Disclaimer: DOH
The air continues to walk between them, cool and smelling of something antiseptic and too familiar to their senses. He hadn't thought far enough ahead to consider what he'd say if she said no.
Cameron exhales softly, her mouth more tired than frustrated.
"What'd you think I would say? What's changed?"
When he keeps staring at her, she walks to him, her footsteps hard and solid against the floor until there's silence once more and she can almost feel the warmth of his body under his clothes. It's not so difficult anymore.
"I don't need you, House."
It's said in that low tone of her voice she uses to try to make him pay more attention to the words. He looks down, locking onto her gaze and after a few moments, realizes their breaths are going in and out in synch.
"You're lying," he mutters, eyes focused on her lips.
"You," she wets her lips, "don't deserve me."
She almost thinks she can hear the wood crack of his cane, but all she can see is his face slacking before hardening into those infamous features of icy blue eyes and glass cutting cheeks.
"You treated me like someone special, and then you ignored me before doing something stupid like buying me socks to make me forgive you. A few days, a few weeks, and you'd pick a fight so that I'd leave you, but I wouldn't leave you and then you show up with some DVD you got on the internet about mating rituals in the animal kingdom.
"You always screw up, House. And I always forgive you. You're never there for me, and you never need me."
Shrugging slightly, Cameron raises her hands to let them brush the edges of his blazer until they catch the lapels, not tugging, not pushing or pulling, but merely resting against the rough fabric. She can feel the intensity boring into her, but she can't look at him now, not when this is something she never wanted to say.
"You asked me what I wanted from you. It's not dinner and it's not a few movies. It won't fix anything this time because I'm tired of taking you back. I can't keep looking behind me to see if you're going to jerk my ankle so I fall. We can't do this to each other and take care of our child at the same time."
House can feel her pull away, feel her fingers drop away to her bag, feel her stomach brush against his as she turns, feel her bag as it passes his hip, and feel the itch of her hand as it swings at her side, empty because he can't step forward.
He pulls out his vial of Vicodin and swallows two without realizing it, the action second nature in the haziness of the effect her words have left behind.
She rubs her arms as she walks inside his silent apartment, wondering why he hasn't turned the heat up and why the television's not on to some stupid cartoon show. Discarding her thin jacket quickly, she puts on the sweatshirt he hates to wear that's been left hanging on his sofa.
"House?"
Her footsteps suddenly seem louder as she makes her way down the hallway and notices the door to his bedroom is halfway shut. With a cloth covered hand, she pushes it open with comfort and slight hesitation and it swings open with barely a whisper of discontent as it shows its occupant sitting on the edge of the bed facing her.
He looks up, his elbows resting on his thighs, or rather, his left elbow on his thigh and his right elbow near his knee. She almost speaks. Her mouth opens and her brain forms the words, but she stops herself from ruining what's about to come. Instead, Cameron treads softly towards him, watching him watch her with something like a warning beacon behind his eyes. But that's always been there, and she's never listened to it anyways.
The smell of her reaches him before her skin does, and he fights the urge to close his eyes so the sensation is heightened and is great enough to make him forget the reason he's sitting here like this in the near dark. Leaning back and looking up, he allows her to move between his legs, watching the way she tries to carefully make herself comfortable, tries to not ask questions.
He can see it in the tightness of her forehead, even though her bangs are trying to shadow the area. He can feel it in the way her arms are forcefully slack on either side of her waist, the extra fabric of his sleeves covering her deft hands. House finds himself unable to resist the calm reserve she's offering. His hands shift from his legs to the sides of her knees, the denim coarse under his barely there fingers, and her muscles tightening in defense and fear.
There aren't many times he can say he's touched her like this, so openly, so studyingly, so focused as if she'll disappear. He moves up, his hands encircling as much as they can of her distal thighs and rubbing his thumb across what he hopes is warming skin before slowly moving upwards until he can feel the back of her buttocks against his index fingers. Slowly, he moves his hands medially until his thumbs are at the junction between her thighs and he can feel a slightly shaky breath expel from her lips as he pulls her closer to him.
The bottom of the sweater covers most of his hands, and in the fear of the moment, he pulls away. She still doesn't say anything as she looks at him, and he's surprised. He hasn't given her enough credit.
Cameron can feel him making up his mind, can see the wheels turning and the possible outcomes being sorted and weighed. It's best to just let it pass.
His hands are in the same place again, hiding beneath the too large end of his sweatshirt. But he doesn't need to see to know where her button is, and so he undoes it, his fingers cool against skin that twitches at the sensation. The zipper fascinates him then, the simple mechanism surely the last barrier in his way. He toys with the metallic piece, flicking it up and down with his thumbs while the tips of his other fingers rest between her bare skin and dark fabric.
Stopping his playing, his hands lose their connection with her skin as he grabs the hem of the bothersome sweater and folds it up so that he can see the short blouse underneath failing to connect with her jeans. Returning to the zipper, he slowly unzips it as far as he can, eyeing the white fabric of her underwear with something close to curiosity.
Becoming warmer, his fingers trace the edges of her jeans until he's at her waist, meeting the area where he can feel her left anterior superior iliac spine. His left hand pulls down the top of her jeans while his index and middle finger walk over the protruding bone margin just like when he'd first started medical school and been forced to palpate his classmates. At her iliac crest, he cups his hand so that his fingernails are flat against her skin and he runs them softly over the area back and forth.
Watching the top of his head, she wonders what's going on. She's afraid for him, of him, with him. Finally participating, Cameron raises her hands away from her waist, causing him to pause in his ministrations as she places hands still covered in sleeves on his head.
The stiffening she expects, his muscles not sure whether to accept or reject, and so she doesn't stop. Stepping closer to him, she brings her right hand out of the sleeve to allow her fingers to explore his scalp. He usually doesn't like her to explore this much since he's not comfortable enough with her younger age and his thinning hair. It's never mattered to her.
Eyes shutting, he brings his face to her stomach and exhales against her bellybutton. One time. He can give in one time, can't he? He moves his left hand to her right hip and can't stop himself from digging into her flesh. In the back of his mind he counts the seconds until she's had enough and pulls his fingers away.
It hurts. She flinches against the pain on each of her hips, but instead of moving away, tightens her hold on him against her abdomen.
His father isn't a bad man, even though every time he comes to visit House, this is what happens. The son becomes even more bitter, unsure of himself, more reckless and outspoken. He's drained, trying to prove something to a man who doesn't have the skill to understand his life. But he has her now, and whether that's good or bad, she doesn't know.
"You smell good," he mutters.
She fingers the hair behind his ear, unsure of what to say, of what he needs to hear.
"Vicodin flavored lotion is the rage."
The air of his scoff tickles her stomach.