A Figment of His Imagination (9)
Title: You Can't Always Get What You Want
Fandom: House m.d.
Summary: This mutated story was inspired by the one scene I got to see of 4x13, so it's kind of spoilery for that particular episode. And yes, now I've seen the rest of the season as well. So spoilery up to Wilson's Heart now.
Rating: What about Teen for this one?
Disclaimer: Written out of fan-appreciation I do neither own House m.d. nor any other characters that appear on that show, I just borrowed them to play around with, so don't sue, please? Oh, and I kind of snatched parts of the dialogue between House and Amber from the bus scene in Wilson's Heart...
previous chapters:
1. It's All In Your Head * 2. It's Not Just In Your Head * 3. Mind Games * 4. Daydreaming * 5. Nightmare * 6. In Your Wildest Dreams * 7. Freudian Dilemma * 8. Epiphany Is A Name For A Blond Girl
She regards his profile for awhile before she decides to speak up. He’s staring ahead, his eyes fixed on the spot where Wilson’s stood just a minute ago.
House looks sad and forlorn. Doubtlessly she’s just scratching the surface with that observation. He’s like Pandora’s Box and she doesn’t dare to pry under the lit. She can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on inside his head and for once she doesn’t want to. A lot has happened. Normally he doesn’t inflict lasting damage. It’s like he takes care not to do so, but unfortunately he hasn’t succeeded this time around. Amber is dead. Wilson’s…well, crushed? Devastated? No, she doesn’t want to trade places with House. But in spite of everything that has happened she can’t help but feel sorry for him, so her voice manages to sound concerned even when she just says “Hey”.
He turns his head to look at her. The exhaustion’s showing on his face, but primarily in his eyes. She might not be able to understand the reason behind most of the things he does, but she’s always been good at reading him just by looking at him. If it weren’t for the lies and contradictions pouring from his mouth, she would have figured out how he ticked much earlier. He’s tired, afraid and insecure. She’s never seen him like that. “Hey,” he answers with a rough voice.
For a while neither of them speaks. He looks like he wants to say something, but as long as he doesn’t open his mouth she’s not ready to even consider forgiving him. She breaks eye contact and gets up from her chair, stretching her legs. Now she’s standing there, pondering whether she should stay or run from the room. Funny, how she always manages to get herself into these awkward situations.
“I’m sorry,” he says and makes the situation even more awkward because she doesn’t know what to answer him. She still loves him and a part of her wants to immediately forgive him, but it’s the smaller one, because mostly she’s just exhausted and angry. He’s put her through a lot the last couple of days. She’s simultaneously impressed and repelled by the fact that he would even go as far as risking his own life in order to save someone else. She’s impressed because she wants to believe that for once he’s done something selfless, but then reality catches up with her and she realizes that probably all he wanted to do was solve another one of his stupid puzzles. So all she says is: “I know.”
He sighs. Apparently this isn’t the answer he expected. As much as she would like to help him out there she can’t. Not this time. Whether he’s actually sorry or not is immaterial. Mere words can’t raise the dead. He’s made a mistake. Many mistakes, as a matter of fact, which have led to a brilliant firework of absolute and utter fuck-upery of unexpected dimensions. Now she needs time and a little bit more than just words. She would like to be able to forgive him, but she can’t yet. Maybe not ever. However, she can’t walk away from him either. Something’s keeping her there with him. She loves him.
“Seems like I screwed up completely this time.”
She doesn’t answer that, just lowers her head and wishes she could say something along the lines of “No, you haven’t screwed up. Everything will be alright again”, but the words just won’t come. She has learned that she’s quite a good liar, but she is no one who lies because she enjoys it. She only tells white lies, the ones which are necessary to prevent further harm. But what good would a lie do under those circumstances? Since she has nothing to say, she stays silent and evades his gaze.
“Great,” he mutters dejectedly, wishing he had never woken up. Why does everything have to be so hard? If she isn’t ready to forgive him, who will be? After all she is Cameron…Little-Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes, the one he’s always scolded for being too forgiving, too soft, too gentle, too everything to once upon a time make a proper doctor. There is only one possible conclusion. The realisation is really a bitter pill, because despite of everything he’s said to her in the past couple of years, he’s never actually wanted things to end like this.
For once he’s too tired to pretend like he doesn’t care, so he just says what’s on his mind. “Wow, you must really hate me.”
She looks at him in surprise. Her answer is more hesitant than he would like it to be. “Actually, I don’t.”
“Huh? Sorry, did I miss something?” he looks at her confusedly.
“No, you didn’t.”
“So you don’t hate me, but we’re not okay. Is that about it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Fine. But where does that leave us?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that sucks,” he grumbles ill-humouredly.
“Yeah, kind of,” she says with a shy smile that is supposed to conceal her nervousness. Needless to say that in a situation like this it quite predictably fails to do so.
“But you’re still here. Means you worried.”
“I don’t know what it means.” She lowers her head dejectedly. This talk is exhausting her in more than just one way. She’s been on her feet for at least 24 hours, she hasn’t eaten and she’s still waiting for that moment of peace and quietude that will help her catch her breath and regroup. Actually, she’s pretty amazed at the fact she’s able to have a coherent conversation at all.
“I’m tired,” she adds after a while. His eyes widen. He has obviously gotten her wrong. “Not of you. Just plain normal tired,” Cameron laughs nervously. “Aren’t you too?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he says slowly, still regarding her taxingly.
“Why don’t you have a rest? It’ll make you feel better,” she suggests and he silently nods in agreement.
“Right, I’ll better get going then…” She quickly gets up and is almost out the door before he gets the chance to ask one last question before she goes.
“But you’re going to come back, right?” He sounds a bit timid.
She looks at him silently for a while, trying to make up her mind. The answer comes to her disconcertingly quickly. She hasn’t got it in her to say ‘no’ to him. He’s pale, he looks exhausted, maybe even a bit scared. He needs her and her stupid soft heart that won’t allow her to walk away from him like she should.
Her shoulders slump in defeat when she finally answers: “Yes, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
*
“So here I am. I am back,” Cameron says nervously as she enters the room. Only a couple of steps into the room, she can already see he’s looking much better than yesterday.
“Yes, I can see that,” he smiles, almost managing to look a bit complacent. But he doesn’t quite succeed. Of course his act of nonchalance is rather transparent to her, given that he’s almost done a double take at the sight of her standing in the doorframe.
“So you just wanted to quickly zoom in during your break,” he says, taking in her pink ER scrubs and her hair, swept up in a messy bun. “Am I just a quick detour on the way to the cafeteria then?”
“Something like that,” she mumbles. “I dropped by your office. Figured you wanted to have this.” She throws his playstation on the covers which she’s been hiding behind her back up until now.
He briefly looks at the electronic device lying there in front of him, tempting him with its plastic screen glinting in the neon light, then looks at her. He’s unsure what to do next, or more precisely what to say next. He decides on the tradition response to someone doing you a favour. “Thank you,” House answers after a moment of hesitation.
“Oh, don’t mention it. If you need anything else…,” she lets the rest of the sentence dangle in the air, like a carrot in front of a donkey.
“Yeah, actually I do,” he says after a while, his voice sounding more gravely than usual.
“If you want me to get you out of here, I’m sorry but I’ll have to disappoint you. You know procedures as well as I do. They’ll have to keep you for at least one more week. In case of an aneurysm the ICU apparently is the place to be, you know,” she chuckles weakly at her one joke, then suddenly feels the need to apologize for it. These days she’s not so sure anymore her humour is meant for someone else’s ears except hers. “I’m sorry. What is it you needed?”
He hesitates, looks away, regards his reflection in the windowpane - a pale-looking man in his mid-forties alone in a big hospital room. He looks back at her - young, gorgeous, slightly stressed, slightly damaged and subtlety irritated. Then he decides to finally speak. “I need you to…Well, I need you to…” He clears his throat, swears, starts again. “I need you to forgive me.”
“Greg…” She doesn’t call him by his given name very often, most of the times the situation is serious when she does. And the way she says it has him worried too. It’s that voice people use when they break up with someone or chastise a puppy that has just christened the brand new carpet with its pee - a little regretful, also somewhat complaisant and tiny bit hypocritical.
“Oh, that’s what you were going to say!” He waves of her unspoken words with a casual gesture of his hand. It’s not as casual as he would like, because he has to take care not to accidentally rip out any tubes.
“You don’t know what I was going to say,” she looks irritated.
“Alright, go ahead then. Say it.” He would very much like to be able to cross his arms over his chest, but he can’t because of the aforementioned tube problem.
She roles her eyes, but despite her annoyance with him, she still manages to say what she originally intended to. “Forgiveness has to be earned.”
He’s stunned, but clear-headed enough to quickly ask one vital question. “How do I do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it possible at all?”
Cameron hesitates for what seems to be an eternity. “There’s a chance.”
“That’s enough for me,” he calls after her as she leaves the room as quickly as she came.
tbc
Fandom: House m.d.
Summary: This mutated story was inspired by the one scene I got to see of 4x13, so it's kind of spoilery for that particular episode. And yes, now I've seen the rest of the season as well. So spoilery up to Wilson's Heart now.
Rating: What about Teen for this one?
Disclaimer: Written out of fan-appreciation I do neither own House m.d. nor any other characters that appear on that show, I just borrowed them to play around with, so don't sue, please? Oh, and I kind of snatched parts of the dialogue between House and Amber from the bus scene in Wilson's Heart...
previous chapters:
1. It's All In Your Head * 2. It's Not Just In Your Head * 3. Mind Games * 4. Daydreaming * 5. Nightmare * 6. In Your Wildest Dreams * 7. Freudian Dilemma * 8. Epiphany Is A Name For A Blond Girl
She regards his profile for awhile before she decides to speak up. He’s staring ahead, his eyes fixed on the spot where Wilson’s stood just a minute ago.
House looks sad and forlorn. Doubtlessly she’s just scratching the surface with that observation. He’s like Pandora’s Box and she doesn’t dare to pry under the lit. She can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on inside his head and for once she doesn’t want to. A lot has happened. Normally he doesn’t inflict lasting damage. It’s like he takes care not to do so, but unfortunately he hasn’t succeeded this time around. Amber is dead. Wilson’s…well, crushed? Devastated? No, she doesn’t want to trade places with House. But in spite of everything that has happened she can’t help but feel sorry for him, so her voice manages to sound concerned even when she just says “Hey”.
He turns his head to look at her. The exhaustion’s showing on his face, but primarily in his eyes. She might not be able to understand the reason behind most of the things he does, but she’s always been good at reading him just by looking at him. If it weren’t for the lies and contradictions pouring from his mouth, she would have figured out how he ticked much earlier. He’s tired, afraid and insecure. She’s never seen him like that. “Hey,” he answers with a rough voice.
For a while neither of them speaks. He looks like he wants to say something, but as long as he doesn’t open his mouth she’s not ready to even consider forgiving him. She breaks eye contact and gets up from her chair, stretching her legs. Now she’s standing there, pondering whether she should stay or run from the room. Funny, how she always manages to get herself into these awkward situations.
“I’m sorry,” he says and makes the situation even more awkward because she doesn’t know what to answer him. She still loves him and a part of her wants to immediately forgive him, but it’s the smaller one, because mostly she’s just exhausted and angry. He’s put her through a lot the last couple of days. She’s simultaneously impressed and repelled by the fact that he would even go as far as risking his own life in order to save someone else. She’s impressed because she wants to believe that for once he’s done something selfless, but then reality catches up with her and she realizes that probably all he wanted to do was solve another one of his stupid puzzles. So all she says is: “I know.”
He sighs. Apparently this isn’t the answer he expected. As much as she would like to help him out there she can’t. Not this time. Whether he’s actually sorry or not is immaterial. Mere words can’t raise the dead. He’s made a mistake. Many mistakes, as a matter of fact, which have led to a brilliant firework of absolute and utter fuck-upery of unexpected dimensions. Now she needs time and a little bit more than just words. She would like to be able to forgive him, but she can’t yet. Maybe not ever. However, she can’t walk away from him either. Something’s keeping her there with him. She loves him.
“Seems like I screwed up completely this time.”
She doesn’t answer that, just lowers her head and wishes she could say something along the lines of “No, you haven’t screwed up. Everything will be alright again”, but the words just won’t come. She has learned that she’s quite a good liar, but she is no one who lies because she enjoys it. She only tells white lies, the ones which are necessary to prevent further harm. But what good would a lie do under those circumstances? Since she has nothing to say, she stays silent and evades his gaze.
“Great,” he mutters dejectedly, wishing he had never woken up. Why does everything have to be so hard? If she isn’t ready to forgive him, who will be? After all she is Cameron…Little-Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes, the one he’s always scolded for being too forgiving, too soft, too gentle, too everything to once upon a time make a proper doctor. There is only one possible conclusion. The realisation is really a bitter pill, because despite of everything he’s said to her in the past couple of years, he’s never actually wanted things to end like this.
For once he’s too tired to pretend like he doesn’t care, so he just says what’s on his mind. “Wow, you must really hate me.”
She looks at him in surprise. Her answer is more hesitant than he would like it to be. “Actually, I don’t.”
“Huh? Sorry, did I miss something?” he looks at her confusedly.
“No, you didn’t.”
“So you don’t hate me, but we’re not okay. Is that about it?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Fine. But where does that leave us?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that sucks,” he grumbles ill-humouredly.
“Yeah, kind of,” she says with a shy smile that is supposed to conceal her nervousness. Needless to say that in a situation like this it quite predictably fails to do so.
“But you’re still here. Means you worried.”
“I don’t know what it means.” She lowers her head dejectedly. This talk is exhausting her in more than just one way. She’s been on her feet for at least 24 hours, she hasn’t eaten and she’s still waiting for that moment of peace and quietude that will help her catch her breath and regroup. Actually, she’s pretty amazed at the fact she’s able to have a coherent conversation at all.
“I’m tired,” she adds after a while. His eyes widen. He has obviously gotten her wrong. “Not of you. Just plain normal tired,” Cameron laughs nervously. “Aren’t you too?”
“Yeah, I guess,” he says slowly, still regarding her taxingly.
“Why don’t you have a rest? It’ll make you feel better,” she suggests and he silently nods in agreement.
“Right, I’ll better get going then…” She quickly gets up and is almost out the door before he gets the chance to ask one last question before she goes.
“But you’re going to come back, right?” He sounds a bit timid.
She looks at him silently for a while, trying to make up her mind. The answer comes to her disconcertingly quickly. She hasn’t got it in her to say ‘no’ to him. He’s pale, he looks exhausted, maybe even a bit scared. He needs her and her stupid soft heart that won’t allow her to walk away from him like she should.
Her shoulders slump in defeat when she finally answers: “Yes, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
*
“So here I am. I am back,” Cameron says nervously as she enters the room. Only a couple of steps into the room, she can already see he’s looking much better than yesterday.
“Yes, I can see that,” he smiles, almost managing to look a bit complacent. But he doesn’t quite succeed. Of course his act of nonchalance is rather transparent to her, given that he’s almost done a double take at the sight of her standing in the doorframe.
“So you just wanted to quickly zoom in during your break,” he says, taking in her pink ER scrubs and her hair, swept up in a messy bun. “Am I just a quick detour on the way to the cafeteria then?”
“Something like that,” she mumbles. “I dropped by your office. Figured you wanted to have this.” She throws his playstation on the covers which she’s been hiding behind her back up until now.
He briefly looks at the electronic device lying there in front of him, tempting him with its plastic screen glinting in the neon light, then looks at her. He’s unsure what to do next, or more precisely what to say next. He decides on the tradition response to someone doing you a favour. “Thank you,” House answers after a moment of hesitation.
“Oh, don’t mention it. If you need anything else…,” she lets the rest of the sentence dangle in the air, like a carrot in front of a donkey.
“Yeah, actually I do,” he says after a while, his voice sounding more gravely than usual.
“If you want me to get you out of here, I’m sorry but I’ll have to disappoint you. You know procedures as well as I do. They’ll have to keep you for at least one more week. In case of an aneurysm the ICU apparently is the place to be, you know,” she chuckles weakly at her one joke, then suddenly feels the need to apologize for it. These days she’s not so sure anymore her humour is meant for someone else’s ears except hers. “I’m sorry. What is it you needed?”
He hesitates, looks away, regards his reflection in the windowpane - a pale-looking man in his mid-forties alone in a big hospital room. He looks back at her - young, gorgeous, slightly stressed, slightly damaged and subtlety irritated. Then he decides to finally speak. “I need you to…Well, I need you to…” He clears his throat, swears, starts again. “I need you to forgive me.”
“Greg…” She doesn’t call him by his given name very often, most of the times the situation is serious when she does. And the way she says it has him worried too. It’s that voice people use when they break up with someone or chastise a puppy that has just christened the brand new carpet with its pee - a little regretful, also somewhat complaisant and tiny bit hypocritical.
“Oh, that’s what you were going to say!” He waves of her unspoken words with a casual gesture of his hand. It’s not as casual as he would like, because he has to take care not to accidentally rip out any tubes.
“You don’t know what I was going to say,” she looks irritated.
“Alright, go ahead then. Say it.” He would very much like to be able to cross his arms over his chest, but he can’t because of the aforementioned tube problem.
She roles her eyes, but despite her annoyance with him, she still manages to say what she originally intended to. “Forgiveness has to be earned.”
He’s stunned, but clear-headed enough to quickly ask one vital question. “How do I do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it possible at all?”
Cameron hesitates for what seems to be an eternity. “There’s a chance.”
“That’s enough for me,” he calls after her as she leaves the room as quickly as she came.
tbc