Title:Coward
Chapter:1/1
Authors:jellybean30
Rating:PG-13 (just a little groping)
Warnings:Total fluff. Sappy. Basically, dripping with House/Cameron goo.
Pairings:House/Cameron
Prompt: New Year's Resolutions
Disclaimer: They're not mine. This was written for the 1/5/08 Saturday Night Writing Challenge at the Fox forum.
Coward
You shift your weight on your feet, wishing for the fifth time since you arrived that you'd listened to your practical side and worn lower heels. Your heels are throbbing rhythmically, but in discord with the jazz band that Cuddy has hired for the event. Everything tonight seems to be slightly off to you.
You feel wrong from the moment you arrive. You are late, later even than House. You check your coat and gather yourself up before entering the ballroom. Making an entrance has never been your thing; despite your triple check in the hall mirror you are still nervous about so many eyes being on you at once, stunning red dress or not.
It is worse than you feared. Dozens of pairs of eyes glance in your direction as you enter, but you don't notice. He is looking at you. You can feel him staring from across the room where he leans against the bar with a careless grace you envy. You simultaneously blush and cringe; you love how he makes you feel …and you wish he didn't make you feel that way.
You look away, unable to maintain such intense eye contact with him, even with a ballroom's distance between you. Instead you weave your way to the head table to wish Dr. Cuddy a Happy New Year. You exchange pleasantries, but don't keep her. Her objective tonight is not to chat up the staff, but rather the past and potentials donors who are in attendance.
You spot Foreman and Chase standing not too far off engaged in an animated discussion. They look like your best bet at the moment. You have no desire to stop and suffer through small talk with the numerous hospital employees scattered around and although you feel very much like you could use a drink, the bar is off limits until House leaves.
Chase greets you with a wide, easy smile and alters his stance slightly to invite you into the conversation. Foreman gives you a quick smile and a curt nod, barely pausing in his remark to Chase on the current topic.
New Year's Resolutions.
Ugh. Of all the things that they could have been talking about, you think this could potentially be the worst. New Year's Resolutions and you have a checkered history. Despite the fact that you would love to just pretend they don't exist, every year you find yourself making them, breaking them and aching to accomplish just one.
Foreman is pontificating, that is the only word to describe it, on the silliness of making a resolution to change yourself just for the sake of changing something. Chase listens with raised eyebrows until Foreman tirade is over, and makes a cutting quip about Foreman's inability to lose those last ten stubborn pounds. Foreman huffs and begins to walk off, but Chase apologizes and asks you what you think.
You look quickly at the floor and calculate how much to tell them. You finally decide a slightly altered version of the truth is probably best.
"When I was little, my mom used to have us make resolutions every year. But instead of something we wanted to change about ourselves, we had to resolve to accomplish a goal, something that we always wanted to do or thought we never could. That's how she got me to learn to swim, even though I never really liked the water," you say. It's true, just edited for content and time allotted.
Foreman smiles a more genuine smile in your direction and says that sounds like a nice way of looking at resolutions. Chase looks more thoughtful, though, and you can sense a question coming from him. You hope desperately that he will be able to discern you don't want to talk about it. He does.
"So, what's your resolution this year?" Foreman asks you.
You tell him you haven't decided yet; there are a few too many to choose just one. He smiles again and he and Chase begin discussing what they might resolve to do this year. You listen quietly, not offering much to the conversation but a short laugh when Chase announces he never learned to ride a bike when he was a kid and this is the year.
Your feet hurt, and you shift your weight to try to relieve some of the pressure. You know it's useless, of course, you need to sit down. You chance to look toward the bar and see that House has vacated his post there. You excuse yourself from the boys and make your way to get a drink.
Your vodka martini firmly in hand, you wander out to the balcony hoping to find a seat. It's bitterly cold outside, and you shiver involuntarily in your gown. It's lovely, but hardly practical. You find an unoccupied chair lurking in a dark corner and sit down gratefully, willing to brave the cold for just a few minutes off your feet.
"Is it cold out here, or are you just happy to see me?" a voice asks as you recline in the chair and tip your head back. You curse yourself internally. Of course he left the bar and came out here.
"House, please," you say, not in the mood to play his games.
"Begging already?" he asks, and sounds honestly amused. You wonder briefly how many drinks he's had.
You sigh and stand up, abandoning your drink in your haste to get away.
To say you are surprised when you feel his hand on your arm is something of an understatement.
"Sit," he says and you obey. You tell yourself it's because your feet really hurt that badly, and not because the look on his face intrigues you. You lie.
He drags a chair across the balcony's stone floor, unperturbed by the nails on the chalkboard screeching he's making, and sits next to you.
You don't look at him.
"Make any New Year's Resolutions?" he asks casually, and your head whips around to stare at him. You realize how stupid it is to think he was listening to your earlier conversation; it is New Year's Eve, after all, and he's probably just looking for some weakness to exploit.
"I haven't decided yet," you say and he nods.
Your mother really did encourage you to make resolutions every year, and always suggested you pick something you wanted to accomplish. You remember the year you resolved to learn to play chess, and the agonizing hours you spent reading before volunteering to play at a retirement center. You also remember how proud your mother was that you wanted to give up your free time to befriend the elderly, and how utterly wretched you felt because your motives were completely selfish.
You lie, of course, when you tell House you haven't decided yet. Your resolution this year is the same as it has been every year since you met him. You won't keep it; you can't. But you've come to realize that as an adult, people don't really keep their resolutions.
"You?" you ask him, because you don't want the conversation to end just yet.
"Sure," he says easily. "I'm going to bomb the clinic, convince Wilson he's gay and set Cuddy up with Foreman. Oh no wait, those are my evils plans, scratch that."
You can't help but laugh, and he actually almost smiles in return. You wish you could stay out here with him for the rest of the party, but the chattering of your teeth and the goose bumps marching in battalions over your skin have other ideas. You cross your arms and run your hands up and down in an attempt to warm up, but the effort is futile.
Before you've even uncrossed your arms to stand up he is putting his jacket over your shoulders. You turn and he's disturbingly close as he leans over.
"You'll freeze," he says and you nod. You pull the jacket closer around you. He is still painfully close. A familiar warmth spreads through you, the tingly, electric current you feel anytime you share space with him. You stare into his eyes, so blue you think the sky must be jealous, and catch your breath.
Breathtaking.
He's breathtaking.
You don't think. You lean forward and kiss him. You close your eyes and press your lips against his. They are warm, and yet they make you shiver. You don't even fully realize you're kissing him until he is kissing you back. You part your lips slightly and he takes that as an invitation. His tongue darts tentatively into your mouth and you moan. You deepen the kiss and he tilts his head.
You feel his hand on your breast.
"House," you say against his lips. "What are you doing?"
"Checking your pockets for needles," he says, his lips still so close that they brush yours as he speaks.
"That's not my pocket."
"Whatever."
You grin and he takes advantage by pressing his lips against your again. You lose track of all thought, because Greg House is one hell of a kisser.
When you finally separate, he looks at you expectantly.
"I decided," you say.
He frowns.
"My resolution."
He raises an eyebrow. Behind you a loud cheer erupts and fireworks being to fly overhead.
It's midnight.
"I'm going to stop being such a coward," you say.
He looks away for a moment, and you panic, wondering how that was the wrong thing to say.
He turns back and you can see the reflection of fireworks in his eyes.
"Me too," he says, and kisses you softly.
The fireworks in your eyes are no reflection.