019. Denial
Title: Not To Care
Characters/Pairing: Cameron/Wilson, slight Wilson/Grace
Prompt: 019. Denial
Word Count: 1,441
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: House vs. God
Author's Notes: bironic was basically the inspiration for this fic. Many many thanks to usomitai for the beta! Title and song lyrics are from Belle & Sebastian's song "Is It Wicked Not To Care?" Enjoy. :)
Is it wicked not to care?
(When they say that you're mistaken.)
It's not the first time mail has ended up in the wrong department. Wilson's office is on the same floor as the Diagnostics department. You're used to delivering errant letters to him. More often than not, they're glossy pamphlets on (possible) cures for cancer. They're always so hopeful; you like to think that this time, it will actually be a cure.
(You like to pretend this will work, this will be the cure, when you give them to him. There's certainly a kind of hope there, lingering when your hands brush as you pass the envelope, the paper's veneer reflecting your fingers.)
But this particular envelope isn't glossy or even particularly hopeful. It's airmail from Italy. It's thin. Regret oozes from it like some college rejection letter, years too late.
You want to open it. Of course it's none of your business, but it's not for nothing that House has taught you to be nosy. But you don't. (You've learned to respect Wilson --
something about him reminds you of yourself --
and sometimes you realize that he reminds you so much of House. You don't let yourself dwell on it.)
You don't open the envelope.
Instead you walk over to his office, heels clicking purposefully against the tile. This is just like always, just another mix-up of departments.
You open the door to his office. (He told you before that you don't have to knock. Usually you do, anyway.) He's sitting behind his desk, flipping through some patient records. You hand him the letter, and you can't quite smile in greeting like you normally do.
He tears open the envelope, reads the letter inside. For a moment, you think you see a flash of something in his eyes. (It's something you would do, tear up at somber news. There are Kleenex in your pocket.) But he looks up at you and smiles his usual grin, cocking an eyebrow.
(You wish you could do that. You wish...) He interrupts your internal monologue.
"You're waiting to see what the letter said, aren't you?"
Your eyes widen and you turn to leave. You don't want him to be right. "N-- Well. Yes, I wanted to know. I assumed it was confidential." You open the office door to let yourself out.
Then, just before your right heel makes contact with the floor outside his office --
"Grace Polmurin died in Florence." He blurts it out.
(You've heard whispers about Wilson and one of his patients, a few months ago. The name "Grace" floated around. You didn't really want to know. You know about a few too many skeletons in his closet, as it is.
You want to believe better of him. You want to admire him.)
"Oh. I'm sorry, Wilson." You don't know what else to say.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. He doesn't know either. (Suddenly you realize that he has nice lips and you start wondering, oh, how would they feel between your thighs --
You stop thinking about it.)
"If you want to talk... You know where House's office is." But you don't move, and you're not quite sure why. ("You'd be surprised what you can live with," he said to you once.
You're not living; you're not moving. But you still remember.
Does he?)
"Sure." You can tell from his voice that he won't be talking to you about it at all. Already he's put the letter in a desk drawer. He's picking up the files he was studying when you walked in.
Suddenly you're angry. (House would never do something like that, even, sleep with a patient and then not care, and House is the master of not caring.
And. You want to believe so much better of Wilson. You want to believe that he, like you, wants to fix his patients no matter what, and that it bothers him when they can't be helped.
You want him...
to be someone you admire.)
"Doesn't it matter?" You can't help it, the rancor in your voice.
He doesn't look at you. "Does it have to?"
"Did she ever matter to you?" You're not sure you want him to tell you. (Can't he be perfect for just a minute?)
"Listen, Allison..." He runs a hand through his hair. He's looking at you now. You usually like it when he calls you Allison.
"Don't, Doctor." This can't be about you as a person. Or him. Only as doctors. Isn't that what counts at a hospital?
"Allison!"
"No, Doctor Wilson. You're going to tell me, under the pretense of being a good doctor, that you are used to death. That it doesn't matter. That she didn't matter. Either you're lying..." And you can't finish because you always want to think well of him.
(He always fails.) Always you expect it to turn into some kind of evil twin. You believed in magic long after you stopped believing in God.
"Doctor Cameron, you are chastising me for being a doctor."
"No."
"Then why are you glowering at me? You look like House."
You're still in love with House sometimes, and you still hate yourself for it, and you're always reminded of it.
And something about all that needles you, because Wilson has no right to make you question the universe, over some woman he shouldn't have slept with anyway --
who he should at least care about. Just a little.
(His lips kissing your neck.
Stop!)
"And you! You're even worse! Don-- didn't you care about her?" There are those moments when you snap completely, when the nice-girl veneer wears thin.
"Listen." His voice is hollow. You're only a little sorry for your outburst. But at the same time. (Hislips--stopstopstop!)
"She went to Florence because that was her dream."
You think That's not enough, and in one nightmarish moment, realize you said it out loud. You're looking him in the eyes. He's not as surprised as you are.
"Allison, what do you want me to say? What do you want?"
You press your mouth into a thin line. You close your eyes, just for half an instant. (You want to be perfectly in control. You don't think about his lips.) You know what you should say: I want you to always act like a doctor, I want you to care about your patients, I want you to give a shit about making the right decision. I want you to treat people like they matter.
But when you open your mouth, you get stuck on the words, "I want."
He looks at you, his eyebrows raised. (He'll tell House about this.) "What is it that you want, Allison?"
"...You." And you can't get any more words out. (What would you say, anyway?) And you know, not without a little horror, that you've thought about these words for months. (You don't like to realize what you've realized. His lips.)
"Allison?" He starts to get up from his chair. There's something in his eyes.
Pity. Or. You don't want to think about it.
"Doctor Wilson, I --" You turn to go. You open the door and step outside. (Something breaks inside you, just a little, when your heel clicks against the tile, like some pathetic monosyllable.
But what else can you do?)
"Allison." You're half outside his office when he calls you back.
"Yes?" You step inside and close the door. You walk over to his desk. (You can't quite look him in the eye. You're looking at his mouth.)
"You can call me James."
And you know, you know, that he's said this to so many other women before. And they probably all went weak in the knees and grinned foolishly at him. (Are you any better than them, really?)
You don't know what to say. (You've betrayed yourself enough.)
All you can think to do is lean across the desk and kiss him on his lips. (He's not surprised. Neither are you, really.)
He kisses you back -- and you know, too, that you are not going to change him.
The next night, you arch against him in his bed and when he moans, "Allison, Allison," you can swear you hear just a whisper of "Grace" behind it. (His lips in the hollow of your neck make you forget it.)
And when you wake up in the morning, curled around him, you know that it's only a matter of time before you don't matter at all to him.
(One day, you tell yourself in a half-awake haze, you'll teach him to really give a damn about people.)
You don't want to realize that he's showing you how to forget about them.
If there was a sequel
Would you love me as an equal?
Would you love me till I'm dead
Or is there someone else instead?
Belle & Sebastian, Is It Wicked Not To Care?
Characters/Pairing: Cameron/Wilson, slight Wilson/Grace
Prompt: 019. Denial
Word Count: 1,441
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: House vs. God
Author's Notes: bironic was basically the inspiration for this fic. Many many thanks to usomitai for the beta! Title and song lyrics are from Belle & Sebastian's song "Is It Wicked Not To Care?" Enjoy. :)
Is it wicked not to care?
(When they say that you're mistaken.)
It's not the first time mail has ended up in the wrong department. Wilson's office is on the same floor as the Diagnostics department. You're used to delivering errant letters to him. More often than not, they're glossy pamphlets on (possible) cures for cancer. They're always so hopeful; you like to think that this time, it will actually be a cure.
(You like to pretend this will work, this will be the cure, when you give them to him. There's certainly a kind of hope there, lingering when your hands brush as you pass the envelope, the paper's veneer reflecting your fingers.)
But this particular envelope isn't glossy or even particularly hopeful. It's airmail from Italy. It's thin. Regret oozes from it like some college rejection letter, years too late.
You want to open it. Of course it's none of your business, but it's not for nothing that House has taught you to be nosy. But you don't. (You've learned to respect Wilson --
something about him reminds you of yourself --
and sometimes you realize that he reminds you so much of House. You don't let yourself dwell on it.)
You don't open the envelope.
Instead you walk over to his office, heels clicking purposefully against the tile. This is just like always, just another mix-up of departments.
You open the door to his office. (He told you before that you don't have to knock. Usually you do, anyway.) He's sitting behind his desk, flipping through some patient records. You hand him the letter, and you can't quite smile in greeting like you normally do.
He tears open the envelope, reads the letter inside. For a moment, you think you see a flash of something in his eyes. (It's something you would do, tear up at somber news. There are Kleenex in your pocket.) But he looks up at you and smiles his usual grin, cocking an eyebrow.
(You wish you could do that. You wish...) He interrupts your internal monologue.
"You're waiting to see what the letter said, aren't you?"
Your eyes widen and you turn to leave. You don't want him to be right. "N-- Well. Yes, I wanted to know. I assumed it was confidential." You open the office door to let yourself out.
Then, just before your right heel makes contact with the floor outside his office --
"Grace Polmurin died in Florence." He blurts it out.
(You've heard whispers about Wilson and one of his patients, a few months ago. The name "Grace" floated around. You didn't really want to know. You know about a few too many skeletons in his closet, as it is.
You want to believe better of him. You want to admire him.)
"Oh. I'm sorry, Wilson." You don't know what else to say.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. He doesn't know either. (Suddenly you realize that he has nice lips and you start wondering, oh, how would they feel between your thighs --
You stop thinking about it.)
"If you want to talk... You know where House's office is." But you don't move, and you're not quite sure why. ("You'd be surprised what you can live with," he said to you once.
You're not living; you're not moving. But you still remember.
Does he?)
"Sure." You can tell from his voice that he won't be talking to you about it at all. Already he's put the letter in a desk drawer. He's picking up the files he was studying when you walked in.
Suddenly you're angry. (House would never do something like that, even, sleep with a patient and then not care, and House is the master of not caring.
And. You want to believe so much better of Wilson. You want to believe that he, like you, wants to fix his patients no matter what, and that it bothers him when they can't be helped.
You want him...
to be someone you admire.)
"Doesn't it matter?" You can't help it, the rancor in your voice.
He doesn't look at you. "Does it have to?"
"Did she ever matter to you?" You're not sure you want him to tell you. (Can't he be perfect for just a minute?)
"Listen, Allison..." He runs a hand through his hair. He's looking at you now. You usually like it when he calls you Allison.
"Don't, Doctor." This can't be about you as a person. Or him. Only as doctors. Isn't that what counts at a hospital?
"Allison!"
"No, Doctor Wilson. You're going to tell me, under the pretense of being a good doctor, that you are used to death. That it doesn't matter. That she didn't matter. Either you're lying..." And you can't finish because you always want to think well of him.
(He always fails.) Always you expect it to turn into some kind of evil twin. You believed in magic long after you stopped believing in God.
"Doctor Cameron, you are chastising me for being a doctor."
"No."
"Then why are you glowering at me? You look like House."
You're still in love with House sometimes, and you still hate yourself for it, and you're always reminded of it.
And something about all that needles you, because Wilson has no right to make you question the universe, over some woman he shouldn't have slept with anyway --
who he should at least care about. Just a little.
(His lips kissing your neck.
Stop!)
"And you! You're even worse! Don-- didn't you care about her?" There are those moments when you snap completely, when the nice-girl veneer wears thin.
"Listen." His voice is hollow. You're only a little sorry for your outburst. But at the same time. (Hislips--stopstopstop!)
"She went to Florence because that was her dream."
You think That's not enough, and in one nightmarish moment, realize you said it out loud. You're looking him in the eyes. He's not as surprised as you are.
"Allison, what do you want me to say? What do you want?"
You press your mouth into a thin line. You close your eyes, just for half an instant. (You want to be perfectly in control. You don't think about his lips.) You know what you should say: I want you to always act like a doctor, I want you to care about your patients, I want you to give a shit about making the right decision. I want you to treat people like they matter.
But when you open your mouth, you get stuck on the words, "I want."
He looks at you, his eyebrows raised. (He'll tell House about this.) "What is it that you want, Allison?"
"...You." And you can't get any more words out. (What would you say, anyway?) And you know, not without a little horror, that you've thought about these words for months. (You don't like to realize what you've realized. His lips.)
"Allison?" He starts to get up from his chair. There's something in his eyes.
Pity. Or. You don't want to think about it.
"Doctor Wilson, I --" You turn to go. You open the door and step outside. (Something breaks inside you, just a little, when your heel clicks against the tile, like some pathetic monosyllable.
But what else can you do?)
"Allison." You're half outside his office when he calls you back.
"Yes?" You step inside and close the door. You walk over to his desk. (You can't quite look him in the eye. You're looking at his mouth.)
"You can call me James."
And you know, you know, that he's said this to so many other women before. And they probably all went weak in the knees and grinned foolishly at him. (Are you any better than them, really?)
You don't know what to say. (You've betrayed yourself enough.)
All you can think to do is lean across the desk and kiss him on his lips. (He's not surprised. Neither are you, really.)
He kisses you back -- and you know, too, that you are not going to change him.
The next night, you arch against him in his bed and when he moans, "Allison, Allison," you can swear you hear just a whisper of "Grace" behind it. (His lips in the hollow of your neck make you forget it.)
And when you wake up in the morning, curled around him, you know that it's only a matter of time before you don't matter at all to him.
(One day, you tell yourself in a half-awake haze, you'll teach him to really give a damn about people.)
You don't want to realize that he's showing you how to forget about them.
If there was a sequel
Would you love me as an equal?
Would you love me till I'm dead
Or is there someone else instead?
Belle & Sebastian, Is It Wicked Not To Care?