House Fic: each stage of martyrdom
each stage of martyrdom
they were twenty-one, couldn’t really afford anything but student loans and Burger King. what’s odd, what’s really odd - she never really forgets any of it. house md. cameron. wilson. house/cameron. spoilers for wilson’s heart. 4746 words, pg.
note: for surreallis, who kept me from watching one tree hill in real time. quite a feat. *g*
-
She’s not in the mood.
They fight the morning after, Chase and her, in the kitchen and over coffee. There are dark circles under his eyes and he’s frowning more, straight into his mug as he passes her to go to bed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.
“What else is new?” is all she has.
Still, though, she reaches for her sneakers out of habit. Checks her phone - she’s missed something before. She has work in a couple hours. Tired, she forgets where she’s put her key and pockets it, when she finds it on the counter, into her sock as she gives up on charging her music player. She stops too, still in the kitchen and listens to everything unfold: the routine is the same, always at the top of the summer, and she is no closer than to where she’s been a year ago, too earnest, too soon.
He knows where she’s going to be anyway.
The television turns on in the bedroom and she doesn’t feel like going back in, yelling for him in the shower to tell him that she’s going on a run. She won’t be back for a while. She wonders if he has days that he expects her to stay away. So she leaves the coffee on before she goes. No grand gestures.
It’s funny and they’re good about lying about it; the past couple days have done nothing for them except for unraveling bits and pieces of what should’ve made them. She doesn’t think of Amber much. It’s not to be insensitive. It’s not to be uncaring - it breaks her heart though, slipping more of an understanding in Wilson’s direction. She didn’t know her well. None of them knew her well. And yet, it still seems to carry more than just a heavy weight over their heads.
Outside, traffic is too early.
She starts to jog down the steps, hits the bottom and ignores her music player for the moment. Her neighbors are out and she waves, if anything out of habit, starting to walk in the direction of the park. It’s a nice day. It should be a nice day. She slows to a comfortable walk, ignoring her uneasiness. It’s like her body is telling her that she should’ve stayed in bed. With limited recourses after the bus accident, short-staffed and pushing, she had to keep herself together. Everyone did. She’s no different. She’s never been any different. It’s sort of a rude awakening - everyone is just like everyone else.
So it seems just odd, so displaced that bits of what she passed herself over are unraveling just a little bit. She was supposed to be better. It’s not supposed to be this heavy.
It’s almost funny how overly conscious she is of herself.
The park rotates between a block and a block and half away, depending on how brief or long she is with errands and her linger. But she sees it, behind the flower shop and between the grocery store. She picks up the pace, fingering the music player at her hip. Her headphones are loose around her neck and she stops for a moment.
Her shoes are untied. And she ignores them.
Hitting the corner, she passes the coffee shop. She smiles at a regular that she knows, waves a little too - although, it’s possible that he didn’t completely see her. It doesn’t matter anyway and she stops at the edge of the sidewalk, watching the traffic merge with students and crossing when there’s a small break. The university looms over the trees and she feels herself start to relax just a little bit. This is her time, her time to herself. It’s ample for reassurances, a small part of what she allows herself to have.
Her sneakers scuffle hard against the dirt and she stumbles, skimming herself to a quick bench. She pulls her legs up. Her laces are untied and she stares at them briefly, picking at them and thumbing the plastic around the string. She sighs softly, shaking her head and leaning back for the moment.
“Hey.”
Surprised, she looks up and Wilson is sort of standing haphazardly off to the side. There’s a coffee cup, loose in his fingers and swaying from side to side. It looks like he hasn’t touched it too and her concern rises quickly. He seems unsure. She gives him a tiny smile, dropping her legs to the ground.
“Hey.”
He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t have to, but he sits next to her. He looks like she imagines: wrinkles along his arms, his hands, and his eyes. The grief has barely started to write itself across his face and she ducks, uncomfortable and trying to be respectful. So they’re quiet, even if it’s minutes, and the two of them seem even unlikely. She can’t remember the last time she’s had a conversation with Wilson about anything until the night before; what they’ve said to each other doesn’t even matter because all she did was sit with him. Steal coffee from the kitchen. It was after two and he almost laughed.
He starts instead of her. “You run here a lot?”
“Mmmhm,” she nods, awkwardly pointing to the other side of the park. “I’m a few blocks that way near the university.”
“Nice.”
Wilson says nothing then. She doesn’t press now. She doesn’t know how to press with him. She doesn’t know how to say been here and done that without making it sound contrived and impossible and completely and utterly insensitive. She’s been on the opposite end. It’s always been something she’s told herself. It’s remembering that and that alone that makes it harder to express. There’s a sigh from him and she turns, studying the lines of his face. It’s almost as if he’s wearing House’s mask, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth are nowhere near anything familiar, if they can be familiar.
“You want to go get coffee?”
She sort of feels the contrived effort again, feels a little more embarrassed, and she shakes her head to look down. But he’s standing effortlessly, swaying on the back of his heels.
“No,” he murmurs, she thinks he murmurs, and he’s gone before she has a chance to say something back.
-
Late, she walks to the coffee shop instead of home.
Cutting through the park, she thinks about going to visit House. Pretense or not, they’ve all seemed to linger at that point. He’s sort of speaking, slurring, if anything but, and there’s a small expectation from herself to go.
It’s odd, she thinks, it really is, but the more and more she finds these thoughts, the more aimless they become. Sure, it’s more than just kind of nice that she’s found her place, struggling or not, in the hospital again. She can enjoy. She doesn’t have to enjoy it. There are no strings attached. But she keeps coming back to her conversation with House, days ago, and the way he watched her.
Too on par with how she feels with herself, she wonders if he really knows, if he understands more than she does. But then again, it’s House and his interest is nothing more than self-sufficient and passing. They’re all attached. Still.
She spots Wilson this time, before instead after the mess of thoughts that she has in knots. He looks a little better. He’s on the same bench, jeans and sweatshirt, and staring at his hands. She doesn’t say anything yet. She wonders though - was this their favorite area? Did they meet here a lot? She did the same thing, she remembers. Wandered. Sighed. Found each place that she used go to, that they used to go to, and sit. Sit, but stare.
Tentatively, she taps him on the shoulder. He looks up, his lips pursed in acknowledgment. She knows he’s only been to see House once - Cuddy spilled to Foreman, Foreman spilled to Chase, and Chase spilled in expectation to her. She stays standing though, crossing her arms around her chest and watching him.
“You weren’t here yesterday,” he says.
Her surprise is quick, unwarranted, and she nods. She didn’t run yesterday. She had to go in early, stay late. It’s how things are going these days.
“Worked late.”
“You look tired.” - It’s the first time he looks at her, a contrived understanding from him to her. Passive. It’s unsettling. But she’s trying. This is all part of it. At least, what she remembers for herself.
She smiles ruefully. “I am tired.”
He nods and shifts up. He glances over to the coffee shop, turns, and then back to the university. It’s still in the same place, obviously, but for whatever reason, today, everything seems to loom. Over the trees, over traffic and students, she feels like she’s noticing too much around her. It’s a funny thing to think, but ultimately, it’s just a habit.
“You want to walk?” He looks pointedly at her, tilting his head towards the park.
She nods then and they quietly turn, her fingers wrapping around the fabric of her pockets. Her jacket is all of the sudden a little too heavy, a little too much. Her fingers tug and she keeps herself calm, distracted. If anything, it’s strange twist in her relationships with people here. She’s looking for something to say, something to give him, and as backwards as that is for herself, she means it too.
They’re still quiet as they push into park. It’s a cooler summer. The weather’s in her head - the seventies, the sixties, and the fifties - and they said it’s like a warmer winter instead. She can’t remember the last time she’s had one or that she’s been here for a complete summer as well. But Wilson is watching her, off and on, and she’s thinking too much about how to reassure him. House is almost in her head too, sneering things about predictability and well, of course like she’s here for the first time.
“How do you do it?”
She blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“This,” he sighs, his hand trembling, “all of it - you were just a kid, right? How do you do it? How do I go and grieve properly? Can you even -”
“Wilson.”
She cuts him off. Nervous. The anticipation of recoil is there, but he’s staring at her blankly. Sighing, she flashes an apologetic look. She’s never been honest about these things, never really pressed into halfway and to telling anybody about back then. Chase doesn’t ask. She doesn’t tell. House is really the only that pressed, that pushed, and that talked about it like it was her character flaw and nothing more.
It’s probably why she keeps it to herself. It’s private. It’s too private and ultimately, it did define her - no matter how much, how little, or when she decided to distance herself.
“I don’t know.”
She tugs at the strings of hood, at the sweatshirt underneath, pulling, pulling harder to distract herself. She doesn’t talk about these things. She has never found it necessary, found easy, or found it a lot things that surfaced into an indication of moving on. She thinks that’s what he wants.
She knows she can’t give it to him.
“There’s no right way. There’s no wrong way,” she starts again, her mouth pressing together in mid-pause. She’s though. “I’m not the right person to tell you what to do.”
I wish I could, she doesn’t add because she knows how it goes. She knows how the wishes and could and maybes all go together, people tying them up neatly in bow.
But he presses again. Like he doesn’t hear her. “How did you do it?”
He stops. He watches her hard. And it’s almost a reversal - House knows how to make her this uncomfortable. It’s distinct. It’s pushing. She wonders how much he really knows and if it’s why he’s here. Still, though, she subjects herself to honesty. Wilson’s always been good to her.
“I cried a lot. I screamed. I hated myself for forgetting things - how he smelled, how he laughed, how the only thing I had left were photos, too many photos. Some days, it’ll be easy. Some days, it won’t. Some days, you won’t let yourself forget because it feels like -”
She stops, looking down. It’s terrible. It’s corny. It’s the truth in a fumbling, tense way. Her hands are twisting harder in her pockets and it’s not the first time she’s said something like this, but it feels like it. She has to look away briefly and he waits, in front of her, staring at her but not really staring at her.
Her lips purse.
“You don’t want to hear this now,” she finds herself saying, “but eventually you’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”
He tries to smile.
-
It’s eventually. And she’s here.
She almost laughs at herself, taking the seat by his bed. He’s sleeping. She thinks he’s sleeping. His hand is stretched out off to the side and she stares quietly at it; she keeps going back and forth, this isn’t the first time she’s seen him like this. Odd as it is, she drops her hand slowly. Her fingers brush along the line between his finger and thumb, stroking the skin lightly.
“What are you - doing?”
Her lips curl briefly. “Checking in.”
He makes a sound, low and coarse, shifting slightly. His condition is still weak. His recovery is still slow. But it’s to be expected. This is what the procedure does, Chase had said to her. This is what he does - but this, this they all know too well.
“I’m fine.” - it sounds like nothing, but she does get the idea. There’s an effort, but his palm turns towards her fingers and she’s almost absent, tracing the lines of his palm now.
She sighs. “Of course, you are.”
There’s little and no effort between the two of them. She alternates between wondering why she’s here and if she should be here, the apparent never the same. She lets it go for the moment then, watching him quietly. He looks older. He looks so much older than she remembers.
She keeps touching him lightly. His hand. His wrist. Her thumb skirts in small circles, slow and soft, and he seems to relax just a little bit. She doesn’t question anymore. It’s not her place. It’s never been any of their places. But she understands just a little bit. Briefly, she remembers Stacy. She remembers the sense of unconditional awareness that he has, that he had. If anything, this more than what he does.
This is how he’s always loved.
She thinks of Wilson then, thinks if House could - would ask her? She knows she wouldn’t say anything to him. It’s purely incidental too. She doesn’t know Wilson that well. She sought him out first, that night, and sitting there, she felt at least she could give something back. She doesn’t think he’s seeking her out either. That’s stupid. That’s selfish. But she’s complacent with wandering in between.
It’s stupid. But she knows he’s using her too. The question becomes - is she using him back?
There’s a sigh and it pulls her away. “Talk -”
She wonders if he knows it’s her. She wonders if he can tell. But it is what it is, right? And she finds herself complying.
“No.”
If he could smirk, this would be it. “Liar,” he mutters. It’s a briefly flash of coherency. One word. And she knows, even if it’s just a small acknowledgment that he does know who she is. That she’s too open for her own good.
“Yeah.”
There’s that smile again, over her mouth, and she sighs lightly, letting her hand rest over his. He seems to tense briefly, but his fingers turn into her palm again. Slow. Trembling. It’s the drugs again. It’s the drugs.
“Look?”
She snorts. “What?”
“There.”
His eyes are open now and he watches her, wincing as he turns his head slightly. She wipes whatever look she has on her face off. She doesn’t know how long his recovery is going to take. The charts are at the end of the bed and it almost seems out of place for her to check; before, she never thought about it, but it seems too private all of the sudden. She’s not his doctor. She’s not the team. She’s not even a friend.
It’s out of place. She wouldn’t feel right.
“You - change?”
She blinks and he still hasn’t looked away. His eyes are dark. She must be too open. She must have something - he hasn’t watched her like that in a long time. She shifts in her seat, pulling her hand away. Briefly, she sighs and takes the assumption of understanding.
“I haven’t change,” she murmurs. It’s the drugs, she thinks. Charts. Wires. It’s this room too, the lines that he pushed.
“What-ever.”
He’s tired then and she stakes it. She gets up to let him be.
-
Wilson finds her for coffee this time.
A part of her believe she’s neutral. She’s not House. She’s not Cuddy. There’s no pull, no weight, and she doesn’t have that frank connection with him. She understands the kind of grief though, not his of course, but the idea.
She watches him swallow.
“I still smell her,” he says, “in the morning, in the sheets, over the couch. Her computer is still on the table. Her favorite coffee is half-finished. She’s still here.”
Cameron looks away because she remembers. She remembers the first couple days. The last. The grief at forgetting the grief - she still fights a little bit, holds on over anniversaries to remind herself.
“They never completely leave you.”
She picks up her coffee to throw it away.
-
She doesn’t go back to visit House.
But Chase talks about it. She’s listening, not listening, and nods in appropriate places as they walk to the elevator. It’s the first time in awhile that they can leave together. It feels rusty. It feels old. But she lets her relationship with him take the step back first.
Last night, she took her wedding ring out of her jewelry box. It’s small - they were twenty-one, couldn’t really afford anything but student loans and Burger King. She remembers though, she remembers that she thought it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Corny, he used to tease her - he would be angry now, her husband, because she’s starting to forget his name sometimes too.
She’s letting this get to her. Strange, it never occurred to her to make a clean break or even push for the moment. She’s trying not to be tired. She’s trying to be invasive. But these are the things she can’t talk about. She’s stumbling, trying to differentiate between what it means to be a good friend - and she uses this loosely - and what it means to be someone to understand.
Maybe, she hasn’t even changed.
“It’s weird.”
Chase stops talking, looking at her curiously. He presses the elevator button again. She walked in today. He drove. Some habits are uncanny. Others are getting old.
He bites though. “What is?”
“Nothing,” she mumbles.
She hovers between feeling invasive and out of place, with too much to say and less of a certainty that she’s stepping towards what is right and what isn’t safe - funny, almost, less of anything else if she lingers. But it’s the only truth that she seems to keep consistent.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
She nods. The elevator opens, but she doesn’t go. She lies. She makes the excuse of leaving her phone and some files; I’ll be home later, she says and kisses him briefly on the cheek. He steps in. She steps away.
The elevator closes. She sighs - she needs to be busy again.
-
“Too bad it rained.”
She’s there first, with little and no expectation of seeing him at the park. But he comes and in between, admits something like that he and Amber used to meet around here during breaks at the hospital. They liked to talk, he tells her. She really listened.
But Cameron finds herself thrown into a displaced kind of envy. She doesn’t know if he’s handling it, if she call it out and say that he is. He’s putting a brave face on. Better, much better than she ever did. Than she still does.
“Hmm?”
She looks up, watching he pace in front of her. There’s no foot traffic today. It’s midday and he found her in the emergency room, ready to go to lunch. She followed because she wanted to. Because she does care.
Because he was always the one that came to her, that sat with her and said all the things that she need to hear. Right or wrong, she’s trying to be that person for him. She wants to be that person for him.
But she doesn’t know what he needs.
“The park,” he says, sitting. “Too bad it rained. They said it was going to be nice last night. Warm.”
She nods. “The seventies.”
He quiets. He stands. He sits again. His legs are long and tired. It looks like he’s wearing the same sweatshirt again, pulling at the sleeves as if he needed to be a little longer. A little heavier. A little warmer.
He looks to her and smiles tiredly. It doesn’t completely finish, the smile, ruefully or fake or anything but something. It’s a response though and she returns it almost shyly.
“I’m taking a sabbatical.”
Her lips purse. “Good.”
“I don’t know how long though.” He lingers and looks away. There’s a sigh too, a slip of misplaced tension that he needs get out.
She touched him the other day. Something simple over coffee. Her hand on his arm before she left for the hospital. He flinched. It broke her heart. It almost made her say something. But she’s sure he’s tired. He’s tired of hearing things. She can’t completely bring herself to ask again, how he’s doing and how things for him are at work. The sabbatical is the first alternative to conversation they’ve had since they’ve been talking.
He wants to get away. She reads House.
“Where to?”
“No idea,” he shrugs, “Somewhere warm.”
“Will you let me know?”
He looks at her, surprised and uncertain. He nods. Looks away. There’s a couple of kids - students, she assumes - that pass, laughing. Girls. Neither of them look up to watch for the excuse, but Cameron gives him the moment and looks away.
She thinks about House. She stops.
“I’ll come say goodbye.”
He nods. “Sure.”
-
“You’re back.”
His speech is better. She doesn’t remember the last time, but she’s been avoiding him. She’s been avoiding the room. A day has turned into a week, a week has turned into two. She gets updates from Chase and Foreman, sitting quietly in between their conversations.
“It’s my turn,” she says, watching him.
There are dark circles under his eyes. He’s leaning back into the pillow, sort of aimless and sad. It’s been awhile, she thinks, but this time, this time he makes no motion to hide the sadness. It’s in his eyes, his mouth, the way his hands are limp into the sheets. He’s too naked in the room, too vulnerable, and half-aware of it too - it surprises her, but nothing more.
She stays leaning against the frame of the door, watching him as he slowly turns his head towards her. There’s wince, but he’s eyeing her critically. She doesn’t look away. Maybe, she’s tired. Maybe, she’s much more confident in her ability to stay structural and with perspective.
“Lame.” It filters then and he makes a weak motion with his hand, straight to the open seat next to the bed.
She relents like it’s habit, pushing herself away from the door and walking quietly to settle in the small chair. He moans softly, bringing his hand back to his face. The monitor beside him is louder than she remembers - was she paying any attention at all?
“At least, you sound better.”
He says nothing to her and she looks down into her lap, brushing her hands against her legs. The motion becomes harder, nervous even, her knuckles pressing deep into her knees. She can’t help it.
“I talked to him,” she blurts out.
It’s foreign territory. But she’s impulsive, looking up to watch him process. She doesn’t see anything though. House’s hand swallows his eyes, his mouth thinning into a line as his fingers press into the side of his head.
“He’s going away,” he’s slow, hesitant, and mumbling still, “Cuddy told me.”
“Of course,” she murmurs.
They fall to awkward silence and she reaches, for something to do, stepping into the motion and pulling his hand from his face. It’s gentle, almost too gentle, and she knows she needs to see his face. She needs to see something. It doesn’t matter if she can’t read him, if she’s supposed to, or she will. It doesn’t matter.
It’s empty, when it falls from his mouth, and his hand wraps around hers. It isn’t tight, but it’s heavy and she tugs it back to the sheets.
“What did he say?”
She shrugs. “Nothing important.”
“You still suck at lying.”
Her lips curl briefly. They both know it’s not her place. It’s not like Wilson told her anything that constitutes a secret. The mantra is in her head again: she’s not his friend, there’s no intimacy, but she’s been there before. She let him use her because she’s been there before.
Strangely, though, she’s okay with that. It doesn’t do anything for her - she’s been there, over and over again, and each stage of grief makes no sense to her. Every year too, it becomes something different. She doesn’t forget, but she remembers too late. Anniversaries and birthdays, slips memories - this is what she has now. This how people see her and she lets them, consciously or not.
Her gaze meets House’s - is this how he sees her?
She lets her fingers slide into his hand. Her palm presses against his and she leans forward, resting against the bed. They say nothing, but she watches his eyes close and his grips seems to tighten just a little bit more.
“You’re the idiot,” she says slowly. Almost nervously. “Not me. But thanks, really, for playing. It’s been fun.”
A strange smile slides over his mouth. Affectionate, almost appreciative, but not quite. “Ooo. Wit.”
There’s a sound too. She likes to imagine that it could be laughter, but she’s never really heard him laugh. It’s weird how she still romanticizes some things, how it still just falls. But she plays.
She doesn’t let herself change. Not in this room.
“You’re laughing.”
He exhales loudly. “I’m on drugs.”
“Which is your fault.”
“Undoubtedly.”
It lingers too and his eyes are open again. This time she knows that he’s aware of her, he’s watching her and still, still holding onto her hand. The gesture isn’t as empty as it looks. It’s not for her to touch now, it’s not for her to be nervous about, and she lets it go for the moment.
“You’re okay,” she murmurs. “You have that.”
He shrugs into the pillow. Winces. This is her second time, she thinks, to see him. Just the second time. And the worry and concern bubbles up in the back of her throat. It’s not for crying, but it is for something else.
She ignores it.
“You don’t get it.” His thumb starts to move slowly, almost in spurts, over the back of her hand.
“You’d be surprised.”
But that’s all she says, all he takes, and the silence settles into the room again. Outside, the hall is quiet and her eyes close. She’s here late tonight. She’ll come back on her break again. Probably. Maybe not.
“Nothing important, huh?”
He’s tired, slow, but she nods in her response: “Nothing important.”
-
It’s cloudy when she gets up.
The left side of the bed, his side, is empty. Late night, she remembers. Two surgeries, read the note when she got home. And all of it, really, is nothing new. She’s nothing new.
It’s almost funny, but they’re calling for rain. Summer is really starting again.
they were twenty-one, couldn’t really afford anything but student loans and Burger King. what’s odd, what’s really odd - she never really forgets any of it. house md. cameron. wilson. house/cameron. spoilers for wilson’s heart. 4746 words, pg.
note: for surreallis, who kept me from watching one tree hill in real time. quite a feat. *g*
-
She’s not in the mood.
They fight the morning after, Chase and her, in the kitchen and over coffee. There are dark circles under his eyes and he’s frowning more, straight into his mug as he passes her to go to bed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.
“What else is new?” is all she has.
Still, though, she reaches for her sneakers out of habit. Checks her phone - she’s missed something before. She has work in a couple hours. Tired, she forgets where she’s put her key and pockets it, when she finds it on the counter, into her sock as she gives up on charging her music player. She stops too, still in the kitchen and listens to everything unfold: the routine is the same, always at the top of the summer, and she is no closer than to where she’s been a year ago, too earnest, too soon.
He knows where she’s going to be anyway.
The television turns on in the bedroom and she doesn’t feel like going back in, yelling for him in the shower to tell him that she’s going on a run. She won’t be back for a while. She wonders if he has days that he expects her to stay away. So she leaves the coffee on before she goes. No grand gestures.
It’s funny and they’re good about lying about it; the past couple days have done nothing for them except for unraveling bits and pieces of what should’ve made them. She doesn’t think of Amber much. It’s not to be insensitive. It’s not to be uncaring - it breaks her heart though, slipping more of an understanding in Wilson’s direction. She didn’t know her well. None of them knew her well. And yet, it still seems to carry more than just a heavy weight over their heads.
Outside, traffic is too early.
She starts to jog down the steps, hits the bottom and ignores her music player for the moment. Her neighbors are out and she waves, if anything out of habit, starting to walk in the direction of the park. It’s a nice day. It should be a nice day. She slows to a comfortable walk, ignoring her uneasiness. It’s like her body is telling her that she should’ve stayed in bed. With limited recourses after the bus accident, short-staffed and pushing, she had to keep herself together. Everyone did. She’s no different. She’s never been any different. It’s sort of a rude awakening - everyone is just like everyone else.
So it seems just odd, so displaced that bits of what she passed herself over are unraveling just a little bit. She was supposed to be better. It’s not supposed to be this heavy.
It’s almost funny how overly conscious she is of herself.
The park rotates between a block and a block and half away, depending on how brief or long she is with errands and her linger. But she sees it, behind the flower shop and between the grocery store. She picks up the pace, fingering the music player at her hip. Her headphones are loose around her neck and she stops for a moment.
Her shoes are untied. And she ignores them.
Hitting the corner, she passes the coffee shop. She smiles at a regular that she knows, waves a little too - although, it’s possible that he didn’t completely see her. It doesn’t matter anyway and she stops at the edge of the sidewalk, watching the traffic merge with students and crossing when there’s a small break. The university looms over the trees and she feels herself start to relax just a little bit. This is her time, her time to herself. It’s ample for reassurances, a small part of what she allows herself to have.
Her sneakers scuffle hard against the dirt and she stumbles, skimming herself to a quick bench. She pulls her legs up. Her laces are untied and she stares at them briefly, picking at them and thumbing the plastic around the string. She sighs softly, shaking her head and leaning back for the moment.
“Hey.”
Surprised, she looks up and Wilson is sort of standing haphazardly off to the side. There’s a coffee cup, loose in his fingers and swaying from side to side. It looks like he hasn’t touched it too and her concern rises quickly. He seems unsure. She gives him a tiny smile, dropping her legs to the ground.
“Hey.”
He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t have to, but he sits next to her. He looks like she imagines: wrinkles along his arms, his hands, and his eyes. The grief has barely started to write itself across his face and she ducks, uncomfortable and trying to be respectful. So they’re quiet, even if it’s minutes, and the two of them seem even unlikely. She can’t remember the last time she’s had a conversation with Wilson about anything until the night before; what they’ve said to each other doesn’t even matter because all she did was sit with him. Steal coffee from the kitchen. It was after two and he almost laughed.
He starts instead of her. “You run here a lot?”
“Mmmhm,” she nods, awkwardly pointing to the other side of the park. “I’m a few blocks that way near the university.”
“Nice.”
Wilson says nothing then. She doesn’t press now. She doesn’t know how to press with him. She doesn’t know how to say been here and done that without making it sound contrived and impossible and completely and utterly insensitive. She’s been on the opposite end. It’s always been something she’s told herself. It’s remembering that and that alone that makes it harder to express. There’s a sigh from him and she turns, studying the lines of his face. It’s almost as if he’s wearing House’s mask, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth are nowhere near anything familiar, if they can be familiar.
“You want to go get coffee?”
She sort of feels the contrived effort again, feels a little more embarrassed, and she shakes her head to look down. But he’s standing effortlessly, swaying on the back of his heels.
“No,” he murmurs, she thinks he murmurs, and he’s gone before she has a chance to say something back.
-
Late, she walks to the coffee shop instead of home.
Cutting through the park, she thinks about going to visit House. Pretense or not, they’ve all seemed to linger at that point. He’s sort of speaking, slurring, if anything but, and there’s a small expectation from herself to go.
It’s odd, she thinks, it really is, but the more and more she finds these thoughts, the more aimless they become. Sure, it’s more than just kind of nice that she’s found her place, struggling or not, in the hospital again. She can enjoy. She doesn’t have to enjoy it. There are no strings attached. But she keeps coming back to her conversation with House, days ago, and the way he watched her.
Too on par with how she feels with herself, she wonders if he really knows, if he understands more than she does. But then again, it’s House and his interest is nothing more than self-sufficient and passing. They’re all attached. Still.
She spots Wilson this time, before instead after the mess of thoughts that she has in knots. He looks a little better. He’s on the same bench, jeans and sweatshirt, and staring at his hands. She doesn’t say anything yet. She wonders though - was this their favorite area? Did they meet here a lot? She did the same thing, she remembers. Wandered. Sighed. Found each place that she used go to, that they used to go to, and sit. Sit, but stare.
Tentatively, she taps him on the shoulder. He looks up, his lips pursed in acknowledgment. She knows he’s only been to see House once - Cuddy spilled to Foreman, Foreman spilled to Chase, and Chase spilled in expectation to her. She stays standing though, crossing her arms around her chest and watching him.
“You weren’t here yesterday,” he says.
Her surprise is quick, unwarranted, and she nods. She didn’t run yesterday. She had to go in early, stay late. It’s how things are going these days.
“Worked late.”
“You look tired.” - It’s the first time he looks at her, a contrived understanding from him to her. Passive. It’s unsettling. But she’s trying. This is all part of it. At least, what she remembers for herself.
She smiles ruefully. “I am tired.”
He nods and shifts up. He glances over to the coffee shop, turns, and then back to the university. It’s still in the same place, obviously, but for whatever reason, today, everything seems to loom. Over the trees, over traffic and students, she feels like she’s noticing too much around her. It’s a funny thing to think, but ultimately, it’s just a habit.
“You want to walk?” He looks pointedly at her, tilting his head towards the park.
She nods then and they quietly turn, her fingers wrapping around the fabric of her pockets. Her jacket is all of the sudden a little too heavy, a little too much. Her fingers tug and she keeps herself calm, distracted. If anything, it’s strange twist in her relationships with people here. She’s looking for something to say, something to give him, and as backwards as that is for herself, she means it too.
They’re still quiet as they push into park. It’s a cooler summer. The weather’s in her head - the seventies, the sixties, and the fifties - and they said it’s like a warmer winter instead. She can’t remember the last time she’s had one or that she’s been here for a complete summer as well. But Wilson is watching her, off and on, and she’s thinking too much about how to reassure him. House is almost in her head too, sneering things about predictability and well, of course like she’s here for the first time.
“How do you do it?”
She blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“This,” he sighs, his hand trembling, “all of it - you were just a kid, right? How do you do it? How do I go and grieve properly? Can you even -”
“Wilson.”
She cuts him off. Nervous. The anticipation of recoil is there, but he’s staring at her blankly. Sighing, she flashes an apologetic look. She’s never been honest about these things, never really pressed into halfway and to telling anybody about back then. Chase doesn’t ask. She doesn’t tell. House is really the only that pressed, that pushed, and that talked about it like it was her character flaw and nothing more.
It’s probably why she keeps it to herself. It’s private. It’s too private and ultimately, it did define her - no matter how much, how little, or when she decided to distance herself.
“I don’t know.”
She tugs at the strings of hood, at the sweatshirt underneath, pulling, pulling harder to distract herself. She doesn’t talk about these things. She has never found it necessary, found easy, or found it a lot things that surfaced into an indication of moving on. She thinks that’s what he wants.
She knows she can’t give it to him.
“There’s no right way. There’s no wrong way,” she starts again, her mouth pressing together in mid-pause. She’s though. “I’m not the right person to tell you what to do.”
I wish I could, she doesn’t add because she knows how it goes. She knows how the wishes and could and maybes all go together, people tying them up neatly in bow.
But he presses again. Like he doesn’t hear her. “How did you do it?”
He stops. He watches her hard. And it’s almost a reversal - House knows how to make her this uncomfortable. It’s distinct. It’s pushing. She wonders how much he really knows and if it’s why he’s here. Still, though, she subjects herself to honesty. Wilson’s always been good to her.
“I cried a lot. I screamed. I hated myself for forgetting things - how he smelled, how he laughed, how the only thing I had left were photos, too many photos. Some days, it’ll be easy. Some days, it won’t. Some days, you won’t let yourself forget because it feels like -”
She stops, looking down. It’s terrible. It’s corny. It’s the truth in a fumbling, tense way. Her hands are twisting harder in her pockets and it’s not the first time she’s said something like this, but it feels like it. She has to look away briefly and he waits, in front of her, staring at her but not really staring at her.
Her lips purse.
“You don’t want to hear this now,” she finds herself saying, “but eventually you’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”
He tries to smile.
-
It’s eventually. And she’s here.
She almost laughs at herself, taking the seat by his bed. He’s sleeping. She thinks he’s sleeping. His hand is stretched out off to the side and she stares quietly at it; she keeps going back and forth, this isn’t the first time she’s seen him like this. Odd as it is, she drops her hand slowly. Her fingers brush along the line between his finger and thumb, stroking the skin lightly.
“What are you - doing?”
Her lips curl briefly. “Checking in.”
He makes a sound, low and coarse, shifting slightly. His condition is still weak. His recovery is still slow. But it’s to be expected. This is what the procedure does, Chase had said to her. This is what he does - but this, this they all know too well.
“I’m fine.” - it sounds like nothing, but she does get the idea. There’s an effort, but his palm turns towards her fingers and she’s almost absent, tracing the lines of his palm now.
She sighs. “Of course, you are.”
There’s little and no effort between the two of them. She alternates between wondering why she’s here and if she should be here, the apparent never the same. She lets it go for the moment then, watching him quietly. He looks older. He looks so much older than she remembers.
She keeps touching him lightly. His hand. His wrist. Her thumb skirts in small circles, slow and soft, and he seems to relax just a little bit. She doesn’t question anymore. It’s not her place. It’s never been any of their places. But she understands just a little bit. Briefly, she remembers Stacy. She remembers the sense of unconditional awareness that he has, that he had. If anything, this more than what he does.
This is how he’s always loved.
She thinks of Wilson then, thinks if House could - would ask her? She knows she wouldn’t say anything to him. It’s purely incidental too. She doesn’t know Wilson that well. She sought him out first, that night, and sitting there, she felt at least she could give something back. She doesn’t think he’s seeking her out either. That’s stupid. That’s selfish. But she’s complacent with wandering in between.
It’s stupid. But she knows he’s using her too. The question becomes - is she using him back?
There’s a sigh and it pulls her away. “Talk -”
She wonders if he knows it’s her. She wonders if he can tell. But it is what it is, right? And she finds herself complying.
“No.”
If he could smirk, this would be it. “Liar,” he mutters. It’s a briefly flash of coherency. One word. And she knows, even if it’s just a small acknowledgment that he does know who she is. That she’s too open for her own good.
“Yeah.”
There’s that smile again, over her mouth, and she sighs lightly, letting her hand rest over his. He seems to tense briefly, but his fingers turn into her palm again. Slow. Trembling. It’s the drugs again. It’s the drugs.
“Look?”
She snorts. “What?”
“There.”
His eyes are open now and he watches her, wincing as he turns his head slightly. She wipes whatever look she has on her face off. She doesn’t know how long his recovery is going to take. The charts are at the end of the bed and it almost seems out of place for her to check; before, she never thought about it, but it seems too private all of the sudden. She’s not his doctor. She’s not the team. She’s not even a friend.
It’s out of place. She wouldn’t feel right.
“You - change?”
She blinks and he still hasn’t looked away. His eyes are dark. She must be too open. She must have something - he hasn’t watched her like that in a long time. She shifts in her seat, pulling her hand away. Briefly, she sighs and takes the assumption of understanding.
“I haven’t change,” she murmurs. It’s the drugs, she thinks. Charts. Wires. It’s this room too, the lines that he pushed.
“What-ever.”
He’s tired then and she stakes it. She gets up to let him be.
-
Wilson finds her for coffee this time.
A part of her believe she’s neutral. She’s not House. She’s not Cuddy. There’s no pull, no weight, and she doesn’t have that frank connection with him. She understands the kind of grief though, not his of course, but the idea.
She watches him swallow.
“I still smell her,” he says, “in the morning, in the sheets, over the couch. Her computer is still on the table. Her favorite coffee is half-finished. She’s still here.”
Cameron looks away because she remembers. She remembers the first couple days. The last. The grief at forgetting the grief - she still fights a little bit, holds on over anniversaries to remind herself.
“They never completely leave you.”
She picks up her coffee to throw it away.
-
She doesn’t go back to visit House.
But Chase talks about it. She’s listening, not listening, and nods in appropriate places as they walk to the elevator. It’s the first time in awhile that they can leave together. It feels rusty. It feels old. But she lets her relationship with him take the step back first.
Last night, she took her wedding ring out of her jewelry box. It’s small - they were twenty-one, couldn’t really afford anything but student loans and Burger King. She remembers though, she remembers that she thought it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Corny, he used to tease her - he would be angry now, her husband, because she’s starting to forget his name sometimes too.
She’s letting this get to her. Strange, it never occurred to her to make a clean break or even push for the moment. She’s trying not to be tired. She’s trying to be invasive. But these are the things she can’t talk about. She’s stumbling, trying to differentiate between what it means to be a good friend - and she uses this loosely - and what it means to be someone to understand.
Maybe, she hasn’t even changed.
“It’s weird.”
Chase stops talking, looking at her curiously. He presses the elevator button again. She walked in today. He drove. Some habits are uncanny. Others are getting old.
He bites though. “What is?”
“Nothing,” she mumbles.
She hovers between feeling invasive and out of place, with too much to say and less of a certainty that she’s stepping towards what is right and what isn’t safe - funny, almost, less of anything else if she lingers. But it’s the only truth that she seems to keep consistent.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
She nods. The elevator opens, but she doesn’t go. She lies. She makes the excuse of leaving her phone and some files; I’ll be home later, she says and kisses him briefly on the cheek. He steps in. She steps away.
The elevator closes. She sighs - she needs to be busy again.
-
“Too bad it rained.”
She’s there first, with little and no expectation of seeing him at the park. But he comes and in between, admits something like that he and Amber used to meet around here during breaks at the hospital. They liked to talk, he tells her. She really listened.
But Cameron finds herself thrown into a displaced kind of envy. She doesn’t know if he’s handling it, if she call it out and say that he is. He’s putting a brave face on. Better, much better than she ever did. Than she still does.
“Hmm?”
She looks up, watching he pace in front of her. There’s no foot traffic today. It’s midday and he found her in the emergency room, ready to go to lunch. She followed because she wanted to. Because she does care.
Because he was always the one that came to her, that sat with her and said all the things that she need to hear. Right or wrong, she’s trying to be that person for him. She wants to be that person for him.
But she doesn’t know what he needs.
“The park,” he says, sitting. “Too bad it rained. They said it was going to be nice last night. Warm.”
She nods. “The seventies.”
He quiets. He stands. He sits again. His legs are long and tired. It looks like he’s wearing the same sweatshirt again, pulling at the sleeves as if he needed to be a little longer. A little heavier. A little warmer.
He looks to her and smiles tiredly. It doesn’t completely finish, the smile, ruefully or fake or anything but something. It’s a response though and she returns it almost shyly.
“I’m taking a sabbatical.”
Her lips purse. “Good.”
“I don’t know how long though.” He lingers and looks away. There’s a sigh too, a slip of misplaced tension that he needs get out.
She touched him the other day. Something simple over coffee. Her hand on his arm before she left for the hospital. He flinched. It broke her heart. It almost made her say something. But she’s sure he’s tired. He’s tired of hearing things. She can’t completely bring herself to ask again, how he’s doing and how things for him are at work. The sabbatical is the first alternative to conversation they’ve had since they’ve been talking.
He wants to get away. She reads House.
“Where to?”
“No idea,” he shrugs, “Somewhere warm.”
“Will you let me know?”
He looks at her, surprised and uncertain. He nods. Looks away. There’s a couple of kids - students, she assumes - that pass, laughing. Girls. Neither of them look up to watch for the excuse, but Cameron gives him the moment and looks away.
She thinks about House. She stops.
“I’ll come say goodbye.”
He nods. “Sure.”
-
“You’re back.”
His speech is better. She doesn’t remember the last time, but she’s been avoiding him. She’s been avoiding the room. A day has turned into a week, a week has turned into two. She gets updates from Chase and Foreman, sitting quietly in between their conversations.
“It’s my turn,” she says, watching him.
There are dark circles under his eyes. He’s leaning back into the pillow, sort of aimless and sad. It’s been awhile, she thinks, but this time, this time he makes no motion to hide the sadness. It’s in his eyes, his mouth, the way his hands are limp into the sheets. He’s too naked in the room, too vulnerable, and half-aware of it too - it surprises her, but nothing more.
She stays leaning against the frame of the door, watching him as he slowly turns his head towards her. There’s wince, but he’s eyeing her critically. She doesn’t look away. Maybe, she’s tired. Maybe, she’s much more confident in her ability to stay structural and with perspective.
“Lame.” It filters then and he makes a weak motion with his hand, straight to the open seat next to the bed.
She relents like it’s habit, pushing herself away from the door and walking quietly to settle in the small chair. He moans softly, bringing his hand back to his face. The monitor beside him is louder than she remembers - was she paying any attention at all?
“At least, you sound better.”
He says nothing to her and she looks down into her lap, brushing her hands against her legs. The motion becomes harder, nervous even, her knuckles pressing deep into her knees. She can’t help it.
“I talked to him,” she blurts out.
It’s foreign territory. But she’s impulsive, looking up to watch him process. She doesn’t see anything though. House’s hand swallows his eyes, his mouth thinning into a line as his fingers press into the side of his head.
“He’s going away,” he’s slow, hesitant, and mumbling still, “Cuddy told me.”
“Of course,” she murmurs.
They fall to awkward silence and she reaches, for something to do, stepping into the motion and pulling his hand from his face. It’s gentle, almost too gentle, and she knows she needs to see his face. She needs to see something. It doesn’t matter if she can’t read him, if she’s supposed to, or she will. It doesn’t matter.
It’s empty, when it falls from his mouth, and his hand wraps around hers. It isn’t tight, but it’s heavy and she tugs it back to the sheets.
“What did he say?”
She shrugs. “Nothing important.”
“You still suck at lying.”
Her lips curl briefly. They both know it’s not her place. It’s not like Wilson told her anything that constitutes a secret. The mantra is in her head again: she’s not his friend, there’s no intimacy, but she’s been there before. She let him use her because she’s been there before.
Strangely, though, she’s okay with that. It doesn’t do anything for her - she’s been there, over and over again, and each stage of grief makes no sense to her. Every year too, it becomes something different. She doesn’t forget, but she remembers too late. Anniversaries and birthdays, slips memories - this is what she has now. This how people see her and she lets them, consciously or not.
Her gaze meets House’s - is this how he sees her?
She lets her fingers slide into his hand. Her palm presses against his and she leans forward, resting against the bed. They say nothing, but she watches his eyes close and his grips seems to tighten just a little bit more.
“You’re the idiot,” she says slowly. Almost nervously. “Not me. But thanks, really, for playing. It’s been fun.”
A strange smile slides over his mouth. Affectionate, almost appreciative, but not quite. “Ooo. Wit.”
There’s a sound too. She likes to imagine that it could be laughter, but she’s never really heard him laugh. It’s weird how she still romanticizes some things, how it still just falls. But she plays.
She doesn’t let herself change. Not in this room.
“You’re laughing.”
He exhales loudly. “I’m on drugs.”
“Which is your fault.”
“Undoubtedly.”
It lingers too and his eyes are open again. This time she knows that he’s aware of her, he’s watching her and still, still holding onto her hand. The gesture isn’t as empty as it looks. It’s not for her to touch now, it’s not for her to be nervous about, and she lets it go for the moment.
“You’re okay,” she murmurs. “You have that.”
He shrugs into the pillow. Winces. This is her second time, she thinks, to see him. Just the second time. And the worry and concern bubbles up in the back of her throat. It’s not for crying, but it is for something else.
She ignores it.
“You don’t get it.” His thumb starts to move slowly, almost in spurts, over the back of her hand.
“You’d be surprised.”
But that’s all she says, all he takes, and the silence settles into the room again. Outside, the hall is quiet and her eyes close. She’s here late tonight. She’ll come back on her break again. Probably. Maybe not.
“Nothing important, huh?”
He’s tired, slow, but she nods in her response: “Nothing important.”
-
It’s cloudy when she gets up.
The left side of the bed, his side, is empty. Late night, she remembers. Two surgeries, read the note when she got home. And all of it, really, is nothing new. She’s nothing new.
It’s almost funny, but they’re calling for rain. Summer is really starting again.