Pairing: Wilson/Cameron (I know, I don't ship it either, bear with me)
Challenge/Prompt: alphabetdrabble, complete set.
Summary: Wilson/Cameron destructive!hatesex. Can't get more summarised than that.
Author's Notes: Unbelievable crack to write. And it might seem OOC, but I maintain that both Wilson and Cameron have darker sides to their personalities, and I think that this could be in character. Seriously.
And go on, read this, please. It's only 2600 words and I am very, very proud.
You say that I can’t see behind the mask
Of those who call themselves the Good Guys in this
Who take and take
“So are you with me or not?” you say-
“This time decide”
For years, James Wilson has used the phrase I'll never love anyone in the world as much as I love you many, many times. He doesn’t say it any more. It wastes time and eventually he always gets glared at for lying. He doesn’t want to love anyone again, although if he said that out loud House would whack him with his cane for being melodramatic. But it’s true. Love is too complicated. Instead, Wilson resorts to being needed. Finds women who want nothing more than a few trysts. And then, of course, he finds Allison Cameron. And she’s perfect.
Wilson laughs the first time he slides off her panties and finds the tattoo of the bird on her hip. Cameron blushes and explains that it’s the Australian Kingfisher, or Halcyon, and it is supposed to promote peace and calm; she got it in college. Wilson honestly can’t picture Cameron ever getting a tattoo, and wonders what House will say. He runs his cold fingers over the image and wonders whether it works; but then Cameron’s skin is burning hot, her hair is wild and she’s lost three buttons from her shirt, so right now she looks anything but serene.
Wilson groans in pain into her neck as Cameron runs her fingernails down his back, first hard, then harder, harder, until she feels his skin split underneath them. He presses her more firmly into the mattress, kissing her in what is more a clash of teeth than anything else, and she wraps one leg around his back, pulling tighter. She honestly can’t remember getting here, doesn’t really mind, biting at his lips while one of his warm, steady hands (that she’s seen doing lumbar punctures so many times) encircles her hip.
“We must never mention this at work,” she gasps.
House pushes a plastic-wrapped brownie across the desk towards Wilson.
“Why do I warrant this?” he asks without looking up.
“It’s a Brownie Award for being a complete bastard,” House informs him. Wilson raises his head.
“Nope.” House drops into the chair on the other side of the desk. His smile is wide and self-satisfied and Wilson will never cease to wonder how it is that House knows everything. He bites his lips together and says nothing, because there are no excuses and no going back and he honestly doesn’t know what he’s doing any more.
Wilson is broken and Cameron is too. House laughs to himself, quietly and in the back of his throat, because they both have the same plan and therefore a giant flaw has presented itself. And once they realise they can’t fix each other, something else is going to break and then there might be bloodshed. House, for his part, doesn’t interfere because that would piss them both off and words like jealousy might get tossed around, completely unfounded. No, it’s far better to let them figure it out for themselves. Really, they should realise soon enough that they’re completely screwed.
“Sex could kill you,” Cameron murmurs, and watches Wilson’s eyes light up wickedly.
“And are you feeling suicidal?” he enquires nonchalantly, fingers drawing little circles on her bare stomach, light enough to tickle and to entice. Cameron grits her teeth and refuses to admit that she wants this, even as his fingers slide a little lower, stroking over her thigh. Teasing. Tempting. Cameron lets out a shaky breath, slow, so slow, not wanting to ask. Determined not to.
“Kill me,” her mouth whispers of its own accord, and as Wilson’s lips crush hers it’s almost worth her moment of weakness.
They’re in exam room three, door locked, blinds drawn. Wilson unceremoniously pulls Cameron’s shirt off, revelling in the sight of her well-filled black lace bra.
“Dressing up for House?” he asks.
“Yes,” she gasps, smiling slightly, “I’m dressing up for House.”
Wilson kisses her, hard, mercilessly, pinning her to the wall, arms above her head, while she moans softly.
“Say it again,” he whispers dangerously.
“I’m wearing black underwear for House.” There’s a trace of excitement in her voice now. “For House.”
She murmurs for House against his lips until it begins to sound suspiciously like for you, bastard.
Love is not a battle of wills; love is not about sex; love is not being needy; love is something that James Wilson does not want, and something that Allison Cameron does not understand, whatever she says. People have their problems and they have theirs, and not for one second do they even make a standing arrangement of any kind. No, when Cameron refuses to make any sound during sex and Wilson won’t look at her all day, the attitude seems to be if you don’t need me, I don’t need you. After all; they take their not-love very seriously.
Cameron, wearing his shirt, sits on Wilson’s sideboard and eats like she hasn’t for weeks. She’s never tasted Wilson’s cooking before, and it’s perfect. She couldn’t even say for certain what’s in it- noodles or something. It doesn’t matter.
She’s going home soon; back to her apartment where the boundaries are drawn, where she knows where she stands. Wilson pressed food on her because he insisted she hadn’t been eating. Cameron smiles at him and tells him the food is gorgeous, and for a moment they’re almost a normal couple. They’re almost the couple everyone else thinks they could be.
“You’re wrecking this!” Cameron insists.
“Is there even a this to wreck?” Wilson asks incredulously.
“You’re the veteran of three fucked-up marriages- you tell me.”
“Don’t take the holier-than-thou thing with me Allison; you were the one crazy enough to marry a man with a brain tumour.”
“At least I loved my husband,” she hisses.
“Yeah, right,” he smirks.
Cameron is glaring at him, but Wilson is the one trying to breathe through the splinters of shock in his chest, and once again he wonders just when Cameron stopped being insufferably nice and suddenly got the ability to answer back.
Cameron likes there to be reasons for everything; probably the reason she became a doctor. She likes there to be a reason why things are the way they are, why things happen. House has his leg and Wilson had his wives and Chase and Foreman have their daddy issues and who knows what else. But the only reason she can find for being in bed with an irrevocably naked James Wilson and biting into his shoulder so hard she suspects it might bleed is that neither of them have anything better to do, and that isn’t enough- not nearly enough.
There are no good guys; no bad guys either. Just a constant shade of grey that doesn’t really suit either of them. It envelops Wilson, and it envelops Cameron, and they do their best to struggle through, to establish which one is forcing it, which one can be blamed for bruises that won’t fade, guilt, sobbing in the shower, smirks on House’s lips. Cameron wants Wilson to be the evil one trapping her. Wilson wants it to be something iniquitous in Cameron’s eyes. In actual fact, they’re both as bad as each other. Motiveless and mad as hell about it.
She tastes like champagne and her sweat-drenched hair straggles over her shoulders, body undulating under his. They’re both incredibly drunk; they’re both incredibly tired. It’s been a long day and neither of them want to talk. Wilson lost three patients and Cameron lost a bet with House and that means silence is allowed to reign for as long as it likes. The need, the desperate, all-consuming need is more than enough to fuel them, more than enough to keep them going, and Wilson feels himself get more and more inebriated as he takes longer and longer drinks of Allison Cameron.
Wilson never, never asks her to stay and Cameron apparently doesn’t want to, because she always scoops her clothes up, pulls them on, fluffs her hair and walks out. He sleeps alone while her fingernail marks fade overnight, leaving his skin the way it was before her angry fingers crushed it. Next day at work they act like nothing’s happened, return to being Dr Cameron and Dr Wilson with frightening ease. And it’s not that it’s not enough, because Wilson can’t imagine wanting more, and he should be used to this by now, but, it’s just, oh, what’s the word?
They’re arguing again. Wilson brings up Chase, Cameron throws Grace at him, and then Wilson bites his lip and whispers House. The blood swiftly drains from Cameron’s face and Wilson smiles in a hitting-the-nail-on-the-head kind of way.
“He’s still the one you’re in love with, isn’t he?” he murmurs while Cameron’s eyes get wider and wider and she runs her fingers through her hair. “He’s still the one you follow in spite of everything, isn’t he?”
Cameron glares at him for an endless moment.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” she hisses, walking away, heels clicking on the lino.
Cameron is gathering her clothes and sniffling in an angry manner, and Wilson is lying on his back in the warm, tangled sheets and trying in vain to find something interesting on his magnolia-painted ceiling. The silence in the room is draining and the air seems to have become razor sharp, stinging him every time he breathes in.
“I hate you,” Cameron whispers as she slides her black bra strap up her shoulder. Wilson finally looks at her, at her wet-ringed eyes, at the red, red bitemarks down her neck and across her chest, and thinks yes, you probably do.
Cameron isn’t crying and she’s got her head buried in her hands. It’s late and it’s dark and she’s trying to process where she stands and why. She almost thinks it’s Wilson when the door to the office opens (they make no previous arrangements; the whole thing is too much of a mistake for arrangements). It isn’t.
“You two are better than a soap opera,” House sighs.
She looks up with the tears she isn’t crying glazed on her cheeks.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Cameron says, surprised she hasn’t already worked this out.
“Oh yes,” he smirks, “Every second.”
If Cameron ever feels used, she doesn’t say so. Wilson suspects that he’s the one being used, really, when it all comes down it, fingers the scratches on his shoulders and tries to work out when he thought this was a good idea. The truth is, of course, that it never was. Cameron’s a change and a half from Julie- for better or worse he’s not entirely sure, but right now he has a headache, a dull pain that lingers around his vision, and if, as House insists, this is love- God, he’s terrified of what hate must be like.
Thoughtfully, carefully, Cameron studies the diagonal stripes on Wilson’s tie, which is crumpled on the floor beside her bed, left there when he ran out on her. As she cuts it into neat pieces (hoping that he really likes this tie, so she can evoke some emotion in him) she prays that she’ll eventually find the spirit of the times; she’ll ultimately find whatever it is that everyone wants, and she’ll get it right with someone. With anyone. Sighing, pushing that thought away because it physically hurts, she lets the red and cream silk pieces fall to the floor again.
She’s been caught in the rain. Water runs down her face, mingles with the tears on her cheeks enough that they can both pretend that she’s not crying at all. Wilson taps his fingers against his doorframe while she stands there.
“I’m not you,” Cameron murmurs, “I’m not her, I’m not him, I’m not whoever it is I’m supposed to be for you. I’m just me.”
Wilson wants to say I know that but he suspects that he doesn’t.
“Want to come in?” he asks quietly.
He stands there for a while after she’s gone, just watching the rain.
Wilson watches with unbelievable calm as Cameron snaps and snarls at everyone, pretending (probably even to herself) that the reason she’s so angry is that Foreman stole her article. Wilson suspects it’s him who’s got her so wound-up. Part of him longs to fix her, make her feel better again, but he knows all too well that he’d get bored halfway through the project and he doesn’t actively want to, so all he can do is inconsiderately bruise her hips and kiss her until the aching desire to fix her fades under the overpowering urge to break her even more.
Foreman makes her cups of coffee and Chase offers to do shifts in the lab for her, which is practically unheard of, and if it were in any other situation Cameron would feel smug. As it is, she’s just absolutely exhausted, a fact House is quick to pick up on and even quicker to exploit in that inimitable way of his. She can’t sleep and she can’t eat and she’s so angry all the time. And later on, when she’s breaking up with Wilson (can they even do that?), she says I won’t do this anymore; not ever I can’t.
She’s only flirting with Chase to make him jealous, and Chase is only flirting with her because it’s Tuesday, but that doesn’t stop Wilson from feeling all angry and possessive and from hating everyone in the world with a honey-like Australian accent and the softest, blondest hair imaginable. Cameron never pretended for one second that she was his, and he never actually wanted to be hers, but that isn’t the point. Wilson grits his teeth and wonders if it sounds entirely cruel that right now he just wants Chase to fuck off back to Australia (and take Cameron with him).
“You don’t own me,” Cameron hisses, fingernails digging into his shoulders, pushing him against the wall. “Stop looking at me like you do. I don’t like you. I don’t want you. I don’t even get why everyone thinks you’re The Nice One! You’re not! You’re worse than House! Let me get on with my life, and stop pretending that it meant anything. It didn’t. It was a mistake, a stupid, stupid mistake-” that we just kept repeating, “And- and- and you weren’t even that good.”
Wilson just smirks because it seems like a really long way to say fuck off.
Sometimes, and admittedly not very often, Wilson can’t breathe properly, and it’s always from fresh guilt and fresh misery. He doesn’t miss Cameron and her dubious company which incites several emotions he doesn’t like in himself, but on the other hand he doesn’t like the being alone part- he’s never been good at that. So she looks at him a lot with those eyes and whispers nasty little comments no one would have believed her capable of, but Wilson doesn’t mind- it doesn’t hurt because she’s only running her fingernails down the edge of the scar of a long-healed wound.
“We wouldn’t be doing this if we had even the smallest bit of common sense,” Cameron points out. It’s dark, they’re on the roof and they’re not touching- not yet.
Wilson bites his lip. There isn’t a huge declaration of love because they’re not a couple in a movie. There isn’t a sudden flash of leg pain because they’re not House and Stacy- no matter how hard they try. Instead they stand in silence with an air of you’d be surprised what you can live with.
“Well? Are you coming?” Allison asks, turning towards the door. James hesitates.
Feedback is love. Even if you want to announce I'm OOC and you hate me.