House Fic: we're in right form
we’re in right form
the elevator is empty. it’s become a bigger mess; they’ve let it grow like this, she has to say, and it worries her. she’s worked so hard. house, md. house. house/cameron. general spoilers. 2075 words, pg.
this continues to be the series that i had no intention of planning. fourth in a series. companion to keep your head down, within our routine, we draw circles, and and if only we were liars.
The elevator is empty.
His chin tilts up. He’s early, tense, and his jacket is almost heavy on his shoulders. His throat dries and he slips a sigh, turning his wrist for the time. He manages a frown. He’s left his watch at home again, on the coffee table, and - he remembers - right over the imprint she left, his magazines all skewed.
House doesn’t think about it. He shouldn’t think about. But in the back of his head, the process and the evolution of whatever direction things have gone is starting to fascinate him and he doesn’t like it.
He shouldn’t.
It’s early, but he takes the time. He isn’t in the mood for the game or the reconstruction of his missteps. He barely thinks about the others as it is - they haven’t stepped up, there’s just a few spurts of moments that reek nothing more than potential and he stays impatient. It’s what he knows how to do.
His attention lingers and goes to other places, the root of his indignation and self-doubt. It’s what he has now; people are starting to re-root to change around him and he’s completely unaware with why he’s starting to try to adapt.
Stepping off the elevator, he takes the long corner. He indulges over the coffee machine, snorts, remembers he has no change, and then turns back to move to his office. The others are there already, passing surprise as he moves by the glass and ignores them. He shrugs. He gives them nothing more than that and moves straight into this office.
“Shit.”
It’s Cameron, the first thing that he sees, and her outline by the window, right over the chair that she sits in. She laughs, but it’s thin, and he’s clear about not expecting her here; it’s a good look for her, at his desk. Her hands are folded neatly in front her, her mouth firm, and the amusement that he sees is nothing more than a light cover.
Cameron doesn’t say anything.
His bag drops instead, his mouth pressing. He shuts the door, turning the screens over the glass, and then repeats the motions at the space between his office and the conference room. He gives her an exaggerated sigh, thick, and snorts when she doesn’t move. She doesn’t give him the time.
He gives. “What are you doing here?”
“Avoiding you.”
There’s a snort and his jacket follows, crumpling to the carpet. He takes the seat in the corner of his office, far from her, and drops his cane. It’s too quiet. His hands strain, his palms itch, and he drops his head back on the mouth of the chair.
“Not a good place to start.”
But she’s quiet. He hates when she does this - a passive attempt at nothing, he’s been better at this longer than she has, even playing for consolations, and he thinks she’s getting a little cocky instead of her obvious play for safety. He doesn’t recognize much of anything anymore from her and again, being faced with his own sense of mortality is getting to him.
She doesn’t need to know.
Trying again, he tilts his head towards the door to the conference room. The three are murmuring around, bored, and he follows the sounds for a moment, trying to pick a difference. They all sound the same. He snorts. “You need an audience?”
“No,” she murmurs, watching him. “but you do.”
He tries a right, but it doesn’t come. He’s waiting for her to stand, to give him some assertion of awareness that he can latch onto. It’s simple math and predictability as the two of them step back right into it.
So he thinks.
House leans forward, his fingers pressing over his mouth. There’s no semblance of romance between the two of them, nothing he can pick from her that gives him some idea of her sense of naivety. But that goes back to the thought of tasting her, that he can still taste her, and as his fingers press hard over his lip, his thumb still, he sticks with wishing for whiskey as early as it is.
It’s unnerving, how close she’s getting, and how much he knows he doesn’t know about her, about how she is, and where things are starting to fall into place.
He coughs. “Did you tell him?”
“No.”
He watches her hands unfold, her palms pressing over the desk. He waits for Cameron to stand, but she doesn’t and rests back in his chair instead. The chair starts to tilt, side to side, and she’s looking to the door of the conference room.
“Are you?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
There’s no clear reason of why she’s here. He can feel it though, the sudden form of responsibility and consequences lingering around and waiting for them. His hand drops and he meets her gaze for the first time.
She blinks
“Interesting,” he mutters.
Cameron snorts, rolling her eyes. She starts to rock in the chair instead of spinning side to side again, dropping her feet to the ground. When she does stand, he watches her as she steps around almost effortlessly to the front of his desk. She leans back, still, like she belongs her or maybe, he wants to be used to her here and that could be the problem.
“Why?”
He’s surprised that she asks. Even more, he’s surprised that he doesn’t have a tangible response to the question. It’s not just the question, it’s how she asks it, how her voice forms a sense of understanding that he’s not ready to have. It shouldn’t be there. And yet, here, here is.
House shrugs. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
She says nothing. He doesn’t expect her to. She doesn’t move. He wants her to. He wants some sense of chaotic reasoning, like back before, when he was good at really pinning her down. It was that easy. It was that clear. She was right here and now, she doesn’t fit.
“Actually,” she murmurs, “I do.”
It’s clear, too firm, and it’s a new sense of nerves that he picks up. She’s trying to be brave. Not even that, she’s trying to slip a sense of nonchalance that could cover things from view. It’s fascinating, no matter how much it shouldn’t be, and he stands, stumbling a little and picking up his cane to go to her. Just to see what she can do.
He stops in front of her. “No, you don’t.”
Her eyes close, her mouth turns, and he’s tries to find some sense of indignation but doesn’t have it. Her hands drop to the sides of his desk and she’s watching him again, too quiet for his taste.
“No, I do.”
She pauses and there’s a sense of honesty that spurts around her, her fingers tapping over the wood. They stop watching each other, he turns a little to the conference room, and she’s turning to the side. She seems to be drawing the pause out and his hands curl, his fingers stroking the head of his cane. He’s steadying into uncomfortable.
There’s a sigh.
“Because I’m tired of this,” suddenly, she waves her hand, “I’m really tired of wondering all the time and finally, finally when I have something good, something that I really can stick with and enjoy myself, you -”
“What?”
He tries to be coy and then it starts, the sudden burn of his mouth. He remembers standing there. Sitting. It doesn’t matter - but his hand was in her hair and she was kissing him back, again, as if it mattered for something. It’s stretched into a place that he’s not ready to understand, perhaps, he’ll never be. But there’s something that he needs to keep, that he’s itching to feed on.
“You know what.” It’s a little braver.
He snorts. “I don’t.”
The lie is easy and those words are hers to have; he thinks about it now and waits for it to pass. He’s becoming transparent. He shouldn’t.
He looks back at her.
She licks her lips. “You do.”
They’re quiet again. People are passing - he hears murmuring back in the other office, but it’s starting to fade in the back of his head. He sighs. It’s happening too slow, much too slow, and he’s keeping up with it. He can see the mistakes, he can see the avenues of opportunity, and the self-loathing is starting to reach fast for him.
He tenses when her fingers drop over his hand.
“What -”
But she’s in his space before he has any reaction, her palm open over the back of his hand and swallowing. His fingers tighten over his cane. She’s close, not close enough to press, and that night is finally back in his head again.
He tried. He really tried. It was easier to press off the first time. The lack of responsibility that carried him over saved him. But here, that night, he made the first move. He’s now stuck thinking about her mouth, thinking about how the second time still had the intimacy of the first, that vivid curiosity that pressed them both.
It shouldn’t be happening like this.
The initiative is hers then, her other hand rising and he doesn’t touch a thought of what is she doing because she’s close and having her close does something to him. There’s a flush of warmth and he sighs into her mouth. It’s been too damn long since anyone’s really carried the weight of any interest for him. It shouldn’t be happening - he can keep telling himself this.
“What are you doing?” He’s quiet, almost daring her, and this move belongs to her. It should eat away at her - he wants the company.
Her lips graze his. It’s almost shaky.
“I don’t know.”
And then they’re kissing each other, really kissing each other. His mouth opens against hers out of habit, a strange one, but his mind is starting to unravel into numbness. He feels the press of her hand weigh over his as her tongue slides along his lip, teasing an entrance into his mouth. She never pushes. He growls and swears that he feels somewhat of a smile, daring him to push her hips back into the desk.
He gets greedy.
He gets greedy and his hand is in her hair, twisting. There’s a snap and he’s vaguely aware of something loose in her hair, uncaring as he slides his tongue into her mouth. His hips are hard against hers. There’s a gasp and her hips are pressing back against his. It’s a pattern and it’s growing. He drops his cane and this is getting faster and faster, peaking to too much and he feels that grasp of addiction as it starts to rise.
Fuck.
When he breaks away, his fingers are still tight in her hair. His mouth rests back against hers, light, and his mind is spinning. He’s trying to grasp something, but he feels her hands sliding lightly against his chest. And he waits for it, he waits for the what are we doing, the sensible mix of him and her and the things they’ve brought here, right in front of each other.
House kills the moment.
“Are you going to tell him about that?”
He’s quiet. He’s confused. She’s giving him nothing. And her hands rest a little harder against his chest, slipping as she dips around him. Slowly. He catches a quick wince. Her fingers curl and he keeps that, the tension of her hands as she slips away.
He’s still not ready to turn around yet, breathing.
“Are you,” he asks again, “are you going to tell him about that?”
He hears her stop. He hears a tap on the glass from the conference room. The strain of tension is rolling in his shoulders and he’s stepped too fast into this, way too fast into this.
He doesn’t know what to think.
But still he turns, just to see if she’s really going to go again, really going to leave him with this, with the pieces he doesn’t understand. She stands at the door, her fingers curling around the handle and her other hand pushing the screen away. It cracks, crashing against the glass, but she stops it before a second round.
Her lips turn a little, nothing more.
“I don’t know.”
Maybe, he’s losing this one as it is.
the elevator is empty. it’s become a bigger mess; they’ve let it grow like this, she has to say, and it worries her. she’s worked so hard. house, md. house. house/cameron. general spoilers. 2075 words, pg.
this continues to be the series that i had no intention of planning. fourth in a series. companion to keep your head down, within our routine, we draw circles, and and if only we were liars.
The elevator is empty.
His chin tilts up. He’s early, tense, and his jacket is almost heavy on his shoulders. His throat dries and he slips a sigh, turning his wrist for the time. He manages a frown. He’s left his watch at home again, on the coffee table, and - he remembers - right over the imprint she left, his magazines all skewed.
House doesn’t think about it. He shouldn’t think about. But in the back of his head, the process and the evolution of whatever direction things have gone is starting to fascinate him and he doesn’t like it.
He shouldn’t.
It’s early, but he takes the time. He isn’t in the mood for the game or the reconstruction of his missteps. He barely thinks about the others as it is - they haven’t stepped up, there’s just a few spurts of moments that reek nothing more than potential and he stays impatient. It’s what he knows how to do.
His attention lingers and goes to other places, the root of his indignation and self-doubt. It’s what he has now; people are starting to re-root to change around him and he’s completely unaware with why he’s starting to try to adapt.
Stepping off the elevator, he takes the long corner. He indulges over the coffee machine, snorts, remembers he has no change, and then turns back to move to his office. The others are there already, passing surprise as he moves by the glass and ignores them. He shrugs. He gives them nothing more than that and moves straight into this office.
“Shit.”
It’s Cameron, the first thing that he sees, and her outline by the window, right over the chair that she sits in. She laughs, but it’s thin, and he’s clear about not expecting her here; it’s a good look for her, at his desk. Her hands are folded neatly in front her, her mouth firm, and the amusement that he sees is nothing more than a light cover.
Cameron doesn’t say anything.
His bag drops instead, his mouth pressing. He shuts the door, turning the screens over the glass, and then repeats the motions at the space between his office and the conference room. He gives her an exaggerated sigh, thick, and snorts when she doesn’t move. She doesn’t give him the time.
He gives. “What are you doing here?”
“Avoiding you.”
There’s a snort and his jacket follows, crumpling to the carpet. He takes the seat in the corner of his office, far from her, and drops his cane. It’s too quiet. His hands strain, his palms itch, and he drops his head back on the mouth of the chair.
“Not a good place to start.”
But she’s quiet. He hates when she does this - a passive attempt at nothing, he’s been better at this longer than she has, even playing for consolations, and he thinks she’s getting a little cocky instead of her obvious play for safety. He doesn’t recognize much of anything anymore from her and again, being faced with his own sense of mortality is getting to him.
She doesn’t need to know.
Trying again, he tilts his head towards the door to the conference room. The three are murmuring around, bored, and he follows the sounds for a moment, trying to pick a difference. They all sound the same. He snorts. “You need an audience?”
“No,” she murmurs, watching him. “but you do.”
He tries a right, but it doesn’t come. He’s waiting for her to stand, to give him some assertion of awareness that he can latch onto. It’s simple math and predictability as the two of them step back right into it.
So he thinks.
House leans forward, his fingers pressing over his mouth. There’s no semblance of romance between the two of them, nothing he can pick from her that gives him some idea of her sense of naivety. But that goes back to the thought of tasting her, that he can still taste her, and as his fingers press hard over his lip, his thumb still, he sticks with wishing for whiskey as early as it is.
It’s unnerving, how close she’s getting, and how much he knows he doesn’t know about her, about how she is, and where things are starting to fall into place.
He coughs. “Did you tell him?”
“No.”
He watches her hands unfold, her palms pressing over the desk. He waits for Cameron to stand, but she doesn’t and rests back in his chair instead. The chair starts to tilt, side to side, and she’s looking to the door of the conference room.
“Are you?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
There’s no clear reason of why she’s here. He can feel it though, the sudden form of responsibility and consequences lingering around and waiting for them. His hand drops and he meets her gaze for the first time.
She blinks
“Interesting,” he mutters.
Cameron snorts, rolling her eyes. She starts to rock in the chair instead of spinning side to side again, dropping her feet to the ground. When she does stand, he watches her as she steps around almost effortlessly to the front of his desk. She leans back, still, like she belongs her or maybe, he wants to be used to her here and that could be the problem.
“Why?”
He’s surprised that she asks. Even more, he’s surprised that he doesn’t have a tangible response to the question. It’s not just the question, it’s how she asks it, how her voice forms a sense of understanding that he’s not ready to have. It shouldn’t be there. And yet, here, here is.
House shrugs. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
She says nothing. He doesn’t expect her to. She doesn’t move. He wants her to. He wants some sense of chaotic reasoning, like back before, when he was good at really pinning her down. It was that easy. It was that clear. She was right here and now, she doesn’t fit.
“Actually,” she murmurs, “I do.”
It’s clear, too firm, and it’s a new sense of nerves that he picks up. She’s trying to be brave. Not even that, she’s trying to slip a sense of nonchalance that could cover things from view. It’s fascinating, no matter how much it shouldn’t be, and he stands, stumbling a little and picking up his cane to go to her. Just to see what she can do.
He stops in front of her. “No, you don’t.”
Her eyes close, her mouth turns, and he’s tries to find some sense of indignation but doesn’t have it. Her hands drop to the sides of his desk and she’s watching him again, too quiet for his taste.
“No, I do.”
She pauses and there’s a sense of honesty that spurts around her, her fingers tapping over the wood. They stop watching each other, he turns a little to the conference room, and she’s turning to the side. She seems to be drawing the pause out and his hands curl, his fingers stroking the head of his cane. He’s steadying into uncomfortable.
There’s a sigh.
“Because I’m tired of this,” suddenly, she waves her hand, “I’m really tired of wondering all the time and finally, finally when I have something good, something that I really can stick with and enjoy myself, you -”
“What?”
He tries to be coy and then it starts, the sudden burn of his mouth. He remembers standing there. Sitting. It doesn’t matter - but his hand was in her hair and she was kissing him back, again, as if it mattered for something. It’s stretched into a place that he’s not ready to understand, perhaps, he’ll never be. But there’s something that he needs to keep, that he’s itching to feed on.
“You know what.” It’s a little braver.
He snorts. “I don’t.”
The lie is easy and those words are hers to have; he thinks about it now and waits for it to pass. He’s becoming transparent. He shouldn’t.
He looks back at her.
She licks her lips. “You do.”
They’re quiet again. People are passing - he hears murmuring back in the other office, but it’s starting to fade in the back of his head. He sighs. It’s happening too slow, much too slow, and he’s keeping up with it. He can see the mistakes, he can see the avenues of opportunity, and the self-loathing is starting to reach fast for him.
He tenses when her fingers drop over his hand.
“What -”
But she’s in his space before he has any reaction, her palm open over the back of his hand and swallowing. His fingers tighten over his cane. She’s close, not close enough to press, and that night is finally back in his head again.
He tried. He really tried. It was easier to press off the first time. The lack of responsibility that carried him over saved him. But here, that night, he made the first move. He’s now stuck thinking about her mouth, thinking about how the second time still had the intimacy of the first, that vivid curiosity that pressed them both.
It shouldn’t be happening like this.
The initiative is hers then, her other hand rising and he doesn’t touch a thought of what is she doing because she’s close and having her close does something to him. There’s a flush of warmth and he sighs into her mouth. It’s been too damn long since anyone’s really carried the weight of any interest for him. It shouldn’t be happening - he can keep telling himself this.
“What are you doing?” He’s quiet, almost daring her, and this move belongs to her. It should eat away at her - he wants the company.
Her lips graze his. It’s almost shaky.
“I don’t know.”
And then they’re kissing each other, really kissing each other. His mouth opens against hers out of habit, a strange one, but his mind is starting to unravel into numbness. He feels the press of her hand weigh over his as her tongue slides along his lip, teasing an entrance into his mouth. She never pushes. He growls and swears that he feels somewhat of a smile, daring him to push her hips back into the desk.
He gets greedy.
He gets greedy and his hand is in her hair, twisting. There’s a snap and he’s vaguely aware of something loose in her hair, uncaring as he slides his tongue into her mouth. His hips are hard against hers. There’s a gasp and her hips are pressing back against his. It’s a pattern and it’s growing. He drops his cane and this is getting faster and faster, peaking to too much and he feels that grasp of addiction as it starts to rise.
Fuck.
When he breaks away, his fingers are still tight in her hair. His mouth rests back against hers, light, and his mind is spinning. He’s trying to grasp something, but he feels her hands sliding lightly against his chest. And he waits for it, he waits for the what are we doing, the sensible mix of him and her and the things they’ve brought here, right in front of each other.
House kills the moment.
“Are you going to tell him about that?”
He’s quiet. He’s confused. She’s giving him nothing. And her hands rest a little harder against his chest, slipping as she dips around him. Slowly. He catches a quick wince. Her fingers curl and he keeps that, the tension of her hands as she slips away.
He’s still not ready to turn around yet, breathing.
“Are you,” he asks again, “are you going to tell him about that?”
He hears her stop. He hears a tap on the glass from the conference room. The strain of tension is rolling in his shoulders and he’s stepped too fast into this, way too fast into this.
He doesn’t know what to think.
But still he turns, just to see if she’s really going to go again, really going to leave him with this, with the pieces he doesn’t understand. She stands at the door, her fingers curling around the handle and her other hand pushing the screen away. It cracks, crashing against the glass, but she stops it before a second round.
Her lips turn a little, nothing more.
“I don’t know.”
Maybe, he’s losing this one as it is.