The Haunting of Possibility, a house, m.d. fanfic

The Haunting of Possibility

By: Emmy

Spoilers: Some, but they're far too obscure to mention.

Disclaimer: I don't own House, M.D. or the characters involved, I only own the order of the words.

Summary: She tilts her head and chews on her lip and you ignore a dirty, dirty thought. And then you ignore another seven. xOneshotx

A/N: Well, the ending was most definitely NOT what I had planned. SO not subtle that I have a bruise from it hitting me over the head. I hope it isn't THAT bad, and please forgive me, I'm tired and annoyed at school. So, you know, review if you want, try and keep it constructive. And enjoy… if possible.

004.everyday is the same
when looking straight ahead;
caught in the safety of routine

You remember the smooth brush of Stacy's hair on your fingers. You can still feel the satin of the strands as you brushed your fingers through it. It fascinated you, in a fashion. So many separate things coming together struck you as odd.

You remember the taste of her mouth on yours. The bitterness of the coffee she'd have at half hour intervals. She was never gentle with you. You were never gentle with her. It was a battle and a truce both. You never figured out which you preferred.

You remember the way you both talked to each other. The way you both pretended not to care half so much as you did. The way you laughed. The way she shoved you against the wall and mixed her breath with yours when she was angry and had run out of words.

You remember and envy, surrounded by the safety of impossibility.

She's standing in front of you. Her hair coiling past her shoulders in an intricate weave of honey and gold. Her skirt is brushing against the tops of her knees gently. She looks tired and scared and mostly just alone. There's a sluggish reluctance to her movements which is frightening and familiar in its air.

You wish that this wasn't becoming a routine.

It's been a bad week and you're all tired. Wilson is worried and Cuddy must be too, since she hasn't hounded you about clinic duty for at least two hours. You haven't slept in far too long, and glowing fuzzy balls keep dancing past your eyes. You feel a little bit dizzy and a lot sore in your leg. You'd have more Vicodin if you thought you'd be able to get the bike home in one piece.

"This… We…"

The opportunity to mock her hangs in the air. You're too tired though, to the point where it's getting hard not to imagine tracing your index finger along her collarbones. The sound she'd make if you kissed her just right. The taste of her lip balm. The soft whisper of her hair on your palm.

"It's not going to change, is it?" she whispers and her tone shouts 'resignation' until you wince.

You ponder her words thoughtfully, twirl your cane in the air until you can feel the air as friction and a force to fight. It's a question and a statement and you're scared of deciding which means the most. By the time you're ready to answer her, she's gone.

Her perfume still lingering like a ghost.

The next time it happens is in the hallway. It isn't exactly the same, you'll admit, but it's familiar in essence. You can still taste the déjá vu in the air. She's walking along, head buried in lab results. She's reading with an enthusiasm that you thought belonged to boys with a new playboy.

She walks straight into you.

Her head jolts up and her mouth purses into a surprised circle. She steadies you with a quick hand on your arm that lingers a second too long. She pushes her glasses back up her nose and hair out of her face in a single, flowing movement.

"Didn't see you," she supplies needlessly.

"Look where you're going," you suggest helpfully.

She just smiles and it's more sarcastic than amused. You've been noticing it a lot lately. The question that's bothering you is whether or not it's always been that way, or if you just read her better these days. You hope it's the former because you've always prided yourself on being quick to learn expressions.

"It's negative," she adds it as an afterthought but a thought all the same .

You guessed that already, and have spent the last quarter of an hour staring at an x-ray. You'd have gone for longer, except that you found what you were looking for and decided that the patient could live without treatment long enough for you to grab a bite to eat with Wilson.

"I know," you inform her and smile mysteriously.

You've always loved theatrics, and you love them even more when she spends the entire lunch asking you questions until she figures it out for herself.

You like the excuse for watching her face so closely.

On a whim you decide to visit her at the lab one Tuesday morning. You're bored and she's taking forever and General Hospital isn't on yet. You come in unannounced and sit on the bench. She murmurs a variation of a greeting but is far too busy to give you anything more. You place your cane so that it's leaning against the wall and twirl a pen in your fingers. Decide that the room is too quiet.

"I only started watching because of my leg," You tell her, and don't expect her to fill in the gaps.

She pauses a moment and turns to face you. These are your favourite moments, because this element of her is easy to predict. She's too curious by far, and doesn't like it. Won't even own to it. There's a lure in the unknown that calls just as loud to her as it does to you. The difference between you both is that you don't fight it.

"Watching what?" she asks carefully.

There's a moment of silence as she takes her glasses off her face and flips them about in her hand.

"General Hospital."

You watch her reaction closely. Watch as she stores the new information carefully away in her head. You've no doubt that she'll overanalyse the confession and then analyse it some more for consistency. She tilts her head and chews on her lip and you ignore a dirty, dirty thought. And then you ignore another seven.

"Daytime T.V. in general, actually," you continue, because it's a distraction you need.

She smiles softly at that, and this is the part of her you don't understand. It's a little bit soft and a little bit blurred and very honest. You aren't sure which part of her this is, you don't know if it should be put in a category of its own. This is the Allison Cameron that you only get restricted access too. You don't think that it's very fair, because you know that Foreman, Chase and even Wilson don't seem to have any trouble bringing her out.

You blame it on a defence mechanism, and don't feel bitter about it at all.

"Alright," she agrees, and you think it's an odd answer.

"Hello," you say to her one evening when she's packing her stuff up and you're feeling contrary.

It only seems fair, you reason, because you didn't say it to her this morning.

Confusion flickers briefly on her face before she decides to give up coupling logic and this moment. They would have made a bad couple and you only like divorce when it isn't hurting you.

"Good morning," she replies with humour colouring her tone.

You're surprised because this her isn't meant to come out whenever you're within hearing distance. It's happened before, but not often. You tilt your head at her and ponder life and the universe and everything in it for a moment.

"I don't suppose you'll give me a back massage." You make it a statement because this isn't your territory anymore and you don't like being disadvantaged.

She only shakes her head and laughs for a breath before turning and leaving you all alone.

She's doing your clinic hours because you told her to. At least, that's what you keep telling yourself. There are parts to her motivation that you can't account for, and most of the time don't want to. It's safest that way. Not that you aren't afraid of getting hurt. She's sitting in exam room one wearing your name tag and being nice.

You know for sure because you've just walked in.

You wouldn't have if you weren't so bored. There's a case that Foreman wants you to take. He's been hounding you about it and you are interested. But you've been enjoying the lull and some things are hard to let go of.

"A word Doctor House?" you ask with mock sincerity and her face twists with annoyance and amusement.

She pauses a moment and sends a questioning look to the patient, who shrugs an unaffected compliance.

"Certainly Doctor Cameron," she replies with a curve of her lips.

Once you're both out of the room you size her up carefully. Annoyed and confused and affectionate. You're caught on the fact that she seems to be humouring you. You decide to ignore it and open you're mouth to ask a question that's been annoying you but not really for at least a week.

"You only buy free-range eggs, don't you?" you ask with an accusing glare.

She stops a second, stationed somewhere between bewildered and frustrated. She opens her mouth and doesn't say a thing. She closes it again and draws her brows together in thought.

"If you're this bored then just take that case," she advises and slips back into the room with an apology to the patient.

You stand still and watch the door until Cuddy finds you and sends you to exam room two with a patient.

It's in the car park when you finally snap. You left before her, but you've found that being a cripple seems to have slowed you down a bit. It's a hot day and you parked underground so that your car wouldn't get stuffy.

She's in a skirt and a tank top that's almost casual. 'It's hot' was her excuse when she walked into the conference room and all conversation promptly died. She's walking by your side and filling your silence with an anecdote about something Chase did the Friday before last at the club she went to with him and Foreman. You're trying to pay attention but you keep getting distracted by the sheen of sweat on her collarbones.

You stop suddenly and place a hand on her arm to stop her too. She does and turns to you with very wide eyes and a smile on her lips. It's rare that you see her this casual, and you'd enjoy it except that you're finding it very hard to ignore her bright blue bra strap as it slips down her shoulder.

Your thoughts are a jumbled mess of honey, gold, lips, eyes, blue and lip balm. You take a deep breath and slam her against the mini, parked conveniently close by. Your mouth is on hers and there is a moment of stillness that stretches for an eternity.

Then she's action and reaction and you aren't quite sure who's kissing who. It isn't gentle and isn't rough. You've hit a medium that echoes of something not-quite-desperation. She does something with her tongue that distracts you quite effectively for a moment.

You open your eyes and see that she's watching you, one hand in your hair and the other brushing cautiously down your cheek. She pauses at odd moments and closes her eyes briefly. There's a level of concentration to this that surprises you. Then reminds you of your last time with Stacy.

She's memorising this. Doesn't expect it to happen again. Wants to know and to feel and to remember. This is her curiosity shining through, and her acceptance. You're half insulted and attempt to tell her to do that thing with her tongue again or else. Except you forget to speak and she does it anyway.

It doesn't last forever, despite what you were hoping, and she pulls back. There's a split second of hesitation before she brushes her lips just below your ear and flicks her tongue out. Just a taste to add to her memories, you remind yourself, and ignore how much tighter you're holding onto her shoulders all of a sudden.

This isn't routine, never has been. It's an obsession, and the acknowledgement tastes bitter in your mouth.

That's okay though, all the best things in life do. You think Vicodin and coffee. Grapefruit juice and Stacy. Dark chocolate and anise seed. Allison Cameron who you just kissed breathless. And who happens to be waiting for an explanation. You consider telling her that her you find blue bra straps sexy. Instead you settle for the most ridiculous excuse that pops into your head. It'll be easier to just laugh this off that way.

"I tripped," you tell her seriously.

She looks hurt for the barest of seconds and then laughs a little, hand ghosting over the red marks your stubble left on her face. You think for a second that she might kiss you on the cheek, but she checks herself and slips away.

"'Night House," she calls over her shoulder, and there's that familiar resignation twisting in her voice that you hate.

You wonder if this was the end of it all, you hope it's only the beginning.

The next day comes and she doesn't acknowledge the past. You both get on with your jobs and your lives. She doesn't embarrass you and you don't embarrass her. It's an unspoken truce.

Neither of you can help it that the permanent state of life is change.

Or that you happen to want to kiss her again.

And again.

And then some more for consistency.

.end.