(no subject)
"Honestly"
House/Cameron
Martha: ... George who is out there somewhere in the dark... George who is good to me, and whom I revile; who understands me, and whom I push off; who can make me laugh, and I choke it back in my throat; who can hold me, at night, so that it's warm, and whom I will bite so there's blood; who keeps learning the games we play as quickly as I can change the rules; who can make me happy and I do not wish to be happy, and yes I do wish to be happy.
Edward Albee, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
The hospital's a monster of polished metal and glass, all sharp edges and windows. It's clinical and unyeilding but forgiving, in an unsentimental way: the blood will wash off, these fingerprints will leave. The janitors come by and wash the floors with cheap disinfectants that smell like lemons and chemicals, and each day new sterile instruments are laid out that smell of nothing at all. His hospital is clean, and tomorrow it will not remember who has died.
And in the midst of it, there's Cameron: hair down, face flushed, and it's hard to imagine that someone with her history could still be so sincere.
You look good, he thinks, and says: "What's up? Clinic run out of idiots?"
x
Cameron's in his apartment now, uncomfortably close to his records and his books and his life, on his couch, drinking his rum and his Coca-Cola from one of his glasses. The whole place smells like her perfume now. He's doing his best not to look at her and also not to think about all the things they said during dinner, or the fact that they even had dinner together at all. She's not there if he can't see or hear her, and he's at the piano with his head down and she barely makes any noise at all.
He thinks, I'm breaking my own heart, and Christ, I'm being maudlin again.
When she does finally speak, it's another loaded question. "Do you play everything in a minor key?"
"Would you like a ragtime instead? I can do disco, too."
"You hate disco."
"You have an impeccable memory," he says, and rests his fingers lightly on the keys. There's a pause - a long one, with searching looks into drinks and shoes scuffed against the carpet - then he straightens his back and starts speaking in a voice that's steadier than it has any right to be. "This won't work, you know."
She takes one step towards him, then two steps back, and says in a small voice, "Only because you're trying so very hard to make sure it won't." Her glass down on the coffee table, and another five steps back, and she's standing next to the door. Nervous and confident all at once, a queasy sort of determination in her face.
"Exactly," he says flippantly. "Self-fulfilling prophecy. Key word being 'fulfill'."
She nods like she's known all along what exactly would happen tonight but is still disappointed, and leaves with a small smile and a quietly-closed door.
He sits there for a while, thinking of all the things he could have said. Come here, or your hair looks nice like that, or would you like another drink?
Down the keys go, resisting gently beneath his hands with notes that he recognizes only after they're gone.
Come here, come back, this is hard for me, you know that.
x
She steps into his apartment for the third time and looks around, shrugging off her coat. He wonders if she expected candlelight, or roses.
"Well, c'mon," he says in a low ragged voice, and pulls her with him as he slumps onto the couch. It hurts, it'll always hurt; he could take another Vicodin, but he'd rather wince than do nothing at all. He welcomes it when she bumps his bad leg and welcomes it when her hand presses too hard into his chest, supporting her weight. His sharp intake of breath is followed by her lips and teeth and that's what this is: her chasing him, tumbling after him in the gaps left by the drugs.
When they speak at all, they're still using last names.
x
They might as well live at the hospital for all the time they spend there, even Chase, who runs away from him now with a mixture of sullenness and fear. They do more lab tests than laundry, almost, and it's all House can do to remember that life outside still exists and that it shouldn't be allowed to fall into his job. When Cameron gives him a look along with his coffee, or talks too softly, or brushes against him, he clenches his jaw and thinks of something mean to say. Just to see the look on her face, and just to have an excuse to leave.
And that happens once in particular, this day where nothing seems to happen but her face falling in disappointment, and it's all he can do not to try to run as he escapes. He doesn't have to wait for her to come into his peripheral vision to know she's been walking after him.
"Are you following me?"
"No," she lies, and he takes another Vicodin.
"Well then, I'll be off," he says, and starts limping faster.
"House, we need - " she calls after him, then jogs to catch up. "We need to talk. About what happened - "
"I was drunk," he interrupts. He pretends to think about it, then pulls a face. "Not exactly at my top mental capacity."
"Glad to see you've found something new to hide behind," and she's hurt and he knows it and he doesn't do a thing to keep her from walking away.
x
There are dozens of things in his office he wastes time on and things he holds onto too tightly. His iPod, his Gameboy, the yo-yo and the mangled dog ball from the dog he doesn't have anymore; his coffee cup and his cane and his sense of self-preservation.
Things to cling to: he's always been a tactile person, and now when he falls asleep out of boredom he dreams about touching her hair and shoulders, softly like he can't bring himself to do in waking life. She's always smiling and there must be a part of him that wants to smile back, because he smiles in dreams and then drifts his fingertips over the small of her back, smooth because in dreams there are no callouses. He stands straight, walks straight, no pain and no broken back, and he does what she wants him to do. In dreams, she wants everything.
When he wakes - and he always does, no matter how many Vicodin he chokes down before passing out - his libido is wasted on memory and his leg is in agony and he doesn't have a single vertebrae left intact.
x
"Stop running," she calls after him, and it's late enough and the hospital is empty enough that she doesn't mind shouting.
"Stop chasing," he tosses back. "Besides, despite my several Olympic track and field medals, you're an energetic girl. Should be able to keep up." But he slows down enough that his shoulder stops hurting, and stops altogether when she reaches him.
"Seriously though," he says in a not-quite-serious tone. "Stop chasing me. And please, let's not make each and every thing I say to you into an event, okay? You're gonna make it an event, aren't you." He's good at faces, and she's just about to do something incredibly earnest and endearing and annoying. "Could I at least sit down? Get some candy from the vending machine? A book, to pass the time?"
"You can't just say something insulting and expect me to leave. I already know you're an asshole, you're not gonna phase me. And I know you're miserable," she says. "And you make me miserable. And still, for some reason, there's nobody I'd rather - "
He takes a step towards her; her breath catches in her throat.
"I want you," she says after she can swallow again. "You want me. Can we just skip the hard part and -"
"No," he interrupts.
"No you don't want me? Or no we- "
"This will never be easy," he says quietly. "I don't want it to be easy." He almost smiles, then thinks better of it and takes the wide route around her as he leaves.
x
I'm completely sober, he says on her answering machine. I'll be home all night, if you want to try again.
As soon as he hangs up, he picks up the receiver again and smashes it into the table, and then leaves it there. In the future, he thinks, there will be jetpacks and instant gourmet food and the ability to delete stupid answering machine messages.
She might be coming now. She might call, but that at least he can prevent. He's terrible with phones. The apartment's a mess and he doesn't really care, but he still limps back and forth and neatens things into piles, throws away trash and dumps last night's silverware into the dishwasher. He tries music, but everything's either too fast or too slow or too sad or too happy and after seven different records that were wrong in seven different ways, he gives up and sits limply on the couch, blood pounding in his ears and his palm sweaty on his cane. Twenty minutes since he called, and he wonders how much time he'll be able to waste pretending that he doesn't care if she comes or not.
Five minutes after that, she knocks on the door; some perverse part of him says to ignore it, and he almost does. Another knock, louder this time, but it takes her voice coming through muffled but still clearly irritated (Come on, House, this is low even for you) for him to struggle up and walk carefully to the door.
"I hope you're wearing something revealing," he says as he swings the door open.
"Shut up, House," she says, but blushes anyway.
"So," he says, and trails off. She echoes him quietly.
She probably wants to talk. She probably wants to talk, and then cuddle, and then maybe light some candles and look at the stars or something equally boring.
"Sex?" he asks brightly.
She does a good job of pretending to be offended, and he's surprised, because he still doesn't quite believe she hasn't left yet. And he's surprised when she grabs his arm and drags him closer to her, and surprised when her hands slide under his shirt. The blood's still loud in his head, louder even; her mouth tastes like toothpaste and faint traces of onions and it should be disgusting but it's not at all. Occasionally he remembers to breathe, her lips following close on his, and by the time they make it to the bedroom he realizes that this is actually happening, and he remembers to be nervous.
"C'mon," she says, sprawled out on his bed, breathing hard. "I won't hurt you."
Maybe you won't, he thinks, and says: "I was thinking more of the logistics." He smiles faintly, half-hoping she'll pick this moment to back out.
"Hey," she says softly, and holds out her hand. "I'm practically a pro. Plus, doctors know all the best positions. Right?"
"No, doctors know all the wierd positions," he says, but takes her hand anyway. She laughs, and pulls him gingerly after her.