house fic: The Darker Days of Me and Him 3/10
Title: The Darker Days of Me and Him
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1005
Spoilers: Minor for 'Love Hurts' and will sort of grow from there.
Rating: Harmless PG for now.
Summary: I'm liquid running, there's a sea secret in me, it's plain to see it is rising.
A/N: Part One is here. Part Two is here.
I'm liquid running
There's a sea secret in me
It's plain to see it is rising
Tori Amos, Liquid Diamonds
ii.
This will be their first confrontation.
[it’s her turn]
Confrontation, by definition, is a conflict and natural because of the human condition. There’s a difference of ideas. Beliefs. Opinions. But neither House nor her had confrontations. She avoided him, able to manipulate words when she was giving her opinion on a diagnosis. He avoided her altogether.
Then there is now.
They have tension. Unresolved. Painful. And growing.
Days later, this will be their first confrontation.
A tap on the glass startles her and she jumps, looking up to meet the apologetic gaze of Wilson and the unreadable gaze of House. Wilson gives a little nod, pulling out his pager and heads out to answer his call.
She looks away and down to her work. The door to the lab slides open and she sighs. Confrontation. Inevitability. Rationality dictated that this could only be put off for so long.
She’s going to hate this.
“Hi.”
Cameron blinks and feigns an innocent surprise, happy that her hands have managed to stay steady. She doesn’t look up. Instead she continues to study the results the computer is producing. “Hello,” she greets.
“We can’t do this anymore.”
The half-assed attempt to placate her is too obvious not to ignore. She almost rolls her eyes. “Do what?”
“This!” He nearly yells, waving his hand back and forth between them. Already, she wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity of this conversation. They could never have a straight conversation. That ended well.
“I have work to do.”
And she always does. The workload is her greatest excuse, the patient increase providing her an outlet and hiding place. It isn’t about being overly sentimental and subjecting herself- molding, for lack of a better word- to the tired lie of his assumptions of her.
“Yes. Yes. Don’t we all. But I want to talk about this.”
She sighs, tapping her pen against the table. “Again, with the vagueness and stress on the articles.”
He moves forward. His cane taps almost in synchronization with the rhythm of her pen. She swallows. Don’t do this, she tells herself. Don’t do this again.
[again again and again again and again again and again again]
[you need me]
[i’m damaged]
[damaged need me you i am]
“I don’t need a snippy grammatical lesson, Dr. Cameron.”
She shifts uncomfortably. “And I, unfortunately, am not blessed with the same gift of time that you seem to have,” she almost snaps. “Conversations in circles give me headaches.”
“You’re being snippy,” he mocks, tossing his cane on top of the files cluttered around her. He reaches into his coat pocket and the familiar sound of his Vicodin rattles in the empty room.
“And you’re being a bastard.”
His voice is quiet. The answer is tired. “I thought you knew that.”
She says nothing. The truth in the statement gives the air in the room a heavier weight. It lingers and it mocks.
“Wilson said the most fascinating thing to me the other day.”
And it should’ve been expected.
It should’ve.
[you]
He drags a stool from the corner and pulls it right beside her. He sits and she turns away, forcing herself to focus on the computer running test in front of her. He lets out an exaggerated sigh and she forces herself to stay calm. Tensing obviously would give him the advantage.
[this is a game for you never for me]
“I have work to do,” she repeats. Her eyes begin to become unfocused. There are too many numbers, whirling around and being placed. Test results. She already knew she was going to have to tell the patient that he’s dying. Focusing slowly wins precedent.
But he doesn’t move from beside her. “Wilson thinks I’m a lucky bastard.”
“I’m not avoiding you,” she mumbles. Tired. Frustrated.
He snorts in disbelief. “Yeah. You are. And you’ve managed to make me feel like a five year old on the playground. Next I’ll be screaming cooties.”
She shifts. “If I were avoiding you, don’t you think I’d try a little bit harder?”
“Aren’t you?” Question. Answer. The air in the room grows dangerous.
She rolls her eyes and clicks the print version so that she can scan the results of the blood tests. Trying to reply as nonchalantly as possible, she tells him, “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I was.”
“You know I hate the silent treatment. Still very pre-school. Shall then we give the cootie taunting a whirl?”
“I think you’re doing a fantastic enough job for the both of us.”
He grabs the printout before she does, his eyes quickly raking over the results. He looks up at her. “Ouch. Frigid.”
She sighs and quietly says, “I don’t want to do this with you.”
“But you are,” he replies. “And Wilson thinks I’m a lucky bastard because of it.”
Her mouth opens. Then closes. And then opens again. Shit, she thinks.
And so the real question is slowly being revealed.
[nothing to hide]
“I don’t have to have a reason,” she murmurs, carefully making her unwinding reaction. “You think I do because then you’re analysis of me will work for you and you’ll have an excuse.”
He says nothing, but his gaze darkens and the intensity causes her to shudder quietly. He’s never looked at her like that.
“I’m not going to give you that excuse.”
She grabs the printout from his hand and stands, turning to leave.
“Allison.”
Her name. She freezes. The question is clear.
“No,” she replies. Her response is clear and unwavering. She’s almost surprised at how calm she is. “I wouldn’t. Even if I had to do it all over again. Young. Naïve. Confused. Bitter. Angry. He was my husband and I loved him. It’s what you do for the ones you love, even if it sounds terribly idealistic.”
“You suffer.” Something’s changing.
“Yeah,” she echoes. “You suffer and it haunts you. It tears at you. But… I don’t have any regrets.”
She’s gone before he can answer.
[you me change]
[it’s happening]
Why did I come here? Please tell me again.
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1005
Spoilers: Minor for 'Love Hurts' and will sort of grow from there.
Rating: Harmless PG for now.
Summary: I'm liquid running, there's a sea secret in me, it's plain to see it is rising.
A/N: Part One is here. Part Two is here.
I'm liquid running
There's a sea secret in me
It's plain to see it is rising
Tori Amos, Liquid Diamonds
ii.
This will be their first confrontation.
[it’s her turn]
Confrontation, by definition, is a conflict and natural because of the human condition. There’s a difference of ideas. Beliefs. Opinions. But neither House nor her had confrontations. She avoided him, able to manipulate words when she was giving her opinion on a diagnosis. He avoided her altogether.
Then there is now.
They have tension. Unresolved. Painful. And growing.
Days later, this will be their first confrontation.
A tap on the glass startles her and she jumps, looking up to meet the apologetic gaze of Wilson and the unreadable gaze of House. Wilson gives a little nod, pulling out his pager and heads out to answer his call.
She looks away and down to her work. The door to the lab slides open and she sighs. Confrontation. Inevitability. Rationality dictated that this could only be put off for so long.
She’s going to hate this.
“Hi.”
Cameron blinks and feigns an innocent surprise, happy that her hands have managed to stay steady. She doesn’t look up. Instead she continues to study the results the computer is producing. “Hello,” she greets.
“We can’t do this anymore.”
The half-assed attempt to placate her is too obvious not to ignore. She almost rolls her eyes. “Do what?”
“This!” He nearly yells, waving his hand back and forth between them. Already, she wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity of this conversation. They could never have a straight conversation. That ended well.
“I have work to do.”
And she always does. The workload is her greatest excuse, the patient increase providing her an outlet and hiding place. It isn’t about being overly sentimental and subjecting herself- molding, for lack of a better word- to the tired lie of his assumptions of her.
“Yes. Yes. Don’t we all. But I want to talk about this.”
She sighs, tapping her pen against the table. “Again, with the vagueness and stress on the articles.”
He moves forward. His cane taps almost in synchronization with the rhythm of her pen. She swallows. Don’t do this, she tells herself. Don’t do this again.
[again again and again again and again again and again again]
[you need me]
[i’m damaged]
[damaged need me you i am]
“I don’t need a snippy grammatical lesson, Dr. Cameron.”
She shifts uncomfortably. “And I, unfortunately, am not blessed with the same gift of time that you seem to have,” she almost snaps. “Conversations in circles give me headaches.”
“You’re being snippy,” he mocks, tossing his cane on top of the files cluttered around her. He reaches into his coat pocket and the familiar sound of his Vicodin rattles in the empty room.
“And you’re being a bastard.”
His voice is quiet. The answer is tired. “I thought you knew that.”
She says nothing. The truth in the statement gives the air in the room a heavier weight. It lingers and it mocks.
“Wilson said the most fascinating thing to me the other day.”
And it should’ve been expected.
It should’ve.
[you]
He drags a stool from the corner and pulls it right beside her. He sits and she turns away, forcing herself to focus on the computer running test in front of her. He lets out an exaggerated sigh and she forces herself to stay calm. Tensing obviously would give him the advantage.
[this is a game for you never for me]
“I have work to do,” she repeats. Her eyes begin to become unfocused. There are too many numbers, whirling around and being placed. Test results. She already knew she was going to have to tell the patient that he’s dying. Focusing slowly wins precedent.
But he doesn’t move from beside her. “Wilson thinks I’m a lucky bastard.”
“I’m not avoiding you,” she mumbles. Tired. Frustrated.
He snorts in disbelief. “Yeah. You are. And you’ve managed to make me feel like a five year old on the playground. Next I’ll be screaming cooties.”
She shifts. “If I were avoiding you, don’t you think I’d try a little bit harder?”
“Aren’t you?” Question. Answer. The air in the room grows dangerous.
She rolls her eyes and clicks the print version so that she can scan the results of the blood tests. Trying to reply as nonchalantly as possible, she tells him, “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I was.”
“You know I hate the silent treatment. Still very pre-school. Shall then we give the cootie taunting a whirl?”
“I think you’re doing a fantastic enough job for the both of us.”
He grabs the printout before she does, his eyes quickly raking over the results. He looks up at her. “Ouch. Frigid.”
She sighs and quietly says, “I don’t want to do this with you.”
“But you are,” he replies. “And Wilson thinks I’m a lucky bastard because of it.”
Her mouth opens. Then closes. And then opens again. Shit, she thinks.
And so the real question is slowly being revealed.
[nothing to hide]
“I don’t have to have a reason,” she murmurs, carefully making her unwinding reaction. “You think I do because then you’re analysis of me will work for you and you’ll have an excuse.”
He says nothing, but his gaze darkens and the intensity causes her to shudder quietly. He’s never looked at her like that.
“I’m not going to give you that excuse.”
She grabs the printout from his hand and stands, turning to leave.
“Allison.”
Her name. She freezes. The question is clear.
“No,” she replies. Her response is clear and unwavering. She’s almost surprised at how calm she is. “I wouldn’t. Even if I had to do it all over again. Young. Naïve. Confused. Bitter. Angry. He was my husband and I loved him. It’s what you do for the ones you love, even if it sounds terribly idealistic.”
“You suffer.” Something’s changing.
“Yeah,” she echoes. “You suffer and it haunts you. It tears at you. But… I don’t have any regrets.”
She’s gone before he can answer.
[you me change]
[it’s happening]
Why did I come here? Please tell me again.