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brokentoybrokentoy85Rating: totally harmless. Character pairing: House/Cameron (of course :D) Summary: she's asleep on his couch, and he cannot help watching her. Spoilers: none. Disclaimer: not mine. and if he was, i would not be here crying my heart out over my ex-boyfriend. Author's note: i've been a little stressed this week, what with university exams, work and the thought of my ex-boyfriend that won't leave me alone...[fact is: i love him, he does not. simple like that. anyway, i don't really know why i'm writing this...i guess i needed to spit it out] anyway, i wrote this because i needed something to distract me_truth is, i really need some tenderness, and i just had to write it for myself. hope you enjoy it. special thanks toalterangirl, who beta'd it. i really needed it, thank you <3 He doesn't really know why he's there. He's sitting on an old rocking chair, rubbing his aching leg to numb it, staring at nothing in particular. Every once in a while, his gaze drifts back to the figure lying on the couch, half hidden by a patchwork plaid blanket, sleeping soundly. He doesn't know why he's doing this. He doesn't know why she's sleeping on his couch, in his apartment, late in the afternoon on a Friday. He doesn't know why he can't stop looking at her.
He doesn't know he's touching her until he feels the warmth of her skin under his palm. She stirs, and he takes his hand away. He doesn't want to wake her. He thinks she might need her sleep, and he finds it kind of funny that he's worrying about something like this. He does know that he shouldn't be here, so close to her heavy whispering form, 'cause he's an inch away from his fall. He thinks that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so bad. For when he saw her earlier, bright eyes and eyelids heavy with unshed tears, he felt something that he didn't know he still had breaking inside of him. She didn't say a word. Neither did he. He took her hand and led her away from there, from the corner in diagnostics where she was soothing her own desperation over a coffee mug with a little too much sugar, from the entire floor still busy with all the sick people that kept coming in, away from the hospital itself. They didn’t say a word to each other while he walked them to his bike. He gave her his helmet, but there was no snow and no hidden smile this time, even thought her arms wrapped around him of their own accord, and he felt her head on his back the entire ride home. He led her home, his home. He opened the door and stole a glance at her. Her eyes were still bright and heavy, and her stare was lost somewhere on the sidewalk under her feet. He tightened his hold on her hand, and it seemed to him she squeezed back. But then again, maybe not. She was lost behind a wall of thoughts and memories and all those things he would never fully know about her. And they were finally inside, and he did not say anything while he led her on the couch. She sat down, curled into a ball and closed her eyes. In a matter of seconds, she was lying on her side, eyes still closed, still curled up in what seemed to be the smallest she could ever be. He silently watched her sink into oblivion. And now, here he is. Still here, a foot away from her, without a clue as to what possessed him to do this. He aches to touch her, but he's not brave enough to dare a second time. She shifts again, and as the plaid blanket he laid over her when he saw her curl up on herself even more falls from her shoulders, he has the perfect excuse to act on his instincts and touch her again, one last time, before closing everything that threatened to spill away from the world around him. He does not need this. He does not need this surge of affection, this ache to be near her, to just feel her. He does not need another fall. And yet, he touches her. The blanket forgotten on her form, he slides his palm against her cheek, impossibly warm and wet. And he finds himself on his knees, forgetting his physical pain for the sake of something just as concrete. He finds himself looking at her from this new perspective, sliding one slender finger over the wet trail of a tear, testament to whatever dream she was dreaming. He finds it odd. He doesn’t cry, ever, and here she is, on his couch, crying silently in her sleep. And he's impossibly angry at her, for feeling this much, even in sleep, and for letting it out so easily. For he would pay for tears that never came to take away his pain, to wash it to oblivion. He would give anything he had, just to lift a little bit of that weight from his heart, just to give away a single ounce of it. And when he kisses her tear, he knows that what he's kissing is forgiveness, is silence, is peace and storm and everything that ever was her washing over him, taking him with her sleeping form. He kisses her cheek, and as his tongue darts out to taste it, he feels her hand on his. She is falling, and he’s following right after. As he eases himself on the couch, taking her in his arms, bathed in silence and warmth and bittersweet sensations, he sleeps. And in his sleep he's not aware of her mouth taking away the lonely tear he unconsciously shed, even thought he will wake up a little lighter on his feet.
