A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed! (housefic50 prompt 23: Lovers)
"Strange Brew"
Part Three
Raging
On a boat in the middle of a raging sea, she would make a scene for it all to be ignored. And wouldn't you be bored?
-Eric Clapton
Childproof caps were one of the most useless contraptions ever created. They were right up there with pocket protectors and thank you notes.
Dr. House tried to twist the cap again, but it wouldn't budge. He twisted harder, suppressing a rather annoying grunt of effort, but the pill bottle remained closed.
He glanced over his shoulder at Cameron sleeping peacefully. She hadn't heard him trying to rescue his Vicodin, nor had she been disturbed by any shaking of the mattress, and he tried to keep it that way. He attempted to open the bottle once again, grimacing with effort, when suddenly the top popped off and the Vicodin went scurrying across the floor.
Strangely enough, a grunt and some movement of the mattress was not enough to wake Cameron up, but a few pills falling had her sitting up in an instant, pulling the sheet with her.
She caught a glimpse of annoyed blue eyes, as she grabbed one of his white collared shirts from its place on the floor and wrapped it around her. She was at his side in seconds, collecting little white pills from under his bed and pretending to be oblivious of the fact that he was naked.
It wasn't that she was embarrassed by his display of certain intimate areas—not after sex with the guy. She was embarrassed that she could see his scar. It felt like she was seeing something she wasn't supposed to see, like a kid watching an R-rated movie. "Mommy what's that?"
The bottle had been abandoned on the night stand, and she reached over for it, her eyes flicking instinctively to the prescription date. It was dated less than a week ago and the prescription was for sixty pills.
Either Cameron had forgotten how to count, or House was short quite a few pills. She looked up at him.
"House . . . ." she said cautiously, her hand resting on his knee.
He grabbed the bottle from her and swallowed the two Vicodin that were in his hand. "I figured you'd be gone by now."
"Would you like me to leave?" she asked, sitting on the bed beside him. He didn't answer, and she watched as he clasped onto his cane and used it to pull a pair of pants towards him."You know . . . ." He slipped the pants on, the right leg first, then the left. " . . . if the Vicodin isn't working enough . . . there's other ways to manage your pain . . . ."
He stood up abruptly, zipping the pants up. "I don't have a pain management problem," he said under his breath as he walked out of his room.
She heard him walking towards his kitchen, his cane thumping and his feet shuffling along with morning stiffness.
He was always lying. To himself and everyone else. He was a liar.
Don't believe what he says, believe what he does.
And she believed that he had successfully gotten her in bed with him twice, both occurrences needing very little manipulation and effort (on both sides).
After getting dressed, she made her way to the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, she watched him silently. He was making a pot of coffee. His pants were wrinkled and his chest was bare. His hair was getting grayer and a little thin, and she didn't have to look to remember that his forehead was generally lined with heavy wrinkles. Although she was actually more than half his age, she realized how he must feel. Or how a man in his position might feel, anyway.
Sleeping with a younger employee—it probably felt like a horribly written soap opera plot to him. The latest shocker on Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
I'm supposed to get pregnant and then Stacy comes back, she thought. Or one of us dies.
Looking back on the complete irrationality of last night's happenings, she supposed you could call them lovers now. After all, the first one-night stand would never have happened in a lifetime, but two . . . well, that was a lifetime.
A lover is one who loves another, especially one who feels sexual love, and lovers would be a couple in love. The definition of the word "love," however, is relative and vague.
His love was not her love, but their love could be the same.
Of course, that was only if he loved her.
"You just couldn't love me."
When she had said that to him, she was certain it was true, but maybe . . . maybe he couldn't love her then. Maybe he could love her now? Now that Stacy was out of the way and things had calmed down. Now that she hid her feelings of affection towards him so much better than she had a few months ago—he was probably too stubborn to admit that he liked her then, when she clearly wanted him to, but now that she had backed off and shut him out ever so subtly . . . maybe.
House was breaking down it seemed. Letting her in.
Wilson had once been afraid that she would break House's heart, and now, as she watched him putting a new filter in the coffee pot, she felt the full weight of what a relationship with House would mean. It would mean snide remarks and hurtful comments about her naivete and sense of morals. It would mean whispers and rumors, and it would probably end in one great big explosion of shouts and pain.
But not all pain was bad. Some things are worthwhile. It wasn't going to be a love that was nice and sweet, but it would be a love that was fierce and unspoken.
That wasn't bad, just different and probably a little better.
If House could hear her thoughts, he would say she was too optimistic.
And she was at times. But it was her, and she wasn't going to let House change her. Just like House wouldn't let her change him. Once that was determined and accepted, then things would go smoothly—mutually, almost, with an added benefit of sexual satisfaction and a secret knowledge that they were actually madly in love with each other.
Cameron shook her head, confused by her thoughts. Her head was buzzing with possibilities and paradoxes and uncertainty of what she wanted from House.
Things weren't making sense and usually Cameron hated that. She liked order, clear and concise.
Perhaps House was a way to balance her out, mess up what she had fixed so that she would always have something to fix. He gave her something do.
He was something to live for.
She sighed and left, wanting to get to the hospital on time that morning. She wanted to have a pot of coffee made when he came in.
His lips turned upward at the ends in a slight smile of authentic gratitude when he waltzed into his office that morning and was greeted by the glorious smell of french vanilla. He had gotten his coffee pot all ready, only to find that he was out of coffee. The words "Thank you" even echoed across his mind, but they were scared of the light and didn't venture out past his throat.
His coffee mug wasn't where it should be, though, and he looked around.
"It's in the sink," said Cameron, reading through their patient's latest test results. She was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee resting by her elbow.
He knitted his brow, wondering how he had missed that.
"Don't worry. It's clean."
He nodded, filling his cup. Cameron's coffee was even better than his own.
He wondered briefly if that was because Cameron was just better at it, or because she was the one who had made it. He decided that it really didn't matter . . . .
The rest of the day flowed remarkably smoothly. There was still a tingly wall of tension between House and Cameron, but it was thinner and infused with a door. Foreman hadn't notice any weird connection between House and Cameron, and Chase was just as oblivious as usual. Things were going fine and House had almost forgotten that he had slept with Cameron twice now.
Cameron came into his office later that afternoon, informing him that he had been right once again and that Mr. What's-his-name would be going home in the morning.
House was having a good day. His leg was even feeling a little less painful.
"His white count is up," she was saying. "We're going to keep him overnight for observation, and he'll be leaving in the morning."
"Good," said House, standing up. She thought he might have been leaving, but he remained standing still. Standing close.
Cameron was standing beside him, her arms limply at her side. Her position was relaxed, a contrast to her usual clenched stance that formed a wall between House and her. She was comfortable, and he could feel the warmth of her body radiating outward, searching for his limbs.
He remembered that, while he was sleeping next to her, she kept him warm—she kept his leg warm, like one of those electric heat pads, only he didn't have to worry about her catching on fire in the middle of the night.
He thought about kissing her, and he wasn't sure what surprised him more: the fact that he had even thought about kissing her in the first place or the fact that, a second later, he acted on that impulse.
He leaned forward, his nose bumping into hers. His stubble rubbed against her chin, and his lips were just barely touching hers. She felt her cheeks getting warm and the glass walls felt like they were pressing in on her, shoving her even closer to House.
She liked that feeling and leaned a little closer . . . and then jumped back when Wilson interrupted them by rudely opening the door and saying "Oh!" rather loudly.
Wilson was about to back out of the room and come back later, when Cameron said, "That's alright, Dr. Wilson. I was just leaving."
She walked briskly past him, her head down. As soon as the door closed, Wilson said "You're opening up to her."
"I'm opening my pants . . . ." replied House, sitting back down in his chair. He pretended to look around for his Game Boy, hoping he could avoid any prying questions from Wilson. He was generally pretty good at hiding his feelings, but there was something about Wilson that made him blurt things out at times.
He realized that Cameron also had that affect on him from time to time.
Wilson smirked knowingly. "You love her don't you?"
House shut the drawer he was searching through and opened the one below it. "I love the sex."
Wilson laughed annoyingly. "Don't ruin this, House. She could be good for you."
He stopped shuffling through his desk drawers. She was good for him, he knew that. Perhaps she was too good. "I know," he replied.
"She cares for you House."
House nodded, looking out of the window behind his desk.
"You should ask her out."
House smirked. After sex, a date with Cameron seemed trivial. "And you should have stopped sleeping with other women who weren't your wife. Maybe she wouldn't have wanted a divorce."
Wilson nodded, as if expecting a jab at his own love life. He was used to it. "Just don't screw this up," he said, making his way out of House's office.
House sat and pondered on ways to "screw this up." The sure fire way, naturally, was to be himself. Then again, Cameron was, in her own mad way, in love with him—the him she knew, which was really just him. No double persona for him.
So, the one way to keep this relationship going, was to be him.
He wondered briefly if he'd ever get bored with Cameron.
He frowned and rested his head on his cane.
That night, he ended up at her place. They had a pattern going—her place, his place—it only seemed logical to leave the hospital and end up in front of her door. She seemed to expect him and let him in with a smile.
Now that he was sitting on her couch, a drink in his hand, he felt awkward and old, out of place in her sunny, yellow living room.
She sat down next to him. "I'm not going to expect you to change," she told him. "I'm not expecting you to be someone else."
"Yeah, you've said that before." He sat the glass down on the side table and rested his cane against the arm of the couch. "This isn't going to be easy."
"I know."
He took a deep breath and turned to her. His eyes were large, his pupils dilated in a look of sadness or fear, as if he knew he would hurt her, but his lips were turned up in a smile. And she smiled back.
end