House Fic: you were born inside-out (5/5)
(continued from here)
In the office, his lips press against her forehead.
"Coffee?"
And suddenly, the blouse feels too strange. The heels. The skirt. She’s thrown her hair back already, a few pieces shifting and framing her face. But her mouth curls a little and she leans into Chase, tired.
"I'm fine," she shakes her head. "Really."
It’s a rare display, between them, and she's letting herself have the moment anyway. It’s settling. She lets him lead her away from the clinic, past the nurse's desk. House stands with Wilson off to the side, talking in their own corner. House's mouth is set into a frown. His gaze meets her briefly and her mouth tightens. She can't help it. But she feels Chase's hand settle against her hip and then drop.
She looks away. She doesn't say anything. It’s been a long day.
Her eyes open.
On her back, the sky stands to fall, again, to night. The light skirts away from the few clouds that stray from the mix of colors. She remembers the red. She remembers the orange. The gold, the pink; the skyline is beautiful like this, burning faster and faster as it all passes. It’s stopped snowing.
The ground is hard against her back, her shoulders. Her legs are still. The snow is hard, ice. It peels against her spine and writhers against her hips, to her legs, and along her feet. Her hands are at her side and she breathes. She breathes again, and then again, again to hear it - the sound shuffles and hits, a tuft of air rising over her mouth.
"You need to eat."
His voice comes from her side. It aches, arches, and then falls back. She doesn't recognize the sound, but he's there. His fingers start to brush against her hand, following along the lines of her arm, her elbow, and then to her shoulder. His fingers stop and fall.
You can't not eat, he doesn't say. She doesn't hear it, hear him saying it. She waits, tries, but it doesn't feel right. It’s simple: you need, I want, this is. She should remember. She’s forgetting. She’s forgotten a lot of things. But she tries to shift. Every muscle and bone in her body sobs. She tries her hands, her arms, and her legs; the blanket is swallowing her, and the scarf runs against her mouth.
"I'm so tired," she says softly. She tries to move again.
"I know."
It’s then that she turns her head, that she sees him sitting up. His hand is moving under the blanket, rubbing at his leg. She can see it, see the rush that stretches under the blanket. She can only guess. There are things that she can still only guess. She’s too tired to push.
C'mere, she hears herself say then, too. It sounds like her, it doesn’t. It just stands between them. Her voice cracks and the snaps, unsteady and husky all the same. Her hand brushes against the blanket and her fingers grope at the fabric, stretching as they hit his space. They crawl against his jeans and she finds his hand.
Her lips part. He shakes his head. She gets to see him, then, slowly as he bows over her. His gaze is steady, but it's the only thing she can recognize. She doesn't know what he's thinking. She doesn't know what he needs. There were three pills. She doesn't know what he's been doing.
"I'm sorry."
She still says it. She doesn't know what she's apologizing for, but her lips are trembling. It’s the cold, she thinks, the cold. It’s everything. They press and part and he's shifting his weight over her, keeping her hand. She kisses him first, slowly, and lets her mouth rest against his to take the warmth. It’s greedy, not desperate, as she deepens the kiss and slides her tongue inside. She laps away at his mouth, rolling it against his teeth and then his tongue too.
A growl shifts between them. The apology means nothing, nothing at all. Everything is gone. They do need that sound. They’re lost and the only thing she can do is kiss him like this. Her hand slides up and into his hair, her fingers burying themselves. They twist and he hisses, slowly letting his weight sink into hers.
"It hurts," he breathes into her mouth. "It fucking hurts."
I know, I know. She doesn't have anything to say. It’s not necessary. It’s not needed. It’s like the apology. There’s nothing left to say anymore. The questions have left them too. It doesn't matter. She wants to tell him it doesn't matter.
Around them, things begin to still. She doesn't see the sky anymore; the trees, they hang slowly. Branches snap and break. The blanket is seeping into the ground. They’ll leave it. They shouldn't. She needs to eat. You need to eat. Over and over again, she pours everything back into him.
His hand shakes against her hip. He kisses her hard.
The airport is too small.
They’ve picked a cluster of seats in the corner; waiting, somebody told them, they're waiting on the pilot. Something about traffic, something about cleaning the plane. She doesn't care to remember. Instead, she's wrapped her hand around her cup of coffee.
"You know -"
House steps around her seat, reappearing after heading to the restroom. He made a joke about escaping. She didn't blink. It wasn’t funny. It hasn’t been funny in awhile. He’s trying to goad her again. It’s nothing new.
"What?"
Her murmur is absent and she shifts, reaching for a magazine. Behind her, there's a desk and a small television. The news, she heard someone say briefly. God, have you seen the news? It’s nothing different though. The hospital follows the same pattern of habits. People need things to talk about.
"I think you secretly wanted to go with me. You really do miss me."
He drops into the seat next to her and she shorts. "Oh you go me," she shakes her head. "That's why. I couldn't stand it any longer. Just couldn't do it. This is just I wanting to be close to you."
There’s the sound of a laugh. Soft, but not completely a laugh. It’s almost genuine as it fluctuates between full and constant and somebody behind them breaks the conversation between them again.
You should definitely watch the news!
- and his gloves are peeling against her skin, running over the flat of her stomach as their hips press tightly. They can't do this, she thinks, they can't. They can't.
But his mouth is covering hers, his tongue sliding against her teeth. He pushes it against her tongue and draws it into his mouth to suck softly. His mouth is clumsy and wet, hot as he breathes into her. They’re trembling against each other and she just aches, aches to be somewhere else to be doing this somewhere else. Her skin is burning and she's still so tired.
"House -"
His mouth is moving, but she doesn’t hear him. She can’t hear him. Everything is too quiet. Everything is too still. Something is waiting.
She doesn’t know what this is, if it’s something or anything or nothing at all. It’s desperation. It’s not. She knows she needs him. She needs like he needs her; the equality in that is chilling, nearly too cruel. She doesn’t have time to ignore it. It’s there.
Her hand slides against the back of his neck, her fingers stretching. They swallow the collar of his jacket. Tug. She’s pulled off her gloves. Lost them, somewhere between the blankets, wanting to touch him, wanting to reassure herself. She couldn't wear the anymore.
She moans against his mouth when her fingers brush against his skin. Something cracks against the snow again.
He growls again.
"Seriously?"
The pilot shrugs. He’s flushed, cold. And Cameron shakes her head, looking outside to the plane. The lights are on and somebody's cleaning. It’s the man's fault that they're leaving late.
But House, House is suddenly snapped away from teasing her and being ass, watching the guy with complete disdain. They’ve already been waiting too long. She was under the impression that they were to leave two hours ago. So she stands, despite herself, and moves between the two men.
"We get it -"
House's hand shoots out, but she blocks it. Her fingers curl around his wrist and she holds it, running her thumb against the back of his hand and pressing hard.
" - is what he means," she finishes calmly. "We understand."
They stop.
He pulls his mouth back and his head drops, burrowed against the crook of her neck. It’s become nothing new, childish between them. Her fingers are cold, thin against his skin and she's still, not knowing what to do. It’s dark now. She can make out shadows and shapes, the weight of him against her dancing between too much and too little. If she looks.
There’s no grasp of anything in her head. Above them, the branches start to rustle. It’s quiet. Snow from them only hits here and there, crashing close to their spot. The ground is hard again. She can feel it and House starts to shift away from her, near to her side. He’s trembling. It’s happening again.
She listens as he shifts. The blankets wrinkle and tighten around her legs, her hips. Her clothes, the coat are her skin. Her fingers continue to move too, nude over the blanket. She feels, she does feel. The bag scuffles forward - she hears it, doesn't see it, and a zipper is pulled open. It’s one bag. There are two zippers. It’s soft, oddly enough, against the balance of no noise between them. There are cracks and whimpers and she imagines him digging blindly.
"I found something else."
His voice is louder, clear. Something snaps and she hears him exhale. Her eyes close and she doesn't say anything. Her lips still hurt and breathing comes and goes, heavy pants and then empty. They feel dry. She lets her fingers brush against her scarf and pull it over her mouth. To protect it.
"We should keep walking," he adds.
The problem is that they don't know if the flashlights are good. They’ve been careful about usage, how and why. Where doesn't even matter. That’s a bad joke. She’s almost afraid to use them, terrified really. They could fail. Might. Won’t. It doesn't matter; and again and again, she prefers that pattern of routine.
They don't know how long they'll move. They don't know how long they'll walk. She can still taste him on her mouth, the pressure of his lips. It was like he was trying to remind her, swallow her. It’s always been about positions and stances. She wants him to just talk to her. It’s a reassurance, selfish but it’s starting to pull at her.
"It's dark," she murmurs, then. "It's too dark. We don't know if it's really a road."
And she waits for it. She waits for some signal or gesture, some stiff phrase. He comes and goes. She doesn't recognize him like this. Maybe, she's not really looking.
But he says it.
"We should keep walking," and there's a pause, tight. His voice thins. "I don't know how long I can keep walking."
Her throat burns. She tries to swallow, but he’s trying to stand on his own again.
His hand feels small.
"I don't want you to stay here," he says quietly. Coughs. The sound is drilling in her head. "I mean it, Allison. I don't want you to stay here. I want you to go away and have those stupid plans -"
She tries to laugh. The wedding ring feels a little tight today, forced and buried against her skin in show. He’s getting worse. They all know this. Joe lingers close by. His parents, their parents alternate from downstairs to outside. She has moved because she doesn't know how. She simply doesn't know how to go home.
Ben is handsome, Ben is pale. Ben used to laugh so much. They were kids once, along time ago, and it was every day, just a simple every day, that he tried to make her smile. It always worked. She used to say she was easy. But it's not a joke anymore and this is really happening, she's losing him and herself; this is going to end.
It sort of cheapens those memories, even thinking about them. She’s too aware of what’s happening. Her eyes close. And she counts. One. Two. Three. Four. Is it stupid if she makes herself a promise? She doesn't want to cry anymore. There’s a lump in her throat and it's rolling up and down, down and up. She’s trying to say yes. But the only thing she really knows how to do is hold his hand.
"I don't know how to do this."
She’s confessing. She’s missed two more philosophy classes. School. There were friends. Her parents are worried. But hen she looks up at him, he's smiling. It’s sad, it's lonely. It’s something she doesn't completely understand. She doesn't know what to say and what saying is right or wrong. She’s lost that, that structure of back and forth.
Ben laughs softly.
"You'll figure it out, you know."
Her hand trembles when he brings it to his lips. They’re warm, wet. She can't remember the first time he kissed her. She’d really like to remember that day.
"You will," he finishes. His eyes close.
The flashlights run like children over the snow, laughing in prints as they continue to walk.
He’s breathing heavily again. She’s walking slowly. It feels like hours again. Time’s really lost them. Her knees are ready for a stop. But she keeps moving with him, the same pace. It’s to keep up with each other; no him without her, no her without him. He’s right. They don't know how long either of them can keep going. It’s this strange sensibility and climbs, follows, and runs too with the shadows of the sky.
There are stars, a few of them spinning into storybook patterns and lore. She used to know the names, a long, long time ago. The trees become hands and feet. They tower over them as they continue to trudge in the snow. The suitcase seems heavier now. Her hands are sore from earlier.
"Cameron -"
You know, she almost says. It would be funny My name is - "What?" she's breathing in, turning and watching as the air circles the light in his hand. His eyes are almost wide. There’s no more curiosity. She misses the curiosity.
But she doesn't recognize the look on his face. It scare her, genuinely scares her out here and just with him. There’s no expectation anymore. It’s been taken away from them and handling it seems to just drop. She watches him though. His hand cocks the flashlight and points it over her shoulder.
There’s a slight heat. He hasn’t said anything else - should she really? He shuffles forward. The snow deepens a little and he nearly stumbles into her. His hand curls around her shoulder.
Swallowing, she turns.
It’s only a few feet away. She’s too tired to call it close or endless; but it stands alone, like a few of the smaller trees they’ve passed. The flashlight is struggling to stay on it though.
It’s a mailbox.
But already, there's this list of answers in her head.
She’s tried to tell herself not be nervous. She’s good, she's really good. There are glowing recommendations behind her and it's smart move for her to come here. It’s the best place for her to be.
Dr. House still sits quietly in front of her.
He smells like beer and cigarettes, dark circles under his eyes, and his mouth makes the occasional rise, amused and not amused. Her stomach is already twisting and she can't help but wonder what's going on. She was on time. She’s prepared for all of this, questions and answers.
She fidgets again. He yawns loudly, rolling his eyes.
"You're hot."
The confusion stands and falls and looking at him, the nerves suddenly shift to the side. She’s quiet, but sits straighter. The conference room they sit in is too quiet. There’s another fellow, apparently, but she hasn't seen him. Another doctor in the elevator passed her a sympathetic look after she admitted her destination for the meeting.
"Right," she says slowly.
He shrugs as if to say whatever, straightening too. He tries to copy her position. Shoulders back, tight, but ends up shaking his head and leaning forward against his desk.
"How's your coffee?"
"How does this have anything to do with anything else?”
He shrugs again. "Simple question."
Dr. House doesn't give her a chance. He cuts her off. He’s watching her openly, his eyes darting to the cut of her blouse. She’s too confused to say anything; stories, of course, have been told to her. But it's been more of House and the medicine. Maybe, she's really unprepared.
But she shakes her head anyway. Her answer comes easily.
"Better than yours."
Their hands are frantic against it.
House is leaning hard into the stand as she brushes away the last of the snow; her hands are shaking and the suitcase is somewhere behind them, lost to the desperation that suddenly pulls at them. She dropped it. She can feel him watching her. Her mouth is tight, her fingers running over the numbers in front of her. Six, nine, seven, the mailbox is small and green and alone, flanked against the split backdrop of woods.
Reaching for the flashlight in his hand, she pulls it out and throws the light in front of them.
She doesn't see anything. Just snow. Snow and more snow, climbing up to what seems to be a hill. Everything seems hazy, taking on this unnatural glow. She doesn't want think of anything, looking back at the mailbox and then at him. Her eyes are burning and she's so tired, so tired of thinking and not seeing, of running herself into the circles. It’s panic and exhaustion. It’s the weight of what's happened.
It’s got to have been more than two days. Three. She’s just lost that too. She doesn't know how long they've been moving. It’s all just sort of pulled together, frame after frame of one, long, and continuous day. The flashlight is shaking and she hands it back to him, pulling her fingers away.
"We should move."
He nods slowly. "Right."
His words are ringing in her head, over and over again. They only have so much left in them. It’s cold and it's sort of stayed cold. There’s no particular change that her body notices. It’s just moving, moving fast and moving slow. Forwards and backwards. She just knows how to do this. Her head is spinning.
But they should talk about it. Reason. She turns slightly and reaches for the suitcase to bring with them. Then she remembers that they’ve left it behind somewhere. Somewhere, but she starts to move. His hand shoots out though, curling around her wrist with surprising amount of strength. His grip is hard. She can sort of see him: the light is blurring, going between her eyes and the flashlight. He shakes her head and then pulls her back from the suitcase, leaning heavily into her.
"We'll come back," he says slowly. He’s lying. She doesn't think about it. It just finally sounds like something of him.
But one step becomes two and two becomes a few more. They’ve started again, the flashlight seeming to dim against the snow. Their steps together are careful. If she falls, he falls with her. She can pull him up. All these things, all these moments seem to rise and reconvene in her head. They push at her, shifting and swaying. It’s easy for them. They crawl from the back of her throat and rest into her teeth. It’s the rush.
She pays no attention to the woods anymore, making the slow ascension up the hill. The snow is deep, but not too deep. The wind's beginning to pick up and she has to slip her arm around his waist again, just so that she can keep some of the balance to herself. What if they don't find anything? There has to be an answer for that.
Her fingers are loose.
There are shadows gripping the space in front of them; it's the light, how it's starting to fade. It’s why they really never used the flashlight - lights, she corrects herself. She doesn't really remember using them. Everything is falling away from her, from then, and she continues to walk, to push them.
He stumbles.
"House," she breathes. "Come on."
But their weight is starting to sink in the snow. He grunts and she hears his teeth scrap, his mouth breaking into a heavy cough. There’s pain and a string of curses. Nothing loud enough. She needs to keep them moving. Her hand curls around his arm again and she pulls it over her shoulders, yanking him as hard as she can.
"Come on."
It’s eerie, only hearing her own voice. Coupling with his grunts of pain, she tries to focus on the things that she knows. Keep walking. Keep walking. Her boots scrape forward and slowly; she begins to drag him with her. There’s no particular slope and she's already numb to the idea. Her legs are tight and ready to scream as they keep going.
"Tell me something."
His mouth opens in an order, along her ear. He’s feeling heavier and heavier. The slope is beginning to lessen. There’s a drop of ice and they nearly slip, but she's managing. They can't fall. She can’t hold on like this.
"Tell me something," he says again. "Something."
They can't fall. The ground begins to even out and her breathing is thick, thrusting hard into the air. She almost stops then, but forces them to keep moving closer. She can almost see something. She doesn't trust her eyes, but there was a mailbox. It means people. It means home. It means finally breathing.
But they stop. Her head drops forward and her eyes close. Her knees are ready to give out again. She doesn't know how to do this. He’s murmuring something and she thinks that they've both lost it. They’re wearing pieces of the pilot. They were supposed to be in California. She doesn't know where they are.
Her fingers slip, the flashlight crashes to the ground, and the light snaps off at the neck.
But the shadows are there, standing. It’s a house.
"Why do you want this job?"
Again, it's an unexpectedly simple question. She’s quiet, watching him. It’s like he's searching for something or he's picked up on something that she's missed. She doesn't like either option, but it's there and it's standing.
She sighs softly.
"Because you're the best," she says. "They say you're the best."
He starts to laugh. And it's almost cruel: the sound is heavy, thick, and treats her back almost as if she were a child. It could be the beer, the smell of the cigarettes - all bar habits. All known bar habits. She stays quiet until he finishes, shaking his head and then looking away.
"Because you're going to take something from me. And I'm going to take something from you."
His mouth shifts. Even years later, she won't remember.
The house looks empty.
There is a skeleton of a path outside the front door. There are no cars, no signs of people that have been here or there. The windows are empty. There’s a wreath on the door. It was the holidays, months back.
She jumps when something drops hard, against the roof and shuffles down the shingles; it's snow, again, and it hits the ground, muffled as it spreads. Her shoulders are too tight for relief and before she gets to say anything, House wraps his hand around the door. She watches as he closes his eyes, breathes in and out, and then draws back.
His shoulder hits the door hard.
And then again, and again, and again. Until the door snaps and pops, moaning as it rushes back and House nearly topples to the floor. She’s quick enough, grabbing him by the arm and steadying him quietly. He’s lost his walking stick. She doesn't remember where. It should be important. It might've snapped.
"Hello?"
She calls out into the house, ignoring his hand as it tightens around her arm. She’s standing straight, frowning. There’s nothing. No sound of movement. No cries. No answers. It’s just completely silent.
Their suitcase, with what little supplies are left, remains forgotten. He gives her arm a tug and leads her inside, slamming the door behind them. She can't help herself, but she leans into him. They stand, steady over the open space. There are stairs to the right, open rooms to the left and around the center. She feels a little lost and panic begins to write itself openly, again, and into her throat.
"Let's go," he murmurs.
He tugs her again, leaning heavily into her. He has to. She can feel him trembling. It could be her too, but she's already beginning to feel herself give out. Her bones ache, her skin is tight, and it's just too much to really deal with. She’s shut down most of that. She’s had to.
But she takes the lead from him, walking them around the stairs. There’s a kitchen. Wide, open windows. She keeps them walking though. One thing at a time, she thinks. It needs to be one thing at a time. There’s an upstairs and a downstairs and everything seems a little fast and unsure.
"We should sit."
Her voice is strained, but certain. They’ve found the living room. Closed-off, there are no windows except for the soft light that escapes from the kitchen and one that hides in a corner. There’s a television in the room, a small couch. There are no blankets. She’s too tired to care.
House drops first. His mouth cracks and there's a shudder of sound, a grunt and gasp; it's horrible and painful to hear. She feels tired and scared still. She doesn't know why, but there's nothing familiar to the sentiments. Instead, she stays standing watching him as he starts to massage his leg. She feels like she should be hysterical, running around in circles and thanking something for this. All of this.
She lets her gaze pull at the television.
Stepping forward, her fingers are slow as they skip against the buttons. She’s groping, pressing her fingers against the buttons with what little light she does have. Something snaps and shudders in front of her and she pulls her hand back, watching in awe as the television starts to spit on.
A loud, hard voice comes into the room.
"This is day six of -"
"I usually don't fly this way," the pilot continues. "It's not really the weather and the time of year's always this kind of unpredictable. You know. Different things."
She’s in and out, half asleep with House's newspaper spread over her knees. There was nothing new in the science section. She doesn't read the sports, but the section is missing too. Neither of them are listen though. It’s going to be a long trip. Like she told him, she hates small planes.
"I mean you never know what's up in that air -"
" - our national emergency," the television continues to sputter, "panic has hit the cities as police and the national guard hope to control the rush of riots that are starting. The sick have been moved to unnamed hospitals. Sources say these hospitals remain contained and under tight security.”
She can't breathe.
"The president and the CDC have both released statements in hopes of appeasing the situation. Both urge the public not to panic and any, any rumors of an airborne toxin are not true. Congressional leaders call for a stop for this kind of propaganda. The body counts in New York City, Atlanta, and Los Angeles continue to climb. Answers remain unclear -"
Her fingers start to curl. She takes a step back and then another, and another. Her hand rises and cups her mouth, her eyes widening as the television begins to throw images into the room. There are people and piles of people, large burnings, and churches, just churches, standing to choke.
House's hand drops against her back.
It’s shaking. She knows it's shaking. She can feel it stretch against her spine. Her legs are starting to sway and she keeps herself straight as they continue to watch. He doesn’t say anything. The tension is there. His, hers; it’s palpable and hazy, the lure of the house ringing almost eerily.
"Please keep cautious - "
The pilot starts to cough.
“Allergies,” he calls, grinning through it. He has to stop though, wheezing as his fingers skim the photo of his sons. His other hand clutches his chest and the story of his kids is long forgotten.
House looks away. She smiles a little, dropping her gaze back to her magazine. The paper’s long since been abandoned.
The pilot is humming. His voice breaks slightly, again and into a smaller cough. It’s Christmas song - she almost laughs, shaking her head. But the other man grins
“It’s that time of year again!”
For a long time, Cameron doesn’t move.
FINISHED.
notes;
First, I want to say thank you to everybody! All your comments were fantastic and I’m super excited about everybody’s response to the story - it was a ton of fun to write this. A ton of fun.
I’d like to thank a few people. surreallis, for the encouragement. deadduck008 for being herself. There are two people, however, that are responsible for this idea. hugh_the_man, who this story was written for, gave me the prompt proximity. And marcasite, who followed the prompt with apocalypse and really pushed the idea into what this is. I didn’t want to mention that aspect of it because, then, I thought, “well, where’s the fun?” and so here we are. I wanted to do something that would lead up to the initial uh-oh.
Originally, I thought I was going to up the rating, but that sort of worked against me? I didn’t want to drag it into that area quite yet, but regardless. Thank you, girls. For inspiring me, lol.
And then there’s the question - Am I going to continue this?
Yes? I think so. No, yes. I’m going to continue this. I’ll have a sequel. I haven’t completely worked out the idea. But it’s going to happen. And IDK? Questions? Thoughts? Bribes? *laughs* Really though, thank you so much. ♥