House Fic: your rosary beads under the bed (1/3)
notes: Apparently, lol, the BIGBANG site broke. *g* So I'm re-posting for my journal - original notes, artwork, and thank yous are here.
your rosary beads under the bed
the truth is she's had the letter since June. we carry our memories in too many ways. house md. house/cameron, chase/cameron. general season five spoilers. 22,935 words, pg.
1.
There’s this picture on her dresser, resting on a corner in the back. Behind a line of candids, her parents and a few friends, it gathers a blur of dust; in smears, the adhesive still pretends to be brand-new. Four or five dollars, just for a wooden frame. She remembers buying it. Then she doesn’t. The story always changes on that end.
It’s just the two of them though. They’re ageless. Him and her, brother and sister, with a backdrop that can be anywhere. The sky, gray, holds a blanket of clouds with a few lines that heave and pull. There’s a tree, too, the branches bony and thin and stretching, like hands, to clasp behind their shoulders.
It rained that day. Or didn’t. Mostly, she remembers nothing else.
When Chase picks it up, he holds it between his palms and frowns, looking back at her. "What's this?"
You’ve met him before, she almost says. Her brother. Once upon an accident; Chase was coming out of her place and he was coming in, a while back, when he was here instead of home. That’s all Chase knows. There’s another photo too in her mother's wallet. A lunch, absent, and he learned there too. She just has a brother. It should seem easy, the acknowledgment.
She steps forward though, her throat drying, and peers over his shoulder. She doesn't take it. Somehow, that’s what the corners are for. Slowly, her arms wrap around her chest as she sighs. She thinks of the answer, but there's really no answer. Everything always seems to begin with: well, once that summer like a joke, if she wanted to be funny.
It does go like that.
Well, once that summer. He was eighteen. She was fourteen. She was nothing more than skinny knees too. He wore brass buttons, grinning for bronze and gold stars - there was a favorite song that year too, something she and her friends used to sing at the top of their lungs. Ribbons. Medals. But he said something like I’m going to make you proud, waving his admission papers around for days. Her mother cried for weeks, after he left, and her father just remembered Vietnam. It was never the same for them after that. The picture stands alone though, one of those memories that isn’t quite memory. Just there, all the same.
"It's -" she's hesitant, out of habit. Not because of what it is, more so because Chase is Chase and there are just those things. She swallows though, staring at the frame. She remembers. It was hot and wet. She lost that tank top weeks later, to the washer and dryer and more than a few grass stains.
It stops though. He’s looking at her. There’s heaviness to his gaze that she doesn’t like. It’s almost predictable. She waits for him to say something; he reaches for her, keeping the picture in his hand, and presses his mouth to her hair. He lingers too long and her shoulders twist, rising and then falling. He knows a little bit, but not much. As much as she can tell him. Or chooses, depending on the day. There’s little comfort in that.
"It's just a long time ago," she murmurs finally. She means it.
--
The truth is she’s had the letter since June, scrawled against the back of a yellowing page.
Hey, it still says. Hey. Sorry I’ve been - well, sorry. There hasn’t been time for an email or two. Or whatever. Just been busy. I’m heading back for a little while. Not really ready to go home. You know how it is. I guess - I’d like to talk. But I’m saving that for later. Listen -
It always stops there too. When she holds it, her fingers feel stif. The paper is too thin. She remembers a story about haggling. Mom and dad wanted another teacher. Neither of them really had a love for it; it was an early sign, even then, of wanting to get out. Maybe. Maybe, not.
It was as far as it went. They both grew up.
But her fingers crawl over the ink, the blue that looks like black, sprawled sharply in contrast. She can almost hear his voice. He’s rambling. It’s like him, she thinks too. Just like him. That’s the difference between Jamie and her: he thinks, he speaks, he writes - it's all the same for her. He tries not to show too much. She hesitates more. But it's the first time that he's stopped something and it worries her. It really worries her.
There was an email to say that she got it. See you then. She hasn’t said anything else. She doesn’t know how to say anything else. He comes, he goes, and she lets him. Most of the time, she just lets him without a word. It’s the kind of thing she always uses as an excuse. It’s family. It’s nothing new.
Turning the letter over, there's just a date and a time. See you then?
2.
The airport is cluttered and crass, filled with people that seemingly favor frowns and lazy maneuvering instead of actually taking the time to be careful.
She stands alone by a cluster of seats. They’re blue and squeak, even as she gives in and sits on the edge of one. Her bag drops next to her, following with the same kind of sound. It reminds her of the hospital; a color scheme of grieving in whatever variation and outside the emergency room, they’re the same too. Like a joke. She’s waiting though, her gaze dropping to her wrist. She falls to a pattern: count to twenty, check her watch, and count to twenty again, check her watch.
She can't help it. She meant what she said to Chase. It’s been a long time.
It’s different. She has no idea why, all of this sudden, she’s nervous. Uneasy, even. There are pockets of memories that she has, of her brother and growing up. They seem strange now, older and with what little snippets of conversation she has with her parents. On occasion, of course. Things have changed them. Life has changed her, is still changing her. At the same time too, she and Jamie have been so removed from each other's lives these last, couple years, she doesn't know what to do. What to expect.
She needs to expect something. A few letters, emails, a call or two - it doesn’t do anything. And strangely enough, this feels new.
Pressing her hands to her legs, she leans forward and sighs. Her phone is at her hip, a contrast to the color of scrubs she forgot to change. It makes a loud snap when she picks it off, dropping it into her bag. She has to go back to the hospital tonight, but she's cleaned the guest room twice, if only for the sake of anticipation.
She’s nervous. It’s been awhile since she’s been this nervous. There’s a picture in her mind of her brother. Maybe, that summer, like the picture. Maybe, better, years later. Maybe, it's the guy that Chase off-handedly mentions here and there. But staring into the crowd, watching the lines of people, fold and unfold, marching crookedly to different doors and sides, she begins to wonder - what if she doesn't know him?
It seems odd, too, that he's coming to see her. Sure, she’s had the letter for awhile. Her detachments with her family are purposed, poised for a little distance and sanity’s sake. It’s a gesture of survival, something that cushions her connection to him. Selfish, yes, but it’s how she’s gotten by the years.
What if she's seen him and has forgotten more than she should have?
It isn't that she minds; last night, she sat on the phone with her mother. How are you? How’s work? How’s that boyfriend of yours? The same questions in rotation rehearsed and tensed. She still feels the expectations in her voice; lined up to say Allison, you really haven't done much. But what she does know is that Jamie hasn't talked to their parents in years, extra fallout from when he enlisted. Look at them, she thinks. She married a dying man. He sent himself as express package to war.
But she didn't tell her mother anything. She should’ve said something.
Standing again, she checks her watch. The hands, gold, still rest in the same place. Feels like it, at least - she doesn't know. It’s her nerves. Her mouth purses tightly and she looks into the crowd again, watching a clump of numbers pass. Families and singles, pairs talking about breakfast, and men marching the paper back to their seats. She doesn't know what it is about the airport that bothers her. The pace. The faces that she still sees. She’s uncomfortable. Everything seems too coy.
"Hey."
It’s barely a greeting. She jumps when the hand drops, her eyes widening as she whirls around. Her lips part, straight to an o, and Jamie's standing there, uniform and all, grinning tiredly at her.
"You're blonde again," he says.
And he doesn't wait either, pulling her into his arms. His hands press into her back, his fingers curling into her jacket as he continues, rambling. "Mom must be ready to throw a party. Remember that? Her blonde phase. She wanted everything to be blue and all of us - "
He stops, pressing his mouth into her shoulder. She can’t find any words. There’s a burn in her throat, loud and heavy. She’s not used to this. She’s used to him being this forward. They were close and not close, the two of them going through the years - so far - with their moments, separate as anything else. But she lets him lean into her. There’s a large sigh, pressed over her neck again. The sensation is soft, warm. She can almost feel him shaking. It could be her. But he's talking a mile a minute, over and over again, and she's just confused.
"Hey."
It’s the only thing she musters, finally, soft as she leans back into her brother's arms. There’s this strange, smoky smell that stretches over him. It’s the airport, she thinks, the clumps of people that manage to sweat and swear and let you carry the brunt of it as well.
He laughs softly. "Hi. Sorry - it's the coffee and flying, I guess."
She pulls back, only slightly, looking up at him. It’s okay, she hears herself saying as she takes a look. His eyes are dark, lines digging under and into his skin. There’s a sharp scar that draws along the side of his mouth. He keeps his hands stretched, resting along her hips. He leans a little, trying to hide the heaviness of a pain. She thinks. She’s only assuming. But he looks uncomfortable too, turning his gaze away from hers, but tightening his grip on her all the same.
She doesn't recognize him. She wants to recognize him.
A part of her, if anything just recognizes the inclination. He was overseas, working, when she lost her husband. It was Germany, she thinks. One of the first and only letters she did get from him at time came instead of him. It wasn’t a something here or there, an apology or two.
It was what she needed to hear.
Still, she lies. For him too. "You look good," she murmurs finally. Her mouth tries to smile too. "You smell a little funny - but you look good. Are you hungry?"
"Nah."
He waves his hand, almost grinning lopsidedly as he starts reaching for his bag. It’s dropped between them, resting over his feet. There’s no memory or acknowledgment of hearing it. Her bag too was forgotten. It stands in her place over the chair she had been occupying. She grabs it, digging inside for her phone; no message, she's relieved. No hospital. That’s the last thing that she needs right now.
"Let's get out of here."
He pauses, reaching, and then ruffles her hair. "We'll talk in the car."
It’s as she remembers then, she thinks, this part. Jamie, forward. Jamie, just smiling. She nods slowly, trying not to let that creeping feeling of her nerves crawl back into her throat. She manages to bite back a sigh, nodding again, and then laces her arm through his.
She just says it.
"I missed you."
It comes quietly. She thinks of Chase. She thinks about their talk weeks earlier, their progress and their fall. The things that they say. The things that they don't say. Some of it could be funny. Most of it, not. But here, just here, she means this as she says it, means it more than she has in a long time. It's frightening to feel this open, almost too vulnerable, with the wear of her old memories on the brink of skipping out. She wonders vaguely if he's got questions to ask too.
She’s got plenty with or without opportunity.
He doesn't say anything though, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her hair. It doesn't feel right. The actions are there; the little bits and pieces of what she knows and should know are too. She wonders what he's lost, what he's brought.
She tries to remember the last time. It’s there. Jokes and dinners, faces of people and emails. Fragments, she thinks. They did well with fragments. The desert, it's just the desert. It was something he used to say, when they were kids. He had these odd quirks. She remembers those too.
"I - " he starts finally, "did you get the letter? I was thinking about it on the plane. I didn't want you to think that I'm going crazy. I should’ve emailed you. I definitely could’ve. I was kind of - "
She looks up, "Not thinking?"
He laughs tiredly. His face wears it as a dig. It’s not a dig though. Her mouth rolls into a frown. She’s a little tired too, she reminds herself. He’s just arrived. There’s plenty of time to talk.
"Sorry," Cameron apologizes. "I'm just - it's been a long morning. I don't mean to sound like mom."
He laughs again, a little louder. The sound is almost too thick, forced if anything. It crashes and twists, earning a glance from a few people passing by. He’s wearing a grin with his teeth, staring down her with something that should look like amusement. She shivers, just a little, and turns away to keep herself moving. She knew it was going to be like this, she thinks. He never comes home the same way. This isn't home either. But, then again, it makes no difference - they're the same way.
"It's fine. Don’t worry."
He’s trying to mean it. Jamie's mouth twists, just a little, and he chuckles again. Just the coffee. There’s this sense of a rush, heavy and wavering. He’s watching her and she should know what to think. She does know what to think. But the lines are blurring, instead, and she’s facing the difference between what is work and what isn’t again.
"I know you."
He says it. She laughs softly, trying. "You do, huh?"
Her gaze is warm. Her fingers wrap around his arm, tightening only slightly into a squeeze. She reminds herself to tell him about Chase. He sort of likes Chase. She remembers an off-handed question. He could’ve been polite. They’re doing dinner around the corner, the three of them. Just so they can meet. They don't have to meet, but she feels a little more than obligated.
She hates that. Neither of them will know.
"You're still the same."
This comes out of nowhere and she manages a little bit of surprise. Her idea of time is shaky. There is then, there is now, and it’s shaky, really, trying to maneuver herself around it. Out of habit, she tries to hide her discomfort. She watches as he draws himself taller again, straightening his shoulders and then trying to smile. His mouth twists.
“What?” - she can’t help it, confused. She should be better at this.
He’s quiet, as they stop. In front of them, there's a line to the escalator. There’s a mother yelling at her kids. A crowd splitting to different gates. Everybody’s on their phone, one way or another. People with suitcases that are two heavy, trying to drag them down the stairs. It’s the chaos that is ever-present, the same face that she understands with work. Somebody drops something and Jamie tenses, his arm closing tightly over her shoulders. Just a little more.
"You're still the same," he says again. There’s a funny taste to it.
I guess, she can only think.
--
It isn't until later, much later, that Chase leaves a message. Or she gets it - there’s no difference these days. She’s already called in on a favor, asking for someone to cover for her until a little later.
The diner is loud, set against the end of the city. It fronts as a sandwich place, a coffee shop, and remains small, down the street from her place. There’s no student traffic, hospital traffic, and leftovers, veering in and out. It’s nice to hide in, get away, and there’s no one to see her, to pick and ask questions, which makes her relax a little bit.
She never walks here, but she should. It would be something to do. Lately, though, she's been a little too tired to do much of anything. She should be better though. She’s going on two resolutions, three years running and a job that still wears a kind of uncertainty. She hasn’t even come to terms with what’s happen over the last stretch of weeks.
Still though, it was the only place she could think of though.
Her phone is closed though. The message, frank, replays in her head. There’s something about checking in, something about things to do and talking to her later. It’s set as a standard reply, no expectations; sometimes, she finds herself hating that. Then again, it’s only because he’s used to what she gives back.
The edges of their relationship are fringing. She’s not exactly sure how to set herself against it. It shouldn’t matter.
She should be better.
He’s good at that too, detached and not quite detached, worried but not quite worried. She doesn’t know what to think of it most of the time. And he means well, which is why the guilt starts to climb in her throat. He’s too used to taking that step back. She doesn’t mean to push; but pushing keeps these things as they are, in front of her, as she needs to see them. She sighs though, hanging up the phone.
Her eyes close.
Jamie's disappeared to the bathroom - to washes his hands, he tried to say, but then nervously dropped into another tirade. He’s impossibly unsettled in front of her, taking what she knows and remembers and phasing it into something completely foreign. She’s worried. She shuffles her phone away, back into her bag, and leans into the edge of the table. Her mouth purses tightly.
He’s been asking her, since the drive out of the airport, are you sure - as if he were worried that she’s been forcing herself to do this, as if he’s imposing. She’s wondering if she’s wearing a particular face. She doesn’t mean to. It’s a habit.
“Everything is,” she mutters to herself.
There’s nobody here. A few waitresses, girls in the back that giggle and sift, reading high school gossip and a few magazines. Somebody’s left an empty glass at the table across from her, a few bits of change that sit in a tiny puddle. Soda or something, she thinks.
Jamie comes back though, half-smiling and sliding his hands into his pocket. He gets a few looks. It’s the uniform. His jacket is resting against his seat, hooked to the back of his side of the booth. She studies the buttons briefly. Still those same colors, still what she remembers. But he sits and then reaches for his drink.
It’s weird to be able to say family and here in the same sentence. It’s not something that should feel like that, but it does.
Ignoring her thoughts, she studies him. He looks a little better, if better is really the right kind of word. She’s hesitant though. It might be the scar. She keeps going back to that scar. She should look away. It shouldn’t be something new. She sees things, has seen things, but this is her brother and even thinking about that, the possibility and the scenarios, scare her more than just a little bit.
"Sorry," he sighs. "Just needed a minute."
She shakes her head. "It's fine."
He looks up at her. His gaze is pointed. She tries not to frown. It’s different here, but then again, he's been here before. He’s visited. Maybe not when she’s needed him to. It shouldn’t be new. He’s seen the hospital. He’s seen where she lives. At the same time though, there's this strange edge to his gaze as if he's expecting some large, grand secret to come out and spill. She doesn't know what to think. She doesn't know if she should even bother.
Suddenly, she feels like she’s being selfish.
"You look tired."
He drops another observation, singled not to push but to stay.
She shifts in her seat and reaches for a napkin. Something to do with her hands. She's not expecting much. She never expects much. It’s that sense of safety again. What bothers her is the proximity of the things that she knows against the life she's started to build here. Again, oddly enough.
The kind of awareness that she has here is almost singular. People know what she tells them, chooses to tell them. She doesn’t mean it to feel like this and suddenly, she’s wonder if she’s let these things take too much from her. There’s a shaky feeling to everything.
"I am," she admits finally. "Working in the emergency room is a different pace. I like it. I like the kind of responsibility it brings. But, at the same time, I'm still not used to -"
"The hours?"
"No."
A truth and a lie. She doesn't know how to explain it. It’s not House. It hasn't been House, not for a long time; signing up to do this is completely different. It was an offer and she took it. She likes Princeton. But all of this - Chase, the emergency room, even her position feels like an interim. She still feels a little stuck, waiting for that big move.
It makes her anxious, if she’s honest.
"I don't know."
She starts again, picking at her napkin. "I'm trying to get used it.”
Still, she doesn’t add. It’s settling nonetheless.
There are moments where she still misses it; not fiercely, not like the first time. But there's no longer that same, tense, and singular fascination that she's allowed to have. She’s supposed to be quick, on her feet, and most of the time, most, people have to stay as names and dates and files and injuries. It’s harder now. It’s much harder now to keep her in that sense of thinking or really, if anything, go outside that.
"Ah."
He leaves at that. And she's sitting there, wanting the food to come. Or something; at best, she wishes that Chase would've come or decided to stop by. She wouldn't do that to him though. The last couple of weeks remain to be framed as odd for them both. Asking him would imply some level. It’s how they are now, implications and guesses. Asking him would further that sensibility. She doesn't know how to or how to want to, for that matter. Her habits are rigid, too rigid, and there are some things that she's beginning to believe that she's not going change.
Her gaze settles on him though.
She’s back to his scar, to the way it juts against his face. It’s pink against his skin and she almost reaches forward, to touch it. There’s a burn in her throat. She hates this. For once, the wrong questions are stronger in her head. Waiting, wanting. There’s too much on her plate and she doesn't want it to bleed through - what's it been? It feels longer than it really is. Years, but not quite. Two shouldn’t feel that much. There’s a stronger number, but she can't remember and he's staring at her the same way.
She should be able to be open.
"I'm fine." Jamie's mouth slips into a smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Seriously. It's just a little bit weird to be back. And I know - really, I didn't mean to make you a little crazy with the letter -"
She shakes her head. "You didn't."
But he ignores her, like before. "I just wanted to be somewhere familiar, but not too familiar," he seems to add and then, for him, "I love you, you know? But I just I wanted to be somewhere where there's no questions. I don't - not that you don't care. But you get it. Space."
He’s rambling again. His eyes are glassy. He’s here, but not. There’s a bit of redness. She doesn’t know how she hadn’t notice before. She almost reaches for him. Her instinct, away from the hospital, is to guess. Was he drinking? He’s never touched the stuff. Or has he? An occasional beer, okay. But that's all that she can really remember. How long is he going to stick around this time? Is he sleeping? Probably not.
She still remembers the first time he came home. Awake for hours, he read. He taught himself how to play chess again. He used to be good. They watched a bunch of movies that they used to enjoy. He waited for her after a long night with House. It’s never the same; he still laughs from time to time. She knows her parents are the same with their concern. She knows that's why he's here instead of there. There's never a straight memory of him either, of them and how they used to be. They've grown out of it, a passing fad if only.
They’re predictable, at best.
"I mean - crazy letter aside - mom and dad miss you, Jamie. They've gotten over it."
She tries to mean it. There’s this taste in her mouth, hypocritical and long. Any other time, she thinks, she might appreciate the irony.
She worked for House too long.
Her hands press into her face and she rubs it, sweeping her fingers under the bridges of her eyes to push the pressure away from herself for a little bit. She feels a little funny, here, and out of practice; it’s stupid, if anything, because he’s her brother and her brother’s always, without fail, been honest and forthright with her - only in his own way.
"You have to understand that - I'm trying to understand."
She stops herself too, for the moment, choosing her words carefully. She remembers to tread carefully. She’s trying to lecture.
"I want to understand. I worry about you,” she swallows, adding, “You hate it, I get it, but you haven't written much since you've been overseas or told any of us anything than you're okay, you'll be home again, and then when you're home again, you go back."
She’s rambling now. It’s a little more than she intends to let out. Her lips press and she looks down, eyeing the placement. She feels that sensation of unease, crawling back out of her throat. She’s not at work, she reminds herself. On guard, waiting for something else to happen.
"I'm sorry." It’s all he says to her.
They’re quiet then.
The waitress comes, finally, just with a refill of their drinks. Water for them both. One by one, the girl picks up each glass. There’s a shadow against the table, of the water, the bits that slid down from the glass. Cameron draws her fingers at the ends, tracing them in small circles. Jamie makes conversation with the waitress. She doesn't listen.
Wandering, her mind is back at work. Things are always changing there. There are papers to sift through. Budgets. Little things. Cuddy wants to meet with her at some point, this week or next. She can't remember, but she'll check in. There really isn’t much to say.
"Are you sure you're okay with me staying here?"
She blinks, looking up. "Huh?"
"Are," he pauses, chuckling, "you sure you're okay with me here?"
Her eyes widen and she reaches forward, smacking his arm. "Of course," she half-snaps. "Don't be stupid. My head's still at work. I'll be better on the weekend, swear."
There are no plans for the weekend, just conversations. Conversations, she tells herself.
There’s got to be some reason for all of this. But she’s a little surprised that he would even ask. She’s okay. She has to be. She’s been better, sure. Jamie's here. Jamie's here and there are things that might want to surface. She’s not paranoid, she feels a little paranoid; it's House, she thinks again, the old habits that linger. She hates it. She still hates it. Chase has it. She's sure Foreman does too. Another rite of passage that she's learned to carry out of all of this. It’s one of those things that are tattooed now, not permanent; a few lines, all the same.
And yet, she still stands with that sense of comfort that she has.
Anonymity. No questions asked. It’s about interest and favor, moving processes along and keeping straight with the chaos. Nobody’s interested in life stories. House was never interested in life stories or fragments, for that matter, unless it's allowed or convenient for his favor. It’s how it works. Those things don't change for anything. She’s kept the tradition. A part of her wonders what he might say?
Or doesn't. She doesn't need to. It’s not important at all.
"I'll be better," she adds, short with words.
He smiles at her. It’s there, just a little bit, and his gaze softens. Some days, he looks like their mother. Most days, he looks their father and the memory of things to do, things to prove, and all the moments that they were supposed to learn. She remembers that. She almost misses home. She’s long given up on the right to pass herself into appealing to parents.
She has excuses. She’s happy, most days.
3.
At night, the hospital is more than sort of eerie.
After settling her brother at her place, she breaks and heads back into the work, operating under the understanding that there are still things to get done. They covered for her. A few favors seemed to help after all. She parks her car in the garage across the street, by the opening and the extension, sitting inside for just a minute.
"Damn it," she mutters.
There’s a collective sense of unease. Here, she is who she is. Basic, on the blocks of just being another doctor; people don't expect protégées from House, they know casualties and there's that too. Those are the things that she can handle. Those are things that she understands.
But sitting in the car, she turns her gaze to the opening in front of her. It’s a row of apartments. Lights on, lights off. Some of them are on-sale. Foreman made a joke, once and at a dinner, that she and Chase should think about it. Since they were doing okay or living at their jobs, as if it were all the same. People still don't believe, but that's a separate issue and for once, something that they do agree on, no one's business but their own.
The reality is simple; she doesn’t know if she could do it.
Her brother, however, frames the focus of her thoughts. The letter is somewhere in her purse, at the bottom. She hasn’t stopped June, she reminds herself. It was a little weird and something that she didn't let linger. He was worried though - she doesn't understand. Dinner - lunch, maybe - was all about Jamie apologizing for everything. A carbon copy of herself, years ago when she ran away grieving.
She can't bring herself to ask though.
There’s no familiarity with saying things like is it really as bad as it seems or did something happen, do you want to talk about it in a series of questions that are supposed to sound boundlessly reassuring no matter how awkward or inappropriate they really are. She’s got to go back home to him though and thinking about it, she doesn't even know how to practice saying anything. There isn't much to know.
He’s been away. He’s in the army. He’s gone to different places, under different years, and she has a list of everything. The letters that she does have seem too old and few. There were emails too, stories and pictures. She might have some in storage. He’s been here and there and seen things and doesn't know how to understand them even if he did ask her for help.
It’s speculation. He’d never ask. She knows that much.
She knows that much. It’s almost too daunting to admit to herself, carrying things that she’s not sure she wants to confront here and now. She hates that she’s losing all sense of confidence with Jamie’s appearance. It’s not that she’s not happy he’s here. She’s already, if anything, almost compulsively planning things that can help them catch up. There are things that she does need from this, that makes her seem selfish.
She wants to have a bit of familiarity, to keep herself straight.
It’s just that she's reminded of how detached she is from this, from him, and from her family, if she's honest. She can blame her husband’s death and the immediate need to leave. To start again. To pretend, over and over, that nothing had happen when she really was completely devastated. She did that her way and in some regards, she still carries pieces of her regrets after all these years.
She sighs loudly. It echoes in the car. Behind her, another person passes to his. He’s on the phone, murmuring into the echo of traffic that still heaves underneath them. She waits, tries not to count, and then reaches for her seatbelt. It detaches with a snap and hits her door loudly.
Sliding forward, finally, she gets out of the car. It’s colder then she remembers, the briskness of the air hitting her and pulling at her coat. She tries to ignore it. Her hand reaches for her back of her neck and she presses her fingers into her skin. It’s almost habit, her hand groping away for the new arch. Stress, she almost laughs. She straightens though and starts for the hospital, dragging her bag at her side.
It’s just another night, she reassures herself.
--
The soda machines are at the end of the hall, hanging into the nook of space; they're too tall, scratching against the groove of the ceiling. It's the makeup of the hospital, every floor with pairs and rows of grooves of grieving seats and vending machines. There used to be food, on this level, but she can't remember why it changed.
House is standing there, frowning.
She doesn't feel surprised to see him. It's late. He's here and there, coming and going, more so in the later hours than anything else and that hasn't changed. She stops, short and unprepared, keeping herself quiet. It’s a moment, not hers, and she's halfway into a turn. She hasn't seen him since - the direction of that thought is over processed now, reassuringly so, and yet, running into him still holds that same, old habit of unease.
It’s progressed into this odd, almost worn feeling of displacement. Another reminder, she thinks, of the things she’s yet to really let go of. Is it letting go? She really doesn’t care to push. She’s starting to believe that there are some things that should just stay as they are.
"I can feel it in your eyes."
He drawls over eyes, the smirk in his voice heavy. It echoes too, causing her to turn slightly, back into the hallway to see if there’s anyone else there. He knows it’s her and yet, there’s still this habit of checking. She sighs, but stays where she is and watches as his hands slide against the arch of his cane. New, she thinks, or not. The wood seems darker. It could be the light or the angle. She needs to stop thinking about it.
But she shifts herself away from the wall.
She said fifteen minutes to the nurse at the desk, her habit, left her with a few files, and a screeching seventeen year old in the corner, with friends, who got drunk and fell out of the tree. This is what she hides behind, she thinks and is almost amused; the mundane step of people's mistakes, the accidents stemming from predictability. Chance, is always possible, and much more frightening, but she's taught herself not to think about it.
That was medical school.
"You think," she shoots back finally, "if you stare at the machine long enough, magic might happened and you'll get a free soda from it. Or somebody."
She almost sees his mouth curl. Or she thinks she does. It’s something that he carries, almost too comfortable with letting people see what they want to see. She remains out of practice with him though, strangely susceptible to different degrees of interaction with him. It’s really beyond the idea of yes and no, stemming from the short, almost abrupt pull of separation. She’s never had a clean break. Out of habit though, they remain to be old and predictable, as if he’s pushing for comfort and she lets him. It’s just that she doesn't like to be out of practice.
"You have your wallet."
She snorts. "No."
She holds up her hand, showing her the change that she clutches. She keeps some in her pocket, when she knows she's going to need it. She’s still, in effect, waiting for the coffee from earlier to kick in.
He shrugs. "Whatever."
She half-expects him to move, but he doesn't. She can't remember the last time, outside of a patient; they've had a confrontation. Never conversations; she used to think, half-indulging in the things that he might say to her. It seems more than stupid now and exhaustion, facing the things and slips of moments that she used to carry around. It was a crush before, it is a crush, or not. There’s never been any sense to distinguish her feelings.
She could agree with the others, half-suspecting that she’s been in love with him for years. It would be nice, she thinks, to rest against that excuse. And maybe, she is. What she does know is that she doesn’t like the parts of her that slip into the open, that she can’t hold back as if she’s been vulnerable to him all along. It works too well in the favor of a game.
She really doesn't know.
But she's not going down that way again. She doesn't have it in her.
"Here," he reaches forward, without cause, curling his fingers around her hand.
He’s far from careful, his hand tightening clumsily over hers. He keeps it. She’s not even thinking, wide-eyed. The pressure is strained, only lightly, and his fingers tuck easily over hers as he pulls her a little closer. His thumb rubs over the line of her nails and he looks at her, shifting back to fold his cane under his arm. He's pulling her fingers apart before it really occurs to her, pulling the change out of her palm. The pads of his fingers are warm and quick, skirting over the lines of her hand as he pulls the money into his.
"You're an ass," she snaps, flushing. Her hand is burning.
There’s a soft chuckle. His mouth shifts, but he doesn't smirk and he dangles one of her quarters in between his fingertips. He’s daring her to take it. Always daring, any chance he gets for old times’ sake. It’s a plague for all them, in every degree and it’s easier, as a secret, to keep it at that. The three of them. To make it just her, to keep it at just her, makes it a very, very dangerous thing.
"You're a pal."
His voice is dry and cuts, even as he turns. “A real pal.”
He lingers though. There’s a split second, an honest second, that he takes to watch her. She feels his gaze, as it presses over her, making sure that she sees him pull the change into hand and then his pocket as he turns away.
She half-expects him to pull the change back out, shoving it into the soda machine but he doesn’t. Her fingers are still buzzing, warm, and she almost asks for it back, right then and there, but there’s no sense of inclination to push further than what’s occurred.
She holds back a sigh.
Instead, she watches as he moves forward. He’s in her space again and stops. There’s a shadow of a smirk, but it disappears as he just steps around her. She waits for a comment, steeling herself. There’s nothing to expect and then there’s something to expect, the promise there and not there. She thinks she hates that most about him with no reason at all, only the picks of her own vulnerability.
But he says nothing.
There’s a burn in her throat. When she turns, he’s gone instead.
4.
It’s funny how none of this unravels in any particular way.
The morning is quiet, almost too quiet, and she wakes up to her alarm clock scattering silently against the wall. The numbers are almost coarse; she's been doing this a lot lately, waking up before she plans to and the silence, almost indefinitely draws her down into thoughts that she just doesn't need. She stays in bed though, shifting up and sliding her hands against the blankets. Her space, she thinks, she likes her space. It’s always been that way.
Outside, there’s a loud horn. The neighbor’s car, again, and she hears snippets of conversation pass and go, aging only with the routine of her day. She should start breakfast. She should make coffee - does she have coffee? She can’t remember the last time she went to the market. She went the day before.
Today, though, she's more than aware of her brother stuck in the next room over. It’s strange and more than unnerving; the idea that two facets of her life are too close, too soon, and the only thing that makes any sense seems to draw further and further away from her. The hospital is just as it is, something to change and to lose and that, if anything, carries more weight than having pieces of her life, real and standing here.
Sliding out of bed, she reaches for a cardigan and goes to start breakfast. She’ll run tomorrow, she thinks. Take a break. She needs coffee more. She has a later night tonight again, getting closer to the end of the month and the things that come too easily with it. She’s got things ready; as she is, always too prepared and needing it to be a necessary faction of her life. But she wonders about her brother too - what is she going to do? Say no? She’s never said no and yet, here, it feels like they're becoming strangers, more and more, despite the sudden visit and his presence.
A part of her still thinks she should call her parents. Just to say that Jamie’s here. Her memories, much like the ones that she has when she lost her husband, are so scattered from the first time he left. They were angry. She was angry. But something happened between her brother and her parents that has created this distance and made it this bad.
It was never supposed to be this bad.
Rubbing her eyes, she steps out to the living room. It’s still dark, the shades only drawing out pieces of lights. She pauses for a moment, her hands pressing into her hips and surveys the room. There’s mail, from yesterday, and a journal that she still hasn’t touched. She’s been thinking about writing again.
"Hey."
She jumps eyes wide. "Jesus," she breathes, her fingers fisting against her sweater. "Jamie, don't do that. You scared the hell out of me."
He’s in the kitchen already. There’s a sliver of a smile. It stretches against his mouth, but like before, seems content to stay away from his eyes. He’s standing strangely, shoulders straight and just as hunched as yesterday. Her worry is bitter too, thick against her throat, and he seems to be able to tell, looking down.
"I was going to make breakfast."
He offers, waving a hand to the kitchen. "But I don't know where anything is. It's not like the last place and I know how you get - I just - yeah."
His hands curl at his side and she reaches forward, taking one and curling it around his. She waits, wanting him to take it back, do something familiar. She only feels his hand tighten more.
I have questions. She’s always wanted to say that - he’s never asked and the obligation, if anything, remains faithful to silence. They’re there for each other in their own ways, never enough sometimes, but is enough for the moment.
It’s what she’s brought here.
She sighs.
"Do you want to talk about it?" - Finally. It sounds so funny coming from her, too dry and too spaced; this is your brother, she tells herself. There’s too much of a sense of removal that sits with her. She hates it.
She hates that she feels this here.
"No."
His answer is almost as fast as hers, cutting and simple. He looks up at her, his eyes hard. She feels it again, that sense of detachment that's driven them both to their places here. It’s too real, again, and she wonders if this is how the others see her. If this is why she's still losing pieces and moments, and unable, really to give anything more. She doesn't know why. She doesn't know how.
He seems to struggle for a moment, his teeth sinking into his lip. She does the same thing too; it’s a mirror, if anything, and odd, amassing in an uncomfortable, almost comical sort of way.
"I think," he says quietly, "I'm going to go lay down again - okay?"
The breakfast idea is gone. She nods, with nothing else to give back, dropping her hand and curling her arms to her chest. He steps back, sighs, and then steps forward again. Cupping her face, he kisses her forehead and smiles a little. She feels it stretch against her skin, lingering as he draws back.
It feels like halfway, a hand that she should be extending.
"I'll let you know when I go."
It’s the only thing she offers, watching him nod too and then step back, returning to his room.
She sighs. It really wasn’t like this before.
NEXT.
your rosary beads under the bed
the truth is she's had the letter since June. we carry our memories in too many ways. house md. house/cameron, chase/cameron. general season five spoilers. 22,935 words, pg.
1.
There’s this picture on her dresser, resting on a corner in the back. Behind a line of candids, her parents and a few friends, it gathers a blur of dust; in smears, the adhesive still pretends to be brand-new. Four or five dollars, just for a wooden frame. She remembers buying it. Then she doesn’t. The story always changes on that end.
It’s just the two of them though. They’re ageless. Him and her, brother and sister, with a backdrop that can be anywhere. The sky, gray, holds a blanket of clouds with a few lines that heave and pull. There’s a tree, too, the branches bony and thin and stretching, like hands, to clasp behind their shoulders.
It rained that day. Or didn’t. Mostly, she remembers nothing else.
When Chase picks it up, he holds it between his palms and frowns, looking back at her. "What's this?"
You’ve met him before, she almost says. Her brother. Once upon an accident; Chase was coming out of her place and he was coming in, a while back, when he was here instead of home. That’s all Chase knows. There’s another photo too in her mother's wallet. A lunch, absent, and he learned there too. She just has a brother. It should seem easy, the acknowledgment.
She steps forward though, her throat drying, and peers over his shoulder. She doesn't take it. Somehow, that’s what the corners are for. Slowly, her arms wrap around her chest as she sighs. She thinks of the answer, but there's really no answer. Everything always seems to begin with: well, once that summer like a joke, if she wanted to be funny.
It does go like that.
Well, once that summer. He was eighteen. She was fourteen. She was nothing more than skinny knees too. He wore brass buttons, grinning for bronze and gold stars - there was a favorite song that year too, something she and her friends used to sing at the top of their lungs. Ribbons. Medals. But he said something like I’m going to make you proud, waving his admission papers around for days. Her mother cried for weeks, after he left, and her father just remembered Vietnam. It was never the same for them after that. The picture stands alone though, one of those memories that isn’t quite memory. Just there, all the same.
"It's -" she's hesitant, out of habit. Not because of what it is, more so because Chase is Chase and there are just those things. She swallows though, staring at the frame. She remembers. It was hot and wet. She lost that tank top weeks later, to the washer and dryer and more than a few grass stains.
It stops though. He’s looking at her. There’s heaviness to his gaze that she doesn’t like. It’s almost predictable. She waits for him to say something; he reaches for her, keeping the picture in his hand, and presses his mouth to her hair. He lingers too long and her shoulders twist, rising and then falling. He knows a little bit, but not much. As much as she can tell him. Or chooses, depending on the day. There’s little comfort in that.
"It's just a long time ago," she murmurs finally. She means it.
--
The truth is she’s had the letter since June, scrawled against the back of a yellowing page.
Hey, it still says. Hey. Sorry I’ve been - well, sorry. There hasn’t been time for an email or two. Or whatever. Just been busy. I’m heading back for a little while. Not really ready to go home. You know how it is. I guess - I’d like to talk. But I’m saving that for later. Listen -
It always stops there too. When she holds it, her fingers feel stif. The paper is too thin. She remembers a story about haggling. Mom and dad wanted another teacher. Neither of them really had a love for it; it was an early sign, even then, of wanting to get out. Maybe. Maybe, not.
It was as far as it went. They both grew up.
But her fingers crawl over the ink, the blue that looks like black, sprawled sharply in contrast. She can almost hear his voice. He’s rambling. It’s like him, she thinks too. Just like him. That’s the difference between Jamie and her: he thinks, he speaks, he writes - it's all the same for her. He tries not to show too much. She hesitates more. But it's the first time that he's stopped something and it worries her. It really worries her.
There was an email to say that she got it. See you then. She hasn’t said anything else. She doesn’t know how to say anything else. He comes, he goes, and she lets him. Most of the time, she just lets him without a word. It’s the kind of thing she always uses as an excuse. It’s family. It’s nothing new.
Turning the letter over, there's just a date and a time. See you then?
2.
The airport is cluttered and crass, filled with people that seemingly favor frowns and lazy maneuvering instead of actually taking the time to be careful.
She stands alone by a cluster of seats. They’re blue and squeak, even as she gives in and sits on the edge of one. Her bag drops next to her, following with the same kind of sound. It reminds her of the hospital; a color scheme of grieving in whatever variation and outside the emergency room, they’re the same too. Like a joke. She’s waiting though, her gaze dropping to her wrist. She falls to a pattern: count to twenty, check her watch, and count to twenty again, check her watch.
She can't help it. She meant what she said to Chase. It’s been a long time.
It’s different. She has no idea why, all of this sudden, she’s nervous. Uneasy, even. There are pockets of memories that she has, of her brother and growing up. They seem strange now, older and with what little snippets of conversation she has with her parents. On occasion, of course. Things have changed them. Life has changed her, is still changing her. At the same time too, she and Jamie have been so removed from each other's lives these last, couple years, she doesn't know what to do. What to expect.
She needs to expect something. A few letters, emails, a call or two - it doesn’t do anything. And strangely enough, this feels new.
Pressing her hands to her legs, she leans forward and sighs. Her phone is at her hip, a contrast to the color of scrubs she forgot to change. It makes a loud snap when she picks it off, dropping it into her bag. She has to go back to the hospital tonight, but she's cleaned the guest room twice, if only for the sake of anticipation.
She’s nervous. It’s been awhile since she’s been this nervous. There’s a picture in her mind of her brother. Maybe, that summer, like the picture. Maybe, better, years later. Maybe, it's the guy that Chase off-handedly mentions here and there. But staring into the crowd, watching the lines of people, fold and unfold, marching crookedly to different doors and sides, she begins to wonder - what if she doesn't know him?
It seems odd, too, that he's coming to see her. Sure, she’s had the letter for awhile. Her detachments with her family are purposed, poised for a little distance and sanity’s sake. It’s a gesture of survival, something that cushions her connection to him. Selfish, yes, but it’s how she’s gotten by the years.
What if she's seen him and has forgotten more than she should have?
It isn't that she minds; last night, she sat on the phone with her mother. How are you? How’s work? How’s that boyfriend of yours? The same questions in rotation rehearsed and tensed. She still feels the expectations in her voice; lined up to say Allison, you really haven't done much. But what she does know is that Jamie hasn't talked to their parents in years, extra fallout from when he enlisted. Look at them, she thinks. She married a dying man. He sent himself as express package to war.
But she didn't tell her mother anything. She should’ve said something.
Standing again, she checks her watch. The hands, gold, still rest in the same place. Feels like it, at least - she doesn't know. It’s her nerves. Her mouth purses tightly and she looks into the crowd again, watching a clump of numbers pass. Families and singles, pairs talking about breakfast, and men marching the paper back to their seats. She doesn't know what it is about the airport that bothers her. The pace. The faces that she still sees. She’s uncomfortable. Everything seems too coy.
"Hey."
It’s barely a greeting. She jumps when the hand drops, her eyes widening as she whirls around. Her lips part, straight to an o, and Jamie's standing there, uniform and all, grinning tiredly at her.
"You're blonde again," he says.
And he doesn't wait either, pulling her into his arms. His hands press into her back, his fingers curling into her jacket as he continues, rambling. "Mom must be ready to throw a party. Remember that? Her blonde phase. She wanted everything to be blue and all of us - "
He stops, pressing his mouth into her shoulder. She can’t find any words. There’s a burn in her throat, loud and heavy. She’s not used to this. She’s used to him being this forward. They were close and not close, the two of them going through the years - so far - with their moments, separate as anything else. But she lets him lean into her. There’s a large sigh, pressed over her neck again. The sensation is soft, warm. She can almost feel him shaking. It could be her. But he's talking a mile a minute, over and over again, and she's just confused.
"Hey."
It’s the only thing she musters, finally, soft as she leans back into her brother's arms. There’s this strange, smoky smell that stretches over him. It’s the airport, she thinks, the clumps of people that manage to sweat and swear and let you carry the brunt of it as well.
He laughs softly. "Hi. Sorry - it's the coffee and flying, I guess."
She pulls back, only slightly, looking up at him. It’s okay, she hears herself saying as she takes a look. His eyes are dark, lines digging under and into his skin. There’s a sharp scar that draws along the side of his mouth. He keeps his hands stretched, resting along her hips. He leans a little, trying to hide the heaviness of a pain. She thinks. She’s only assuming. But he looks uncomfortable too, turning his gaze away from hers, but tightening his grip on her all the same.
She doesn't recognize him. She wants to recognize him.
A part of her, if anything just recognizes the inclination. He was overseas, working, when she lost her husband. It was Germany, she thinks. One of the first and only letters she did get from him at time came instead of him. It wasn’t a something here or there, an apology or two.
It was what she needed to hear.
Still, she lies. For him too. "You look good," she murmurs finally. Her mouth tries to smile too. "You smell a little funny - but you look good. Are you hungry?"
"Nah."
He waves his hand, almost grinning lopsidedly as he starts reaching for his bag. It’s dropped between them, resting over his feet. There’s no memory or acknowledgment of hearing it. Her bag too was forgotten. It stands in her place over the chair she had been occupying. She grabs it, digging inside for her phone; no message, she's relieved. No hospital. That’s the last thing that she needs right now.
"Let's get out of here."
He pauses, reaching, and then ruffles her hair. "We'll talk in the car."
It’s as she remembers then, she thinks, this part. Jamie, forward. Jamie, just smiling. She nods slowly, trying not to let that creeping feeling of her nerves crawl back into her throat. She manages to bite back a sigh, nodding again, and then laces her arm through his.
She just says it.
"I missed you."
It comes quietly. She thinks of Chase. She thinks about their talk weeks earlier, their progress and their fall. The things that they say. The things that they don't say. Some of it could be funny. Most of it, not. But here, just here, she means this as she says it, means it more than she has in a long time. It's frightening to feel this open, almost too vulnerable, with the wear of her old memories on the brink of skipping out. She wonders vaguely if he's got questions to ask too.
She’s got plenty with or without opportunity.
He doesn't say anything though, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her hair. It doesn't feel right. The actions are there; the little bits and pieces of what she knows and should know are too. She wonders what he's lost, what he's brought.
She tries to remember the last time. It’s there. Jokes and dinners, faces of people and emails. Fragments, she thinks. They did well with fragments. The desert, it's just the desert. It was something he used to say, when they were kids. He had these odd quirks. She remembers those too.
"I - " he starts finally, "did you get the letter? I was thinking about it on the plane. I didn't want you to think that I'm going crazy. I should’ve emailed you. I definitely could’ve. I was kind of - "
She looks up, "Not thinking?"
He laughs tiredly. His face wears it as a dig. It’s not a dig though. Her mouth rolls into a frown. She’s a little tired too, she reminds herself. He’s just arrived. There’s plenty of time to talk.
"Sorry," Cameron apologizes. "I'm just - it's been a long morning. I don't mean to sound like mom."
He laughs again, a little louder. The sound is almost too thick, forced if anything. It crashes and twists, earning a glance from a few people passing by. He’s wearing a grin with his teeth, staring down her with something that should look like amusement. She shivers, just a little, and turns away to keep herself moving. She knew it was going to be like this, she thinks. He never comes home the same way. This isn't home either. But, then again, it makes no difference - they're the same way.
"It's fine. Don’t worry."
He’s trying to mean it. Jamie's mouth twists, just a little, and he chuckles again. Just the coffee. There’s this sense of a rush, heavy and wavering. He’s watching her and she should know what to think. She does know what to think. But the lines are blurring, instead, and she’s facing the difference between what is work and what isn’t again.
"I know you."
He says it. She laughs softly, trying. "You do, huh?"
Her gaze is warm. Her fingers wrap around his arm, tightening only slightly into a squeeze. She reminds herself to tell him about Chase. He sort of likes Chase. She remembers an off-handed question. He could’ve been polite. They’re doing dinner around the corner, the three of them. Just so they can meet. They don't have to meet, but she feels a little more than obligated.
She hates that. Neither of them will know.
"You're still the same."
This comes out of nowhere and she manages a little bit of surprise. Her idea of time is shaky. There is then, there is now, and it’s shaky, really, trying to maneuver herself around it. Out of habit, she tries to hide her discomfort. She watches as he draws himself taller again, straightening his shoulders and then trying to smile. His mouth twists.
“What?” - she can’t help it, confused. She should be better at this.
He’s quiet, as they stop. In front of them, there's a line to the escalator. There’s a mother yelling at her kids. A crowd splitting to different gates. Everybody’s on their phone, one way or another. People with suitcases that are two heavy, trying to drag them down the stairs. It’s the chaos that is ever-present, the same face that she understands with work. Somebody drops something and Jamie tenses, his arm closing tightly over her shoulders. Just a little more.
"You're still the same," he says again. There’s a funny taste to it.
I guess, she can only think.
--
It isn't until later, much later, that Chase leaves a message. Or she gets it - there’s no difference these days. She’s already called in on a favor, asking for someone to cover for her until a little later.
The diner is loud, set against the end of the city. It fronts as a sandwich place, a coffee shop, and remains small, down the street from her place. There’s no student traffic, hospital traffic, and leftovers, veering in and out. It’s nice to hide in, get away, and there’s no one to see her, to pick and ask questions, which makes her relax a little bit.
She never walks here, but she should. It would be something to do. Lately, though, she's been a little too tired to do much of anything. She should be better though. She’s going on two resolutions, three years running and a job that still wears a kind of uncertainty. She hasn’t even come to terms with what’s happen over the last stretch of weeks.
Still though, it was the only place she could think of though.
Her phone is closed though. The message, frank, replays in her head. There’s something about checking in, something about things to do and talking to her later. It’s set as a standard reply, no expectations; sometimes, she finds herself hating that. Then again, it’s only because he’s used to what she gives back.
The edges of their relationship are fringing. She’s not exactly sure how to set herself against it. It shouldn’t matter.
She should be better.
He’s good at that too, detached and not quite detached, worried but not quite worried. She doesn’t know what to think of it most of the time. And he means well, which is why the guilt starts to climb in her throat. He’s too used to taking that step back. She doesn’t mean to push; but pushing keeps these things as they are, in front of her, as she needs to see them. She sighs though, hanging up the phone.
Her eyes close.
Jamie's disappeared to the bathroom - to washes his hands, he tried to say, but then nervously dropped into another tirade. He’s impossibly unsettled in front of her, taking what she knows and remembers and phasing it into something completely foreign. She’s worried. She shuffles her phone away, back into her bag, and leans into the edge of the table. Her mouth purses tightly.
He’s been asking her, since the drive out of the airport, are you sure - as if he were worried that she’s been forcing herself to do this, as if he’s imposing. She’s wondering if she’s wearing a particular face. She doesn’t mean to. It’s a habit.
“Everything is,” she mutters to herself.
There’s nobody here. A few waitresses, girls in the back that giggle and sift, reading high school gossip and a few magazines. Somebody’s left an empty glass at the table across from her, a few bits of change that sit in a tiny puddle. Soda or something, she thinks.
Jamie comes back though, half-smiling and sliding his hands into his pocket. He gets a few looks. It’s the uniform. His jacket is resting against his seat, hooked to the back of his side of the booth. She studies the buttons briefly. Still those same colors, still what she remembers. But he sits and then reaches for his drink.
It’s weird to be able to say family and here in the same sentence. It’s not something that should feel like that, but it does.
Ignoring her thoughts, she studies him. He looks a little better, if better is really the right kind of word. She’s hesitant though. It might be the scar. She keeps going back to that scar. She should look away. It shouldn’t be something new. She sees things, has seen things, but this is her brother and even thinking about that, the possibility and the scenarios, scare her more than just a little bit.
"Sorry," he sighs. "Just needed a minute."
She shakes her head. "It's fine."
He looks up at her. His gaze is pointed. She tries not to frown. It’s different here, but then again, he's been here before. He’s visited. Maybe not when she’s needed him to. It shouldn’t be new. He’s seen the hospital. He’s seen where she lives. At the same time though, there's this strange edge to his gaze as if he's expecting some large, grand secret to come out and spill. She doesn't know what to think. She doesn't know if she should even bother.
Suddenly, she feels like she’s being selfish.
"You look tired."
He drops another observation, singled not to push but to stay.
She shifts in her seat and reaches for a napkin. Something to do with her hands. She's not expecting much. She never expects much. It’s that sense of safety again. What bothers her is the proximity of the things that she knows against the life she's started to build here. Again, oddly enough.
The kind of awareness that she has here is almost singular. People know what she tells them, chooses to tell them. She doesn’t mean it to feel like this and suddenly, she’s wonder if she’s let these things take too much from her. There’s a shaky feeling to everything.
"I am," she admits finally. "Working in the emergency room is a different pace. I like it. I like the kind of responsibility it brings. But, at the same time, I'm still not used to -"
"The hours?"
"No."
A truth and a lie. She doesn't know how to explain it. It’s not House. It hasn't been House, not for a long time; signing up to do this is completely different. It was an offer and she took it. She likes Princeton. But all of this - Chase, the emergency room, even her position feels like an interim. She still feels a little stuck, waiting for that big move.
It makes her anxious, if she’s honest.
"I don't know."
She starts again, picking at her napkin. "I'm trying to get used it.”
Still, she doesn’t add. It’s settling nonetheless.
There are moments where she still misses it; not fiercely, not like the first time. But there's no longer that same, tense, and singular fascination that she's allowed to have. She’s supposed to be quick, on her feet, and most of the time, most, people have to stay as names and dates and files and injuries. It’s harder now. It’s much harder now to keep her in that sense of thinking or really, if anything, go outside that.
"Ah."
He leaves at that. And she's sitting there, wanting the food to come. Or something; at best, she wishes that Chase would've come or decided to stop by. She wouldn't do that to him though. The last couple of weeks remain to be framed as odd for them both. Asking him would imply some level. It’s how they are now, implications and guesses. Asking him would further that sensibility. She doesn't know how to or how to want to, for that matter. Her habits are rigid, too rigid, and there are some things that she's beginning to believe that she's not going change.
Her gaze settles on him though.
She’s back to his scar, to the way it juts against his face. It’s pink against his skin and she almost reaches forward, to touch it. There’s a burn in her throat. She hates this. For once, the wrong questions are stronger in her head. Waiting, wanting. There’s too much on her plate and she doesn't want it to bleed through - what's it been? It feels longer than it really is. Years, but not quite. Two shouldn’t feel that much. There’s a stronger number, but she can't remember and he's staring at her the same way.
She should be able to be open.
"I'm fine." Jamie's mouth slips into a smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Seriously. It's just a little bit weird to be back. And I know - really, I didn't mean to make you a little crazy with the letter -"
She shakes her head. "You didn't."
But he ignores her, like before. "I just wanted to be somewhere familiar, but not too familiar," he seems to add and then, for him, "I love you, you know? But I just I wanted to be somewhere where there's no questions. I don't - not that you don't care. But you get it. Space."
He’s rambling again. His eyes are glassy. He’s here, but not. There’s a bit of redness. She doesn’t know how she hadn’t notice before. She almost reaches for him. Her instinct, away from the hospital, is to guess. Was he drinking? He’s never touched the stuff. Or has he? An occasional beer, okay. But that's all that she can really remember. How long is he going to stick around this time? Is he sleeping? Probably not.
She still remembers the first time he came home. Awake for hours, he read. He taught himself how to play chess again. He used to be good. They watched a bunch of movies that they used to enjoy. He waited for her after a long night with House. It’s never the same; he still laughs from time to time. She knows her parents are the same with their concern. She knows that's why he's here instead of there. There's never a straight memory of him either, of them and how they used to be. They've grown out of it, a passing fad if only.
They’re predictable, at best.
"I mean - crazy letter aside - mom and dad miss you, Jamie. They've gotten over it."
She tries to mean it. There’s this taste in her mouth, hypocritical and long. Any other time, she thinks, she might appreciate the irony.
She worked for House too long.
Her hands press into her face and she rubs it, sweeping her fingers under the bridges of her eyes to push the pressure away from herself for a little bit. She feels a little funny, here, and out of practice; it’s stupid, if anything, because he’s her brother and her brother’s always, without fail, been honest and forthright with her - only in his own way.
"You have to understand that - I'm trying to understand."
She stops herself too, for the moment, choosing her words carefully. She remembers to tread carefully. She’s trying to lecture.
"I want to understand. I worry about you,” she swallows, adding, “You hate it, I get it, but you haven't written much since you've been overseas or told any of us anything than you're okay, you'll be home again, and then when you're home again, you go back."
She’s rambling now. It’s a little more than she intends to let out. Her lips press and she looks down, eyeing the placement. She feels that sensation of unease, crawling back out of her throat. She’s not at work, she reminds herself. On guard, waiting for something else to happen.
"I'm sorry." It’s all he says to her.
They’re quiet then.
The waitress comes, finally, just with a refill of their drinks. Water for them both. One by one, the girl picks up each glass. There’s a shadow against the table, of the water, the bits that slid down from the glass. Cameron draws her fingers at the ends, tracing them in small circles. Jamie makes conversation with the waitress. She doesn't listen.
Wandering, her mind is back at work. Things are always changing there. There are papers to sift through. Budgets. Little things. Cuddy wants to meet with her at some point, this week or next. She can't remember, but she'll check in. There really isn’t much to say.
"Are you sure you're okay with me staying here?"
She blinks, looking up. "Huh?"
"Are," he pauses, chuckling, "you sure you're okay with me here?"
Her eyes widen and she reaches forward, smacking his arm. "Of course," she half-snaps. "Don't be stupid. My head's still at work. I'll be better on the weekend, swear."
There are no plans for the weekend, just conversations. Conversations, she tells herself.
There’s got to be some reason for all of this. But she’s a little surprised that he would even ask. She’s okay. She has to be. She’s been better, sure. Jamie's here. Jamie's here and there are things that might want to surface. She’s not paranoid, she feels a little paranoid; it's House, she thinks again, the old habits that linger. She hates it. She still hates it. Chase has it. She's sure Foreman does too. Another rite of passage that she's learned to carry out of all of this. It’s one of those things that are tattooed now, not permanent; a few lines, all the same.
And yet, she still stands with that sense of comfort that she has.
Anonymity. No questions asked. It’s about interest and favor, moving processes along and keeping straight with the chaos. Nobody’s interested in life stories. House was never interested in life stories or fragments, for that matter, unless it's allowed or convenient for his favor. It’s how it works. Those things don't change for anything. She’s kept the tradition. A part of her wonders what he might say?
Or doesn't. She doesn't need to. It’s not important at all.
"I'll be better," she adds, short with words.
He smiles at her. It’s there, just a little bit, and his gaze softens. Some days, he looks like their mother. Most days, he looks their father and the memory of things to do, things to prove, and all the moments that they were supposed to learn. She remembers that. She almost misses home. She’s long given up on the right to pass herself into appealing to parents.
She has excuses. She’s happy, most days.
3.
At night, the hospital is more than sort of eerie.
After settling her brother at her place, she breaks and heads back into the work, operating under the understanding that there are still things to get done. They covered for her. A few favors seemed to help after all. She parks her car in the garage across the street, by the opening and the extension, sitting inside for just a minute.
"Damn it," she mutters.
There’s a collective sense of unease. Here, she is who she is. Basic, on the blocks of just being another doctor; people don't expect protégées from House, they know casualties and there's that too. Those are the things that she can handle. Those are things that she understands.
But sitting in the car, she turns her gaze to the opening in front of her. It’s a row of apartments. Lights on, lights off. Some of them are on-sale. Foreman made a joke, once and at a dinner, that she and Chase should think about it. Since they were doing okay or living at their jobs, as if it were all the same. People still don't believe, but that's a separate issue and for once, something that they do agree on, no one's business but their own.
The reality is simple; she doesn’t know if she could do it.
Her brother, however, frames the focus of her thoughts. The letter is somewhere in her purse, at the bottom. She hasn’t stopped June, she reminds herself. It was a little weird and something that she didn't let linger. He was worried though - she doesn't understand. Dinner - lunch, maybe - was all about Jamie apologizing for everything. A carbon copy of herself, years ago when she ran away grieving.
She can't bring herself to ask though.
There’s no familiarity with saying things like is it really as bad as it seems or did something happen, do you want to talk about it in a series of questions that are supposed to sound boundlessly reassuring no matter how awkward or inappropriate they really are. She’s got to go back home to him though and thinking about it, she doesn't even know how to practice saying anything. There isn't much to know.
He’s been away. He’s in the army. He’s gone to different places, under different years, and she has a list of everything. The letters that she does have seem too old and few. There were emails too, stories and pictures. She might have some in storage. He’s been here and there and seen things and doesn't know how to understand them even if he did ask her for help.
It’s speculation. He’d never ask. She knows that much.
She knows that much. It’s almost too daunting to admit to herself, carrying things that she’s not sure she wants to confront here and now. She hates that she’s losing all sense of confidence with Jamie’s appearance. It’s not that she’s not happy he’s here. She’s already, if anything, almost compulsively planning things that can help them catch up. There are things that she does need from this, that makes her seem selfish.
She wants to have a bit of familiarity, to keep herself straight.
It’s just that she's reminded of how detached she is from this, from him, and from her family, if she's honest. She can blame her husband’s death and the immediate need to leave. To start again. To pretend, over and over, that nothing had happen when she really was completely devastated. She did that her way and in some regards, she still carries pieces of her regrets after all these years.
She sighs loudly. It echoes in the car. Behind her, another person passes to his. He’s on the phone, murmuring into the echo of traffic that still heaves underneath them. She waits, tries not to count, and then reaches for her seatbelt. It detaches with a snap and hits her door loudly.
Sliding forward, finally, she gets out of the car. It’s colder then she remembers, the briskness of the air hitting her and pulling at her coat. She tries to ignore it. Her hand reaches for her back of her neck and she presses her fingers into her skin. It’s almost habit, her hand groping away for the new arch. Stress, she almost laughs. She straightens though and starts for the hospital, dragging her bag at her side.
It’s just another night, she reassures herself.
--
The soda machines are at the end of the hall, hanging into the nook of space; they're too tall, scratching against the groove of the ceiling. It's the makeup of the hospital, every floor with pairs and rows of grooves of grieving seats and vending machines. There used to be food, on this level, but she can't remember why it changed.
House is standing there, frowning.
She doesn't feel surprised to see him. It's late. He's here and there, coming and going, more so in the later hours than anything else and that hasn't changed. She stops, short and unprepared, keeping herself quiet. It’s a moment, not hers, and she's halfway into a turn. She hasn't seen him since - the direction of that thought is over processed now, reassuringly so, and yet, running into him still holds that same, old habit of unease.
It’s progressed into this odd, almost worn feeling of displacement. Another reminder, she thinks, of the things she’s yet to really let go of. Is it letting go? She really doesn’t care to push. She’s starting to believe that there are some things that should just stay as they are.
"I can feel it in your eyes."
He drawls over eyes, the smirk in his voice heavy. It echoes too, causing her to turn slightly, back into the hallway to see if there’s anyone else there. He knows it’s her and yet, there’s still this habit of checking. She sighs, but stays where she is and watches as his hands slide against the arch of his cane. New, she thinks, or not. The wood seems darker. It could be the light or the angle. She needs to stop thinking about it.
But she shifts herself away from the wall.
She said fifteen minutes to the nurse at the desk, her habit, left her with a few files, and a screeching seventeen year old in the corner, with friends, who got drunk and fell out of the tree. This is what she hides behind, she thinks and is almost amused; the mundane step of people's mistakes, the accidents stemming from predictability. Chance, is always possible, and much more frightening, but she's taught herself not to think about it.
That was medical school.
"You think," she shoots back finally, "if you stare at the machine long enough, magic might happened and you'll get a free soda from it. Or somebody."
She almost sees his mouth curl. Or she thinks she does. It’s something that he carries, almost too comfortable with letting people see what they want to see. She remains out of practice with him though, strangely susceptible to different degrees of interaction with him. It’s really beyond the idea of yes and no, stemming from the short, almost abrupt pull of separation. She’s never had a clean break. Out of habit though, they remain to be old and predictable, as if he’s pushing for comfort and she lets him. It’s just that she doesn't like to be out of practice.
"You have your wallet."
She snorts. "No."
She holds up her hand, showing her the change that she clutches. She keeps some in her pocket, when she knows she's going to need it. She’s still, in effect, waiting for the coffee from earlier to kick in.
He shrugs. "Whatever."
She half-expects him to move, but he doesn't. She can't remember the last time, outside of a patient; they've had a confrontation. Never conversations; she used to think, half-indulging in the things that he might say to her. It seems more than stupid now and exhaustion, facing the things and slips of moments that she used to carry around. It was a crush before, it is a crush, or not. There’s never been any sense to distinguish her feelings.
She could agree with the others, half-suspecting that she’s been in love with him for years. It would be nice, she thinks, to rest against that excuse. And maybe, she is. What she does know is that she doesn’t like the parts of her that slip into the open, that she can’t hold back as if she’s been vulnerable to him all along. It works too well in the favor of a game.
She really doesn't know.
But she's not going down that way again. She doesn't have it in her.
"Here," he reaches forward, without cause, curling his fingers around her hand.
He’s far from careful, his hand tightening clumsily over hers. He keeps it. She’s not even thinking, wide-eyed. The pressure is strained, only lightly, and his fingers tuck easily over hers as he pulls her a little closer. His thumb rubs over the line of her nails and he looks at her, shifting back to fold his cane under his arm. He's pulling her fingers apart before it really occurs to her, pulling the change out of her palm. The pads of his fingers are warm and quick, skirting over the lines of her hand as he pulls the money into his.
"You're an ass," she snaps, flushing. Her hand is burning.
There’s a soft chuckle. His mouth shifts, but he doesn't smirk and he dangles one of her quarters in between his fingertips. He’s daring her to take it. Always daring, any chance he gets for old times’ sake. It’s a plague for all them, in every degree and it’s easier, as a secret, to keep it at that. The three of them. To make it just her, to keep it at just her, makes it a very, very dangerous thing.
"You're a pal."
His voice is dry and cuts, even as he turns. “A real pal.”
He lingers though. There’s a split second, an honest second, that he takes to watch her. She feels his gaze, as it presses over her, making sure that she sees him pull the change into hand and then his pocket as he turns away.
She half-expects him to pull the change back out, shoving it into the soda machine but he doesn’t. Her fingers are still buzzing, warm, and she almost asks for it back, right then and there, but there’s no sense of inclination to push further than what’s occurred.
She holds back a sigh.
Instead, she watches as he moves forward. He’s in her space again and stops. There’s a shadow of a smirk, but it disappears as he just steps around her. She waits for a comment, steeling herself. There’s nothing to expect and then there’s something to expect, the promise there and not there. She thinks she hates that most about him with no reason at all, only the picks of her own vulnerability.
But he says nothing.
There’s a burn in her throat. When she turns, he’s gone instead.
4.
It’s funny how none of this unravels in any particular way.
The morning is quiet, almost too quiet, and she wakes up to her alarm clock scattering silently against the wall. The numbers are almost coarse; she's been doing this a lot lately, waking up before she plans to and the silence, almost indefinitely draws her down into thoughts that she just doesn't need. She stays in bed though, shifting up and sliding her hands against the blankets. Her space, she thinks, she likes her space. It’s always been that way.
Outside, there’s a loud horn. The neighbor’s car, again, and she hears snippets of conversation pass and go, aging only with the routine of her day. She should start breakfast. She should make coffee - does she have coffee? She can’t remember the last time she went to the market. She went the day before.
Today, though, she's more than aware of her brother stuck in the next room over. It’s strange and more than unnerving; the idea that two facets of her life are too close, too soon, and the only thing that makes any sense seems to draw further and further away from her. The hospital is just as it is, something to change and to lose and that, if anything, carries more weight than having pieces of her life, real and standing here.
Sliding out of bed, she reaches for a cardigan and goes to start breakfast. She’ll run tomorrow, she thinks. Take a break. She needs coffee more. She has a later night tonight again, getting closer to the end of the month and the things that come too easily with it. She’s got things ready; as she is, always too prepared and needing it to be a necessary faction of her life. But she wonders about her brother too - what is she going to do? Say no? She’s never said no and yet, here, it feels like they're becoming strangers, more and more, despite the sudden visit and his presence.
A part of her still thinks she should call her parents. Just to say that Jamie’s here. Her memories, much like the ones that she has when she lost her husband, are so scattered from the first time he left. They were angry. She was angry. But something happened between her brother and her parents that has created this distance and made it this bad.
It was never supposed to be this bad.
Rubbing her eyes, she steps out to the living room. It’s still dark, the shades only drawing out pieces of lights. She pauses for a moment, her hands pressing into her hips and surveys the room. There’s mail, from yesterday, and a journal that she still hasn’t touched. She’s been thinking about writing again.
"Hey."
She jumps eyes wide. "Jesus," she breathes, her fingers fisting against her sweater. "Jamie, don't do that. You scared the hell out of me."
He’s in the kitchen already. There’s a sliver of a smile. It stretches against his mouth, but like before, seems content to stay away from his eyes. He’s standing strangely, shoulders straight and just as hunched as yesterday. Her worry is bitter too, thick against her throat, and he seems to be able to tell, looking down.
"I was going to make breakfast."
He offers, waving a hand to the kitchen. "But I don't know where anything is. It's not like the last place and I know how you get - I just - yeah."
His hands curl at his side and she reaches forward, taking one and curling it around his. She waits, wanting him to take it back, do something familiar. She only feels his hand tighten more.
I have questions. She’s always wanted to say that - he’s never asked and the obligation, if anything, remains faithful to silence. They’re there for each other in their own ways, never enough sometimes, but is enough for the moment.
It’s what she’s brought here.
She sighs.
"Do you want to talk about it?" - Finally. It sounds so funny coming from her, too dry and too spaced; this is your brother, she tells herself. There’s too much of a sense of removal that sits with her. She hates it.
She hates that she feels this here.
"No."
His answer is almost as fast as hers, cutting and simple. He looks up at her, his eyes hard. She feels it again, that sense of detachment that's driven them both to their places here. It’s too real, again, and she wonders if this is how the others see her. If this is why she's still losing pieces and moments, and unable, really to give anything more. She doesn't know why. She doesn't know how.
He seems to struggle for a moment, his teeth sinking into his lip. She does the same thing too; it’s a mirror, if anything, and odd, amassing in an uncomfortable, almost comical sort of way.
"I think," he says quietly, "I'm going to go lay down again - okay?"
The breakfast idea is gone. She nods, with nothing else to give back, dropping her hand and curling her arms to her chest. He steps back, sighs, and then steps forward again. Cupping her face, he kisses her forehead and smiles a little. She feels it stretch against her skin, lingering as he draws back.
It feels like halfway, a hand that she should be extending.
"I'll let you know when I go."
It’s the only thing she offers, watching him nod too and then step back, returning to his room.
She sighs. It really wasn’t like this before.
NEXT.