Chapter 2 Stay With Me
Chapter 2
He searched in his leather coat for his keys, and unlocked the door. Once he had surveyed his apartment, and thrown his duffel in the chair by the door, he spoke to her.
“You can go now. Thank you for the ride,” as he looked down at the floor.
She was appalled that he would just dismiss her, but was not about to give up that easily.
“You were damn lucky that I got you out of there today. I’m not leaving you. Cuddy’s orders.”
“I need to be alone.”
“I have my ways, I’ll call your mother.”
With that, he scoffed at the mere thought of his mother getting involved.
“I need to grab a few things at home, so I will give you about thirty minutes of peace, if that makes you happy.”
“Suit yourself.”
With that, she turned, and made her way out the door. She didn’t want to be gone too long. It was against Cuddy’s better wishes that he was to be released in the first place.
The almost hour that she was gone was spent sitting on his sofa, slowly enjoying a drink. He thought. He thought long and hard over the past few days. Of ruining everything he had as a friend to Wilson. He would surely never be the same. The department as a whole would never be the same. He hated change. He hated that he could not turn back the hands of time. If only. . . .He thought of her hand covering his last night, coming in his room late to check on him. And why that was so wrong, but felt so right for a change. He knew he had to be careful. He was dangerously on the edge right now. He could crush her feelings with one single blow. As he sat there, he heard a slight knock on the door, she must be back, as the door slowly opened. She laid her things down, apologizing for being gone so long, but that she had picked up dinner along the way.
“Not hungry.”
“Not an option, House,” as she laid the bags on the counter. A square container of rice was opened and handed to him with a fork. He just looked at her, taking it so she would leave him alone. She sat at his table in the kitchen to give him his space. He wanted to be alone to sulk about Wilson, punishing himself for what had happened. So, space he shall have. Her presence was intrusion enough. She could barely take a few bites herself, without feeling nauseous. After she had eaten as much as she could, she put the rest in the door of the refrigerator. Then walking behind where he sat on the sofa, she took the liberty of grabbing her bag to head off to get a much needed shower. It was awkward, uncomfortable, making herself at home.
His bathroom was dark, cold, and very much like him. She took her pajamas out of the duffel, laid them on the edge of the sink. The shower was steaming hot, just what she needed. It was a welcome relief. Her shampoo bottle, looked terribly out of place next to his. Yet, she stood there for a moment, thinking. Knowing that out of what happened over the past few days would forever mold and shape him, into something far worse than they could ever imagine. It made her sick. To think that this man, so revered by his profession, could be ruined personally, by his family, and now, by his closest friend in the world. She wanted so badly to be able to fix it, make it better, but torn by the possibility that it could never be repaired. He had to let her in. It was his only refuge from the storm. She would die trying to save him from this pain, if he could only see it.
She came out of the bathroom, changed by where she was, the thoughts that penetrated her brain. Nothing mattered to her anymore. Right in front of her, he sat on the piano bench, sorting through the pile of mail she had gathered and placed on the coffee table when she got there. He would not look at her, acknowledge she was even in the room. To do so would surely indicate that he was beginning to give in. She pretended to not care.
The phone rang, and she made eye contact with him, knowing he would not answer it, knowing she would. As Cuddy’s voice came over the machine, she picked it up. Her timing was impeccable, she almost was glad for the diversion. Speaking in hushed tones, the other woman was assured that things were fine, when they really weren’t. That she would call her if she needed anything. What she needed right now was unattainable. She put the phone back on the receiver, his eyes moved away from her now, back to his mail, back to the silence that pierced the room.
It was growing late. She needed her ritualistic cup of afternoon tea. She took the paper squares from her overnight bag, and went into the kitchen. The pot was put on to boil. Yes, she could have used the microwave, but there was something about doing things the old way. Reminded her of all the times her Grandmother, who had taught her the tradition, and honoring her by doing it just the way she had. Tonight of all nights it gave her a comfort she so desperately needed. She watched and waited for the water to come to a boil. Time was forgotten as she stood there lost in thought. Then, she could feel his eyes on the back of her head, as about an inch of water had evaporated into the air. He had been watching her from the bench, staring out into nothing, when curiosity got the better of him as he wondered if she was going to let the pan go dry.
“Cameron…. The water….”as she was broken from her train of thought.
“Oh, I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry.”
He returned with a slow shuffle to the bench, and began with the mail again. Mindlessly caring about what was in there, just as she was.
She walked into his space, not asking for permission, carrying two steaming cups. He would not look at her, the cup sat there for a moment, before she retreated back to the kitchen to sit at the table. Leaving his area so he could continue his mourning. He did not allow himself to notice her. As the hours rolled on, he wished all the more to be alone. To be lost in his ever familiar drug and alcohol induced state, removing all traces of Amber, and a grieving Wilson. He knew she wouldn’t let him, and for that, he wished her to leave.
He appeared in the doorway once more, not surprising her with his shuffle. She turned to him, as he spoke, low, the pain evident in his voice.
“The bed’s yours if you want. I’m sleeping on the sofa. It’s been a long day,” as he turned to the living room.
“No, you take the bed. I won’t sleep there, you need it worse than I do. Please let me have the sofa.”
His back to her, “Fine.”
She waited there in the kitchen until she felt it safe to emerge. She walked over to his piano, and without making a sound, ran her fingers over the keys. The place where he had sought comfort so many times before, as he poured himself into the notes, each one carrying away every ounce of pain. She wished he could find it within himself to come to those keys again. She willed it to be so, as she stroked them. There, on the top of the piano, was a legal pad and a pen, with chords and notes scrawled upon it. Music from his soul, she thought. The imagery of the keys being played as soulfully as Nyman or Tiersen came to her. The notebook was placed exactly as it was, with the lines of dust keeping it in the same spot. She heard a noise coming from the bedroom, it startled her into worry over him, as she crept down the hallway. She stopped in the doorway, carefully watching him, knowing that he was in a state of dreaming. At least he’s able to rest, she thought to herself. Not wanting to leave the room, she made her way to the chair next to the window. She pulled the throw on the back of the chair around her, and drew her legs up beneath her. She bowed her head to hide her face from him. She cried for the fact that no matter how hard she wanted to curl up behind his back, just to hold him, here she sat in the chair unreachable.
Outside, the rain pelted the glass, as it shimmered from the reflection of the streetlamp. How appropriate for tonight, she thought. She wished the storm outside could wash away everything that was weighing on him, so that he would come to her. His fingers curled at the edge of his pillow, the same gifted hands that gave themselves so eloquently to his piano. The same hands she longed to have run through her hair, to hold her. She cried silently for the fact that no matter how hard she wished for him to be alright, and knowing that he wasn’t. Wishing more than anything he would play those notes for her ears to hear, for her heart to soak in. She could hear nothing more than the pattern of his breathing and the rain, and waited.
To be continued my friends...