birthday drabble for blueheronz
Title: i meant something to you, once.
Character/s: Cameron pov, House
Word Count: short
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own.
A/N: R, I promised you this some time ago, so here it is, my little take on that scene from 'Role Model' - you know the one. I wish it could have been longer and better, but my muse got a little lost and it sheepishly apologises for its waywardness. Anyways, its my way of saying "happy birthday!" Your friendship means so much, and you're entirely too awesome for your own good. Cheers, darling.
A regular person might have asked: "Why do you like me?" Instead, House handed her a riddle:
You ‘like’ me.
Adding just a twinge of emphasis to deride her. Then -
Why?
As if attraction weren’t enigmatic enough, he questioned her as if she were being merely allegorical, doubting the sentiment she voiced a week before as though it were nothing but an elaborate scheme designed to trick him. As if she were being coy. Withholding. Her speech, figurative, some sort of linguistic decoy barring him from the real meaning.
Like…
(do)You?
Me?
From his end, the accusation was clear. Behind it, curiosity - or the frustration of a failed differential. It was evident he had pondered her confession for some time, disassembling its parts without realising that the sum of them was greater than any of its pieces. That this had eluded the great diagnostician startled Cameron momentarily. Confused, she’d turned to meet a prompt expression; not quite what she expected from his careless entrance, not as cavalier. Tiredness had snuck under his eyes since she saw him last. He struck her as oddly bothered for someone who made it a point not to bothered by anything.
Least of all her.
She folded her arms, considered this. Angled her head inquisitively. He waited.
(Why?)
That’s kind of a sad question, was her remark.
Because while she could concede that his habits dictated such a response, his impatience held a fearful note. Cameron had been under his tutelage long enough to know the difference. ‘Why?’ was a particularly lonely proposition when thrown at her like this: vastly rhetorical, impossibly personal, it drew back instantly from its request. It anticipated an answer and then it didn’t. Couldn’t possibly. And he’d known that. His aim, she figured, was to measure: to size her up then declare an ill fit. Within the bounds of his interrogation, anything as unquantifiable as feeling had to be standardised, delineated then objectified. ‘Why?’ was an echo only, a jeer. Everything he said afterward was simply a variation of it.
Why?
Just trying to figure out what makes you tick, he'd shrugged innocuously.
I am not warm and fuzzy and you are basically a stuffed animal made by grandma.
(what am I?)
Despite gentle retaliation (hands at hips, a quiet sigh), the allegation remained unchanged. She didn’t appreciate being treated as a clue. It tempted her defensiveness. Cameron clenched.
I don’t think that’s why you’re asking.
His underlying mood flared up.
God, don’t try and pick me apart-
Then why are you asking?
House glared back the same question as before.
(Why?)
Stripped back, the letters ended at a steep bank, a sheer drop. At their edge, her options plummeted. The view was suddenly bleak.
Why (me)?
Well why not you? She might have countered if it were simply a matter of verification.
He would never have asked in the first place. What he wanted was a solution, the theoretically unfeasible. Proof indisputable.
Logic.
The infinite split between you and me.
Cameron steadied her frustration, strategically stepped forward. House stared back, unmoved.
Nearer, she’d insisted, with a gentle, proximate lift of her head. She sought his eyes in kind but he was stubborn.The angle did not favour her. He dropped his shoulder into his cane. Cameron watched him hitch away.
The air sucked the door back after him and the sound came and went fluidly. She’d turned, belatedly, to an empty room. Cameron could not explain the change, or her disappointment, only that she felt herself colliding, once again, with herself.
+
She examined her motives. Multi-tasking through pre-conference drinks, sipping neatly at her wine and commenting adequately to her colleagues, she tried to think critically about the situation. Just as she began to formulate an answer worthy of the question, shame led her elsewhere. She was altogether unused to suspicion. Unwarranted, his brand in particular caused a strange, drifting tension to arise between her body and mind. She felt herself inspected, separated and dismantled. His rejection cut.
At first.
After time, the effect was not entirely unpleasant. She was looking at herself differently because of it - intricately - and glimpsed something of the enigma he was so intent on unmasking. Stumping him was a triumph to be savoured. And savour it she did. She puzzled privately over her mystery.
What was the nature of her attraction, exactly?
What did she hope to get in return?
Cameron wondered.
Did she expect it to be easy?
Deep down, she didn’t.
What, then?
(Why?)
Disheartening as his unwillingness to accept her intentions at face value had been, she saw now the unprecedented compliment it concealed. There was a strange privilege in his criticism. He was holding her to the same standard of accountability as everybody else he encountered but unlike everyone else, he expected more. Sensed it in her. It didn’t matter who she was. It didn’t matter that she was pretty - it didn’t matter that he thought so. For the first time in her life her words, her sincerity, her gentle nature, weren’t enough. They didn’t count. The way he walked out on her that afternoon, the deflation in his stride, confirmed it. Her attempt at placating him was a common act and he expected better. She hadn’t convinced him and looking back on it now, she understood his reaction because she’d felt it herself.
Challenged, Cameron spotted him stealing into the room.
Head bowed in a way that both invited and deflected her observation, he landed reluctantly into his appointed chair right of stage. For someone so mired in his routines and customs, there was something especially fleeting about his person, the contradictions in his nature hidden in the smallest of gestures, the briefest of expressions. One had to watch carefully. He drew little attention, otherwise. Unnoticed and un-compromised by the world around him, he was altogether…unremarkable.
She studied him some more.
She guessed at least three vicodin. Could tell by the way his hands were no where his thigh or his forehead, which he tended to thumb when the pain tightened. That, and his swinging gait up there. His walk always changed afterwards. It became lighter and less determined. His shoulders sat higher. Cameron sensed the threat in his laconic, medicated posture.
It was a conflicted pride, she noted, as he rotated the handle of his cane back and forth between his palms. The movement itself was rhythmic, precise, and his as yet undisclosed actions bided their time with it. Had he some orior plan? She couldn't honestly say. For a while, it gave him the impression of composure, of a passive intelligence contrary to his usual, brutal impatience. It was always temporary. Whether he would go through with the deal or nor, she held him to this image anyway. It contained him perfectly, his strangeness. He never forgot.
Once more her gaze settled on his face, the top of his head. Lowered - without the hint of a reckless smirk or irritated frown - there was an elegant sorrowfulness about him. The thought of touching him, of directing his attention, wakened her, dismayed her; exposed her utterly and in that instance an unimaginable space hollowed out within her heart. The trust and compassion he inspired in her was overwhelmingly and stupid, a baseless assumption. Cameron regarded him newly: scared and emboldened by what was taking place. She knew it dangerous to place him apart from other men but the distinction was irreversible. It was made before she even realised.
She flushed warmly at her mistake.
Once seated, apprehension surfaced. Wilson started adjusting his tie. To her right, Chase threw an appropriately cynical grimace, Cuddy: a smile, with her hands skittering over the ruffle of her dipping blouse. Her own stayed still, collapsed around the stem of her glass. Before he stood, they went to her lap. When he began to fidget irritably with the collar of his shirt and swat at the microphone, they intertwined forlonly in front of her on the table. She concentrated on them for the duration of his speech, enduring it, until they once again found her drink.
Cameron didn’t raise it to her lips; didn’t say a word. She wasn’t surprised.
Everything he said was true.
.