Sometimes I Don't Hate This Pairing.
Title: No More False Heavens. No More Damned Magic. [1/?]
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Cameron
Challenge/Prompt: 1theme, “The Reason”
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Het
Copyright: Title taken from “Wide Sargasso Sea” by Jean Rhys.
Summary: But she did because he wouldn’t.
Author’s Notes: Set during/after 3x03 “Informed Consent”. This is the first chapter of as many as I can write before May 28th that I’m writing for this fic. They’ll all be standalone and in no particular order but I want to explore lots of aspects of H/C. Can’t for the life of me think why but here we are.
The Reason Cameron Did What House Couldn’t.
When a man has not a good reason for doing a thing, he has one good reason for letting it alone.
Walter Scott.
Because she had to and didn’t want to but she did because he wouldn’t and we all deserve the right, and David didn’t get it, David didn’t have the choice, she watched him die and held his goddamn hand and smiled until she felt her lips crack and split and even now she feels him there sometimes begging her to love someone else and love them better.
Oh God.
She has principles and she keeps them because they’re sort of pretty and it’s nice to line them up on the desk to watch him tip them over like dominoes but he can’t get rid of them afterwards and she thinks that’s why he does this. Because she’s not Foreman and she’s not Chase and she’s not Wilson and she’s still not Cuddy.
He hates her but he admires her.
At least, she thinks he does. In truth, she has no idea how he feels about her or if he feels about her or if he thinks about her in the dark eyes shut the way she thinks about him. Can’t stop thinking about him.
Oh, God.
Two a.m, latex gloves bunched in her hand, Ezra smiled, said:
“Are you really going to do this?” and even then she wasn’t entirely sure. But she knew she had to and he’d get the blame anyway, because this is exactly the sort of thing he’d do only she knew that he wouldn’t. He pretends not to care but he cares more than any of them and it makes her breathless and sick to the stomach a lot of the time because oh, he’s not who he says he is at all.
False advertising. Everybody lies.
Even she does. Principles, promises, many, few, who really knows what’s right any more in a world where everything is becoming increasingly not right and please, please, let someone forgive her for this.
Ezra thanked her and his face was all twisted up in a smile and he wanted to go like this, really did, because suffocating an inch at a time is no way to live or die and she knows this and she understands it and she killed him simply because no one gave David a fatal morphine overdose and she wishes that someone had because it would have saved him months of pain and maybe she’d be a little less broken than she is now.
It’s not a guarantee, of course, but she’s desperate here on the knife-edge and-
Her hands were shaking so hard as she pulled on the gloves, hot and clammy over her sweating fingers, she felt suddenly claustrophobic and sick and oh, oh, oh.
“I would have thought House would be the one to do this,” Ezra told her in between wheezing gasps that made her stomach lurch, both with hope that he’d die and she’d be spared having to do this, and fear that she didn’t understand, and her resolve stiffened a little but for a moment she was paralysed with anticipation and horror.
“House will get the credit,” she said, forcing her lips to move and once she’d done that she eased up, could almost catch her breath again.
“Did he tell you to do this? Doesn’t want to get his hands dirty?”
Ezra had a little smirk at the corner of his mouth and she unzipped the morphine case, drawing tight breaths in through her teeth, breathing as laboured as Ezra’s because she was terrified.
“House won’t do this,” she told Ezra softly.
The man looked at her, frailty personified, but there was still a spark in his eyes in the half-light.
“But you will.”
He coughed, understanding creasing his face, which confused her because she didn’t understand but maybe that’s what age and mortality give you or perhaps it’s just because she’s lost in her own head between what she wants to be and what she’s rapidly becoming with no input from her morals and her wishes (they say Wilson asks you your dreams, hopes and aspirations on dates and it’s a definite ‘panty peeler’ but she no longer knows what hers are so that wouldn’t work- it’s probably for the best).
“I’m not scared,” Ezra told her, sounding firm and strong and he radiated babies and for a moment she didn’t care. This wasn’t about the sins of the past or whether he feels sorry now. She wasn’t going to ruin his- his- his last moments with trying to force him to feel guilt. They were both past all that and she filled the syringe overflowing with conviction.
Ezra thanked her again and she did what she had to and she flipped off the machines before they could start wailing and took the gloves, the syringe, and the empty morphine phial with her in her bag, and she was going to go home and get some sleep and-
She threw up. For over an hour. She’s done things like this before but never like this and sooner or later they’re going to find out and no one saw and no one knows and no one, no one-
The first tears fall and she can’t swallow them and she isn’t sobbing and they’re just streaming down and it’s like drowning. She wants to scream, scream and scream until it stops hurting and until the gut-wrenching terror and sickness in her bones evaporates.
Someone had to.
The man deserved to die the way he wanted to, with a little dignity and as little pain as possible. And she had to do it because no one else could.
Her face feels tired and puffy and wet but she can’t make the tears stop and his hand rests hard on her shoulder. Attempted comfort. Guys can be good at comforting, but not guys like him. He can’t comfort himself and he can’t comfort her and he can’t make the world better just because she wants him to. Wilson would know what to say. Wilson isn’t here, though, so she just bites her mouth together and hopes for the strength to keep moving, suffocating as bad as Ezra ever did.
She listens to him walk away and then she can’t help herself. She moves, fast, fast, desperate, catches his arm, takes the initiative, she killed a man today, she’s no longer afraid of blue eyes and razored words, no longer afraid of what he’ll do.
His kiss doesn’t fix everything. His kiss doesn’t make her clean and pure and perfect. His kiss doesn’t make her feel better.
But at least she can breathe again.
Reason Two
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Cameron
Challenge/Prompt: 1theme, “The Reason”
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Het
Copyright: Title taken from “Wide Sargasso Sea” by Jean Rhys.
Summary: But she did because he wouldn’t.
Author’s Notes: Set during/after 3x03 “Informed Consent”. This is the first chapter of as many as I can write before May 28th that I’m writing for this fic. They’ll all be standalone and in no particular order but I want to explore lots of aspects of H/C. Can’t for the life of me think why but here we are.
The Reason Cameron Did What House Couldn’t.
When a man has not a good reason for doing a thing, he has one good reason for letting it alone.
Walter Scott.
Because she had to and didn’t want to but she did because he wouldn’t and we all deserve the right, and David didn’t get it, David didn’t have the choice, she watched him die and held his goddamn hand and smiled until she felt her lips crack and split and even now she feels him there sometimes begging her to love someone else and love them better.
Oh God.
She has principles and she keeps them because they’re sort of pretty and it’s nice to line them up on the desk to watch him tip them over like dominoes but he can’t get rid of them afterwards and she thinks that’s why he does this. Because she’s not Foreman and she’s not Chase and she’s not Wilson and she’s still not Cuddy.
He hates her but he admires her.
At least, she thinks he does. In truth, she has no idea how he feels about her or if he feels about her or if he thinks about her in the dark eyes shut the way she thinks about him. Can’t stop thinking about him.
Oh, God.
Two a.m, latex gloves bunched in her hand, Ezra smiled, said:
“Are you really going to do this?” and even then she wasn’t entirely sure. But she knew she had to and he’d get the blame anyway, because this is exactly the sort of thing he’d do only she knew that he wouldn’t. He pretends not to care but he cares more than any of them and it makes her breathless and sick to the stomach a lot of the time because oh, he’s not who he says he is at all.
False advertising. Everybody lies.
Even she does. Principles, promises, many, few, who really knows what’s right any more in a world where everything is becoming increasingly not right and please, please, let someone forgive her for this.
Ezra thanked her and his face was all twisted up in a smile and he wanted to go like this, really did, because suffocating an inch at a time is no way to live or die and she knows this and she understands it and she killed him simply because no one gave David a fatal morphine overdose and she wishes that someone had because it would have saved him months of pain and maybe she’d be a little less broken than she is now.
It’s not a guarantee, of course, but she’s desperate here on the knife-edge and-
Her hands were shaking so hard as she pulled on the gloves, hot and clammy over her sweating fingers, she felt suddenly claustrophobic and sick and oh, oh, oh.
“I would have thought House would be the one to do this,” Ezra told her in between wheezing gasps that made her stomach lurch, both with hope that he’d die and she’d be spared having to do this, and fear that she didn’t understand, and her resolve stiffened a little but for a moment she was paralysed with anticipation and horror.
“House will get the credit,” she said, forcing her lips to move and once she’d done that she eased up, could almost catch her breath again.
“Did he tell you to do this? Doesn’t want to get his hands dirty?”
Ezra had a little smirk at the corner of his mouth and she unzipped the morphine case, drawing tight breaths in through her teeth, breathing as laboured as Ezra’s because she was terrified.
“House won’t do this,” she told Ezra softly.
The man looked at her, frailty personified, but there was still a spark in his eyes in the half-light.
“But you will.”
He coughed, understanding creasing his face, which confused her because she didn’t understand but maybe that’s what age and mortality give you or perhaps it’s just because she’s lost in her own head between what she wants to be and what she’s rapidly becoming with no input from her morals and her wishes (they say Wilson asks you your dreams, hopes and aspirations on dates and it’s a definite ‘panty peeler’ but she no longer knows what hers are so that wouldn’t work- it’s probably for the best).
“I’m not scared,” Ezra told her, sounding firm and strong and he radiated babies and for a moment she didn’t care. This wasn’t about the sins of the past or whether he feels sorry now. She wasn’t going to ruin his- his- his last moments with trying to force him to feel guilt. They were both past all that and she filled the syringe overflowing with conviction.
Ezra thanked her again and she did what she had to and she flipped off the machines before they could start wailing and took the gloves, the syringe, and the empty morphine phial with her in her bag, and she was going to go home and get some sleep and-
She threw up. For over an hour. She’s done things like this before but never like this and sooner or later they’re going to find out and no one saw and no one knows and no one, no one-
The first tears fall and she can’t swallow them and she isn’t sobbing and they’re just streaming down and it’s like drowning. She wants to scream, scream and scream until it stops hurting and until the gut-wrenching terror and sickness in her bones evaporates.
Someone had to.
The man deserved to die the way he wanted to, with a little dignity and as little pain as possible. And she had to do it because no one else could.
Her face feels tired and puffy and wet but she can’t make the tears stop and his hand rests hard on her shoulder. Attempted comfort. Guys can be good at comforting, but not guys like him. He can’t comfort himself and he can’t comfort her and he can’t make the world better just because she wants him to. Wilson would know what to say. Wilson isn’t here, though, so she just bites her mouth together and hopes for the strength to keep moving, suffocating as bad as Ezra ever did.
She listens to him walk away and then she can’t help herself. She moves, fast, fast, desperate, catches his arm, takes the initiative, she killed a man today, she’s no longer afraid of blue eyes and razored words, no longer afraid of what he’ll do.
His kiss doesn’t fix everything. His kiss doesn’t make her clean and pure and perfect. His kiss doesn’t make her feel better.
But at least she can breathe again.
Reason Two