It's Coming Up Lavender
Cameron/Wilson; some Cameron/Chase. Implied past Cameron/House
Takes place in season five, post-Amber. Part 1/?
Chapter One
His eyes barely acknowledge her as she steps inside, a crinkling grocery bag breaking the hours of silence he'd grown accustomed to.
He thinks he hears a soft greeting, but she doesn't wait for him to answer. She busies herself in the kitchen and she doesn't dare ask how he is. He's thankful for small kindness like this.
She curls up on the other end of the couch, shutting her eyes lightly, and he remembers, for a moment, that the world's been moving on without him. He's not sure what's causing her current frustration — House? Chase? Both are as likely as the next — but he finds himself curious, the first emotion he's experienced in weeks that isn't heavy.
She's still in her scrubs, smelling faintly of cinnamon and sweat, and he watches as she releases her hair from a brown clip, dark blonde waves cascading over her shoulders.
Wilson thinks he likes her best like this, quiet and understated, makeup melted off her face, and hair slightly disheveled. Another thought creeps over his head and he wonders how many times his best friend has seen her this way, raw and undone, wonders how many times he's had her like this.
He blinks and looks away, gazing at the news footage on the tv in front of him. The volume's off and he hasn't been able to find the remote in weeks, but the images keep him from going completely insane.
He can smell the faint tinge of thai food, forgotten on the counter, and starts to thank Cameron when he realizes she's fast asleep.
He watches her for just a few more seconds, before Amber's face comes barreling back to his mind, and he rises quickly, busying himself with arranging the takeout containers in the fridge. His fingers brush her shoulder lightly as he drapes a blanket over her, and he returns to his place at the end of the couch.
She's gone in the morning, no signs that she'd ever been there except the spicy sweet smell of her perfume on the fabric.
He's taken to having lunch in his office most days, only able to handle the litany of sympathetic faces in small doses.
Sometimes, Cameron joins him.
Today she rushes in, two coffees in tow, her eyes far away. She curls her legs up as she sits in his armchair, and sighs lightly.
He watches her. He knows she lost five patients that morning — a family with three small children — and she had to break the news to the grandmother.
But that doesn't seem to be weighing on her mind, a fact he finds strange. House has changed her, he thinks, but that isn't quite right either. Maybe she was always this way and they weren't listening, always projecting their own ideas of who she must be onto her.
She catches him watching and frowns lightly.
"Sorry," she offers, pushing her bangs behind her right ear. "Just one of those days, you know?"
He nods. Resulting to cliches is a sure sign that she doesn't want to talk, and he's grown particularly fond of silence lately.
He smiles at her from the elevator as she steps inside, fiddling with the buttons on her jacket.
"You look good," she says strangely, offering him a curious smile, and he chuckles lightly.
"I uh…I think I flirted with a nurse today," he says, and she laughs slightly, catching him off guard. He shrugs. "It just felt normal. And it took a few minutes for me to remember it wasn't."
She nods, letting his words settle in. "You know, the first time I kissed someone after my husband died, I cried." She pauses. "Mid-kiss." She laughs, smile widening as she looks up at him. "I guess that's not all that hard to believe."
He grins. "I can picture it," he tells her. "Let me guess…it gets easier?"
Her lips part slightly, and he can see her trying to settle on the right words. He gives her space to think.
"No. Not exactly," she admits. "You just get used to it."
She meets his eye, a conversation from years before flashing in his memory.
"You'd be surprised what you can live with," she echoes back to him.
Cuddy's asked her to keep an eye on House, and he catches glimpses of her on his way to and from his office.
She's different, he realizes, but it takes him watching her with House to figure it out.
There are still traces of the sad, sweet girl whose optimism clouded her judgment of her mentor, but he's changed her. Eroded her.
There's always been a heaviness around Allison Cameron, a deep sense of loss lurking beneath the layers of kind smiles, shiny hair, and perfect posture. It's there, still, but there's a lightness around House. An ease.
She understands him better, and he understands her less, and Wilson knows this finally gives her an edge House can't stomach.
He watches as House presses against her back, whispering something in her ear, to get a rise out of her, to live out some fantasy, to get some sort of reaction. Wilson feels his body tighten at the movement, fingers digging roughly into his palm to form a rushed fist.
Cameron's barely startled. House is House, and she slips away from him gracefully, a curt smile on her face as she lands a remark back to him, that makes him falter, for just a second.
House's eyes pull away and fall on Wilson's. Wilson averts his eyes, not daring to look back at Cameron as he walks.
"You can talk about it, you know," he tells her quickly, while she's picking at the fabric of the seat beneath her.
She frowns up at him and shakes her head. "It's silly," she insists. He understands the subtext. Some people have real problems.
"I bet it isn't," he insists, reaching for the latte on his desk. He doesn't remember ever giving her his coffee order, but it's just like her to know. She thrives in the little details and nuances, and he bets so many men in her past didn't appreciate her until she was gone.
She rolls her eyes lightly. "I keep forgetting why I'm with him," she says lightly, and he can feel her remorse as soon as the words leave her lips.
He smiles kindly. She won't get judgment from him.
Cameron tenses, her fingers twisting around her wrist as she struggles to get the words right. "It felt like the right thing at the time. When I left House." She doesn't elaborate on whether she means her job or something more. He gets the sense they're both tangled up together anyhow. Green eyes flash up at him. "And now…"
She trails off, her eyes flickering back down to her hands.
Wilson watches her every movement, studying her.
He sighs softly. He knows the right thing to say is nothing.
She finds him a few nights later, walking to his car.
"Do you want to get a drink?" she asks, blonde hair clinging to the wool fabric of her black coat. He brushes it behind her neck instinctively, then steps back, wondering if he's crossed a line.
If she notices, her eyes don't show it.
He shrugs. "Sure," he says, trying to sound as even and nonchalant as possible.
"You'll drive?" she asks, walking to his car. It sounds more like a command. Her voice is flat, and something is off, but he can't quite figure out what.
"Of course," he says, opening the door for her out of habit. She blinks up at him, and he opens his mouth to explain, but she interrupts him with a quick smile and squeeze on the elbow as she climbs inside.
He doesn't look at her the entire drive.
Her fingers tap on the edge of the bar listlessly, and she catches his eye as the bartender slides over your drinks.
"I love this song," she says softly, and he only catches a few bars (Everything that happens is from now on. This is pouring rain. This is paralyzed) before realizing where he's heard it before. He wonders grimly if he played it for her, if this is one of the many secrets they shared when the lights went out and no one was left to see them behind glass walls.
She blushes lightly, breaking your eye contact and reaching for her drink. Hers, a Manhattan, his a scotch, neat.
"I'm sorry," he says roughly, looking down at the mahogany bar top, watching as the condensation from his glass falls and wrinkles the crisp white napkin. "I don't think I'm the best company."
Her hand falls on his leg gently, lingering for only a moment. "That's not true," she promises, bringing the glass to her lips.
It's quiet, save for the music and a few groups scattered across the bar, but it's a comforting sound. He likes that he can fall into a steady silence with her and still feel at ease.
She smiles when they order another round. She doesn't ask how he's doing and he doesn't ask her why they're here.
"It's okay," she whispers, her voice throaty and deep, as his lips collide with hers. They're outside the bar now, and he's pushing her against the brick building, and her hands are under his sweater.
"I think we should walk," she tells him, and it takes him a minute to understand, because he lives at least thirty blocks to the west. But she doesn't, he surmises, following her lead. Small snowflakes fall and glisten in the lamppost lighting, before melting into soft puddles at their feet.
He feels a gnawing sense of guilt clawing at him as he walks, and again when slips her tongue in his mouth, while they wait for the traffic light to turn green.
He starts to protest when they reach her door, and it's not about Amber, he realizes, or loyalty to Chase. He doesn't want to be the one to make her hate herself in the morning — and he's certain that however much she's changed, she will.
She blinks back at him, her back leaning against the locked door. Snow dusts her hair, glowing in the soft light of her porch.
"If this is about Chase…" she starts, sucking in a breath. "It's taken care of."
He hesitates still, not fully trusting what he sees in her eyes. He kisses her lightly on the forehead.
"Not like this," he whispers breathily in her ear, and he feels her body tighten.
She reaches for his collar, but his fingers cover hers, bringing them back down to her sides.
Her eyes search his, slowly.
"Not like this," she repeats, softly.
He doesn't avoid her at work, but he's careful.
He puts on a full display of concern when House comes to him with his latest scheme to annoy Cuddy. The playful banter unnerves him for some reason, but he plays his part well, until he's sure House doesn't suspect a thing.
Chase is moody and impulsive, lashing out at House more than usual, and Foreman and Wilson exchange a quick look. There's a bet, Wilson remembers, between the core team on how long their relationship would last. He thinks Kutner's won.
House doesn't go easy on Chase and the day ends as suspected. The blonde takes a swing, and misses, his hand barrelling into bulletproof glass, a few fingers snapping upon impact.
There's no apology from House, just a snipe about how fracturing his fingers might finally make him a decent surgeon, and Foreman has to pry Chase out of the room.
Wilson frowns up at House. "Give the kid a break," he hears himself say, and House rolls his eyes, already leaning back in his chair, cane tapping on his desk.
"He'll be fine," House mutters, ignoring Wilson's agitation. "Everyone could see she didn't love him. He's an idiot for thinking she could."
Wilson opens his mouth to protest, but reconsiders, sighing lightly instead. He raps his fingers on the wooden desk, as he climbs to his feet.
He shakes his head. "You think this has to do with you," he says accusingly, and there's anger in his voice that House can't quite place.
House shrugs, looking up at Wilson lazily, a hint of a smile on his face. "Well, it is Cameron," he reminds him.
She's sitting alone in a booth, her head resting delicately on her palm, elbow bent and flush across the cafeteria table.
He slips in across from her, pushing his fries onto her untouched tray.
She groans at him, but offers a faint smile as she pops one in her mouth.
"These things will kill you," she tells him, as she reaches for a second.
He chuckles, unwrapping his sandwich. "House?" he guesses.
She rolls her eyes. "Something like that," she says, her eyes quickly scouring the room for any of his lackeys.
"Foreman took Chase to the ortho, and Thirteen, Taub, and Kutner are at a patient's house," he tells her. "When I left him, House was headed to Cuddy's office to gloat about…well, does it really matter what?"
She shakes her head, taking a sip of his coffee. "He's even more insufferable than usual today," she tells him.
"Shocking," Wilson remarks, and she exhales loudly.
"It's just a game," she says, looking away. "It's not real to him." It's an attempt at an explanation for House's behavior, an explanation they both know she doesn't owe him.
Wilson tilts his head, frowning softly.
"It is a game," he agrees. "But it is real to him." He pauses, giving her a moment to compose herself. "Both things can be true."
He's been adept at avoiding social invitations for much of the year, with an iron-clad excuse that was hard to balk at.
But House is House and when he wants something, Wilson rarely pushes back.
That's how he ends up at Sharrie's bar, the following week, a few scotches in, while House and his team. Chase is flirting with two nurses, his hand wrapped in gauze, while Taub hits on his rejects, and Foreman and Thirteen argue in hushed voices about something he can already tell is trivial. Kutner left early, leaving him alone to entertain House, who's not quite done messing with Chase.
Cameron and Cuddy are chatting at the bar, the administrator's hands waving wildly as she reenacts a story, Cameron's smile polite.
She's wearing that tailored black cocktail dress he's always liked — she wore it to a colleague's wedding last year. Something about the way the delicate straps glide around her shoulders make him want to slide his fingers between the fabric and her golden skin.
He sucks in a breath and turns his attention back to House, who's telling Chase's current conquest about the time he locked the surgeon in a supply closet for five hours.
Wilson rolls his eyes, and walks up to the bar for another drink,
"Hey, James," Cuddy says casually. He's leaning over the bar, his sleeve brushing against Cameron's arm and he's trying to remember how to act naturally. Luckily Cuddy makes it easy.
"Is he still tormenting Robert?" Cuddy asks, and Wilson hesitates, searching for any signs of discomfort in Cameron's eyes.
Nothing comes to the surface.
"I don't think that's a game he'll ever tire of," Wilson remarks, and the three of them turn to watch as House captures the attention of the nearby tables, his cane poking at Chase's leg animatedly.
Cameron sighs. "He's going to snap," she says quickly. Cuddy and Wilson both look at her. "Robert, I mean," she adds.
"He should," Wilson mutters, nodding at the bartender as he passes.
Cuddy shakes her head. "I should get back to Rachel," she says at last, and Cameron flashes her a quick smile.
They wave goodbye as Cuddy makes her way over to the door, stepping coyly over House's legs as she passes by. Wilson watches House's eyes linger as Cuddy disappears, then sweep up slowly to where Cameron's sitting.
It's just a game, he can hear Cameron telling him.
But instead, the blonde beside him sighs and stands, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. "I should go," she tells him.
The party falls apart after that. Cameron slips on her coat — a gray, tweed dress coat that wraps tightly around her curves, leaving her bare legs and her collarbone exposed.
Wilson drinks his scotch quickly, watching as Foreman and Thirteen head out, and Chase stumbles out after them, one of the new nurses (Wendy, he thinks), laughing as they trot together in the snow.
Taub's still talking to another nurse, and House grows bored, slipping his coat on and heading for the door.
"You can't drive," Wilson insists, as he squares up the bill, waiting as the bartender disappears behind the counter with his credit card.
"I'm not," House insists, pushing open the door. "I'm walking."
Wilson feels the resentment form in his chest.
He knows where he's going.
He drives by her house, feeling foolish, because she's in love with him. Everybody knows that, and of course they're sleeping together. As if House would pass up this chance.
But he's angry, wondering if he's brought this on himself by not taking her inside a few weeks ago. Always too nice, he thinks, but so many men have wanted her for the wrong reasons and he hadn't wanted to add his name to that list.
An hour later, her name pops up on his phone, and he fumbles with it awkwardly.
For what it's worth, he's asleep on the couch, is all it says.
When she drops him off the next morning, Wilson's in the kitchen, and House's off-color jokes fall flat. He hears the shower starting and rolls his eyes, jumping slightly when he notices Cameron's also inside, leaning against the door, looking exhausted.
"You lose something?" she jokes half-heartedly, and he can already guess the hell he put her through last night.
Wilson softens. "Is he always like this?" he asks. He doesn't say with you, but she catches the implication.
"I used to think it was charming," she says, rolling her eyes lightly.
He smiles back. There's more he wants to ask, because regardless of where House slept, he senses there's more, that there will always be something heavy in the moments between the two of them. It's something private and dark, and it's not his, but he's feeling primal and irrational, and fuck it, he's jealous.
She senses these things — it's her specialty, he remembers — and walks toward him slowly, her head tilted slightly. She kisses him with ease, her warm tongue sliding into his mouth with intention, and he grabs her, his fingers pulling at her waist.
She pulls away quickly, taking a moment to catch her breath.
"I don't think it's charming anymore," she tells him as she leaves.