House Fic: ordinary substitutes
ordinary substitutes house/cameron, pg.
five times they nearly finished talking. because in the end, this was never about letting go. spoilers for teamwork. 2,160 words.
notes: i started making a mix. but this happened instead.
-
But she had no memory of how to be brave. Here, it seemed, she had no memories at all. Nothing triggered them. And once in a while, when she gave voice to the fleeting edge of one, it seemed like something she was making up.
(lorrie moore, birds of america)
1.
She tries not to be surprised when he follows.
The hallway is half-empty. The elevator closes quickly in front of her. People pass and scatter and she hears the slow, steady familiarity of House’s cane walking closer.
“I’ll take the stairs,” she says from in front of him. Her gaze is trained on the elevator. There is a lump in her throat, tight and unsettling. She keeps her hands in her pockets and in fists.
“You wouldn’t,” he says dryly. He stays behind her, watching. She sees his reflection in the elevator doors: hunched and blurred, a lasting image of how strange and unwarranted his presence remains for her. He clears his throat as if to say there is something else.
But there’s nothing to say, she tells herself.
The elevator is slow as it opens. “Good night, House,” she says.
2.
Outside it’s too cold. Her attention is absent, pulled by her hand groping for her keys in her bag. There is an ambulance resting by the sidewalk, lights scattered and spinning against the hospital.
She walks too quickly out of habit.
“I almost believe you,” he calls. His voice is loud. She drops her keys back into pocket.
House is standing by a few cars, leaning against a trunk. The light over him is almost bare and faint. She almost misses him. There is a bag at his feet and he’s watching her seriously, almost expectantly. She stops on the sidewalk.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says slowly, and pauses, pulling at her jacket, “whether you believe me or not, whether you want to believe me or not. I said it. It’s done.”
She catches his gaze too but he looks away.
“You almost want to believe you,” he says and says it like he means it. There’s a hitch in his voice and she frowns, crossing her arms in front of her chest. That seems to amuse him, and he picks up bag, walking to her.
He’s slow and almost unsteady. It’s as if he were trying to catch her or waiting to. She tries not to decide.
She sighs. “Funny how that works.”
His gaze is too heavy for her then. She drops her bag and her hand curls into a fist over her keys. She tries to remember where she’s parked. It’s really about the little things then.
They stare silently at each other though. He seems to be searching and she understands that there’s nothing more to give. It’s something she can tell herself, over and over again, as if to make what happened in his office something smaller.
“You’re trying to be brave,” he says softly.
It’s half an insult and half a charge. She won’t give it to him, she thinks.
“And you’re trying to have the last word.”
Her hand slides through her hair and her fingers pick at the ends. She drops her gaze to the side, watching for an interruption. Her mind starts to skips. It’s a pattern, she thinks, with him and with her. She could walk away without saying anything. She should. The thing is he wants that too.
“You’re trying to have the last word,” she repeats.
Her eyes feel heavy. The exhaustion hasn’t really hit her. It’s a strange cross of being here but not really being here, as if she had already made the decision for herself a long time ago.
“Because no one is allowed to leave on their terms,” she continues, “and you can never say a goodbye unless you’re right. I get it.”
“You keep talking.”
Her mouth is tight. “You keep pushing.”
He frowns. His bag drops between them. She shuffles her feet against the sidewalk. He shifts closer but then stops himself, kicking his bag off to the side and then turning to reach for it. He’s nervous somehow and somehow she seems to know.
“You’re running away,” he says.
She says nothing more. She remembers her keys.
3.
“Chase is waiting at a bar,” he guesses as she lets him in. Or he steps in without waiting for her to close the door.
There is a tight smirk on his mouth. She sighs and brushes her hair out of her eyes. She moves back and lets him close the door instead. She doesn’t wait for him either.
“I recognize the signs,” he adds dryly.
She says nothing yet. The apartment is dimly lit, quiet and covered with new pieces of mail and empty dinner dishes. There is already a suitcase that leans against the couch and her phone rests, blinking with a new message. She hasn’t told anyone where she’s going yet.
“He already told me he saw you,” she says instead. She turns away and walks to the bedroom, already aware of him following her. She says nothing about how odd it is to have him here and not see him stop and look around. But this isn’t about that.
“No secrets, huh?”
She shrugs. Stepping into the bedroom, she moves back to her suitcase. It’s a larger one, open and spread over a mess of sheets and pillows. The television is on and mumbling quietly with company. She reaches for a sweater and watches as House stops and stays in the frame of the door.
“Are you coming in?”
She asks and doesn’t smile. She’s patient, folding her sweater without taking her gaze away from him. She studies how he stands, sharp and tense. It’s different now. She can feel the weight of her admission between them. It comes in cracks; his shoulders are taunt, his hand tight around the head of his cane, and his body slowly bends to accommodate whatever it is that he’s trying to hide.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says absently.
He looks away from her. She points to her purse by the door.
“Can you hand me that?” she asks.
He shrugs and reaches awkwardly for the strap. He leaves his cane by the door and then limps awkwardly to the bed, sitting by her suitcase. He doesn’t hand her the bag and it drops over his lap.
“You knew this was coming.”
She says nothing. It’s an accusation from him. For her, it’s nothing but the truth.
“If it hadn’t been this, it would’ve been something else. You knew this was coming. You have always known better than that.”
“Is that what you think?”
He frowns, studying her. “Does it matter what I think?”
She lets him have that. Her gaze shifts over the suitcase, her hands tucking and replacing clothes for everything to fit. She’s careful, practical even. She tries to pay attention to the few things she recognizes.
But she’s stopped, slowly, as his hand covers hers. His palm presses against the back of her hand, brushing over her skin. There’s nothing soft or practical about the gesture; he seems like he forgets to be condescending and his fingers graze over her knuckles. She almost flushes, meeting his gaze. She swallows first. He sighs after her.
There’s no pull, no push, and no inclination to go further. In a few minutes they both know he’s going to leave. She knows that he can’t stay, that he won’t stay, and she would never let him. She will never wait for a goodbye. He will never believe her if she asked for one.
Still she lets him keep his hand over hers. It’s a few minutes.
“No,” she says slowly. “I guess not.”
4.
Her gate is full when she arrives. Chicago waves at her from under the destination sign.
There is a woman arguing with an attendant at the desk. Cameron’s phone buzzes in her hand as she drops into an empty seat. She watches it for a moment, as the screen lights up to a dull blue and house blinks over a telephone number.
She picks up, despite herself. “You’re there already,” he says in greeting.
“You have my phone number?”
“It’s not a secret.”
There is heavy amusement in his voice. A pause follows as she hears a door shut on the other line.
He clears his throat. “Where are you running to?”
She expects the question and thinks about Chase, Chase at home and alone; she thinks about the conversation that they didn’t have. But she can’t think about Chase now, about them and everything else.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says.
“But you are.”
He’s insistent. Her eyes close and the corners of her mouth tug. She almost smiles. Behind her, the argument between the woman and the attendant gets louder. Cameron half-listen and waits for a delay announcement.
“Running away?” she asks and sighs. “No,” she says. “Maybe,” she says again.
“You don’t know,” he murmurs.
It’s not an accusation or an observation. It’s not even an answer. He says it and it seems to be almost kind. It’s something that makes her angry though. She feels her shoulders pull and she runs a hand against the back of her neck, rubbing her fingers into her skin.
“I don’t know a lot of things.”
Her comment hitches slightly, as she takes an unsteady sigh. She places herself within another careful admission.
“But it is what it is,” she adds.
Her eyes open slowly. She focuses on a few passing people. There are sleepy families and business suits. The argument behind her has started to fade as she watches a few people starting to stare.
She feels tired and overwhelmed. In her head, she can almost trace the circles under her eyes. She hasn’t even begun to think about what she’s going to say when she gets home, when she sees her parents.
Looking down, she sees the ring on her finger. It stares back at her, waiting for her to take it off. It seems heavy over her hand too.
“I know you understand that,” she says.
House’s voice cracks over the line. “Wilson’s surprised it’s you,” he replies as an afterthought. He doesn’t add anything. They’re talking to each other as if neither of them is really there. She wonders if she’s going to find this funny later.
She still shakes her head.
“Wilson is Wilson,” she sighs.
“You should be talking to Chase,” he says. He sounds like Cuddy, she thinks, with the way the other woman told her you still have a place. They sound like people who aren’t ready to understand.
It’s odd but she finds herself smiling. Unsteady at first, the corners of her mouth start to dig and feel tight. There’s no humor though.
“I’m not staying,” she murmurs.
He sighs and she listens. Between them, there is a shift in noise: she can imagine him as he sits or stands, the way the tension shifts between coming to the surface and disappearing. It’s an intimate thought, something she never asked for and something he seems to give.
There is space again and a sigh next. “I know,” he says and finally.
She hangs up, after. The hesitation is almost there.
5.
Cameron stays in the car. The keys are in the ignition.
There are three ways that this could happen:
1. She knows she could get out. She knows that she could back and that she could really talk to Cuddy, she could listen and ask more about her job and space and things like opportunities still open to you. She could hate herself and stay, stew even and watch from afar.
2. She could turn the keys in the ignition. She could listen to the messages on the phone, to Chase and his we’ll talk soon as if it were some momentary break in the insanity that all of this really is. She could go back upstairs and wait to hear what House might never say. She might think that all of this is funny too.
3. She leaves. She leaves and she goes and she buys a plane ticket with the new paycheck that was just put into her account the night before. She leaves and thinks about things like vacations and old contacts. She leaves and finds herself where she needs to be.
But it’s really like this:
She stays in the car. The keys are in the ignition. In front of her, the hospital seems to disappear in a mix of lights and late hours. There are other cars that pull in, doctors that she recognizes, and this tight, swelling feeling that sinks into the bottom of her stomach.
There was already a decision that came, that no longer waits. She puts no time to it. She gives no names to any of her moments, any of her weights. There is an understanding instead, quiet and maybe waiting, waiting for her to finally catch up. It churns and twists itself into congratulation.
Somehow, she turns the keys in the ignition. Her hand remains steady, almost careful and too concise.
There’s no moment. She stops thinking about everybody else.
five times they nearly finished talking. because in the end, this was never about letting go. spoilers for teamwork. 2,160 words.
notes: i started making a mix. but this happened instead.
-
But she had no memory of how to be brave. Here, it seemed, she had no memories at all. Nothing triggered them. And once in a while, when she gave voice to the fleeting edge of one, it seemed like something she was making up.
(lorrie moore, birds of america)
1.
She tries not to be surprised when he follows.
The hallway is half-empty. The elevator closes quickly in front of her. People pass and scatter and she hears the slow, steady familiarity of House’s cane walking closer.
“I’ll take the stairs,” she says from in front of him. Her gaze is trained on the elevator. There is a lump in her throat, tight and unsettling. She keeps her hands in her pockets and in fists.
“You wouldn’t,” he says dryly. He stays behind her, watching. She sees his reflection in the elevator doors: hunched and blurred, a lasting image of how strange and unwarranted his presence remains for her. He clears his throat as if to say there is something else.
But there’s nothing to say, she tells herself.
The elevator is slow as it opens. “Good night, House,” she says.
2.
Outside it’s too cold. Her attention is absent, pulled by her hand groping for her keys in her bag. There is an ambulance resting by the sidewalk, lights scattered and spinning against the hospital.
She walks too quickly out of habit.
“I almost believe you,” he calls. His voice is loud. She drops her keys back into pocket.
House is standing by a few cars, leaning against a trunk. The light over him is almost bare and faint. She almost misses him. There is a bag at his feet and he’s watching her seriously, almost expectantly. She stops on the sidewalk.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says slowly, and pauses, pulling at her jacket, “whether you believe me or not, whether you want to believe me or not. I said it. It’s done.”
She catches his gaze too but he looks away.
“You almost want to believe you,” he says and says it like he means it. There’s a hitch in his voice and she frowns, crossing her arms in front of her chest. That seems to amuse him, and he picks up bag, walking to her.
He’s slow and almost unsteady. It’s as if he were trying to catch her or waiting to. She tries not to decide.
She sighs. “Funny how that works.”
His gaze is too heavy for her then. She drops her bag and her hand curls into a fist over her keys. She tries to remember where she’s parked. It’s really about the little things then.
They stare silently at each other though. He seems to be searching and she understands that there’s nothing more to give. It’s something she can tell herself, over and over again, as if to make what happened in his office something smaller.
“You’re trying to be brave,” he says softly.
It’s half an insult and half a charge. She won’t give it to him, she thinks.
“And you’re trying to have the last word.”
Her hand slides through her hair and her fingers pick at the ends. She drops her gaze to the side, watching for an interruption. Her mind starts to skips. It’s a pattern, she thinks, with him and with her. She could walk away without saying anything. She should. The thing is he wants that too.
“You’re trying to have the last word,” she repeats.
Her eyes feel heavy. The exhaustion hasn’t really hit her. It’s a strange cross of being here but not really being here, as if she had already made the decision for herself a long time ago.
“Because no one is allowed to leave on their terms,” she continues, “and you can never say a goodbye unless you’re right. I get it.”
“You keep talking.”
Her mouth is tight. “You keep pushing.”
He frowns. His bag drops between them. She shuffles her feet against the sidewalk. He shifts closer but then stops himself, kicking his bag off to the side and then turning to reach for it. He’s nervous somehow and somehow she seems to know.
“You’re running away,” he says.
She says nothing more. She remembers her keys.
3.
“Chase is waiting at a bar,” he guesses as she lets him in. Or he steps in without waiting for her to close the door.
There is a tight smirk on his mouth. She sighs and brushes her hair out of her eyes. She moves back and lets him close the door instead. She doesn’t wait for him either.
“I recognize the signs,” he adds dryly.
She says nothing yet. The apartment is dimly lit, quiet and covered with new pieces of mail and empty dinner dishes. There is already a suitcase that leans against the couch and her phone rests, blinking with a new message. She hasn’t told anyone where she’s going yet.
“He already told me he saw you,” she says instead. She turns away and walks to the bedroom, already aware of him following her. She says nothing about how odd it is to have him here and not see him stop and look around. But this isn’t about that.
“No secrets, huh?”
She shrugs. Stepping into the bedroom, she moves back to her suitcase. It’s a larger one, open and spread over a mess of sheets and pillows. The television is on and mumbling quietly with company. She reaches for a sweater and watches as House stops and stays in the frame of the door.
“Are you coming in?”
She asks and doesn’t smile. She’s patient, folding her sweater without taking her gaze away from him. She studies how he stands, sharp and tense. It’s different now. She can feel the weight of her admission between them. It comes in cracks; his shoulders are taunt, his hand tight around the head of his cane, and his body slowly bends to accommodate whatever it is that he’s trying to hide.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says absently.
He looks away from her. She points to her purse by the door.
“Can you hand me that?” she asks.
He shrugs and reaches awkwardly for the strap. He leaves his cane by the door and then limps awkwardly to the bed, sitting by her suitcase. He doesn’t hand her the bag and it drops over his lap.
“You knew this was coming.”
She says nothing. It’s an accusation from him. For her, it’s nothing but the truth.
“If it hadn’t been this, it would’ve been something else. You knew this was coming. You have always known better than that.”
“Is that what you think?”
He frowns, studying her. “Does it matter what I think?”
She lets him have that. Her gaze shifts over the suitcase, her hands tucking and replacing clothes for everything to fit. She’s careful, practical even. She tries to pay attention to the few things she recognizes.
But she’s stopped, slowly, as his hand covers hers. His palm presses against the back of her hand, brushing over her skin. There’s nothing soft or practical about the gesture; he seems like he forgets to be condescending and his fingers graze over her knuckles. She almost flushes, meeting his gaze. She swallows first. He sighs after her.
There’s no pull, no push, and no inclination to go further. In a few minutes they both know he’s going to leave. She knows that he can’t stay, that he won’t stay, and she would never let him. She will never wait for a goodbye. He will never believe her if she asked for one.
Still she lets him keep his hand over hers. It’s a few minutes.
“No,” she says slowly. “I guess not.”
4.
Her gate is full when she arrives. Chicago waves at her from under the destination sign.
There is a woman arguing with an attendant at the desk. Cameron’s phone buzzes in her hand as she drops into an empty seat. She watches it for a moment, as the screen lights up to a dull blue and house blinks over a telephone number.
She picks up, despite herself. “You’re there already,” he says in greeting.
“You have my phone number?”
“It’s not a secret.”
There is heavy amusement in his voice. A pause follows as she hears a door shut on the other line.
He clears his throat. “Where are you running to?”
She expects the question and thinks about Chase, Chase at home and alone; she thinks about the conversation that they didn’t have. But she can’t think about Chase now, about them and everything else.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says.
“But you are.”
He’s insistent. Her eyes close and the corners of her mouth tug. She almost smiles. Behind her, the argument between the woman and the attendant gets louder. Cameron half-listen and waits for a delay announcement.
“Running away?” she asks and sighs. “No,” she says. “Maybe,” she says again.
“You don’t know,” he murmurs.
It’s not an accusation or an observation. It’s not even an answer. He says it and it seems to be almost kind. It’s something that makes her angry though. She feels her shoulders pull and she runs a hand against the back of her neck, rubbing her fingers into her skin.
“I don’t know a lot of things.”
Her comment hitches slightly, as she takes an unsteady sigh. She places herself within another careful admission.
“But it is what it is,” she adds.
Her eyes open slowly. She focuses on a few passing people. There are sleepy families and business suits. The argument behind her has started to fade as she watches a few people starting to stare.
She feels tired and overwhelmed. In her head, she can almost trace the circles under her eyes. She hasn’t even begun to think about what she’s going to say when she gets home, when she sees her parents.
Looking down, she sees the ring on her finger. It stares back at her, waiting for her to take it off. It seems heavy over her hand too.
“I know you understand that,” she says.
House’s voice cracks over the line. “Wilson’s surprised it’s you,” he replies as an afterthought. He doesn’t add anything. They’re talking to each other as if neither of them is really there. She wonders if she’s going to find this funny later.
She still shakes her head.
“Wilson is Wilson,” she sighs.
“You should be talking to Chase,” he says. He sounds like Cuddy, she thinks, with the way the other woman told her you still have a place. They sound like people who aren’t ready to understand.
It’s odd but she finds herself smiling. Unsteady at first, the corners of her mouth start to dig and feel tight. There’s no humor though.
“I’m not staying,” she murmurs.
He sighs and she listens. Between them, there is a shift in noise: she can imagine him as he sits or stands, the way the tension shifts between coming to the surface and disappearing. It’s an intimate thought, something she never asked for and something he seems to give.
There is space again and a sigh next. “I know,” he says and finally.
She hangs up, after. The hesitation is almost there.
5.
Cameron stays in the car. The keys are in the ignition.
There are three ways that this could happen:
1. She knows she could get out. She knows that she could back and that she could really talk to Cuddy, she could listen and ask more about her job and space and things like opportunities still open to you. She could hate herself and stay, stew even and watch from afar.
2. She could turn the keys in the ignition. She could listen to the messages on the phone, to Chase and his we’ll talk soon as if it were some momentary break in the insanity that all of this really is. She could go back upstairs and wait to hear what House might never say. She might think that all of this is funny too.
3. She leaves. She leaves and she goes and she buys a plane ticket with the new paycheck that was just put into her account the night before. She leaves and thinks about things like vacations and old contacts. She leaves and finds herself where she needs to be.
But it’s really like this:
She stays in the car. The keys are in the ignition. In front of her, the hospital seems to disappear in a mix of lights and late hours. There are other cars that pull in, doctors that she recognizes, and this tight, swelling feeling that sinks into the bottom of her stomach.
There was already a decision that came, that no longer waits. She puts no time to it. She gives no names to any of her moments, any of her weights. There is an understanding instead, quiet and maybe waiting, waiting for her to finally catch up. It churns and twists itself into congratulation.
Somehow, she turns the keys in the ignition. Her hand remains steady, almost careful and too concise.
There’s no moment. She stops thinking about everybody else.