fic: there's always time for another fall (1/1)

The title for this thing was more annoying than the entire 2000-something words of fic. And I still think it sucks. But try and bypass that.

Title: there's always time for another fall 1/1
Fandom: House, MD.
Characters/Pairings: House, House/Cameron
Word Count: 2,442
Rating: R
Spoilers: For the end of the Tritter arc-- or rather, based on the spoilers we've been given. I made the assumption that Cuddy's the one that saves House's ass. But it's brief.
Summary: Kissing her feels like the first hit. Like the first drink. The first trip. The start of a new addiction for House.
Disclaimer: No. I don't.
Author's Notes: The title for this one took far too long. Thanks to synecdoche for the beta, and fated_addiction for putting up with my moodiness and insanity. ♥.



there's always time for another fall

High, higher than the sun
You shoot me from a gun
I need you to elevate me here
A corner of your lips
Is the orbit of your hips,
Eclipse
You elevate my soul
I've got no self-control
U2, “Elevation”

one:

It’s late when she finally catches him.

It’s his first day back after Cuddy’s saved his ass and convinced everyone that he’s not a drug addict with a problem, but he’s a drug addict that just happens to be a genius and that seemed to be enough. They’re all exhausted and it just doesn’t seem to be the same anymore.

But it doesn’t matter— on some level it’s not going to change anything. Some things have to remain the same. And he seems to be one of those things.

He’s spending time in his office, because it’s finally quiet and he can think about something other than how much his lawyer’s going to cost him. He’s listening to the Stones, his legs propped up onto his desk and his hand curled around his Vicodin.

It’s his constant.

But a file falls from his desk when his eyes open and he shifts.

”Shit.“

But when he gets out of his chair and goes to get it, a hand that’s most definitely not his curls around it. And when he straightens, he comes face to face with Cameron. He’s quiet for a moment, and he takes the file from her.

“Hey,” she murmurs. And he notices that she’s holding a cup of coffee. He arches an eyebrow, because it’s late and far from the time when a person would be drinking coffee.

“Coffee?”

She shrugs, watching him in amusement.

“The coffee in jail was probably crap,” she says simply, handing it to him.

He snorts.

”Well,” he says, taking the coffee from her. “You have been slacking.”

She raises an eyebrow, and he knows that she expects more from him. So he decides to give it to her, in the interest of predictability.

“I was thinking about bringing in a replacement.”

She seems to be satisfied with this, laughing softly and shaking her head.

And they pause for a moment. They tend to have these silences, where they waste time thinking about everything they might say to one another.

But he’s always the one that breaks it, because he can’t stand losing.

“You didn’t think I’d make it, did you?” he asks, his lips curling in a smirk. Because this conversation needs to have some purpose, even if it is only to boost his ego. “You didn’t think I’d survive the dirty cop’s little game. You and the rest of them should’ve had a betting pool. Maybe it would’ve helped to tide you over while your accounts were frozen.”

Her smile is tired when she meets his gaze. “I thought you would’ve at least learned something, given all the time you’ve spent in jail or a courtroom.”

He snorts. ”Hey, you don’t know that. I could be a reformed little drug addict that saves little orphaned children off the streets. And loves puppies.”

This time, she smiles and shakes her head, her gaze settling on the Vicodin in his hand.

”Yeah. Picture that.”

And then she leaves him, her fingers brushing against his on the desk when she turns. And he knows—he’ll blame it all on her later, because he can—that she lingers way too long

It always starts innocently, he thinks. It always starts with an awareness that shouldn’t be there, and an eroticism that lingers long after she leaves the room and drives him absolutely insane. It should be simple.

Details are what he’s good at. But not like this.



interlude:

There are different types of addictions. There are the ones that people stumble upon because they're too stupid to know any better. There are the ones that are pushed onto them-- he's convinced that he falls into this category, because he doesn't want to bear any responsibility for anything relating to his Vicodin consumption.

He's addicted to medicine. To his job. Because it's what keeps him going. And he’s made no secret of that, though he’s selective about what he does, because when he’s this good, he can pick how he uses his time. It's because he knows that everyone will love him at the end of the day, no matter what he does, as long as he saves somebody. It's because he knows that when he solves that puzzle, the feeling of vindication will hit him hard and sustain him for days, until the next puzzle occupies his mind and leaves room for absolutely nothing else.

And then there are the addictions that people create for themselves. That just happen because we have no other choice and we need somewhere to escape to because we've forced ourselves to accept that there's nothing else but the addiction. This is the one that he'd rather not acknowledge because he knows that it's the one that he's yet to experience.

But there's time. There's always enough time to fall.



two:

A few nights later, he hears a knock on his door.

He stands from the couch—he was staring at his Vicodin and debating whether or not to take one. He’s been careful because he hadn’t been too fond of lying on the floor next to a puddle of his own vomit.

This is when the knock comes.

He opens the door to find Cameron waiting there, and he arches an eyebrow.

“What do you want?”

She looks annoyed and he knows she wants to make a comment on how charming he is whenever he answers the door, but she doesn’t.

”We’re all going out to dinner. Me, Chase, Foreman, Wilson—“

”To celebrate the victory, I assume—”

“—and we knew someone had to ask you to come, since you were instrumental in the whole process,” she says, a slight smile curling on her lips as she shrugs. “I drew the short straw.”

He scoffs, leaning against the doorframe.

“No thanks,” he murmurs, “I’ve got food.”

”Pills don’t count.”

“Ouch.”

But she’s still smiling and he finds himself completely fascinated. He hates this kind of fascination because it’s the kind of obsession that he has with his job. The kind where he thinks far too much about details and intricacies and forgets about everything else. It annoys the hell out of him, but he can’t leave it alone.

And then, silently, he takes a step.

He doesn’t want her to acknowledge it—discussions on the futures of relationships are just annoying—and just wants her to take it.

He steps back.

And she gives him a look, but steps inside.

He doesn’t invite her to sit, but she does it anyway. They spend the night talking and he wonders just how many assumptions he’s made, but at the end of it, he feels like he’s just a bit closer. And that’s enough for him.

For now.

He still feels her there long after she leaves at 2 a.m.



three:

At some point, they start to fall into something.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, and neither does she, but it just happens. She’s learned to push back at him now, and he likes his challenges. He likes it when she pushes back and gives him something he didn’t know before.

He loves his details. He thrives on details.



four:

Kissing her feels like the first hit. Like the first drink. The first trip.

They fell into it sometime around the time of his second scotch and her first glass of wine. And in the middle of the discussion of ethics and idiotic patients, he just couldn’t stand that he was losing.

His hand is tangled in her hair and he’s kissing her with the intention of burning her, but he can feel himself losing his grip on the control of whatever the hell they do or don’t have here. His mouth is cruel and harsh against hers, and he can feel her hands curling in his shirt.

They’re on her couch and he feels like a teenager but stops caring when her tongue slides into his mouth and her hips arch against his. His hand slides against her hip, brushing against the waistband of her jeans. Her skin is warm under his hands and he finds himself thinking of how he wants to make her tell him everything.

He wants her to drown him.

He pulls away when he needs a Vicodin and when he looks at her, she looks back, her eyes dark. Like she knows she could kill him.

Her hands brush against his skin. And she won’t know it—or hell, maybe she will— but this is how his next addiction starts. All addictions start this way. Whatever it is—drugs, puzzles, alcohol—the first hit, the first time it really hits hard, is so intoxicating that it leaves no doubt that it’ll happen again.

She can’t keep looking at him like that.

So he kisses her again. And this won’t happen again is muffled against her lips.

But he’s lying.



five:

“Fuck.”

It happens again. And then again. Like all addictions do, no matter how much he thinks he knows better.

He claims every inch of her, because he’s selfish and wants something tangible to cling to, something real. And too often, he finds himself thinking of the way she moans when his hands first brush against her skin.

In the middle of a discussion about drugs and what kind of takeout he wants to get for dinner, he kisses her because he’s got no choice—this is how he’ll delude himself—and because he wants to hear her, hear the way she moans again. He’s addicted to the sound, the intoxicating breathy tone her voice takes on that lets him know that she’ll let him have her.

Or maybe she knows. And can play his game just as well as he can.

But that doesn’t matter.

He tugs at her shirt and the pain in his leg spikes and it’s all too appropriate because both of his addictions are starting to push at him now. They’ve become synonymous with one another, though she never asks him about the pain.

She knows better.

His mouth is on her neck again, on the hollow of her throat. The spot fascinates him and he slides his tongue against the skin, a smirk curling on his lips and burning them both. Because this, this is his new drug. Though he’s by no means abandoned the old one.

“House—”

But he shakes his head.

“This works a lot better when you don’t talk.”

She smiles, and he knows it’s because she’s becoming more and more aware that when it comes to words, she can push just as hard as he can. She’s learned now. So he just gives up on trying to get the better of her, and focuses on taking as much as he can.

He pulls her into his lap and hurriedly undoes his jeans because his Vicodin’s wearing off and he’s going to need another one soon. But he kisses her again because it distracts him from everything else.

They’re settling now, the two of them. Tangling. And it’s becoming more and more difficult to let go.

This won’t happen again tastes like a lie. And he knows that she doesn’t believe him.

This is his new drug. And this is the first hit.

He looks forward to the second. And the third.

Mine.



six:

She leaves for a few days. Some conference. And he waits, seated on the couch. Not for her, though, even though her plane came in a while ago and she should be walking in any second—he told her she had no choice. He merely waits, because that’s an admission he can’t make.

But this—

This is when he knows he's screwed. When she becomes every kind of addiction. He can't pinpoint a beginning, so he can't blame the start on anything. He's convinced that she pushed herself into this, so he's blameless. And yet--

She's the puzzle that's in his mind. And leaving room for nothing else.

He knows he can't handle this when, when he's alone, all he can think of is her. He thrives on reactions, on what he can draw out from her and make his own. And she-- god, whether she wants to or not, she's giving him everything. She's possessing him and he's letting her. As with any addiction, he's completely aware of this. But he doesn't take the blame. He’s content with the illusion that on the first night, she was the one that came to his place. And everything that’s happened as a result isn’t his fault.

He’s never to blame.

The explosion has already happened—it happened long ago. And this, this is merely the fallout.

He takes a Vicodin just before the door opens, and he looks up.

It’s her. He expected no one else.

He stands.

When the door closes, he pins her against it, her purse falling to the floor and his cane slamming against the wall when he presses against her. Before she knows it, his hand is tangled in her hair and he’s taking everything on his terms.

Desperation’s starting to hurt.



interlude two

There's one thing that all addictions have in common, one thing that he's become intimately familiar with over the last few years, whether he's wanted to or not.

The fall.

It's that one moment where the drugs or the sex or the vindication or whatever the fuck it is just feels so damn good, and he feels like nobody can touch him. Where reality is, for a moment, suspended and he can just feel alive.

And then it all falls apart. Or the realization sets in, the realization that he's trapped himself and we start to cling to bits and pieces of sanity because there's no getting out.

And that's when it hurts.



seven:

i want you will never leave his lips. Nor will i need you. But in other ways, in his ways, he makes sure she knows. He makes sure she knows it when his lips brush against her stomach and his hand slides against her leg, brushing against the lace of her underwear.

mineminemine is what he repeats against her skin.

He looks up, and when she meets his gaze, he wonders how many addictions he’ll be able to withstand before he breaks. How many addictions he’s going to be able to ignore the consequences of.

But there’s time.

There’s always time for a new distraction.

His lips press against her hip.




fin.