I used to sleep. It was great.
Jan. 11th, 2007 05:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: you’re a mean old daddy, but I like you
Summary: "But she’s just Cameron, who on a good day is just a protégé among protégés."
Fandom: House
Word Count: 200
Rating/Warnings: PG
Pairing: House/Cameron (one-sided)
A/N: One of those got a line stuck in my head drabbles. No context, no canon placement. Just character study. Title is from Carey by Joni Mitchell.
“I’m old enough to be your daddy,” he tells her, and there’s not even a drop of innuendo on the words. If she were Cuddy, or Wilson, or practically anybody else, she wouldn’t be able to get down the hallway for the deluge. But she’s just Cameron, who on a good day is just a protégé among protégés.
She steps around him and walks off, wondering if the blush that’s spreading over her face is going to be obvious to the entire hospital. She’s burning hot, and it really must be written all over her. Cameron’s got this insane idea in her head that the nurses are watching, keeping a graph. His callousness on the x-axis, her love on the y- it’s a steady upward slope.
House makes her feel like a Joni Mitchell song, like her love for him is hopeless and beautiful and ought to take place in a dirty jazz club in an exotic town. It’s gorgeous, in the way that doomed love always is. And that’s exactly what she needs- one more worthless pretty thing to sit on her shelf and clutter her up.
It’s one more thing she can convince herself to hate him for.
Summary: "But she’s just Cameron, who on a good day is just a protégé among protégés."
Fandom: House
Word Count: 200
Rating/Warnings: PG
Pairing: House/Cameron (one-sided)
A/N: One of those got a line stuck in my head drabbles. No context, no canon placement. Just character study. Title is from Carey by Joni Mitchell.
“I’m old enough to be your daddy,” he tells her, and there’s not even a drop of innuendo on the words. If she were Cuddy, or Wilson, or practically anybody else, she wouldn’t be able to get down the hallway for the deluge. But she’s just Cameron, who on a good day is just a protégé among protégés.
She steps around him and walks off, wondering if the blush that’s spreading over her face is going to be obvious to the entire hospital. She’s burning hot, and it really must be written all over her. Cameron’s got this insane idea in her head that the nurses are watching, keeping a graph. His callousness on the x-axis, her love on the y- it’s a steady upward slope.
House makes her feel like a Joni Mitchell song, like her love for him is hopeless and beautiful and ought to take place in a dirty jazz club in an exotic town. It’s gorgeous, in the way that doomed love always is. And that’s exactly what she needs- one more worthless pretty thing to sit on her shelf and clutter her up.
It’s one more thing she can convince herself to hate him for.
