Strange Brew (1/3)
First post in my new writing journal . . . .
fandom: House M.D.
title: Strange Brew
chapter: 1 (of 3)
ship/characters: House/Cameron
rating: PG-13
summary: "Not that it mattered really, because he was drunk, and she was drunk, and nothing mattered when you were drunk."
Disclaimer for this and all following chapters: I don’t own House and the title was taken from the song "Strange Brew," written by Eric Clapton and originally preformed by Cream. All quotes at the beginning of the chapters are from the song, as well.
“Strange Brew”
Part One (of Three)
Mad
In her own mad mind she's in love with you . . . Now what you gonna do?
-Eric Clapton
He sometimes had the idea that she was just anatomical dead space. The cavity where his words would linger, never making it to the place where they would mean something or carry any weight in her decisions.
They had no political pull. They’d just bounce around, like a verbal pinball machine. Ten points if you make it through the asteroids.
To him, he was the tree and his remarks were oxygen. Cameron must be suffocating by now.
Some people call that stubborn.
He called it stupidity.
Not the “can’t add two and two” stupidity; that was the lesser of two evils. No, the pinnacle of baseness was the “I listen to my heart” stupidity.
When would people learn: the heart didn’t have eyes. It couldn’t see what was going on. Your head had the eyes for a reason: you were supposed to use it. The heart isn’t even the source of emotions. Your frontal and prefrontal lobes were in charge of all that stuff: the decision making, planning, conceptualizing, regret, morality, empathy . . . .
He tried to remind her of this one day. Not in so many words, of course. All he really said was “Shut up and do what I tell you.”
But it was basically the same thing. Because he was using his head and Cameron’s incessant prattling was coming from her bleeding heart. He figured she might not be able to use her head effectively, due to some physical shortcoming-her wiring was faulty or something-and he was resigned to let her use his.
Besides, his looked better. If you squinted.
If only she’d stop preaching ethics to him in that stern voice, as if she was a trying to reprimand him for walking across the street without looking both ways. It was starting to give him a headache.
She was starting to give him a headache. Standing there, leaning over his desk, her hands placed firmly on the glass surface . . . . Getting her fingerprints everywhere. She was interrupting General Hospital to tell him that what he was doing was wrong. Immoral.
“That shirt is immoral,” he told her, his eyes flicking quickly to her breasts and then back to the television screen.
She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest, which did not help the problem in the least. It aided it remarkably.
He sometimes wished he had hired a less attractive immunologist.
“House . . .” she began again.
“What?”
The look in her green eyes was unusually sad. Kind of annoyed and a little desperate, like a little kid who wants her mommy. She looked . . . needy. And he needed her to leave him alone.
Maybe alcohol would drown her out, he thought, admitting defeat by flicking the television off . . . .
Alcohol is, in fact, a widely popular type of beverage. Often the choice of young college students (and ever-increasingly of high school students, as well), alcohol can lead to distorted vision, hearing, and coordination, altered perceptions and emotions, impaired judgment, bad breath, and hangovers. The long-term effects of alcohol consumption include loss of appetite, vitamin deficiencies, stomach ailments, skin problems, sexual impotence, liver damage, heart and central nervous system damage, and memory loss. This is probably why many adults were idiots.
House knew all of this, but for some reason he couldn’t remember any of it.
Perhaps this was because he was drunk.
Allison Cameron also knew the effects of alcohol consumption, but she, too, could not remember any of the specifics.
This was probably because she drunk as well.
Neither could remember how they had gotten into this situation, her slouched across the bar, him leaning back in his chair, both laughing about something that was not funny. Cameron remembered House telling her that her shirt was immoral and House remembered looking down Cameron’s immoral shirt.
There was a vague notion that House had been the one to suggest they go get a drink, but there was no remembrance of his intentions. He knew it wasn’t because he wanted to spend some quality time with his employee. Maybe he just wanted to spend some quality time with his employee’s cleavage? That was always possible.
After all, House didn’t get many chances to get laid for free.
Although, judging by the devious glint that had appeared in Cameron’s eyes a few minutes ago, maybe he would have to pay. If only he could remember where his wallet was.
Maybe the reason he was so mean was he didn’t get laid enough?
This was Cameron’s thought as she watched him laugh at some horribly witty one-liner he gave to the bartender when asked if he wanted another drink.
“House, I think you actually kinda like me,” she said, pointing to his face. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
“You got me,” he said, with a drunken smile and downed another glass of whiskey. They broke into a fit of laughter, and the bartender rolled his eyes. “But what you don’t get,” he continued, “is my cane.”
He thought briefly on what he just said.
“Or maybe it was my pants . . . ?”
“We have to work in the morning,” said Cameron. Her voice sounded curiously clear, and she began to think that she wasn’t really as drunk as she had originally assumed.
But then she stood up, and the room swam around her in a flurry of neon brilliance. She clutched House’s shoulder and rested her other hand on his chest.
“Come on,” he said, throwing some money down on the counter.
For some reason he couldn’t remember where he lived, but he could remember where she lived. He drove her home, racking his brain for his address and avoiding running into any street lamps or innocent bystanders. Not that he really cared about the innocent bystanders. It was the streetlights you had to worry about because they actually hit back. Honestly, if the innocent bystanders were stupid enough to stand in the way of a car careening down the street, then they probably deserved to be hit.
If Cameron could read his mind, she’d tell him he was immoral.
Getting out of the car, he leaned heavily on his cane and watched Cameron stumble out of the passenger side.
“Oops,” she said, when her foot got caught on the seatbelt. “You gotta . . . gotta . . . yeah.”
She stood unsteadily in front of House, her blouse disheveled and her skirt wrinkled. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes, so that she could see him better and found his eyes to look like little pools of crystal clear water. She could see to the bottom and what she saw both scared and confused her.
She saw rocks. Craggy and sharp with waves of the ocean breaking across them in a constant battle: the waves always trying to get free and the rocks always stopping them. A barricade keeping his emotions in. She remembered Wilson telling her that he might not open up to anyone if she broke his heart. This is what he wouldn’t open up--his labyrinth of stone. Impenetrable with an ever-winding maze of sarcasm and sexual innuendos. She wasn’t sure she could find the center of it, even if she did try.
But as we have already established, Allison Cameron was stubborn. A ray of persistence will always burst through doubt, like a painful signal of morning through a half closed curtain after a night of binge drinking. She found herself wondering what the journey would be like.
It certainly wouldn’t be easy; it would undeniably be rough, swimming through the ocean during a tempest, wind-tossed and chocking on salt water. Although, even if she did take a wrong turn and found herself impaled by the sharp spire of a large boulder, she’d still have the way his eyes looked at her just then--the way they actually looked soft and nearly caring.
In actuality, they were unfocused, but Cameron couldn’t tell that because her eyesight was a little blurry too.
“House,” she started, but instantly forgot what she had been about to say. She decided to kiss him instead. After all, she needed to do something with her open mouth. Her aim was a little off, however, and she ended up kissing his unshaven jaw.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
“So are you.”
Yeah, he was. But he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or her hand on his hip.
He hoped it was the alcohol.
Not that it mattered really, because he was drunk, and she was drunk, and nothing mattered when you were drunk.
Which is why he woke up with a pounding headache and an unfamiliar warmth pressing into his side. The sheets were different too༠softer and more girly. Some nauseating floral print that made his eyes hurt. Or maybe that was the pain behind his eyes?
He looked to his side at Cameron stirring awake, disrupted by the movement he made by sitting up. The brain takes less than a second to send a signal somewhere, and it only took him a tenth of a second to decide he didn’t want to think about Cameron lying there, undressed, her hair falling softly over the pale curve of her shoulder . . . .
Coffee was a much more appealing thought at that moment.
He was pouring himself a cup when Cameron wandered into the kitchen, fully dressed and looking like her head was pounding just as much as House’s. Her eyes were hidden from him as she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. She had been sitting on her bed for the past few minutes, wondering why she wasn’t nervous or feeling guilty or embarrassed. She decided it must be an aftereffect caused by the endorphins that were often released during exercise. And sex, while not recommended for recreational purposes, was a type of physical exercise. She felt calm and, as cliché as it sounds, satisfied. She felt strangely content. So she dressed quickly and found House sitting in her kitchen, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Did we . . .?” she asked.
“What do you think?” He wanted to say something more scathing--something that would dissociate him from this awkward situation--but his head was hurting too much for him to think properly.
“We need to talk about this,” she continued. It almost seems paradoxical to be stubborn and pragmatic, but there she was. Always thinking rationally. That was one reason why he liked her: she did what she thought was right. Her only failing was that what was commonly right was what House had told her to do in the first place.
“No,” he said. “because nothing happened.”
“But House . . . .”
“No.”
Denial is a psychological defense mechanism that is easily verifiable and most easily defined as: pretend this never happened, and it never did. Which would have worked wonderfully if she didn’t remember everything.
His hands, his mouth, his eyes . . . him. It was all there in her brain, with surprising clarity.
She didn’t think she could ever forget it. But she figured she couldn’t deny his right to ignore it. God, she probably seduced him. Just like Chase. Way to make a reputation for yourself, Cameron., you saucy minx. Insist you are a qualified doctor, try your hardest not to be judged by your looks, and then sleep with your boss. Perfect way to get to the top.
“So that’s it?” She held her cup in both hands, hoping he didn’t see the redness in her cheeks. It wasn’t that she was finally embarrassed for sleeping with House; it was that she really wouldn’t mind doing it again.
“Yep,” he said, getting up. He left his dirty mug in the sink and left.
TBC
Comments are always appreciated!
fandom: House M.D.
title: Strange Brew
chapter: 1 (of 3)
ship/characters: House/Cameron
rating: PG-13
summary: "Not that it mattered really, because he was drunk, and she was drunk, and nothing mattered when you were drunk."
Disclaimer for this and all following chapters: I don’t own House and the title was taken from the song "Strange Brew," written by Eric Clapton and originally preformed by Cream. All quotes at the beginning of the chapters are from the song, as well.
“Strange Brew”
Part One (of Three)
Mad
In her own mad mind she's in love with you . . . Now what you gonna do?
-Eric Clapton
He sometimes had the idea that she was just anatomical dead space. The cavity where his words would linger, never making it to the place where they would mean something or carry any weight in her decisions.
They had no political pull. They’d just bounce around, like a verbal pinball machine. Ten points if you make it through the asteroids.
To him, he was the tree and his remarks were oxygen. Cameron must be suffocating by now.
Some people call that stubborn.
He called it stupidity.
Not the “can’t add two and two” stupidity; that was the lesser of two evils. No, the pinnacle of baseness was the “I listen to my heart” stupidity.
When would people learn: the heart didn’t have eyes. It couldn’t see what was going on. Your head had the eyes for a reason: you were supposed to use it. The heart isn’t even the source of emotions. Your frontal and prefrontal lobes were in charge of all that stuff: the decision making, planning, conceptualizing, regret, morality, empathy . . . .
He tried to remind her of this one day. Not in so many words, of course. All he really said was “Shut up and do what I tell you.”
But it was basically the same thing. Because he was using his head and Cameron’s incessant prattling was coming from her bleeding heart. He figured she might not be able to use her head effectively, due to some physical shortcoming-her wiring was faulty or something-and he was resigned to let her use his.
Besides, his looked better. If you squinted.
If only she’d stop preaching ethics to him in that stern voice, as if she was a trying to reprimand him for walking across the street without looking both ways. It was starting to give him a headache.
She was starting to give him a headache. Standing there, leaning over his desk, her hands placed firmly on the glass surface . . . . Getting her fingerprints everywhere. She was interrupting General Hospital to tell him that what he was doing was wrong. Immoral.
“That shirt is immoral,” he told her, his eyes flicking quickly to her breasts and then back to the television screen.
She frowned and crossed her arms over her chest, which did not help the problem in the least. It aided it remarkably.
He sometimes wished he had hired a less attractive immunologist.
“House . . .” she began again.
“What?”
The look in her green eyes was unusually sad. Kind of annoyed and a little desperate, like a little kid who wants her mommy. She looked . . . needy. And he needed her to leave him alone.
Maybe alcohol would drown her out, he thought, admitting defeat by flicking the television off . . . .
Alcohol is, in fact, a widely popular type of beverage. Often the choice of young college students (and ever-increasingly of high school students, as well), alcohol can lead to distorted vision, hearing, and coordination, altered perceptions and emotions, impaired judgment, bad breath, and hangovers. The long-term effects of alcohol consumption include loss of appetite, vitamin deficiencies, stomach ailments, skin problems, sexual impotence, liver damage, heart and central nervous system damage, and memory loss. This is probably why many adults were idiots.
House knew all of this, but for some reason he couldn’t remember any of it.
Perhaps this was because he was drunk.
Allison Cameron also knew the effects of alcohol consumption, but she, too, could not remember any of the specifics.
This was probably because she drunk as well.
Neither could remember how they had gotten into this situation, her slouched across the bar, him leaning back in his chair, both laughing about something that was not funny. Cameron remembered House telling her that her shirt was immoral and House remembered looking down Cameron’s immoral shirt.
There was a vague notion that House had been the one to suggest they go get a drink, but there was no remembrance of his intentions. He knew it wasn’t because he wanted to spend some quality time with his employee. Maybe he just wanted to spend some quality time with his employee’s cleavage? That was always possible.
After all, House didn’t get many chances to get laid for free.
Although, judging by the devious glint that had appeared in Cameron’s eyes a few minutes ago, maybe he would have to pay. If only he could remember where his wallet was.
Maybe the reason he was so mean was he didn’t get laid enough?
This was Cameron’s thought as she watched him laugh at some horribly witty one-liner he gave to the bartender when asked if he wanted another drink.
“House, I think you actually kinda like me,” she said, pointing to his face. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
“You got me,” he said, with a drunken smile and downed another glass of whiskey. They broke into a fit of laughter, and the bartender rolled his eyes. “But what you don’t get,” he continued, “is my cane.”
He thought briefly on what he just said.
“Or maybe it was my pants . . . ?”
“We have to work in the morning,” said Cameron. Her voice sounded curiously clear, and she began to think that she wasn’t really as drunk as she had originally assumed.
But then she stood up, and the room swam around her in a flurry of neon brilliance. She clutched House’s shoulder and rested her other hand on his chest.
“Come on,” he said, throwing some money down on the counter.
For some reason he couldn’t remember where he lived, but he could remember where she lived. He drove her home, racking his brain for his address and avoiding running into any street lamps or innocent bystanders. Not that he really cared about the innocent bystanders. It was the streetlights you had to worry about because they actually hit back. Honestly, if the innocent bystanders were stupid enough to stand in the way of a car careening down the street, then they probably deserved to be hit.
If Cameron could read his mind, she’d tell him he was immoral.
Getting out of the car, he leaned heavily on his cane and watched Cameron stumble out of the passenger side.
“Oops,” she said, when her foot got caught on the seatbelt. “You gotta . . . gotta . . . yeah.”
She stood unsteadily in front of House, her blouse disheveled and her skirt wrinkled. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes, so that she could see him better and found his eyes to look like little pools of crystal clear water. She could see to the bottom and what she saw both scared and confused her.
She saw rocks. Craggy and sharp with waves of the ocean breaking across them in a constant battle: the waves always trying to get free and the rocks always stopping them. A barricade keeping his emotions in. She remembered Wilson telling her that he might not open up to anyone if she broke his heart. This is what he wouldn’t open up--his labyrinth of stone. Impenetrable with an ever-winding maze of sarcasm and sexual innuendos. She wasn’t sure she could find the center of it, even if she did try.
But as we have already established, Allison Cameron was stubborn. A ray of persistence will always burst through doubt, like a painful signal of morning through a half closed curtain after a night of binge drinking. She found herself wondering what the journey would be like.
It certainly wouldn’t be easy; it would undeniably be rough, swimming through the ocean during a tempest, wind-tossed and chocking on salt water. Although, even if she did take a wrong turn and found herself impaled by the sharp spire of a large boulder, she’d still have the way his eyes looked at her just then--the way they actually looked soft and nearly caring.
In actuality, they were unfocused, but Cameron couldn’t tell that because her eyesight was a little blurry too.
“House,” she started, but instantly forgot what she had been about to say. She decided to kiss him instead. After all, she needed to do something with her open mouth. Her aim was a little off, however, and she ended up kissing his unshaven jaw.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
“So are you.”
Yeah, he was. But he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or her hand on his hip.
He hoped it was the alcohol.
Not that it mattered really, because he was drunk, and she was drunk, and nothing mattered when you were drunk.
Which is why he woke up with a pounding headache and an unfamiliar warmth pressing into his side. The sheets were different too༠softer and more girly. Some nauseating floral print that made his eyes hurt. Or maybe that was the pain behind his eyes?
He looked to his side at Cameron stirring awake, disrupted by the movement he made by sitting up. The brain takes less than a second to send a signal somewhere, and it only took him a tenth of a second to decide he didn’t want to think about Cameron lying there, undressed, her hair falling softly over the pale curve of her shoulder . . . .
Coffee was a much more appealing thought at that moment.
He was pouring himself a cup when Cameron wandered into the kitchen, fully dressed and looking like her head was pounding just as much as House’s. Her eyes were hidden from him as she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. She had been sitting on her bed for the past few minutes, wondering why she wasn’t nervous or feeling guilty or embarrassed. She decided it must be an aftereffect caused by the endorphins that were often released during exercise. And sex, while not recommended for recreational purposes, was a type of physical exercise. She felt calm and, as cliché as it sounds, satisfied. She felt strangely content. So she dressed quickly and found House sitting in her kitchen, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Did we . . .?” she asked.
“What do you think?” He wanted to say something more scathing--something that would dissociate him from this awkward situation--but his head was hurting too much for him to think properly.
“We need to talk about this,” she continued. It almost seems paradoxical to be stubborn and pragmatic, but there she was. Always thinking rationally. That was one reason why he liked her: she did what she thought was right. Her only failing was that what was commonly right was what House had told her to do in the first place.
“No,” he said. “because nothing happened.”
“But House . . . .”
“No.”
Denial is a psychological defense mechanism that is easily verifiable and most easily defined as: pretend this never happened, and it never did. Which would have worked wonderfully if she didn’t remember everything.
His hands, his mouth, his eyes . . . him. It was all there in her brain, with surprising clarity.
She didn’t think she could ever forget it. But she figured she couldn’t deny his right to ignore it. God, she probably seduced him. Just like Chase. Way to make a reputation for yourself, Cameron., you saucy minx. Insist you are a qualified doctor, try your hardest not to be judged by your looks, and then sleep with your boss. Perfect way to get to the top.
“So that’s it?” She held her cup in both hands, hoping he didn’t see the redness in her cheeks. It wasn’t that she was finally embarrassed for sleeping with House; it was that she really wouldn’t mind doing it again.
“Yep,” he said, getting up. He left his dirty mug in the sink and left.
TBC
Comments are always appreciated!