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| Entry tags: | cameron/cuddy, housefic |
Cameron had made the mistake of taking a religion class once. Some of the professor's more tolerable attributes had included plaid blazers, brown lipstick and an inability to raise her voice without sounding like a laryngitic buzzard. She had also delighted in dismembering the book of Job, and as a result the bulk of the semester was spent discussing at great length the merits of maintaining faith even whilst being slapped with every conceivable misfortune.
In Cameron's eyes, the real tragedy was that Job had lacked the luxuries of things like health insurance and walk-in clinics and therefore had to rely on the Lord to bail him out even though it was all the Lord's fault in the first place. She had kept her opinions to herself in the interest of maintaining her grade point average and gotten an A.
Thanks to her job, she had been recalling lectures from that particular class with increasing frequency. And, perversely, she was wondering if maybe she should have absorbed them with something other than doubt and discreet eye-rolling. If a person doled out causticity as enthusiastically as House tended to, there had to be a reason for it. And if Jobian logic was applied, that would mean House was like God, she was like Job, and his relentless tendency to fling cruel candor in all directions was only the result of some motive too elaborate for her to comprehend.
Right.
That unfortunate simile was truncated by the fact that she didn't believe in God and neither did House. But Cameron still couldn't keep herself from wondering about his mentality any less. If House was content with suffering, then by taking an interest in him she was condemning herself to suffering by default. Something about that was unhealthy, and she refused to believe it was her interest.
It was a test, she could almost hear her old religion professor squawking. Everyone faces obstacles because it's all part of a divine plan that can't be played out any other way—like a tapestry that's a mess of multicolored threads on one side and a perfect picture on the other. Still, Cameron was fairly certain that being intrigued (she was meticulous about never using any word stronger than that) by someone who treated you like crap tended to mean they couldn't stand you and you were insane for persisting, not that they were testing your faith in them to see how worthy you were. The bible hadn't covered the significance of really awkward dates with your boss. She had already told herself over and over that the most logical thing to do was ignore any unprofessional sentiments, but Cameron had never been able to let these things lie.
She went shopping once to clear her mind and ran into Cuddy, which did the opposite. Cameron had always been a little wary of the other woman, a sentiment dating from before they had even met. If she was honest with herself, a large part of it was purely superficial. Cameron was frugal about clothing at best, and was still making amends for a stint during which she had been convinced she could master a wardrobe that was a cross between polished professional and sexy academic without instead looking like an overgrown fifth grader. She was also pretty sure she'd read somewhere that wearing barrettes in the workplace was a fashion faux pas. When she saw Cuddy, who absolutely owned the academically professional style and walked all over Cameron's own efforts with every step of her devastatingly stylish shoes, she knew it was a lost cause. It was hard not to admire anyone who could maintain a job that demanding without ever having a hair out of place—the silk blouses, tailored blazers, always looking perfectly collected even when she was at her wit's end. That, and House made so many remarks about Cuddy's cleavage it was hard not to notice it.
Determinedly, Cameron kept her eyes on Cuddy's face and said hello. There was no reason not to make a habit of ignoring the obvious.
They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments before going their separate ways. Cameron's mind was emphatically not clear by that point, and not for the first time she let herself speculate about Cuddy.
When she had first started work at the hospital, Cameron had regarded the other woman with something just short of awe. Awe had since shifted to curiosity, and although Cameron still felt a touch of wonder towards her superior, she found herself periodically contemplating just how well Cuddy knew House.
Not that she would ever be shameless enough to ask or stupid enough to pry. Cuddy could be as incisive as House and was bound to catch on immediately, either way. The dean of medicine, wit sharper than her pointy-toed pumps, too quick and too brusque for Cameron to ever dream of fooling. She also had a feeling that Cuddy, in spite of also being an attractive woman, regarded Cameron as just another pretty face based on Cameron's tendency to be far less forceful than Cuddy typically was. At the same time, she couldn't help but think that if she ventured to look for answers, Cuddy would know.
Lisa Cuddy wasn't sure what to make of Allison Cameron. She had been unremarkable at first, outstanding in nothing except her tolerance for House. Initially, all that had mattered was the fact that House had hired her, which meant she was praiseworthy in more than one way. When Cuddy had the time and opportunities to size her up further, she still hadn't come away with anything amazing. Dr. Cameron was kind, pretty, a little too timid, a little too sensitive. The infatuation with House was easy enough to spot. Cuddy hadn't been able to decide whether that made Cameron a saint or a lunatic, but she certainly hadn't imagined anything would come of it.
Then Cameron had resigned. And returned. And finagled a date with House. Suddenly, Cuddy was finding the younger woman immensely more interesting.
Falling for a boss was one thing, but House wasn't a typical boss. And the kind of girl who could do that while still presenting a pleasant front to the world had to have a lot more baggage than she was letting on.
The two of them had crossed paths recently while Cuddy was in the midst of a therapeutic quest for impractical undergarments. Cameron had been cordial and polite and just this side of too nice, which led Cuddy to believe she had far too much on her mind to pay much attention to anything else. Other than that incident, Cuddy lacked a great deal of one on one interaction with her, unless Cameron was rushing over with news of whatever new insanity House had concocted. There had been rumors about the outcome of the date, although Cameron's behavior at work had given nothing away. Cuddy ran the hospital, but that by no means rendered her too preoccupied with medical matters to be attuned to gossip. Sometimes it was easy to wish she could immerse herself in the latter and blow off the regular workload for a day or so.
She didn't normally reach that state, but it was Friday and starting to get late. For the last half hour she had been trying to work out whether some idiot in Radiology had taken to writing in Russian or fractured all ten fingers or just naturally happened to have some of the most atrocious handwriting she'd ever seen. She was mentally composing a polite but irate email and considering giving up altogether when she caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of her eye.
And there was Cameron, in one of her lacy blouses, looking impossibly small and remarkably like an assistant librarian. She was gazing intently at Cuddy through the glass as if lost in thought, a purse slung over one arm. When Cuddy impatiently motioned her inside, she blinked in apparent surprise before stepping through the door.
"If you're going to stare blankly ahead, you might as well do it up close. But I'm warning you, House already has every male entity on the premises gaping at my chest; I don't need the women getting started too." The words came out more sharply than she had intended and she tried to soften the inflection by smirking ironically. "Although at least that would be a change."
"Oh, I didn't mean to—I didn't expect you to be here, that's all," Cameron said quickly, looking slightly abashed. "I was just thinking. I'm a little tired."
"You can't take a joke to save your life."
"I'm heading home," Cameron replied by way of explanation. She hesitated. "What are you still doing here?"
"Deciphering," Cuddy said with a bland smile. "What are you doing here?"
"Forgot my glasses," Cameron said lamely.
"Liar," Cuddy countered amiably.
Cameron sighed. "I was with a patient in ICU. Eighteen years old, sexually assaulted in her apartment, family only just arrived and she needed someone to talk to."
"Nice of you."
"She's young, away from home for the first time. She didn't want to be alone."
"You like being nice," Cuddy continued, as if she hadn't heard. "I've noticed that."
"Is there something wrong with that?" asked Cameron, with the guardedness of someone accustomed to working with House.
"You don't assert yourself," Cuddy said abruptly, arching her eyebrows. There was no reason to say it, but it had been a long day and Cameron had been traipsing around leaving a trail of good deeds in her wake like some medical bastardization of the Easter Bunny and she was going to wring a certain radiologist's neck as soon as she could figure out how the hell to read their name. "You make polite suggestions and trust that the best thing will happen and don't want to step too far out of line. You let yourself fade pragmatically into the background because you won't get in trouble that way and it's the nice thing to do. It's a wonderful idea in theory, but professionally and logistically it doesn't work."
It sounded harsh even to her, but she had kept those sentiments to herself for a long time. Cameron's boldness with House couldn't have been more inconsistent with the rest of her actions, but maybe it was an indication of some latent potential for aggression. Hell, maybe Cameron would actually grow a spine and talk back, give her a real reason for a tirade. She shook her head, taking in the illegible pages under her hands, the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall, and Cameron still standing there, arms crossed, lips pressed thin, faint lines framing her mouth like cracks in chinaware. Then, lo and behold, she stiffened and began to speak in a crisp, controlled voice.
"I'm sorry if that's the way you perceive me, but I'm not going to apologize for my approach. Diagnostics gives me enough grief about it as it is. It has nothing to do with putting up a front so I stand out more with…with the big boys or whoever the hell you think I need to prove myself to. Evidently my methods are different from yours, but as far as I can determine they're functional, ethical, and true to me. I think that holds a lot of significance."
It was a nice little speech. Dignified, respectful, righteous, and sounding vaguely like something Cameron had copied onto index cards and memorized for occasions such as this. Cuddy looked at her with a mixture of compassion and disdain. "It's hard to stay true to yourself and advance in a world where truth isn't a particularly sought-after attribute. It's been a pleasure to have you back. If we've said all we can say to each other, let's leave things on that note." She resignedly prepared to resume her work, but stopped short when Cameron leaned in, bracing one hand on the edge of her desk.
"I think you've been here too long," she declared, sounding faintly amused.
"Can you read this?" Cuddy demanded, brandishing a page.
Cameron surveyed it with a perplexed expression for a few moments. "I'm not sure, but I think whoever wrote this might have done it in a rush, with the pages upside down."
With great dignity, Cuddy pushed back her chair. There was no way she could stay in her office any longer. "I see. Whoever it is, I'm going to kill them."
"Can I ask you something?"
Cuddy had quickly collected her things and was walking around to the front of her desk, feeling a small surge of pride that she'd managed to do so without kicking anything. "Sure," she said distractedly.
"Were you just frustrated, or do you really think that about me?"
Damn it. Cuddy paused, considering. "Come on."
Cameron frowned. "I—"
"It's late, I'm leaving, and if you go off by yourself you're only going to sulk, which will wreak havoc on my delicate conscience," Cuddy said matter-of-factly. "Come on."
After parking her car beside Cuddy's, Cameron was vividly reminded of the gaping chasm between their respective incomes. It was a little daunting, a little embarrassing, and exactly how many of her apartment could Cuddy's home encompass anyway, or should she not even be pondering that? It was a building which could best be described as stately, a gleaming cavern of a house that Cuddy commanded easily in spite of seeming far too small for it. Cameron found herself glancing around, taking in the carpets and crystal, the spotless surfaces, the furniture arranged as if for display rather than accommodation. Everything was almost too neat, like a magazine spread. Or, now that she thought about it, Cuddy's office. Cuddy probably treated her home the same way she treated the hospital—quick to sense any problems and even quicker to fix them. Cameron sank into one sleek kitchen chair feeling vaguely like she was disturbing some sort of preordained arrangement that had no room for inquisitive immunologists. Cuddy, showing no sign of noticing her guest's discomfort, folded her blazer over the back of another chair, traded her heels for a pair of no-less-immaculate slippers, and poured two glasses of chardonnay.
"If you want something else…" she began, lifting one glass and one eyebrow simultaneously.
Cameron took it. "This is fine, thanks." Cuddy was walking towards the couch and she followed, automatically sitting down at the opposite end before subtly and judiciously shifting a little closer. No point in making herself look any more awkward than she already felt.
And really, she wasn't sure exactly how this was supposed to make her feel any less ill at ease. The wine was good and any company was better than driving home for a night alone, but going from facing off in Cuddy's office to curling up on her couch was a little jarring. Glancing out of the corner of her eye to make sure Cuddy didn't notice, Cameron took a large swallow of her drink and tried to think of a conversation starter that wasn't ridiculously trite. Work was too obvious, and damned if she was going to hang the entire evening on House, seeing as she was supposed to be over him. She glanced to the side again, took another sip, waited for her nerves to settle. As long as she didn't stoop to telling Cuddy what a lovely home she had or what splendid weather they'd been having, it could turn out to be a very informative evening. Cameron could be a glutton for awkward situations, anyway.
As it turned out, she needn't have worried. Cuddy turned to her, arching the other eyebrow this time, and announced, "I always thought Rose died at the end," which made Cameron start racking her brain for a patient named Rose until Cuddy helpfully added, "In Titanic. Kate Winslet. That idiotic debate over whether she was dreaming or dead at the end." That only made Cameron start racking her brain for some reason this was significant. Cuddy smirked, not unkindly, and shook her head. "Okay. I can almost hear you trying to think of something to say. Let it go. Besides, you were probably too distracted by the sublime dramatic capabilities of Leonardo DiCaprio to care about Kate Winslet one way or the other."
Almost without realizing it and almost without wondering what the hell kind of an icebreaker this was supposed to be, Cameron smiled slightly. "Give me a little credit."
Over the course of one bottle of wine, they managed to cover a range of innocuous topics that included sub-par television (neither one could stomach reality shows), medical school fiascos (Cameron's old roommate had once translated all the lab reports on Cameron's computer into Korean) and Anakin Skywalker (Cuddy had a friend who's brother was obsessed). House was never mentioned. Once or twice Cameron caught Cuddy glancing at her with apparent satisfaction. She found herself relaxing in spite of the aggressively immaculate décor—small tasteful lamps lit, radio playing at a distant hum in the background, and somehow she ended up mentioning her neighbor's propensity to blare Hilary Duff songs on repeat at the most inopportune times.
And somewhere in there Cuddy actually laughed, not the crisp clipped sound Cameron normally heard at the hospital. She looked over at the other woman as Cuddy lifted one long hand to push a strand of hair aside. The faint glow of the lamplight threw shadows on her face, flaring golden and deepening to sinuous hollows and curves where it softened along her neck and cheekbones. She looked regal, like an imprint on a coin, but at the same time the most human Cameron had ever seen her—thanks to House, she hadn't had many opportunities to think of Cuddy in human terms as opposed to fantastical or diabolical ones. But Cuddy seemed to crave company as much as Cameron did and was willing to talk about frivolities with a coworker whom she hardly knew to fill up the relentless silence of her overlarge house. It occurred to her that Cuddy might not have invited her over solely for Cameron's own comfort, and she was torn between feeling flattered and sympathetic. Wine tended to make Cameron a little more contemplative than usual.
Still, she nodded when Cuddy wordlessly offered more. They had nearly finished the bottle when Cuddy seemed to decide they were comfortable enough to broach more serious matters because she was leveling her gaze at Cameron and almost visibly assuming more of her workplace persona. "You didn't ask me what you did because you want confirmation," she said calmly, leaving no question as to what she meant. "I think you know yourself well enough not to let negative input affect you."
Cameron blinked, a little caught off guard. "I wouldn't be in medicine if I didn't trust myself to stand up to opposition well."
"Apparently, all things considered."
Cuddy obviously knew about the date; she had to. Everyone else had managed to find out, not that Cameron had made much of an effort to prevent that. She had been so sure she could use her own honesty to subvert House's convictions of mendacity that the possibility of failure hadn't daunted her. "Maybe that girl won't even remember the doctor who stayed with her until her family got there," she retorted quickly, trying to give the impression she wasn't referring only to House, "but maybe she will. And I'll know I did what I could and made things a little better, and I know that sounds trite and noble, but I think altruism goes hand in hand with being a doctor."
"And I think efficiency does," said Cuddy, sounding like a snippet of the soap opera dialogue Cameron had steadily been absorbing secondhand. "It's a matter of striking a balance, especially when you work with a self-centered asshole."
"To an extent," Cameron murmured vaguely, frantically trying to decide whether or not it was wise to encourage Cuddy's thoughts on House.
"Even one who has the advantage of being an exceptionally brilliant self-centered asshole."
"He isn't, though," Cameron argued before she could catch herself. Shit. Cuddy looked at her inquisitively and she paused, trying to form words that wouldn't sound self-pitying or melodramatic. "Self-centered, I mean—he doesn't like people knowing too much about him, nothing real. He doesn't let on at all about what can please him, to the point that he would rather be alone and miserable than allow anyone to know him. That, and he's too cynical and defensive to even give anyone a chance."
"Solving cases pleases him," Cuddy said briskly, shifting on the couch so that half her face was smoothed into shadows, "and on a professional level that's all that should matter to you."
Carefully keeping all traces of frustration out of her voice and fighting an urge to drop her head into her hands, Cameron answered quietly, "I can't work for someone I can't please."
"He doesn't appreciate patronization. Even if that isn't what you intend, people can be quick to assume otherwise."
This was more depressing than informative. Cameron was getting the impression that even Cuddy wasn't going to give her any new insights, not that she should be interested in them. She simultaneously respected and despaired at House, but would never give away anything that could hurt him. Cameron pinched the bridge of her nose for a long moment and sighed deeply. "I have to be a masochist for not just leaving things alone," she admitted. "He talks to you, doesn't he?"
"We've known each other for a much longer time," Cuddy said smoothly—not answering the question, Cameron noticed. "We don't take any shit from each other, and ironically that's the cornerstone of our communication, such as it is."
Cameron did let her head drop into one hand, then, just for a minute, knowing she must look like the picture of the shattered innocent and not caring. To hell with it—for all she knew, Cuddy was the type who opened up more to that sort of thing.
When Cuddy spoke again, the words were direct: "If you don't want House to push you away, you have to be constantly at his throat and be able to hold your own. You can't expect him to be pleased at you for being sweet and sympathetic, no matter how much practice you have."
Cameron closed her eyes, smiling inwardly. "I know."
Her eyebrows shot up when she felt Cuddy's hand on her shoulder. "I was hoping things would go well for you. I do think he'd benefit from having someone in his life again. I also don't think he's ready to admit that."
She was trying to be kind, but Cameron only felt more dejected than ever. Cuddy was wrong; sometimes, confirmation actually was what she craved. If House had ever given any clue as to how she could make him happy, she would have faithfully followed through just to feel the validation. It had taken her a humiliating amount of time to acknowledge that House didn't want someone who would mold herself to suit his moods. House would never admit he wanted anything, period. And because he would never open up and she opened up too easily, there didn't seem to be any way to progress. If suffering was a test, she was heading for failure, and Cameron hated to fail at anything.
The hand on her shoulder squeezed lightly and Cuddy's voice, closer to her ear, murmured, "Good intentions aren't always enough. If the bastard doesn't think he deserves to try for happiness, nothing's going to change his mind unless he lets it."
There was nothing she could say to that. Cameron smiled sardonically and took another sip of wine. She hadn't had so much that she was unaware of her actions, but driving was out of the question. "I should call a cab."
"I have a guest room," Cuddy said, all businesslike practicality again; "it's no trouble."
Abruptly, everything came together in Cameron's mind and it couldn't have been clearer if she'd been writing on a whiteboard all evening. Whether it was for reasons of responsibility or companionship, Cuddy was inviting her to stay, and either way it was nice to feel wanted in some capacity. Unless Cuddy simply felt sorry for her, but when did Cuddy ever put up with pity over honesty? Cameron realized she had no way to know for certain, but that could be remedied.
She wasn't feeling nearly as in over her head as she had at first. At the same time, she knew she was overanalyzing and cursed herself for it, remembering House, wondering what kind of a reputation she was unwittingly accumulating. But, for whatever reason, Cuddy wanted her here. She had been so preoccupied House's emotions that there had been no room left to contemplate anything else. Her mind, as always, was running a mile a minute, laboriously weighing every option before discarding all the most practical ones.
Cuddy was facing straight ahead, the fine lines of her profile betraying nothing. She still had an arm around Cameron's shoulders and was showing no sign of lifting it. Her eyes were serious, the line of her neck long and graceful. Cameron leaned over a little and kissed it.
There had been a showing of Twelfth Night on the Arts Network a week or so ago. Cuddy had seen most of it. In addition to containing typical Shakespearian elements like drunkenness and cross-dressing, it had featured a certain actress—the one playing Olivia—who had bleated the majority of her lines in the same tone Cameron normally utilized when things in Diagnostics were going particularly awry. She hadn't noticed it at the time, but now it seemed oddly appropriate. Cameron was such an Olivia, young and affectionate without regard for how things really were.
And as things really were, most interactions between the two of them were limited to Cameron agitatedly delivering the latest news from Diagnostics.
First things first.
"Dr. Cameron," Cuddy said firmly, fingers tightening ever so slightly around her wineglass. She'd had years to perfect the art of conveying fuck-not-with-me authoritativeness with a single word, and as usual it had the desired effect, because suddenly Cameron was jerking away from her, eyes anxious, wanting forgiveness, wanting to be told things were okay.
"I'm sorry. That was completely inappropriate. I didn't mean it like…I can go now…I'm so sorry."
Cuddy was nodding, solemn but accepting, face giving nothing away. "Guest room's that way, bathroom's to the right," she said in a voice that was just as placid. "I'll get you a toothbrush and something to sleep in."
Leaving Cameron on the couch, she changed into a nightgown herself, threw on a robe, then collected another nightshirt. Her mind dutifully raced around to various possibilities all the while, ready to seize on any thought that didn't involve the feel of Cameron's mouth at her neck.
Budgets. Yes. Those were dry and tedious and Cameron with her infinite patience would probably have no trouble wading through the paperwork…
Shit. Not budgets. Tennis. Tennis had nothing to do with Cameron, though she would probably look amazing in one of those skirts…
Damn it. All right, not tennis. How often did she see Cameron in skirts, anyway? Pants were probably more convenient for chasing down patients or House or Cuddy herself, ready to spout off some new misfortune while sounding like a second-rate actor from the Arts Network. She did her best to focus on Twelfth Night again, managing to spend about three seconds remembering how talented the woman playing Maria had been. Then Cameron's face started superimposing itself on the actress playing Olivia and Cuddy was back where she'd started, remembering the stunned look in her eyes and the way those slim anxious fingers had folded into fists. Damn it. She made another effort to shift her thoughts away from anything involving Cameron and absolutely nothing happened. When you got right down to it, her conscience encouraged desperately, Olivia was too damned boring to be that interesting. Ingénues usually were. The woman playing Maria, she had been interesting. In the play, Maria was also barren, but that was an even less appealing train of thought, and Cuddy didn't let it linger long, instead pausing on her way to the guest room for another sip of wine.
Damn ingénues, anyway.
And damn the not-so-ingenuous ones who went after their bosses and their boss's bosses.
Fuck it. Escapism was apparently not the way to go when a coworker laid one on you after three glasses of wine. She went back to the guest bedroom.
If this situation had been a scene from an adult movie instead of real life, Cameron would have been naked and ready for seduction, which would have lead to drunken Girls Gone Wild antics. That or Cuddy would have walked up as she was undressing, door ajar, giving a view of a slim smooth back as the shirt flowed off over her shoulders, Cuddy watching but knowing she shouldn't as Cameron obliviously continued. And good god, the kiss really must be getting to her, or the wine was, if she was concocting Shakespearian metaphors and late-night TV scenarios regarding Allison Cameron. Inside her mind, a snickering House made himself comfortable with a bucket of popcorn and a lawn chair.
Thankfully, the door was open and a still-dressed Cameron was sitting on the edge of the bed, hesitantly, as if afraid of wrinkling the covers, face expressionless save a slight crease between her eyebrows. Her hair was down and she had washed off her makeup, but the only thing she had removed other than her shoes was her vest. Cuddy half-expected Cameron to start crying, for that smooth head to fall forward and that earnest face to crumple, but the younger woman only cleared her throat. "I know I said this already, but I didn't mean for that to happen. I just want to make that clear."
Cuddy handed over the nightshirt stoically and saw something like hurt flicker through Cameron's eyes, almost too quickly for her to notice at all. House, she realized, probably noticed it every time he brushed Cameron off, hoping she would take a hint and not seeing it as any problem of his if she didn't. Cuddy wasn't quite so ruthless. Cameron wasn't stupid, just optimistic, and it was easier to rebuff someone who stupidly insisted on repeating the same thing than an intelligent person who knew she would be hurt but kept trying anyway. "You are a masochist," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "It's fine."
Cameron rose, muttering, "Thank you for letting me stay," and looking so meek that Cuddy felt like some cliché temptress in her red silk robe, chardonnay in one hand. She was still holding a toothbrush in the other, which lessened the effect somewhat, but by comparison that hardly mattered. Cameron was standing there, eyes downcast, hair loose, ruffle-edged blouse untucked and slightly wrinkled from slumping on Cuddy's couch, and Christ, who actually wore ruffle-edged blouses?
It worked, in a strange way. Cameron was far from unattractive, there was no denying it, and she was well-meaning, which was really more a hindrance than anything, and could be so vulnerable, always leaving herself open in her search for acceptance. Being mean to Cameron was like stealing a five-year-old's lollipop and then setting the candy store on fire. Cuddy typically found it annoying, but at times it was almost admirable, in a sad sort of way—the last of the ingénues, not yet ready to relinquish her ideals in the cutthroat, equivocal modern world.
Definitely the wine.
"Look," she said, shoving all distractions to the back of her mind, something else she had perfected over the years, "I had you over so you wouldn't sulk alone, and I'm not going to let you do it now. How counterproductive would that be?" Decisively, she set down her glass, reached out a hand, completely platonic.
She honestly hadn't intended for it to be anything but platonic—hand on shoulder, pat-pat, all better, everyone goes to bed happy. Cuddy had her own urges to nurture, though she didn't fling them around nearly as much as Cameron did and sure as hell kept them confined when she was at work. Belatedly, it occurred to her that Cameron's own urges were still racing around unchecked and she was currently some combination of confused and crestfallen that caused her to treat a squeeze on the shoulder like a harbinger of a hug. Against her better judgment, Cuddy gave it to her, doing her best to act like the maternal authority figure she'd been so sure Cameron regarded her as.
It felt better than she would allow herself to admit, regardless of the circumstances. It would have felt even nicer if she hadn't been repeatedly reminding herself about things like wine and professionalism and rebounding, because there were arms around her and Cameron sighing softly like she was relieved or apologetic or something else entirely, and it felt nice, in spite of Cameron's dubious ethics. A lock of Cameron's hair was tickling her chin and without thinking about it she brushed it back behind the younger woman's ear. Cameron flinched at the gesture, Cuddy felt the tension under her hands. Before she could let herself think about it her fingers were slipping through that silky hair to draw Cameron's head closer against her shoulder.
It was fairly obvious by this point that Cameron wasn't completely repentant, apologies notwithstanding. She'd been so sure about that whole maternal authority figure thing, too, damn it. But people didn't normally steal kisses from their maternal authority figures, and there Cameron went again, reaching a hand to the back of Cuddy's neck, fingers knotting in the slippery red cloth, making Cuddy's pulse rush and the room seem far too warm. Disentangling herself, she took a step back, summoning the most penetrating stare she could muster and leveling it at her guest.
Cameron was giving her a look that was half deer-in-the-headlights and half deadly serious. "Dr. Cuddy…"
Cuddy exhaled loudly to cover her surprise. "Oh, Christ. Are you trying to work your way through the entire staff? I assumed the date didn't live up to your expectations, which really isn't a surprise, but you're going a little overboard with the rebounding."
"I know you look down on me for not being as assertive as you think I could be." Cameron's eyes were dangerously flat. "I'm asserting now."
"This isn't—"
"You're lonely too," Cameron said mildly. "You try to deny it, but you aren't like him, you can't make yourself believe you're better off this way." She leaned a little closer. "Dr. House thinks I need. Like I'm some kind of vampire who feeds off other people's problems. But that isn't it. I can choose whether or not to involve myself. Maybe I like being able to improve a situation, but I have to want to do it. Otherwise, I'd just be a doormat, indiscriminately catering to everyone's best interests."
Cuddy blinked in exasperation. Was Cameron actually psychoanalyzing? "I should have figured you'd be a philosophical drunk. Can't you giggle and forget your troubles like normal people?" Cameron was slowly reaching out and Cuddy regarded her warily. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I told you. I'm asserting myself," she said seriously, and it would have sounded ridiculous if it hadn't also been so hot. Her hand closed carefully on Cuddy's forearm before the latter could stifle that thought, and she paused for a moment, clearly waiting for any signs of unwillingness. When Cuddy's only response was to break out in goosebumps, she smiled and, very deliberately, she brushed her lips against Cuddy's almost too lightly to be felt.
Cuddy's first impulse was to push the other woman away. Her second impulse was to kiss back. In the time it took for one of her hands to fly to Cameron's shoulder, the second urge overtook the first and she ended up delivering the opposite of the indignant shove she had intended. Cameron apparently took it as an encouraging gesture and laid her other hand on Cuddy's arm in a way that was somehow polite, as if she had a right to play the nice girl at this point. Defiantly, Cuddy clamped a hand down on Cameron's waist to draw her in closer, fingers digging into soft skin through her blouse, and there was no way in hell she could blame this all on the wine. It was almost a surprise when Cameron took control of the kiss, delicately teasing her tongue between Cuddy's lips, curling fingers through her hair to cup the back of her head. She was warm under Cuddy's hands, warm and pliable and sweet, not unlike her personality, but so many emotional hang-ups, so many hidden issues, there had to be, because no one could be in peak psychological form and go in for Cameron's brand of kamikaze flirting.
But damned if it wasn't working. Cuddy was an unabashedly heavy-eyed, openmouthed study in the mixing of business and pleasure when Cameron pulled away. When Cuddy opened her eyes, she met them seriously, the corner of her mouth curving upward almost too subtly to be seen. It occurred to her then that Cameron knew exactly what she was doing.
Suddenly it didn't seem all that surprising that she had managed to engineer the date with House—nothing more, since manipulation could only be maintained for so long. But for the time being, Cameron was in charge and she knew it.
"I'm going to change now. You can stay if you want to, or you can leave."
The girl was good, leaving Cuddy the illusion of control, but the faint smile on her lips gave lie to her foresight. Cameron already knew how this was going to end and Cuddy was quickly catching up. When Cameron began undoing the buttons on her blouse she stayed rooted to the spot, following those slim fingers with her eyes. She wanted to say something rational, like "This is a bad idea," or "Maybe you should sleep this off," or just "What the fuck is wrong with you?" but the words turned to dust in her mouth with every movement of Cameron's hands. First the top button unfastening, the ridiculous ruffly fabric parting to reveal the hollow of her throat, the next one baring a flash of collarbone, as she undid the next one Cameron turned around and smoothly pulled the whole thing over her head. Cuddy barely prevented herself from sucking in a breath as she watched Cameron's shoulder blades shifting like wings, bracketing the long curtain of wavy hair.
All she could do for several seconds was stare, taking in the pale line of her back, the graceful sweep of her waist disappearing into pants, the thin stripe of her bra. Cameron made no effort to turn around, and Cuddy realized that this was Cameron's strange way of laying everything on the line. She imagined she could run out of the room and Cameron would do nothing to stop her. It was the intelligent thing to do. She was still pondering this as her hand reached out until its fingertips grazed the small of Cameron's back.
The temperature had risen considerably by this point, but she saw Cameron shiver, just barely, at that small contact—with relief, maybe. Her hand continued, moving so the palm was flat against warm skin, feeling the slight expanding and contracting of ribs under her touch, before moving her hand lightly up over Cameron's side, stopping short of touching her bra, and then back down. Deliberately, she let her other hand travel up to very slowly sweep Cameron's hair aside, forward over one shoulder, and brushed a light, light kiss on the base of her neck. Cameron twitched and she dropped another light kiss, almost not a kiss at all, a few inches beside the first one, then another over a few more inches, all very slowly, noting the increase in Cameron's breathing. She traced down Cameron's spine with the back of one fingernail, felt a slight quivering in response.
Cuddy let go of restraint then, stepping forward, one hand palming her stomach, the other gripping her hip, lips working at her neck, tongue flicking out teasingly, and Cameron was breathing even harder, reaching back and around to clasp the back of Cuddy's neck and hold her in place. Cuddy let the hand on her stomach go up to cup a breast through the fabric of her bra, earning a swift inhalation, then shifted downwards again, barely teasing the tip of one finger underneath the waist of Cameron's pants. Cameron whimpered then, almost too quietly for Cuddy to hear, and that was all it took. Hands on her breasts, teeth in her neck, one of Cameron's hands flying around to clasp Cuddy's hip and pull her closer, Cuddy smoothing up over the warmth of her arms, down over her thighs, pausing in the middle to undo the button on her pants. Then Cameron was shifting, turning out of reach, spinning around. "Dr. Cuddy."
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Cuddy froze. It had gone too far, too much, too irrational, nothing a platitudinous shoulder-squeeze could ever eclipse. But Cameron's eyes were determined. "If we're doing this, I want to see your face."
She could have collected her wits and walked away then, leaving behind Cameron's parted lips and flushed face and entreaties. Such a romantic, was her first thought, but the words sounded more demanding than sweet, which made Cuddy pause just long enough to forget any possibility of walking away. She nodded wordlessly at Cameron before pulling her into another kiss, rougher, all clashing teeth and clumsy tongues. Cameron writhed against her, hands pinned between them. She moved as if to lift them towards Cuddy's neck, then grimaced in frustration and Cuddy noticed for the first time that from the forearms down they were still encased in the inside-out sleeves of that stupid shirt because Cameron evidently hadn't undone the stupid cuffs to fit them over her hands. Cuddy licked her lips nervously. Some adventurous part of her brain imagined Cameron supine, wrists still pinned, with the shirttail knotted around a bedpost. A less adventurous part demanded to know exactly where the hell this night was going.
Not now. Now the shirt just needed to go, completely. She could have collected her wits and walked away there, too. Instead, she took Cameron's wrist in one hand and began to work at the buttons. "If we're doing this, Allison, don't call me doctor."
They never quite managed to undress completely. By the time they made it to the bed, the blouse was gone, Cuddy's robe was on the floor, and Cameron's pants were open, showing the beginnings of plain blue underwear and symmetrical shadows of hipbone. It didn't take long for Cuddy to descend on the hollow of one, lapping at it lightly until Cameron was twitching underneath her, then slowly laving it with the flat of her tongue, watching with satisfaction as muscles clenched under Cameron's skin. She shifted, teasing a bra strap off one shoulder and swirling her tongue around a nipple before taking it between her teeth. Cameron was emitting brittle little cries, like glass breaking, fingers pushing into Cuddy's sides. Then, abruptly, she was wriggling out from underneath her and reversing their positions. Cuddy followed her movements, not willing to relinquish sensation of warm skin she felt through the thin cloth of her nightgown. More than anything else, it was the warmth, the sheer physicality of the situation, that kept her from stopping it in her tracks. Then Cameron was pinning her wrists on either side of her head and the only thing of importance was that mouth, always so eager to soothe and sympathize, stretching to bare small white teeth and leaving behind marks that would have Cuddy fastening an extra button or two on her blouses for the next few days.
Fingers were scrabbling with nightgown buttons, lips leaving a burning trail in their wake, still kissing harder than Cuddy had anticipated, not that she was about to complain. Cameron probably thought she was doing a favor, alleviating two people's solitude at once. If she'd ever thought much about it, Cuddy would have expected textbook missionary position sex from her—all roses and blushes and rapturously calling out the other participant's name. She wouldn't have pegged Cameron as the type to scrape her fingernails against her partner's thighs or her teeth against their stomach. Then again, she hadn't pegged Cameron as the type to go after her superiors either. Cuddy wondered fleetingly if maybe her powers of perception weren't as finely tuned as she'd always thought.
They were acute enough for her to notice little things, like Cameron's half-closed eyes and the way her hair kept falling in her face, no matter how many times she impatiently hooked it behind her ears. And they sure as hell noticed the more important things, because fuck, the girl knew what she was doing, tongue flicking, hands smoothing and scratching; thank god for misconceptions and damn the ramifications.
The nightgown had pooled around her waist; someone's hands had shoved the skirt up around her thighs. A pair of still-clothed legs was tangling with her own, and then Cuddy forgot everything except Cameron, disheveled and tensed, pressing against her, all teeth and heat and hissing breaths, until she was clutching the pillow and clenching her teeth to keep from verbally acknowledging just how rewarding unprofessional behavior could be. This really was a stupid thing to do, completely irrational, and what did she know about this girl, anyway? All she had of Cameron was mundane conversation and apprehensive peacekeeping and baggagebaggagebaggage, something wasn't right about this, couldn't be right, and ohfuck. The final traces of rationality dissipated and she was bucking and snapping her hips against Cameron's hand, Cameron who still looked far too innocent with her shining hair and lacy bra and eyes squeezed shut so tightly, even though her hands knew very well the effect they were having, but, really, no one should be able to look that pristine when they were getting someone off.
First things first, goddamn it. For a few long, blissful seconds, Cuddy's mind finally slowed down.
It didn't last long; it never did. By the time she dredged up enough energy to open her eyes, she was already regaining her scruples along with her breath. Post-orgasmic ebullience was a formidable force in any situation, but her conscience determinedly kept screaming something was wrong, something wasn't healthy, normal people didn't jump their boss's bosses, and normal people didn't go along with it. There was no way in hell she would ever admit how close to home Cameron's trite little speech about loneliness had hit, and no way in hell she could possibly let herself focus on that now.
The next thing she knew, she was decisively forcing herself into a sitting position, grabbing Cameron and pulling her close, that long pretty hair flying forward, small pretty mouth forming a pink circle of surprise, and Cuddy's hands were claiming all the smooth, flawless skin they could. In a hasty flurry of motion—tugging down drab slacks, fingers teasing inner thighs until Cameron pressing against her and hissing something that sounded like please. An overabundance of sensations—Cameron's nails clawing at her back, legs locked around her waist, underwear still on but deftly evaded, pants tangled around one ankle. Cameron's hair was in her eyes again, head tipped back, long white throat bared to Cuddy's whims—so she gave in to them.
In the middle of it all Cuddy was, inevitably, still thinking what a bad idea this all was but never having time to think it through completely because Cameron's breath was quickening, stomach undulating, head falling forward, clenching hard around Cuddy's fingers, and then Cameron was uttering small smothered moans, face tightening. Cameron collapsed against her then, skin flushed and feverish to the touch, forehead pleating into a network of wrinkles before smoothing into satiated peacefulness. Cuddy thought it was the most relaxed she had ever seen her. She didn't bother dwelling on the irony of that. There was plenty of more pressing material to dwell on.
Cuddy stroked one shoulder, slowly, and it almost hurt to pull her hand away. Just as slowly, she shifted over to the far side of the bed, pulling her nightgown back into place with what she knew were abrupt movements. There was a difference between an understandable reaction and a circumstantially appropriate one. Her hair was snarled on one side of her face and sweat was drying on her skin. She felt cold and impossibly alone, but she could be principled. Part of her wanted to go back to Cameron's side, curl against her, and not think of anything but sleep and comfort and the warmth of another body. It would be so easy. Instead, gathering her willpower, she forced herself to let feelings of annoyance eclipse any residual affection.
Cameron was inches away, still silent, but watching her every move. "I'm not going to apologize and I'm not going to deny anything," she said in a voice still shaky from exertion. "If you want to hold this over me and make my life miserable, you have every reason to do it."
"That is one of the stupidest things I've ever heard," Cuddy said, and she meant it. No way in hell was she about to be cast as the villain here. "You wouldn't have done this if you knew it would make you miserable, unless you actively seek out that sort of thing." She paused. "Maybe you do." It was on the tip of her tongue to add "Go home," but she knew that wouldn't be fair to either of them.
Cameron sat up, stretching her arms over her head and dropping them with a snort when Cuddy flicked her gaze to the opposite wall. "I just need to know how you're going to react to me from now on."
"I know what you need," Cuddy answered evenly. "The possibility of me making you miserable isn't the issue. The real issue is the fact that you're so preoccupied with understanding why something makes you miserable you've become defined by it. You're not happy unless there's something wrong, so you can improve it, and that is what makes you happy." She paused and watched as Cameron fiercely shrugged back into her shirt, looking as irritated as Cuddy had ever seen her. "The date didn't go well and you want to know why. Maybe you think I can help you find that out; maybe it isn't your fault; maybe" an edge of steel crept into her voice, "it isn't your business."
Cameron was smirking. "So I'm screwing things up and I'm dragging everyone down with me. Great. Thanks, I see exactly how it is."
"No. You don't drag people down automatically. It isn't that simple. We all have our own choices, too. Neither one of us forced the other into what just happened." She let her tone soften, just slightly. "Nobody can automatically force you to any conclusions, either; you can always choose your response, whether or not you let yourself realize it. And I don't think you do. I don't think you want to."
Another flash of hurt clouded Cameron's eyes, almost too rapidly to be noticed. This time, Cuddy wondered if Cameron dramatized it deliberately, since no one who'd just jumped their boss that aggressively could honestly believe they had any right to lay claim to an appearance of innocence.
Or did Cameron really expect for Cuddy to take her in her arms and tell her everything was fine? She quickly discarded that idea. Worth contemplating, maybe, but certainly not wise.
"Your house is very nice," Cameron said quietly into the silence, apropos of nothing. "I wouldn't have expected it to be this big. Almost like it's too much for you."
The reply was almost too easy and undeniably childish, but Cuddy gave it anyway. "No house is too much for me." Cameron dropped her gaze to her lap and for some reason Cuddy wanted to scream at her. Or maybe kiss her. She sat up a little straighter. No, definitely scream at her. The girl would probably cry herself to sleep over House anyway, assuming she slept instead of sitting up all night like a martyr.
As she turned, she saw Cameron fitfully pull her blouse tighter around herself, looking unfairly vulnerable. Cuddy left the room quickly, before she could change her mind, robe clutched almost protectively around her body like a shield. Behind her, she thought she heard a faint "Lisa" and nearly laughed—it was cliché and maudlin and so like Cameron—before deciding there had been nothing to hear. It probably wasn't a good sign that she was involuntarily presuming to know what was or wasn't like Cameron to begin with. She went to wash up, militantly thinking about budgets, about tennis, about Twelfth Night, and none of it did any good.