The Waiting Game
There are days when outside your window
I see my reflection as I slowly pass
Then I'll long for this mirrored perspective
When we'll be lovers, lovers at last
-Death Cab for Cutie
The Death of an Ideal
She knows that he has noticed.
They are subtle changes; a little more makeup, one less blouse button done up, but for her they are huge insights into her new outlook on
this situation.
Bold.
Foreman just raised an eyebrow; Chase didn't even give her a second glance, but he noticed.
Of course
He sits at his desk, silently swiveling back and forth.
He stares, blatantly stares at her.
She knows he is watching.
When she sits at the conference table her skirt hitches up and the slit exposes her mid thigh. His eyes immediately follow the newly
uncovered skin.
Good, she thinks, this skirt is serving its intended purpose.
She teasingly crosses her legs achingly slowly.
He continues to leisurely swivel in his chair, side to side.
Chase leaves; heading down to finish his clinic hours, Foreman is facing away from them, unaware of the insane eye-fuck going on
between his two colleagues.
House lifts his chin slightly. It is his silent queue to her. She thinks she understands what he wants.
With a quick glance in Foreman's direction to make sure that he is still preoccupied with the newspaper in front of him, Cameron uncrosses
and then spreads her legs just the slightest bit.
The shift is barely even enough to be considered provocative, but their entire relationship has been built on nothing but small touches and
lingering looks.
She has never been this turned on in her life.
This wet.
He hasn't even touched her and she is barely containing the helpless noises threatening to spill from her throat.
Now she knows. She knows they will have sex. She knows that he knows it too.
She considers her options. She could leave a note for him on his desk.
A note? God that's juvenile
Well, he's a little juvenile
What would the note say? Fuck me right here in front of Foreman?
Besides it's too risky, Cuddy is always snooping
Maybe she could just show up at his place tonight.
Yeah that would work out well, show up while he's screwing a prostitute
Does he actually do that?
Her internal monologue is interrupted.
"Foreman, go make your self useful elsewhere." House is talking to Foreman, but he keeps his eyes on Cameron.
Annoyed, Foreman responds,
"Got a place in mind or should I just aimlessly wander until I find someone to work for?"
"Your people are good at that aren't they? I'm sure you can figure something out."
Foreman just rolls his eyes at House's racist remark and exits the conference room.
Now it is just them.
Alone.
Her heart races.
This is it -she thinks.
Anticipation is building within her body, but it is fleeting. He stands to leave.
"Where are you going?" She asks her voice is rather breathless.
"To eat some food, find a case, and then jerk off," he stops in mock contemplation. "Maybe not in that order."
She makes a silent "Oh" with her mouth as the blush rises in her cheeks.
He returns with a case.
The whole team has made it back to the conference room, and House throws the copies of the file down onto the middle of the table. Each
respective doctor grabs a folder and begins reading. House sits at the head of the table eyes intently focused on her.
Of course.
She is carefully scanning the text before her. Jacob Gibson, age five, chronic fatigue, joint pain, and vomiting.
Lovely- she thinks.
He stands, marker in hand, "So anybody got any ideas?"
A death sentence.
This little boy needed surgery, a surgery he probably won't live through, and even if he did, the life he would lead would be one filled with
pain, frustration, and overall misery.
That sounds rather familiar
He knows this is hitting her hard.
He is testing her.
She knows he is trying to make her a better doctor, but in this moment she just considers him an asshole playing god. So, it really pisses
her off when he sends her to stand in on the boy's surgery.
Her feet hurt through hour three, but she is too focused on her patient's monitors to notice the dull ache beginning. Then, it happens in a
single moment.
Blood is everywhere.
It is drenching her scrubs.
It is in her hair, squelching in her shoes.
She has never seen this much blood.
An artery must have burst.
She doesn't remember much. Jacob is dead. His blood is all over her. She is sitting in the hospital locker room, the shower is running, but
she cannot get in.
She is staring in the mirror; the image of this child's blood all over her is startling.
It is deep crimson, her skin is translucent white, and her scrubs were a dull salmon color.
She realizes that she must be crying because her cheeks feel wet. She hadn't noticed; she isn't making any noise. She collapses down on
the bench. Then the sobs begin.
She hears the handle of the locker room door turning.
Oh please no, anyone but him.
It's him.
He takes in her form. She is still wearing her blood-soaked scrubs, her eyes are red from crying, she is shaking; her hair even still has blood
in it; probably from her hands. He sees that she had turned on the shower.
"You plan on wearing that all night?" He motions with his head to her attire. Her eyes plead with him to leave her alone.
"House, please just… leave." She is too exhausted to hear once again that she is weak and pathetic. That she still cares too much and that
she will never be a good doctor until she can't feel anymore. She supposes she will never be a good doctor then.
He can break me
"Stand up." When he speaks she just looks up at him. She is trying to convey her exhaustion merely through actions without saying a word.
He rolls his eyes at her and then grabs her upper arms. They shuffle silently towards the shower. Their gait is awkward; he with his limp
and her weak shaky legs make for an interesting combination. He slides back the curtain and ushers her against the back wall of the
shower onto the bench meant for handicapped users. He backs away for moment, still directly in front of her. He begins to remove his sport
jacket.
What is he doing?
He toes off his shoes one by one, and then works on the buttons of his shirt. He slips off the button down; he looks around for a moment,
and then goes to lock the room's door.
He pulls his t-shirt over his head and lays them all down over the bench in the center of the room. He stands before her, clad in only his
jeans and looks completely floundered.
She assumes that even he doesn't quite know what he is doing yet.
He enters the large shower stall and closes the curtain. He locked the door so no one would see them anyway, but it blocks some of the
light and the darkness is soothing to her tired eyes.
"Can you stand up?" His voice is calm. It isn't overflowing with compassion, but it lacks its usual gruffness.
She nods.
She reaches out for him and he steadies her by holding her waist. After a moment he begins to pull at her scrub top. He lifts it over her
head and now she is clad in only her bra. She stares up at him; eyes questioning. He shrugs at her, his motions saying,
"Well, you couldn't keep wearing it, and you weren't taking it off yourself."
He redirects the water's flow towards them and then stands in front of it, so that the water cascades down his back, getting the top of his
jeans wet.
"Feel this," he grabs her hand and puts it under the stream, "is this too hot?"
She shakes her head no. He then unties the drawstring of her scrub bottoms and slowly pulls them down her hips. He has to kneel
awkwardly and she puts her hands on his now wet shoulders for balance. She feels like a 5 year-old who can't tie her own shoes. She
stands in front of him now, in only her undergarments. He throws them towards the back of the shower stall where her top is as well.
Reality is a funny thing.
You tweak the context of this scenario the slightest bit, and it becomes a whole different situation.
This is not the situation she imagined, no, this is the fucked up real life version of them.
He puts her under the stream of the water and silently washes the blood out of her hair.
There are no shampoos or conditioners, but he works his hands through effectively none the less. Even in the darkness she can see the
blood leaving her hair and swirling towards the drain. There is something faintly sexual about his touching her, but it doesn't feel
uncomfortable or awkward.
It feels good.
She hasn't had this much care placed on her well being in a while, but, she supposes, it is also because he is the one who is touching her.
His jeans are soaked now, but all the remnants of Jacob have been washed off her body. He turns off the faucet and as he wraps the towel
around her she notices the look on his face as he examines her body.
She wilts under his scrutiny.
She knows she is too thin.
She doesn't need him to tell her. She closes the towel around her body and pulls back the shower curtain. She opens her locker and begins
to pull out her extra clothes. He stands there uncomfortably. She realizes that he probably hadn't thought this all the way through and now
has no dry pants to wear. She puts on her track pants and the sweater she packed and looks at him putting his t-shirt back on.
She goes to a locker a few down from her own and opens it.
She rifles around and comes out with a pair of men's slacks. She throws them at him, he looks at her confused.
"This nurse picks up her husband's dry cleaning on the way to work, stashes it in her locker. He's a tall guy; they might be a little big around
the waist."
He nods and takes off his jeans and puts the new pants on. She is right, they are a little baggy in the waist, but they are long enough and
they are dry.
"We are going back to your place."
It is not a question, she is inviting herself over.
Today she was determined to have him. The death of a patient shouldn't deter her from her plan.
People die everyday
She will keep telling herself that.
"We?" He isn't sure where she is going with this.
She shrugs,
"I need the misery fucked out of me by someone."
Notes: Wow that was long for me. I tried a little something more. Let me know if this totally tanked.