A/N: I'd originally planned to delve right into the next chapter, but then this one just sort of just happened, and I felt it worked/ was important, so I hope it reads alright :). I'll try to update with the part I imagine you're all waiting for soon! Reviews on this one would be appreciated :)
Wednesday.
Cameron stands with her backside rested against the kitchen counter and a mug of coffee held between her hands as she studies the calendar pensively. Of course, there's nothing filled in for today, save for a line running through the neat little box that belongs to the arrow she's drawn across the page to indicate that she's on holiday.
Hardly what I'd call it.
She sighs, imagining she would be going stir-crazy by now with nothing to do were it not for her nerves and her uncertainty over what might happen tonight.
That's not strictly true...
No, alright, she's not as bored as she'd been worried she might be, but the reason is hardly all that favourable. She's been plagued with uncharacteristic bouts of fear since being sent home to recuperate and prepare for her disciplinary; her heart pounding with nervous alarm at the sound of footsteps out the hall, her sleep fraught and broken as she pulls herself out of repetitive nightmares with a breathless gasp. In these fever dreams, she's cold, she's stuck in the dark with voices shouting overhead, and all that she can see in front of her is a barrel; nailed shut and seeping a foul-smelling viscous fluid.
Hardly surprising...
Perhaps not, but she's kept her recent bouts of terror to herself for fear of worrying the others with matters she hopes will simply resolve over time. She'd had to come clean about her lack of sleep when Chase had checked in on her last night; his remarks suggesting that he was concerned she might be coming down with something setting her on edge as she's fully aware the others are still deeply paranoid over the noxious cocktail she'd been subjected to down in the storage room beneath the warehouse. She'd explained away her pallor and fatigue under the guise of still being quite sore and thus finding it hard to rest comfortably; making no mention of the paralysing sense of fright that has made it hard to get up and go to the bathroom in a way she hasn't experienced since she was a child of four or five.
Still, it hadn't wholly been a lie. She is still a little sore. She suspects that if she were preoccupied with work and the busy chaos of the ER, she would only be vaguely conscious of the fact, but stuck in her apartment with her thoughts going places she wishes they wouldn't, she's unusually aware of the pain in her side, the ache in her shoulder, and the tenderness present in her fingertips and bottom lip.
In a way, she's almost glad that House showed up to set her nerves on edge with his baited invite, although her dreams have occasionally taken on a rather strange blend of horror and lust since his unexpected visit. Smirking down at her coffee, she sighs and looks back up at the calendar with a sense of anticipation and mild dread.
Wednesday.
She just hopes it goes better than last time.
Well, it can hardly go worse!
There is that, she supposes, and she knocks back the last of her coffee before heading into the bathroom and turning the taps to fill the tub. She's momentarily certain that the smell of bleach lingers on the white enamel as she leans down to insert the plug, but she shakes her head, telling herself that she's imagining things. Stripping out of her pyjamas as she waits for the water level to rise, she considers her reflection thoughtfully in the mirror; wondering if House sees what she sees when he looks at her.
She's not sure. He's told her that he finds her attractive, but then, he's also made several less flattering comments concerning her appearance since they've known each other. Regardless, she's tentatively decided to believe that he likes what he sees, but as for which features he finds appealing, she's utterly clueless. The only time he ever offers her specific remarks about her aesthetics, they pertain to either her breasts or her ass, but she knows him well enough to have a suspicion that neither asset is actually what he's paying attention to when he studies her.
She doesn't dare to even guess what it is that he sees in her.
She just knows he doesn't see what she sees when the matter is reversed. He's never been able to understand what it is that she finds so attractive about him, and she imagines this to be the cause of some of the barbed comments he throws her way. He calls it a personality trait, she calls it defensiveness, and in the end, she imagines they're both right.
You should tell him. He might not want to hear it at first, but it could do him good...
"Yeah! Because that's sure to help things go smoothly!"
She scoffs sarcastically, turning away from the mirror and stepping into the bath with a wince. The water keeps on running and she takes care not to let her feet stray beneath the scalding stream of the hot tap. It feels strange bathing without a demure cover of lather, but she doubts adding bubbles will do her side much good and so simply stares down at her shins as the warm water reddens her pale skin before reaching carefully forward to shut off the water.
As usual, she finds that as soon as she's gotten into the bath, she's ready to get out again; never able to wrap her head around the appeal of sitting around doing nothing, especially when naked and soggy.
She wonders belatedly why she didn't just step under the shower.
She refuses to answer her own question, reaching for her razor and thinning her lips disapprovingly as she's accosted with several giddy memories of getting ready for previous dates and pushing them firmly out of her mind.
That's not what this is...
...Right?
Honestly, she's not sure just what tonight is supposed to be. The air had been thick with innuendo between them when House had dropped by and reiterated his invitation over Thai food, but they'd been playing each other at the time, and she's not ready to completely discount the possibility that his suggestive remarks were made purely to wind her up and watch her blush. She'd like to think he wouldn't do that to her given the dismal events of the last couple of weeks, but she's fully aware that tormenting her - particularly with explicit content - is one of his favourite pastimes.
"He's not just fucking with you this time..."
She mutters as she lifts her left leg up to rest on the side of the bath; opting to face the discomfort of doing so first to get it out of the way. It certainly hadn't felt as though he was merely teasing her as they'd wrapped up their discussion the night before last. Upon her acceptance of his invitation, they'd let the matter drop; returning to safer topics of conversation, still peppered with crude remarks from either side when warranted. It had been a shock to both of them when House had returned from using the bathroom to state that it was getting on for midnight. This realisation had been followed by a brief moment's silence as the blonde had glanced at their empty glasses; wondering if she should suggest that he stay over to sober up, but unsure how the offer might be perceived. House had put her out of her misery, promptly calling a cab before the company closed for the night. He'd met her awkward smile with a shrug, saying nothing more on the matter other than that it would be about ten minutes before a car arrived. Until then, they'd simply made small talk, and all too soon, House's phone had buzzed as a set of headlights illuminated the lot below.
"Well, thanks for stopping by."
"Don't mention it. That's an order."
"Likewise."
"Wait? What?"
He'd had frowned, taken aback.
"What, you think Wilson is the only one with opinions on whether or not we're insane to be trying to make things work between us?"
"Is that what we're doing?"
"Well, how would you put it?"
"... I don't know."
"Well, then."
"I'll see you Wednesday."
"Yeah. I guess you will..."
She'd agreed, walking him to the door, feeling that old, familiar ache low in her stomach as he'd paused in the doorway to offer her a hard look. It had been a weighted moment, they'd both felt it, she's sure. She'd felt momentarily frozen; unsure if he meant to kiss her. Unsure if she meant to let him... Unsure whether either of them would be content with leaving it at that for the evening as she'd suddenly felt alarmingly warm.
And then his phone started ringing; the cab driver on his last job for the night and keen to get home.
"Well. Goodnight, Dr Cameron."
"And to you, Dr House."
She'd replied in an impressively casual tone given that as soon as she'd closed the door to her apartment, she'd stood with her forehead resting against the wood for a moment or two trying to gather her thoughts.
"It's not a date."
She hisses resolutely now, finishing up and climbing out of the tub before pulling at the shower curtain and switching on the spray of warm water once the bath has drained; deciding to wash her hair after all.
It's not a date!
"If I think of anything else, I'll let you know."
Cameron promises the policewoman as she ushers her out of the door. She hopes that her haste to do so doesn't come across as impolite and she returns the detective's businesslike smile with a cheerful grin of her own before promptly shutting the door.
Finally!
She sighs, checking the time on her phone and spying two new messages.
The first is from Chase, asking if she wants him to head over to hers after work with tacos and a movie, and she replies to tell him that she has plans but would be happy to take him up on the offer tomorrow. She has a feeling she'll receive a response shortly asking her - not so subtly - what she might be up to this evening and sighs.
The second message is from House and simply reads '8.30'. Deliberating over an appropriately brief reply that doesn't threaten to come off as slightly passive-aggressive compared to her usual tone, she texts back
See you then.
Heading into her bedroom, she locates her hairdryer and straighteners inside the top drawer of her dresser and tries to recall when she'd last used the latter. Ordinarily, she just lets her hair air dry or blasts it with heat before tying it up, rarely spending too much time trying to coax more orderly curls with a deft roll of the straightening iron.
She really hopes that House, like most of the men she knows, won't be able to tell the difference, as she imagines he might appreciate the fact for all the wrong reasons.
"Ass."
She murmurs; the sentiment inaudible over the hum of the hairdryer.
Working her hair into sections, she teases it into soft waves before unplugging the straighteners at the wall lest she inadvertently gives herself something else to worry about tonight. Pulling open her dresser drawers, she wrinkles her nose as she tries to decide what to wear; fully conscious of the fact that she's a lot more nervous than she usually is when anticipating an evening of extracurricular activities.
Just choose something. If all goes well, you won't be wearing it long, anyway.
"Oh, shit."
She mutters beneath her breath; willing her mind to just shut the hell up.
She's not sure whether or not she's joking.
Selecting a matching black lace set from her underwear drawer, she imagines she probably isn't.
Tossing her selection onto the bed, she follows up with a pair of jeans and a low-cut sweater, before switching rough denim for the scant black silk of a dress. She can't remember ever wearing anything similar around House - I'd have died of embarrassment with the comments he would have made! - and just hopes this will work in her favour.
Fingering one of the narrow shoulder straps pensively, she's reminded of the pretty girls hanging around the bar the first time she and House had visited the Tipping Cup.
"Have you ever come here? Like that?"
He'd asked her that night, looking from sensual curves and teasing flashes of bare flesh back to her clad in her grey sweater with a faint track of mascara smudged down her cheek.
No, she'd told him, offering up a snide comment in the process, and from his response, it had seemed as though her answer had hardly come as a surprise.
He thinks you're sweet.
She cringes a little at the term, while at the same time finding it mildly amusing. She's not sure anybody she knows outside of work would refer to her that way, but she's fully aware - begrudgingly aware - that she has somewhat of a reputation when it comes to her colleagues.
She thinks back to some of the less appropriate comments she's heard made comparing her to Thirteen, and sighs.
She thinks back to the last time she'd worn the dress laid out on the bed.
The last time she'd almost worn it.
A cocktail evening held for hospital staff a couple of months ago. She'd checked with Chase and Foreman that they were meaning to go in spite of Nancy assuring her that she would be there and that her husband was keen to meet her. It didn't matter that they no longer worked together, she'd wanted to make sure that she'd have a few familiar faces to spend the evening with, and even though Foreman had reminded her that he would have to hang around with his new team - and had sounded truly aggrieved at the thought of spending time off the clock with Hadley - Chase had promised that he would keep her company and step in if Nancy and her husband started to sound too much like swingers.
She'd laughed at that. She'd laughed a lot that evening, and she can't help but wonder if House's absence might have helped a little on that front.
She'd not laughed when Foreman had knocked on the door to pick her up, though. Not when he'd offered her an uncertain frown and asked her if she needed more time to get dressed.
Noting her confusion, he'd apologised profusely, but had pointed out, very uncomfortably, that her dress did somewhat resemble a neglige given the length and the fabric of choice.
He'd gone on to assure her that he was sure it was 'just him' and that she looked nice, but the damage had been done and she'd asked him to give her a couple of minutes to get changed. She imagines that if it had been Chase to comment on the dress, she would have taken his opinion with a pinch of salt, but from Foreman, she'd taken it as an honest observation and had told him several times on their drive over to the hospital to stop apologising as she wasn't in the least bit offended.
Nope. Just mortified!
Nibbling her lip, she comes to the cautious decision that Eric's reaction would have been entirely different if it had been someone else wearing what definitely is a dress - and not just grossly expensive underwear - and that it's certainly gone down well every other time she's worn it.
Quit stalling and just wear the damn dress, already. If nothing else, it will give you the upper hand for all of five minutes.
"Well, in that case..."
She murmurs, slipping out of the sweater and yoga pants she'd pulled on when she'd received a message from the police asking if they could come and talk to her about her recent adventures. Changing into scant lace and checking herself out in the mirror, she imagines showing up with her legs mostly bare in this weather could be considered blatantly suggestive as well as idiotic.
Well, he's accused you of the latter plenty of times, and he does love it when he's right...
Slipping the dress on over her head, she pulls her hair out from under the straps and fastens the hidden zip running up the side. The look is thrown off slightly by the grazes colouring her hands and several vibrant bruises dappling her legs, but all in all, she'd say it isn't half bad.
She'd say it's easily an improvement on any other time House has seen her in a dress, even the red one she'd worn to the hospital fundraiser what feels like a lifetime ago, and his reaction to seeing her in that has lived rent-free in her mind ever since.
Deciding that she doesn't want to flirt with hypothermia for the second time in as many weeks, she pulls a charcoal grey sweater on over the top of her outfit, pausing as she assesses the result which seems oddly youthful, but ultimately a better choice than braving the snow in a scrap of silk.
Considering the small selection of makeup on her dresser, she applies the same dark-toned lipstick she'd favoured the other night and leaves the rest of her face bare to compensate.
She wants to look nice, but she still wants to look like herself.
Feel like herself.
For this same reason, she vetoes wearing heels; considering them a weird choice to wear just to drop by someone's house, and pulls on her boots instead.
Checking her phone, she makes it about fifteen minutes before she should leave. She wonders for a moment if she should leave it a little longer so that she doesn't seem too eager by showing up at eight-thirty on the dot, before dismissing the idea.
House knows she's eager. He's known it and made fun of her for it for years.
Which just leaves her with the decision of whether or not to call a cab. She knows it would be wise to do so; their last night spent together made all the more hellish as House had been forced to stick around once things had gone wrong.
Throwing caution to the wind, she pulls on her jacket - opting for leather over the heavy wool of her coat, recalling their conversation the other night with a smirk - and slips her car keys into her pocket.
Alright. Let's do this.