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9 1/2	By : lot49 Category: G through L > House Views: 10104 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own House, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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::5::
Everything falls apart. As always.
Even as he spins, turns, and rotates the picture. Replays the scenario in his head a dozen different ways. If he'd sucked it up, faced the cameras with a sputter and a smile and read the magnificent lie. If he'd played nice. If he'd played at all.
Ha.
Little lies and large truths. It's what he does.
The knock at the door is unsurprising, as is the woman on the other side, brimming with good intentions, useless platitudes, and that Look. You did the right thing, she'll say, followed by, I'm leaving, and It'll be easier for everybody. Grandiose gestures, dramatic words, and a tearful farewell, moments before she stretches her lily-white neck over the sacrificial altar.
It's what she does.
When he opens the door, he promptly derails her carefully-crafted speech with, "It would never occur to you to just be selfish, would it?"
And as Cameron blinks and twists the coat in her hands, a nervous, pink tongue darting across her upper lip, he thinks, no. No, of course not. Not something so intrinsically part of her mental makeup. She would be incapacitated without the staggering weight of her conscience. Far better to merely to be crippled by it.
She came by to discuss issues. His. Hers. Other four-letter words, and where they overlap and merge. But all he wonders, at the moment, is how quickly he can make her forget.
"You did the ri..." she begins, and his elbow knocks over a lamp. He apologizes, unapologetically, drawing her towards the armchair. A bit of light emanates from the piano, another from his desk, and he leads her to a place dark enough for both of them to hide.
"I'm..." she tries, as he peels her slacks from her hips, parks himself between her knees, and traces her navel with his tongue. His fingers skulk up the shadows on her inner thighs and when they reach their destination, he feels her skin hot and damp against his palm. Rotating his hand, he presses lightly, maddeningly against the bone, as his fingertips trace and tease, promising all sorts of wicked things if she would just kindly shut the fuck up.
"I'm..." Again. She throws her head back, clutching the chairback as he slips one clever finger, then another inside, curling them forward with whispered come-hithers. He watches intently as her synapses shut down, one by one. As she moves unconsciously against his hand, her breathing, staccato and harsh. He sees she's beginning to disremember.
"It'll be..." her voice is hoarse, littered with repetitive fragments of vowels. The other hand slips under her shirt, curving around one breast. "It'll be easier..." And his thumb strokes lightly against her clit. Her hips arch, she makes a noise that sounds like a strangled sob and finally stops talking.
Good. He wasn't listening anyway.
::::
Everything is temporary. Pain always returns.
It's the span of time between one fix and the next that makes every step an agonizing, seismic shift. But he limps steadily on, the chalky pill dragging down his digestive tract a minor irritant, his target: the Maker's Mark on the mantlepiece. Tipping the bottle over the mouth of the rocks glass, he counts to four, pours a precise double-shot and swallows the first ounce waiting for his personal plate tectonics to settle.
In the quiet, he listens. For earthquakes. Ghosts and boogeymen to come crawling out of the walls. He hears the rustle of sheets and bare feet on creaking wood. He grips the rocks glass tighter before tilting the remainder down his throat, savoring the momentary sting. The now steady throb in his thigh, the back of his head. He thinks, he must be an absurd sight, standing there naked in his living room, clutching at a bottle of liquor like a life preserver.
"I'm leaving," she says, and he laughs, silently.
"It'll be easier for everybody?" he mocks, teeth dragging over every word.
Hurt. She looks hurt and so very young, standing there, with half his sheets wrapped around her, the rest trailing on the floor behind. He's never promised her anything more than a casual fuck, but finds his stomach churning from the empty combination of pills, liquor and something that feels vaguely like shame.
Then she blindsides him with one he hasn't anticipated.
"Do you want me to go?"
But she always asks all the hard ones, definitive ones, ones that require 'yes' or 'no,' that he can't distort or dance around. Yes. No. This particular one hangs between them, heavy and oppressive. Full of earnestness, dripping with implication. Yes. No. His throat ratchets shut. He doesn't respond. She expects too much from him; he's never not been selfish. She expects too much, and he's never been any good at letting things go.
He looks away and, instead, pours himself another shot. Better make that two.
"All right," she says, "okay." And that's it.
Hours later, after the soporific haze of hydrocodone and liquor has worn off, long after she's gone, when he's cold, dead sober and four hours away from his next pill, he'll say (quietly, so nobody can hear), "No."
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9 1/2