House fic: The Biography of Boundaries
Title: The Biography of Boundaries
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: Cameron, House/Cameron
Prompt: 20. Learned Helplessness
Word Count: 1226
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Hunting
Summary: And here, here, in the string of chaos that’s stripped the predictability of your life, he’s the constant. And you hate it. Allison Cameron is breaking down. And House is trying to have a conversation with her answering machine.
Author's Notes: For _vicodin. ♥ Table is here.
She’s sighing with September.
She would like to run and hide.
She’s wrapped up in confusion.
She unfolds like Paper Dolls.
But she’s flying as she falls.
Heather Nova, Flying As She Falls
You’re home by six.
Standing in the bathroom, you flatten your hands against the sink and stare at yourself in the mirror. You’re too pale. Your eyes are virtually empty. You feel like crying, but then it proves the ungodly thought of your humanity. And it’s something you don’t want to face right now. Everything’s slipping, slipping fast. Here, you’re just tired.
You think Tori Amos. A bottle of merlot (fuck your medication). And a call home. But nothing, not even the slightest of movements can tear you away from the bathroom. A hiding place. But you move. You’re susceptible to contradictions. What’s control worth anyway?
You should know how to handle this. How to handle pain and inevitability. You were twenty-one when you heard cancer, dying, and I love you in the same line of dialogue. And you managed.
But it’s different now. Here, you come home to shards. And your own twists of nightmares. You don’t know how to do this.
Sighing, you push yourself away from the sink and move into the living room. A bit of tea. Change. Maybe a bath would do. You have the weekend to put your head back on your shoulders. Go running. Start a routine (with the addition of medication, but you can deal with this. Pills. You’re sick. You’re just sick. Nothing more than a precaution) and let it settle.
It has to get easy somehow. You can do better than this.
You press the button to your answering machine and then move to the kitchen to make tea, the sound will filter through.
Darling. You sigh. Your mother. You haven’t called in two weeks. You know it’s good thing to call every now and then. To, you know, let your father and I know that you’re okay. I mean, I’d certainly like to know that my only daughter is breathing. Call. Please. We miss you.
You think you laugh, but you aren’t one for thinking much at the moment. You’re just here. Without any plan of action or recourse in mind. You’ve made mistakes. Stupid mistakes that entail things that you promised- you’re smarter than this- you’d stay away from.
There’s a second and third message that you don’t pay attention. A friend who wants to go for coffee. Another that wants to see if you want to get together- I’ll be in town for a couple days. It’ll be good to see you.
No. Not going to happen. Time refuses to be a luxury anymore. It’s about-well. You haven’t figured it out yet.
It’s not like you have time for dinner and a glass of wine. Or your sanity either. Things are falling apart whether you can control it or not. You don’t know what you need.
Listen.
You blink. House. The answering machine is still going. Is he serious?
I know you’re home. You’re obnoxiously predictable like that. And I’d be ashamed if I slept with Chase too, but there’s no need to hide. You’re still hot. Despite that little error. And the crystal meth. That so wasn’t cool.
You snort and wait for the water to boil, sliding yourself onto the counter. You could go turn the answering machine off. Ignore it (like he’s done to you. Countless of times. Time. Time. And yet, you’ve stayed, the ninth wonder of the world). But you sit. You listen.
Wilson says I should apologize to you. But does it really matter to you, an apology. My apology. Does it? Because sure I can say I’m sorry for being an asshole- get that look off your face- a really big asshole. But is that going to count?
Is he drunk, you wonder, or did he take too many pills? You remember the argument. You remember how cruel- but he is cruel- he has been. Some days, ever since Stacy’s appeared, you don’t recognize him. Wilson looks tired. Cuddy avoids him like the plague. But the three of you- Chase, Eric, and you- are faced with an entirely different person.
You don’t know that man (or this one). You don’t want to. And here, here, in the string of chaos that’s stripped the predictability of your life, he’s the constant. And you hate it. You hate that you can’t move forwards, always backwards regardless of choice and non-choice.
And then what you know is suddenly being pushed back at you. Again.
You know what? Forget-
There’s a click and then silence. You shake your head. You’re tired. You should screen your calls, you think. For the weekend. You’re really just not in the mood. Maybe, this is when you’re going to start falling apart. You’ve been holding yourself together for years, by a simple needle and thread. A lie here. Another there. Simple carelessness.
It’s starting to haunt you now.
The tea’s done. The phone rings. And you move. But you don’t know why you pick up. You don’t give a greeting, politeness escapes you the moment there’s that goddamn husky chuckle. A mockery of, well, everything.
“I knew you’d pick up eventually.”
Your voice is dry. “I didn’t even know you knew how to use the rolodex.”
You should hang up. But you listen. You’re always listening now. To sounds. To what’s hidden. There’s something hidden in his conversations. A moment. A word. You’re not exactly looking. But he seems to find you anyhow.
You settle against the corner of your couch, ignoring the silence of your own insistence. You don’t know how to feel anything other than lost.
“Funny girl,” he shoots back. Or at least, you think he does. You really aren’t paying much attention. “I found a rat today. Named him Steve. Steve McQueen.”
You snort. You’re still caught between the fact that he’s calling you and talking to you, despite the conversation from hell and that it seems as if it’s normal. A habit. Just another added moment to this mess.
“Fantastic.”
He snorts. “That wasn’t very enthusiastic.”
“Sorry,” you mutter. “Should I try again?”
He doesn’t answer. And here, here you brace yourself for the frustration of another moment (rare now because of, well, because of what’s going on. You’d prefer to leave it like that). But it doesn’t come.
Not according to expectation. Is this lost too?
His answer is slow. “Now, that’s not a nice attitude.”
You haven’t touched your tea. Or started your plan to distract yourself. Routine. Routine. Routine. Errands. Jogging.
“It’s late,” you murmur. “I’m tired.”
He sighs. You shift.
“You shouldn’t want to talk to me. I’ve got nothing to offer.”
There are a thousand words and phrases in your throat. And they’re ready, ready to fall fast. But you only seem to give into a strange flirt with self-control. Maybe you’re talking about the same thing. Maybe not.
But this is where a point needs to be made.
“I’m jealous,” you breathe. Your throat feels like someone’s shoved a tube of spikes down it. You have to take your pill in a half an hour. “I’m jealous that it’s easy for you to ignore things. You can’t half-ass concern, House. Or play games when you need to know something. “
You rub your eyes. Take a sip of your tea.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
You draw the first line. It doesn’t make you feel any better.
But it’s something.
end.
Fandom: House, M.D
Characters/Pairings: Cameron, House/Cameron
Prompt: 20. Learned Helplessness
Word Count: 1226
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Hunting
Summary: And here, here, in the string of chaos that’s stripped the predictability of your life, he’s the constant. And you hate it. Allison Cameron is breaking down. And House is trying to have a conversation with her answering machine.
Author's Notes: For _vicodin. ♥ Table is here.
She’s sighing with September.
She would like to run and hide.
She’s wrapped up in confusion.
She unfolds like Paper Dolls.
But she’s flying as she falls.
Heather Nova, Flying As She Falls
You’re home by six.
Standing in the bathroom, you flatten your hands against the sink and stare at yourself in the mirror. You’re too pale. Your eyes are virtually empty. You feel like crying, but then it proves the ungodly thought of your humanity. And it’s something you don’t want to face right now. Everything’s slipping, slipping fast. Here, you’re just tired.
You think Tori Amos. A bottle of merlot (fuck your medication). And a call home. But nothing, not even the slightest of movements can tear you away from the bathroom. A hiding place. But you move. You’re susceptible to contradictions. What’s control worth anyway?
You should know how to handle this. How to handle pain and inevitability. You were twenty-one when you heard cancer, dying, and I love you in the same line of dialogue. And you managed.
But it’s different now. Here, you come home to shards. And your own twists of nightmares. You don’t know how to do this.
Sighing, you push yourself away from the sink and move into the living room. A bit of tea. Change. Maybe a bath would do. You have the weekend to put your head back on your shoulders. Go running. Start a routine (with the addition of medication, but you can deal with this. Pills. You’re sick. You’re just sick. Nothing more than a precaution) and let it settle.
It has to get easy somehow. You can do better than this.
You press the button to your answering machine and then move to the kitchen to make tea, the sound will filter through.
Darling. You sigh. Your mother. You haven’t called in two weeks. You know it’s good thing to call every now and then. To, you know, let your father and I know that you’re okay. I mean, I’d certainly like to know that my only daughter is breathing. Call. Please. We miss you.
You think you laugh, but you aren’t one for thinking much at the moment. You’re just here. Without any plan of action or recourse in mind. You’ve made mistakes. Stupid mistakes that entail things that you promised- you’re smarter than this- you’d stay away from.
There’s a second and third message that you don’t pay attention. A friend who wants to go for coffee. Another that wants to see if you want to get together- I’ll be in town for a couple days. It’ll be good to see you.
No. Not going to happen. Time refuses to be a luxury anymore. It’s about-well. You haven’t figured it out yet.
It’s not like you have time for dinner and a glass of wine. Or your sanity either. Things are falling apart whether you can control it or not. You don’t know what you need.
Listen.
You blink. House. The answering machine is still going. Is he serious?
I know you’re home. You’re obnoxiously predictable like that. And I’d be ashamed if I slept with Chase too, but there’s no need to hide. You’re still hot. Despite that little error. And the crystal meth. That so wasn’t cool.
You snort and wait for the water to boil, sliding yourself onto the counter. You could go turn the answering machine off. Ignore it (like he’s done to you. Countless of times. Time. Time. And yet, you’ve stayed, the ninth wonder of the world). But you sit. You listen.
Wilson says I should apologize to you. But does it really matter to you, an apology. My apology. Does it? Because sure I can say I’m sorry for being an asshole- get that look off your face- a really big asshole. But is that going to count?
Is he drunk, you wonder, or did he take too many pills? You remember the argument. You remember how cruel- but he is cruel- he has been. Some days, ever since Stacy’s appeared, you don’t recognize him. Wilson looks tired. Cuddy avoids him like the plague. But the three of you- Chase, Eric, and you- are faced with an entirely different person.
You don’t know that man (or this one). You don’t want to. And here, here, in the string of chaos that’s stripped the predictability of your life, he’s the constant. And you hate it. You hate that you can’t move forwards, always backwards regardless of choice and non-choice.
And then what you know is suddenly being pushed back at you. Again.
You know what? Forget-
There’s a click and then silence. You shake your head. You’re tired. You should screen your calls, you think. For the weekend. You’re really just not in the mood. Maybe, this is when you’re going to start falling apart. You’ve been holding yourself together for years, by a simple needle and thread. A lie here. Another there. Simple carelessness.
It’s starting to haunt you now.
The tea’s done. The phone rings. And you move. But you don’t know why you pick up. You don’t give a greeting, politeness escapes you the moment there’s that goddamn husky chuckle. A mockery of, well, everything.
“I knew you’d pick up eventually.”
Your voice is dry. “I didn’t even know you knew how to use the rolodex.”
You should hang up. But you listen. You’re always listening now. To sounds. To what’s hidden. There’s something hidden in his conversations. A moment. A word. You’re not exactly looking. But he seems to find you anyhow.
You settle against the corner of your couch, ignoring the silence of your own insistence. You don’t know how to feel anything other than lost.
“Funny girl,” he shoots back. Or at least, you think he does. You really aren’t paying much attention. “I found a rat today. Named him Steve. Steve McQueen.”
You snort. You’re still caught between the fact that he’s calling you and talking to you, despite the conversation from hell and that it seems as if it’s normal. A habit. Just another added moment to this mess.
“Fantastic.”
He snorts. “That wasn’t very enthusiastic.”
“Sorry,” you mutter. “Should I try again?”
He doesn’t answer. And here, here you brace yourself for the frustration of another moment (rare now because of, well, because of what’s going on. You’d prefer to leave it like that). But it doesn’t come.
Not according to expectation. Is this lost too?
His answer is slow. “Now, that’s not a nice attitude.”
You haven’t touched your tea. Or started your plan to distract yourself. Routine. Routine. Routine. Errands. Jogging.
“It’s late,” you murmur. “I’m tired.”
He sighs. You shift.
“You shouldn’t want to talk to me. I’ve got nothing to offer.”
There are a thousand words and phrases in your throat. And they’re ready, ready to fall fast. But you only seem to give into a strange flirt with self-control. Maybe you’re talking about the same thing. Maybe not.
But this is where a point needs to be made.
“I’m jealous,” you breathe. Your throat feels like someone’s shoved a tube of spikes down it. You have to take your pill in a half an hour. “I’m jealous that it’s easy for you to ignore things. You can’t half-ass concern, House. Or play games when you need to know something. “
You rub your eyes. Take a sip of your tea.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
You draw the first line. It doesn’t make you feel any better.
But it’s something.
end.