UNRAVELED (THE FIND YOUR WAY IN REMIX) [HOUSE, M.D.; CAMERON/HOUSE/WILSON; PG]
Title: Unraveled (The Find Your Way In Remix)
Author: usomitai
Original Fic: Tangled by paperflowered
Fandom: House, M.D.
Rating: PG
Ship: Cameron/House/Wilson
Length: ~1,400
Beta: bironic, rawiyaparand, and spatulagirl boldly came to my rescue. ♥
Summary: Cameron considers her intersections with House and Wilson.
Allison thinks of intersecting lines and the spaces they create. She has taken on the habit of running her fingertips over the worn tattoo on her hip, its design carved into her like an inescapable truth. Lines over lines form a star. Yet her touch never grazes towards the center since, despite all the crossings, it remains empty.
Allison wonders about her own intersections with Greg and James.
*
“What d’you think of the tattoo?” House asks point-blank.
“What tattoo?” Wilson’s innocence is so feigned, as transparent and manufactured as cellophane, that House knows he is not meant to believe the lie.
“You’re sick,” House says. “Weren’t you trying to get me to sleep with her?”
“You did, didn’t you?”
*
Greg knows James is sleeping with Allison, James knows Greg is sleeping with Allison, and Allison knows they both know.
Not that they ever talk about it. How long have you known, Allison wants to ask. Why are you [plural] doing it? Don’t you mind? Do you like it? Do you talk about me? What do you say?
They may not talk of it, but comparisons are inevitable. James fits against her like a mold, as if he knows how to curve himself just so for that perfect fit. Greg, incongruous, constantly shifts in search of their best arrangement; Allison suspects he will never find it.
Something in between their temperaments would be best, Allison thinks. Neither too clingy nor too slippery.
Allison wonders what descriptions they come up with for her. Greg would say feisty, a lion cub daring scorn. James would call her deceptively docile, a doe before lashing out against a threat. In this case, she does not know which would be best. Ideally, it would something that actually describes her, the real her, but she hasn’t a clue as to what that would be.
*
“If you slept with her to get me to, why are you still seeing her?” House asked.
The plan had been to leave her to House, to let them be a happy couple. Or just a couple, no additional corny adjectives necessary. But Allison’s sullenness, it made Wilson want more; he wanted to sleep with her til he got it right.
And the flush on her face the morning after House slept with her for the first time, Wilson felt like someone had gotten it right. That was good. But then her glow eventually faded. It only came back when Wilson went to see her again.
Plus, there was something irresistible about holding her, imagining the paths House’s hands must’ve taken. As if House’s touch lingered over her body and Wilson could recover it through contact. As if by sharing her they became closer.
Wilson spread his hands. “I’m not entirely unselfish, House.”
*
On her elbows, neck bent and hair pooling on the pillow beneath her, Allison holds back shivers as James kisses the top of her spine, soft and deft as he is with his every touch. She does not mean to be taken in by his practiced suaveness, but she is disappointed when he stops. She forces herself to wait a heartbeat, then three, before asking, unable to hide her annoyance: “What?”
Her breath hitches at the surprise of James’ fingertips against her right shoulder blade. They follow a pattern unfamiliar to her. “You didn’t get a new tattoo, did you?”
Confused, her muscles tense up. “I’m twenty-seven and not as stupid.”
He presses deeper into her skin. “Your skin would still be healing, if it were.”
Her back to him, Allison cannot see James’ face, no matter how she twists. She can, however, glimpse black marks on herself. Again James traces along her shoulder blade, slow enough to give her the impression of never-ending swirling. “Don’t you know? There’s a drawing on you.” Allison heats up and is relived that he cannot see her face, either.
She’d been wrong: she’s twenty-seven and stupider than ever. If her inability to choose between two equally problematic men wasn’t proof enough, this is. “Of course I know.” Let her vulnerability be secret; at least then she has the appearance of strength.
Even as James thrusts into her, she is distracted, mulling over marks and connections. Her orgasm is faked. He probably notices the performance behind her moans and shudders, but he is gentleman enough to understand them as a sign to bring the act to an end. Once he is asleep-if he really is-Allison tiptoes into the bathroom and, angling herself between mirrors, she sees the drawing: a spiral in thick black ink, its end in the center twisting upon itself.
That’ll teach her to not fall asleep next to Greg.
Allison does not attempt to erase it. James would wonder where it went. Instead, she washes what she can: her face, her hands, her arms. When she comes out, she considers James, splayed out on her bed on his stomach, hands beneath his head, face tilted to the side. She grabs a pen, a fine-tip permanent marker she writes on CDs with. It’s immature, taking her frustration out on another party, but it is not as if James is innocent in this confusing game of who’s-using-whom.
She straddles the rise of his ass, removing her pen’s top with a click. James blinks. If he hadn’t, she would’ve shaken him til he woke up. “Hey,” she says.
“What-“
“Lie still, okay?”
James stiffens when the marker makes contact, but relaxes as she draws out the first line, smooth and slow and certain. He dips his head, arching his back as if to straighten himself out, becoming a better board for her markings. Allison doesn’t think, just moves her pen over him. A circle, first, surprisingly round and balanced for a spontaneous scrawl. Inside it, a square. [Was this how Greg had done it? Or had he been deliberate, contemplating and rejecting designs until he found the right one?] And, in the very center, a hexagon, two of the lines coinciding with the square. As she completes the final lines, James sighs, from deep inside, as if he’s found profound satisfaction.
He turns over and they kiss deeply, Allison cozying up against his body. She had not let them be so intimate, so far. It is not as alarming as she’d thought it would be.
*
“Hey,” Wilson broached.
“Hey,” House replied.
“You look like you swallowed a watermelon whole, which means you have something to say. Out with it.”
“Did you draw on Cameron?”
“Why?”
“I need a reason to ask?”
“Everything needs a reason.”
“Stop evading, House.”
“Of all the things you could ask about Cameron, you want to know if I drew on her? Don’t you want to know if I fucked her again? How many times? How-“
“You’re right, I could be asking something better: why are you sleeping with her? How do you feel about her? Do you like her, or-“
“Yeah, I drew on her,” House said curtly.
“Ah.” Wilson studies House for a moment before venturing, “Wanna see something?”
House’s eyebrows arch as Wilsons slowly but surely opens his shirt, his gaze focused on Wilson’s deceptively confident unbuttoning. Through half-lidded eyes he watches Wilson shrug off the shirt. After that, Wilson does not know House’s reaction, for he turns around.
The hair on Wilson’s body stands on end as fingertips graze Cameron’s drawing.
“How symbolic,” House remarks dryly. In Wilson’s opinion, he withdraws his hand too soon. “I bet you love it.”
“I do.” From his pants pocket, Wilson withdraws a felt-tip pen. “And I was thinking…”
*
When, after midnight, someone bangs loudly at her door, Cameron rolls her eyes. “You could’ve called first,” she tells Greg. But she’s glad he’s here. She’d been in danger of falling into melancholic musings about why she can never get her relationships right. Her history with men has been lamentable, and her recent attempts have only been worse.
Greg is breathing heavily; it can’t be from the knocking, he wouldn’t be wiped out from just that. Did he rush here? Or is he excited? He briskly moves to the middle of her living room and starts to pull his t-shirt over his head. “Aren’t you in a hurry tonight,” she begins, but then she sees. Over his left pectoral is a simple X. “Who did that?” Allison asks, transfixed.
“Wilson.”
It doesn’t seem like James’ style. Too blunt, too straightforward, too crass. And yet…
She’s been going round and round in search of answers, but perhaps she’s been going about this the wrong way. If they’ve been chasing each other on the perimeter, maybe it’s time they try something unexplored. There may be space for them, together, in the center. X marks the spot.
Allison wraps her arms around Greg’s waist and kisses him. “Let’s call James.”
Author: usomitai
Original Fic: Tangled by paperflowered
Fandom: House, M.D.
Rating: PG
Ship: Cameron/House/Wilson
Length: ~1,400
Beta: bironic, rawiyaparand, and spatulagirl boldly came to my rescue. ♥
Summary: Cameron considers her intersections with House and Wilson.
- “What d’you think of the tattoo?” House asks point-blank.
“What tattoo?” Wilson’s innocence is so feigned, as transparent and manufactured as cellophane, that House knows he is not meant to believe the lie.
“You’re sick,” House says. “Weren’t you trying to get me to sleep with her?”
“You did, didn’t you?"
Allison thinks of intersecting lines and the spaces they create. She has taken on the habit of running her fingertips over the worn tattoo on her hip, its design carved into her like an inescapable truth. Lines over lines form a star. Yet her touch never grazes towards the center since, despite all the crossings, it remains empty.
Allison wonders about her own intersections with Greg and James.
*
“What d’you think of the tattoo?” House asks point-blank.
“What tattoo?” Wilson’s innocence is so feigned, as transparent and manufactured as cellophane, that House knows he is not meant to believe the lie.
“You’re sick,” House says. “Weren’t you trying to get me to sleep with her?”
“You did, didn’t you?”
*
Greg knows James is sleeping with Allison, James knows Greg is sleeping with Allison, and Allison knows they both know.
Not that they ever talk about it. How long have you known, Allison wants to ask. Why are you [plural] doing it? Don’t you mind? Do you like it? Do you talk about me? What do you say?
They may not talk of it, but comparisons are inevitable. James fits against her like a mold, as if he knows how to curve himself just so for that perfect fit. Greg, incongruous, constantly shifts in search of their best arrangement; Allison suspects he will never find it.
Something in between their temperaments would be best, Allison thinks. Neither too clingy nor too slippery.
Allison wonders what descriptions they come up with for her. Greg would say feisty, a lion cub daring scorn. James would call her deceptively docile, a doe before lashing out against a threat. In this case, she does not know which would be best. Ideally, it would something that actually describes her, the real her, but she hasn’t a clue as to what that would be.
*
“If you slept with her to get me to, why are you still seeing her?” House asked.
The plan had been to leave her to House, to let them be a happy couple. Or just a couple, no additional corny adjectives necessary. But Allison’s sullenness, it made Wilson want more; he wanted to sleep with her til he got it right.
And the flush on her face the morning after House slept with her for the first time, Wilson felt like someone had gotten it right. That was good. But then her glow eventually faded. It only came back when Wilson went to see her again.
Plus, there was something irresistible about holding her, imagining the paths House’s hands must’ve taken. As if House’s touch lingered over her body and Wilson could recover it through contact. As if by sharing her they became closer.
Wilson spread his hands. “I’m not entirely unselfish, House.”
*
On her elbows, neck bent and hair pooling on the pillow beneath her, Allison holds back shivers as James kisses the top of her spine, soft and deft as he is with his every touch. She does not mean to be taken in by his practiced suaveness, but she is disappointed when he stops. She forces herself to wait a heartbeat, then three, before asking, unable to hide her annoyance: “What?”
Her breath hitches at the surprise of James’ fingertips against her right shoulder blade. They follow a pattern unfamiliar to her. “You didn’t get a new tattoo, did you?”
Confused, her muscles tense up. “I’m twenty-seven and not as stupid.”
He presses deeper into her skin. “Your skin would still be healing, if it were.”
Her back to him, Allison cannot see James’ face, no matter how she twists. She can, however, glimpse black marks on herself. Again James traces along her shoulder blade, slow enough to give her the impression of never-ending swirling. “Don’t you know? There’s a drawing on you.” Allison heats up and is relived that he cannot see her face, either.
She’d been wrong: she’s twenty-seven and stupider than ever. If her inability to choose between two equally problematic men wasn’t proof enough, this is. “Of course I know.” Let her vulnerability be secret; at least then she has the appearance of strength.
Even as James thrusts into her, she is distracted, mulling over marks and connections. Her orgasm is faked. He probably notices the performance behind her moans and shudders, but he is gentleman enough to understand them as a sign to bring the act to an end. Once he is asleep-if he really is-Allison tiptoes into the bathroom and, angling herself between mirrors, she sees the drawing: a spiral in thick black ink, its end in the center twisting upon itself.
That’ll teach her to not fall asleep next to Greg.
Allison does not attempt to erase it. James would wonder where it went. Instead, she washes what she can: her face, her hands, her arms. When she comes out, she considers James, splayed out on her bed on his stomach, hands beneath his head, face tilted to the side. She grabs a pen, a fine-tip permanent marker she writes on CDs with. It’s immature, taking her frustration out on another party, but it is not as if James is innocent in this confusing game of who’s-using-whom.
She straddles the rise of his ass, removing her pen’s top with a click. James blinks. If he hadn’t, she would’ve shaken him til he woke up. “Hey,” she says.
“What-“
“Lie still, okay?”
James stiffens when the marker makes contact, but relaxes as she draws out the first line, smooth and slow and certain. He dips his head, arching his back as if to straighten himself out, becoming a better board for her markings. Allison doesn’t think, just moves her pen over him. A circle, first, surprisingly round and balanced for a spontaneous scrawl. Inside it, a square. [Was this how Greg had done it? Or had he been deliberate, contemplating and rejecting designs until he found the right one?] And, in the very center, a hexagon, two of the lines coinciding with the square. As she completes the final lines, James sighs, from deep inside, as if he’s found profound satisfaction.
He turns over and they kiss deeply, Allison cozying up against his body. She had not let them be so intimate, so far. It is not as alarming as she’d thought it would be.
*
“Hey,” Wilson broached.
“Hey,” House replied.
“You look like you swallowed a watermelon whole, which means you have something to say. Out with it.”
“Did you draw on Cameron?”
“Why?”
“I need a reason to ask?”
“Everything needs a reason.”
“Stop evading, House.”
“Of all the things you could ask about Cameron, you want to know if I drew on her? Don’t you want to know if I fucked her again? How many times? How-“
“You’re right, I could be asking something better: why are you sleeping with her? How do you feel about her? Do you like her, or-“
“Yeah, I drew on her,” House said curtly.
“Ah.” Wilson studies House for a moment before venturing, “Wanna see something?”
House’s eyebrows arch as Wilsons slowly but surely opens his shirt, his gaze focused on Wilson’s deceptively confident unbuttoning. Through half-lidded eyes he watches Wilson shrug off the shirt. After that, Wilson does not know House’s reaction, for he turns around.
The hair on Wilson’s body stands on end as fingertips graze Cameron’s drawing.
“How symbolic,” House remarks dryly. In Wilson’s opinion, he withdraws his hand too soon. “I bet you love it.”
“I do.” From his pants pocket, Wilson withdraws a felt-tip pen. “And I was thinking…”
*
When, after midnight, someone bangs loudly at her door, Cameron rolls her eyes. “You could’ve called first,” she tells Greg. But she’s glad he’s here. She’d been in danger of falling into melancholic musings about why she can never get her relationships right. Her history with men has been lamentable, and her recent attempts have only been worse.
Greg is breathing heavily; it can’t be from the knocking, he wouldn’t be wiped out from just that. Did he rush here? Or is he excited? He briskly moves to the middle of her living room and starts to pull his t-shirt over his head. “Aren’t you in a hurry tonight,” she begins, but then she sees. Over his left pectoral is a simple X. “Who did that?” Allison asks, transfixed.
“Wilson.”
It doesn’t seem like James’ style. Too blunt, too straightforward, too crass. And yet…
She’s been going round and round in search of answers, but perhaps she’s been going about this the wrong way. If they’ve been chasing each other on the perimeter, maybe it’s time they try something unexplored. There may be space for them, together, in the center. X marks the spot.
Allison wraps her arms around Greg’s waist and kisses him. “Let’s call James.”