Pairing: ChasexCameron
Warnings For: The usual. Actually there's rather more suggestive adult theme but this story'll never go into smut, just... pre-smut and post-smut.
Disclaimer: Don't own House, MD.
A/N: Thank you all so kindly for your reviews. They are really the inspiration that keep me writing this story. There is a definite lack of Cameron in this chapter, hehe. It also ended way differently (and I suspect the whole series will be taking a bit of a twist) than I meant it to, but who am I to argue with my pen?
Also, a few bits from the last chapter and rather a lot of this is lifted and adapted from my original writing project, so if you see it around, it's still me. It does make a wonderful way of starting a fic, hehe. (However, the fic is currently a lot longer than the writing, oh dear.) Anyway, like it, hate it, review... even if it's just a :) or a :(. ((and I know you're reading it because I'm watching the Hits number))
This arrangement is both beautiful and tragic.
Or perhaps beautifully tragic or tragically beautiful, you ponder, slipping into your jeans. You were at her place last night (technically, this night) so, naturally, you slip out around one am. It's like a gothic romance novel, you think, (conveniently forgetting she is very rarely romantic)- the two of you, slipping secret glances at work, even brushing necks with lips as you reach for the coffee, spending nights together and creeping out as the witching hour ends.
Put like that, someone should write it as a classic. Perhaps the reason that nobody has is that there's really nothing romantic about casual sex at all. Except that time she stayed, after the poetry, and you splattered waffle mixture over most of your kitchen and she sighed and made pancakes. That was what you signed up for.
But there's no going back now, because you're hooked.
You're hooked on her smell (not nectarines, you've decided, peach with a hint of lily-of-the-valley) and to the feel of her skin, that's made of the same stuff as expensive silk pillows, and to that swell in the corner of your lips that one can find if one knows exactly where to look -and she always can find it, perhaps because she is looking with her teeth and tongue- and you're hooked on the stuff that makes her her.
Oh, and the shagging.
That's pretty awesome too.
You finish dressing and wander out of her bedroom. You're in no hurry, you've no place to go, after all. She's sleeping peacefully, and you've never looked round here before. You've only been her twice, and you've been rather preoccupied on the way in both times. It's a spacious place. Her bedroom and bathroom lead off from doors that face into the lounge - slash - kitchen - slash - eatery - slash living room - slash office. With a baby grand piano pushed into the mix- the kind with the odd sound like church bells, that Grandma Jane left to you and you never did give away. You slip a hand under the back of your loose tee shirt and feel some bruises and dents starting to form.
They're not the usual teeth-mraks or scratches (she's pretty wild, when it comes down to it) and you have a strong feeling that the ornamental carvings on the piano played a rather large role in their formation. You keep a hand on the largest bump and just watch the piano.
"You play?" you ask, surprised, as her hands slip to your waist, surprised.
She shakes her head and, grinning, shoves you backwards. An ear-splitting chord emerges. You wince slightly and she smiles slightly. "Modern jazz," she whispers, moving a hand down casually to flip the lid shut beneath you, and your pulse races. Evidently, she feels it (perhaps through her own chest) for she gives you a coy look and moves your hands to her back.
"Bedroom?" you offer sweetly.
"Why?" she asks, matching your tone with a look that makes you shiver. "I'm perfectly comfortable here..."
This is where you blush and, grinning goofily, move your hand from the lump and your feet from in front of the piano. You wander round the apartment, checking your clunky wristwatch and knowing she will not wake naturally for at least fifteen minutes. It is strange, you think, as you stuff your hands into your pockets, but you would never guess the Cameron you know from work is the same Cameron who treads barefoot on these wooden floors. She is quieter in a loud kind of way, and darker, and so much sexier. The walls are painted a stylish mocha-chocolate and art adorns them in places where you have to look twice to check they really are there.
Twisting, twining sculpture. The first time you saw them, on your first awkward dinner here, eleven days, six hours after you met her, you saw wood. Two intertwining structures of carved, polished ebony, sitting together.
You blink.
The first is people, locked in an erotic embrace, mouths joined by shining flows of seemingly liquid wood, hands melting together, arms wrapped arounde ach other, heads somehow thrown back. You look along the thin strand of wood connecting it to the next one, unwilling to let yourself linger on the first. The first figure lies on the ground. You don't know how you know it is a figure on the ground, but you do. It is sleeping (dead?) and peaceful. The second is stretching in two different directions- to its lover and to the sky. It is begging to both, and crying massively oversized tears.
Your heart aches badly.
You reach out to the sculpture and touch the dead (sleeping?) lover, and you understand everything perfectly, every emotion and how they all roll together into love. You are still, exactly still, frozen in time. Your eye flicks to the clock and you realise you are cutting it fine. Soon she will wake up, roll over twice, have a glass of water and go back to bed. You head for the door with a last look at the carved weeping man (why is it a man now?) tearing himself between love and perfection. On your way out, you stop to look out of the picture hanging above the door. It is one that forms itself into different shapes the longer you look. "Sunflower," it is labelled, perhaps by the artist, perhaps by Cameron.
You wonder why it is labelled that. You see only a woman you know very well, standing in the rain.
A/N: Reviews keep this story - and me! - alive. Go on. Click it.