House fic: lost in paradise outside the city limits 3/?
Title: lost in paradise outside the city limits
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: Cameron, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1212
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: For teenwitch77.
|one| |two|
and you bother me, you possess me
you're there again, ahead of me
and i won't let go, i won't let go
you're inside my head
radiohead, inside my head
In the dark of her room, it becomes an epic.
She ignores the phone the first four times, the 3:47 from her alarm clock blinking maliciously against the wall as she tries to close her eyes again. And then it rings a fifth time.
“Damn it,” she curses, rolling over and hoping that it’s not the hospital. It’s what happened the last time.
She rolls over, her fingers brushing against the handle of the receiver. She contemplates ignoring it. But it rings a sixth time. And a seventh. Sighing, she picks it up and brings it to her ear.
She rolls onto her back. “Hello?”
There’s a chuckle. And she sighs. She thinks she’s gotten used to the idea of semi-transition, so much so that this bout of oddness from him is something she’s managed to temporary use objectiveness against. Maybe it’s just because it’s too damn early.
“How do you feel about New Hampshire?”
She sighs. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she becomes aware of the room. Dark. Quiet- drunken laughter is only heard occasionally. She’s trying to get used to the bed, too large and the sheets too soft. Maybe she’s too tired.
But she humors him. “It’s three forty-” She cranes her neck to the side, reading the time, “Nine. Are we destined to never have a normal conversation?”
He snorts, but the undertones reemerge to mock her at his convenience. She hates some conversations- they’re all uncontrollable (although she thinks that if there were to be any semblance of control, it would be fleeting because this relationship is nothing more than unpredictable).
“Be thankful I’m not at your door yet,” he shoots back. “We’re going to New Hampshire.”
She groans. Maybe it’s some form of vulnerability- to appease the inner child, she’ll tell herself later when she’ll try to rationalize all two million reasons of perspective on this conversation.
“At my door?” is quickly covered or followed by (depending at how this conversation is remembered) “We’re going to New Hampshire?”
By all accounts, she knows when he’s full of shit and when he’s not and neither of the two points seem to fulfill the tone of this conversation. If it could be called a conversation at all. There were words between them. Passing phrases.
Full conversations hurt.
“We’re going to New Hampshire,” he repeats as if it were the forty-sixth time. As if numbers and opportunity meant anything.
She’s tired. She’s nowhere near lucid, lost somewhere between the midnight rerun of yesterday’s Oprah at the gym and thoughts of coffee already. (She’s got to kick the damn habit, but it’s the welfare of her sanity that she’s concerned about.)
She sighs. “Fine. I’ll humor you. What’s in New Hampshire?”
“An opportunity,” he says. “Something I want to check out- and see. Erm, stuff?”
She flings an arm over her eyes, moaning softly and ignoring his snort. She curls further into her covers wanting nothing more than to accidentally drop her phone. And then, of course, unplug it from the wall.
“Stuff,” she echoes dryly. “Sounds like a blast already.”
He sighs. “There’s this talk I have to give,” he says finally. The words are forced and said with a vicious amount of distain. “You’re the only one insane enough to tolerate me in these situations.”
She snorts.
She rubs her eyes. Blinks. She stares up at the ceiling. She doesn’t know what she should say. She wonders, though, if he does these things on purpose. Corner her in these moments that are easier for him to maintain a vicious honesty.
“It’s four o’clock in the morning.”
Her own voice is coated in disbelief. It’s not awkward. It’s about the promise of dangerous words. There are five. And then there are admissions. It’s the justice of verse. He thinks that she prefers the spirals of randomness and the faces of lies- it makes her exhausted. But she knows the curling intimacy of his lies.
“Flight’s at eleven-fifteen,” he says finally. “I promise a good time.”
“Oh, so you mean we’re going to have phone sex now?”
He chokes. And she gives him a real smile, even though he’ll never know. (It’s about what she can and cannot share with him. What she wants to give- with what little choice she has.) They own the anatomy of knots, the complexity of semantics, and the endearing virtues of lies- this is the essence of their relationship. At point one.
“You’re frisky at this time of the night.”
She snorts at the undertone of daunting sexuality pushed at her- the building blocks of simplicity, a marvel.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” She’s never believed that things could be so simple, in light of all of this. She’s a smart woman. Practical.
She can almost see him shrugging. It’s never it’s nothing with him. Questions are an art form to him. There are steps and specific mechanics. An entire whirl of everything, color and shapes and everything that had a mask of normal. Whatever that meant.
“Are you going to tell me?”
It seems like a stupid question. Flat. Vague. A wide range of answers that could be anything and anywhere between despondent and cool to heavy and outlandish. It’s as if he knows. He shouldn’t. Maybe. Maybe she’s obvious.
“Tell you?” She persists in anguishing slowness, the color that surrounds her drowning in the makings of an epic. Her fingers tangle in her hair.
“Still drink your coffee the same?”
Random. Evasive. Don’t avoid this now. “You bought me coffee yesterday.”
“True,” he says. As always, seconds away from losing it.
There’s no such thing as time, time, and again, time. She wonders if it’s possible to stop. Here. When she knows she’s not a woman scorned. Or a philosopher. Or even curious Alice. It’s methodology. And the glass notion of being overwhelmed.
There is no can I ask you something and no shyness, there’s- in moments- the oddness of silence. But he sighs and she steels herself for whatever it is that he wants to ask her, if it’s anything at all.
It’s simple. “Would you have left?”
The past. In pieces. The first time a confrontation was warranted.
A glass of merlot will merit a solution to her problem later tonight, if she’s going to be home later tonight- she’s second-guessing her plans. It’s possible to force a declaration. Or a habit. But she knows better than this. She’s a smart girl.
At some point, there will be no where to hide.
“No,” she says carefully. Finally. It becomes a reiteration of lines, for the moment. It’s not that she’s scared (she’s ungodly terrified), but she’s made sure to be careful. Being around him does this. To everyone.
But it’s the truth. No- and it’s not followed by anything of the I would’ve stayed anyway or sarcasm in I like punishing myself. No is simply no and that’s it. But she knows he’ll press.
“Okay.” Apparently later.
She sighs. And now, in the period of silence, she knows that there’s a smirk curling onto his lips. Why- it’s too early to care.
There’s a click and no goodbye. And in the dark of her room, she understands the brushing promise of his silent see ya later.
+
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: Cameron, House/Cameron
Word Count: 1212
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: For teenwitch77.
|one| |two|
and you bother me, you possess me
you're there again, ahead of me
and i won't let go, i won't let go
you're inside my head
radiohead, inside my head
In the dark of her room, it becomes an epic.
She ignores the phone the first four times, the 3:47 from her alarm clock blinking maliciously against the wall as she tries to close her eyes again. And then it rings a fifth time.
“Damn it,” she curses, rolling over and hoping that it’s not the hospital. It’s what happened the last time.
She rolls over, her fingers brushing against the handle of the receiver. She contemplates ignoring it. But it rings a sixth time. And a seventh. Sighing, she picks it up and brings it to her ear.
She rolls onto her back. “Hello?”
There’s a chuckle. And she sighs. She thinks she’s gotten used to the idea of semi-transition, so much so that this bout of oddness from him is something she’s managed to temporary use objectiveness against. Maybe it’s just because it’s too damn early.
“How do you feel about New Hampshire?”
She sighs. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she becomes aware of the room. Dark. Quiet- drunken laughter is only heard occasionally. She’s trying to get used to the bed, too large and the sheets too soft. Maybe she’s too tired.
But she humors him. “It’s three forty-” She cranes her neck to the side, reading the time, “Nine. Are we destined to never have a normal conversation?”
He snorts, but the undertones reemerge to mock her at his convenience. She hates some conversations- they’re all uncontrollable (although she thinks that if there were to be any semblance of control, it would be fleeting because this relationship is nothing more than unpredictable).
“Be thankful I’m not at your door yet,” he shoots back. “We’re going to New Hampshire.”
She groans. Maybe it’s some form of vulnerability- to appease the inner child, she’ll tell herself later when she’ll try to rationalize all two million reasons of perspective on this conversation.
“At my door?” is quickly covered or followed by (depending at how this conversation is remembered) “We’re going to New Hampshire?”
By all accounts, she knows when he’s full of shit and when he’s not and neither of the two points seem to fulfill the tone of this conversation. If it could be called a conversation at all. There were words between them. Passing phrases.
Full conversations hurt.
“We’re going to New Hampshire,” he repeats as if it were the forty-sixth time. As if numbers and opportunity meant anything.
She’s tired. She’s nowhere near lucid, lost somewhere between the midnight rerun of yesterday’s Oprah at the gym and thoughts of coffee already. (She’s got to kick the damn habit, but it’s the welfare of her sanity that she’s concerned about.)
She sighs. “Fine. I’ll humor you. What’s in New Hampshire?”
“An opportunity,” he says. “Something I want to check out- and see. Erm, stuff?”
She flings an arm over her eyes, moaning softly and ignoring his snort. She curls further into her covers wanting nothing more than to accidentally drop her phone. And then, of course, unplug it from the wall.
“Stuff,” she echoes dryly. “Sounds like a blast already.”
He sighs. “There’s this talk I have to give,” he says finally. The words are forced and said with a vicious amount of distain. “You’re the only one insane enough to tolerate me in these situations.”
She snorts.
She rubs her eyes. Blinks. She stares up at the ceiling. She doesn’t know what she should say. She wonders, though, if he does these things on purpose. Corner her in these moments that are easier for him to maintain a vicious honesty.
“It’s four o’clock in the morning.”
Her own voice is coated in disbelief. It’s not awkward. It’s about the promise of dangerous words. There are five. And then there are admissions. It’s the justice of verse. He thinks that she prefers the spirals of randomness and the faces of lies- it makes her exhausted. But she knows the curling intimacy of his lies.
“Flight’s at eleven-fifteen,” he says finally. “I promise a good time.”
“Oh, so you mean we’re going to have phone sex now?”
He chokes. And she gives him a real smile, even though he’ll never know. (It’s about what she can and cannot share with him. What she wants to give- with what little choice she has.) They own the anatomy of knots, the complexity of semantics, and the endearing virtues of lies- this is the essence of their relationship. At point one.
“You’re frisky at this time of the night.”
She snorts at the undertone of daunting sexuality pushed at her- the building blocks of simplicity, a marvel.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” She’s never believed that things could be so simple, in light of all of this. She’s a smart woman. Practical.
She can almost see him shrugging. It’s never it’s nothing with him. Questions are an art form to him. There are steps and specific mechanics. An entire whirl of everything, color and shapes and everything that had a mask of normal. Whatever that meant.
“Are you going to tell me?”
It seems like a stupid question. Flat. Vague. A wide range of answers that could be anything and anywhere between despondent and cool to heavy and outlandish. It’s as if he knows. He shouldn’t. Maybe. Maybe she’s obvious.
“Tell you?” She persists in anguishing slowness, the color that surrounds her drowning in the makings of an epic. Her fingers tangle in her hair.
“Still drink your coffee the same?”
Random. Evasive. Don’t avoid this now. “You bought me coffee yesterday.”
“True,” he says. As always, seconds away from losing it.
There’s no such thing as time, time, and again, time. She wonders if it’s possible to stop. Here. When she knows she’s not a woman scorned. Or a philosopher. Or even curious Alice. It’s methodology. And the glass notion of being overwhelmed.
There is no can I ask you something and no shyness, there’s- in moments- the oddness of silence. But he sighs and she steels herself for whatever it is that he wants to ask her, if it’s anything at all.
It’s simple. “Would you have left?”
The past. In pieces. The first time a confrontation was warranted.
A glass of merlot will merit a solution to her problem later tonight, if she’s going to be home later tonight- she’s second-guessing her plans. It’s possible to force a declaration. Or a habit. But she knows better than this. She’s a smart girl.
At some point, there will be no where to hide.
“No,” she says carefully. Finally. It becomes a reiteration of lines, for the moment. It’s not that she’s scared (she’s ungodly terrified), but she’s made sure to be careful. Being around him does this. To everyone.
But it’s the truth. No- and it’s not followed by anything of the I would’ve stayed anyway or sarcasm in I like punishing myself. No is simply no and that’s it. But she knows he’ll press.
“Okay.” Apparently later.
She sighs. And now, in the period of silence, she knows that there’s a smirk curling onto his lips. Why- it’s too early to care.
There’s a click and no goodbye. And in the dark of her room, she understands the brushing promise of his silent see ya later.
+