House Fic: bus station heretics
notes: for mathhhh, who is simply wonderful. ♥ and, well, i wanted to write something that fit in between last week’s episode and the coming episode, sort of like a post-ep but not lol. it’s all about mental preparation. enjoy!
bus station heretics
the measure of each word picks at the air as if it were a scab. over her head, the bathroom light fizzes and snaps, right into a hazy glow. her fingers are cued into nerves. she’s already coming in late today. it shouldn't be an excuse. there are no aces in this deck of cards. house md. house/cameron. spoilers for simple explanation and some new. 4,400 words, pg.
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The sound of water is hot, heavy, and it cracks into the shower, hitting the floor. Heat flushes into the mirror, blurring her form as she stills. Her sneakers drop to the floor, scattering grass stains into the tiles. It’s rained again, last night. She never misses a run. The conversation has already fallen to his side anyway and Cameron can feel the end snap inside of her; she doesn't want to fight, she's tired of fighting. There’s never a need to pay attention anymore. These days, they walk around like a broken record.
"Do you think I want to have this argument again?"
She snarls finally. Hands over hips, the cotton of her t-shirt is still sweating from her morning run. She’s exhausted. Last night, it was a late night. It’s always a late night, as of now.
And she's also angry enough to completely face Chase, watch as he goes back and forth from the bed to the chair, his fingers in knots over shoelaces and jacket straps. This week, it's worse. There was the funeral, and the old relationship adages, with the middle of it all; he's been dropping vacation like a proposal and her stomach is knots. It’s not a good thing. The biggest, she never considered marriage as a second time.
But that brings up a second argument and maybe a third, as her eyes narrow in the middle of him fumbling into getting dress. His jeans are half-on and his belt is in the kitchen, over one of the chairs. It broke in the locker room somehow. She doesn't remind him. He has an early surgery. She remembers. They were supposed to talk last night. He had a late surgery too. It’s always her, never about him, and he avoids this conversation too. He hides that as something separate. He likes to forget that it takes too people.
"You're talking in circles," he says, "and how ridiculously like you to get defensive - every time I ask you to talk, you hide and work and whatever the hell is going on. I thought we were getting better. I told you that I'd listen, but the funeral - my dad died too, you know."
The measure of each word picks at the air as if it were a scab. Over her head, the bathroom light fizzes and snaps, right into a hazy glow. Her fingers are cued into nerves. She’s already coming in late today. It shouldn't be an excuse. Shifting, she leans forward and into the frame of the door. Her shoulder slumps against the wood and she crosses her arms into her chest, folding the cool fabric into her skin.
She picks back up around his words, slighted into guilt at the echo of dad and died. They haven't talked since the funeral, Kutner's funeral, and there's this strange weight between the two of them. They dance around it well. It’s always been there, that she knows, but she's never remembered it as this heavy. Thinking about it makes her recoil, just a little more.
"I know."
Cameron watches as he sags into the bed, sitting and pressing his elbows into his knees. She can still taste the i know, squeezing down her throat. Her skin is tight, flushed, and Chase keeps his gaze to the carpet. He’s a terrible liar, often too quiet or too fast. She knows him best though, like this.
He sighs loudly, "I'm sorry." he folds his face into his hands, his fingers picking at his hair. His shoes are by the door. She doesn't remind him there either. It’ll start something again. She doesn't want to start something again. She’s tired, but they're at that stand of the cycle.
"I'm sorry," he says again anyway. He frowns. She almost frowns.
The smell of coffee is faint in the room. She presses her tongue to the back of her teeth, listening to the shower as the water starts to quiet in her head. Her ears are ringing. There’s murmuring from the living room. One of them left the television on. It doesn't matter who did. He’ll be gone for the day soon. And later, she'll follow.
She looks away. "You're going to be late for work."
Her mouth is set, as she swallows. She doesn't think about it.
As her afternoon is a late, teenage accident; the boy is stumbling into sixteen, his mouth split and slick with blood as he grins back at her with some strange sense of pride.
"Ma's gonna kill me," he breathes. There was a school fight. The nurse next to her scoffs into handing over a new bandage, the scissors skipping over the end. Cameron remembers her brother and shakes her head. Boys will be boys, her mother used to say. Until her brother ran straight into the army. This is another family story. And her secret, always her secret.
But her fingers are careful, facing the wounds with stitches and bandages, her mouth set into calm. She says nothing other than the usual: allergies, or no allergies, can i call someone?, and her favorite, yes, your parents. The room is buzzing around her anyway, full of the people that filter in through the clinic at lunch, frightened new mothers and necessary job compensation. It’s an odd economy.
"You're all set," she says, drawing back. She fits a tired smile onto her mouth and reaches for a prescription note, tucking it into the boy's hand. There’s a girl, she heard earlier. The nurse told him where to buy flowers.
She leaves him then, just to the nurse, and turns to throw her gloves away. They peel from her fingers with a snap, her skin heavy with a flush of powder and aches. She brushes her hair away from her eyes and grabs her file, heading back to the desk. It flanks the corner, a few nurses watching the comings and goings of the entire floor. Some smile, some have been here too long. Already, she knows the stories and today, again, it's starting to smell a little like smoke.
By now, she can time how fast the beds will fill. Holiday weekends, tax times. Excuses, she reminds herself, all excuses. But they stretch into spaces, some doctors flanking the sides with this strange, eager charge. Not many do well in the emergency room. She has House to thank for a lesson in pressure, among other things.
The file hits the top of the desks though and she slides it under another stack, her fingers cutting over a few papers. She bites her lip and tries to ignore the noise as it grows, her ears still ringing from this morning. She’s skipped lunch. There’s an empty side of the floor, bed curtained away just in case. There have been two car accidents and a loss, interchangeable at best. Their statements went to the cops. It usually stands true to the middle of the week.
"Dr. Cameron?"
She turns, at the inquiry of one of the nurse, but is jerked back; fingers slide over her shoulder, pulling her into a stumble. She curses under her breath, her eyes wide as she drops her surprise back into House.
"She's busy," he says. He smirks too. The nurse is new and she flushes into her label, bowing and muttering away as she goes to grab another doctor. Cameron watches her mistake as she sinks her teeth into an intern, her eyes narrowing as she looks back at House.
He mouths what?, dropping his hand away and turning into the desk. His back pushes over a few, stray files and they skid over, dropping over one of the empty computers. Papers slip out and unravel over the floor, earning a glare from one of the passing nurses.
She sighs.
"What?" House tries again, spinning his fingers over the head of his cane. "You are. You're going to give me something to do because that's what you do. You take pity on me. And while, I do hold out for sexual favors, this works."
She doesn't flinch, shrugs, and reaches for one of the files that is still in tact. The papers shuffle back into the folder and she sets it under one of the racks. Yawning, she rubs her eyes.
"It's a slow afternoon."
"Whatever."
She shrugs again. "I only use my powers for good, House."
There’s a slight edge to his mouth, as she looks up, fitting into something between a smirk and a frown. He smiles with his teeth anyway and lately, that too has been less of a mystery. There's this sharpness to the way he's watching her, as he draws himself up into full height. It does nothing to intimidate her. It never has. There’s only a fluctuation of curiosity, how it comes and goes is decided by how these moments unravel as themselves.
What she does know is that he wasn't at the funeral and that Wilson, in passing Chase, had said that he went back to Kutner's apartment, knotted in his grief and propensity to overanalyze. They all know that he's going to snap soon. There’s no how and there's no why, just this uneasy wait that makes the most sense with all that's happened in the last year. It feels like a hesitation.
His fingers stop and still over the arch of his cane, plaiting over the wood as he shifts and turns himself into the desk again. The cane is pressed between them, slipping to hit her hip as his elbows fall over papers. It disappears into unnoticed. He sighs loudly, an exaggeration foiled by the amusement in his mouth. There’s something cruel about it. She’s uneasy. She doesn't say anything either. She doesn't like waiting. But she's prone to waiting too.
"So," he drawls, "I bet funerals are fantastic for the honeymooners - oh, yeah. You're not there yet."
The dig is unsteady. Her stomach rolls, but she merely blinks; it's not brave face and that much, she thinks he knows. She’s quiet, most of the time. It’s not about the fight, it's about the objective, and now, here, that's the biggest shift in their relationship as it stands. She’s gotten better at reading him too.
"Let me guess."
Her hand reaches forward, her fingers folding and poking his arm. It’s completely childish, but she's not thinking about it. It’s work, she thinks, to remain unfazed and to keep the senseless repetition of the argument ending in her head.
"Let me guess," she repeats, " - you can't find Wilson, your team is trying to be busy, Cuddy is busy, and you don't have the balls to go and bother Chase so, you decide to come down here and find me. Not that I care, but I'm not going to tell you what you want to hear. I didn't do it then, I won't do it now."
There’s a funny shift in his gaze, his mouth setting back into a brief frown. He looks bothered, for the short moment, and then drops his gaze away from hers. His shoulders seem to sag and she almost regrets it, watching as he opens his hands right in front of himself.
"I have an open place." And it's not a job offer, dangling in front of her; even if it were, like before, she wouldn't take it. It’s not principle. It’s not a diversion. It’s because she simply won't. She is a different kind of doctor. She took what she needed out of the experience. This was always that plan, never hers and not even his - they all did leave, ironically, in the end.
"I know."
"You went to the funeral."
His eyes are dark, heavy, and she swallows, to fight a reaction. The noise of the emergency room begins to blur and falter, swaying back into snippets of conversation and ends. The doors at the front fight to open. They crack quickly against the wall, picking at the cries of a siren heading into this direction. She tenses, but out of habit.
"I did," she says carefully. The black dress hangs in the back of her closet, tucked between clothes for the winter and the fall. It was a present from her parents, conservative at best. They also gave her a string of pearls for her wedding day. She’s only worn them once.
He doesn't say anything in return. His head slips into an angle, twisted to keep her gaze. It’s heavy, almost too heavy, and she forces herself to swallow. Her mouth is tight again. Her lips feel too dry. She breaks, only briefly, to follow the eyes of a few nurses, watching House nervously.
Instead of looking back, her fingers curl around his cane. Her ears are ringing again, the noise hollow and twisting in the back of her head. She knows the headache will come. It always comes, somewhere between him coming and way after he leaves. It’s an old habit that doesn't want to leave. Quietly, she hands the cane back and his fingers sit into her knuckles, spreading slowly as he takes it back.
Her mouth tightens. When he turns away, her skin flushes.
And her coffee burns quietly over her skin still, even as it stretches into the napkin that she holds against it. Cursing again, she ignores Foreman's dry chuckle and the way the cafeteria stands still. There is the odd nurse, doctor, and family, wrapped around a janitor that mops away an old accident, spilled into a corner.
The napkin wrinkles then into her palm, dropping over the table as she snaps the lid back over her coffee. She swallows, but doesn't reach for a sip.
"It's too quiet."
The words step out of her mouth slowly, punctuated away from hesitation. Her voice is sharp. She doesn't mean to. Dr. Hadley walks around to their table, settling next to Foreman as she fumbles with her change. His fingers are over his second refill and another sugar packet, as he cuts an old story short. The other woman is used to it; these stories are infrequent and odd, another companion to the dinners that Foreman and Chase have taken to having. Casually, Chase says once in awhile. To catch up, Foreman argues.
It’s just today that he's distant and Dr. Hadley falls in stride, the last couple days clear in their faces. She thinks briefly of House, of their exchange earlier, and then, like clockwork, the argument from this morning reappears. The days are still odd, shaped into a pattern even outside of particular tragedies. She’s almost inclined to ask about House too, almost out of habit and a lot of it not. She doesn't know what to make of the exchange. It isn’t for either of them to know.
"We're changing dinner to Thursday," Foreman says slowly, finally. He shifts his gaze to Cameron, then Dr. Hadley, fitting an awkward smile into his mouth. No one nods. His shoulder tense and his fingers skirt over another packet, tearing it open and walking a shift in the silence.
This is nothing new. Her coffee's going to get cold.
The elevator makes her head feel a little heavy, even as she steps out onto the floor.
The early evening is already fading from the few windows, stringing over the empty nurses' desk in a glare. She counts the familiar nameplates, shuffling them back as an excuse for just in case; walking slowly helps, her hands sliding into her pockets as she turns the hallway to the Diagnostics' office. She steals a glance at Wilson's office, door closed. Locked too, since she saw him leave earlier.
An open glass gives no sign of any of House's new team. The lights are off and there is a slight glow coming from his office, the weight of the coming night familiar. He stays late when the week gets to him. It sounds awkward, to say and then to think, but it's the only way she can convince herself to follow through with whatever curiosity mark this is.
Still though, she lets herself swallow. She cuts into the office, stopping at the desk. Her fingers brush over a corner, against the wood. There is a mess of files and books, the computer screen buzzing and a bag strap tucked out from under the desk. It smells faintly like someone burned the coffee and she turns, only slightly, to see Kutner's name framed against the back of the white board. It stands alone, untouched.
"I knew it," House's voice cuts. Dry and at an impasse, the three words feel more like a backwards step than a reason for concern. She tries not to frown, studying the name. House doesn't continue.
He would do this, she thinks. And she can't help it; there's a chilling turn of thought that she doesn't want to have, but that she expects. There is no difference between selfishness and obsession with him and here; again, she knows she can face some relief at having to stand outside of this. She hates thinking like that, but knowing House and knowing the long history that he writes over not having an answer. It feels a little like the first confrontation she had with this, back then, and the cycle of self-destruction that everybody else either ignores or throws back into his face. There's been a lot of that lately, it seems.
Change, change, change is a constant mantra too. It’s a loss for him and only him, the rest of them standing still as outsiders. She doesn't know how to let it be something other than that and it makes her uneasy, really uneasy, to watch what's become of other people's insistence.
"Have your answer?"
She turns quietly, looking over at him. There’s the faint hint of scotch that whispers by her. Second drawer, she thinks. The key has never left its spot under his keyboard.
"Since," she continues, "that's what you're still looking for, right? An answer - not to just what happened, to what's going on with you. It's always about the answer."
He sneers, stepping closer. "Did you practice that on your way up?"
The hall is bone-dead, save for a few aimless echoes over the loudspeaker. She doesn't answer, but keeps his gaze. Over his shoulders, the light of his office seems to shake. She doesn't have to go in to know: scotch and empty glass, music unintelligible from the computer. He keeps the guitars at home.
But he's looking down at her, his mouth tight. His fingers snap tightly over his sides and she mirrors him, folding her arms back into her chest. Her hair is down, curled at the ends, and she's supposed to go home for a little bit tonight, to get a break for the string of hours that'll walk her into the weekend. Instead, her cheeks flush slightly and there's a strange spill in her belly, coiling as they stand still. She tries not fall into her nerves.
"I'm not here to talk."
And it's a dig to the absent, as she can't help the brief flush that hits her cheeks. There’s an appearance of amusement, in his eyes and mouth, the way it climbs quickly and then flattens. He shakes his head and then shrugs, almost as if he were too unsure to respond in his usual manner. It’s changed, she has to think.
"You said it," he throws back, "not me."
There’s redness in his eyes, blurred between lack of sleep and his early drinking. She bites her lip, halfway into a frown. She doesn't give him the luxury. There’s a science to this, to what she wants to say and what she doesn't; there's no real way of knowing what she's ready for and maybe, just maybe, this was all just a way to see. She’s always going to care, she thinks. Mostly, in her own way.
"You don't hide."
"I'm not hiding."
"Isn't that the point?" and she doesn't shy, from the moment, looking pointedly around the room. Everything is still. The office has taken to this eerie stand, each chair perfectly folded into the table. There are journals littered around the odd table, over the counter with the empty coffee pot. Everything has a place and a place for everything. The desk, next to her, seems to be the only piece, outside House's corner, that remains untouched.
But he's frowning, mouth set into a tight line. His hands flicker away from his sides, rising slightly. They hover around his arm and then drop, as he turns and leans back against the desk. Through the door, she can see his cane hooked over the arm of his chair and digging into the carpet. It looks heavy, for the moment, and she swallows, brushing her fingers through her hair.
She bites her lip, turning and leaning against the desk too. In the space between them, her hand drops and fixes itself over the wood. Her fingers feel cold. Maybe, she should get back to the emergency room. She’s going to lose track of time. It’s going to get late.
"You're not coming back."
There’s something too casual to his voice, fixed in a particular way that seems privy to recognition. She tries not to sigh, but shrugs. The answer, at any rate, is familiar.
"I quit."
"I know."
He answers quickly too and the i know fits too easily between the two of them. She doesn't know if he means it. She shouldn't have to care. Cameron does turn her gaze to him, her mouth fitted into a line; they mirror each other, in a strange way, and there's no sense of earlier amusements, both chaotic and sharp.
House is studying her, his eyes moving along the lines of her face. It’s an odd thing to be aware of, but she feels his fingers nudge forward, over hers, the pads of skin resting over her nails. She could turn her hand and there's an ache, growing, as every nerve seems to be too aware of proximity. She lets her teeth sneak forward, sliding over her lip as she sighs softly. She’s waiting again, just waiting.
She does wonder what he really wants to ask her, if there's anything. But it's beyond that now, even. There’s more of a weight on the other side of things - she wonders how much she'd tell, given the chance, and if there were ever an actual conversation between the two of them. Most of the time, anything House writes is written for himself. This is nothing new.
Her teeth sink into her lip.
She waits and then slowly turns her hand, meeting his gaze. It feels a little like a dare, a layer that hides any answer to her real reasons for being here. There’s so much left that she doesn't understand, more so how she's been drawn to him instead of away from him. There are things she's never really over, but what people forget, more than most the time, is that she is too private to wear those answers in front of anyone.
"You should stick with coffee," she says quietly.
His hands are cold, almost too cold as his fingers start to climb into her palm. His thumb sweeps over her skin, slowly tracing the line. He frowns, only briefly, and she can taste the curiosity curling in the back of her throat. She never knows what's happening in these moments. They do share this.
And when he shrugs, he drops his gaze and says, "Never saw the need for it." There's a joke, but it's lost. It’s the never that she gets, the strange punctuation of need that takes away the answer. There’s an acknowledgment and she wonders, if anything, if it's really for her.
The corners of his mouth do curve into something. His teeth are bared briefly and she turns her hand, fitting her fingers back into his palm. She doesn't want to see his gaze. She doesn't know what it is. It’s vacation, climbing up her throat, and an admission that she really doesn't want anyone to have. There’s this urge, this heat that sways into the back of her mind. She admits too much around House. Sometimes, he's one of the few that peels it away from her. And sometimes, she hates him for it.
But she watches as he dips forward, his knees cracking him into a hiss as she's suddenly too, too aware of how close he's getting. Their fingers lace together, just briefly, as her throat tightens and her mouth begins to dry. She knows what she's thinking and the silent acknowledgment is making her panic, unsteady at best. Complication is selfish, unsettling, and her ears ring back to her morning argument.
You're talking in circles, Chase keeps saying. It won't be the first or the last either.
This has always been something entirely separate. It’s as if none of this has changed too, even as her fingers bow into his palm again. His hand is warm, his skin flushed into patches of her own. Her head is starting to spin.
"Nobody really quits," House says slowly. His voice breaks, heavy. It’s for her.
And it can mean anything. The answer isn't there. It’s never there. She knows how not to expect it. Everything is starting to thicken, back into layers that she knows, knows where never there before. Some things do change. But for once, just once, her eyes widen and she looks at him, watches him watch her here, and has no idea what to say.
Instead, he sighs first. Tired, she pulls her fingers away.
Chase finds her, before he leaves, fitted tightly into his jacket.
It’s new, different from the one that he left behind this morning; leather and old, stretched over one of the chairs that are set at her table. She almost brought it in. It was just easier not to, with argument too clear and settled in the back of her mind.
“Can we just try?”
The question is soft, hesitant as she folds a file into her chest. The coffee is old and still against the roof of her mouth. She tries not to think about it, nodding into a sigh. Right now, she doesn’t want to fight.
“We’ll try,” she murmurs finally.
The elevator is slow tonight.
bus station heretics
the measure of each word picks at the air as if it were a scab. over her head, the bathroom light fizzes and snaps, right into a hazy glow. her fingers are cued into nerves. she’s already coming in late today. it shouldn't be an excuse. there are no aces in this deck of cards. house md. house/cameron. spoilers for simple explanation and some new. 4,400 words, pg.
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The sound of water is hot, heavy, and it cracks into the shower, hitting the floor. Heat flushes into the mirror, blurring her form as she stills. Her sneakers drop to the floor, scattering grass stains into the tiles. It’s rained again, last night. She never misses a run. The conversation has already fallen to his side anyway and Cameron can feel the end snap inside of her; she doesn't want to fight, she's tired of fighting. There’s never a need to pay attention anymore. These days, they walk around like a broken record.
"Do you think I want to have this argument again?"
She snarls finally. Hands over hips, the cotton of her t-shirt is still sweating from her morning run. She’s exhausted. Last night, it was a late night. It’s always a late night, as of now.
And she's also angry enough to completely face Chase, watch as he goes back and forth from the bed to the chair, his fingers in knots over shoelaces and jacket straps. This week, it's worse. There was the funeral, and the old relationship adages, with the middle of it all; he's been dropping vacation like a proposal and her stomach is knots. It’s not a good thing. The biggest, she never considered marriage as a second time.
But that brings up a second argument and maybe a third, as her eyes narrow in the middle of him fumbling into getting dress. His jeans are half-on and his belt is in the kitchen, over one of the chairs. It broke in the locker room somehow. She doesn't remind him. He has an early surgery. She remembers. They were supposed to talk last night. He had a late surgery too. It’s always her, never about him, and he avoids this conversation too. He hides that as something separate. He likes to forget that it takes too people.
"You're talking in circles," he says, "and how ridiculously like you to get defensive - every time I ask you to talk, you hide and work and whatever the hell is going on. I thought we were getting better. I told you that I'd listen, but the funeral - my dad died too, you know."
The measure of each word picks at the air as if it were a scab. Over her head, the bathroom light fizzes and snaps, right into a hazy glow. Her fingers are cued into nerves. She’s already coming in late today. It shouldn't be an excuse. Shifting, she leans forward and into the frame of the door. Her shoulder slumps against the wood and she crosses her arms into her chest, folding the cool fabric into her skin.
She picks back up around his words, slighted into guilt at the echo of dad and died. They haven't talked since the funeral, Kutner's funeral, and there's this strange weight between the two of them. They dance around it well. It’s always been there, that she knows, but she's never remembered it as this heavy. Thinking about it makes her recoil, just a little more.
"I know."
Cameron watches as he sags into the bed, sitting and pressing his elbows into his knees. She can still taste the i know, squeezing down her throat. Her skin is tight, flushed, and Chase keeps his gaze to the carpet. He’s a terrible liar, often too quiet or too fast. She knows him best though, like this.
He sighs loudly, "I'm sorry." he folds his face into his hands, his fingers picking at his hair. His shoes are by the door. She doesn't remind him there either. It’ll start something again. She doesn't want to start something again. She’s tired, but they're at that stand of the cycle.
"I'm sorry," he says again anyway. He frowns. She almost frowns.
The smell of coffee is faint in the room. She presses her tongue to the back of her teeth, listening to the shower as the water starts to quiet in her head. Her ears are ringing. There’s murmuring from the living room. One of them left the television on. It doesn't matter who did. He’ll be gone for the day soon. And later, she'll follow.
She looks away. "You're going to be late for work."
Her mouth is set, as she swallows. She doesn't think about it.
As her afternoon is a late, teenage accident; the boy is stumbling into sixteen, his mouth split and slick with blood as he grins back at her with some strange sense of pride.
"Ma's gonna kill me," he breathes. There was a school fight. The nurse next to her scoffs into handing over a new bandage, the scissors skipping over the end. Cameron remembers her brother and shakes her head. Boys will be boys, her mother used to say. Until her brother ran straight into the army. This is another family story. And her secret, always her secret.
But her fingers are careful, facing the wounds with stitches and bandages, her mouth set into calm. She says nothing other than the usual: allergies, or no allergies, can i call someone?, and her favorite, yes, your parents. The room is buzzing around her anyway, full of the people that filter in through the clinic at lunch, frightened new mothers and necessary job compensation. It’s an odd economy.
"You're all set," she says, drawing back. She fits a tired smile onto her mouth and reaches for a prescription note, tucking it into the boy's hand. There’s a girl, she heard earlier. The nurse told him where to buy flowers.
She leaves him then, just to the nurse, and turns to throw her gloves away. They peel from her fingers with a snap, her skin heavy with a flush of powder and aches. She brushes her hair away from her eyes and grabs her file, heading back to the desk. It flanks the corner, a few nurses watching the comings and goings of the entire floor. Some smile, some have been here too long. Already, she knows the stories and today, again, it's starting to smell a little like smoke.
By now, she can time how fast the beds will fill. Holiday weekends, tax times. Excuses, she reminds herself, all excuses. But they stretch into spaces, some doctors flanking the sides with this strange, eager charge. Not many do well in the emergency room. She has House to thank for a lesson in pressure, among other things.
The file hits the top of the desks though and she slides it under another stack, her fingers cutting over a few papers. She bites her lip and tries to ignore the noise as it grows, her ears still ringing from this morning. She’s skipped lunch. There’s an empty side of the floor, bed curtained away just in case. There have been two car accidents and a loss, interchangeable at best. Their statements went to the cops. It usually stands true to the middle of the week.
"Dr. Cameron?"
She turns, at the inquiry of one of the nurse, but is jerked back; fingers slide over her shoulder, pulling her into a stumble. She curses under her breath, her eyes wide as she drops her surprise back into House.
"She's busy," he says. He smirks too. The nurse is new and she flushes into her label, bowing and muttering away as she goes to grab another doctor. Cameron watches her mistake as she sinks her teeth into an intern, her eyes narrowing as she looks back at House.
He mouths what?, dropping his hand away and turning into the desk. His back pushes over a few, stray files and they skid over, dropping over one of the empty computers. Papers slip out and unravel over the floor, earning a glare from one of the passing nurses.
She sighs.
"What?" House tries again, spinning his fingers over the head of his cane. "You are. You're going to give me something to do because that's what you do. You take pity on me. And while, I do hold out for sexual favors, this works."
She doesn't flinch, shrugs, and reaches for one of the files that is still in tact. The papers shuffle back into the folder and she sets it under one of the racks. Yawning, she rubs her eyes.
"It's a slow afternoon."
"Whatever."
She shrugs again. "I only use my powers for good, House."
There’s a slight edge to his mouth, as she looks up, fitting into something between a smirk and a frown. He smiles with his teeth anyway and lately, that too has been less of a mystery. There's this sharpness to the way he's watching her, as he draws himself up into full height. It does nothing to intimidate her. It never has. There’s only a fluctuation of curiosity, how it comes and goes is decided by how these moments unravel as themselves.
What she does know is that he wasn't at the funeral and that Wilson, in passing Chase, had said that he went back to Kutner's apartment, knotted in his grief and propensity to overanalyze. They all know that he's going to snap soon. There’s no how and there's no why, just this uneasy wait that makes the most sense with all that's happened in the last year. It feels like a hesitation.
His fingers stop and still over the arch of his cane, plaiting over the wood as he shifts and turns himself into the desk again. The cane is pressed between them, slipping to hit her hip as his elbows fall over papers. It disappears into unnoticed. He sighs loudly, an exaggeration foiled by the amusement in his mouth. There’s something cruel about it. She’s uneasy. She doesn't say anything either. She doesn't like waiting. But she's prone to waiting too.
"So," he drawls, "I bet funerals are fantastic for the honeymooners - oh, yeah. You're not there yet."
The dig is unsteady. Her stomach rolls, but she merely blinks; it's not brave face and that much, she thinks he knows. She’s quiet, most of the time. It’s not about the fight, it's about the objective, and now, here, that's the biggest shift in their relationship as it stands. She’s gotten better at reading him too.
"Let me guess."
Her hand reaches forward, her fingers folding and poking his arm. It’s completely childish, but she's not thinking about it. It’s work, she thinks, to remain unfazed and to keep the senseless repetition of the argument ending in her head.
"Let me guess," she repeats, " - you can't find Wilson, your team is trying to be busy, Cuddy is busy, and you don't have the balls to go and bother Chase so, you decide to come down here and find me. Not that I care, but I'm not going to tell you what you want to hear. I didn't do it then, I won't do it now."
There’s a funny shift in his gaze, his mouth setting back into a brief frown. He looks bothered, for the short moment, and then drops his gaze away from hers. His shoulders seem to sag and she almost regrets it, watching as he opens his hands right in front of himself.
"I have an open place." And it's not a job offer, dangling in front of her; even if it were, like before, she wouldn't take it. It’s not principle. It’s not a diversion. It’s because she simply won't. She is a different kind of doctor. She took what she needed out of the experience. This was always that plan, never hers and not even his - they all did leave, ironically, in the end.
"I know."
"You went to the funeral."
His eyes are dark, heavy, and she swallows, to fight a reaction. The noise of the emergency room begins to blur and falter, swaying back into snippets of conversation and ends. The doors at the front fight to open. They crack quickly against the wall, picking at the cries of a siren heading into this direction. She tenses, but out of habit.
"I did," she says carefully. The black dress hangs in the back of her closet, tucked between clothes for the winter and the fall. It was a present from her parents, conservative at best. They also gave her a string of pearls for her wedding day. She’s only worn them once.
He doesn't say anything in return. His head slips into an angle, twisted to keep her gaze. It’s heavy, almost too heavy, and she forces herself to swallow. Her mouth is tight again. Her lips feel too dry. She breaks, only briefly, to follow the eyes of a few nurses, watching House nervously.
Instead of looking back, her fingers curl around his cane. Her ears are ringing again, the noise hollow and twisting in the back of her head. She knows the headache will come. It always comes, somewhere between him coming and way after he leaves. It’s an old habit that doesn't want to leave. Quietly, she hands the cane back and his fingers sit into her knuckles, spreading slowly as he takes it back.
Her mouth tightens. When he turns away, her skin flushes.
And her coffee burns quietly over her skin still, even as it stretches into the napkin that she holds against it. Cursing again, she ignores Foreman's dry chuckle and the way the cafeteria stands still. There is the odd nurse, doctor, and family, wrapped around a janitor that mops away an old accident, spilled into a corner.
The napkin wrinkles then into her palm, dropping over the table as she snaps the lid back over her coffee. She swallows, but doesn't reach for a sip.
"It's too quiet."
The words step out of her mouth slowly, punctuated away from hesitation. Her voice is sharp. She doesn't mean to. Dr. Hadley walks around to their table, settling next to Foreman as she fumbles with her change. His fingers are over his second refill and another sugar packet, as he cuts an old story short. The other woman is used to it; these stories are infrequent and odd, another companion to the dinners that Foreman and Chase have taken to having. Casually, Chase says once in awhile. To catch up, Foreman argues.
It’s just today that he's distant and Dr. Hadley falls in stride, the last couple days clear in their faces. She thinks briefly of House, of their exchange earlier, and then, like clockwork, the argument from this morning reappears. The days are still odd, shaped into a pattern even outside of particular tragedies. She’s almost inclined to ask about House too, almost out of habit and a lot of it not. She doesn't know what to make of the exchange. It isn’t for either of them to know.
"We're changing dinner to Thursday," Foreman says slowly, finally. He shifts his gaze to Cameron, then Dr. Hadley, fitting an awkward smile into his mouth. No one nods. His shoulder tense and his fingers skirt over another packet, tearing it open and walking a shift in the silence.
This is nothing new. Her coffee's going to get cold.
The elevator makes her head feel a little heavy, even as she steps out onto the floor.
The early evening is already fading from the few windows, stringing over the empty nurses' desk in a glare. She counts the familiar nameplates, shuffling them back as an excuse for just in case; walking slowly helps, her hands sliding into her pockets as she turns the hallway to the Diagnostics' office. She steals a glance at Wilson's office, door closed. Locked too, since she saw him leave earlier.
An open glass gives no sign of any of House's new team. The lights are off and there is a slight glow coming from his office, the weight of the coming night familiar. He stays late when the week gets to him. It sounds awkward, to say and then to think, but it's the only way she can convince herself to follow through with whatever curiosity mark this is.
Still though, she lets herself swallow. She cuts into the office, stopping at the desk. Her fingers brush over a corner, against the wood. There is a mess of files and books, the computer screen buzzing and a bag strap tucked out from under the desk. It smells faintly like someone burned the coffee and she turns, only slightly, to see Kutner's name framed against the back of the white board. It stands alone, untouched.
"I knew it," House's voice cuts. Dry and at an impasse, the three words feel more like a backwards step than a reason for concern. She tries not to frown, studying the name. House doesn't continue.
He would do this, she thinks. And she can't help it; there's a chilling turn of thought that she doesn't want to have, but that she expects. There is no difference between selfishness and obsession with him and here; again, she knows she can face some relief at having to stand outside of this. She hates thinking like that, but knowing House and knowing the long history that he writes over not having an answer. It feels a little like the first confrontation she had with this, back then, and the cycle of self-destruction that everybody else either ignores or throws back into his face. There's been a lot of that lately, it seems.
Change, change, change is a constant mantra too. It’s a loss for him and only him, the rest of them standing still as outsiders. She doesn't know how to let it be something other than that and it makes her uneasy, really uneasy, to watch what's become of other people's insistence.
"Have your answer?"
She turns quietly, looking over at him. There’s the faint hint of scotch that whispers by her. Second drawer, she thinks. The key has never left its spot under his keyboard.
"Since," she continues, "that's what you're still looking for, right? An answer - not to just what happened, to what's going on with you. It's always about the answer."
He sneers, stepping closer. "Did you practice that on your way up?"
The hall is bone-dead, save for a few aimless echoes over the loudspeaker. She doesn't answer, but keeps his gaze. Over his shoulders, the light of his office seems to shake. She doesn't have to go in to know: scotch and empty glass, music unintelligible from the computer. He keeps the guitars at home.
But he's looking down at her, his mouth tight. His fingers snap tightly over his sides and she mirrors him, folding her arms back into her chest. Her hair is down, curled at the ends, and she's supposed to go home for a little bit tonight, to get a break for the string of hours that'll walk her into the weekend. Instead, her cheeks flush slightly and there's a strange spill in her belly, coiling as they stand still. She tries not fall into her nerves.
"I'm not here to talk."
And it's a dig to the absent, as she can't help the brief flush that hits her cheeks. There’s an appearance of amusement, in his eyes and mouth, the way it climbs quickly and then flattens. He shakes his head and then shrugs, almost as if he were too unsure to respond in his usual manner. It’s changed, she has to think.
"You said it," he throws back, "not me."
There’s redness in his eyes, blurred between lack of sleep and his early drinking. She bites her lip, halfway into a frown. She doesn't give him the luxury. There’s a science to this, to what she wants to say and what she doesn't; there's no real way of knowing what she's ready for and maybe, just maybe, this was all just a way to see. She’s always going to care, she thinks. Mostly, in her own way.
"You don't hide."
"I'm not hiding."
"Isn't that the point?" and she doesn't shy, from the moment, looking pointedly around the room. Everything is still. The office has taken to this eerie stand, each chair perfectly folded into the table. There are journals littered around the odd table, over the counter with the empty coffee pot. Everything has a place and a place for everything. The desk, next to her, seems to be the only piece, outside House's corner, that remains untouched.
But he's frowning, mouth set into a tight line. His hands flicker away from his sides, rising slightly. They hover around his arm and then drop, as he turns and leans back against the desk. Through the door, she can see his cane hooked over the arm of his chair and digging into the carpet. It looks heavy, for the moment, and she swallows, brushing her fingers through her hair.
She bites her lip, turning and leaning against the desk too. In the space between them, her hand drops and fixes itself over the wood. Her fingers feel cold. Maybe, she should get back to the emergency room. She’s going to lose track of time. It’s going to get late.
"You're not coming back."
There’s something too casual to his voice, fixed in a particular way that seems privy to recognition. She tries not to sigh, but shrugs. The answer, at any rate, is familiar.
"I quit."
"I know."
He answers quickly too and the i know fits too easily between the two of them. She doesn't know if he means it. She shouldn't have to care. Cameron does turn her gaze to him, her mouth fitted into a line; they mirror each other, in a strange way, and there's no sense of earlier amusements, both chaotic and sharp.
House is studying her, his eyes moving along the lines of her face. It’s an odd thing to be aware of, but she feels his fingers nudge forward, over hers, the pads of skin resting over her nails. She could turn her hand and there's an ache, growing, as every nerve seems to be too aware of proximity. She lets her teeth sneak forward, sliding over her lip as she sighs softly. She’s waiting again, just waiting.
She does wonder what he really wants to ask her, if there's anything. But it's beyond that now, even. There’s more of a weight on the other side of things - she wonders how much she'd tell, given the chance, and if there were ever an actual conversation between the two of them. Most of the time, anything House writes is written for himself. This is nothing new.
Her teeth sink into her lip.
She waits and then slowly turns her hand, meeting his gaze. It feels a little like a dare, a layer that hides any answer to her real reasons for being here. There’s so much left that she doesn't understand, more so how she's been drawn to him instead of away from him. There are things she's never really over, but what people forget, more than most the time, is that she is too private to wear those answers in front of anyone.
"You should stick with coffee," she says quietly.
His hands are cold, almost too cold as his fingers start to climb into her palm. His thumb sweeps over her skin, slowly tracing the line. He frowns, only briefly, and she can taste the curiosity curling in the back of her throat. She never knows what's happening in these moments. They do share this.
And when he shrugs, he drops his gaze and says, "Never saw the need for it." There's a joke, but it's lost. It’s the never that she gets, the strange punctuation of need that takes away the answer. There’s an acknowledgment and she wonders, if anything, if it's really for her.
The corners of his mouth do curve into something. His teeth are bared briefly and she turns her hand, fitting her fingers back into his palm. She doesn't want to see his gaze. She doesn't know what it is. It’s vacation, climbing up her throat, and an admission that she really doesn't want anyone to have. There’s this urge, this heat that sways into the back of her mind. She admits too much around House. Sometimes, he's one of the few that peels it away from her. And sometimes, she hates him for it.
But she watches as he dips forward, his knees cracking him into a hiss as she's suddenly too, too aware of how close he's getting. Their fingers lace together, just briefly, as her throat tightens and her mouth begins to dry. She knows what she's thinking and the silent acknowledgment is making her panic, unsteady at best. Complication is selfish, unsettling, and her ears ring back to her morning argument.
You're talking in circles, Chase keeps saying. It won't be the first or the last either.
This has always been something entirely separate. It’s as if none of this has changed too, even as her fingers bow into his palm again. His hand is warm, his skin flushed into patches of her own. Her head is starting to spin.
"Nobody really quits," House says slowly. His voice breaks, heavy. It’s for her.
And it can mean anything. The answer isn't there. It’s never there. She knows how not to expect it. Everything is starting to thicken, back into layers that she knows, knows where never there before. Some things do change. But for once, just once, her eyes widen and she looks at him, watches him watch her here, and has no idea what to say.
Instead, he sighs first. Tired, she pulls her fingers away.
Chase finds her, before he leaves, fitted tightly into his jacket.
It’s new, different from the one that he left behind this morning; leather and old, stretched over one of the chairs that are set at her table. She almost brought it in. It was just easier not to, with argument too clear and settled in the back of her mind.
“Can we just try?”
The question is soft, hesitant as she folds a file into her chest. The coffee is old and still against the roof of her mouth. She tries not to think about it, nodding into a sigh. Right now, she doesn’t want to fight.
“We’ll try,” she murmurs finally.
The elevator is slow tonight.