with a violin and a song to sing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
origamiflowers) wrote2006-09-29 08:44 pm
origamiflowers) wrote2006-09-29 08:44 pm
FIC: House: Interlude - House/Cameron
Title: Interlude
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairing: House/Cameron
Spoilers: none in particular
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~800
Notes: I don't really think House and Cameron could have a long-term stable relationship, but I still think that sometimes there would be these moments, good moments, that would convince one or the other to stick it out that much longer.
*
Sometimes he wakes up during the night, pale and nauseous, leg throbbing because the pills have worn off while he was asleep. This is one of those nights.
He bites back a grunt and reaches for the trusty prescription bottle that sits on his nightstand. Waiting for moments like these. He has to wipe his hand on the blanket [twice] because his palm is so sweaty, before he can twist off the bottle cap and shake one of the little white pills into his other palm [in the corner of his mind, he files away how his fingers tremble as he does].
Half-sitting, half-lying down, he leans back into the headboard, to close his eyes and wait. It's a moment before he remembers to look beside him, at the warm weight pressed down into the bed, still quiet and asleep.
The sigh whistles against his lips as it falls out of him, and he turns to look at the alarm clock beside the bed. Red digital display assaults his eyes: 5:23 A.M.
He knows he won't get any more sleep tonight [he never does, these nights], but then, he's never been much of a sleeper. His leg is killing him anyway. So he peels off the comfortor, limp and sticky with sweat, and winces a little at the light breeze. As he rises, he takes hold of the cane leaning against the wall, his palm curving into the cool wood with the familiar ease of embracing an old friend. The carpet hides his journey to the living room, and for that, he's thankful [no one wants to deal with a cranky woman].
The piano bench creaks as he sits down, shifting a little so that he can extend his leg. He taps out a few random notes, not sure what to play, before settling into something light and nondescript. He makes sure to tread over the keys lightly - he doesn't know his neighbors, and he wants to keep it that way.
Gradually he notices that the room is becoming lighter with every passing minute, the early morning light seeping into corners and overtaking dusky blue shadows.
It's a few minutes before he notices her.
She stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame; her messy hair looks black in the dim light. Her hands clutch at the blue bedsheet she's wrapped around herself, fingers taut and weary.
He turns his attention back to the piano, but his fingers don't move.
"Please, Greg, come back to bed," she says in a whisper, and she cocks her head and looks at him beseechingly.
He pauses, hand resting on the keys, and looks over at her again. She looks delicate and small, drowning in the sheet that drapes and pools around her feet - his mind tends toward Greek sculpture, draped and pale and still. He hesitates, considers. She is tempting, standing there, waiting for him [and he knows she's not wearing anything under that sheet].
He shakes his head, finally. "I won't get back to sleep now. Just go to bed." He strikes a few keys to cover up what's coming.
It doesn't work. She sighs; he wonders how such a tiny puff of air can convey so much: resignation, exasperation. It's even a little pouty.
Sometimes he thinks that sound is the embodiment of why she doesn't belong here, with him; why he thinks this will never, never work. He watches as she cranes her head toward the bedroom hopefully, and he knows instictively that she's going to go back to bed without him; it's just her way of coping with his eccentricities, her way of dealing with him.
So he's surprised when she quietly pads over to where he's sitting, the fabric making a swishing noise against the hardwood floor. He's sitting on the edge of the bench, and it's easy for her to sit down and curl up her knees on the floor next to him. There's a gentle warm pressure where she leans her head on his good thigh. Neither of them say anything.
His fingers pause over the keys for a moment, and then he changes his mind, and begins to play. A different song now: something low and sweet and melodious.
He doesn't say anything, but it's okay; she knows it's for her.
He can tell she knows by the curve of her mouth against his leg, by the way her fingers curl around his calf.
Nothing needs to be said.
*
Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
housefic, house_cameron, and house_everyone.
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairing: House/Cameron
Spoilers: none in particular
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~800
Notes: I don't really think House and Cameron could have a long-term stable relationship, but I still think that sometimes there would be these moments, good moments, that would convince one or the other to stick it out that much longer.
*
Sometimes he wakes up during the night, pale and nauseous, leg throbbing because the pills have worn off while he was asleep. This is one of those nights.
He bites back a grunt and reaches for the trusty prescription bottle that sits on his nightstand. Waiting for moments like these. He has to wipe his hand on the blanket [twice] because his palm is so sweaty, before he can twist off the bottle cap and shake one of the little white pills into his other palm [in the corner of his mind, he files away how his fingers tremble as he does].
Half-sitting, half-lying down, he leans back into the headboard, to close his eyes and wait. It's a moment before he remembers to look beside him, at the warm weight pressed down into the bed, still quiet and asleep.
The sigh whistles against his lips as it falls out of him, and he turns to look at the alarm clock beside the bed. Red digital display assaults his eyes: 5:23 A.M.
He knows he won't get any more sleep tonight [he never does, these nights], but then, he's never been much of a sleeper. His leg is killing him anyway. So he peels off the comfortor, limp and sticky with sweat, and winces a little at the light breeze. As he rises, he takes hold of the cane leaning against the wall, his palm curving into the cool wood with the familiar ease of embracing an old friend. The carpet hides his journey to the living room, and for that, he's thankful [no one wants to deal with a cranky woman].
The piano bench creaks as he sits down, shifting a little so that he can extend his leg. He taps out a few random notes, not sure what to play, before settling into something light and nondescript. He makes sure to tread over the keys lightly - he doesn't know his neighbors, and he wants to keep it that way.
Gradually he notices that the room is becoming lighter with every passing minute, the early morning light seeping into corners and overtaking dusky blue shadows.
It's a few minutes before he notices her.
She stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame; her messy hair looks black in the dim light. Her hands clutch at the blue bedsheet she's wrapped around herself, fingers taut and weary.
He turns his attention back to the piano, but his fingers don't move.
"Please, Greg, come back to bed," she says in a whisper, and she cocks her head and looks at him beseechingly.
He pauses, hand resting on the keys, and looks over at her again. She looks delicate and small, drowning in the sheet that drapes and pools around her feet - his mind tends toward Greek sculpture, draped and pale and still. He hesitates, considers. She is tempting, standing there, waiting for him [and he knows she's not wearing anything under that sheet].
He shakes his head, finally. "I won't get back to sleep now. Just go to bed." He strikes a few keys to cover up what's coming.
It doesn't work. She sighs; he wonders how such a tiny puff of air can convey so much: resignation, exasperation. It's even a little pouty.
Sometimes he thinks that sound is the embodiment of why she doesn't belong here, with him; why he thinks this will never, never work. He watches as she cranes her head toward the bedroom hopefully, and he knows instictively that she's going to go back to bed without him; it's just her way of coping with his eccentricities, her way of dealing with him.
So he's surprised when she quietly pads over to where he's sitting, the fabric making a swishing noise against the hardwood floor. He's sitting on the edge of the bench, and it's easy for her to sit down and curl up her knees on the floor next to him. There's a gentle warm pressure where she leans her head on his good thigh. Neither of them say anything.
His fingers pause over the keys for a moment, and then he changes his mind, and begins to play. A different song now: something low and sweet and melodious.
He doesn't say anything, but it's okay; she knows it's for her.
He can tell she knows by the curve of her mouth against his leg, by the way her fingers curl around his calf.
Nothing needs to be said.
*
Cross-posted to
housefic, house_cameron, and house_everyone.
no subject
Very good
no subject
no subject
Lovely! ♥
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
gotta love this: "He can tell she knows by the curve of her mouth against his leg, by the way her fingers curl around his calf."
:D
no subject