A/N: Again, this was posted at LJ long ago, so it may seem familiar to some of you. Starts during the date from hell in Love Hurts and continues on from there. A/U obviously. There are 19 chapters total, and a short 2 chapter sequel. I've just got some minor editing to do, so updates should be pretty regular.
Disclaimer: I wish.
Beta'd by blueheronz, who really made me stretch my writing muscles, for which I am grateful. Thanks so much, my friend. (She also came up with the title, because I suck at titles.)
On with the show...
Her ravioli could have been made with paste and filled with dirt, for all Cameron tasted it. Her appetite had fled somewhere around the phrase, You don't want, you need, and when the waiter came to take their order, she had pointed blindly at the menu and nodded at whatever he said. The one bite she'd managed to choke down now sat in her stomach like...well, a lump of dirt and paste, while she pushed the rest of it around her plate with her fork in a pretense at eating.
She laid down her fork and gulped her wine, wishing she'd had the foresight to order something stronger, like three fingers of JD straight up. House sat across from her devouring his meal as if nothing was amiss; no signs of emotional turmoil or discomfort whatsoever on his face, aside from the fact that he wouldn't actually look at her.
"So there's absolutely nothing I can do to make you think that I don't like you."
"No," she responded with a smile, resolute in her conviction.
What a stupid mistake, she thought. Telling House he couldn't do something was akin to issuing a triple dog dare to a nine year old boy. She'd thrown down the gauntlet and he'd taken it up with the determination of an Olympic athlete. Hell, he probably had a gold medal in dashing hopes and dreams.
She knew she was worked up when she started thinking in sports metaphors.
What was the saying? Pride goes before a fall? She'd been so confident, smug even, that she was close to cracking his shell, especially when he'd given her the corsage. Of course, she blamed herself for backing him into a corner with talk of feelings, which she should have realized would be as welcome as a discussion of Laura Ashley decor. She'd made a tactical error in thinking that a direct push was what it would take to get him to open up to her and now she could see that that was the exact opposite of what would work on House.
And now it was probably too late.
"Movie starts soon. You ready to go?" he asked, startling her from her thoughts.
She glanced around and noticed their plates had been cleared, the check now sat in front of him stuffed with cash, and he was pulling at his collar like it was a hangman's noose.
"Just... take me home," she replied, resigned to the fact that this date was beyond redemption.
He yanked off his tie the second they left the restaurant, stuffing it into his pocket almost contemptuously before climbing into the car. She sat in the passenger seat holding his cane and twisting it between her fingers, conscious only of the awkward silence that hung between them, and haunted by all the things she should have said to him.
House parked outside of her apartment building and began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while casting occasional sideways glances in her direction, which only served to exacerbate her already jumpy nerves.
"We could still go..."
"Don't worry, House," she interrupted, swinging her legs out of the car. "You kept up your end of the deal. You're off the hook. I'll see you at work on Monday," and she slammed his car door none too gently and marched up the steps toward her apartment.
"Cameron," he called out, and she turned, surprised he hadn't sped off already like the proverbial bat out of hell.
"Yes?"
"Cripple here, remember?" he said, frowning at her from over the roof of his car.
"What?" she asked, squinting at him in confusion.
"My cane," he snapped, looking at her like she was a stupid child, and she realized then that she was still holding it. "What? You wanted a souvenir of our evening together?"
"Sorry," she muttered, mentally cringing and wondering what else she could do to embarrass herself. She handed it back to him with barely a glance at his face, then turned and fled back up the steps before he could insult her again.
Once inside her apartment, she kicked off her heels and unzipped the dress she'd taken so much time and effort to choose. She stalked toward her bedroom, peeling it off and letting it fall in a heap on the floor just inside the doorway, certain she'd never wear it again. Stepping over it, she reached into her closet for a sweater and her favorite pair of jeans, pulling them on roughly. She had only one goal in mind: to get out of her apartment, stop dwelling on the date and her own foolishness and do something, anything, to distract herself.
She took a quick glance in the mirror. At the sight of her mussed hair, she looked away, ignoring her appearance. As long as there was nothing stuck in her teeth, she didn't much care what she looked like at that point. Stuffing her feet into her mules, she grabbed her purse and headed back out the door.
MD MD MD MD
As House drove off, he imagined Cameron up in her apartment, probably curled up on her bed sobbing into her pillow at that very moment. Or maybe she was crying quietly over a glass of wine, her feet tucked under her on the couch. Whatever she was doing, he'd bet his vintage Corvette that there were tears involved.
Why did she have to make it so hard not to give a crap, he wondered?
A miniature Wilson sat on his shoulder and urged him to go back, apologize, tell her it wasn't her fault. Tell her that he was the one that was too screwed up for her. But a tiny version of Foreman sat on the other, telling him it was for the best to let things be, he'd only end up hurting her further.
With a mental shut the hell up to both, House yanked the wheel to the left and made an illegal U-turn, ignoring the screech of tires and the obscene gesture from the driver behind him. He wasn't good at apologies, but maybe just showing up at her door would be enough. Cameron was a pretty forgiving person, after all. Cameron was...pulling out of her apartment complex and passing him as she headed in the other direction.
He blinked in surprise and yanked the wheel again, performing his second illegal maneuver of the night in order to tail her. Considering her emotional state, he wondered if she was headed to a bar to get drunk and possibly pick up some sleazy guy for a one night stand. There was no way in hell he was gonna let that happen.
Friends don't let friends drive teary-eyed and sleep with random losers. Or something like that.
A few minutes later, and not without some mumbled complaints about her incessant need to keep to the speed limit, he followed her into the parking lot of the local movie theater. It was the last place he expected her to go. But maybe she preferred to cry in the dark, surrounded by strangers. Maybe she liked to watch sappy chick flicks or some Jane Austen period crap in order to make herself feel better.
He parked and hobbled out of his car, limping as fast as he could so as not to lose sight of her.
She stood a few feet in front of him, waiting in line to buy her ticket, alone in the crowd. The sight of her like that, scanning the marquis while people milled around her with their friends and family, brought an unfamiliar lump of emotion to his throat. She should be among them, laughing with a friend or hanging off the arm of some nice, predictable guy who'd give her everything she deserved. And what she didn't deserve was a broken down, drug addicted cripple, whether she knew it or not.
He tapped his cane impatiently, glaring at the woman in front of him when she turned and gave him a sharp look.
"Nice perfume," he muttered sarcastically. "They have a sale at the warehouse club on that stuff?"
Normally, he'd have wielded his cane and cut the line. What was the point of being a cripple if you couldn't use it to your advantage, after all? But he wanted to observe her unnoticed. His height gave him a clear view of her, and he watched closely looking for clues to what made her tick.
She reached the front of the line and handed some bills to the pimple-faced kid behind the counter. In turn, she received her ticket and moved toward the concession area. House scanned the movie listings to try and discern which movie she was going to see. There were several romantic comedies--he shuddered at the thought--a horror flick, one Bond movie and one action adventure that promised a lot of explosions and violence.
He plunked his own money down and requested a ticket for the Bond movie, keeping an eye on Cameron at the concession stand as he hurried Acne Boy along.
Ticket in hand, he stood behind a pillar and waited while she purchased a bag of popcorn and an icee. With her hands full, she turned and headed toward theater number three. Ah, action flick it is, he thought, surprised by her choice. He wondered if watching things explode had some kind of therapeutic affect on her. She certainly didn't seem upset, but he couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that sensitive, tenderhearted Allison Cameron would have taken his analysis of her so stoically. Especially since she'd looked like she was on the verge of tears as soon as he'd finished his spiel.
Once inside the dimly lit theater, he spotted her climbing the steps toward the middle section of seats, and stood mesmerized at the view of her swaying hips. He watched her as she chose a seat in the middle of the row, wedging herself past some young guys, who nudged each other and grinned their own appreciation of the view.
She settled herself into her seat, placed her drink in the cup holder and dug into her popcorn, engrossed in the trivia questions that played across the screen. Meanwhile House plotted ways to get himself a seat without being spotted, hoping to hold on to the element of surprise as long as possible. He moved back to the exit, cursing his bum leg and trying to think of a way to sneak past her, when a young woman with a theater employee ID came to his rescue.
"Sir, there's an elevator around the corner if you need it," she said politely, eyeing his cane.
He followed her to the elevator and made his way up to the top row, coming out behind Cameron. With a satisfied smirk, he slipped into the seat next to her.
She turned to him and her jaw opened in surprise. "Dammit House, are you following me now?"
"Nope," he lied. "I really wanted to see this movie. Ebert and Roeper highly recommend it--gave it two thumbs up and everything."
"Right," she answered, clearly not convinced. She took a sip of her icee and ignored him until he reached over and snatched a handful of popcorn from her.
"Hey, get your own!"
"But then I'd have to limp all the way down the stairs, and my leg hurts," he whined.
"Sucks for you," she answered, as she moved her popcorn to the opposite side, out of his reach.
Maybe she wasn't that forgiving after all, he thought, studying her profile in the dim light, wishing he knew what was going through that intricate mind of hers.
"Soooo," he started, "why are you here?"
She smiled knowingly. "You mean, how come I'm not home crying in my pillow?"
He raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Okay, how come you're not home crying in your pillow?"
At this, her smile turned smug. "I was mad at first, because I like being psychoanalyzed about as much as you do. But your analysis of me couldn't have been more wrong. I have no reason to be upset."
"Right," he answered skeptically. "Then why didn't you just come here with me?"
"Because I was wrong too. I practically forced you into this date when clearly you didn't want it. I get it now and I'm...sorry," she said with a sigh. "Now that you've got your answer, will you please leave?"
"What would be the fun in that?" he answered, snatching up her icee and taking a long drink.
From directly behind them, the purposeful clearing of a throat caused them both to turn and stare. Now that he had their attention, the man brought his finger to his lips and let forth a hissing "Ssssshhhhh," like he was scolding naughty children.
"You need silence to read trivia questions?" Cameron snapped, frowning and causing the man to shrink back in his seat.
House raised his eyebrows and leaned toward her with a smile. "That was hot," he said admiringly. "I am officially turned on."
She rolled her eyes and snatched her drink out of his grip, placing it back in the cup holder. "I don't suppose if I move to another seat you'd leave me alone?"
"Nope!" He smiled. "Nice try."
"Fine, but if you touch my icee again, you'll be wearing it," she warned.
Somehow he believed her. He had to admit he liked this feisty side of her.
"This is way more fun than dinner. Imagine what we can do when the lights go down," he murmured in her ear. He was hoping to see the tell-tale shiver of desire that he knew his proximity brought out in her. But if she was affected, she hid it behind an exasperated sigh, which only served to heighten his fascination with this new side of her.
"House, I am not gonna play this screwed up game with you. If you can't let me enjoy the movie, then move to another seat."
"What game would that be?"
She turned fully toward him with a determined look on her face. "The one where you follow me around because I'm not conforming to your preconceived notions of me. You think that my coming here is some kind of anomaly and you don't like it because you can't explain it. My indifference to your remarks bothers you. You don't want me, but you don't want me to lose interest in you either."
Unwilling to show any indication that she might be right, he let out a derogatory hmph sound. "Now who's doing the psychoanalyzing?"
"You asked," she responded simply.
"You're wrong anyway. I've been trying to get you to lose interest in me for months."
"Right," she said, with a knowing smile. "That's why you kept asking me to come back to work and why you bought me the corsage and why you like to brush up against me in the lab. You're trying to get me to lose interest. Great plan. Or was that supposed to be reverse psychology?"
"You tell me. Better yet, what does Freud have to say about it?" he remarked sarcastically, inexplicably angry all of a sudden.
She shrugged him off with a blank expression and turned back toward the screen.
The lights dimmed and the previews started to play. He kept his attention on Cameron, wondering if this new found indifference was real or an act. She certainly was convincing. And he wondered why it bothered him so much, and why it bothered him that he was bothered.
The movie began and House found himself pushing away that unsettling feeling as he tried to focus on the plot. He was acutely aware of Cameron at his side and found himself enjoying her company more than he would have thought possible. It was particularly fascinating when she laughed at a cheesy line of dialogue that was meant to be serious and dramatic because he found himself nearly laughing at it too. The sound of her laughter was almost foreign to him, bringing back memories of Monster Trucks and cotton candy. She laughed at work sometimes, but never like this; never this unguarded, spontaneous sound that seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep inside her. He wasn't about to wax poetic about it. It wasn't tinkling or musical or melodic or any of those adjectives you'd find in a cheap romance novel. But he found that he liked the sound of it more than he ever could have imagined and wondered what it would take for him to make her laugh like that again.
About halfway through the film his leg started to cramp up. Reaching for his Vicodin, he popped two in his mouth and swallowed them dry. It was tempting to reach for Cameron's drink again and he wondered vaguely how long it would take her to offer it to him if he pretended to be choking. The way she seemed lost in the plot, he might get away with sneaking a sip.
"Don't even think about it," she whispered, giving him one quick warning look and turning back to the movie.
Damn, she was good. He smiled, impressed and pleased to know that she wasn't completely oblivious to him. He found himself wanting to touch her, and not just sexually. Leaning toward her, he allowed his arm to brush against hers and linger there, wondering if she would entwine her fingers with his or pull away if he took her hand.
Watching her was fascinating; the way she ate popcorn was almost erotic. She plucked one piece at a time from the bag, not quite bringing it all the way to her mouth but rather, extending her delicate tongue to capture each piece and draw it in between her rosy lips. It was the first time that popcorn ever made him think dirty thoughts.
As she stared ahead at the screen, he stared at her profile, mesmerized by the changing light that played across her face. Her eyelashes seemed impossibly long and curled just right as they swept up toward her brows and down toward her smooth cheekbones. He had never met a woman who was so incredibly beautiful and who alternated between resenting her beauty and being completely unaware of it. In his experience, most women used it to their advantage every chance they got.
If there was one thing she was right about, it was that he hated anomalies and she, Allison Cameron, presented the biggest anomaly of all.
Before he knew it, the credits were rolling and the house lights were glaring down upon them. He stood up and blocked the aisle before she could escape past him.
"You want to get a drink?" he asked.
"No House, I don't. I'm tired. I'm going home. Goodnight." She brushed by him and made her way quickly down the stairs, not looking back.
He noticed she still held her cup and popcorn bag. If he wasn't mistaken, she'd do the nice thing and put them in the trash on the way out, instead of leaving them for the theater employees to clean up like most people did. He found himself grinning over this quirky need she had to always be courteous.
Taking the elevator again, he made it to the main floor just as she emerged with the crowd flowing out the theater doors. He fell into step beside her, surprising her once again.
"Thought you could get rid of me, huh?" he teased.
"Obviously I'm not that lucky," she sighed, increasing her pace out the door and toward her car.
"Cameron," he called after her, although he wasn't sure what he even intended to say. Maybe a repeat of his earlier invitation to get a drink. All he knew was that he didn't want to go home just yet. He wanted to spend more time with her, learn more about her.
"Goodnight," she called out again and sped off.