(no subject)
TITLE: Eradication 11
AUTHOR: dragynflies
PAIRING: Cameron/House, Cameron/OC
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: You want details, but something about the whole situation makes you think you’re not going to like the details, and you’re really not interested in going to jail for killing Robert.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don’t sue.
July turns into August and you hardly ever see Cameron. More often than not, Blythe’s nanny meets you at the door when you pick up your daughter, and Cameron and Nathan are never in sight.
You get the distinct feeling you are being avoided without actually being avoided, because Cameron is holding up her end of the visitation agreement. She agreed to every other weekend - Friday after school until Sunday after dinner - and Wednesday afternoons every week. It’s not really enough, but you take what you can get.
You think you should feel guilty asking for anything, but you have three years of Blythe’s life to make up for and you don’t know that you’ll ever be able to explain to Cameron, or even to yourself, what happened. You wish you knew why you pushed them away, and on the weekends without Blythe, when you sit at home alone and watch your TiVo’d soap operas, you try to figure out what when wrong.
You miss her. You miss seeing Cameron, even for those few minutes on Blythe exchange days. You want her in your arms at night, you want to wake up with Nathan at two am and rock him back to sleep. You want to be there on Blythe’s first day of kindergarten, hell, you want to be there on Nathan’s first day of kindergarten.
You just want your family.
It’s the last weekend in August - your weekend without Blythe - and you’re sitting on the couch with your leg propped up. You can’t be a father addicted to Vicodin, and you’re not willing to compromise your time with Blythe to detox all at once. So you cut back, one less pill a week, and you count them. It hurts, but you think this is probably the best way for everyone. You don’t mind with Blythe mimics your limp (it’s actually horribly adorable), but you don’t want her picking up on your other faults.
When someone knocks on your door, you nearly jump off the couch. You are expecting no one, you haven’t even ordered dinner. You’re ashamed to admit that Blythe is really all you have, and sometimes you wonder how you survived the three years without her. You’ve thought in passing about trying to get in touch with Wilson, but Tritter fucked everything up - if you’re honest, YOU fucked everything up, and you doubt he wants to see you.
You move your leg off the table and grab your cane, heading to the door. You peer out the peephole, your heart jumps to your throat, and you scramble to unlock the door. You pull it open and meet Cameron’s exhausted gaze. She shrugs and shakes her head and you motion them inside. Your little daughter doesn’t even hug you, she just walks straight past you to her room and you hear the door click shut.
Nathan in bawling in his car seat and Cameron drops to the couch, picking him up and shushing him. You realize then that it doesn’t look like Nathan was the only one crying, and you leave Cameron and Nathan in your living room to go talk to Blythe.
When you open her bedroom door, you don’t see her. The initial panic goes away when you see her little pink socks peeking out from under her bed.
“Blythe?”
“Go away!” she shrieks, and you see her feet tuck up under the bed, “You don’t love me either!”
“What happened, sweetheart?” you ask, painfully sinking to your knees and then stretching out so you’re lying on the floor, looking under the bed.
“NO!” she shouts, and turns her head so that she’s not looking at you, “OUT!”
“Blythe…”
Her little shoulders are shaking with sobs and you want to reach under the bed and pull her out. But you know your child now, and you know how similar you are. Pulling her out and making her talk to you is just going to make things worse.
“Alright, Blythe,” you tell her quietly, “I’m going to go into the living room, alright?” You reach on top of her bed and get her doll, “Here is Dora, if you want someone to talk to. And if you want to talk to me, you just come right out there and tell me, okay? I promise I will listen.”
You rise painfully to your knees and use her bed to boost you to your feet carefully before going into the living room. Cameron is feeding Nathan, and you sit down across from her and raise your eyebrow.
“Gonna tell me what’s going on?” you ask simply, and she looks up from Nathan to meet your eyes.
“I left,” she says, and you can see her shoulders trembling, “I left him. I can’t do this to Blythe.”
You wish you knew what to think. You wanted this, you wanted her to leave him. But your daughter is in her room sobbing like someone broke her heart, and Cameron looks exhausted and scared, her cheeks bright red and you hate the way her lower lip won’t stop quivering.
Nathan finishes his bottle, and Cameron tucks him back into his car seat, her hands shaking. He fusses for a minute, then settles down, watching you with dark eyes.
Cameron drops her head between her knees, her hands on her forehead. You rub her back because you don’t know what else to do. You want details, but something about the whole situation makes you think you’re not going to like the details, and you’re really not interested in going to jail for killing Robert.
She is silent for a solid ten minutes and you stay next to her, smoothing her hair back away from her face and rubbing her back. When she finally lifts her eyes to yours, she looks lost and helpless and miserable. You drag her closer to you and she tucks her head into the curve of your shoulder. She’s not trembling anymore.
“You can stay here, if you need to,” you whisper and she nods against your chest.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, “I didn’t bring anything. I…” she clenches her eyes shut and you notice her little hands are fists, “I just took them. I couldn’t stay.”
“What happened?” you finally ask, because you have to know.
“He pushed her,” her voice is so quiet you can barely hear her, “He pushed her away from the baby. She loves Nathan so much, she just wanted to give him her doll…and Robert was holding him,” her voice breaks, “He told her to get away from his son and he pushed her,” she says again, like she can’t even believe it, “She hit her head on the coffee table. He didn’t mean to push her so hard…it doesn’t matter.”
Every single bone in your body wants to go to Robert’s house. Your jaw is locked so tightly it is starting to hurt, and the expression seeing red suddenly has new meaning. It is taking every ounce of self control you have to not shove Cameron off your lap and drive straight to Robert’s and fucking wring his neck.
You stand up from the couch, silently removing your arm from Cameron and you walk into Blythe’s room.
“Blythe. Up, now,” you order and you see her little face peek out from under the bed, “I need to see you.”
She whimpers and crawls out, and when you extend your hand to her, she flinches.
“Real daddies don’t push their daughters,” you tell her, and you motion for her to come to you. She does, and you turn her in your arms so that you can look at her head. You find the spot easily - she’s going to have a lump, and it’s already black and blue where her head connected with the coffee table.
“You need some ice for that,” you murmur to her, turning her back around in your arms and scooping her up, “I’m so sorry, Blythe. I’m so sorry.”
“I can live with you?” she asks pitifully, her head tucked against your chest.
“You can live with me,” you tell her firmly, “I’m not letting you go back there.”
You stand up with Blythe clinging to your neck and you take her into the kitchen and find your ice pack for her. You wrap it in a towel and she takes it, casts a wary look at Cameron and Nathan and goes back to her room without comment.
Cameron is clinging to Nathan like he’s her lifeline, and you finally go back to the couch to talk to her.
“I’m not letting you take Blythe back there,” you tell her, “I don’t care what Robert did for her when she was a baby.”
“I don’t want her back there,” Cameron says, and her voice is so small, “I don’t want to go back there.”
“Okay,” you tell her, “Come here,” and she crawls into your arms, shifting the baby carefully, and she starts to cry again.
You wanted your family back, but not like this.
AUTHOR: dragynflies
PAIRING: Cameron/House, Cameron/OC
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: You want details, but something about the whole situation makes you think you’re not going to like the details, and you’re really not interested in going to jail for killing Robert.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don’t sue.
July turns into August and you hardly ever see Cameron. More often than not, Blythe’s nanny meets you at the door when you pick up your daughter, and Cameron and Nathan are never in sight.
You get the distinct feeling you are being avoided without actually being avoided, because Cameron is holding up her end of the visitation agreement. She agreed to every other weekend - Friday after school until Sunday after dinner - and Wednesday afternoons every week. It’s not really enough, but you take what you can get.
You think you should feel guilty asking for anything, but you have three years of Blythe’s life to make up for and you don’t know that you’ll ever be able to explain to Cameron, or even to yourself, what happened. You wish you knew why you pushed them away, and on the weekends without Blythe, when you sit at home alone and watch your TiVo’d soap operas, you try to figure out what when wrong.
You miss her. You miss seeing Cameron, even for those few minutes on Blythe exchange days. You want her in your arms at night, you want to wake up with Nathan at two am and rock him back to sleep. You want to be there on Blythe’s first day of kindergarten, hell, you want to be there on Nathan’s first day of kindergarten.
You just want your family.
It’s the last weekend in August - your weekend without Blythe - and you’re sitting on the couch with your leg propped up. You can’t be a father addicted to Vicodin, and you’re not willing to compromise your time with Blythe to detox all at once. So you cut back, one less pill a week, and you count them. It hurts, but you think this is probably the best way for everyone. You don’t mind with Blythe mimics your limp (it’s actually horribly adorable), but you don’t want her picking up on your other faults.
When someone knocks on your door, you nearly jump off the couch. You are expecting no one, you haven’t even ordered dinner. You’re ashamed to admit that Blythe is really all you have, and sometimes you wonder how you survived the three years without her. You’ve thought in passing about trying to get in touch with Wilson, but Tritter fucked everything up - if you’re honest, YOU fucked everything up, and you doubt he wants to see you.
You move your leg off the table and grab your cane, heading to the door. You peer out the peephole, your heart jumps to your throat, and you scramble to unlock the door. You pull it open and meet Cameron’s exhausted gaze. She shrugs and shakes her head and you motion them inside. Your little daughter doesn’t even hug you, she just walks straight past you to her room and you hear the door click shut.
Nathan in bawling in his car seat and Cameron drops to the couch, picking him up and shushing him. You realize then that it doesn’t look like Nathan was the only one crying, and you leave Cameron and Nathan in your living room to go talk to Blythe.
When you open her bedroom door, you don’t see her. The initial panic goes away when you see her little pink socks peeking out from under her bed.
“Blythe?”
“Go away!” she shrieks, and you see her feet tuck up under the bed, “You don’t love me either!”
“What happened, sweetheart?” you ask, painfully sinking to your knees and then stretching out so you’re lying on the floor, looking under the bed.
“NO!” she shouts, and turns her head so that she’s not looking at you, “OUT!”
“Blythe…”
Her little shoulders are shaking with sobs and you want to reach under the bed and pull her out. But you know your child now, and you know how similar you are. Pulling her out and making her talk to you is just going to make things worse.
“Alright, Blythe,” you tell her quietly, “I’m going to go into the living room, alright?” You reach on top of her bed and get her doll, “Here is Dora, if you want someone to talk to. And if you want to talk to me, you just come right out there and tell me, okay? I promise I will listen.”
You rise painfully to your knees and use her bed to boost you to your feet carefully before going into the living room. Cameron is feeding Nathan, and you sit down across from her and raise your eyebrow.
“Gonna tell me what’s going on?” you ask simply, and she looks up from Nathan to meet your eyes.
“I left,” she says, and you can see her shoulders trembling, “I left him. I can’t do this to Blythe.”
You wish you knew what to think. You wanted this, you wanted her to leave him. But your daughter is in her room sobbing like someone broke her heart, and Cameron looks exhausted and scared, her cheeks bright red and you hate the way her lower lip won’t stop quivering.
Nathan finishes his bottle, and Cameron tucks him back into his car seat, her hands shaking. He fusses for a minute, then settles down, watching you with dark eyes.
Cameron drops her head between her knees, her hands on her forehead. You rub her back because you don’t know what else to do. You want details, but something about the whole situation makes you think you’re not going to like the details, and you’re really not interested in going to jail for killing Robert.
She is silent for a solid ten minutes and you stay next to her, smoothing her hair back away from her face and rubbing her back. When she finally lifts her eyes to yours, she looks lost and helpless and miserable. You drag her closer to you and she tucks her head into the curve of your shoulder. She’s not trembling anymore.
“You can stay here, if you need to,” you whisper and she nods against your chest.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, “I didn’t bring anything. I…” she clenches her eyes shut and you notice her little hands are fists, “I just took them. I couldn’t stay.”
“What happened?” you finally ask, because you have to know.
“He pushed her,” her voice is so quiet you can barely hear her, “He pushed her away from the baby. She loves Nathan so much, she just wanted to give him her doll…and Robert was holding him,” her voice breaks, “He told her to get away from his son and he pushed her,” she says again, like she can’t even believe it, “She hit her head on the coffee table. He didn’t mean to push her so hard…it doesn’t matter.”
Every single bone in your body wants to go to Robert’s house. Your jaw is locked so tightly it is starting to hurt, and the expression seeing red suddenly has new meaning. It is taking every ounce of self control you have to not shove Cameron off your lap and drive straight to Robert’s and fucking wring his neck.
You stand up from the couch, silently removing your arm from Cameron and you walk into Blythe’s room.
“Blythe. Up, now,” you order and you see her little face peek out from under the bed, “I need to see you.”
She whimpers and crawls out, and when you extend your hand to her, she flinches.
“Real daddies don’t push their daughters,” you tell her, and you motion for her to come to you. She does, and you turn her in your arms so that you can look at her head. You find the spot easily - she’s going to have a lump, and it’s already black and blue where her head connected with the coffee table.
“You need some ice for that,” you murmur to her, turning her back around in your arms and scooping her up, “I’m so sorry, Blythe. I’m so sorry.”
“I can live with you?” she asks pitifully, her head tucked against your chest.
“You can live with me,” you tell her firmly, “I’m not letting you go back there.”
You stand up with Blythe clinging to your neck and you take her into the kitchen and find your ice pack for her. You wrap it in a towel and she takes it, casts a wary look at Cameron and Nathan and goes back to her room without comment.
Cameron is clinging to Nathan like he’s her lifeline, and you finally go back to the couch to talk to her.
“I’m not letting you take Blythe back there,” you tell her, “I don’t care what Robert did for her when she was a baby.”
“I don’t want her back there,” Cameron says, and her voice is so small, “I don’t want to go back there.”
“Okay,” you tell her, “Come here,” and she crawls into your arms, shifting the baby carefully, and she starts to cry again.
You wanted your family back, but not like this.