House Fic: what you could’ve had in rio
what you could’ve had in rio
“I need closure.” It slips, it slips slowly and she’s sort of staring aimlessly off to the side and unwilling to really address this, whatever this is, this being relative and uneasy.
house, m.d. cameron. house/cameron (chase/cameron).
ugly; 2746 words, pg.
for lookatmoiye7, a belated birthday gift.
A bad idea unfolds halfway to the elevator, twenty nine steps out and to the office; not trying, but it needs to be said. It needs to be said. Or at least, now, this is what she’s been trying to convince herself of.
She can replay the tape in her head, all she wants, but the reality keeps turning in her head. How stupid she was - but this isn’t going to solve anything, it’s nothing between the two of them that hasn’t already turned and overturned. Everything is that kind of a cycle and it’s coming to par, to the point where she hates it.
Her hands are digging into her pockets, her fingers twisting in the fabric. There’s a soft tug as she stops in front of the glass door. Deep breath; he’s inside, mindlessly turning through pages of some absent journal and really, really, this is such a bad idea.
“This needs to stop,” she half-blurts.
Her ears are ringing and he glances up, curious and amused, twisting his head to the side and leaning back in the chair. Her fingers tighten and she’s going too soon, the alternative to really saying hey and indulging in something proactive.
But he’s studying her, “Stop?”
“It needs to stop.” She’s pacing, the curl of her throat burning as she moves back and forth on the carpet. It was a good idea, five minutes ago, and when she was in that turning, reflective mood. “I need you out of my head.”
There’s no mention of the video, you know, that video and the string of embarrassing moments that sort of follows afterwards. If there’s anything that made her feel like a complete and total ass, it was that one moment, the ridiculous Freudian slip that twisted and completely -
Damn it. Her fingers rub against her forehead.
“Fitting,” he murmurs in amusement.
And she hates his amusement, the obvious pull that is still here, here and between everything else. You have to understand that she thought it was done, the sense of punctual evolution regarding all of this, all the steps in her life that she thought she had control and understanding about that. She starts to pace again, back and forth, ignoring the fact that she’s still unraveling in front of him and that weight makes her queasy enough. Or is it queasy - everything’s a mess as is.
“No, it’s not. It’s not. I need you out of my head. I need to be able to function,” she snaps. “I need to function. I can’t keep - do you enjoy this?”
The chair moans and he stands, shifting to the front of the desk. He leans against the edge, kicking his cane up. “You’re rambling.”
She wants to punch something. “I want you out.”
“You’re freaking out.”
She throws up her hands. And in some respects, she’s had this conversation in various degrees and digressions of unfortunate lapses of sanity. But this is what happens, close quarters and being blindsided by this.
She sighs. “Well, thanks. I appreciate it.”
His mouth turns. “It’s kinda funny.”
“I need closure.”
It slips, it slips slowly and she’s sort of staring aimlessly off to the side and unwilling to really address this, whatever this is, this being relative and uneasy. She runs her hand through her hair and sighs again.
“Why’d you come back?”
She starts muttering to herself, pushing “I need closure. I need -”
“You need closure.”
Her hands rise and she thinks, oh god, black and white evidence of her and her saying things that she shouldn’t have said because she’s secure, very secure in what she does, her relationships, and the things that she’s come to have. Right, of course, there’s something about lying to herself too.
But he’s quiet, if anything, watching her pace back and forth. Her hair’s come loose, spilling against her face as she tries to figure this out. It doesn’t matter, you know, she’d rather make a complete ass of herself now, then later where it’s going to escalate into something and she doesn’t want that.
She can’t afford it.
He leans forward. “Sex?”
“Excuse me?”
She stops in the middle of her rant, her hands freezing in midair. She blinks and he smirks, leaning back and digging into his pockets. He pulls out the pill bottle, sliding his thumb over the cap and watching her. There’s a click and she swallows, the cap dropping to the carpet. It rolls away from her feet and she sighs, moving up and then back. She almost picks it up, but it’s the smirk again and her hands slide back into her pockets.
He raises an eyebrow, swallowing two pills. “Sex.”
All the makings of a proposal and yeah, so she’s thought about it. But it was a long time ago, before and after the copious amounts of self-indulgence and naivety. She shakes her head in amusement because he’s not serious, he never is.
“No.”
“Yes,” he drawls with lazy amusement, trying to keep a straight face with her. She hates this too - there’s nothing serious between this, no promise of a discussion. It’s old habits all over again and her instability is clear as he says, “It’ll be our dirty little secret.”
“No.”
He shrugs. “It’s just sex.”
But it sets her pacing off again, her fingers nearly ripping through her pockets. She can’t believe she even thought that there would be some remote chance; it’s exactly why the reluctance should’ve spilled. She should’ve known it would relapse sometime soon.
“I’m going to go,” she murmurs.
He laughs when she starts to back away, the turn of his mouth even crueler than she remembers. It’s like everything, every moment that she worked up to - it feels like just an act. It shouldn’t be, but the only human excuse becomes “You thought about it.”
She throws her hands up, blushing. “Stop it.”
But he’s standing, grinning in amusement as he steps forward and towers over her. His mouth turns as he peers down at her. He leans a little forward, daring her a little more; she doesn’t read into it, can’t - it’ll open an entire range of things.
“You totally thought about it,” he pushes.
She reaches the door, her back pressing against the glass. She fumbles for the handle and feels so stupid, her teeth skimming her lip. “I didn’t.”
He’s forward too with his fingers wrapping around the door handle, his hand over hers with a quick brush, and watching her. There’s the circumventing of a dare and she’s not going to be that person again, the word for word drop into things she promised she wouldn’t do anymore.
“Did,” he murmurs.
Her voice is soft. “I’m going to go now.”
He steps back, turning away from him. She can hear the amusement coloring his voice again, adding for her. “Home.”
She barely stays to listen, walking back out and away.
Her cheeks are flushed.
-
But he’s waiting for the next morning, laying back in one of the empty beds in the ER with his eyes closed and his grin there. His legs are tucked forward and she rolls her eyes as he clearly makes no effort to hide that he’s been waiting.
“Miss me?”
She snorts, pulling the curtain back. “Go away.”
She tries to organize the files and things, the tasks for the day. There are a few passing nurses rolling their eyes at House, leaning forward and watching her and how she handles this; it’s just not a secret anymore and her obvious sensibility is apparently too famous to avoid.
His fingers brush her wrist. “You looovvee me.”
She snatches her hand away from him, both of her hands dropping to her hips. She nods to the door, glaring. “Go away.”
There’s a thick laugh from him, the twist of his mouth back to that sense he has about himself, to what - stop it. She’s uneasy already and it’s too early in the morning; Chase and her have been fighting again, more now after - damn it, she thinks again.
He pokes her arm. “No coffee.”
“None,” she mutters.
“Bummer.”
She turns, keeping her back to him. Her fingers keep brushing over the files that she had, the lists that she needs to keep to with work that she has to follow up with. She sighs though, giving up and turning around.
She throws her hands up. “What are you doing here?”
“Bored,” he shrugs.
Her eyes roll. “Right.”
She gives him her back, pressing her fingers against the file. She’s not going to be curious. She can’t be curious. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. Of course, she thinks, that’s what she told herself before. Rationality seems to evade the fact that she’s back again and she though she was going to function easily.
“I have a proposal.”
But that drops and she jumps, her eyes wide as she turns. He’s crazy. Pushing when there’s nothing left to push - there’s nothing left to push. She swears. She swears that there’s nothing left to push.
“Right,” she murmurs.
His mouth turns. “You want me to go away.”
“Far away.” She nods, closing the file. She hugs it to her chest, waiting for him to get up and just go away and leave her to her fits of tired amusement.
“Far, far away?”
Her eyes are dark and she lets her weight sink into the corner of the bed, watching him face her as well. She’s got to keep her control. “You think you’re funny.”
“Hysterical.” She can’t help the laugh, nervous and slipping.
Mid-morning, the emergency room hums with silence; there’s a few people, most just a bunch of stupid kids with stupid injuries and their annoyed parents. They come and pass, the night busier than most days and she tries not to think about it.
“Seriously,” his cane swings up, “Proposal.”
“No.”
His smirk is growing. “Tonight.”
She can’t even begin to comprehend what he’s trying to do. There’s an obvious agenda, like always, and she’s out of practice; they all did it, they were able to wrap their heads around the idea that there was always something more. It was the angles and the degrees that they always struggled with. Still, she thinks.
“No.”
But he ignores her, leaning forward. “Sex,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing against her wrist. He’s pushing, “You and me.”
She doesn’t pull back.
“I’m in a relationship.” Her voice is quiet and she has to keep turning the idea in her head. She’s in a relationship, she’s supposed to be happy, and it all, in the end, is supposed to make complete sense.
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“Shut up.”
But he draws back and she forgets that he knows how to push, even if it’s just a little piece of something. He never did need much - it was how they learned their wariness, it’s why she still feels -
He catches her wrist. “I’ll be you a really large drink.”
She’s quiet, staring at his fingers. Long, slow - they wrap around her wrist and his thumb starts to rub against her skin. She can’t even begin to think and then slowly, she looks up at him.
Her lips curl slightly. “With an umbrella?”
“You’re almost cute.” He looks down.
But her mind starts to turn and she’s thinking about it, she’s really thinking about it with no regard to new lines and new forms of self that she has. There are boundaries. There have always been boundaries. She’s losing perspective and it makes her more uneasy with the indulgent admission.
“I -”
His voice is soft, “Think about it.”
-
It’s a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, a few old lies that involve old college friends that even she doesn’t buy but it’ll get her through the night.
The bar isn’t crowded. The music’s some rolling Johnny Cash song that skips during the course of the chorus, so much so that she learns the words with something to pass. She rubs her eyes, orders a beer even though she’s a wine drinker. She tucks herself into the side of her seat, twice and both by the window so that she can see and make sure she’s not crazy.
Oh, she’s pretty damn crazy.
She can’t even begin to wrap herself around the idea of why she’s here. What she admitted to Foreman before was sort of true, sort of not - but in the end, making complete sense of any of this has passed over her head.
“Guy at the bar -” The waiter is pointing with a smile.
She ducks. “I’m meeting someone.”
It sounds too heavy and she hates how easily it rolls out of her mouth. She rubs her forehead and turns her gaze to the window, watching the cars pass quietly. There’s no specific time, but she was here at eight and figured that she’d see him when she did. So she counts the cars, picks at her watch, and orders a second beer for kicks. Light ale - it’s gross and she’s not a fan of coming home tipsy.
She pulls out her phone. Dropping it against the table, she stares and their no missed calls like it’s predictable beyond that and she should’ve expected it.
He’s still not here. She never thought it through.
Her shoulders slump and she should’ve expected this, her thumb and finger pressing into her shoulder. She rubs the curve, passing her gaze back to the outside. It’s not Friday night and there aren’t people around and about; a few here and there, but the cars are lighting the walk.
“Another?” Her waiter passes.
She shakes her head.
It’s accidental when she turns and he’s in the corner. Her eyes are wide and then blinking, when she really does see him, admit to seeing him, leaning against his car outside and watching her. There’s a turn and screech and he’s smirking when she spots him. He doesn’t move.
She doesn’t move.
This is that kind of point. The weight on her shoulders seems to grow and the heaviness brushes a sigh. She’s bites a flush and almost ducks. It’s not a game anymore and it’s pushing into something that she doesn’t know, old habits don’t matter anymore.
She turns before she can see him swinging his keys, orders another drink, and turns back, if anything, to just see.
But he’s gone.
-
Home is quiet, the television a low murmur in the bedroom.
She almost smiles because Chase never admits to waiting up and she drops her purse, frowning when she reaches the door to their bedroom. There are still boxes and things, kitchen supplies that were never unpacked. She’s going to - not now, she tells herself, kicking off her boots.
She ignores the television.
Cameron crawls into bed, her knees brushing his thighs as she settles and kisses his wrist. It’s a reassurance, if anything.
“Hey,” he murmurs sleepily.
Her eyes close. “Hi.”
There’s a rustle in the sheets and his arm drapes around her waist, his fingers sliding under her shirt. She still smells like cigarettes and few beers, her misery absolute and driving. But she doesn’t say anything - they never talk about this other than the superficial level, it’s one of those unspoken agreements.
“Friends?” Chase’s mouth brushes against her throat.
Her eyes close tightly, the lie spilling as she almost winces and succumbs to a sigh instead. She lies with annoyance. “Remembered why I didn’t like them.”
“Yeah?” He moves closer.
She manages a turn of movement, ignores the fact that there’s no sense of amusement from him, her legs curling and slipping between his. She left the television on, but manages a “Yeah.”
And then the room is quiet again, the tiny sounds of her place, her apartment - their apartment, and the reminder of how much she values her privacy and her life outside the hospital calms her for the moment. She leaves it at superficial, if anything at all.
There’s a sigh. “We’re going to have to talk soon.”
Her eyes close and she knows. She knows that he understands. It was her idea to come back, her excuse of you don’t have to follow - she’s more than aware that there’s something that needs to be addressed, something -
It’s changing again.
She turns to the other side, her murmur lost to the pillow. “Very soon.”
His arm drops.
-
“I need closure.” It slips, it slips slowly and she’s sort of staring aimlessly off to the side and unwilling to really address this, whatever this is, this being relative and uneasy.
house, m.d. cameron. house/cameron (chase/cameron).
ugly; 2746 words, pg.
for lookatmoiye7, a belated birthday gift.
A bad idea unfolds halfway to the elevator, twenty nine steps out and to the office; not trying, but it needs to be said. It needs to be said. Or at least, now, this is what she’s been trying to convince herself of.
She can replay the tape in her head, all she wants, but the reality keeps turning in her head. How stupid she was - but this isn’t going to solve anything, it’s nothing between the two of them that hasn’t already turned and overturned. Everything is that kind of a cycle and it’s coming to par, to the point where she hates it.
Her hands are digging into her pockets, her fingers twisting in the fabric. There’s a soft tug as she stops in front of the glass door. Deep breath; he’s inside, mindlessly turning through pages of some absent journal and really, really, this is such a bad idea.
“This needs to stop,” she half-blurts.
Her ears are ringing and he glances up, curious and amused, twisting his head to the side and leaning back in the chair. Her fingers tighten and she’s going too soon, the alternative to really saying hey and indulging in something proactive.
But he’s studying her, “Stop?”
“It needs to stop.” She’s pacing, the curl of her throat burning as she moves back and forth on the carpet. It was a good idea, five minutes ago, and when she was in that turning, reflective mood. “I need you out of my head.”
There’s no mention of the video, you know, that video and the string of embarrassing moments that sort of follows afterwards. If there’s anything that made her feel like a complete and total ass, it was that one moment, the ridiculous Freudian slip that twisted and completely -
Damn it. Her fingers rub against her forehead.
“Fitting,” he murmurs in amusement.
And she hates his amusement, the obvious pull that is still here, here and between everything else. You have to understand that she thought it was done, the sense of punctual evolution regarding all of this, all the steps in her life that she thought she had control and understanding about that. She starts to pace again, back and forth, ignoring the fact that she’s still unraveling in front of him and that weight makes her queasy enough. Or is it queasy - everything’s a mess as is.
“No, it’s not. It’s not. I need you out of my head. I need to be able to function,” she snaps. “I need to function. I can’t keep - do you enjoy this?”
The chair moans and he stands, shifting to the front of the desk. He leans against the edge, kicking his cane up. “You’re rambling.”
She wants to punch something. “I want you out.”
“You’re freaking out.”
She throws up her hands. And in some respects, she’s had this conversation in various degrees and digressions of unfortunate lapses of sanity. But this is what happens, close quarters and being blindsided by this.
She sighs. “Well, thanks. I appreciate it.”
His mouth turns. “It’s kinda funny.”
“I need closure.”
It slips, it slips slowly and she’s sort of staring aimlessly off to the side and unwilling to really address this, whatever this is, this being relative and uneasy. She runs her hand through her hair and sighs again.
“Why’d you come back?”
She starts muttering to herself, pushing “I need closure. I need -”
“You need closure.”
Her hands rise and she thinks, oh god, black and white evidence of her and her saying things that she shouldn’t have said because she’s secure, very secure in what she does, her relationships, and the things that she’s come to have. Right, of course, there’s something about lying to herself too.
But he’s quiet, if anything, watching her pace back and forth. Her hair’s come loose, spilling against her face as she tries to figure this out. It doesn’t matter, you know, she’d rather make a complete ass of herself now, then later where it’s going to escalate into something and she doesn’t want that.
She can’t afford it.
He leans forward. “Sex?”
“Excuse me?”
She stops in the middle of her rant, her hands freezing in midair. She blinks and he smirks, leaning back and digging into his pockets. He pulls out the pill bottle, sliding his thumb over the cap and watching her. There’s a click and she swallows, the cap dropping to the carpet. It rolls away from her feet and she sighs, moving up and then back. She almost picks it up, but it’s the smirk again and her hands slide back into her pockets.
He raises an eyebrow, swallowing two pills. “Sex.”
All the makings of a proposal and yeah, so she’s thought about it. But it was a long time ago, before and after the copious amounts of self-indulgence and naivety. She shakes her head in amusement because he’s not serious, he never is.
“No.”
“Yes,” he drawls with lazy amusement, trying to keep a straight face with her. She hates this too - there’s nothing serious between this, no promise of a discussion. It’s old habits all over again and her instability is clear as he says, “It’ll be our dirty little secret.”
“No.”
He shrugs. “It’s just sex.”
But it sets her pacing off again, her fingers nearly ripping through her pockets. She can’t believe she even thought that there would be some remote chance; it’s exactly why the reluctance should’ve spilled. She should’ve known it would relapse sometime soon.
“I’m going to go,” she murmurs.
He laughs when she starts to back away, the turn of his mouth even crueler than she remembers. It’s like everything, every moment that she worked up to - it feels like just an act. It shouldn’t be, but the only human excuse becomes “You thought about it.”
She throws her hands up, blushing. “Stop it.”
But he’s standing, grinning in amusement as he steps forward and towers over her. His mouth turns as he peers down at her. He leans a little forward, daring her a little more; she doesn’t read into it, can’t - it’ll open an entire range of things.
“You totally thought about it,” he pushes.
She reaches the door, her back pressing against the glass. She fumbles for the handle and feels so stupid, her teeth skimming her lip. “I didn’t.”
He’s forward too with his fingers wrapping around the door handle, his hand over hers with a quick brush, and watching her. There’s the circumventing of a dare and she’s not going to be that person again, the word for word drop into things she promised she wouldn’t do anymore.
“Did,” he murmurs.
Her voice is soft. “I’m going to go now.”
He steps back, turning away from him. She can hear the amusement coloring his voice again, adding for her. “Home.”
She barely stays to listen, walking back out and away.
Her cheeks are flushed.
-
But he’s waiting for the next morning, laying back in one of the empty beds in the ER with his eyes closed and his grin there. His legs are tucked forward and she rolls her eyes as he clearly makes no effort to hide that he’s been waiting.
“Miss me?”
She snorts, pulling the curtain back. “Go away.”
She tries to organize the files and things, the tasks for the day. There are a few passing nurses rolling their eyes at House, leaning forward and watching her and how she handles this; it’s just not a secret anymore and her obvious sensibility is apparently too famous to avoid.
His fingers brush her wrist. “You looovvee me.”
She snatches her hand away from him, both of her hands dropping to her hips. She nods to the door, glaring. “Go away.”
There’s a thick laugh from him, the twist of his mouth back to that sense he has about himself, to what - stop it. She’s uneasy already and it’s too early in the morning; Chase and her have been fighting again, more now after - damn it, she thinks again.
He pokes her arm. “No coffee.”
“None,” she mutters.
“Bummer.”
She turns, keeping her back to him. Her fingers keep brushing over the files that she had, the lists that she needs to keep to with work that she has to follow up with. She sighs though, giving up and turning around.
She throws her hands up. “What are you doing here?”
“Bored,” he shrugs.
Her eyes roll. “Right.”
She gives him her back, pressing her fingers against the file. She’s not going to be curious. She can’t be curious. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. Of course, she thinks, that’s what she told herself before. Rationality seems to evade the fact that she’s back again and she though she was going to function easily.
“I have a proposal.”
But that drops and she jumps, her eyes wide as she turns. He’s crazy. Pushing when there’s nothing left to push - there’s nothing left to push. She swears. She swears that there’s nothing left to push.
“Right,” she murmurs.
His mouth turns. “You want me to go away.”
“Far away.” She nods, closing the file. She hugs it to her chest, waiting for him to get up and just go away and leave her to her fits of tired amusement.
“Far, far away?”
Her eyes are dark and she lets her weight sink into the corner of the bed, watching him face her as well. She’s got to keep her control. “You think you’re funny.”
“Hysterical.” She can’t help the laugh, nervous and slipping.
Mid-morning, the emergency room hums with silence; there’s a few people, most just a bunch of stupid kids with stupid injuries and their annoyed parents. They come and pass, the night busier than most days and she tries not to think about it.
“Seriously,” his cane swings up, “Proposal.”
“No.”
His smirk is growing. “Tonight.”
She can’t even begin to comprehend what he’s trying to do. There’s an obvious agenda, like always, and she’s out of practice; they all did it, they were able to wrap their heads around the idea that there was always something more. It was the angles and the degrees that they always struggled with. Still, she thinks.
“No.”
But he ignores her, leaning forward. “Sex,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing against her wrist. He’s pushing, “You and me.”
She doesn’t pull back.
“I’m in a relationship.” Her voice is quiet and she has to keep turning the idea in her head. She’s in a relationship, she’s supposed to be happy, and it all, in the end, is supposed to make complete sense.
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“Shut up.”
But he draws back and she forgets that he knows how to push, even if it’s just a little piece of something. He never did need much - it was how they learned their wariness, it’s why she still feels -
He catches her wrist. “I’ll be you a really large drink.”
She’s quiet, staring at his fingers. Long, slow - they wrap around her wrist and his thumb starts to rub against her skin. She can’t even begin to think and then slowly, she looks up at him.
Her lips curl slightly. “With an umbrella?”
“You’re almost cute.” He looks down.
But her mind starts to turn and she’s thinking about it, she’s really thinking about it with no regard to new lines and new forms of self that she has. There are boundaries. There have always been boundaries. She’s losing perspective and it makes her more uneasy with the indulgent admission.
“I -”
His voice is soft, “Think about it.”
-
It’s a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, a few old lies that involve old college friends that even she doesn’t buy but it’ll get her through the night.
The bar isn’t crowded. The music’s some rolling Johnny Cash song that skips during the course of the chorus, so much so that she learns the words with something to pass. She rubs her eyes, orders a beer even though she’s a wine drinker. She tucks herself into the side of her seat, twice and both by the window so that she can see and make sure she’s not crazy.
Oh, she’s pretty damn crazy.
She can’t even begin to wrap herself around the idea of why she’s here. What she admitted to Foreman before was sort of true, sort of not - but in the end, making complete sense of any of this has passed over her head.
“Guy at the bar -” The waiter is pointing with a smile.
She ducks. “I’m meeting someone.”
It sounds too heavy and she hates how easily it rolls out of her mouth. She rubs her forehead and turns her gaze to the window, watching the cars pass quietly. There’s no specific time, but she was here at eight and figured that she’d see him when she did. So she counts the cars, picks at her watch, and orders a second beer for kicks. Light ale - it’s gross and she’s not a fan of coming home tipsy.
She pulls out her phone. Dropping it against the table, she stares and their no missed calls like it’s predictable beyond that and she should’ve expected it.
He’s still not here. She never thought it through.
Her shoulders slump and she should’ve expected this, her thumb and finger pressing into her shoulder. She rubs the curve, passing her gaze back to the outside. It’s not Friday night and there aren’t people around and about; a few here and there, but the cars are lighting the walk.
“Another?” Her waiter passes.
She shakes her head.
It’s accidental when she turns and he’s in the corner. Her eyes are wide and then blinking, when she really does see him, admit to seeing him, leaning against his car outside and watching her. There’s a turn and screech and he’s smirking when she spots him. He doesn’t move.
She doesn’t move.
This is that kind of point. The weight on her shoulders seems to grow and the heaviness brushes a sigh. She’s bites a flush and almost ducks. It’s not a game anymore and it’s pushing into something that she doesn’t know, old habits don’t matter anymore.
She turns before she can see him swinging his keys, orders another drink, and turns back, if anything, to just see.
But he’s gone.
-
Home is quiet, the television a low murmur in the bedroom.
She almost smiles because Chase never admits to waiting up and she drops her purse, frowning when she reaches the door to their bedroom. There are still boxes and things, kitchen supplies that were never unpacked. She’s going to - not now, she tells herself, kicking off her boots.
She ignores the television.
Cameron crawls into bed, her knees brushing his thighs as she settles and kisses his wrist. It’s a reassurance, if anything.
“Hey,” he murmurs sleepily.
Her eyes close. “Hi.”
There’s a rustle in the sheets and his arm drapes around her waist, his fingers sliding under her shirt. She still smells like cigarettes and few beers, her misery absolute and driving. But she doesn’t say anything - they never talk about this other than the superficial level, it’s one of those unspoken agreements.
“Friends?” Chase’s mouth brushes against her throat.
Her eyes close tightly, the lie spilling as she almost winces and succumbs to a sigh instead. She lies with annoyance. “Remembered why I didn’t like them.”
“Yeah?” He moves closer.
She manages a turn of movement, ignores the fact that there’s no sense of amusement from him, her legs curling and slipping between his. She left the television on, but manages a “Yeah.”
And then the room is quiet again, the tiny sounds of her place, her apartment - their apartment, and the reminder of how much she values her privacy and her life outside the hospital calms her for the moment. She leaves it at superficial, if anything at all.
There’s a sigh. “We’re going to have to talk soon.”
Her eyes close and she knows. She knows that he understands. It was her idea to come back, her excuse of you don’t have to follow - she’s more than aware that there’s something that needs to be addressed, something -
It’s changing again.
She turns to the other side, her murmur lost to the pillow. “Very soon.”
His arm drops.
-