fic: it serves you right to suffer
Title: it serves you right to suffer
Pairing/s: House/Cameron
Word Count: 4000 give or take
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Belongs to Fox, David Shore etc.
Summary: written for get_house_laid, prompt 164: Sick of Chase, Cameron slips out of bed one night and goes to House's apartment. For what? She's not sure. But House is.
A/N: it seems I am completely incapable of writing straight out smut. Go figure. So I edited the prompt a bit. Spoilers for 'Half-wit'. Set right after the last scene *points to icon*.
'There is no way one can reduce desire in order
to make it emerge, emanate, from the dimension
of need.'
(Lacan)
+
He doesn’t get far. A grim three feet, maybe, before a talkative crowd swarms into the little space he’s occupying in the foyer. Closing in on him. Obstructing the door. He can feel his backpack sloping off his shoulder and his agitation growing. Too many damn people out for such remorseless weather and yet the city is astir. With eyes as narrow as his choices, he scratches at his neck and includes a cursory scan of the bistro with the gesture. He finds the majority of his five senses placated against his will. The open fireplace and closer-than-comfort contact thaws the cold that’s spread like rigour mortis through his leg and lets him stand a little easier, straight enough to consider sending the pianist a particularly dubious look. The thick, warm smell of food passes by and relaxes his mood before his eyes get the chance. His gaze wanders elsewhere, distracted by the lively chatter of voices and glasses and plates - the careless promise of the weekend. He estimates that at least an hour here will be…tolerable. All things considered.
Does he really want to be here?
Granted, the food is better than anything he could be bothered making for himself and the fire’s already lit. He can play Ray Charles better in a coma, this much is true, with the added bonus of not a single person around to bother him, but the answer - when it arrives - begs a different question to the one he originally has in mind. One he isn’t so inclined to consider.
(do they really want him here?)
Not that it matters either way, but seeing them huddled easily in their booth, swapping leisurely remarks and wry smiles, they seem to House like creatures from some other, separate life. Despite his best efforts to undermine, their camaraderie had endured and on some level this satisfied him. There was something automatic, now, in the way they closed ranks, something akin to pride in their retreat - something that, in the end, excluded him. He contemplates them for a long, detached moment. Too bad for him that his curiosity only increases in the wake of his confusion. The realisation arrives that he can’t quite form an opinion on their behaviour this past week. Though it was true that the harder, sharper, more sardonic they became as doctors, the more he could admit to a sort of grudging approval of their characters, he is yet to comprehend the lengths to which they’ve allowed themselves to be driven for him. Especially when they know better.
They were all stubborn, but, really, what was he going to say? There would be some exchange of banal formalities before Foreman raises a stoical eyebrow at his obvious insincerity. Chase: an attempt to appear disinterested, no doubt a shrug, indicating that although all was not quite as it seemed with him, he was perfectly happy to pretend otherwise. Old habits die hard. And then Cameron - he can picture that all too vividly.
But her laugh cuts his exasperated daydream short. Loose and careless, the sound contradicts, unburdened and girlish, warmed in part by the second glass of wine she’s finishing.
And the leg that stretches out from underneath the table to nestle against hers.
House smirks. With an impartial air. Its not like he didn’t know and he could care less over a lot more. Boring, predictable behaviour never interested him before and it won’t start interesting him tonight. Her motives were textbook. What does appeal to him - what keeps him there, watching - is the gratification of his cunning insight. In light of recent circumstances, it redeems him somewhat to have this ability back. He decides to take his time with the information. Draw it out to his advantage. Now that it effectively levels the playing field between them, he’s determined to get the upper hand back where it belongs.
He wanders forward.
Whatever competitive edge he has disappears when he’s just within sight. She chooses that moment to rub her leg back brazenly against Chase’s, turning to Foreman as she does so, nodding attentively while her shoe-less foot creeps up his inner thigh. Suddenly his smugness seems a little reckless - even for him. He can’t place the smile that threatens the outer corners of her lips, threatening to spoil her composure. The subterfuge suits her. She retracts her foot, slips gracefully into her heel and House slows up, needing the perspective of concealment to properly consider the change. She’s serious again. She sips from her wine. In the periphery, he sees the tense outline of Chase’s shoulders, the preoccupied gesturing of Foreman’s hands as he speaks. Not for lack of trying, the drift of their conversation slips past him. He finds all the resources of his curiosity are stretched to the task of deciphering the unfamiliar arrangement of Cameron’s face.
He’s not staring, though for the sake of a point or two, he’s interested in what might follow. She draws further within herself. It’s not the lights from the restaurant that encourage it so much, although they colour the normally fragile pallor of her skin to something resembling warm. The secretive air about her is tempered by a pensiveness that blooms just beneath the surface. Distance makes it clearer. And he’s safe where he is. Her eyes don’t settle on anyone in particular and give no indication of doing so for the duration of his observance.
But they lift gently, and unpreparedly, to his.
Her mouth opens and the disruption to her features is like a towel dropping from a body. An untimely eclipse of people passing from opposite ends of the bar leaves the space between them exposed. House hesitates with his cane. His fingers twitch readily and yet for a moment that carries far too much significance than it should, he’s rooted to the spot. He can’t tear his gaze away from the honesty of her reaction. Exposed is not an expression she normally carries within her repertoire. For the sake of pride or some other self-sacrificing virtue, she makes a point these days of refraining from obvious responses. Her face has has taken readily to withholding. Nowadays, she can refrain from a reaction then feign a reaction just to get a reaction from him.
I’d thought you’d find it appealing.
To his surprise, he feels nothing of his prior indignation. He is not so wrapped up in his own melodrama that he can’t admit to himself some blame for the dark smudges underneath her eyes and as he permits her gaze, House gets the impression that its the only apology he’ll be making tonight. The only one that’s genuine. Barely a minute passes, not quite half. She’s sharp enough to know exactly what he’s offering her. Cameron breathes in and the look on her face deepens.
It’s the look on her face that turns him away.
+
The wind prefers him to the open channel of his street. It scours his face, tangoing angrily with his scarf before charging off into the night. Irritation growls through his body. His thoughts are poised on the blade of knife. Right now, as he wriggles his keys in his lock, even the sound of his door closing will tip them over the edge. He catches it with the toe of his sneaker before the wind sucks it back. It clicks meekly behind him.
Hooking his cane on the door arch, he assimilates with gratitude into the dark of his apartment. He pushes off from his desk to his couch to the narrow walls of his hallway with the fluidity of a blind man’s fingers over braille. When he reaches the bathroom he turns the lights on so he can lower himself carefully to the rim of his bathtub. He spins the hot water, heels off his shoes then rests his head back to wait for whatever it is he isn’t feeling to pass.
His hand slides smoothly into his jacket.
+
At the piano, clad in his pyjamas and cloaked by vicodin, House’s fingers meander from song to song. Past midnight, his isolation is intimate, the room quiet and warm. Thoughts of her hang nevertheless in the background. Though muted, he wonders if another drink will be enough for them to flat-line and give in to some semblance of sleep. Anything. He probes another progression of chords. All things considered, its neither the time nor the place for a Hank Williams cover.
The scrape of the piano stool against the wooden floor breaks its spell though his body’s unconvinced. Under orders, it lumbers towards the kitchen.
The door knocks.
House waits it out, a little defensive in light of the week he’s had. The various people he’s pissed off. Another firm stacatto of knocks. He grabs opens the door.
Upwards, she looks, and into his eyes. He meets it with enough neutrality to suggest caution, to ward off any accusation or question. Any mention of what took place a few hours ago. There is a suggestion of what he saw before in her face though resignation dominates and her body language is calm. She holds a paper bag.
"Chocolate and hazelnut pudding," she explains, proffering. House’s brow wrinkles.
"You’ve never tried it."
Its not a question and somewhat of a dare, so he accepts, peering desultorily into the bag. Much to his annoyance, the smooth, rich smell of the dessert weakens his apprehension.
"Its like going to heaven - without actually dying."
He looks up. There’s a distinct lack of innuendo in her comment but the quick, dubious scan of her face detects the beginnings of a smile. It doesn’t eventuate. Instead, her hands find the pockets of her grey pea coat.
"I thought you didn’t believe in heaven," he counters.
She shrugs. "Consider me converted."
He steps aside, just a fraction, inviting her in despite himself and to compensate, he sneers his way to the lamp and flicks it on. His voice is worn, abrupt.
"What are you doing here?"
Cameron turns around. By large, she's unfazed. "I saw the light on."
"Right."
The silence that follows is uncharacteristically frank. She offers no further explanation as he passes her on the way to the kitchen, using the advantage of his height to regard her. A polite grimace shrugs her mouth, implying that even if she does have motives, they’re not of the antagonistic kind.
House isn’t sure what worries him more.
"So you thought you’d just stop by and bring me dessert?" he hollers from the adjoining room.
"Aha."
He returns to hand her a sceptical expression and half the pudding on a plate before heading back to fetch his own and taking his seat in front of the piano. She’s a little taken aback, he can tell, but she makes no remark of it. He appreciates the discretion, appreciates the simplicity of the moment. It is brief, mystifying thing, considering the leg rubbing under the table and all. Considering himself.
But what was it he’d said?
Just because its inexplicative doesn’t mean its inexplicable.
It’s a prudent reminder and ultimately unhelpful as the first bite of dessert hits his palate. Sensation is favoured over reason. His head slackens to the side and his eyes close.
"I told you," he hears Cameron smirk.
House glibly spoons another mouthful. "Its okay."
He expects the same reticence as before but she nods, amused, carving a piece of the warm pudding, not so much pleased with herself as with him and what he suspects is his innate predicability. She pushes her hair back from one side and swallows delicately, still smiling, savouring without making a show of it. He takes note of the line of her neck and its translucent paleness. As a matter of comparison, House wonders, briefly, what it tastes like.
"So…?" indulgently licking the spoon clean. "No recriminations, no lecturing, no…earnest psychoanalysing - this is just you being thoughtful?"
"Is that really so out of character?"
He mimics her shrug.
She rolls her eyes and crosses her legs, neatly arranging herself and resting the plate on her slender knee. "Your welcome," she sighs.
His only response to that is to scoff. It altogether lacks conviction. He’s comparing again. Again, thinking of her mouth and the welcome intrusion of her lips against his and what he gave them in return. Lately, the insistence of his urges troubles him. He is not a simple man - not by any means - and yet the sudden intimacy of the situation forces him to acknowledge that her intentions may be more complex than his when it comes down to it - when it comes down to him. He’d indulged her to a certain degree.
He chances a glance her way. "So there’s nothing on your mind?"
"No," Cameron answers but the close look she gives him afterward suggests that something is being artfully restrained in her silence, clearly biding its time. She has still, somehow, preserved the mystery of her appearance tonight. Somehow all his questions have been left unanswered. He’s left with no choice but to interrogate her. He allows her a few, unsuspecting bites.
"You love him?"
Her shoulders rise, taut. She takes the spoon from her mouth and sets it on the plate. For some time she admits nothing, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth in irritated contemplation. Eventually, she raises her head and blinkingly meets his gaze, as if she is trying to summon words that are escaping her. There is neither annoyance, nor piousness, in her response.
"Its none of your business," she puts to him.
"True," House agrees, emphasising his own situation. "Its only your business."
She gets up. House expects as much and awaits the dignified sound of her departure. Instead, her plate meets the coffee table.
"Your bathroom…?" her voice ventures out once his eyes skitter confusedly upwards.
He waves absent-mindedly in the direction of the hall.
+
In the kitchen, House pours then drains a glass of water.
Its quiet on her end and an inordinate amount of time passes. Blankly aware of her presence, he lowers his head through the living room and stations himself at the threshold of the passageway, one hand flat against the wall.
The light from his bathroom is off.
For reasons besides the dark, he moves cautiously. Unaided. His sight is straining, reluctantly reaching around the entrance of his bedroom door, when her perfume loiters about him and dampens the air.
He fills the doorway armed with a disinterested look. It lingers breathlessly on the sight of Cameron clad only in his blue button down.
Blood hastens through his body, descending instinctively, as the proof of his over-active imagination stands before him in the dim silhouetted slopes of her body. She moves into a small patch of leftover light from the street lamp outside his window. Moves closer. House draws back when he counts the three buttons she’s left undone at her chest. The hair she has released from its ponytail brushes this gap invitingly. Her face is framed by its ebony shadow. House finds he has to swallow just to get his jaw working. A wolfish shiver runs down his spine.
Just like before, her hand reaches out and grazes the side of his face. Its part apology, part seduction, borderline compassionate and he’s both fascinated and terrified by the capacity it has to hold him in place. Cameron’s breath comes softly and hints at chocolate as she makes her way downwards, her fingers typing across his torso. House watches her with a wordless frown: the way her eyelashes lower with the progress of her hands, the pale apple of her cheeks, the immaculate dip of her chin as it meets her throat, as if carved from marble. She doesn’t lean up to his mouth.
Her hand spiders across his wrist - trapping the one that isn’t propping his weight up against the door. She takes his hand and leads it to her chest. He’s stricken by the uncomplicated nature of the gesture, the painful beauty of her face. The sense that there are some things in this world not meant for him.
Cameron is no exception. But her skin underneath is hot. And his hand, much like his mouth a few nights before, moves in gentle submission in a matter of seconds, touching her breast through the thin cotton of his shirt. The gaze she levels him with is unafraid yet as he continues to stroke her she loses her concentration. He wants nothing more than to wrap her in his bed and keep her there for a day or two. Maybe three. There’s no hurry.
Soon enough, his attention falters to the floor. She inches up on bare feet, not quite touching him but insisting in her own delicate way. His head turns toward her of its own accord, stopping somewhere near the nape of her neck. The not entirely unpleasant scent of smoke emerges from her hair. He weighs his concerns against the truth of the matter.
"Do what you like with me," is the invitation she murmurs into his ear.
+
He reaches for her slowly.
Now that the air around them is thick with anticipation, he passes the tips of his fingers over her lips leisurely, touching the tremulous skin of her eyelids on their way up to her forehead. Despite what’s laid out before him on his unmade bed, his hands idle over her face. Her eyes are closed, beating. He slides his hand inside his shirt and runs his palm over the heated skin of her navel. Unsuspecting, Cameron’s eyes fly open. Breath bunches up inside her and House can feel the tension beneath his hand. Under her watch, he unbuttons the shirt, one by one, until a pale, shimmering line of skin is revealed. He kisses her neck: wetly, lingeringly, with promises of elsewhere. She exhales gradually.
She crawls up on her elbows before he has a chance to draw it from her again. This time from her mouth. She makes an imperceptible jut backward. His hands settle questioningly on the bare strait of skin between her ribcage, where her blood thrums and, meandering up and down, he gauges her face, calculating her meaning. Her eyes are lidded but there’s a warning within their depths.
As a token of his understanding, he presses his thumb over her bottom lip. Softly. The generosity is not lost on Cameron. She eases up further and slopes into his chest, nudging up his top, nudging him back against the bed. His mouth returns to her neck in the process, pausing briefly only when his t-shirt slips over his head. It doesn’t take much, barely a caress of her shoulders, before she wriggles her body to his and his hand reclaims her breast. It feels wonderful and wrong all at once to have her pressed against him, half-naked, in the cavern of his bedroom, with her shallow breath tickling his ear.
"I know you broke in here."
She sufferingly turns her cheek to him the very moment he reaches the suppleness of her stomach, settling his palms over the hot, downy surface.
"You keep your key above the door," the accusation struggles out.
He relaxes his grip but she cleaves to him instinctively, turning her face further as his thumb circles the tight skin around her bellybutton. Her mouth is dangerously close to his. Tighter, he grips her, fingers branching her waist.
"House," she cautions.
He stops to consider the angle of her face. Through her lowered lashes he can see she’s nowhere near as defiant as she’d like to be. Encouraged, he pushes his shirt up from the small of her back and roves warmly underneath. He kisses her neck again. Cameron closes her eyes and tilts nearer to his mouth, releasing a subtle, puff of breath. His shirt slithers further off her frame.
There is nothing but skin.
Heat builds unbearably between them and though it seems impossible, she nestles closer. Shirt halfway down her arms, she runs her fingers down his chest and tugs at the knot of his pyjamas. House assists by closing his hand over hers and guiding it open. Sensing the necessity, she raises on her knees, tips up her chin.
She waits for his rough, impatient kiss but is met with nothing but his breath stalling around the underside of her jaw, angling in then drawing back, knuckles coasting back and forth along the fine bones of her ribcage. Her large eyes round to his. Her chest shudders. Nervous expectation begins to wind its way through the pit of his stomach and beyond as a barely restrained kiss touches the side of his face. He spans his hands across the wings of her shoulder blades and pulls her down to him.
He groans inwardly at the contact, keeping his progression as slow and controlled as he can. He hears her breathe in deep, exhale and then her arms loop around him, moving her hips against his instruction. His stomach tightens. A scarce taste of the smooth, taut skin of each breast and she backs off, an anxious whimper building in her throat.
He traps her earlobe with his teeth, feels an answering tremble from deep inside her as he bites down. He can’t deny the restive energy in her movements and so he arches off from the bed head. Gradually, she rocks against him. Overcome with lust, he gathers her up to him and opens his mouth to hers, kissing her desperately, not caring about whatever boundaries she’s set up for herself in this encounter.
You kissed back.
This time he won’t hold it against her - right now he can barely remember his name let alone some half-hearted reproach he might have cultivated simply because she outsmarted him. Simply because she cared. As he swells inside her, he’s taken aback by the clarity of this thought: he wanted to know if she still cared. To take it for granted, yes, but he hadn’t known what to do with the knowledge until now. Not until she’s breathing him in deep between kisses. Not until its too late. She gasps for air like she’s about to say something. He slides a hand between their stomachs to solicit it. Downwards. When he touches her he hears only the ghost of a word.
(yes)
With his face against her neck, he can feel all the heat inside her. That she wants him to do whatever pleases him - wants him to do it all in spite of everything - should concern him but it only makes him hungrier. His unworthiness only increases his desire. That’s what it comes down to before he shatters into pure sensation: he doesn’t deserve this - he doesn’t deserve her - yet he holds on tightly, hoping to absorb into whatever she is. Release is so close. He can taste it.
"Cameron," he whispers into hair. "God, Cameron."
And then he’s gone.
+