Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.
Chapter 9: Silence
At first, House didn't budge from his position. He was quite content to stay on the floor, with his mouth next to Cameron's stomach. His brain told him to move; his lips told him to stay. They were warring with each other, and it seemed that his lips were winning. Though he did nothing at all to acknowledge it. He didn't back up; he didn't move forward. Just sat there as the ringing continued.
It had been so clear a moment ago that his scruffy face belonged on her stomach. He could have melted at Cameron's sharp inhale when his lips had met her pliable skin. His lips were soft - the softest thing about him - but Cameron's skin was definitely softer.
That damn phone.
His fingers slid off of her stomach and he covered her back up with the blanket - like re-wrapping the paper on a present he'd always wanted. Pulling himself to his feet, House fought back the taste on his lips and grabbed the ringing phone from the end table.
He glanced at the clock on the VCR; a red 9:16 glanced back at him. Red. Always red. He squeezed the phone tighter and allowed himself to get angry. Right as he was about to throw it across the room, his curiosity got the best of him, and he moved his thumb to the 'talk' button. He felt that Cameron must be watching him, but he made not attempt to confirm it.
Pressing the button and bringing the phone to his ear, he stood up a little straighter and spoke with an heir of professionalism. "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up, look at the clock, and then rethink your annoying desire."
There was silence on the other end. And then, "I'm calling for Dr. Gregory House," in a deep and sobering voice. A male's voice.
"Ah, hold on." House pulled the phone only a few inches away and then yelled rather loudly across the room, to absolutely no one, "Dr. House! Are you still not here?" Cameron wasn't watching before, but now her eyes were fixed on House and his game of charades with himself. He replaced the phone to his ear. "Dr. House isn't here at the moment."
Again, there was temporary silence. "When can I reach him?" The voice was clearly unamused.
"Tell you what - leave me your name and number and he'll call you back at his personal convenience." When the voice didn't respond to his mockery, House remembered his interruption with Cameron and let it fuel him into further derision. "But Dr. House told me to tell you: whatever you're selling, he either already has one, or he doesn't need one. Unless it's a membership card to the Exclude-Me-From-Your-Call-List Club. And I mean a legitimate card. Real plastic and all." He stopped talking for a moment and thought about it. "Gee, how smart would that be? Call people just to annoy them, then try to sell them insurance that prevents you from calling again. Sort of like the mafia, only: cheaper, easier, and more technologically advanced. And who says telemarketing is for high school dropouts who simply can't do any better?"
A long pause took over the line, and House began to wonder if the person was even still there. But his question was soon settled with something he was never expecting.
"This is James Buchanan." The man's deep voice was still steady and sobering. Something resembling sad. "Rachel's father," he clarified.
House had already been preparing his next sarcastic strike when his plan fell completely through. He couldn't even remember what he was going to say to the guy; his system was in that much of a shock. Rachel's father? . . . Was calling him now? The father had been the whole reason that Cameron was out there that night. He was the reason she ran to the parking garage and followed House to the ghetto.
"I'm Dr. House," was the only thing he could manage to utter. And then he looked at Cameron, who was looking in earnest at him. She was so faultless and youthful laying there, and he wanted it to last forever. He had fed her and laid her down and made her feel safe and comfortable. And now this? He couldn't stand to ruin it.
So he left the room. He shuffled off to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. "Mr. Buchanan," House addressed.
Cameron's gaze trailed after him as he closed his bedroom door. She had seen the snide, playful image die. Like a kite falling smack to the ground with a sudden loss of the wind - optimism broken. A different cloud had cast its shadow, and House hadn't seen it coming. A storm - something eerie, something dangerous - was passing overhead. Cameron could feel it. She could sense it. She could see it in her perfect recollection of House's pastel-faded eyes.
His phone conversation had amused her, up until the point of his splinter. Some kind of pain was emitted in the moment of his silence, and Cameron didn't wish to dwell on it.
She wanted him back beside her, rubbing his blue-jeaned leg against her sleepy hair. Oh, he would deny it if she accused him, but ever so often while they were together on the couch, House would move from his current position, just enough to reassure himself that Cameron was still there beside him. He needed that physical solace. And as soon as the point of contact between leg and hair became stale, he would feel the need to move again. Refresh the sensation.
And then when he got up and sat down on the floor in front of her, Cameron's heart did a flip-flop in her rib cage. She wasn't expecting to find him so close to her face, but somehow she knew, before she opened her eyes, that his mouth would be calling to hers. And it was. His scruffy jaw line had seemed to seal the deal, and North had pulled South into a molecular bond that was strong enough for a chemical explosion. But when he had gotten to her face, he had lingered, and the heat mixing back and forth between them made Cameron want to scream. She had held her mouth open, waiting for the bomb to drop. It was toxic. It was torture. And then he had pulled away.
Cameron had expected him to run from the situation, but he only ran to her stomach. And he touched it, and his bottom lip caressed it. She was shuddering the entire time, amazed by how good it felt, but shocked by how she was even able to feel it. An entire week worth of cringing and crying and throwing her fucking guts up. She should have been numb - to pain as well as pleasure. But House's lips on her skin sent both pain and pleasure reeling through every inch of her body.
And for every nerve ending that had fired because of his touch, she felt that much worse for forgetting. For forgetting that his touch meant nothing - that its value would be buried with Rachel.
Would be . . . Just as soon as somebody found her.
To be continued . . .
