Title: Headlights on Dark Roads
Author: Alice J. Foster (shipperfey)
Summary: Hit me hard enough to wake me.
Spoilers: Season 4.
Category: Dark, angsty and with a dash of hope.
Pairing/Characters: House/Cameron, Thirteen
Rating: R for sex, nudity, bad words and mature themes
Started: 10/28/07
Finished: 12/20/07
Disclaimer: Don't own them, but since I'm not on strike, I figured I'd take them out for a ride. Lyrics by Snow Patrol.
For once I want to be the car crash
…car crash.
….fatality at the scene.
…two incoming patients: six-month-old infant, thirty-four-year-old female.
Dead father. She couldn't save the bleeding mother.
Shitty night to work the ER.
Wouldn't have mattered, Cameron… His voice haunts her, throws facts at her psyche like an insistent professor. She was braindead at the scene, it wouldn't have mattered…
Her skin is thicker now; you don't get burned as many times as her without developing some resistance. It's natural evolution. It's due course.
But she can't breathe, can't stop the tears rolling down her face.
She should go home to her fiancée.
She doesn't.
Not always just the traffic jam
He's in his office, talking to Thirteen.
He doesn't know her name, because what's the point? Last time he bothered to learn intern names, he just got emotionally attached.
She's a puzzle to him, with her perfect hair, perfect skin, firm breasts and obviously uncomfortable shoes. She laughs at something he says, even though it wasn't meant to be funny.
Definitely lobby-piece material - worthy of display, to even the most scrutinizing person.
The ache in his groin tells him to act on the mutual attraction; she's hot, he's hot and as far as he knows, she's not engaged or married. Not that it would matter.
Through the glass windows of his office, he sees a familiar figure; brown eyes meet his for an instant before she's gone, and he wonders if she was there at all or if this is another one of his recurring visions.
He dismisses Thirteen, no longer interested in her hair, skin or breasts. The look of hurt on her face doesn't change his mind in the slightest.
My tongue is lost, oh, I can't tell you
She makes it to her apartment before she breaks down, staring around at the piles of boxes around the living room. Her lease isn't up, and although she's moved most of her things to Chase's place, she still has some of her stuff here. Utilities are still on because she's been meaning to show people the place, to try to find someone to take over the lease—but she keeps putting it off for some reason.
She cries heavily, wondering what the hell is going on with her. She's engaged, she's happy with Chase, content with her new job--
The familiar thumping of a cane against a wooden door hits her ear.
So much for hiding…
"Go away, House," she says bitterly.
"Not gonna happen," he counters with enough certainty in his voice, that she knows the only way she'll get him to leave is escorted by law enforcement—and she is not in the mood to deal with cops.
She unlocks the door and moves away from it, leaving the actual opening of the door to him. Cameron makes it to the kitchen before she hears the familiar sound of limping towards her.
The empty fridge stares back at her, and Cameron can't move, can't yield under his gaze that's burning her back.
"Why did you run?"
She bites her lower lip so hard she's afraid of drawing blood.
"Allison--" he starts to say but she cuts him off with a bitter laugh.
"Don't call me that, House," she demands, her voice sounding more hurtful than she intended, as she slams the fridge door shut.
"I'm sorry," he says and she finally turns to look at him; his face is neutral, she isn't sure if he means it.
She sees a bottle of wine that's gathering dust in one of the built-in racks. Not her favorite, which is why she left it behind.
It'll do now.
She still has glasses sitting in neat rows in her cabinets and she grabs one, leaving the door open for House; he can help himself.
Please just see it in my eyes
He doesn't pour himself a glass of wine, more interested in what's worrying her.
He can't remember her ever being this mad. He doesn't say anything, just stands behind the couch that she's sitting on. Anxiety is quickly building up inside him as the silence between them drags on.
"Bad day at work," she finally says after she finishes her first glass.
"Leave the ER," he counters, mentally adding come back to me.
She shakes head, a sad laugh escaping her throat. "You have a team." There is almost an accusation in her words, but he can't quite explain it yet.
"I'll hire you again, same function as Foreman," he offers, completely aware and pleased at how much this decision would piss off Cuddy.
"The ER is tough, but I can handle it," she replies with certainty.
"You can handle me too," he points out, looking down at his shoes, "better than anyone else so far."
"No, House-- I can't."
He looks up to see her honest eyes staring straight into his.
"I can handle the work, and I can handle you, but I can't handle both. Not anymore," she explains.
"Because of Chase?" The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them: "It won't last."
Her fingers visibly tighten around the wine glass and he's afraid it'll shatter. "You don't know that."
"Yes, I do," he replies insistently, not sure why people always argue with him even when he proves to be right time and time again. "Doctors are too committed to their work. Marriage vows and the Hippocratic Oath are two conflicting sets of rules."
She argues with him, and he's happy because it's better than the silent treatment. "Doctors all over the world are happily married, House."
"The shitty ones, maybe."
"Are you admitting Chase and I are good doctors?" she says with some amusement in her voice, the first he's heard all night.
"I'm saying at least one of you is a good doctor," he explains. "I'll give you a hint: it's the one I didn't fire."
"Good doctors should be able to handle a bad case at the ER," she argues.
"They don't have to if they're working for the Department of Diagnostic Medicine," he points out.
"Why are you here, House?"
"Apparently to hire back an Immunologist for my department."
She gives him a glare that could melt an entire ice cap. "You don't need me, House."
"No, I don't," he replies sincerely.
I pull up thorns from our ripped bodies
She gets up from the couch, feeling like she could strangle him.
"Why do you want to hire me again?"
"Because," he replies, sounding every bit like a petulant child.
"You already have someone like me: pesky feelings, troubled past, pretty."
"True," he agrees, a stupid smirk appearing. "Jealous?"
She laughs. "I'm not in love with you, House."
"But you are jealous," he accuses. "Why?"
She avoids the question by walking back to the kitchen and pouring herself another glass of wine, this time grabbing the bottle.
He stops her in the archway that separates her kitchen from the living room, using his cane as means of an ambush. "Why come back to Princeton Plainsboro?"
She grits out her honest answer: "I. Don't. Know."
His lips are demanding against hers, and his tongue is as fast as she remembers, not waiting for her to grant entrance. The bottle slips from her hands, the carpet of the living room breaking the fall and absorbing the large amount of wine spilling onto it.
Large hands reach for the glass that's precariously hanging from her fingers, about to meet the same fate as the bottle. She relinquishes possession, her hands suddenly free to roam.
The sound of glass shattering against the wall of her kitchen startles her and she realizes he threw the glass towards the sink. She should be mad, but his hands pull her towards him, and she can't help but give in and hope he's not thinking about his new brunette fellow.
And let the blood fall in my mouth
He's hard the moment her tongue touches his.
He wonders if he cares whether or not whether she's thinking of Chase.
"House," she moans against his lips when he breaks the kiss for some much needed air, and he realizes that the blonde surgeon is the furthest thing from her mind.
He'd always imagined she'd taste like rainbows, and flowers, and everything that's bright and happy, but once he'd tasted her all those months ago, he realized he'd been wrong.
She always tastes of tears and the slight bitterness of coffee-- and this time, she also tastes of wine; sometimes he knows she should taste of cinnamon because that's her favorite flavor of mints, but he hasn't been lucky enough to taste that particular combination.
He pushes her without direction, both of them almost tumbling over several boxes on the way to somewhere. The boxes are a painful reminder that she's engaged, but he's used to pain.
A wall is their first stop, and he's grateful for the opportunity to shift his weight to his good leg as he presses into her. She moans his name again, and he feels more blood rushing to his groin.
Her stupid vest is a bitch to get off, but he finally manages it. She tries to reach for his clothes but he stops her because he doesn't want her to see him. Her shirt is much easier to remove, and he fights the urge to make a quip about her breasts—yes they are small, but her perky nipples are the perfect shade of peach, and her skin looks so silky and inviting that he has to touch them to make sure they are as soft as they look.
They are.
He can't joke about something so perfect.
She gasps as he squeezes one nipple between his fingers; he remembers all those times when the perfect buds would be visible through the thin layers of her shirt.
He hates the damn scrubs she wears now.
His interest for her breasts diminish when she tightens. He feels the heat against his thigh emanating from between her legs.
He's pretty sure this is not what Cuddy meant when she suggested heat therapy for his leg, but it's doing wonders to the pain there. Of course, it is increasing the pain a few inches above it.
This is the hardest he's been since his twenties.
His fingers unbutton and unzip her slacks; she's so thin nowadays that the fabric just drops to the floor in a disappointing heap. He's instantly drawn to the damp heat between her legs, the silk barely hiding the ridges of skin and wiry hair under it. The bundle of nerves there is so swollen that he has no problems finding it.
Her knees buckle, and she stares up at him with a dare in her eyes, the same one she gets when he doubts one of her better theories. His fingers slide past the elastic of her underwear, and the wetness he finds there almost breaks him. She's tight around his digits as they slip in, and his thumb moves back to press against her clit, and she gets tighter as she spasms around his fingers.
He can't take her stare, so he kisses her again so he can close his eyes. Her nails dive into the nape of his neck, and he's sure they'll leave marks.
Headlights... before me
Her first orgasm draws out, languid and warm, the peak somewhat dulled by the wine.
When they make it to her bedroom, she realizes her bed doesn't have any sheets on it. The way he takes a seat on the bare mattress tells her he doesn't give a shit.
There is a half-empty box of condoms in her nightstand and she tosses one at him. He's removed his shirt, but he only lowers his pants enough to free his erection.
She tries not to stare at it, but her mouth waters at the sight as she moves toward him. His hands reach for her ass when she positions herself above him, massaging the skin of her buttocks. There's no romance as she lowers herself onto him, feeling him stretch her out in pleasant ways.
Drug-induced sex with Chase had had more emotion than this, but she doesn't care. The lack of emotion makes it easier, because if she doesn't feel anything, then maybe she'll be able to move on. Then maybe the fuzzy, comfortable feelings she feels for Chase will turn into something more.
Strong hands move to her hip. She thinks it's typical House, trying to control the situation, but then the hands don't stop moving. Feather light touches move up and down her torso.
Only in her dreams had she ever allowed herself to imagine he was capable of such tenderness, and she realizes tender touches bring emotions into the game and she doesn't want emotions.
She speeds up her movements, keeping her weight on her legs so she doesn't strain his bad thigh. It works, because the tender touches turn to hard kneading. She can't help it—watching the way he's biting his lip to keep control sends jolts of pleasure down her to her core.
Her second orgasm is sharp and unexpected, unlike her first. The wine must be wearing off; she should've finished the bottle. As she comes down, there's a look in his eyes that she's never seen before.
She tries to tell herself she never wants to see it again, so she says words she hopes will hurt him. "Couldn't do that with her?"
He moans before giving her an answer. "Couldn't do what with whom?"
"Get your new protegé in bed."
"Haven't tried it," he replied breathlessly.
"You're going to wait until she meets someone else and gets engaged first?"
"Worked for you."
"Fuck you, House."
"Why would I go through the trouble when you do it so well?"
She comes hard, refusing to accept that his bitter words might've sent her over the edge.
So beautiful, so clear
She's so tight around him, tighter than anything he's ever felt before.
It's breathtaking, and he knows he's close but he doesn't want this to end.
He hates her newfound bitterness; hates his part in creating it. It also makes him hot for her, makes her even more enticing.
If he had half a brain, he would fire Thirteen while he can; before he turns her into this.
Her eyes close so he allows the mask to slip a little bit more; allows himself to wonder how things could've been.
His orgasm makes his legs tremble in ways that have nothing to do with muscle atrophy.
She moves off him too soon for comfort, and he's left cold and sticky and alone. It shouldn't, but it upsets him.
She moves to the living room and comes back dressed; doesn't even spare him one look from her spot at the doorway.
"Come back," he orders, but doesn't know what he's asking—for her to come back to work, come back to bed, come back to him. He'll be happy if she says yes to any of them.
She doesn't, so he gets up, gets dressed.
He takes a triple dose of Vicodin before he reaches for his cane, and exits her apartment with the same haste he uses when he escapes the clinic.
Hit me hard enough to wake me
And lead me wild to your dark roads
She falls to the ground after he leaves, the tears she's been holding back finally falling.
Her eyes are swollen by the time she's done crying.
The wine stain is the first thing she cleans up. It takes a while, but most of it disappears.
And then she starts to unpack the boxes…
… returning things to where they were before.