A/N: Standard 'sorry for the wait' author's note :p. I have 4 fics going currently and I'm trying to do them on rotation while sorting other work and non-ff writing so things have been a bit backed up for a while, but I promise I'm going somewhere with this fic eventually! :p Honest!
"It's too late."
House mulls these words over as he sits in his overstuffed leather armchair with a tumbler of whisky held in his hand. He sips at it periodically, relishing the harsh tang that coats his tongue and numbs his lips. It's a darker, peatier blend than the one he and Cameron had indulged in together, and for that he's glad. The memory of the alcohol he'd tasted in her kiss consumes him, no matter how violently he strives to push the thought away. The memory of their previous night together plagues him, and he supposes the only consolation of this bitter burden - save for the pleasant imagery - is the fact that it has taken over from his earlier ruminating on her expression when she'd told him to leave.
To leave her alone.
He is still surprised by her request, although he knows that it has been months - years - in the making. In all fairness, she should have demanded it of him much sooner, but she has always been forgiving. She has always been a masochist in the face of his particular blend of pain.
"Kinky."
He muses gruffly, but he does so without the usual smile this tangent might pull from within him. He knows that it's true; he knows that there's an element of sadomasochism to their relationship, but it's not the perverse kind, nor something he has much reason to grin about now that he knows he's pushed it too far.
He regrets what he said to her in the DDX room, he really does. Not just because he knows that she's right in calling him out on it being grossly inappropriate when aired out in front of his team, but because what he'd said to her - the things he'd implied about her - are very far from the truth. He'd made it sound as though she were cheap, and as though she were out to cause trouble, and he knows full well that there's no veracity to any of it. He's fairly certain that his team is aware of this also, but he understands that this isn't the point. The point is that he'd chosen his words to be cruel, which - as she'd implied herself - hadn't been the first time, but it had added salt to the raw wounds left the previous evening, and he'd rubbed it in callously. Hatefully.
"You couldn't even wait for me to get off your lap; to fucking unmount..."
She'd spat at him, and that had hurt. It had hurt because he'd seen the way his actions had made her feel in the glitter of green eyes and the set of her jaw. They had done something stupid, something they'd both known might be a mistake, and his immediate rejection of her after the deed was done had cut deep. He'd seen it when she'd climbed off of his lap and he'd seen it when she'd glowered up at him in the prayer room.
It doesn't matter that he'd not been meaning to reject her. It doesn't matter at all.
He can see that now.
He can see that now that she's not here for him to explain himself to and perhaps heal some of the wounds he has helped to carve.
It only matters that his action s- or lack thereof - had felt like rejection to her, and while he might ordinarily roll his eyes and claim limited responsibility for another's perceptions, he isn't so blind that he can't see where she's coming from.
She'd accused him of his affection in the locker room last night; suggesting that the way he had been towards her had been some sort of act given how the night had ended, and that hurts him too, because he'd seen how much his apology and his opening up to her had meant to her, and for her to now question that shared moment aches.
For the most part, because I can see where she's coming from. I can see why she'd question it... And the very fact that she does so flies directly in the face of all of the things I have accused her of being and feeling over the years. She's cautious. She's guarded... But then, I knew that already.
"Fuck."
He hisses glumly, and Wilson grunts in his slumped slumber on the couch. They had left their previous conversation about the blonde and about her misgivings as he had refused to indulge the oncologist with any further information. Instead, they had watched the end of the volleyball match in silence, before playing a game of cards for the last bottle of beer. After that, House had left the living room and drawn himself a bath; something he has been doing more and more often these past few months as the pain in his thigh has been getting ominously worse, but, of course, he hasn't told Wilson that.
Hasn't told anyone that.
And as he'd been lying submerged in the bath - free of blood, free of gore, free of bad decisions that could have gone oh so wrong - he'd come to the glum realisation that the only people he ever would be likely to discuss his leg with have been methodically pushed out of his life. There had been Stacey; she'd been there for the worst of it, and while he has always held a certain amount of contempt towards her simply for the fact that she was party to his downfall, he'd been able to talk to her at the worst of times. They talk less these days, if at all, as that lifeline has been disconnected and he knows he suffers too much pride and too much stubbornness to be the one to mend broken bridges. There's Cuddy, but he knows that he's been making her life difficult recently, and that their fresh spate of doomed patients hasn't helped. If he complains about his leg, she'll ask him about his Vicodin and about how much he's been drinking. She'll pry in her attempt to offer him help if he asks for it, so they have reached a stalemate.
There was Cameron.
Yes. He tries to tell himself that this isn't the case and that he would never discuss his leg with the blonde - she'd probably be struck with cries of ecstasy at the very prospect of personal sharing! - but he knows that this isn't altogether true. Since she has stopped working beneath him, he has come to her several times to discuss matters he hasn't brought up with the others. Always causally. Always offhandedly... But she's always listened.
And, to give her credit, she's either very discreet, or she hasn't found herself orgasmically overcome by my offering her confidence and seeking her out.
A small smile at this, but again, it lacks humour.
He knows that yet again he is digging at Cameron when she doesn't deserve it.
That, and I know well enough that she is discreet, but wonderfully so. Organically so.
She was real.
"Stop."
He reprimands himself, and he pushes himself up from the chair and limps over to the window. After a couple of minutes, he turns and reaches for the phone; calling a cab to take him to the hospital. He accepts that he is beyond the limit to be driving himself anywhere, but his vices have never stopped him from getting lost in his work, and right now, that's just what he needs. He knows that Hadley and Taub are on shift tonight, along with Kutner if he remembers correctly. He will go and see what they've gotten up to and allow them to busy him with their conflicting theories and opinions.
Work has always been the best medicine for him, after all.
And best of all, he knows he won't be interrupted by Cameron until tomorrow morning.
Well. Not in the flesh, anyway.
"Over here."
Chase beckons, and Cameron heads over to the booth he shares with Foreman at the back of Darnelli's. The boys have already ordered, and when the waiter comes over to hand her a menu, she shakes her head and slips in beside Chase while stealing a couple of fries off his plate.
"You should eat. Have you had dinner?"
Foreman frowns, and green eyes narrow at him dangerously across the table as the blonde warns quietly
"Please, don't start."
"Don't start what?"
"Just... Don't."
Cameron sighs defeatedly, and Chase and Foreman exchange a confused glance but neither pushes the topic further. Instead, Foreman orders a round of beers and pushes his half-eaten linguine into the middle of the table along with a spare fork. Watching as the blonde spears a couple of capers up with little enthusiasm, he sighs and asks her
"Did you go and see the patient?"
"No. The police were in there when I went up, so I put together some samples for a toxicology report."
"They've done that already."
Chase frowns, and Cameron shakes her head as she reaches for one of the beers placed on the table and takes a sip.
"No, they only did the basic tox screen with a separate test for ethylene glycol poisoning, which, no offence, doesn't make any sense at all based on your patient's symptoms."
"She's your patient too now, and it was Taub's call."
Foreman shrugs, and Cameron contemplates amber suds as she points out
"Well, I haven't seen any of the girls for myself yet, but I've heard what you've all said about the state they've all been in. Anyone doing that isn't going to go down the anti-freeze route."
"So you're a cop now?"
Chase grins, and the blonde raises a brow as she replies smartly
"Being a cop - a good cop - is mostly just using common sense. I have some of that too; it's not a mutually exclusive deal."
"Fair."
Chase agrees, before pleading with the others earnestly
"That being said, can we please, just for a couple of hours, not talk about your bloody case?"
"You brought it up."
"I didn't, he did!"
Chase argues as he gestures towards Foreman with a jerk of his thumb, and the neurologist chuckles as their bickering reminds him of old times. Taking heed of Chase's request, he sips at his drink before regarding Cameron shrewdly and asking bluntly
"So what's up, Cam?"
"What do you mean, what's up?"
She replies guardedly, and the others exchange another glance, this time one of conspiracy, before Chase elaborates
"We know something's up, so we're asking what it is."
"Who says something's up?"
She bristles visibly, and Chase rolls his eyes as he sighs dramatically
"Cameron."
"Chase."
She mimics silkily, and Forman leans across the table to stare her down pointedly
"Cameron."
He insists, and she glares back at him before lowering her eyes and studying her beer with a huff.
"I don't know what you guys are talking about."
She tries without much hope that this poor answer will dissuade the others from interrogating her, and when she's met with their silent, rapt attention, she lowers her head into her hands with an audible groan, before muttering irritably through the veil of her hair and the barrier of her fingers
"...This isn't the kind of conversation to be had over beer. Not just one, anyway."
And Foreman smirks as Chase grins and laces his arm around skinny shoulders and calls over to a passing waiter that eyes the blonde with polite concern
"Could we have a bottle of your house wine?"
"Red or white, sir?"
"Both."
Cameron replies glumly, before sitting back up and regarding the others.