it or not, this was an experiment. See how reactive I am. Push all my buttons.”
“Do I even need to be here?” House enquires, amusement pulling at his lips, but there’s something else there. “You seem so content to analyse me without listening to a word I say.”
Cameron carefully puts her scotch glass down on the floor.
“I’m going to sleep on your couch,” she says, “And I won’t be wanting a second date.”
House says thank God but Cameron knows now that the evening wasn’t a total loss, as she drops off to sleep on the warm leather. She wakes up early in the morning and sneaks off before House can wake up and destroy the feeling of equilibrium she’s managed to manufacture.
She leaves the corsage behind.
Reason Nine
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Cameron
Challenge/Prompt: 1theme, “The Reason”
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Het
Copyright: Title taken from “Wide Sargasso Sea” by Jean Rhys
Summary: He tears her apart and then continues eating pasta as though it doesn’t matter.
Author’s Notes: Based around “Love Hurts”, because… because. Why not, right? I liked the idea of the date going off in a completely random direction later.
The Reason House And Cameron Will Never Go On Another Date.
I’ve searched all night for a reason to make him suffer.
Arthur Miller
He tears her apart and then continues eating pasta as though it doesn’t matter. To him, it probably doesn’t. Cameron can’t eat, her stomach is churning, the fork clinks against her teeth in an unsettling fashion, she suddenly starts feeling the blisters her stupid bastard shoes are giving her, and the white corsage on her chest feels more like a burden, too heavy, dragging her inexorably downwards.
House won’t make eye contact. It’s probably just as well, she feels queasy enough as it is without having to splash around in the blue whirlpools he calls eyes. So she doesn’t really eat and concentrates instead on neutral things, like the angle light shines off her cutlery, and how she really should have worn more sensible, and not at all painful, shoes. And then she starts wondering why House bothered putting on a tie and dressing himself up, giving her a beautiful white corsage, and taking her to a reasonably expensive restaurant, if all he wanted to do was tell her that she is obsessed with him and that is deeply pathetic.
Cameron gets the unhappy feeling that she’ll be repeating his words to herself for hours and days and weeks and maybe even months. Embroidered on her soul in House’s cruel needlepoint.
(What I am is what you need; I’m damaged.)
Maybe they’re both damaged, maybe this was never going to work, maybe she shouldn’t have thought she could win with him. But there was shock in his eyes, when she told him that she wanted a date. And some form of strained anxiety that she couldn’t understand. But Cameron knows now that she was building it up, they were all building it up to be a lot more than it is. House won’t let her in to his treacle-thick emotional minefield, and she can talk as much as she wants, he’ll never love her, or care about her.
Cameron blots her lips with a napkin, and the red lipstick that smudges onto the white is so unsettlingly like blood it takes her a moment to remember that House really hasn’t scored a direct hit, she is not wounded, she is not bleeding. She is a little hurt. It’s all right. She’ll live. Maybe she’ll even deal with Chase and Foreman’s humiliating comments tomorrow.
“You really brought this on yourself,” House says conversationally, breaking the awkward silence just as Cameron gets used to it.
“You’ve made your opinions on this whole thing perfectly clear,” she says, tasting forced dignity and something that might be dangerously close to tears.
“You knew how this was going to end,” House continues mercilessly, Cameron wants to lean over and stab him with her dinner knife, and is just toying with how many years in jail she’d get versus the rush of satisfaction (now you know how I feel, you bastard), when a waiter of some kind appears and whisks the plate and cutlery away. It’s disheartening.
“I- I hoped that-”
House rolls his eyes, and Cameron feels herself blush.
“You wilfully ignore reality and all the facts you have in order to feed yourself this sugar-sweet view of the world,” he says, “And it’s not a good quality in a doctor. ‘We can’t cure cancer, let’s decide he has a cold instead’.”
“You have no right-”
“You could have walked out the moment I told you this wasn’t going to work. And you didn’t.”
Cameron feels a headache blossoming behind her eyes. She closes them, and rubs at her temples with her hands, deciding she’ll skip dessert and House can pay. It may be a shitty date, it may have been a soul-destroying day, but she is not paying for her own dinner.
House leans over a little, smile sparkling suddenly as bright as the silverware.
“Your optimism is fascinating.”
“Fuck you,” she says, she’s been holding it in all meal, but it slips out. House merely looks amused, and Cameron realises that he’s right. She knew the evening was going to end like this. And she did it anyway. God, she thinks, I’m so stupid. No wonder-
House pays with Wilson’s credit card and she doesn’t even ask how he got hold of it. All Cameron wants to do is go home, crack open a bottle of white wine, and try to think of anything but what’s happened tonight. She doesn’t look back as she walks out, at least until a bright red car pulls up beside her.
“Want a ride?”
“Are you kidding?”
House lives to keep her off-balance, Cameron knows this, but it still seems painful and a little crazy. Maybe she did drink too much wine, trying to cushion herself from the man opposite her.
“I’ve broken your heart,” House says, “The least I can do is drive you home.”
Cameron stares at him.
“You haven’t broken my heart,” she says, and then: “I don’t want to ride in your giant midlife crisis.”
“It’s not a midlife crisis, it was a gift from the Mafia,” House says.
“Oh, because that’s so much better,” Cameron mutters, but she gets in the side door anyway, leaning her head back against the seat and closing her eyes. She still feels impossibly sick.
Eventually, the car stops.
“I don’t live here,” Cameron points out, it sounds inane, but she can’t think of anything else to say.
“No,” House agrees, “I do. Want to come in for a drink?”
“I-”
“You’ve just been on the date from hell. I have scotch.”
“I-” Cameron has no idea what he’s doing, except that she suspects that he’s discovered something in her reaction to his cruel assessment of her character that interests him. This is never a good sign.
“Wilson gave me condoms that have antibiotics in them,” House adds. She can’t read his smile.
“Jesus Christ,” Cameron mutters, and gets out of the car.
With scotch burning her throat, things start to make a little more sense.
“You like me,” she says.
“You’re drunk,” House replies cheerfully.
“Probably,” Cameron accedes, stretching out on his couch a little more. “But you like me. You just don’t want to. And you don’t want me getting close, so you fed me a load of words that you thought would send me running a mile. Only I didn’t run, so now, finally, you’re interested.”
“You keep letting me do this,” House says, and it’s entirely possible that he’s a little drunk now too. Cameron sighs.
“This was an experiment,” she tells him. “Whether you’ll admit it or not, this was an experiment. See how reactive I am. Push all my buttons.”
“Do I even need to be here?” House enquires, amusement pulling at his lips, but there’s something else there. “You seem so content to analyse me without listening to a word I say.”
Cameron carefully puts her scotch glass down on the floor.
“I’m going to sleep on your couch,” she says, “And I won’t be wanting a second date.”
House says thank God but Cameron knows now that the evening wasn’t a total loss, as she drops off to sleep on the warm leather. She wakes up early in the morning and sneaks off before House can wake up and destroy the feeling of equilibrium she’s managed to manufacture.
She leaves the corsage behind.
Reason Nine