House fanfiction: "Lyrical Days"
Title: Lyrical Days
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: R
Words: 3921
Summary: House examines the role of music in his life, especially with how he associates it with women...
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...
Note: No spoilers! Written from House's POV, in a 'you' POV. (Just be forewarned!)
Beta: Many thanks to the lovely phineyj for the beta-job! -- especially since this is the first piece I have actually completed in a while (I've been suffering writer's block)..ahh! Feedback is always welcome, btw!
Lyrical Days
You associate various parts of your life with music, especially women you have been with. Different periods, even seasons, have different soundtracks in your mind. Soulful blues for sad times, classical concertos for lonely nights, rock and roll for fast woman, Van Morrison for sexy Sundays, hard rock for drinking with your buddies, Golden Oldies for carefree days and jazz to fill in the blanks.
You’re seventeen when you meet Pam. You’re spending your summer down the Jersey Shore with your mother’s friend, who you have called Aunt Lizzie your entire life. You have your own room and you work for her in the morning. She has a boarding house, what you would call a bed and breakfast today. You help out with breakfast in the morning and you have the afternoons and evenings to yourself. Your mother and father spend two weeks with you, but otherwise the summer is yours. Your father is being relocated and your parents are moving again. Your mother wants you to enjoy your summer a bit. You don’t mind. You don’t know anyone here, but then you meet Pam working for Aunt Lizzie; she cleans rooms and changes sheets, but Pam introduces you to some fun, and you like that. After you’re seeing her a bit, you two like the fact that she has access to the room keys and you can sneak off into any empty rooms and frolic around.
Pam is older then you and has long dark hair that flows down her back and grazes her waist. You’re intrigued by her, and she humors you. Pam’s soundtrack is The Who’s “Tommy”. She drives a beat-up convertible and you love that she sings along to “We’re Not Gonna Take It” like you’re not even in the car. We’re not gonna take it sung in a lower tone, until she’s yelling it out above the music into the open air, the sea breeze taking her long locks into the wind. Other times, she vocalizes “Teenage Wasteland”* with more emotion than you have ever seen. Her fingers tap and thump loudly against the steering wheel, she sings with abandonment. She’s slyly sexy and carefree in a way she doesn’t realize, but she sings like she has something to be angry about. You can’t see her eyes, she hides them behind sunglasses, you sometimes wonder what her secrets are. You don’t try to pry into her world, it’s all new to you and she’s the one bringing you along for the ride, she hides an anger that you don’t know if you care enough to know about.
She takes you to the Stone Pony for the first time, sneaking you in and introducing you to her friends. Pam’s attitude is easy going and flippant about a lot of things, no one seems to care or notice that you’re younger. You share the beer tab with everyone else, and enjoy the sudsy amber flow and the drunken feeling you have as you stand around listening to music. You don’t mind when Pam pushes her body into yours and dances against you.
Later that night, she drags you by the collar of your shirt into the back seat of her car. She’s too drunk to make any sense, and you have an angel and devil sitting on your shoulder. But you’re seventeen and you’re horny, and when she reaches for your zipper and puts her wet mouth on your cock, you throw your caution to the wind.
Unfortunately, you’re also seventeen and your hormones and your mind are on fire and you get bored quickly. Pam is a fun girl, but you realize that you don’t have a lot to talk about, or maybe it’s just that you neither of you talk much. She introduces you to her friends, however, and they are friendly. Pam works at an ice cream parlor in the afternoons and a few evenings a week, so she becomes too busy for you anyway. She actually encourages you to hang out with her friends.
Kathy asks you out on a date. She lives in Deal, and her parents have money, so she doesn’t have to work on summer break. She drives around in a car with a British Invasion bumper sticker, but when you see her standing on the boardwalk waiting for you, her song is The Hollies’ “Long Cool Woman (In A Black Dress.)” Kathy’s soundtrack is every sexy rock song you can think of. Kathy screams sexuality.
She’s leaning against the iron rail on the boardwalk when you approach her, her legs crossed at the ankles waiting for you. Kathy has frosted blond hair, cut short but long and wispy on the top. Her mouth is pouty and luscious, and she is as all curves -- hips and round breasts. She is wearing a black wrap dress, the hem blowing in the breeze showing off her bare legs. You can’t help but notice her little toes painted cherry red on display in her high-heeled Candies.
You are tall and lanky, just starting to fill out and become more muscular. You are already cultivating your ego, and Kathy is feeding it even more. If this was present day, Wilson would warn her off you, but instead she feeds your ego like you’re a Greek God lounging on a chaise, feeding you grapes one by one. You know she didn’t ask you on this date to go out somewhere, she saw you dancing with Pam in the bar, you know she’s been watching you two with her big round eyes. You walk slowly up to Kathy, a small smile across your mouth; you’re not shy at all. You have “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress” running through your mind, and all you want to do is take that dress off of her. The ocean breeze is blowing her hair around as you put your hands around her waist and lean in to kiss her gently on her lips. She takes your hand and you walk down the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Kathy teaches you more about anatomy then you ever learn in med school.
Dayna is your hippie chick. You meet her at a party at Kathy’s house one weekend. At this point you realize, you’re the summer boy toy, but you don’t mind, in fact you’re reveling in it. Dayna introduces you to the world of higher meaning, higher consciousness, well, that’s the crap that she hands you, but it’s your first dabble into drugs and getting high, and that you enjoy. Dayna is “Feelin’ Alright” with Joe Cocker as she snorts coke off the living room coffee table, and you look around and wonder what the hell you’re getting yourself into.
Dayna is small with sandy colored hair and bright blue eyes. She always seems to have on dirty jeans covered in patches and loose hippie shirts that are always hanging off of her. You think that she, Pam and Kathy are the three most unusual friends you have ever seen, but they’re fun. Dayna is always laughing and smiling, but her eyes always seem distant, sad and hollow.
One night, she climbs her tiny body across your lap and throws her arms happily around your neck and nuzzles her mouth into your neck. You pick her up, her legs wrapped around your waist and stumble into an empty room. You don’t remember much of the night, but when you wake up you’re naked with more than one person in the bed. Seems I've got to have a change of scene you hear Joe Cocker crooning again from the living room. “Yeah,” you laugh to yourself, as you grab your pants and head out, the smell of fresh pot permeating throughout the house. You sit down with the strangers in the living room and smoke with them and try to figure out if you can bum a ride back to Aunt Lizzie’s, hoping you won’t have to walk. “Love the One You’re With” rings through your head as you jump into a crowded car and the dark haired girl next to you snuggles up against you.
You leave Aunt Lizzie’s shortly after this with a tan and a few notches on your belt. You have a strut in your stride that you didn’t have before and a new soundtrack in your system. Sometimes, somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder how those girls are. You never talked much to them, never really learned who they were. You wonder if Pam ever smiles now, and if she is tired and angry. Is Kathy worn and alone? And is Dayna too empty and anorexic? These songs you associate with them were never them, but you never got to know who they were. You were just a boy, trying to be a man, and too stupid to know it yet.
+
The bar is crowded and smoky, even though there is no more smoking in bars in Jersey anymore, no one seems to give a crap. You’re meeting up with Crandall, he’s in Jersey interviewing Les Paul for a piece he’s writing. You meet him at a bar a midway point between Princeton and where he’s staying in Northern Jersey. You two sitting are sitting at a booth sharing a pitcher of beer and old memories, catching up on recent developments since his daughter joined his household. He’s only in town for two nights, and he doesn’t stay late. He bids you goodnight too early for your taste.
You sit alone in your booth your head lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and memories when the music changes, and that’s when you see her, leaning against the jukebox in skintight jeans, singing along to Joan Jett. It’s almost ironic. I saw him standing there by the record machine / he look like he must have been about seventeen... Her hips are swaying to the music, her mouth moving to the words. Allison Cameron.
You laugh to yourself. You are drawn to her like a moth to a flame. You stagger through the crowd and surprise her by leaning into her and whispering into her ear, “Isn’t this song a little wrong for you?”
She jumps. You like shocking her.
She clenches. You hate when she clenches. She is frowning, giving you that look of ‘why are you bothering me?’ That’s when you notice her midriff top and her lipstick, the workplace stance making her going-out attire out of place. However, the stance doesn’t calm the notion to taste her mouth and run your tongue along the skin of her stomach.
“What are you doing here?”
You laugh. You could ask her the same thing.
“I asked you first.”
“What are we? Eight?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m here with some friends. You?”
“I have a date with a hooker.”
She turns to walk away. You grab her shoulder. “No, I met Crandall.” You don’t know why you decided to tell her the truth, the look of annoyance on her face has been becoming so permanent, and you just do not like it. She looks at you quizzically. “He’s in town doing an interview, we picked a mid-point. Small world, eh?” You try to lighten the mood.
“How’s Leona?”
“Who?”
“His daughter?” She looks at you exasperated.
“Oh, fine,” you shrug off. You tried to ignore a lot of what Dylan was saying about his daughter, but he’s happy, they’re happy. You relay that info to her.
You stand there briefly in awkwardness, sitting on the fence of whether to go home or offer to buy her a drink. You hear someone call her name, Cameron turns and shakes her head.
She turns back and you, “I’ve got to go,” she says in almost a grimace, “My friends are leaving.”
You want to tell her not to leave, but you don’t. You want to grab her arm and pull her into the booth and force her to have drinks with you, you curiosity wondering if alcohol will loosen her up. But it’s more then that - she’s more then that - you just can’t admit it. You want to tell her it was nice to see her, but you don’t. You just nod your head and bid a brief goodbye, see you in the office on Monday bullshit line. You try to understand why she always ties you up in knots. But you don’t know. You liked seeing her outside of the office. Taking her outside the work place, putting her into a different context, the darkness of the bar surrounding her, the music taking her over, just makes her seem, well, different. And that just makes you more fascinated.
+
Ever since you saw Cameron dancing to Joan Jett, you’ve wondered what her soundtrack would be. You can’t figure it out. You had assumed it would have been all poppy-girly music, but when you saw her singing with her lipstick mouth along to Joan’s raspy voice, you knew that wasn’t true. You could have sworn you heard Cameron growl. If not, you saw it. So, for weeks, you have been fantasizing about Cameron and her inner music, it occupies your mind like a running melody, the musak to your brain as you go throughout your day. Wilson keeps asking you what’s up, why you are so distracted, but you’ve been able to blow him off so far.
It’s not until a few weeks later that you realize that you’ll never learn anything about her while she’s wearing that white coat...
I saw her today at the reception - A glass of wine in her hand
For some reason, you didn’t expect to see her here. You know it’s a hospital function and you’re the one who usually doesn’t attend, but you get a surprised twinge in your gut when you see her, and it throws you off balance. So for once, you’re actually glad you have your cane, otherwise you might have found yourself sitting on your ass.
Something doesn’t seem right. Her face is cloudy. She’s not crying, but something is wrong. She is clutching the stem of her wine glass so tightly, you’re waiting for it to break, glass shards to fly throughout the air stinging unaware skin and piercing unnoticing eyes, red wine to pour down her porcelain arms disguising the blood from skin injured by the broken glass. She’s good at covering things up, you’ll give her that, but you notice everything.
She’s dressed in a black cocktail dress that is silky and skims her knees. She has a suit jacket over it, but you can see when she lifts her arm to sip from her glass that it has spaghetti straps and a tight bodice, displaying her lovely cleavage, and so unlike office-Cameron. Your eyes scan her body more carefully, the dress hugs her ass so nicely; you tilt your head to the side for better inspection. Her left hand clutches a blood red silk purse, her feet are adorned with similar colored knock-me-down-and-fuck-me-pumps. Aha! You think she got stood up. Who? You wonder, your eyes scanning the room. Actually, you really don’t care. Not any more. You’re not sure why, but you really don’t. You tuck your chin, and head toward the bar.
You knock on the bar, which not only garners the attention of the bar keep, but of Cameron. “Kettle One martini, dry, three olives.”
You glance at her. She doesn’t say anything, barely looks at you, and keeps sipping her red wine. “How you doing?” You ask, you suddenly feel like Joey from “Friends,” it doesn’t work for you.
She glares at you, and doesn’t answer.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” You turn around and look at her, leaning your elbows against the bar.
“House, whatever it is you want, whatever it is you have to say, just say it and be gone!” she says, waving her hand dramatically in the air, never moving the wine glass far from her mouth, or releasing her death grip on it.
You continue to eye her. “You look nice.”
She eyes you suspiciously.
“Really.” You try to sound genuine. You take your drink off the bar, and take a sip of it.
She looks away, almost at the wall, “Thank you.”
“Why are you here?”
“Why are you here?”
“Cuddy.” You’re honest, you’re giving it a try. “She forced me, threatened me, you name it. I’m a department head, I have to show face once in a while. You?”
“I said I would be.” She sounds bitter.
“You don’t sound like you want to be here, so why be?”
She snorts. “I always do what I say I’m going to do.”
“Why?” She’s a puzzle.
“Because, that’s who I am.” She puts her empty wine glass on the bar, and signals to the bartender for a refill.
“Soooo, you’re getting drunk to make up for being angry about something?”
“I’m not angry.”
“Right.”
“Right.” She pauses. “And I’m not getting drunk.”
“Okay. So what are you doing then with a death grip around your Merlot?”
She looks at her hand and loosens her fingers from her stem.
“I don’t get you, Cameron,” you finally say.
She looks at you in surprise. “I didn’t realize you were trying to.”
You don’t respond. She sighs.
“Did you get stood up?” You ask her.
“No,” she responds, not even getting defensive about it. “House, I’m just really tired.”
And for once you look at her, and you see her. You see how tired her eyes are. You see through her clouds and see how she’s barely keeping it together. And how exhausted she is, more exhausted than you look, and often feel. And somehow, you think you see how alone she is and something connects. You swear you hear her eyes tell you that she just wants someone to take care of her, because she’s so tired, she just needs a break. You hear every sad, disappointing song pulsating through her veins. You start to see how wrong you are, how wrong you have been. You start to see Allison, tired, and lonely, yearning, and quiet. And, most of all, silently loving.
You gulp your martini down in three swallows, take the wine glass from her. You take her hand in your larger one. She looks at you with large, quiet eyes. “Come with me,” you tell her.
After that you change everything. You hold her hand and take her for a walk until her feet hurt too much in those god-awful pumps. Then you take her home and kiss her gently in the doorway, tentatively and purely. She lets you come in. The two of you are unusually quiet, no talk, no questions about what you should or should not be doing. You’re relieved by that. You take her feet in you lap, remove her shoes off and massage the aching soles of her feet.
Her eyes are tired and bewildered, full of questions that you have no answers to right now. You are enjoying this quiet, trying to listen to the sound of her breathing, the beating of her heart, the rhythms of her body.
“What are you doing?” she pleads, a certain vulnerability in her voice.
You hope you give her the right answer, because more then ever you yearn to be with her, to know her, to understand her. You don’t want her to think you’re playing games with her, because you’re not. “I’m taking care of you.”
She doesn’t respond to you, her eyes seem frightened, and you don’t blame her, you feel it too. Yet, she follows you. You run her a warm bath, and wash her long hair. She closes her eyes tight as you rinse her long locks. You long to touch her and taste her, but you hold yourself back, and you’re gentle and tender. She dresses herself for bed and you tuck her in. As you turn to sit in the chair in the corner of her room to watch over her as she sleeps, she reaches for you. She is out of breath before your mouths even meet.
“What are you doing?” She implores you even more. “Why are you doing this?”
For once you find yourself at a loss of words, your voice stammering over consonants and vowels trying to explain something to her that you do not even understand yourself. Tonight you didn’t try to rationalize anything, you didn’t let your head wrap around all the thoughts and emotions that hold you back, you just followed your body and your heart, and you hoped you were doing the right thing. How do you explain that to her? Especially after everything you have put her through? You don’t want to sound trite, even though your lungs and stomach are tight and elated in a way you have never felt before or, perhaps, never allowed them to feel before.
“If I tell you, will you believe me?” You ask her.
“I always believe you.” And you know that’s true.
But you’re afraid of the words, and you’re scared of them crossing your mouth, the permanency of them in the open air. How can you tell someone that you barely know that you’re in love with her, particularly when you have given her every reason in the world not to ever think that? You start to feel nervous, and you don’t want to feel that, you have been able to fend off that sensation all night. You reach for her and kiss her deeply. “I want to be with you, in every way.”
After that night, you realize she has your matching parts. And even though you know you’re a selfish jerk, every day you look at her and see new amazements in her.
You start to learn her music. How when she’s silly and happy she is the Beach Boys. When it’s sunny and warm, she opens the windows to Motown. She runs to Sheryl Crow. When she is seductive, she chooses a range of music that you love to discover laced into her sexuality, which is forward and uninhibited, unlike the shyer, quieter, bespectacled woman in a lab coat. You are finding she is many more layers then she ever appeared, and you enjoy searching out her levels, being introduced to her history, being granted access to through her guarded gates.
Rainy Sundays make her sad and she plays Nina Simone. Nina’s soulful, mourning voice flowing through the apartment hits you in the bottom of your stomach. You can be rooms away and hear twinges of Nina’s voice and it will make you search out Cameron. You hold her close, daring and wanting to feel this inner, raw soul of hers. You pin her face down to the bed, kissing every inch of her body, slowly concentrating on her arms and her neck and ears. Making love to Allison, slowly and deliberately with more emotion and passion then you ever thought you possessed. She did this for you. You only know you want more; you want more from her and more from yourself. So you crave to continue to learn her music, each day a new song. This woman and her absolute being a light full of symphonies, melodies, rock riffs, soul and everything in between. You feel lucky to be filling your days with these sounds and lyrics, feelings and emotions. You never did this before, you know now how stupid you were before.
end
*Note: Actual title of the song is "Baba O'Riley" but is often known as "Teenage Wasteland."
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: R
Words: 3921
Summary: House examines the role of music in his life, especially with how he associates it with women...
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...
Note: No spoilers! Written from House's POV, in a 'you' POV. (Just be forewarned!)
Beta: Many thanks to the lovely phineyj for the beta-job! -- especially since this is the first piece I have actually completed in a while (I've been suffering writer's block)..ahh! Feedback is always welcome, btw!
Lyrical Days
You associate various parts of your life with music, especially women you have been with. Different periods, even seasons, have different soundtracks in your mind. Soulful blues for sad times, classical concertos for lonely nights, rock and roll for fast woman, Van Morrison for sexy Sundays, hard rock for drinking with your buddies, Golden Oldies for carefree days and jazz to fill in the blanks.
You’re seventeen when you meet Pam. You’re spending your summer down the Jersey Shore with your mother’s friend, who you have called Aunt Lizzie your entire life. You have your own room and you work for her in the morning. She has a boarding house, what you would call a bed and breakfast today. You help out with breakfast in the morning and you have the afternoons and evenings to yourself. Your mother and father spend two weeks with you, but otherwise the summer is yours. Your father is being relocated and your parents are moving again. Your mother wants you to enjoy your summer a bit. You don’t mind. You don’t know anyone here, but then you meet Pam working for Aunt Lizzie; she cleans rooms and changes sheets, but Pam introduces you to some fun, and you like that. After you’re seeing her a bit, you two like the fact that she has access to the room keys and you can sneak off into any empty rooms and frolic around.
Pam is older then you and has long dark hair that flows down her back and grazes her waist. You’re intrigued by her, and she humors you. Pam’s soundtrack is The Who’s “Tommy”. She drives a beat-up convertible and you love that she sings along to “We’re Not Gonna Take It” like you’re not even in the car. We’re not gonna take it sung in a lower tone, until she’s yelling it out above the music into the open air, the sea breeze taking her long locks into the wind. Other times, she vocalizes “Teenage Wasteland”* with more emotion than you have ever seen. Her fingers tap and thump loudly against the steering wheel, she sings with abandonment. She’s slyly sexy and carefree in a way she doesn’t realize, but she sings like she has something to be angry about. You can’t see her eyes, she hides them behind sunglasses, you sometimes wonder what her secrets are. You don’t try to pry into her world, it’s all new to you and she’s the one bringing you along for the ride, she hides an anger that you don’t know if you care enough to know about.
She takes you to the Stone Pony for the first time, sneaking you in and introducing you to her friends. Pam’s attitude is easy going and flippant about a lot of things, no one seems to care or notice that you’re younger. You share the beer tab with everyone else, and enjoy the sudsy amber flow and the drunken feeling you have as you stand around listening to music. You don’t mind when Pam pushes her body into yours and dances against you.
Later that night, she drags you by the collar of your shirt into the back seat of her car. She’s too drunk to make any sense, and you have an angel and devil sitting on your shoulder. But you’re seventeen and you’re horny, and when she reaches for your zipper and puts her wet mouth on your cock, you throw your caution to the wind.
Unfortunately, you’re also seventeen and your hormones and your mind are on fire and you get bored quickly. Pam is a fun girl, but you realize that you don’t have a lot to talk about, or maybe it’s just that you neither of you talk much. She introduces you to her friends, however, and they are friendly. Pam works at an ice cream parlor in the afternoons and a few evenings a week, so she becomes too busy for you anyway. She actually encourages you to hang out with her friends.
Kathy asks you out on a date. She lives in Deal, and her parents have money, so she doesn’t have to work on summer break. She drives around in a car with a British Invasion bumper sticker, but when you see her standing on the boardwalk waiting for you, her song is The Hollies’ “Long Cool Woman (In A Black Dress.)” Kathy’s soundtrack is every sexy rock song you can think of. Kathy screams sexuality.
She’s leaning against the iron rail on the boardwalk when you approach her, her legs crossed at the ankles waiting for you. Kathy has frosted blond hair, cut short but long and wispy on the top. Her mouth is pouty and luscious, and she is as all curves -- hips and round breasts. She is wearing a black wrap dress, the hem blowing in the breeze showing off her bare legs. You can’t help but notice her little toes painted cherry red on display in her high-heeled Candies.
You are tall and lanky, just starting to fill out and become more muscular. You are already cultivating your ego, and Kathy is feeding it even more. If this was present day, Wilson would warn her off you, but instead she feeds your ego like you’re a Greek God lounging on a chaise, feeding you grapes one by one. You know she didn’t ask you on this date to go out somewhere, she saw you dancing with Pam in the bar, you know she’s been watching you two with her big round eyes. You walk slowly up to Kathy, a small smile across your mouth; you’re not shy at all. You have “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress” running through your mind, and all you want to do is take that dress off of her. The ocean breeze is blowing her hair around as you put your hands around her waist and lean in to kiss her gently on her lips. She takes your hand and you walk down the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Kathy teaches you more about anatomy then you ever learn in med school.
Dayna is your hippie chick. You meet her at a party at Kathy’s house one weekend. At this point you realize, you’re the summer boy toy, but you don’t mind, in fact you’re reveling in it. Dayna introduces you to the world of higher meaning, higher consciousness, well, that’s the crap that she hands you, but it’s your first dabble into drugs and getting high, and that you enjoy. Dayna is “Feelin’ Alright” with Joe Cocker as she snorts coke off the living room coffee table, and you look around and wonder what the hell you’re getting yourself into.
Dayna is small with sandy colored hair and bright blue eyes. She always seems to have on dirty jeans covered in patches and loose hippie shirts that are always hanging off of her. You think that she, Pam and Kathy are the three most unusual friends you have ever seen, but they’re fun. Dayna is always laughing and smiling, but her eyes always seem distant, sad and hollow.
One night, she climbs her tiny body across your lap and throws her arms happily around your neck and nuzzles her mouth into your neck. You pick her up, her legs wrapped around your waist and stumble into an empty room. You don’t remember much of the night, but when you wake up you’re naked with more than one person in the bed. Seems I've got to have a change of scene you hear Joe Cocker crooning again from the living room. “Yeah,” you laugh to yourself, as you grab your pants and head out, the smell of fresh pot permeating throughout the house. You sit down with the strangers in the living room and smoke with them and try to figure out if you can bum a ride back to Aunt Lizzie’s, hoping you won’t have to walk. “Love the One You’re With” rings through your head as you jump into a crowded car and the dark haired girl next to you snuggles up against you.
You leave Aunt Lizzie’s shortly after this with a tan and a few notches on your belt. You have a strut in your stride that you didn’t have before and a new soundtrack in your system. Sometimes, somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder how those girls are. You never talked much to them, never really learned who they were. You wonder if Pam ever smiles now, and if she is tired and angry. Is Kathy worn and alone? And is Dayna too empty and anorexic? These songs you associate with them were never them, but you never got to know who they were. You were just a boy, trying to be a man, and too stupid to know it yet.
+
The bar is crowded and smoky, even though there is no more smoking in bars in Jersey anymore, no one seems to give a crap. You’re meeting up with Crandall, he’s in Jersey interviewing Les Paul for a piece he’s writing. You meet him at a bar a midway point between Princeton and where he’s staying in Northern Jersey. You two sitting are sitting at a booth sharing a pitcher of beer and old memories, catching up on recent developments since his daughter joined his household. He’s only in town for two nights, and he doesn’t stay late. He bids you goodnight too early for your taste.
You sit alone in your booth your head lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and memories when the music changes, and that’s when you see her, leaning against the jukebox in skintight jeans, singing along to Joan Jett. It’s almost ironic. I saw him standing there by the record machine / he look like he must have been about seventeen... Her hips are swaying to the music, her mouth moving to the words. Allison Cameron.
You laugh to yourself. You are drawn to her like a moth to a flame. You stagger through the crowd and surprise her by leaning into her and whispering into her ear, “Isn’t this song a little wrong for you?”
She jumps. You like shocking her.
She clenches. You hate when she clenches. She is frowning, giving you that look of ‘why are you bothering me?’ That’s when you notice her midriff top and her lipstick, the workplace stance making her going-out attire out of place. However, the stance doesn’t calm the notion to taste her mouth and run your tongue along the skin of her stomach.
“What are you doing here?”
You laugh. You could ask her the same thing.
“I asked you first.”
“What are we? Eight?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m here with some friends. You?”
“I have a date with a hooker.”
She turns to walk away. You grab her shoulder. “No, I met Crandall.” You don’t know why you decided to tell her the truth, the look of annoyance on her face has been becoming so permanent, and you just do not like it. She looks at you quizzically. “He’s in town doing an interview, we picked a mid-point. Small world, eh?” You try to lighten the mood.
“How’s Leona?”
“Who?”
“His daughter?” She looks at you exasperated.
“Oh, fine,” you shrug off. You tried to ignore a lot of what Dylan was saying about his daughter, but he’s happy, they’re happy. You relay that info to her.
You stand there briefly in awkwardness, sitting on the fence of whether to go home or offer to buy her a drink. You hear someone call her name, Cameron turns and shakes her head.
She turns back and you, “I’ve got to go,” she says in almost a grimace, “My friends are leaving.”
You want to tell her not to leave, but you don’t. You want to grab her arm and pull her into the booth and force her to have drinks with you, you curiosity wondering if alcohol will loosen her up. But it’s more then that - she’s more then that - you just can’t admit it. You want to tell her it was nice to see her, but you don’t. You just nod your head and bid a brief goodbye, see you in the office on Monday bullshit line. You try to understand why she always ties you up in knots. But you don’t know. You liked seeing her outside of the office. Taking her outside the work place, putting her into a different context, the darkness of the bar surrounding her, the music taking her over, just makes her seem, well, different. And that just makes you more fascinated.
+
Ever since you saw Cameron dancing to Joan Jett, you’ve wondered what her soundtrack would be. You can’t figure it out. You had assumed it would have been all poppy-girly music, but when you saw her singing with her lipstick mouth along to Joan’s raspy voice, you knew that wasn’t true. You could have sworn you heard Cameron growl. If not, you saw it. So, for weeks, you have been fantasizing about Cameron and her inner music, it occupies your mind like a running melody, the musak to your brain as you go throughout your day. Wilson keeps asking you what’s up, why you are so distracted, but you’ve been able to blow him off so far.
It’s not until a few weeks later that you realize that you’ll never learn anything about her while she’s wearing that white coat...
I saw her today at the reception - A glass of wine in her hand
For some reason, you didn’t expect to see her here. You know it’s a hospital function and you’re the one who usually doesn’t attend, but you get a surprised twinge in your gut when you see her, and it throws you off balance. So for once, you’re actually glad you have your cane, otherwise you might have found yourself sitting on your ass.
Something doesn’t seem right. Her face is cloudy. She’s not crying, but something is wrong. She is clutching the stem of her wine glass so tightly, you’re waiting for it to break, glass shards to fly throughout the air stinging unaware skin and piercing unnoticing eyes, red wine to pour down her porcelain arms disguising the blood from skin injured by the broken glass. She’s good at covering things up, you’ll give her that, but you notice everything.
She’s dressed in a black cocktail dress that is silky and skims her knees. She has a suit jacket over it, but you can see when she lifts her arm to sip from her glass that it has spaghetti straps and a tight bodice, displaying her lovely cleavage, and so unlike office-Cameron. Your eyes scan her body more carefully, the dress hugs her ass so nicely; you tilt your head to the side for better inspection. Her left hand clutches a blood red silk purse, her feet are adorned with similar colored knock-me-down-and-fuck-me-pumps. Aha! You think she got stood up. Who? You wonder, your eyes scanning the room. Actually, you really don’t care. Not any more. You’re not sure why, but you really don’t. You tuck your chin, and head toward the bar.
You knock on the bar, which not only garners the attention of the bar keep, but of Cameron. “Kettle One martini, dry, three olives.”
You glance at her. She doesn’t say anything, barely looks at you, and keeps sipping her red wine. “How you doing?” You ask, you suddenly feel like Joey from “Friends,” it doesn’t work for you.
She glares at you, and doesn’t answer.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” You turn around and look at her, leaning your elbows against the bar.
“House, whatever it is you want, whatever it is you have to say, just say it and be gone!” she says, waving her hand dramatically in the air, never moving the wine glass far from her mouth, or releasing her death grip on it.
You continue to eye her. “You look nice.”
She eyes you suspiciously.
“Really.” You try to sound genuine. You take your drink off the bar, and take a sip of it.
She looks away, almost at the wall, “Thank you.”
“Why are you here?”
“Why are you here?”
“Cuddy.” You’re honest, you’re giving it a try. “She forced me, threatened me, you name it. I’m a department head, I have to show face once in a while. You?”
“I said I would be.” She sounds bitter.
“You don’t sound like you want to be here, so why be?”
She snorts. “I always do what I say I’m going to do.”
“Why?” She’s a puzzle.
“Because, that’s who I am.” She puts her empty wine glass on the bar, and signals to the bartender for a refill.
“Soooo, you’re getting drunk to make up for being angry about something?”
“I’m not angry.”
“Right.”
“Right.” She pauses. “And I’m not getting drunk.”
“Okay. So what are you doing then with a death grip around your Merlot?”
She looks at her hand and loosens her fingers from her stem.
“I don’t get you, Cameron,” you finally say.
She looks at you in surprise. “I didn’t realize you were trying to.”
You don’t respond. She sighs.
“Did you get stood up?” You ask her.
“No,” she responds, not even getting defensive about it. “House, I’m just really tired.”
And for once you look at her, and you see her. You see how tired her eyes are. You see through her clouds and see how she’s barely keeping it together. And how exhausted she is, more exhausted than you look, and often feel. And somehow, you think you see how alone she is and something connects. You swear you hear her eyes tell you that she just wants someone to take care of her, because she’s so tired, she just needs a break. You hear every sad, disappointing song pulsating through her veins. You start to see how wrong you are, how wrong you have been. You start to see Allison, tired, and lonely, yearning, and quiet. And, most of all, silently loving.
You gulp your martini down in three swallows, take the wine glass from her. You take her hand in your larger one. She looks at you with large, quiet eyes. “Come with me,” you tell her.
After that you change everything. You hold her hand and take her for a walk until her feet hurt too much in those god-awful pumps. Then you take her home and kiss her gently in the doorway, tentatively and purely. She lets you come in. The two of you are unusually quiet, no talk, no questions about what you should or should not be doing. You’re relieved by that. You take her feet in you lap, remove her shoes off and massage the aching soles of her feet.
Her eyes are tired and bewildered, full of questions that you have no answers to right now. You are enjoying this quiet, trying to listen to the sound of her breathing, the beating of her heart, the rhythms of her body.
“What are you doing?” she pleads, a certain vulnerability in her voice.
You hope you give her the right answer, because more then ever you yearn to be with her, to know her, to understand her. You don’t want her to think you’re playing games with her, because you’re not. “I’m taking care of you.”
She doesn’t respond to you, her eyes seem frightened, and you don’t blame her, you feel it too. Yet, she follows you. You run her a warm bath, and wash her long hair. She closes her eyes tight as you rinse her long locks. You long to touch her and taste her, but you hold yourself back, and you’re gentle and tender. She dresses herself for bed and you tuck her in. As you turn to sit in the chair in the corner of her room to watch over her as she sleeps, she reaches for you. She is out of breath before your mouths even meet.
“What are you doing?” She implores you even more. “Why are you doing this?”
For once you find yourself at a loss of words, your voice stammering over consonants and vowels trying to explain something to her that you do not even understand yourself. Tonight you didn’t try to rationalize anything, you didn’t let your head wrap around all the thoughts and emotions that hold you back, you just followed your body and your heart, and you hoped you were doing the right thing. How do you explain that to her? Especially after everything you have put her through? You don’t want to sound trite, even though your lungs and stomach are tight and elated in a way you have never felt before or, perhaps, never allowed them to feel before.
“If I tell you, will you believe me?” You ask her.
“I always believe you.” And you know that’s true.
But you’re afraid of the words, and you’re scared of them crossing your mouth, the permanency of them in the open air. How can you tell someone that you barely know that you’re in love with her, particularly when you have given her every reason in the world not to ever think that? You start to feel nervous, and you don’t want to feel that, you have been able to fend off that sensation all night. You reach for her and kiss her deeply. “I want to be with you, in every way.”
After that night, you realize she has your matching parts. And even though you know you’re a selfish jerk, every day you look at her and see new amazements in her.
You start to learn her music. How when she’s silly and happy she is the Beach Boys. When it’s sunny and warm, she opens the windows to Motown. She runs to Sheryl Crow. When she is seductive, she chooses a range of music that you love to discover laced into her sexuality, which is forward and uninhibited, unlike the shyer, quieter, bespectacled woman in a lab coat. You are finding she is many more layers then she ever appeared, and you enjoy searching out her levels, being introduced to her history, being granted access to through her guarded gates.
Rainy Sundays make her sad and she plays Nina Simone. Nina’s soulful, mourning voice flowing through the apartment hits you in the bottom of your stomach. You can be rooms away and hear twinges of Nina’s voice and it will make you search out Cameron. You hold her close, daring and wanting to feel this inner, raw soul of hers. You pin her face down to the bed, kissing every inch of her body, slowly concentrating on her arms and her neck and ears. Making love to Allison, slowly and deliberately with more emotion and passion then you ever thought you possessed. She did this for you. You only know you want more; you want more from her and more from yourself. So you crave to continue to learn her music, each day a new song. This woman and her absolute being a light full of symphonies, melodies, rock riffs, soul and everything in between. You feel lucky to be filling your days with these sounds and lyrics, feelings and emotions. You never did this before, you know now how stupid you were before.
end
*Note: Actual title of the song is "Baba O'Riley" but is often known as "Teenage Wasteland."