House Fic: sunday's weather report (2/5)
sunday's weather report
there’s a moment when it’s almost over. it’s always the faulty wiring; you should’ve listened to your mother, always take the stairs.
house, md. house/cameron. 2117 words, pg13. general spoilers.
for deadduck008.
There’s a moment when it’s almost over.
Or so he thinks, his eyes traveling over the pallor of her skin. There isn’t much, but she seems to be already fade; what he can see is that she’s not moving, no rustle of dirt and no empty retort. The light cracks and seems to fade, his hand moving out of its own accord. He’s reaching, his fingers dropping lightly over her mouth. The pad of his thumb slides lightly, over dry skin and wet patches, and the relief slips quietly when he feels her inhale.
“Don’t close your eyes,” he half-snaps.
There’s no answer, but he hears something slide - she’s managed to get a little bit of the door to move. He doesn’t know about the glass. He shouldn’t care about the glass. They’re down here and that’s testament enough.
She moans. His hand drops away.
He takes to silence, pieces his gaze away to another side. There’s no sense of damage; he tried looking, tried moving, but there’s not much of an opening to the side and he doesn’t care that much. There is a vague sense of wondering, the occasional strain to hear something. He’s not panicking, that just drops to his sense of detachment and ideal comfort he still gets from it.
She coughs this time. “They’re op-en.”
He says nothing. He does look back to her though, his questions dropping and unfolding with the lack of space. The sense of intrigue will always be there, coming and going as easily as the next rise of amusement. He parches easily and the territory needs to be rearranged in order to accommodate that; understanding her place, the insistence of her wanting a place, it just doesn’t need to come to him. Instinctively, it’s selfish and the safeguarding is because of the years. But he doesn’t understand her line of functioning and how, inevitably, he always seems to want to look.
“We should play a game.”
He imagines her mouth turning. “No.”
But House shifts forward, wincing as the pain stretches and uncurls in his leg. It’s sharper than usual, than he remembers and that makes him uneasy. His hand rises over his thigh as he leans forward, his fingers swallowing for tears in his jeans. He finds nothing and his eyes close, the tension grating over his neck. He takes a deep breath and slides forward with a quick shift over a light corner. He’s next to her then, so he can actually see her, and weighs slowly on his back.
His voice drops to a low murmur. “Wasn’t asking.”
“Wasn’t - volunteering.”
The dark seems to unfold under what little light they have; he hasn’t even touched the statistics and the probability, the weight of the injury that she could have and the help that she needs. He can’t lift what covers her. There’s not much room to move and the glass in her thigh is an additional factor that thins in his mind. So he keeps his gaze up to the ceiling, the reach of light that does spread over them. Wires are hanging and he sighs, crossing his arm over his chest. He wants to imagine the damage upstairs instead, the cross of people and the brunt of something else to worry about; selfish, but the distraction is there.
Her knuckles brush his. It’s in his head, he thinks.
“Why did you come back?” So the question drops, like before, without any sense of reprieve or remorse. Each word stretches and his voice seems too low, almost faint and away from them.
She coughs instead.
-
“You haven’t answered the question.”
His voice echoes. The silence is too much. There’s never been a time where he hasn’t been without noise, with the pull of people - it’s always been at his fingertips. The control never has the same face and he’s learned well, the situation manipulating some form of purpose.
He twists to the side though, after too much of nothing. He feels a wetness start to arch against his hip; water, there’s a leak somewhere near her. He lets his hand shoot forward, sliding over her shoulder and closer. Her hair sticks to his palm and he finds her neck, just in case, fingering a pulse.
“I don’t - want to,” she mumbles.
His mouth favors a smirk, but his hand drops instead and he shifts away. His arms face his chest and he starts counting, no reason, for the sound filler. His tongue slides along his lip and his teeth start to pull at the skin. There’s a quick jolt of pain and he sighs, just to make sure.
“You should.”
Cameron remains to be firm. “No.”
He listens to her. There’s a sharp intake of breath, a rustle of something. He wonders if she’s cold. If he can ask. But still, still his question remain to be ever-persistent and constant elsewhere. He slides himself up then, his back stiff and hard. A crack grates through him and he winces, his palms slamming against the floor. He lets a fuck go.
But there’s nothing from her.
“Why not?”
She remains to be silent and there’s some wish that he had some clue, some end of how to deal with her this way. It’s an addition though and he knows, really, and can’t wrap himself around. There’s nothing that he can do, nothing that he knows how to want to do, and inevitability seems to make him uneasy and that, that is something that he’s never wanted. That he can’t have.
He jumps though, the soft relay of her hand pressing against his thigh almost too much. Good or bad, it returns as a massive distraction; he’s too aware of space now, of problems and the limited constraints that they suddenly face. He can’t scope lines of where she is- the light is still poor and he’s in and out of wondering if he’s hearing murmurs somewhere down and beyond them.
“You’re being a - moron,” the hiss stops her form continuing and then, “Stop.”
He grunts. “Well, what else do we talk about?”
There’s a long pause and he listens to her, the breathing that slides in and out. There’s no change, but there’s no pregnant pause either; as long as there’s consistency, he thinks, and that’s as far as he stretches for a reach.
Her voice is low then, thick, and he wonders if that’s just what he needs to hear right now. He can’t decide and that makes him uneasy.
“The weather,” she gives him.
His mouth turns.
-
There’s a loud crash.
He jumps, his eyes wide and his hand dropping to his pocket. His fingers curl around the vial for his pills; ten left, he’s spaced to one to compensate. His nail snaps against a crack at the top, but he doesn’t move. His jeans are starting to stick to his thighs and there’s a moan from his side.
And another, swallowed by a whimper. “It hurts.”
It seems darker, but he still squints and watches her eyes tighten closed. His hands firm against his hips and she whimpers again.
He hesitates. “It’s going to.”
-
Silence is starting to break him.
There’s nothing he can pin himself to. Water is still, seeping into their clothes as he keeps checking her, little by little, because he’s not going to fuck himself over alone and here. Something drops too quickly and he stretches - he thinks he hears something, a yell, an exchange, but that’s just him and he knows, now, he can’t be that stupid.
House coughs. “Do you think -”
He doesn’t lean forward to stop her, but she’s managed, again, to try and sit up. He watches her arms start to shake violently, or maybe it’s him, reversal has always been that cruel. But he’s quiet and her grunt is too thick, his eyes trying to make out the sight of her mouth. Does she bite? Does she sigh?
“Shut up,” she breathes.
Her voice cracks and all he can think is that she better not; there’s not enough room for reassurances from him. Instinctively, there’s a sense to push himself forward and reach for her. But she’s fading and why, why should he -
“I’m tired,” it drops faintly and he’s stuck, too stuck, trying to recognize the sound of his voice. Maybe, this is desperation. Maybe not.
“Shut up.”
There’s a growl from her, a shift of glass and dirt. Something slides and there’s a quick bang as she cries out. The sound is too loud, almost objectively terrifying - he doesn’t know what to think of it. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything and he can hear her breathing heavily, her nails scrapping against the floor as something shifts into a sob.
He doesn’t move. “My leg hurts.”
He listens to her, to the quick closeness as there’s rip. She doesn’t offer any course and he wonders why all of the sensation of the moment is dropping. His ears start to ring and she’s fainter, a drop of something near him.
She’s breathing though. “And I sho-uld’ve sta-y-ed in bed.”
-
The small space is tightening.
Air is still thin. He still sees shapes and scopes the idea of someone else, groups of people looking for them. He imagines situations and situations for situations because this, this is what he has.
He’s lost it before. Circumstances tying him to a small bed, in a corner, and wires shooting and strangling him. He remembers that pain too often, too soon, and he rewraps the idea of infinity in his head.
Cameron has moved. He hasn’t checked her. But from time to time, signals of mortality still slip; she’s breathing, there’s the occasional shit over the softness of a whimper. He does find himself reaching forward, not touching her, but to see for himself.
There’s a waver, slow. “Think this is cause for a vacation?”
The color of her voice is changing, light and then back to heavy. There’s a crack and they’re both silent then, gazes dropping to a new pool of water. He should ask if she’s cold. But she hasn’t volunteered anything.
A cough. “You don’t take vacations.”
“I should,” he snorts.
And it travels in that direction, full of shifts and misconceptions; he wonders how well she assumes because, sometimes, it’s strange to see how well she’ll pick up on certain things. When she doesn’t try. She’s better at the game than she realizes it and he thinks, it’s almost obvious, that it’s how she keeps herself close.
The real question remains centered around her return, around all their returns. Desperation is still the easiest of answers, still the most objective, but Cameron seems to sway in and out of that sense of probability. He doesn’t know what to make of it and that, really, must be the reason why. It comes to pass as an answer that he wants; it’s better to say need, but the need opens up a territory that he can’t touch and isn’t ready to have.
At all.
He does reach for her then, blindly skirting a hand from her shoulder to her hip, over to her thigh. There’s blood facing his palm, sticking as she sighs, and his hand lingers over the glass again.
He could pull it out.
“But you won’t,” she’s quiet.
The edge is dull and he pictures what he can, the piece of glass digging between the fabric of her trousers and into her skin. She’ll scar. He won’t think about the walking; it’s curious, though, the gravity of the situation and his shaky processing of it. It’s the space, the small brush of air that’s become theirs.
His mouth moves. “Says who?”
And she’s quick, her voice clear, not touching hysteria as he still touches her.
“Me.”
He tries not laugh and drops his hand.
-
It’s going to be too much.
He doesn’t move to say anything. He watches the space where he is, starts to pick on her hands and legs, never the idea of her face - that seems too intimate for him, tying him to a reality that he’s better refusing.
He swallows. There’s a sigh from her end.
“I have an answer,” she says quietly.
He follows the color of her voice, the rise and fall of sound. There’s a difference, depending on the kind of push of pain and he’s never been about these kinds of particulars; he has no need for favor.
His mouth dries further and he can feel the skin crack when he presses his lips together, needing to look away. “Yeah?”
There’s a long pause. “I wasn’t thinking.”
1 | 3
there’s a moment when it’s almost over. it’s always the faulty wiring; you should’ve listened to your mother, always take the stairs.
house, md. house/cameron. 2117 words, pg13. general spoilers.
for deadduck008.
There’s a moment when it’s almost over.
Or so he thinks, his eyes traveling over the pallor of her skin. There isn’t much, but she seems to be already fade; what he can see is that she’s not moving, no rustle of dirt and no empty retort. The light cracks and seems to fade, his hand moving out of its own accord. He’s reaching, his fingers dropping lightly over her mouth. The pad of his thumb slides lightly, over dry skin and wet patches, and the relief slips quietly when he feels her inhale.
“Don’t close your eyes,” he half-snaps.
There’s no answer, but he hears something slide - she’s managed to get a little bit of the door to move. He doesn’t know about the glass. He shouldn’t care about the glass. They’re down here and that’s testament enough.
She moans. His hand drops away.
He takes to silence, pieces his gaze away to another side. There’s no sense of damage; he tried looking, tried moving, but there’s not much of an opening to the side and he doesn’t care that much. There is a vague sense of wondering, the occasional strain to hear something. He’s not panicking, that just drops to his sense of detachment and ideal comfort he still gets from it.
She coughs this time. “They’re op-en.”
He says nothing. He does look back to her though, his questions dropping and unfolding with the lack of space. The sense of intrigue will always be there, coming and going as easily as the next rise of amusement. He parches easily and the territory needs to be rearranged in order to accommodate that; understanding her place, the insistence of her wanting a place, it just doesn’t need to come to him. Instinctively, it’s selfish and the safeguarding is because of the years. But he doesn’t understand her line of functioning and how, inevitably, he always seems to want to look.
“We should play a game.”
He imagines her mouth turning. “No.”
But House shifts forward, wincing as the pain stretches and uncurls in his leg. It’s sharper than usual, than he remembers and that makes him uneasy. His hand rises over his thigh as he leans forward, his fingers swallowing for tears in his jeans. He finds nothing and his eyes close, the tension grating over his neck. He takes a deep breath and slides forward with a quick shift over a light corner. He’s next to her then, so he can actually see her, and weighs slowly on his back.
His voice drops to a low murmur. “Wasn’t asking.”
“Wasn’t - volunteering.”
The dark seems to unfold under what little light they have; he hasn’t even touched the statistics and the probability, the weight of the injury that she could have and the help that she needs. He can’t lift what covers her. There’s not much room to move and the glass in her thigh is an additional factor that thins in his mind. So he keeps his gaze up to the ceiling, the reach of light that does spread over them. Wires are hanging and he sighs, crossing his arm over his chest. He wants to imagine the damage upstairs instead, the cross of people and the brunt of something else to worry about; selfish, but the distraction is there.
Her knuckles brush his. It’s in his head, he thinks.
“Why did you come back?” So the question drops, like before, without any sense of reprieve or remorse. Each word stretches and his voice seems too low, almost faint and away from them.
She coughs instead.
-
“You haven’t answered the question.”
His voice echoes. The silence is too much. There’s never been a time where he hasn’t been without noise, with the pull of people - it’s always been at his fingertips. The control never has the same face and he’s learned well, the situation manipulating some form of purpose.
He twists to the side though, after too much of nothing. He feels a wetness start to arch against his hip; water, there’s a leak somewhere near her. He lets his hand shoot forward, sliding over her shoulder and closer. Her hair sticks to his palm and he finds her neck, just in case, fingering a pulse.
“I don’t - want to,” she mumbles.
His mouth favors a smirk, but his hand drops instead and he shifts away. His arms face his chest and he starts counting, no reason, for the sound filler. His tongue slides along his lip and his teeth start to pull at the skin. There’s a quick jolt of pain and he sighs, just to make sure.
“You should.”
Cameron remains to be firm. “No.”
He listens to her. There’s a sharp intake of breath, a rustle of something. He wonders if she’s cold. If he can ask. But still, still his question remain to be ever-persistent and constant elsewhere. He slides himself up then, his back stiff and hard. A crack grates through him and he winces, his palms slamming against the floor. He lets a fuck go.
But there’s nothing from her.
“Why not?”
She remains to be silent and there’s some wish that he had some clue, some end of how to deal with her this way. It’s an addition though and he knows, really, and can’t wrap himself around. There’s nothing that he can do, nothing that he knows how to want to do, and inevitability seems to make him uneasy and that, that is something that he’s never wanted. That he can’t have.
He jumps though, the soft relay of her hand pressing against his thigh almost too much. Good or bad, it returns as a massive distraction; he’s too aware of space now, of problems and the limited constraints that they suddenly face. He can’t scope lines of where she is- the light is still poor and he’s in and out of wondering if he’s hearing murmurs somewhere down and beyond them.
“You’re being a - moron,” the hiss stops her form continuing and then, “Stop.”
He grunts. “Well, what else do we talk about?”
There’s a long pause and he listens to her, the breathing that slides in and out. There’s no change, but there’s no pregnant pause either; as long as there’s consistency, he thinks, and that’s as far as he stretches for a reach.
Her voice is low then, thick, and he wonders if that’s just what he needs to hear right now. He can’t decide and that makes him uneasy.
“The weather,” she gives him.
His mouth turns.
-
There’s a loud crash.
He jumps, his eyes wide and his hand dropping to his pocket. His fingers curl around the vial for his pills; ten left, he’s spaced to one to compensate. His nail snaps against a crack at the top, but he doesn’t move. His jeans are starting to stick to his thighs and there’s a moan from his side.
And another, swallowed by a whimper. “It hurts.”
It seems darker, but he still squints and watches her eyes tighten closed. His hands firm against his hips and she whimpers again.
He hesitates. “It’s going to.”
-
Silence is starting to break him.
There’s nothing he can pin himself to. Water is still, seeping into their clothes as he keeps checking her, little by little, because he’s not going to fuck himself over alone and here. Something drops too quickly and he stretches - he thinks he hears something, a yell, an exchange, but that’s just him and he knows, now, he can’t be that stupid.
House coughs. “Do you think -”
He doesn’t lean forward to stop her, but she’s managed, again, to try and sit up. He watches her arms start to shake violently, or maybe it’s him, reversal has always been that cruel. But he’s quiet and her grunt is too thick, his eyes trying to make out the sight of her mouth. Does she bite? Does she sigh?
“Shut up,” she breathes.
Her voice cracks and all he can think is that she better not; there’s not enough room for reassurances from him. Instinctively, there’s a sense to push himself forward and reach for her. But she’s fading and why, why should he -
“I’m tired,” it drops faintly and he’s stuck, too stuck, trying to recognize the sound of his voice. Maybe, this is desperation. Maybe not.
“Shut up.”
There’s a growl from her, a shift of glass and dirt. Something slides and there’s a quick bang as she cries out. The sound is too loud, almost objectively terrifying - he doesn’t know what to think of it. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything and he can hear her breathing heavily, her nails scrapping against the floor as something shifts into a sob.
He doesn’t move. “My leg hurts.”
He listens to her, to the quick closeness as there’s rip. She doesn’t offer any course and he wonders why all of the sensation of the moment is dropping. His ears start to ring and she’s fainter, a drop of something near him.
She’s breathing though. “And I sho-uld’ve sta-y-ed in bed.”
-
The small space is tightening.
Air is still thin. He still sees shapes and scopes the idea of someone else, groups of people looking for them. He imagines situations and situations for situations because this, this is what he has.
He’s lost it before. Circumstances tying him to a small bed, in a corner, and wires shooting and strangling him. He remembers that pain too often, too soon, and he rewraps the idea of infinity in his head.
Cameron has moved. He hasn’t checked her. But from time to time, signals of mortality still slip; she’s breathing, there’s the occasional shit over the softness of a whimper. He does find himself reaching forward, not touching her, but to see for himself.
There’s a waver, slow. “Think this is cause for a vacation?”
The color of her voice is changing, light and then back to heavy. There’s a crack and they’re both silent then, gazes dropping to a new pool of water. He should ask if she’s cold. But she hasn’t volunteered anything.
A cough. “You don’t take vacations.”
“I should,” he snorts.
And it travels in that direction, full of shifts and misconceptions; he wonders how well she assumes because, sometimes, it’s strange to see how well she’ll pick up on certain things. When she doesn’t try. She’s better at the game than she realizes it and he thinks, it’s almost obvious, that it’s how she keeps herself close.
The real question remains centered around her return, around all their returns. Desperation is still the easiest of answers, still the most objective, but Cameron seems to sway in and out of that sense of probability. He doesn’t know what to make of it and that, really, must be the reason why. It comes to pass as an answer that he wants; it’s better to say need, but the need opens up a territory that he can’t touch and isn’t ready to have.
At all.
He does reach for her then, blindly skirting a hand from her shoulder to her hip, over to her thigh. There’s blood facing his palm, sticking as she sighs, and his hand lingers over the glass again.
He could pull it out.
“But you won’t,” she’s quiet.
The edge is dull and he pictures what he can, the piece of glass digging between the fabric of her trousers and into her skin. She’ll scar. He won’t think about the walking; it’s curious, though, the gravity of the situation and his shaky processing of it. It’s the space, the small brush of air that’s become theirs.
His mouth moves. “Says who?”
And she’s quick, her voice clear, not touching hysteria as he still touches her.
“Me.”
He tries not laugh and drops his hand.
-
It’s going to be too much.
He doesn’t move to say anything. He watches the space where he is, starts to pick on her hands and legs, never the idea of her face - that seems too intimate for him, tying him to a reality that he’s better refusing.
He swallows. There’s a sigh from her end.
“I have an answer,” she says quietly.
He follows the color of her voice, the rise and fall of sound. There’s a difference, depending on the kind of push of pain and he’s never been about these kinds of particulars; he has no need for favor.
His mouth dries further and he can feel the skin crack when he presses his lips together, needing to look away. “Yeah?”
There’s a long pause. “I wasn’t thinking.”
1 | 3