House fic: lost in paradise outside the city limits 1/?
Title: lost in paradise outside the city limits
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: Cameron, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1190
Rating: Eventually NC-17
Spoilers: Post No Reason. ♥
Summary: She understands that, in these suspended frames of time, she’s lost more of herself to him than she can control. For him, it’s four days to solve it all. For her, well, she doesn’t even know where to begin. It’s time to face the truth now.
Author's Notes: This is for teenwitch77, who continues to be the absolute, sweetest human being on this planet. I decided to rewrite this story-formally-known-as-the-story-start-pre-vacation-leave. Because vacation tanked. And I had the time. And a title change is always fun. But it’ll be four or five parts. Haven’t decided yet.
I planned my death carefully; unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it. My life had a tendency to spread, to get flabby, to scroll and festoon like the frame of a baroque mirror, which came from following the line of least resistance.
Margaret Atwood, Lady Oracle
12:34pm.
Her heels click as she walks down her hallway to her apartment door. She’s tired. Grateful for the next four days off. It’s a manner of mechanics, she thinks. Principles. It’s been a vacation overdue.
Her finger twirls her key ring around, the clatter of her keys hitting each other filling the empty hall. Maybe she’ll go home for a couple days. Call some friends. She’s forgotten, in the midst of perspective, the life that she should be having. The joke is that she’s in her prime. She should be dating again. There are too many things- all catalogued- that lay aimlessly around her.
Wasting away.
Center. Slip of faith. It’s instinct. There’s a point where she’s beginning to understand (although, she maintains in the spirit of age that she’s known for a long time) that she’s stepped into impossibility. And perhaps, it’s why, why she’s been pushed into this limbo of sensibility. Philosophy’s become a constant ground of discussion. All in her head, that is.
Rubbing her eyes, she slides her key into the lock of her door. She definitely needs this vacation. Maybe she’ll just sleep.
“Hey.”
He stands, leaning against the corner wall that turns into the next row of apartments. His hands are shoved into his pockets. He still twirls the cane around (it’ll be soon where he won’t need it anymore), out of habit- he maintains.
She turns. “House.”
The greeting is cordial. Nothing more. She doesn’t push. And he seems to have constructed a wall of despondent formality. Since the shooting. Since- well, she’s never had that much of a grasp of their relationship. It’s the unwilling curse.
He says nothing. And she makes no effort to turn the conversation into the usual semantics of awkwardness and frustrating novelties. Leaning against the door, she watches him and waits. It’s all part of the learning routine.
The color of it all.
“You moved,” he murmurs finally.
She shrugs. “It’s closer to the hospital. Better area.”
Addiction, out of context, is a romance abused. (She knows they’ve both, at some point, have fallen to this notion.) But at this point, it’s become about the choice. A finish of choices. And in the strangeness of their relationship, she knows he wants someone to blame. Someone. (And it’s easy because she hasn’t left him.)
He nods. Small talk. But it’s a theory of alternates.
This is supposed to make sense. Distance. Objectivity. Rationale. Muscle to them both. They were doing so well.
Uncertainty. Such a scary, wicked- it’s a word. A word. He likes words. She knows this too well. But there are too many conversations that they need to have. And then it becomes about time. That she-
It doesn’t matter.
“Why are you here?” She asks finally.
He steps forward. For weeks, both Chase and Foreman remarked about the impressive drive that he had to get back on both feet. Active. Constantly moving and making up for missed time. She’s said nothing, simply because there isn’t anything she can say.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Talk to me,” she echoes. Her brow furrows. “Why?”
He’s sullen almost. And then snorts, shoving his hand into his pockets. Words between them hold an amount. A price. It’s the promise of a vicious kind of nudity. And the lingering thoughts of choice.
Choice. “I need to talk to you,” he repeats. “It’ll take a fucking minute.”
He believes in the notion of riddles, an explanation of things that make sense to him. He questions everything, including the rhythm he falls to. She understands that, in these suspended frames of time, she’s lost more of herself to him than she can control.
“Fine.”
Unlocking her door, she steps inside and lets him follow. She shrugs out of her coat, letting it fall against the chair by the door. She drops her keys and her bag, watching him as he looks around the room. He doesn’t move into any spot in particular, his discomfort obvious.
She sighs, sitting on the couch and brushing her fingers along the arm. She waits for him to start because she can’t do anything less than that.
His words fall in a twist of soundless slurs. “We need to do something about this,” he begins, waving his hand between the two of them. It’s as if he doesn’t know where to start. “It needs to be solved.”
She stares at him blankly. It needs to be solved. Expression is a relative theory. He didn’t pick her. And she didn’t pick him.
“You- what?”
He waves his hands between them again. “This is a headache.”
He steps forward and sits on her coffee table, ignoring the spread of magazines that fall beside him. She tries to keep rationality around- he can’t think that she’d- and waits for him to try and embrace sensibility. Calmness.
But he’s serious. And she shifts uncomfortably.
“This-”
Her lips part. “You’re not serious are-”
His eyes are dark. And his lips curl into a well-placed smirk. There’s a mix of certainty and uncertainty in him. As if he doesn’t know where she should belong.
He shrugs. And seems to pick his words carefully. “Give me four days. Friday to Monday. And we can end this. We can move on.”
You can, she thinks. Reaction instant. She shifts on the couch, curling to one side. Her eyes widen slightly. He’s serious. He’s really serious. Give me four days. Four days to do what? She runs a hand through her hair.
“Move on- you’re insane. There’s nothing- what are you talking about?”
There’s nothing, no point to draw, because she understands what he’s asking of her. Style. Patterns. The language between the two of the is a jazz of eroticism. And this moment, for once, is still conscience of that. Four days. The twist of earnestness makes her more than suspicious. She understands-
What does he want to prove?
“Four days,” he says quietly. “Four days.”
This is insane. Unbelievably insane. She stands from the couch, shaking her head. She moves into the kitchen. Make tea. Do something ultimately productive. Something really productive. Because this, this idea is-
“Wait,” she stops and turns. “You’ve actually-”
She thinks she should pinch herself. Or at least, have a glass of wine. Two. But she goes and starts to boil, shaking her head.
“Is this like some new plan to-”
His fingers curl around her wrist. “It’s four days.”
Her eyes are wide. “Of what?”
It becomes clear to her that she’s going to have to face this, whatever this is, here and now. Or some version of it. There’s an answer somewhere between all of this nonsense that she doesn’t understand. But should.
What are four days going to do?
Solve this? End it? Give her sanity a break?
He’s too close. And she can’t think. She can’t think rationally. She can’t put things into perspective. He does this well with her. It’s almost like a game. A stupid game. (Sometimes she wonders if he does it intentionally. Play her like this.)
“Four days,” he continues. “How about it?”
Her lips purse together.
+
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: Cameron, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1190
Rating: Eventually NC-17
Spoilers: Post No Reason. ♥
Summary: She understands that, in these suspended frames of time, she’s lost more of herself to him than she can control. For him, it’s four days to solve it all. For her, well, she doesn’t even know where to begin. It’s time to face the truth now.
Author's Notes: This is for teenwitch77, who continues to be the absolute, sweetest human being on this planet. I decided to rewrite this story-formally-known-as-the-story-start-pre-vacation-leave. Because vacation tanked. And I had the time. And a title change is always fun. But it’ll be four or five parts. Haven’t decided yet.
I planned my death carefully; unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it. My life had a tendency to spread, to get flabby, to scroll and festoon like the frame of a baroque mirror, which came from following the line of least resistance.
Margaret Atwood, Lady Oracle
12:34pm.
Her heels click as she walks down her hallway to her apartment door. She’s tired. Grateful for the next four days off. It’s a manner of mechanics, she thinks. Principles. It’s been a vacation overdue.
Her finger twirls her key ring around, the clatter of her keys hitting each other filling the empty hall. Maybe she’ll go home for a couple days. Call some friends. She’s forgotten, in the midst of perspective, the life that she should be having. The joke is that she’s in her prime. She should be dating again. There are too many things- all catalogued- that lay aimlessly around her.
Wasting away.
Center. Slip of faith. It’s instinct. There’s a point where she’s beginning to understand (although, she maintains in the spirit of age that she’s known for a long time) that she’s stepped into impossibility. And perhaps, it’s why, why she’s been pushed into this limbo of sensibility. Philosophy’s become a constant ground of discussion. All in her head, that is.
Rubbing her eyes, she slides her key into the lock of her door. She definitely needs this vacation. Maybe she’ll just sleep.
“Hey.”
He stands, leaning against the corner wall that turns into the next row of apartments. His hands are shoved into his pockets. He still twirls the cane around (it’ll be soon where he won’t need it anymore), out of habit- he maintains.
She turns. “House.”
The greeting is cordial. Nothing more. She doesn’t push. And he seems to have constructed a wall of despondent formality. Since the shooting. Since- well, she’s never had that much of a grasp of their relationship. It’s the unwilling curse.
He says nothing. And she makes no effort to turn the conversation into the usual semantics of awkwardness and frustrating novelties. Leaning against the door, she watches him and waits. It’s all part of the learning routine.
The color of it all.
“You moved,” he murmurs finally.
She shrugs. “It’s closer to the hospital. Better area.”
Addiction, out of context, is a romance abused. (She knows they’ve both, at some point, have fallen to this notion.) But at this point, it’s become about the choice. A finish of choices. And in the strangeness of their relationship, she knows he wants someone to blame. Someone. (And it’s easy because she hasn’t left him.)
He nods. Small talk. But it’s a theory of alternates.
This is supposed to make sense. Distance. Objectivity. Rationale. Muscle to them both. They were doing so well.
Uncertainty. Such a scary, wicked- it’s a word. A word. He likes words. She knows this too well. But there are too many conversations that they need to have. And then it becomes about time. That she-
It doesn’t matter.
“Why are you here?” She asks finally.
He steps forward. For weeks, both Chase and Foreman remarked about the impressive drive that he had to get back on both feet. Active. Constantly moving and making up for missed time. She’s said nothing, simply because there isn’t anything she can say.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Talk to me,” she echoes. Her brow furrows. “Why?”
He’s sullen almost. And then snorts, shoving his hand into his pockets. Words between them hold an amount. A price. It’s the promise of a vicious kind of nudity. And the lingering thoughts of choice.
Choice. “I need to talk to you,” he repeats. “It’ll take a fucking minute.”
He believes in the notion of riddles, an explanation of things that make sense to him. He questions everything, including the rhythm he falls to. She understands that, in these suspended frames of time, she’s lost more of herself to him than she can control.
“Fine.”
Unlocking her door, she steps inside and lets him follow. She shrugs out of her coat, letting it fall against the chair by the door. She drops her keys and her bag, watching him as he looks around the room. He doesn’t move into any spot in particular, his discomfort obvious.
She sighs, sitting on the couch and brushing her fingers along the arm. She waits for him to start because she can’t do anything less than that.
His words fall in a twist of soundless slurs. “We need to do something about this,” he begins, waving his hand between the two of them. It’s as if he doesn’t know where to start. “It needs to be solved.”
She stares at him blankly. It needs to be solved. Expression is a relative theory. He didn’t pick her. And she didn’t pick him.
“You- what?”
He waves his hands between them again. “This is a headache.”
He steps forward and sits on her coffee table, ignoring the spread of magazines that fall beside him. She tries to keep rationality around- he can’t think that she’d- and waits for him to try and embrace sensibility. Calmness.
But he’s serious. And she shifts uncomfortably.
“This-”
Her lips part. “You’re not serious are-”
His eyes are dark. And his lips curl into a well-placed smirk. There’s a mix of certainty and uncertainty in him. As if he doesn’t know where she should belong.
He shrugs. And seems to pick his words carefully. “Give me four days. Friday to Monday. And we can end this. We can move on.”
You can, she thinks. Reaction instant. She shifts on the couch, curling to one side. Her eyes widen slightly. He’s serious. He’s really serious. Give me four days. Four days to do what? She runs a hand through her hair.
“Move on- you’re insane. There’s nothing- what are you talking about?”
There’s nothing, no point to draw, because she understands what he’s asking of her. Style. Patterns. The language between the two of the is a jazz of eroticism. And this moment, for once, is still conscience of that. Four days. The twist of earnestness makes her more than suspicious. She understands-
What does he want to prove?
“Four days,” he says quietly. “Four days.”
This is insane. Unbelievably insane. She stands from the couch, shaking her head. She moves into the kitchen. Make tea. Do something ultimately productive. Something really productive. Because this, this idea is-
“Wait,” she stops and turns. “You’ve actually-”
She thinks she should pinch herself. Or at least, have a glass of wine. Two. But she goes and starts to boil, shaking her head.
“Is this like some new plan to-”
His fingers curl around her wrist. “It’s four days.”
Her eyes are wide. “Of what?”
It becomes clear to her that she’s going to have to face this, whatever this is, here and now. Or some version of it. There’s an answer somewhere between all of this nonsense that she doesn’t understand. But should.
What are four days going to do?
Solve this? End it? Give her sanity a break?
He’s too close. And she can’t think. She can’t think rationally. She can’t put things into perspective. He does this well with her. It’s almost like a game. A stupid game. (Sometimes she wonders if he does it intentionally. Play her like this.)
“Four days,” he continues. “How about it?”
Her lips purse together.
+