House Fic: your rosary beads under the bed (2/3)
(continued from here.)
5.
"Dr. Cameron, I need you to look at this -"
A large file is shoved in front of her, papers flipping and waving as her hand settles with a pen. She’s here and there, keeping busy and trying not to think about her brother at home. He said he was going to be okay; it's the mantra that she has, hardly a reassurance, but something, instead of nothing at all.
"Thanks," she murmurs.
They’re busy in the afternoon, little clusters of people that keep coming in. Stomach pains. A car accident - nothing large, just minor bruises and a brace that's been needed. There are people, too that really shouldn't be here either. Family, pushed to the side, as their particular worry stretches out and over a bed. A few more are sent to better departments, passes of long standing symptoms and things that she still feels the draw to take on as her own to diagnose. She has her moments, just like anyone else, but seems, still, to be able to interact with people on a much stronger basis.
Stability, she told Cuddy once. I like the stability.
She means it too. There’s a sense of things here that she’s never had before. It isn’t confidence and it is confidence, the back and forth between things that she’s grown into and others, if anything, that she’s picked up as her own.
Reaching for another file, she heads over and does a sweep of the beds. It’s not like the clinic; this particular chaos is branched out into different degrees, drawing heavily on the confidence and the push of the people here. She’s grateful, if anything, that she has this kind of staff behind her. It’s the one thing that House did teach her - while there were particular levels that she keeps with herself, her management and organization all stems from teaching herself to do the absolute opposite of all the things that he did.
"Doctor -”
She’s grabbed, by the arm, and by a boy. His eyes are wide, a little red, and she feels his fingers tremble into her skin. He can’t be more than seventeen with parental punishment stricken across his face. She takes a breath and then smiles, just a little.
"Can I help you?" She's calm. "Is someone with you?"
He shakes his head hard, pointing back to a little girl that sits in one of the beds. She’s without a gown, swinging her legs happily over the edge of the bed. Her hair is parted in pigtails and a tiny, almost distant smile stretches across her mother. Sister, she thinks, daughter? It’s happened before.
She gently pries the boy's hands from her arm, stepping forward and reaching for the chart by the bed. She bites her lip, scanning over the information. No allergies. Good health. They were left alone, it seems.
"Hi."
She looks down at the little girl, the boy coming over and standing next to them. She kneels a little, quietly scanning her over as well. There’s a cut on her leg, split open like a mouth, and dried blood crusted against her skin. It’s deep, but not alarmingly so. The little girl sighs loudly and then leans forward, motioning for her to come closer.
"I wanted to climb the tree," she whispers loudly, looking up at the boy and then at her, "and I didn't get very far. Mattie's scared because he doesn’t want to get into trouble. I think he’s sick too. Can you make Mattie better?"
Cameron laughs softly, nodding. "I think so."
Her hands are already working, slow and gentle; her fingers brush over the girl's leg as she reaches for gauze to clean the injury. It’s not about puzzles here, or pins and needles and the draw of getting the right answer. Here, it’s people and the way their faces change, the charge of how to say things and what not to say. There’s a particular sense of awareness that is needed. She feels forever on the border, comfortable with going between the lines. She doesn’t know how to be just one thing without the other.
She glances too, briefly at the boy and watching as, at no time, he doesn't seem to relax. Her lips curl and she looks back at the little girl.
"Is Mattie your brother?"
The little girl nods. "Uh-huh. M'Lizzy. Like Elizabeth, but Lizzy. 'cause I like Lizzy better. It's almost like Mattie but spelled differently and with an l and like love."
The older boy grunts. "Liz -"
Cameron shakes her head. "It's fine," she murmurs, smiling a little.
She listens, instead, to the little girl and the tale of the tree climbing fiasco; she's animated and grinning, waving her hands even and making her brother laugh too. She watches them, as her finish, dropping herself briefly into a memory and then pulling back. Not here, she thinks. Not here.
But it isn't that simple. The two kids look to be no more than five, six years apart. The little girl obviously adores her brother, disappointed that her stunt went nowhere near to working. I can sympathize, she almost says. Tries to. She has stories of her brother and her, of the trouble, back then, when they used to be close.
Used to be close. They’re still close, she thinks. They’re still close. Almost.
When she finishes, she stands and takes a moment to look at the brother again. She tries not to live in the memory of the moment, of her moments, and then offers a tiny smile for him. It happens on occasion. There will be a couple, older or younger. There are children. Sparks of memories and faces that she’s tried to keep completely away from all of this.
It’s not that easy.
"Okay, guys."
She smiles again, pointing over to the nurses' desk. "Head over there and they'll take care of you," she continues, ruffling the little girl's hair. "See you and try not to give your brother a heart attack, okay?"
The girl giggles and the brother smiles too, a little tight, taking her hand and leading her away from the bed and Cameron. She watches them go, sighing quietly. She leans back against the bed, just for a second, pressing her hand to her face. She wasn't supposed to be doing this, she thinks, or was she? It’s never seems to make any particular sense when she thinks about it, what she misses and what she doesn't miss.
There is more flexibility to this aspect of the job. The hours, still strange, do allow a lot of what she didn't have with House. Then again, she signed up to be with the best. She took from it what she could. She’s grateful, mostly, and the level of responsibility is something that feels familiar and strange all at the same time. She likes it and she doesn't; it's almost inevitable and how, if anything, she worries about all of this. About her job, about her family.
About the things that she can't say.
It’s becoming about whatever is the easiest.
--
The cafeteria is a different spread, during the day, with thicker clusters of people that sway back and forth, moving in different degrees with different faces.
She's with Chase, quiet, and reading the paper. Her phone sits against her tray and occasionally, hoping that he's not watching, she's looking to the time. She’s called home. Jamie's okay. Reading, he said. She still can't help the occasional twist in her stomach, the way that several scenarios seem to rise and fall and drift back and forth. She thinks about Jamie's moment this morning.
She’s still worried. She doesn't know what to do.
“How is he?”
Chase breaks the silence first, reaching for her hand. She looks up and it drops, his fingers twisting into a fist. She feels her own hand tighten and then pulls it away, under the table and into her lap. She almost apologizes. But she does a lot of that - apologizing, drifting back and forth between understanding the things that she did wrong and the things that she didn't. Or doesn't. These days, it doesn't seem to matter.
For a minute though, her brow furrows.
"Wait, what?"
He sighs, annoyed. "How's your brother?"
There’s a sense of anticipation written against his face, his mouth twisting as she sighs. He shakes his head, almost as if he expects it. She does it back. They’re doing it again, fighting more. There are these little moments that they have, moments where she thinks she's ready, but then they fall back. She thinks that it has to do with her being here, with him being back here, and the things that they used to talk about when the left. Between them, there’s a lot more unresolved weight than she’d like to think.
He hadn't wanted to come back. He still doesn’t want to be back. She doesn't get it, but he's doing well. He’s doing really well. Then again, neither of them seems to want to ask anymore.
“How’s - oh,” she pauses, shrugging. “He’s okay. I haven’t really had a chance to ask him about things. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, considering.”
“I know.”
That hurts. He’s looking at her like he gets and she doesn't, the level of understanding transitioning. She hates that. She hates the way the little things even seem to get to them. She’s never thought of it as the two of them, just the two of them, and a list of what to do and how to do it. They don't have plans. They’ve never talked about marriage or families. The closest, really, that he's come to talk about family is when he's laughed and said some bad, crass joke about him and kids.
She doesn't know if she wants them either. Or doesn't. She’s yet to come to the right sense of self and the frame of mind that she's meant to have with that aspect of her life. Kids, her? With this kind of job? It’s not that she’s never thought about it. Marriage again. Kids. There’s more of an uncertainty, over both aspects, that she’s completely unsure of where to start dealing with it.
“You call your parents?”
His voice cuts again, breaking her thoughts. She feels her fingers curl and then pushes them together, letting her hands twist in her lap. They’re cold, coarse, and she thinks about heading home early. She’d have to come back though. Maybe, she and Jamie can talk for a little while. Maybe, she should tell him to go -
“No.”
Her mouth twists, coming back to the conversation. She shrugs too, looking up at him. She watches as the sympathy sort of progresses. It rises and falls, dropping between them like a secondary weight. She feels like a child when he watches her like that. She feels like he's doing it to point out things to keep that step ahead of her.
They’ve been doing more of that too.
She shakes her head, starting again. "No."
“Cameron,” Chase says softly. “You should call them. You know how your mother gets.”
She doesn’t like how he says that - and he does it a lot, curtailing around the relationship that she has with her parents and seemingly manipulating it into something that he thinks he understands. It’s not about whether or not she loves him, whether or not they’re okay, it’s become less about them and more about the things that they can compete with.
On the surface, they seem to stay stronger with generalizations and moments that can keep to this atmosphere. She swallows, trying not to think about it - ultimately, they’ve been defined by how they’ve survived being here.
“I do.”
Her mouth is tight. “Believe me, I do. But this has nothing to do with that.”
She looks away. The cafeteria has seemingly dropped into silence, occasional murmurs rising from different ends of the area. The sun is driving against the windows and she looks to the outside, watching the foot traffic clump and then thin. It’s at least, three, she thinks. Her watch is upstairs in her locker.
She sees House head in, Wilson following. Her mouth tips into brief amusement as she watches the two men. There’s that the easy, perplexed look that Wilson seems to be back into wearing. She doesn't feel that strange anxiousness she used to have watching them. Passing phase, she thinks. His reluctance, at any rate, has everything and nothing to do with House. She remembers that conversation that they had.
“House looks bored.”
Her throat dries. Chase catches her watching them, halfway between a smirk and a sigh. She shrugs and then looks away. Briefly, she remembers the conversation from the other night.
“He always looks bored,” she murmurs.
“I’m trying to make conversation with you.”
He’s pointed and nowhere near apologetic, dropping his mouth back into a frown. She waits for him to stand - this is the part, she thinks, that he does it. He never seems to stray away from this formula they have to their relationship, almost as if they are, in fact, back to working under House.
“No, you’re not.”
She leaves it at that, hoping that he'll let it go too. She’s told him time and time again, that she doesn't want to fight, that she doesn't have it in her to do rounds and rounds of this. It’s never far from the tension and she almost wishes, if anything, that they were back at that point.
It seems silly now. I cleaned out a drawer.
He starts at it again. “We don’t talk,” he says simply. “You don’t -”
He bites hard, taking the pause. There’s a sense of predictability with his reaction, only imposed with consideration in terms of how they’ve been at each other lately. He seems to be waiting for her, ready go her return of the argument. For the sake of arguing; as if it’s the most honest, if anything, they are with each other. It’s all they do - strange, really, how regret comes and stands the conversation. Lately, it’s been the two of them pitting themselves against each other, here and there, strained slightly under the safety of work.
She’s losing footing.
She wants to feel that again - the charge, that charge. She wants to feel that sense of change and momentum. It seems so ridiculous to push; I cleaned out a drawer, she had said. She meant it too. A little tired, a little too willing -
“I’m sorry.”
It’s his turn to say it. “Are you?”
She looks away, following the line of empty tables. House spots her. She tries to roll her eyes. He blinks first and she watches as he smirks back at her. Her mouth twists a little and she lets it fade, forcing herself to look back at Chase.
“I don’t want to do this with you,” she says. “I’m sorry. There are just some things and you know it - I don’t ask you about your parents.”
It slips before she realizes it. His eyes are dark, his gaze too heavy and standing easily. She feels herself tense. Her shoulders rise and rest tightly, her hand instinctively stretching back to rub against her neck.
He quiets. “You don’t bring my parents up.”
“You don’t want to talk about them.”
It's true, in its own way, and also the only thing she has. She’s defensive, at best, and standing in the same place as he is - only to know little snippets and pieces. Only wanting to keep it that way. It seems like the only way they can function and yet, at the same time, it does a lot better working against them.
“It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not,” she agrees.
She forces herself to keep it like that, listening to him sigh instead. Her gaze takes the same path, over the empty tables. It’s different, the little fragments of things that are standing, almost ghostly, as she's more aware of them at night when she's here. She does better here, at night. But there's a few people lingering against the glass, outside, and her eyes return to where House and Wilson were standing.
But they're gone.
6.
In the car, the lights of the road decide to simmer and blur. It feels like fog and the water slips into her glass, dancing wildly with the changes in pace that she continues to push for herself.
The radio is on. It amounts to nothing more than a distraction, driving the base of a beat that she should know but doesn’t. All the beats, right now, sound the same. Have been for a while.
“Call mom,” she tells herself, trying. “Don’t forget.”
There are groceries and bills, things that she really has no excuse to forget. She shouldn’t be able to forget. She should be able to keep going.
Her eyes ache, tired and aware; she carries the day in her shoulders, the range of patients and the argument, especially, that she's had with Chase. She doesn't go near it. There are more important things at home. There’s Jamie. Her brother is that priority as it should be.
She still moves slowly.
The streetlamps run at her side, two by two, a reminder of how far the comforts of her own routine have gotten from her. She should be able to step back into it. But the glow, the press of lights into car, does take away the distraction of the radio. She doesn't know the song.
She’s tired. She doesn’t try to remember.
--
There’s a note on the table, when she gets home.
She doesn't call out, she just knows; a part of her has been waiting for him to fall into that pattern of his routine. There are things that she does remember, pieces and places that they do have in common; he’s seen the worst of her, she’s seen the worst of him, and that, in itself, shares a frightening stand against a lot of the things that she has going on here. The two of them are the same, just like that, and Jamie likes to do things quietly.
But she doesn't touch the note yet.
There’s tightness in her throat that she doesn't understand. She drops her keys on the counter, her coat, and her bag and looks around. She only turned on the light at the front and thinks about things in fragments; there are things to be done, still, and there are notes and files and people to call. Remember, she tells herself, you were thinking about writing. Writing again.
But she thinks about Chase instead, moving around the room and starting to straighten things. She’s got to call him. She won't. She doesn't want to. There’s House, in her head, and the sudden onslaught of oddness in their relationship. Halfway between old habits and none, she feels that strain of that old dance. Back and forth, back and forth, she's always hated metaphors. She still doesn’t understand the face that they’re giving each other.
Her couch is old. The same one from medical school. She keeps a few things. That apartment, she remembers, was crap. Her mouth twists and she falls into a smile, shaking her head. She stops though, picking up a pillow - there are things that she has, still has, and things that she’s been meaning to get rid of.
It just never catches her right.
Bringing her hands to her face, she presses them over her eyes. She takes the moment, sighing quietly as she turns over all the thoughts in her head. She’s never really asked herself is this where I’m supposed to be; it’s strange, coming now, with the reemergence of tiny characteristics that she’s always thought she’s left behind. It’s supposed to mean something, she thinks, with her brother here. And yet, she knows, more than anything else, it’s supposed to stay away from meaning anything at all.
It’s better that way. Safer. She’s not supposed to keep any of this to herself. She’s supposed to be better about moving on.
Funny, how some things like to remain the same.
Finally, stepping back, she heads over to the table. Her fingers curl around the note and she picks it up, sighing.
Hey. Went out. I took the spare key - just like you said.
It’s simple. It’s like him - finally, some sense of familiarity surfaces. Something else does too. It’s guilt. It’s not guilt. But she feels like she should’ve been around earlier, come home and then gone back.
She’s never around for a be careful. It never seems to be enough.
It’s always a late night, after all.
7.
The next morning, the apartment lets her leave in silence.
She does check on Jamie, half-skewed across his bed and the smell of alcohol drifting from his mouth to the door, almost as if it were still carrying the reminder of how they never did talk. The cigarettes are there, smell and a box posted on the table next to him. She didn’t know that he smoke. She’s almost anxious enough to go and take them, hide them or throw them away. She leaves them though, intent and promising herself that she's going to talk to him tonight, that she needs to, at least before he heads out or back - that's what he does too. He leaves. He’s good at leaving.
But then again, she does leaving well too.
Work is quiet, too quiet for her when she enters, a cluster of people grouping and then disbanding, dancing in between each other. There’s this sense of chaos that is waiting and that will greet her, only when she reemerges upstairs. She sighs softly - it's time to leave everything back at home anyway.
She heads to the elevator, her hand sliding into her pocket. Her fingers curl, sliding against her phone. There’s a small reassurance, only waiting for her even as she shifts back and forth on both her feet. She presses the button for the elevator and then again, waiting.
"Hey."
Chase's voice is tight, tense, and his hand brushes against the back of her arm. His knuckles slide along the length, pressing against her coat and she bites her lip, leaning into him only out of habit. It’s what they do.
She doesn’t look up, instead taking his gaze in the blur of a reflection against the elevator doors. It’s easy to take the circles under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping, shifting back and forth against the sudden rush of his job. He likes it. He hates it. He’s still angry with House. He just can’t decide.
All of it is familiar between them, at the very least.
"I don't have time today," she murmurs. She means it too. Today is about Jamie. Today's about getting out of here as quickly and as necessary as possible. She doesn't want him to go, if he goes, or think that she's pressing this away from him. She doesn't want to lose him.
Her parents and her have already taken too many steps back.
"How long's he staying?"
Surprised, she looks up at him. There’s a tiny smile written into his mouth; the concern is genuine, never less than. They have that. At least, it should serve as something makes the strain a little easier. But it’s there. It’s always been there in al of them - and that's the thing. The only difference between her relationship with Chase and Foreman is that Chase knows only a little bit more about her and the intimacy, however much of an exchange it can be, is exactly that. Always moving.
"I don't know."
She’s honest, shrugging. "I said as long as he needed to," she bites her lip, "we really haven't said anything or agreed to anything past that. And he can stay as long as he needs to. He’s my brother."
She waits for it, for the I know, the instance that Chase has been carrying. But it doesn't come. Instead, he turns his gaze down. Again, his fingers are pressing into her arm. Rubbing up and down, up and down, and drawing her a little closer. They don't hide - people know they're together. The nurses favor them in bits of gossip, generalizing wedding plans and coos of ooos and ahhhs. It seems like that's all they ever seem to do.
There are just too many shades of them, too many things that they do hide behind.
"I'm here late tonight."
His mouth tightens. "Some things to do, I guess."
He’s trying to play the nonchalance and turns to look at her again. She nods her okay, shrugging and offering nothing in return. The argument yesterday is still fresh in her head. She hates it, but it's the truth. It’s what she has. It seems petty, but it creates that necessary space that she has to have, between the two of them, between her and everyone else. She hates it, most days. But she understands the necessity.
"I know you're angry."
Do you? She doesn't ask. The elevator doors open and spread, letting a few people out. In turn, the two of them step forward and hit separate floors. Separate places, separate floors - Chase used to make a joke, in the beginning, about all of this.
"I know," he repeats, as the door closes again, "you're angry and I get that a lot of it has nothing to do with me. I - we should talk about things, you know? I think we should talk about things."
"Chase."
She’s trying to stop this, but he cuts off any chance and reaches for her, his fingers curling around her arms. He doesn't press or pull the weight of his hand, but it’s more than enough to keep her tense. Some days, she's okay. More days, she's not; he's yet to understand, to completely understand, how funny she is about space and what she knows to be space. She doesn't mean to be pushing, but, if anything, it's the only thing she really has at all.
"Wait."
He tugs her close. "I want you to know that I'm here and I don't meant to push, but I’m here. I don't want you to think that I'm not here. I know you, you try and take on the world with all this crap and it's just not fair."
He stops, his hand pressing against her face. His fingers spread over her cheek, sliding lightly against the curve of her jaw. She waits quietly, watching and then not. She can’t do it like this. She doesn’t want to do it like this.
He sighs and she doesn't say anything. Not yet, not now; impassioned as it was, there's nothing to say back to him. What can she? He’s just as bad as she is. It’s not that she doesn’t want to talk to him. People forget. He walks around pissed off and angry, holding grudges that are completely and utterly unnecessary, but are there nonetheless. She can keep saying it - she doesn't know what else to say.
She told him once too, but he threw something back at her regarding House and her own steps, weak and less imposing. She doesn't have any regrets though. She’s allowed to miss it. She’s allowed to not miss it. There are going to be days. There’s such a large difference between the two words, between she knew then and what she knows now. She’s okay with that.
She’s just having too many days.
The elevator stops, the floor ringing between them. His stop is first. She tugs her arm away from his, pulling it back and over her chest with a sigh. She fights herself and smiles, her mouth twisting as she looks up to him. She doesn't want to fight, she keeps reminding herself. She just doesn't want to fight.
"Fine," she says quietly.
She leaves it at that, but he steps out first.
She turns away before he even turns the corner.
--
There’s a moment in the day where she just has to stop.
It comes hard, writing over the tension that she carries against her shoulders. The pressure arches into her neck, uncurling and facing the draw of her anxiety.
"Fifteen minutes," she mutters to a nurse. It’s starting to marry as a habit.
She takes the step outside, into the hallway; an eerie glow seems to follow her, facing the walls in this crisp, blank white that stares heavily at her. She sighs softly, leaning into the wall. There’s no patient, no little girl, no family. It just hits. She thinks of her brother at home and the memory, thick and true, of alcohol that seems to do nothing more than crawl up and down her throat with no problem at all.
She hates this.
There was never a tree for her, but a bike and maybe, on a good day, there were the other little things. Running hard to catch up. Reading just as fast. She did idolize her brother, in her own way. She doesn't blame him for leaving, for doing what he wanted to do. It’s just how they've always been.
At the same time, having him here unearths a mix of shallow tensions. They crawl, like the memory of that smell, and march around, almost parading the runs of her anxieties. She hates this; she hates how this feels, neither here nor there, but just waiting. She doesn't know why it's just waiting.
"Dr. Cameron?"
A nurse comes out, just to check on her. One of the newer ones, she remembers. Young; she comes in and out, a rotation necessary with the kind of staff that they do have. She manages a smile though, curling her mouth as she shakes her head and straightens, only to lean against the wall.
"I'm fine."
She’s glad it's a new one. The new nurses don’t talk. Selfishly, she just doesn’t want it to get back to Chase. She doesn't want to have another fight, or another if you talk to me moment. She doesn't know if she can handle that. She doesn't know if she wants to handle it. She should go home, at lunch, and, if anything, maybe there can be a chance to talk to Jamie.
The nurse is still standing there, very much concerned. Oh god, she thinks. She’s almost amused - what if the pregnancy rumors start up again? Her mouth twists and she shakes her head.
"Didn't sleep very well last night," she offers, gently, turning her hand to tug at her ponytail. "I think working late last week finally decided to catch up with me."
The nurse smiles then, as if she understands, nodding and stepping back. She waves a little and she can only imagine - Dr. Cameron might actually be pregnant. Dr. Chase and Cameron and breaking up. Poor girl. Those things she can laugh at. It’s easy. She makes fun of herself with no problem. It’s everything else; unable to really gauge where she fits in with everything else.
"I'll let them know you're okay," the nurse says. "The girls were worried."
She nods, trying not to snort. Her lips curl slightly, "Sure."
The nurse takes a step back, offering a goodbye. When she turns, the doors back to the emergency room snap open. It’s a heavy sound; a pop that cracks louder than it should. Cameron feels her mouth start to tense again.
Instead, there’s a steady stream of people. It’s chaotic, the chorus of voice starting level and greet her outside. She’s already thinking of the things that she needs to do, now and tomorrow, next week and at the end of the month. The quickness is almost crass, amused at how quickly she’s tensed.
When the doors close, everything fades again. Her ears are still ringing.
--
Jacket in hand, she head out of the locker room and tries to remember if she's forgotten anything. If there's anything to forget.
She’s tired. Her mouth is tight and lined, still angry about the degrees of back and forth that she and Chase have been playing together. She hates it, but what can she do - there's nothing more than a he, she started it and going through that again is far from worth it.
She’s digging into her pocket, pulling out a few, stray pieces of change for a drink before home. Lunch has already passed, so with dinner in mind, she thinks that she could go and take Jamie somewhere nice. But first, a drink. Coffee, even. She could go down to the cafeteria, but she doesn't want to run into anybody or talk to anybody else, heading straight for the soda machines on the floor.
House is starting to walk past her.
Her mouth tightens, twists, but he barely glances back at her. There’s no sense of acknowledgment and her shoulders relax, lowering as she passes him.
"Hey."
Or not, she thinks.
She stops, turning slightly. She waits for that obnoxious, almost imposing drawl of her name. But he's just standing there, studying her, as if he were waiting for her to push back. She blinks, confused, and shrugs, all the same, as if to say that she doesn't know anything at all.
"Hello," she murmurs.
His mouth curls slightly, his amusement more than obvious. He steps forward again, but she ignores him, still aware of him following her to the soda machine.
"So I met a guy at the bar."
He’s teasing her. It’s like a joke. She’s not exactly sure how she’s supposed to respond. Last night, it was the same thing - she's almost beginning to think of these moments as funny, crazy or not, and the way they still seem to walk into each other like this. She doesn't mean to, but it still seems to churn in its own direction. The case, months ago, was nothing more than incidental, and the little minutes that spun out where merely to subdue boredom, all on his end.
She doesn’t want to talk what’s happened recently, preferring to reengage herself with what she knows and what has stayed faithful to her. Familiarity is comfort at its best.
"What?"
But she can't help but be concerned, the sharpness in his voice making her stop and tense, underwriting any sense of quiet that she had been hoping to get before she heads home. He leans against the wall, watching her, and all she can think about is the locker room and how it's only a few turns in the other direction.
"A guy," he drawls, "at the bar."
Jamie. Jamie. Her eyes widen and she doesn't know how he knows or how she just knows, her mouth parting with her surprise. She waits for a comment, for something to progress on his part because this is more in his favor. She doesn't want it, she doesn't need it, and yet, if he knows, if he knows, she doesn't know what she's going to do - she doesn't know what she needs to go and do.
"Oh," she winces quietly, looking away.
The change in her head is heavy, almost unsettling as it presses into her palm. There’s a chuckle, on his end, the sound thick and amused.
"Yeah."
He shrugs. "He drank me under the table. Talked too much too."
Her eyes close. Right, she thinks, right - there's such a thrust of discomfort, suddenly taking her and twisting. She doesn't know what to do, her thoughts wandering away. What is he going to say? Why is she worried? There are still pieces of her life, palpable in many ways. She knows, if anything, he'd play for the own adjustments of his amusement. He’s good like that, she almost says.
"Sounds like him," she murmurs; her voice is strained, under the lie, because it's not Jamie. It hasn't been Jamie for years - or does she really know? She hates this. She hates that she’s suddenly becoming too aware. She hasn't known this thing in such a long time. He's been away and she hasn't asked - she knows it's her fault, on that end.
House shrugs. "I took him back."
Her eyes narrow. "I was up."
He’s playing with her and she won't do it. It’s the same game from early. Different situations, different names and things to use - the formula never changes, that much she recognizes. She shakes her head and he smirks, pushing himself away from the wall.
"Were you?"
The soda's forgotten, even as she pockets her change, stepping forward to face him. Her arms cross over her chest and she leans into his space, even more, as she eyes him.
"What did he say?"
It’s not an admission - or maybe, maybe it is. The only sense of certainty that she does have is the way she watches him. So he has that part, but he doesn't understand it and as long as he doesn't understand it, he can't have it. There’s just no logic to it right now. It feels like she’s fighting with herself.
"Said nothing," he shrugs again.
Her voice is soft. "What did he say?"
He’s eyeing her, his eyes dark and his mouth turning. Sometimes, she thinks that he's ready to play with her. Only willing because she's here, right here, and there's nobody else in his line of vision. She’s not letting him either - her response, jutting in between an array of different things, only walks with caution on all accounts. It’s not that she can't defend herself - because she can - or because she doesn't want to.
She’s adapted as best as she can.
"Just that you were his sister."
He offers nothing else. The lie is there, dangling in front of her and she almost throws it back to spite him, to say that she gets what he's trying to do. She can imagine the scene, the two of them sitting side by side in an odd display of comradely. It sounds like Jamie, talking more than he does now with the push of alcohol and the excuse. She’s the same way, but says nothing. She’s shaking her head before she can really think about it.
"Did he?"
His mouth curls slightly. She waits for it - you just did. It’s what he does, the last word, jumping in between the moments and trying to decide for the others, for her, what the moment and mood will follow after the conversation ends. But it doesn’t. He still says nothing to her.
Instead, he shakes his head and steps away. She watches, just to make sure; paranoid, maybe, but she doesn’t like being alone like this. Too many things are facing her at once, too many memories and people. This is what indecision does to her. It keeps her waiting.
"In passing," he calls back.
Her ears are ringing again. It only stays to strain.
--
When she gets back home, the apartment is dark.
Her keys are cool against her palm. She’s forgotten her gloves in the car and they crash, the only sound breaking the stillness of her street.
She doesn't expect him here. She doesn't know why; there's this bridge of acceptance that seems to be too familiar to her, the way that it stands and stills, thriving only when she thinks about the things that she could do. It’s a game even: could do, would do, might do. It never stops. It never really begins either. But she's promised herself to let go of that, simply because there's no need to drift into an argument with the assumptions of her own guilt and her own weight.
She just wants to talk.
Opening her door, she steps in. The small hallway is graying, under the blur of light that she brings in with her. She drops her keys, immediately folding into her routine as she slips out of her jacket, only dropping her bag. She hears a rustles of noises, the relief suddenly foreign and strange as she brushes through the motions, nearly stumbling to catch him.
"Jamie?"
He pops out of his room, eyes dark and sagging. He's not sleeping again. She can almost hear him again, the murmurings and the twisting, wishing that she had, in fact, been awake last night, if anything and to help him out. It’s the accusations that House brought out or didn't bring out, drawing upon the slips of awkwardness that made him as he is and her as she is.
It’s daunting really. She doesn't know what she's let out or what Jamie's let out, the confusion taking a stand and at par with the different levels of anxieties that she has.
"Hey," he says finally. "I'm heading out now. Meeting people - and in a couple days, I'll be out of your hair."
She blinks. "I - you know you can stay as long as you want. I thought we'd go grab something to eat. Not far, so you can go do what you want to do. I - if you want to, that is."
He looks at her, really looks at her, and there's a passage of guilty; transferring, him to her to her to him, and not really saying anything at all. She wonders if she could go back and really do things differently. She wonders if she could've been there for him more. If he wanted her there for her more. He doesn't have to tell her - she should've known.
"I'm not hungry."
His hands are in his pockets. She watches as his arms twist and the fabric at his side follows. His jacket is between them, resting at a chair against the kitchen bar that she never used.
"Are you going to talk to me?"
It falls too quick to catch and it's almost funny how, even fragmented, it sounds as if she and Chase were talking again. There are a series of events that have made their relationship into fragments, not good days or bad days. There’s pressure. There’s no pressure. It’s scary too how in a brief period of hours that, only days, pieces of her life have come out and stretched themselves over the table, waiting for someone to come and pick them up for display.
"Allison," he mutters. "Don't."
There’s a color of annoyance in his voice, too soft to be sharp but heavy enough. She winces as it lingers and churns, her stomach trembling into knots.
"What?" Is it because she doesn't push? She tries, reaching for him but he steps away. "I'm here, you know. I don't have any excuses. I'm not making them. But I'm worried, Jamie. I'm worried about you and this."
He throws it back at her. "Are you?"
Her eyes burn, just a little, and the tightness in her throat expands, burning up and down as it crawls against the lines of her mouth. The motions are familiar, too familiar, and the splurge of memories rise and twist, too fast as she tries and grasps the situation. She wants to be better. She wants to be better than this. It brings her back though, to that point where she decided that six hundred miles was a necessary safety and staple for her to continue her life.
Then again, this is what regret seems to mean.
She never guessed the range of consequences but, then again, who really did? She never planned to be here, she never planned for things like loss and the steps that she's taken. It’s then, really, that she misses her husband. She misses him and the things that he just got, no questions asked. She wants that back.
But it was already hers to lose. It selfish even keeping that in mind.
"I don't know what to tell you."
She means it too, wondering if there's something better that she can say to him. Something that will make him say hey, this is what's wrong even just a little bit. She wishes that she could. Or that, if anything, she wishes that she wasn't too aware of how much better she was at talking to patients, to people outside of her own family and friends. The facets of her life that she's supposed to be good with - something that the expectation is never left alone.
"I wish I did," she adds quietly, shrugging. "I wish I did have something to say. The right thing to say. I wish I had that to give to you. Please."
He’s quiet, watching her. Somehow, she can imagine him and House again. At the bar, as if it were a confessional; House, whether he'd admits it or not, draws particulars out of people that they don't mean to give. It frightening and heavy and makes you more aware of your own impasses than anything else. It’s what he does, instead of drawing out his own weights.
That much she knows.
Jamie takes a step forward, finally, almost as if he were to reach for her. She watches, her shoulders tightening and waiting. She doesn't know what to expect, how to expect anything with him. It’s, again, almost as if someone else is waiting to catch her off-guard.
He’s only been here for two nights. She hates how this feels.
"Don't tell me anything, Allison. I told you - I'll be out of your hair in a couple days. There’s nothing to tell at all."
He says it, means it, and pulls his coat off from the chair. It sweeps into his hand, smacking against his legs. He steps around her, past her. She hopes selfishly for a pause, waiting as her eyes close tightly and she listens to him leave. He’s too, too quiet.
The door slams behind him.
--
Despite the silence, the apartment unfolds and opens to her.
Her phone sits in the middle of her bed. Weighted, the creases unravel underneath it and spread in lines over the blankets that she's yet to fix. It’s another piece of her routine that she hasn't touched. There’s been two days of no running, coffee instead of breakfast, and the late hours next week.
There’s also a reminder that Cuddy wants to see her again.
It’s the second time she’s reminded herself. She’s wary, not because what happened was a total disaster, but because it’s going to reemerge as something else. She’s half-aware that it might have something to do with the budget, about the progress that they're making, quietly and on their own. It’s interesting, underneath everything else, that she's getting a chance to see and work with everything else. She’s confused, sometimes, about how there are things that she still doesn't know and still isn't used too.
She picks up her phone.
Her parents' number is the first on her list and she stares at it, almost blank and tired. She doesn't want to have the conversation. They’ll be angry. She’d be angry too. There’s always been a significant different in their relationships with both Jamie and herself. Ultimately, it’s become clearer by the years. It’s never easy to take though.
But she calls.
The ring is too heavy, too loud, and she waits, trying not swallow desperately. Her throat stays tight, tense, and feels as if there's nothing but dust, that dry sensation that she gets from time to time when facing several things at work. The difference, too, is that the idea of six hundred miles still throws back and forth in her head, reminding her that there are more things she's not okay with.
The answering machine greets her with a sharp beep.
"Mom," she starts quietly. "I - sorry, I haven't called you back. I meant to, on Sunday, but I just got crazy with a few things here. More than a little crazy."
She cradles the phone to her ear.
She takes the pause, not knowing where to start and stop. How can she say it? Her memories are volatile at best, turning around only to keep her persistence. It’s too many things at once, if anything.
"I picked up Jamie at the airport."
She says it instead of he's back, picturing the way her mother's face might tense and drop. Her eyes close and she rubs them, shaking her head. She doesn't know what she's going to do - her parents already remind her of other things. Being too far, keeping quiet about relationship and friends and things that she could have at home. They want her home, worried about her ever since she got married and lost her husband.
That was years and years ago.
"I know, I know," she continues, sighing. "I wanted to call you, but you know how he gets. I know how he gets. I just wanted him to talk to me. I needed him to know that he can talk to me. But -"
He can't. He won't. Apparently, he drinks with House now. There’s still a list of things she could say.
"I don't know if he wants to talk to you guys. He doesn't want to even talk to me."
She’s quiet, sighing.
"I should try, harder huh?"
The difference between now and then, talking to someone and not talking to someone is that there's no one with anything to say. She can imagine. She can taste even taste it.
There’s just no response.
8.
The excuse is too easy to have.
She’s drawn, to the end of the hallway; different floor, same floor. It makes no difference still, time is time, with the things she's said and done. It all feels the same. She exchanges waves and nods with people that she knows, the ones that still keep the familiar greetings alive.
The others must be long gone. Foreman used to live downstairs, with the clinical trials that he was still conducting. He’s absent now. There’s Thirteen. Things are changing again and she remembers, a while back, their exchange of advice - it’s better stay away from question. Their relationship maintains its ups and downs, but what she knows best is that he'll talk to Chase and those arguments will start all over again. She doesn't want that. She keeps walking though, drawing her hands into her pockets and heading down to the offices. House has the corner, Wilson has the other, and she's almost certain that she'd be better off going to Wilson's instead.
She has more to lose with House.
There’s a strange sense of certainty though that she has and doesn't, rising to reassure her. He’d bring it up, he might up, and it doesn't matter, but it gets to keep her guarded and straight. She knows herself better this way.
But it has to do more with what she doesn’t know. He has the higher card. He has a lot of things that she should have and she doesn’t know if it makes her feel helpless or angry all the same.
The light in his office is on, low, and slips into the hallway. It faces the walls, causing her to stop and hesitate for a second. It would be funny if Jamie was there. It wouldn't.
There’s no way.
She steps forward again. She knocks on the glass, her knuckles rapping a little too hard as she finds him sitting in the chair in the corner. He’s slumped, leaning into the pillow. His eyes are half-open, his mouth shifting and then smirking as she looks down at him. Her mouth tenses too and she steps closer, then back just to lean against the wall to watch him.
There’s a sense of déjà vu, funny, and she can almost replay the volume of their previous conversations. She can guess and check and it still feels the same. But she wants more.
She needs to know more.
"How was he?" there's a slight hitch in her voice, her vulnerability on display. It’s her brother, she almost says. She’s worried.
He studies her, his mouth turning and then fading. She tries to guess, but her ears are ringing and ringing tightly. She feels her hands tense too and she crosses her arms against her chest, expectant.
"So you weren't lying," he says.
"I don't make a habit of it."
She bites. Cameron knows there's little she can do here, pushing herself exposed and angry with the things that she does and won't do. He knows her still.
He smirks again. "I see that drowning your sorrows thing is pretty stylish in your brood."
"Funny."
"I know."
She shakes her head, looking away and into his office. He’s been preaching change, back and forth and into these moments that none of them ever understand. Sometimes, she feels like she's back to the first days with him. Sometimes, she doesn't. But they seemingly favor all sorts of moments, little and big.
She throws things back.
"You're trying to hold this over my head."
It’s an observation, not an assumption, and she's still not looking at him. The shades are drawn, over his chair, and there are scattered folders over his desk. An old case, she can only assume, opened and laughing against his desk. He likes old things, she thinks. Memories and files and pieces of things that he can still use.
"Am I?"
His voice is thick, heavy, and she shivers, fighting her arms over a hold against her chest. She turns back, looking at him and shaking her head
She bites her lip. "Are you?"
It feels weak, but he looks down and away. Her voice echoes, almost huskily as the two of them stand her. She remembers the confrontation in the patient's home, the way they snapped and sulked. She had nothing to prove, it wasn't about that; it was more so about the sensation, the daunting way he still seemed to keep himself over her head, watching and judging. Making sure that she still knew that he was still there.
Then there was later. Later, if anything, had much more of a strain and impact than she thought it would. It’s an admission she won’t give him. Maybe, it’s on principle. Maybe, it’s not. But again, it brought her back to how much weight he does have, no matter how hard she keeps to the argument of being away from all of those habits.
She shakes her head.
"He's my brother," she says quietly. "I'm just asking a question."
She expects the response, but he shrugs instead. "Carbon copy."
It tries to be a dig, but remains unsuccessful at best. There are things that he can do and then there are the things that she's already heard, waiting to remind her or work in her favor.
"Something likes that."
That’s all she has. She shifts away from the wall, moving closer. His legs dangle over the footrest, tucked to the side with enough room. There’s no invitation, but she takes it and settles, tucking her arms over her knees. She points herself away from him, watching the hallway, waiting for some sort of excuse.
"Was it bad?'
She shouldn't be asking, but she asks. She wants to know. She needs to be able to expect something, waiting for the moment where she can go back home again and hope that there's an in to talking with her brother. She’s too aware of House's uncanny way of being able to get things out of people. He doesn't talk, they offer in hoards and in sacrifices, a response to how abrasive and ugly he can get.
But she's quiet. She’s using him back.
"He didn't have any keys to take."
It’s a self-indulgent thing to say. On the surface, she can only speculate what it means. It’s been too much time and things, even within the guise of a normal schedule, keep moving.
He’s watching her though. His leg presses forward, against her side. She feels herself flush, only briefly, her mouth twisting in response. She waits for the range that usually pulls but nothing seams to fall. He seems too content to watch her, as if he were re-familiarizing himself with her responses and questions. She doesn't know why, but she doesn't expect anything less. It’s what he does best.
"I'm worried," she shrugs, as if to hide.
He scoffs. "Right. And it's giving you wrinkles. You didn't even bring any coffee to drink. And I've got no hair to braid, in case, you can't tell. Or, yeah, that works for you."
Her eyes darken. She feels herself ready to get angry, but it doesn't come. She’s tired. She doesn't want to be tired. Everything is to close to the surface. This is way too close to the surface.
"This is - I don't even know."
She pushes herself off from the footrest, her hand drawing briefly over his leg. She tries not to snap back, hiding behind an absent gaze. But there’s no hiss from him, no sigh, and she moves her hands to her hips before there's anything else to say to her.
Her fingers rub together, all dry. "I'll just call you next time then."
She leaves him, without anything else to say.
NEXT.