|
|
Kinks Or Vanilla
by Nicola
Rating: R
Spoilers: #1.03, 'Occam's Razor'
Chase isn't stupid. He's smart enough that he broke his back in college, trying to get A's on quizzes; he slaved through medical school, trying to come top of his class (in the end he came 16th, which wasn't 1st or even 2nd, it was . . . 16th). He's also smart enough that he never pressed his college girlfriends too hard about why they stayed after class, alone, to talk to certain dynamic, older professors. He's always been good at letting things go, seeing the big picture. So, no, Chase isn't stupid; he's not kidding himself that this is something more than it is.
They are in the conference room — close enough to House's office, but carefully removed (can't overlook that symbolism!). The blinds are shut, curtains drawn; they are cocooned away as if this were an Important Meeting. Chase still feels exposed, though. The curtains don't shut all the way, and if someone were to walk by—
There's a shuffling sound in the corridor that could be footsteps. Or, it could be his imagination. He's not sure if Cameron has heard it, too — as if maybe they're experiencing a simultaneous hallucination, high on the idea of getting caught — but she's kissing him suddenly and the rest melts away. They teeter backwards, awkwardly struggling to find mutually beneficial positions in their embrace. They end up colliding with a table. Chase lifts her slightly, so that she is perched on the table's edge, her legs wrapped around him.
It's late – so late that even the after-hours adrenaline has worn away, leaving him running on caffeine and lust. The day's case has hit a brick wall. Foreman ambled home around 1am, sardonically promising a House-style epiphany during the night. Chase only stayed because Cameron stayed—and shit, if that doesn't push him through into categorically pathetic. Because it's not like all their evenings at work end up like this, with Cameron's tongue in his mouth and her thighs rubbing against his. It's just something that happens occasionally. If they were friends he might be able to dismiss it all as fuckbuddies, but he'll grimly admit that it's more. He has a feeling she can't take sex as lightly as that (he'll reluctantly concede that he can't, either, although he's tried enough times).
This—this—as her teeth catch on his bottom lip and she sighs a name that doesn't sound like his—it feels like a game.
The pace of their kissing slows, and she pulls away from him slightly. She reaches up, awkwardly, with her left hand (her right hand is busy yanking at his belt buckle) and pulls out the clip that holds her hair up. The loose hair cascades down her back, swathing her shoulders in a mass of perfect waves and ringlets. Chase thinks that it feels almost choreographed—that, why, Dr Cameron, you're beautiful! moment, as if this were the climax of a cheesy movie and the heroine has proved herself to be an irresistible combination of book-smart and desirable. Chase wonders darkly if she pinned her hair up this morning, lost in a different fantasy, where House was the one who unleashed her flowing locks, her repressed desire.
She has already shrugged out of her lab coat, and now he is fumbling with the buttons on her shirt. She is slack in his arms as his fingers reach the curve of her stomach; she seems suddenly bored. She exhales close to his ear, and it's just short of a sigh. She doesn't look him in the eyes, directing her gaze over his shoulder, instead. (With a pang he remembers girls who he would suddenly, inexplicably lose interest in half-way through sex; avoiding their eyes as he pounded onward. He doesn't want to be one of those girls.) His thumb flicks against her nipple, which he feels harden through the lace of her bra. Her body keens towards him, and they resume kissing briefly.
She pushes him away again, gently. She twists her hips to remove her pantyhose. Her shoes make two soft, clunking sounds as they hit the floor. Chase finds himself oddly mesmerized by the pile her hose and underwear make on the floor. He looks up and finds her gaze is still flickering around the room, moving from his face to the door, to the spectre of House's empty office next door. She's making him nervous. He senses a challenge in her demeanour as she reclines slightly against the table. Warily, he finishes unbuttoning his pants, allowing them to gather around his ankles. He suddenly feels as though he were seventeen again, at the Hannigans' Christmas party. He has a flash of Sophie Hannigan, a stupid velvet bow in her hair, lying on her bed and making him ask permission to fuck her.
". . . Allison," he says—and regrets it almost immediately. He wants to think of her as Allison. He jerks off to the soft, sweet, not-quite-real image of Allison—but he always ends up coming to the frigid, uncertain memory of Dr Cameron. He doesn't know why it matters which name he calls her by; it's such an American thing, dropping a person's name into conversation every two seconds, to continue the façade that you actually give a shit about them.
"Chase—" She doesn't quite snap his name, it's not that harsh; she merely hitches her voice above his whisper. He can't read her expression, but her eyes are finally focused on him. Apparently this will not be the night where they dispense with formalities.
Cameron looks into his eyes, and suddenly he realizes she's giving him permission.
*
"I really don't think it's appropriate," says Wilson.
House casts a sidelong look in his direction. He doubts Wilson really thinks it is inappropriate—not harmfully so, anyway. He can also tell by the trace of a smile around the other man's mouth that Wilson is only telling him so to get a rise out of him.
"They're not actually in my office, are they?" asks House. "Because that would be inappropriate." He pauses to consider. "Although probably more exciting, come to think of it."
Wilson's threatened smile leaps across his face. House continues, "Up there on the desk. Papers scattered everywhere. Groping fingers finding the hard edges of a stapler."
"So you speak as the voice of experience," Wilson says, struggling to control his amusement with mock-solemnity.
"Not my particular kink, I'm afraid," House says dismissively. "Or yours, I'd wager."
"What makes you say that?" Wilson says, slightly surprised.
"Well, three marriages would seem to suggest a sexual appetite that is more or less confined to nice, boring, polite sex in king-sized beds. Maybe, if you're feeling adventurous, complete with Egyptian cotton sheets."
"Ahh," says Wilson, with a darker smile. "You've figured me out."
"I could be wrong," House says, lifting his eyebrows. "You did seem awfully eager to tell me you'd been playing peeping tom on my young assistants. Would you like to go back upstairs and watch? Although come to think of it, that might be giving Dr Chase a little too much credit, with regard to stamina—"
"I thought," Wilson says clearly, "someone might have a word with them about what doctors should and shouldn't do within the hospital."
"And of course, they're the first to ever do such a dastardly deed within these sacred walls."
"Maybe not the first," Wilson allows. "Although I seem to recall you and I were able to control ourselves past humping all over the lab equipment."
"Well, hearing you talk like that is making me wonder how," House says with a slight smirk as Wilson flushes in the half-dark. "Pretty, isn't she?" House continues after a pause.
"Allison Cameron?" The colour in Wilson's cheeks has cooled. "Of course. She's beautiful. I wouldn't have expected you to hire anything less. And I never quite bought the line about Chase's father pressuring you into giving him a job."
"You see right through me," House says in a voice that could be described as fond, were it not for the mocking undertone.
"Unfortunately, yes." Wilson smiles, a tolerant smile that betrays a little with its weariness.
"So," House says, suddenly bored of the conversation, "are we going back to my place for drinks and cigars, like the old men that we are?"
"—and boring sex on cotton sheets?" Wilson adds archly.
"Something like that."
They walk out onto the rainy tarmac of the hospital's forecourt. Wilson remembers his first flush of passion for House, when it really was all he could do to keep from sweeping aside papers, staplers, anything—even his own happiness—just to be close to the inscrutable Gregory House. He glances over at House, the prospect of their night together unfolding in his mind, and he wonders how much things really change.
July 2005
|
|
|
|
