with a violin and a song to sing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
origamiflowers) wrote2006-10-07 01:45 am
origamiflowers) wrote2006-10-07 01:45 am
fic: Four Men Allison Cameron Never Slept With, and One She Did
Title: Four Men Allison Cameron Never Slept With, and One She Did
Fandom: House, M.D.
Characters/Pairing: Cameron/Everyone [not all at once ... get that mind out of the gutter.]
Spoilers: through 2x07, "Hunting"
Rating: R, for sexuality and the occassional bad word
Word Count: ~2000
Author's Notes: Cameron is officially the hospital slut. Just kidding. Five drabbles: Foreman, Wilson, House, Chase, Joe.
*
i. do you ever watch gilligan's island reruns and really, really think they're going to get off the island this time?
It starts, of course, with late nights at the lab, after Chase leaves [usually with a "Fuck House, we can do this in the morning"], leaving Foreman and Cameron to exchange glances and eye-rolls.
When she uses the microscope one night, she notices how he stands a little too close to her, brushing her shoulder with his. As he leans against the counter with one hand, she feels the other come to rest on the small of her back. She smiles to herself and doesn't move away.
They both like to do things the old-fashioned way, so he treats her to expensive dinners where they both play dress-up, and talk about wines and movies and politics [on feisty days, they skirt near the edges of religion].
He wears extravagant ties [her favorite is the purple-and-gold stripe] and regales her with stories of his undergrad days at Johns Hopkins. She paints her nails for the first time in months [well, a French manicure, actually, though she was tempted by some old red polish], and speaks with distant fondness of her internship at the Mayo Clinic, and the old stodgy supervisor that came with it. [It's a silent rule: They never talk about their hospital.]
They're oddly ... normal. It's been a long time since she felt like a regular person, with a regular life and a regular job and a regular boyfriend, and for this, she's grateful.
In bed, they move slowly and langorously, skin sliding over skin, sensations velvet and smooth. She is amazed by the way they contrast: She is alabaster-pale, highlighted against him; he is deep and dark [her favorite kind of wine, she thinks, and almost laughs]. Cameron arches over him, a moan caught low in her throat, and his fingers slide up her stomach and around her neck, tangling in her hair as he pulls her down to him.
They decide to keep it quiet at work.
ii. what makes you think i haven't put the moves on her?
There are qualities about James Wilson that Allison doesn't like to admit that she notices. A kind of casual, confident grace that's easy to admire, an engaging smile [or smirk], a sense of humor that never fails to make her crack a smile, even on the worst days.
He seems to see himself as something like her mentor, though, Allison thinks - maybe because they have the same neuroses about caring for patients; but Dr. Wilson [not James, she tells herself firmly] is an oncologist, and he had to deal with these kinds of things every day. She wonders at that kind of strength. It ends up that she starts coming to him for advice - about House, about patients, about consults, about whatever she can make an excuse to come see him for. She worries sometimes that maybe she's annoying, but he seems to enjoy their conversations well enough, and sometimes they even eat lunch together. She learns that he likes Pad Thai, and how he takes his coffee in the mornings [cream, no sugar], though it doesn't go much deeper than that.
So she's surprised when Wilson asks her quite unexpectedly, one late night at the hospital, if she likes opera. She stares at him, at a loss, for a moment before stammering out, "Uh, well, I don't know much about it, really," and she sees the sparkle in his eye and she knows that he's laughing at her a little. In a nice way.
"It'll be fun," he promises, and grins. She can't say no; his assurance is intoxicating.
He walks her to the door, afterwards, and he pretends to be reluctant [a well-practiced charm] when she invites him in for a glass of wine. She can't help but wonder about him [how many times have you done this, jimmy?]. It almost makes her nervous enough to ask him to leave, but there's something seductive about him, some strange mixture of innocence and danger underneath those warm brown eyes, that compels her to him.
Every move he makes seems deliberate, calculated. The way watches her [watching him] as he loosens his tie. How his fingers brush against her hip as she opens the fridge. She never stood a chance, she thinks, in the back of her mind. He holds her by her waist and turns her around, pressing a kiss under her ear, pushing her gently up against the kitchen counter, and she gasps as she feels the edge of his teeth on her collarbone.
He's not as gentle as her fantasies had entertained [doctor jimmy has a secret], and she surprises herself by liking it. The way he claims her, marks her. The way his eyes darken every time she enters the room. The way they possess each other.
iii. it's a very sad thing, an un-calibrated centrifuge.
"I prefer Hemingway, myself."
Cameron looks up from her book [The Waste Land, and Other Poems by T.S. Eliot], carefully marking her page with a finger, to see him standing next to the chair.
He seems to be waiting for her to ask a question. So she does. "Why?"
"You mean, why are you sitting at my desk?" he asks, feigning ignorance. "I have no idea. Why don't you tell me?"
Rolling her eyes, she pushes herself up and takes a seat in one of the chairs nearby. Sliding his cane onto the glassy surface of his desk, he props his legs up on his desk, pulls his GameBoy out of a drawer, and proceeds to ignore her completely. She decides to try again [after a thousand rounds of this, he must be used to it, she rationalizes]. "So ... why do you like Hemingway better?"
He looks for a second like he's just going to keep ignoring her, but then he pauses his game and tells her, "Hemingway is short. Straightforward. He doesn't fuck with you."
"Maybe you just aren't reading him right," Cameron suggests, and hides her smile behind her book.
This is how it starts.
That night, he raps on her door with the handle of his cane. The sound is so unique that she knows who's standing there immediately, anticipation and fear bubbling up in her stomach as she stands up.
She opens the door. "What do you want?"
"'She walks in beauty like the night,'" House quotes at her, watching her carefully. "You're a poetry kind of girl. Is that what you want from me? To whisper sweet nothings in your ear while we make tender, tender love? I'm not your guy." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "You're an idiot."
She blinks owlishly at him. "Byron was a Romantic. I like the modernists better."
They don't even make it to the bedroom.
Later, when she's sweaty and sticky and out of breath, she wonders if this is the first time or the last time.
iv. don't turn into a good guy on me now.
Allison wants, needs, to get her mind off this. Needs to think. Needs to make sure she hasn't wasted the past thirty years, playing at something that means nothing [she hears her old philosophy professor's voice echo inside her skull: what is meaning, anyway?].
She surprises herself more than anyone by sneaking out part of Kalvin's stash. Just enough, so maybe no one will notice. She puts it down on her coffee table after work and backs away from it, stuffing her hands in her pockets. She stares at it for time to time over the next few hours. Her palms sweat and she can't stop walking around her kitchen. Wondering what the hell it is she thinks she's doing.
She takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes. Counts down: Five. Four. Three. Two. One ...
The phone is slippery in her hands as she dials Chase's number, fumbling over the keys. Allison knows he won't - can't - say no. "Hey, I was wondering if you were still up for getting a drink tonight?" She hopes he doesn't notice the way her voice shakes slightly, how breathless and scared she sounds.
A distraction. That's what she needs.
After she swallows the pills, it feels like the world opens up around her. She can't stop moving. Allison paces back and forth, between the kitchen and the living room of her apartment, taking deep breaths. Waiting. She turns different bands on and off her CD player. None fit, until she puts in Goldfrapp [she'd only bought the album because they had the same first name].
When she pushes him up against the wall, it's almost as though she's outside herself, watching, as she kisses him, nips at his bottom lip. His hands roam over her back, tugging her tank top up over her head. They stumble around her apartment a bit, until they fall onto her bed. It's hard and fast and messy and she's on top, fucking him senseless.
It works for a little while. But she's pretty sure Chase broke the sound barrier with his haste to pull on his jeans and get out of her place, and now, as she's lying on her bed, swallowing hard [over and over and over], all the fears creep back: What if this is it?
v. we sort of clung to each other.
They try to be there [wherever that is] for each other, skirting some invisible line that they both aren't sure they want to cross [they're not even sure where the line is]. There's a timidity in the way he puts his arm around her shoulders when she cries [near the end, it's almost every night], and the flicker of uncertainty in her red-rimmed eyes as she looks at him doesn't go unnoticed, but he still pretends not to see [willful ignorance, he tells himself, has its uses].
Everything [nothing] changes when he dies. She breaks down, quietly [ohgod ohgod i knew this was coming but i never believed and he's gone ohgod he's gone pleasegod], and he has to drive her back to his apartment. He knows if he doesn't, that she will lie around in her apartment and refuse to eat [out of guilt? he wonders but he doesn't know this].
She leans into him on his couch, and he can't resist wrapping his arms around her - compared to her petite frame, he's practically a bear - and pressing his nose into her hair as she cries, silent but for the occassional hiccup. [He ran out of tears a long time ago.] He murmers nonsense in her ear [it's okay allie it's all right he loved you he's in a better place allie i'm here].
So when she lifts her head, he sees the rawness in her expression, and he forgets to protest when she brushes her lips clumsily over his jaw. She looks up at him, expression guilty and dark but still wanting [a plea underneath: just let me have this]; she looks almost feverish. "Please," she whispers. "I just ... need. Please. It hurts." And he forgets how to think.
He can taste the salt of her tears [her desperation] on her mouth and soft, soft skin. They mold themselves into each other's pain, each other's need, and later, he'll blame it on extenuating circumstances. They are tangled up in each other. They both need this. For now.
It's slow and gentle - he is afraid to break her. They're both silent - no noise but the soft rustle of clothing and bedsheets.
He knows that he will never be able to forget this.
When he wakes up in the morning, she's already gone, her side of the blanket straightened up neatly, and his clothes sitting folded on his chair. Shoes on top. He doesn't try to get in touch with her after that.
It's the last he sees of her.
*
Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
housefic, house_cameron, house_everyone, cameron_wilson, foreman_cameron, and pureandpretty. Sorry if you see this a bunch!
Fandom: House, M.D.
Characters/Pairing: Cameron/Everyone [not all at once ... get that mind out of the gutter.]
Spoilers: through 2x07, "Hunting"
Rating: R, for sexuality and the occassional bad word
Word Count: ~2000
Author's Notes: Cameron is officially the hospital slut. Just kidding. Five drabbles: Foreman, Wilson, House, Chase, Joe.
*
i. do you ever watch gilligan's island reruns and really, really think they're going to get off the island this time?
It starts, of course, with late nights at the lab, after Chase leaves [usually with a "Fuck House, we can do this in the morning"], leaving Foreman and Cameron to exchange glances and eye-rolls.
When she uses the microscope one night, she notices how he stands a little too close to her, brushing her shoulder with his. As he leans against the counter with one hand, she feels the other come to rest on the small of her back. She smiles to herself and doesn't move away.
They both like to do things the old-fashioned way, so he treats her to expensive dinners where they both play dress-up, and talk about wines and movies and politics [on feisty days, they skirt near the edges of religion].
He wears extravagant ties [her favorite is the purple-and-gold stripe] and regales her with stories of his undergrad days at Johns Hopkins. She paints her nails for the first time in months [well, a French manicure, actually, though she was tempted by some old red polish], and speaks with distant fondness of her internship at the Mayo Clinic, and the old stodgy supervisor that came with it. [It's a silent rule: They never talk about their hospital.]
They're oddly ... normal. It's been a long time since she felt like a regular person, with a regular life and a regular job and a regular boyfriend, and for this, she's grateful.
In bed, they move slowly and langorously, skin sliding over skin, sensations velvet and smooth. She is amazed by the way they contrast: She is alabaster-pale, highlighted against him; he is deep and dark [her favorite kind of wine, she thinks, and almost laughs]. Cameron arches over him, a moan caught low in her throat, and his fingers slide up her stomach and around her neck, tangling in her hair as he pulls her down to him.
They decide to keep it quiet at work.
ii. what makes you think i haven't put the moves on her?
There are qualities about James Wilson that Allison doesn't like to admit that she notices. A kind of casual, confident grace that's easy to admire, an engaging smile [or smirk], a sense of humor that never fails to make her crack a smile, even on the worst days.
He seems to see himself as something like her mentor, though, Allison thinks - maybe because they have the same neuroses about caring for patients; but Dr. Wilson [not James, she tells herself firmly] is an oncologist, and he had to deal with these kinds of things every day. She wonders at that kind of strength. It ends up that she starts coming to him for advice - about House, about patients, about consults, about whatever she can make an excuse to come see him for. She worries sometimes that maybe she's annoying, but he seems to enjoy their conversations well enough, and sometimes they even eat lunch together. She learns that he likes Pad Thai, and how he takes his coffee in the mornings [cream, no sugar], though it doesn't go much deeper than that.
So she's surprised when Wilson asks her quite unexpectedly, one late night at the hospital, if she likes opera. She stares at him, at a loss, for a moment before stammering out, "Uh, well, I don't know much about it, really," and she sees the sparkle in his eye and she knows that he's laughing at her a little. In a nice way.
"It'll be fun," he promises, and grins. She can't say no; his assurance is intoxicating.
He walks her to the door, afterwards, and he pretends to be reluctant [a well-practiced charm] when she invites him in for a glass of wine. She can't help but wonder about him [how many times have you done this, jimmy?]. It almost makes her nervous enough to ask him to leave, but there's something seductive about him, some strange mixture of innocence and danger underneath those warm brown eyes, that compels her to him.
Every move he makes seems deliberate, calculated. The way watches her [watching him] as he loosens his tie. How his fingers brush against her hip as she opens the fridge. She never stood a chance, she thinks, in the back of her mind. He holds her by her waist and turns her around, pressing a kiss under her ear, pushing her gently up against the kitchen counter, and she gasps as she feels the edge of his teeth on her collarbone.
He's not as gentle as her fantasies had entertained [doctor jimmy has a secret], and she surprises herself by liking it. The way he claims her, marks her. The way his eyes darken every time she enters the room. The way they possess each other.
iii. it's a very sad thing, an un-calibrated centrifuge.
"I prefer Hemingway, myself."
Cameron looks up from her book [The Waste Land, and Other Poems by T.S. Eliot], carefully marking her page with a finger, to see him standing next to the chair.
He seems to be waiting for her to ask a question. So she does. "Why?"
"You mean, why are you sitting at my desk?" he asks, feigning ignorance. "I have no idea. Why don't you tell me?"
Rolling her eyes, she pushes herself up and takes a seat in one of the chairs nearby. Sliding his cane onto the glassy surface of his desk, he props his legs up on his desk, pulls his GameBoy out of a drawer, and proceeds to ignore her completely. She decides to try again [after a thousand rounds of this, he must be used to it, she rationalizes]. "So ... why do you like Hemingway better?"
He looks for a second like he's just going to keep ignoring her, but then he pauses his game and tells her, "Hemingway is short. Straightforward. He doesn't fuck with you."
"Maybe you just aren't reading him right," Cameron suggests, and hides her smile behind her book.
This is how it starts.
That night, he raps on her door with the handle of his cane. The sound is so unique that she knows who's standing there immediately, anticipation and fear bubbling up in her stomach as she stands up.
She opens the door. "What do you want?"
"'She walks in beauty like the night,'" House quotes at her, watching her carefully. "You're a poetry kind of girl. Is that what you want from me? To whisper sweet nothings in your ear while we make tender, tender love? I'm not your guy." He pauses for a moment, then adds, "You're an idiot."
She blinks owlishly at him. "Byron was a Romantic. I like the modernists better."
They don't even make it to the bedroom.
Later, when she's sweaty and sticky and out of breath, she wonders if this is the first time or the last time.
iv. don't turn into a good guy on me now.
Allison wants, needs, to get her mind off this. Needs to think. Needs to make sure she hasn't wasted the past thirty years, playing at something that means nothing [she hears her old philosophy professor's voice echo inside her skull: what is meaning, anyway?].
She surprises herself more than anyone by sneaking out part of Kalvin's stash. Just enough, so maybe no one will notice. She puts it down on her coffee table after work and backs away from it, stuffing her hands in her pockets. She stares at it for time to time over the next few hours. Her palms sweat and she can't stop walking around her kitchen. Wondering what the hell it is she thinks she's doing.
She takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes. Counts down: Five. Four. Three. Two. One ...
The phone is slippery in her hands as she dials Chase's number, fumbling over the keys. Allison knows he won't - can't - say no. "Hey, I was wondering if you were still up for getting a drink tonight?" She hopes he doesn't notice the way her voice shakes slightly, how breathless and scared she sounds.
A distraction. That's what she needs.
After she swallows the pills, it feels like the world opens up around her. She can't stop moving. Allison paces back and forth, between the kitchen and the living room of her apartment, taking deep breaths. Waiting. She turns different bands on and off her CD player. None fit, until she puts in Goldfrapp [she'd only bought the album because they had the same first name].
When she pushes him up against the wall, it's almost as though she's outside herself, watching, as she kisses him, nips at his bottom lip. His hands roam over her back, tugging her tank top up over her head. They stumble around her apartment a bit, until they fall onto her bed. It's hard and fast and messy and she's on top, fucking him senseless.
It works for a little while. But she's pretty sure Chase broke the sound barrier with his haste to pull on his jeans and get out of her place, and now, as she's lying on her bed, swallowing hard [over and over and over], all the fears creep back: What if this is it?
v. we sort of clung to each other.
They try to be there [wherever that is] for each other, skirting some invisible line that they both aren't sure they want to cross [they're not even sure where the line is]. There's a timidity in the way he puts his arm around her shoulders when she cries [near the end, it's almost every night], and the flicker of uncertainty in her red-rimmed eyes as she looks at him doesn't go unnoticed, but he still pretends not to see [willful ignorance, he tells himself, has its uses].
Everything [nothing] changes when he dies. She breaks down, quietly [ohgod ohgod i knew this was coming but i never believed and he's gone ohgod he's gone pleasegod], and he has to drive her back to his apartment. He knows if he doesn't, that she will lie around in her apartment and refuse to eat [out of guilt? he wonders but he doesn't know this].
She leans into him on his couch, and he can't resist wrapping his arms around her - compared to her petite frame, he's practically a bear - and pressing his nose into her hair as she cries, silent but for the occassional hiccup. [He ran out of tears a long time ago.] He murmers nonsense in her ear [it's okay allie it's all right he loved you he's in a better place allie i'm here].
So when she lifts her head, he sees the rawness in her expression, and he forgets to protest when she brushes her lips clumsily over his jaw. She looks up at him, expression guilty and dark but still wanting [a plea underneath: just let me have this]; she looks almost feverish. "Please," she whispers. "I just ... need. Please. It hurts." And he forgets how to think.
He can taste the salt of her tears [her desperation] on her mouth and soft, soft skin. They mold themselves into each other's pain, each other's need, and later, he'll blame it on extenuating circumstances. They are tangled up in each other. They both need this. For now.
It's slow and gentle - he is afraid to break her. They're both silent - no noise but the soft rustle of clothing and bedsheets.
He knows that he will never be able to forget this.
When he wakes up in the morning, she's already gone, her side of the blanket straightened up neatly, and his clothes sitting folded on his chair. Shoes on top. He doesn't try to get in touch with her after that.
It's the last he sees of her.
*
Cross-posted to
housefic, house_cameron, house_everyone, cameron_wilson, foreman_cameron, and pureandpretty. Sorry if you see this a bunch!
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