Not sure what was up with but the delay in posting was not my fault :) Here's the next chapter... as always, critcism is welcome! Grissom... glad you're still enjoying the story. My typos/errors annoy me greatly, especially when I see them after I've posted. I have had someone reading through the last few chapters, but I still end up finding things later! Eventually I will do one big edit and reload all chapters.
Chapter 15
The valet looked surprised and a little perturbed to be asked to retrieve the corvette he'd parked less than fifteen minutes earlier, but a twenty pressed into his palm relieved most of the annoyance. He came squealing around the block, oblivious to the limping man's grimace and the beautiful woman's suppressed grin.
"He didn't do anything to it," Cameron said, with amusement, as they drove away from the restaurant.
House's eyes had been checking every gauge and indicator since entering the car. He threw a sidelong glance her way as he replied, "That remains to be seen."
Her soft laugh brought his attention away from the car, and he glanced at her again, enjoying the look of contentment that graced her features. He turned back to the road and drummed his fingers on the wheel. Where was he going? He had no idea, but he kept driving.
"Pull in here," her voice broke into his thoughts.
"What? Where?" He was already turning in the direction of her pointing index finger. He looked up and squinted at the sign perched on the roof of the building. "Denny's?" Through the windows he saw that the restaurant was practically empty.
She shrugged. "It's food, isn't it? Besides, I like Denny's." She grinned. "Breakfast twenty-four hours a day."
House just stared at her for a minute, but then he shook his head and actually laughed.
If there was anything incongruous about a woman in a silk gown, and a man in a stylish suit walking into a Denny's in downtown Princeton, the wait-staff pretended not to notice. Or at least they pretended not to notice within sight of the couple. Behind the swinging door in the kitchen, the three teenage waitresses and two middle-aged cooks took turns concocting elaborate stories as to who they were and what they were doing there. The youngest waitress insisted that they had to be spies of some sort. The oldest cook just rolled his eyes. He knew an affair when he saw one, and he hoped the woman's husband didn't come barging through the door. Seated at their vinyl-upholstered booth, with ketchup and a laminated desert menu for decoration, House and Cameron were blissfully unaware of the controversy.
Despite her earlier comment about breakfast, Cameron ended up getting the fried chicken, and House got a hamburger almost as big as the plate it was served on. A mild disagreement broke out when Cameron persisted in stealing his french fries after he put up a hand to protectively hoard them. It was settled when Cameron gave her most pleading look and promised to pay him back later. Damn. He'd always been able to resist that look.
With no one around to watch them, and no expectations to be met, House found himself relaxing more and more as the meal went on. Cameron talked about her family, and he only gave one smirk at the discovery that she had grown up on a farm. House talked about his college and med-school days, and she knew not to press him about anything earlier than that.
When the dessert plates were cleared away and only their coffees remained, Cameron was full, and happy, and perfectly content. She looked across at House, attempting to guess how he was feeling about everything, but coming up blank.
"Not exactly what you had planned," she said with a lop-sided grin, hoping to draw him out.
House shook his head. "Not exactly."
"I've had a really good time," she told him, all at once shy under the combination of the harsh overhead lights and his piercing blue eyes.
"I did have one other thing planned for tonight," House said, as he folded and refolded the receipt before tucking it into his wallet.
Cameron looked up, surprised but expectant. "You did?"
"If you're not too tired."
She shook her head. "I'm not."
House stood up and avoided her gaze. She was smiling too much again. "Good. Then grab your bag. We can just make it."
He gave her only a moment to collect herself before heading towards the door. Cameron followed right behind, schooling her expression to one of polite detachment. Eventually he was going to have to get used to seeing her happy, because hiding her full emotions was beginning to get more and more difficult.
Night had taken over, and the city lights gave form to office buildings and the shopping district, with the twinkling illumination from a suspension bridge a distant landmark. He drove out of the center of Princeton and towards the east side, nearer to the river. Shifting in and out of gear, slipping between cars and around corners; Cameron had to admit that House was a masterful driver. He didn't even seem aware of his injured leg as he used it on the gas and brake.
A few more turns and he pulled into a nearly full parking lot, bypassing the handicapped spot and finding one close to the end of the lot. Cameron had never noticed that he didn't have a handicapped plate. It had actually never been a thought in her mind until that moment. Despite his limp, she just didn't see him that way, and obviously he didn't see himself that way either.
She got out of the car, shoes crunching on the gritty asphalt. House locked the car and joined her, and she was only a little startled when he slipped his hand around the crook of her elbow. Her eyes moved to it instantly, taking in the sight of his large hand against her pale, soft skin. He was looking at the building, never breaking stride, as if taking her arm was simply the normal course of action. She forced her smile to be an inward one.
Above the door, a blue neon sign glowed brightly, Giamano's, in a loose cursive script. There were no other signs, no windows, just a low brick building with music audible even from the street. House held the door open and Cameron walked in, immediately assaulted by the smell of smoke, and the sound of jazz. Through a velvet-curtained doorway she could see a few dozen tables spaced closely together, and most filled with people. There was a raised stage along the back wall and a long, bar, packed with the less boisterous, more serious drinkers, along the back. Tubes of blue neon formed art deco images on the walls and red glass candleholders dotted every table. She looked around, not sure where to go, but then House was back at her side and he nodded at a man dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, and led her to a small round table near the stage.
They had only been seated for a moment when a waiter appeared with a scotch on the rocks for House and a questioning glance for Cameron. She ordered a vodka martini and then cast her own questioning look at House.
"Do you come here often?"
Scotch burned a familiar path down his throat as he shrugged. "Often enough."
She cocked her head to the side and peered into his eyes, a tiny smile playing about her lips. "Have you ever brought anyone else here? It was a stupid question and she regretted it almost as soon as she asked it, but it was too late. The words were already in the air between them.
He stared back at her, expression serious. "Only Wilson and I don't think he counts since it wasn't a date."
Cameron blushed and looked down at the table, concentrating on the flickering candle. Stupid question. She felt like a child.
House contemplated her self-conscious expression as he took another drink of scotch. He set the glass down, swirling it slightly and feeling, more than hearing, the ice clink against the sides. Leaning slightly forward, he stared at the same flame she was watching.
"You seem to be under the mistaken impression that hidden beneath this scruffy exterior is some kind of lady's man," he said. "Maybe someone who picks up random women and has his way with them."
Her head shot up, the look in her eyes shocked and anxious. "No! I don't think that at all," she said quickly, suddenly remembering the mocking conversation between Foreman and Chase as they guessed at how many hookers House had slept with. She had wanted to slap them but all she'd done was laugh nervously and try to distract them.
"Two," House said simply. "That's how many in the past five years."
She didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything.
"Oh, and I didn't have to pay them and they didn't come as a set. But you don't have to tell that to Foreman and Chase. After all, I have a reputation to maintain."
She felt herself relax slightly at his snarky words.
"I never thought… Really… It's just my mouth…"
"Your mouth says exactly what's in your head and your heart," House finished her thought. "I like that."
Cameron blushed again. "I thought you always said I was too emotional," she replied.
"Sometimes you are, but at least you're honest about it."
Their eyes met and he could read what she was thinking. She would always be honest with him. She would always trust him. She would always… He shifted his gaze to the stage. He wasn't ready to see what else lay in her eyes.
Her martini arrived as the band began to warm up, and House moved his chair. He said it was so he could see better. He wasn't about to tell her that he wanted to be able to feel the heat of her body next to his. A minute later the music started and Cameron swayed slightly in her chair. She thought of jazz, sexy smoke, and Chopin and how good he looked in that blue shirt; General Hospital, the wind in her hair, and House's hand in hers and on her arm. She hardly noticed when her hand drifted onto his thigh, but instead of ignoring it and waiting for her to move, House covered it with his own, tapping the rhythm lightly against her long fingers.
Fresh spring air met smoke and scotch and candlewax as House and Cameron pushed through the door of Giamano's and stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was after one a.m., and yet neither of them was tired. Cameron wondered, self-consciously, if she was actually glowing, and House was unashamedly holding her hand.
They didn't talk much on the drive to her apartment, but it was a peaceful, contented silence. When House pulled into her driveway a slight twinge of uneasiness returned to Cameron's chest, but she didn't let it stop her from asking if he wanted to come up and using the undeniably lame offer of General Hospital on tape as incentive.
Ten minutes later and they were seated on her sofa, hands entwined in long brown hair and running over crisp cotton and muscular shoulders while their mouths met in one kiss after another. Cameron could taste scotch and a hint of the cigar she had bought him at the bar when she'd pretended to go to the restroom. Her tongue swept along the inside of his cheek and she gasped when she felt him slide his along the roof of her mouth, sending an electric spark through her body. House's hands were pressing her tightly to him, and she didn't know if it was the alcohol or the music, or the night itself, but she want him to stop. She didn't want him to, but she knew they had to or they'd go too far, and neither of them were ready for that. House seemed to know that as well, and he pulled back, just a breath away, and leaned his forehead against hers.
"Much more of this and I'll actually be in a good mood." He was breathing her air, smelling vodka and perfume and coconut shampoo under the scent of smoke that clung to them both.
"We wouldn't want that," she replied, her own breathing shallow.
Pulling back a little further, he looked into her eyes. "You should change into something more comfortable. I'll set up the VCR."
She nodded and rose from the sofa slowly as he let his hands drop from their place on her body. House watched her retreat down the darkened hallway, and then dragged his eyes away from her and picked up the remote control. He had everything cued up and ready to go in a matter of minutes, then tapped his cane with a sort of nervous impatience. Coffee wouldn't actually help that, but the act of making it might.
He pushed off the sofa and started towards the kitchen, calling out, "I'm making coffee. You want some?"
"What?" Cameron called from the bedroom.
House limped down the hall and pushed on the half-open door. "I asked--" That was as far as he got before seeing that despite the open door, Cameron had not finished changing. Blue silk was pooled at her feet and pale green pants now hung loosely on her hips. Her back was to him, a pale expanse of skin broken only by the sway of her hair and the thin black straps of her bra. He was only standing there mesmerized for an instant, but it was long enough for her to turn around and when she saw him she let out a strangled cry.
Her hands flew to her chest, but they couldn't begin to cover the entire scar, and she spun around again, nearly screaming at him. "What are you doing in here? Get out! Get out of here!"
"Cameron…"
Her voice was thick with tears as she shouted again, "Out!"
He backed out of the room, stumbling over his own feet and his damned cane.
As soon as Cameron heard the door click shut she fell to the bed, still holding herself and choking back a sob. Why had he come in? How much had he seen? Everything! He had to have seen it all, and this time without anything to obscure the full vision of what her body had become. A canvas for a jagged line. And now what could she do? Was he gone? Had he left? Was he still waiting right outside the door? What was she supposed to say to him? Sorry, I freaked out, but I never wanted you to see me naked? I'm a vain, shallow twit who can't get over her looks? The doctor says that plastic surgery can fix it if you don't mind looking at for the next year? I promise, we can just make love in the dark until then? The sob broke free and she pushed her fist against her mouth to stifle the sound. One night. She'd had one night with him. One chance. Why was it ending this way?
Step-thump, step-thump, step-THUMP. House paced the living room, growing more and more agitated with every step until he finally sank into the overstuffed chair. Well, he had his answer about how she was handling things. She obviously couldn't stand the sight of herself. Shit. Fuck. Shit. He pounded his fist into his thigh, throwing his head back at the pain and enjoying it because he felt he deserved it. She was going to think that he had saved her life and ruined her body and she was going to think it every time she looked in a mirror. He had turned her into him. All she needed now was the addiction and the shitty attitude.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Fuck. Things had been going so well. Why the hell had he gone into that room? He tossed two vicodin to the back of his throat, only then realizing that he hadn't taken any since that morning. Closing his eyes again, he tried to think of what the hell he was going to do now. Should he just go? No. Christ, even he knew that would be a mistake. Yeah, leave her alone when she was already feeling ashamed and unattractive, that would be a good idea… No. He couldn't leave. But then what? How long should he wait for her? Was she going to come out? Shit, did she think he had left? A check of his watch and he saw that only fifteen minutes had passed. It felt closer to an hour.
There was no sound, no motion coming from down the hall, and House got painfully to his feet. For another minute he just stood there, staring down the hall, willing her to come out. When she didn't, he limped slowly to her door, stopping there for another five minutes before finally knocking, the handle of his cane echoing in the still apartment.
She didn't answer and he was about to go back to the living room but he stopped himself. He was not going to just sit and wait. That wasn't who he was. He was going to make her talk. Now if he could just make his damn hand turn the knob.
Inside her bedroom, Cameron had wrapped herself in her heavy terrycloth robe and was sitting on the chair in front of her vanity, arms crossed in front of her chest, blue eyes turned almost black as she stared at herself in the mirror. She'd blotted away her ruined mascara, and her cheeks were too pale, her eyes too red. She covered her face with her hands, but lowered them the instant she heard the door opening.
House stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane and looking at her. At first he looked everywhere but at her face, but then his jaw clenched and he raised his eyes to meet hers.
"So..."
"I thought maybe you'd gone."
He frowned and stepped forward. "I wouldn't walk out like that. Even I'm not that much of a bastard."
"I wouldn't have blamed you," she explained, seeing in his eyes that he was upset at what she'd thought. "I did throw you out, after all."
"I wouldn't walk out," he repeated.
Cameron sighed and stood up on legs she was surprised to discover could still hold her weight. "Now what?"
"As much as I hate to say it, we should probably talk."
"What is there to say? You've seen it all now. I knew you would eventually. I guess I just wasn't ready yet. Especially not tonight. I wanted to stay…"
"Stay what?"
The smallest of shrugs preceded her words. "Beautiful. For one more night."
Two strides had him standing right in front of her and he grasped both her shoulders in his strong hands. Shit. He hated this. He sucked at this. "You are beautiful." The words came out slowly as if they had to travel through his entire body before reaching his mouth.
She laughed mirthlessly. "A ten inch line up the chest is not beautiful, House."
"You are more than a fucking scar," his voice rose and his fingers tightened involuntarily.
Tears pooled in her eyes and she pressed her lips tightly together.
"If you need to blame me, that's fine..."
"Blame you?"
"Damnit, I'm the one who gave you that damned scar!"
"You saved my life! The man who gave me this is sitting in jail."
They were quiet for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. Letting bits and pieces of truth fall into place.
"I want to see it."
She was shaking her head instantly. "House, no."
"Let. Me. See. It."
Blue eyes captured hers and she bit her lip and then nodded her head almost imperceptibly. Her fingers worked clumsily at the knotted tie holding her robe closed, and when it came loose she looked back up at him anxiously.
"I don't want you to see."
His hands covered hers. "I've already seen it."
Her eyes dropped to their entwined hands and she moved slightly and let the robe fall open until it was barely resting on her shoulders. She was still wearing her bra, and she'd slipped into her soft cotton pajama pants before he'd interrupted her. Inhaling a sharp breath she looked up at his face and saw that he was just waiting for her. He hadn't let his gaze drift to her chest.
House's hand moved towards her and then he stopped, asking permission with a look and being given it by another. She couldn't help flinching as his gentle fingertips touched her sensitive skin. A shiver passed through her and then she was still, calm almost, as his callused fingers traced the line she'd followed herself many times that day. His hand felt warmer than hers had, and even gentler than her own.
A hundred images rushed into his brain as he looked at her. Blood, helpless anger, fury and relief. Fear. Fear that he had barely acknowledged even that night. He pressed his hand between her breasts, feeling her heartbeat in his palm. Remembering it beating in his bare hand. He looked up at her worried face.
"This changes nothing. Nothing," he said, the words harsh and resolute.
Tears were in her eyes again and she blinked rapidly, not wanting him to see them fall. Without thinking, she covered his hand with her own. "Maybe from now on, when I see it, I'll think about the reason I'm alive."
He shook his head and grimaced. "Don't give me that much credit."
Slowly he closed her robe again, tying the sash into a loose knot at her hip. "I should go. It's late and you need your rest."
Before he could take a step away her hand was on his arm. "Don't go. Please. Stay here tonight. Just lie here with me. Like you did before."
Just as before, he didn't say anything, simply toed off his shoes and started to get undressed, this time stripping down to his t-shirt and boxers while Cameron slipped a shirt over her head and removed her bra. Rustling, and shifting, and the squeak of the box-spring as they settled in under the covers, close, but not touching. Then a small hand slipped into a larger one, and more shifting until his arm was around her shoulders, and hers was draped across his chest, and her long hair was falling over both of them. Long minutes later, and their quiet breathing was the only sound other than the crickets outside the window.
