So here's just this short little…thing. It was sparked by this song, and I just had to write it. I might be able to expand it if people are interested. I have decided that I have developed a very-nearly unhealthy fetish with Wilson, so anything involving him is love. I hope someone finds this worthwhile. And I apologize now for the angst. It was rather accidental, really.
Cameron sits on an uncomfortable padded bench in the corner of his room, tying up her hair as the subdued colors that signaled dawn bathed the room, and she thinks that this is most definitely the last time she'll be here.
Just like last time was the last.
And the time before that.
Her hands freeze where they are poised on the button of her jeans, momentarily started into stillness by the sudden movement in his bed. Among the mass of blankets, she spies the head of thick brown hair. He's snoring. Every time that Cameron has been here, she's left before he woke; before they had a chance to discuss 'what they were doing.' On a good day, she'd be out of his apartment when it was still dark; she'd trained herself to escape without making a sound.
Today was not a good day.
Luckily he hadn't jolted awake yet, training those rich chocolate eyes on her, pinning her with the hurt and abandonment she was always anticipating. They never talked at the hospital, unless it was strictly work-related. When he would take it upon himself to be House's companion and join him for lunch in the adjoining office, Cameron often felt those very eyes on her; probing for something – anything – that could serve as proof of her affection.
There were days that she wished that they could have sex and enjoy each other's company afterwards, like normal people. She wished that it was possible for him to hold her gaze without looking away ashamedly. Most of all, she wished that he could tell her he loved her.
She wished it were true.
Cameron sighs and tugs the zipper of her sweatshirt up to her chin; it is unreasonably cold outside for late September. She pauses with her hand on the door, turning to glance over her shoulder at the sound of the ancient bedsprings creaking and the unmistakable sound of a tired yet wistful sigh.
"Where are you going?" His voice is genuinely confused, as though he honestly has no idea. An arm stretches stiffly across his face, blocking his eyes.
"Where I always go; home," she answers tetchily. Somehow, this rude interruption of her escape has truly pissed her off, and she wants nothing more than to stomp her feet in frustration and stalk out the door.
The arm falls to the side, and he uses it to push himself up, so that he is able to squint at her properly. "Can you come here a minute?" She turns to face him, arms folded tensely, her face firmly set into a scowl.
No! she wants to scream. No, I will not fucking 'come here,' you fucking bastard!
But she goes, because she's so masochistic.
"What?" she growls, her feet stopped just beside the bed. She expects him to tell her not to bother coming back. She wouldn't even be surprised if he slid a fifty dollar bill into her waistband, thanking her for a good time. Of all the things she has prepared herself for, one of them is not what he actually does. Which is push himself up to his knees, so that his eyes are level with hers, and place a gentle – almost timid – kiss just below her ear.
Damn him, she thinks. Damn him for knowing how to control me. I hate him.
The gentle kiss is slowly becoming more aggressive, and all Cameron can think if how dead he will be if he gives her a hickey. Though she is pretty sure she is going to kill him anyway, because she is starting to remember just why it is she keeps coming back. It's his inept ability to make her melt with one touch.
She tries to tell herself that it has nothing to do with the fact that she might be slightly in love with him.