she can't find her place (or, five of cameron's mistakes)

nc-17 | sexual content

"This is a mistake," she says, with emphasis, because the diagnosis doesn't make any sense. Three separate conditions in one patient, two of which are rare genetic disorders? He's going to kill someone, and she doesn't understand why Dr. Chase is just going along with it.

Dr. House slips into the men's room to get away from her; Dr. Chase just shrugs when he tells her that he already set up the IV. She waits until they're out of the patient's room before she grabs him by the arm, whispers, "We could be killing her."

"We're ... not," he replies. "He's right. It fits. You'll see."

Her chest is tight until she sees the patient wake up, until she sees the woman hold her child again, until she sees her walk out under her own power, three prescriptions in her purse, a smile on her face.

She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her white coat as she sits on the toilet in the bathroom, leaves only when she's sure she's done crying. She nearly bumps into Dr. Chase, and she tilts her head to keep him from seeing her face.

When he says nothing, though, she glances up. He gives her half a smile, half a nod.

"She's going to be fine," she blurts out, even though he already knows, even though it gets her crying again. "She was in a coma yesterday, but now she's going to be fine. She's going to live. He was right. He was ..."

"You'll get used to it," is all he says in response.

-

"This is a mistake," she murmurs, even though she doesn't really mean it. Mistakes, she thinks, aren't supposed to feel this good, and what Chase - Robert - oh god, whatever - is doing to her breasts can't possibly be a mistake.

But maybe it's the drugs. The drugs are making her feel good, and it's nothing to do with his fingers, cupping her breasts. Nothing to do with his mouth on her collarbone. Nothing to do with his hand sliding between her legs, rubbing her through her underwear, nothing to -

"Oh, God," she whimpers.

That's not the drugs.

-

This is a mistake, she thinks, as she tastes scotch on his tongue, but she doesn't say it, because she knows what his response will be.

Except, actually, maybe she doesn't. His lips are softer than she thought they'd be, his hands are moving more slowly than she thought they'd be, and -

"Are you going to move this to the bed sometime soon, or are you trying to make my leg go out?"

At least, that's familiar. He's been her ex-boss for less than a day, he's half-naked in her apartment, Chase isn't picking up his phone, and she really has no idea what this is or what she's doing. She knows this isn't going to end well, that there won't be cuddling and flowers and declarations of love. It's going to be a one-night stand, and every time she runs into him after this, she'll hear comments on how bony her ass is, or how small her breasts are.

So when he passes out in her bed before she even has her bra off, she tells herself that it's probably a good thing.

-

"This is a mistake," he says, but he doesn't stop what he's doing. He swears that he hasn't been drinking, but she knows the difference between the taste of vodka and grief.

She thinks he's doing this because under the right light, if he squints like he is now, she almost looks like Amber. She thinks she shouldn't have come, but ... she shouldn't have come.

When he pushes into her, it hurts, and she whispers his name, his first name, because she thinks she needs to snap him out of this. She digs her hands into his hair; it feels like he hasn't washed it in days. He smells like he spent the night on the floor of a bar, but she still kind of wants this.

But, no, this isn't why she came.

It's not.

-

"This is a mi-mi-mistake," she stammers. She licks her lips and tastes Thirteen's Chapstick. The other woman is shaking; maybe she's had too much to drink.

"I'm not ... I'm not gay. I mean, not that I have a problem with gay people. I don't. I just - "

"I get the point." Thirteen closes up the top three buttons on her shirt - when did that happen? - with trembling hands. "It's fine."

"Are y-y-you okay?"

"I think you've had a bit too much to drink."

"No." She stands up, but the world spins and she has to sit back down. "Okay, yes, but you're the one who's shak - "

"I'm dying." But she doesn't really believe it, because Thirteen says it with such an indifferent tone. "I'm dying."

"Well. We all ... are. Eventually."

Thirteen covers her face with her hand, rubs her forehead. "Yeah. Make sure you don't pass out on your back. Don't want to aspirate in your own vomit."

(fin.)