Fic: so remember now (1/2)
so remember now
house md ; house/cameron ; 4,052 words
there’s an old wives’ tale about having nine lives. spoilers for lockdown and a tiny finale one. PG.
notes: Fifth in a series following check your facts, you could be more understanding, when writing distance, and chicago the windy city. For the wonderful, ever-so supportive blueheronz, as my love affair with this series wouldn’t be possible without you. I say tiny finale spoilers for timeline purposes. This part is going to be split into two because this is how the piece wants to roll, lol. Enjoy!
-
Cameron takes a deep breath.
The door opens before she knocks. He stands, gripping a glass. He glances down at the bag next to her. His mouth shifts.
“There was an accident,” he says grimly.
It takes her a minute to put her suitcase in the guestroom. Wilson’s room, he doesn’t say. There is a conference brochure on the table and she makes the assumption.
They stand in the kitchen. House pours himself another drink. She frowns, sliding out of her jacket and hanging it behind one of the stools. She didn’t know what she was walking into with him, she tries to reassure herself, but it feels empty and expected. She lets herself ignore it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks instead. She watches as he drops a few ice cubes into his drink and then turns to face her. He sighs and she sits finally, resting her elbows on the counter. It’s an island, and it’s in the middle of the kitchen; appropriate, she thinks, remembering House’s old apartment.
“No,” he says. He flicks his wrist and brings the glass to his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d come though.”
She shrugs.
“I wanted to,” she says simply.
He nods. He leaves it alone too. She’s not going to push. She’s here and it’s the first, strange step in being here. There are apples and oranges in a bowl. Wilson, she thinks in amusement. Brushing her fingers against the counter, she shifts and reaches forward for a piece of fruit.
The apple rolls between her fingers and she catches it between her palms, rubbing it lightly. House makes a soft sound.
“Nobody knows you’re here.”
She looks up at him. “Okay.”
“Not that I was going to tell them,” he adds. “Chase punched me again. I’m really not into being punched by the guy. Not unless I get to hit him back.”
“You sent me the email,” she says. She avoids the mention of Chase, taking a bite of her apple. She looks around the kitchen, then out to the living room. She really hasn’t had time to process this.
But she remembers the email to. Just us, he had said. It means everything and nothing, and is exactly that, what needed to be said.
Just us, she thinks. “I did,” he says, taking the apple from her. He takes a large bite and she scoffs through a laugh, shaking her head in amusement. “And you read it,” he adds. Neither of them are pushing and the care, the kind that she’s used to, feels almost too planned.
She reaches for his drink though, when he doesn’t give her apple back. She pulls it gently from his hand. Her nose wrinkles but she picks an ice cube out and pops it into her mouth.
“This is strange,” she says, and then sighs, tucking her legs underneath herself. The stool moans softly. “All of this,” she says too.
“I need strange.”
Her lips curl. She shakes her head. She watches as House finishes off her apple. She doesn’t touch his drink though and there’s this small exchange between the two of them: he smirks, she rolls her eyes, he pushes his drink closer to her, daring her even, but she pushes it back.
He picks it up then and finishes off the drink. The glass returns to the counter and House’s hands follow, pressing hard into the top.
“I had two accidents before I left.”
It’s not a reassurance, she thinks. She doesn’t tell him. If he knows, he knows. If he doesn’t; he wouldn’t tell her, she thinks.
He doesn’t blink. “Two?”
Her mouth curls, but then it fades, the smile brief. “Two,” she says. “The night before, Thursday or Wednesday, it was five and then three. In variations - accidents are accidents. It’s - ” she looks over at him, shrugging, “it’s something that you know, that you’re supposed to know, but then you still learn it.”
He stares at her. He says nothing. There’s no barb, no heat, but he’s watching and she’s wondering if he’s really listening.
She sighs softly. “Accidents are still hard.”
It’s not hard to tell him, but it’s hard to tell him and open up this way. Professionally, it’s always been different. She thinks she outgrew working for him for a number of reasons, and whether he admits it or not, there was a resentment from him because of that for a while. She knew it wasn’t because he respected Chase or Foreman more, or her any less, it was because she left and left on her terms, the way she wanted to. She’s always had that outside of him.
But he watches her, and then draws back, pushing himself away from the counter. He moves around her and out to the living room. She’s quiet. She doesn’t move. She listens to the television as it comes on and the room is filled with the odd murmur of the news, or the game - she just guesses.
She takes a deep breath before she stands. When she enters the living room, he’s sitting on the couch. His legs are stretched over the coffee table. She sits next to him, but he doesn’t look up.
“You’re not upset that I didn’t tell anyone.”
She blinks. He picks up the remote between them. He turns the volume down.
“Why?” she asks.
“I’m looking for something,” he mutters.
She’s quiet. She looks away too.
There it is again, she thinks. Another time where goes and says something, and she doesn’t even consider it as something he doesn’t know he’s doing; this isn’t House and everything he says, everything, was considered and has a purpose.
“I don’t know what you’re looking for.”
She’s pointed. The corners of his mouth rise slightly.
“We’re going to talk about it again?”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “No,” she says. “You’re right. We can’t. We shouldn’t. It’s stupid.”
“You said it.”
“The thing is, I came.”
“And you expect something,” he says. It’s not an accusation and that surprises her. “You came and you expected something.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
There’s a smile, or something like a smile, the kind she’ll see again and fall into the speculation of doing something right.
“There’s a game on.”
“You would,” she murmurs.
They’re quiet then. She pulls a blanket off the sidearm of the couch, drawing it over her legs and tucking herself against the side of her couch. She’s tired and it’s finally hitting her now, really hitting her as she watches him and then turns her gaze to the game. In the corner of her eye, she catches him as his head drops back against the pillows. He sighs loudly.
“At least, it’s not a metaphor,” he says. She almost smiles.
She falls asleep somewhere between the hockey game and a movie, next to him as he talks to someone on the phone. She doesn’t remember hearing it ring, or House telling her anything else, but she picks up on bits of the conversation, her eyes opening and closing before she shifts.
“Look again,” he tells someone gruffly. His voice is hard and unforgiving. There’s something missing and she’s entirely sure what. “I’m not coming in,” he adds.
“An MRI,” she says sleepily. She must’ve caught more than she realized. She blinks and sits up, too close to House. He peers down at her, his mouth curling in amusement. But she sits back on her knees, rubbing her eyes and then watching him. “You should see it.”
He says nothing. Cameron rubs her eyes.
When he hangs up, there are credits on the television in front of her. He holds the phone in his hand, staring hard at it. She studies him, confused. House closes a fist over the phone, his knuckles whitening, and then tosses it next to himself.
“Not a total waste,” he says. And then it’s like the call never happened. He doesn’t stand, but he’s still tense.
She feels worried. Her teeth tug at her lip.
“Are you going in?”
He shakes his head. “They can screw it up themselves,” he says. “They’re getting better at it too. I’ll go in tomorrow to make an appearance because that’s when I’m supposed anyway.”
“Right,” she says.
Accident, she thinks too. Accident, the old team; it’s easy to think about putting two and two together, but she doesn’t. It’s not hers to put together. She’s promised herself that she wouldn’t do this again.
“Do you miss it?”
He asks suddenly but quietly, turning to look at her. His eyes are dark and for a moment, she thinks of him as angry, something that she’s never really fully seen. None of them have, she thinks. It’s always halfway there. He never shows too much.
But she takes him in, the hard lines in his face, his mouth, and under his eyes; she reaches forward and brushes her fingers against his face, over one of the creases next to his mouth. He sighs into her fingertips but then turns his face away.
“Do you miss it?” he asks again.
“Working for you?” and it’s such an easy question, she thinks. She’s surprised and doesn’t try to show it, “No,” she says. “Not really. I told you once that I learned all I need to know from you. I knew when it was time to move on.”
“But you didn’t.”
She laughs. Her hands drop into her lap.
“I did,” she says.
He frowns. He shakes his head. It’s not what he wants to hear. She’s not stupid.
“It’s complicated,” she adds. “We’re complicated. This is complicated. I’m not going to lie. You make me feel like I’m in over my head.”
“So you tell me,” he says dryly.
“I mean it.”
“You’re the only one who isn’t waiting,” he says, and he says it not to her, but to himself. It’s something that she finds out and different. It’s never happened before. Her mouth curls and he sighs, softly even.
“Waiting?” she asks carefully.
He shakes his head. “Whatever.” He stands too, stretching. He rubs his leg. “I’m hungry,” he says too.
He stares at the television. He turns to look at her, looking down. She won’t ask, she wants to say to him. She’s not going to ask unless he makes that effort too. It disappoints her, almost too much, that they’re back here again.
He disappears behind her.
She hears him in the kitchen and then sighs, dropping her elbows to her knees. The blanket is still around her legs and she presses her face in her hands. You made the decision to come here, she tells herself. You made the decision to let him see you. She came with no major expectations, but small ones, the small one haunt her.
Cameron forces herself to stand. The blanket drops onto the floor and she picks it up, folding it into her corner of the couch. She follows him to the kitchen. He’s standing over the stove, and places pot over one of the burners, studying it.
“Wilson got together with his ex,” he says lightly.
“Oh.”
He nods back to the living room. “The conference -”
The coffee table, she thinks. “I don’t need to know,” she says dryly.
“Then why are you here?”
She looks down, pressing her hands against the counter. She doesn’t sit at the island and House moves over to the sink.
“I’m here for you,” she says.
He starts to wash his hands. “You can help me cook,” he says.
Dinner is strange, quiet. It’s closer to midnight now, but neither of them make a point about it. House asks her about her place in Chicago.
She thinks for a moment. “It’s not home yet,” she says.
He is gone in the morning. She doesn’t expect anything less. It’s just strange being in Princeton, being a secret or being something like a secret, something more and nothing less.
She’s in the kitchen with lunch, cutting carrots just as he comes in. She hears a scoff and bites back a smile. It feels different all of the sudden.
“You went out,” he says and he comes closer, dropping his keys somewhere behind her and then moving to counter next to her. She looks up briefly, then back at the carrots, reaching for another one to start cutting.
“I went for a run,” she says. “Then the store,” she says. “You have nothing in your fridge but a few beers.”
He grunts but says nothing, walking out of the kitchen. She can hear him move down the hall and she tosses the carrots into her soap, putting a lid over the pot and then brushing her hands over her jeans. She moves back to the island and then sits, reaching for her glass.
She brought some work with her. She half-expected to make a last minute jump into a hotel room, just before she arrived, but decided to trust him.
When he comes back, he heads straight to the stove. She reaches for a pen. She sneaks a glance as he takes the lid of the pot. She catches something that looks like a smile but doesn’t say anything, returning to her work.
“Soup?”
“It’s lunchtime,” she says. She writes a few notes in the margin, watching him as he comes over to her. He stands behind her. She hides a smile.
“What?” she asks too.
He peers over her shoulder, reaching for an apple. “Work?” He points to paragraph, over her shoulder, leaning in and studying the file. “That’s not right,” he says.
“I know.”
“Case study?”
“Yeah,” she says. His nose wrinkles. “I’m putting it together,” she says. “A favor for a colleague,” she adds.
It’s nothing that she wants to talk about. The problem with working for House for a number of years is that you forget about the politics and the norms of working in a hospital, working with other doctors. She was fortunate enough to be the one that could handle all the odds and ends.
Now, she doesn’t have that weight. There are just additional turns and added responsibilities. She’s allowed move much more than she used to. She’s older and wiser in many ways and it’s how she knows how things are changing, how her perspective is, and why she went back into the ER.
House points to another paragraph. “That’s you.”
“That’s me,” she says.
He sits next to her then. He peeks through several of her files, each moment stopped as she smacks his hand. Her eyes narrow and he smirks.
He points to a copy of film.
“It isn’t the same.”
“Don’t,” she murmurs. She grows serious, fidgeting. “You know my answer to that. I thought we said we weren’t going to talk about that again.”
“I didn’t promise.”
“Don’t you get tired of that conversation?” she half-snaps. She doesn’t want to touch work. Not now, not yet; they always use work as a fall back.
He doesn’t smile. There’s no barb. She waits though, but he’s serious. “I never wanted to give you credit,” he says.
She looks away.
It takes her a moment to collect herself. Her fingers brush against the file, over the papers, and she picks up the film, tucking everything back into the folder. She pushes it back over the counter.
Turning to House, she touches his arm. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They are quiet. He lives on the other side of city, further away from where she used to be but closer to the hospital and the university. There is a park just outside the area, flanked by shops, and the odd row of apartments, something that she liked and didn’t like about the city.
But it’s a cooler day, odd for the start of summer, and she brushes her hands against her arms as she walks next to him. It’s comfortable and slow; neither of them makes the effort to really change the pace or start arguing. She keeps coming back to these old expectations, but he changes and then surprises her.
“You’re not her,” he says suddenly. “You’re not any of them,” he adds. “I need something from all of them, something that they give and I -”
He pauses and quiets. A couple passes them, holding hands, swinging their arms; they’re young and she almost smiles, catching House as he studies them absently.
Cuddy, she thinks. He’s back there again and she remembers, oddly, how he talked about Lydia too. For a moment, they all seem one in the same, like he’s compensating for what he wants, if he even knows at all.
She doesn’t think House as naïve though. It doesn’t work.
“Then what am I?” she asks, and she can’t help herself. She bites the inside of her mouth, trying not to sigh. It’s not what she wanted to say to him.
“I haven’t figured it out yet.”
He says it quickly, but not too quickly, fast enough where she can catch the lie. She’s careful though, studying him. It seems too soon, but then again, there’s never been any sort of timing between the two of them. Sometimes she likes it, sometimes she doesn’t, but then she recognizes that this is what he does and it’s not going to change.
Quietly, she links her arm though his. His mouth twists. Her fingers spread over his arm and he stands straighter, letting her lean closer. They slow for a moment, passing under a few trees and walking by the park gardeners; there are a few flowers here and there, spread out and carefully placed.
House clears his throat, meeting her gaze. “Leaving Monday?”
“Early,” she answers.
“Early,” he repeats. He looks away. “Early is good.”
“Is Wilson coming back?”
He shrugs. “Do you care?”
“No,” she says. “But you do.”
“Yeah,” he says.
Her lips curl in amusement. She shakes her head and he seems to pull her closer. His hand slides into his pocket and his wrist hits her hip.
“I want you to stay,” he says then too, and carefully, too carefully, as if he were waiting for her to call him out on it. Another test, she thinks. But there’s something that makes her hesitant and she doesn’t know what is; or maybe she does, they’ve been here before, over again and again, that same question.
They stop at a bench. There’s exit around the turn, but House sits on the bench and sighs, bent over his leg. He rubs it hard.
She shakes her head. “No.”
He sighs loudly. She hesitates before she sits, sitting close to him.
“What do I have to do?”
It’s not a plea and she wonders if he’s really asking her, if she’s supposed to be the one hearing this question. She’s still honest though.
“It’s not that simple,” she says quietly. There’s something different about the way he looks at her and she has to sit back to continue. “It doesn’t get to be that simple. I know you know that, House.”
She leans forward; her fingers curl around his arm and he stares at her, brows furrowed. He still hasn’t said anything yet.
“I don’t -” she stops and sighs. “I don’t want this be anything that you think you have to do. It’s not how I work and - well, you know how successful the last relationship I was in was. But don’t think you’re doing me any favors.”
“It’s hard,” he sighs.
She doesn’t want to know what that means. She lets it go. Her lips curl. “It isn’t.”
He shakes his head. “I told you - you’re different.”
You’re different. Again, it’s there. Again, she’s thinking of things that she’s not quite ready to face or know or even need. She doesn’t want him to do this to her, but it’s not something she can push herself to ask.
She says nothing in turn. They stand then, Cameron before House, and start to walk once more. The phrase still plays in her head, over and over again. It shouldn’t matter, she thinks. She came. She came to see him.
They get to the end of the park though, where the exit finally stands. Over the entrance, she can see the hospital. It looms for a moment and she blinks. It’s almost as if it’s not supposed to be there, but it is and it’s a reminder, heavier than most.
When she looks up at House, he offers her his arm.
The couch seems smaller later. She wonders if it’s just her instead of how close the two of them have decided to sit.
They’ve ordered Chinese. Cameron sits with her legs curled underneath her, picking at her dumplings with a set of chopsticks. There’s a movie on, but she’s not really paying any attention. She feels better, she thinks. It’s not that talking makes this something, and they’ve never not talked, but she feels like they’re being honest with each other and it’s a good feeling to have.
House points to the two beers on the coffee table. Hers is untouched.
“There’s no wine.”
“Beer’s fine,” she says. He smirks and she rolls her eyes, offering him the takeout box. She sits next to him. “And you’re such a classicist - lo mein.”
“I didn’t say anything about your dumplings.”
She laughs because she can’t help herself and it’s such a strange conversation to have with him. But she’s let go, let go of that, the strangeness of what this means, or really could me. She leaves it alone.
They still sit arm to arm and she tries and focuses on the movie at hand, stealing a glance at House. She can’t tell if he’s paying attention or not. His burrow is furrowed. Then he smirks, as if he’s caught her nonetheless.
“Do you want some?” She offers her carton.
“No,” he scoffs.
She’s quiet. Maybe, she should push. She’s been thinking of it briefly, knowing full well that she’s going to have to go home again and there’s very little to do about that. She wonders what he’d do if she comes out and says you need to meet me halfway. But she hates ultimatums, the very kind that have hung over her head for years, and until recently. She wouldn’t do that to anyone else.
She wants the truth, she thinks. “You know,” she says slowly. “If this keeps happening, you’re have to start coming to me. I hate doing things on a whim.”
“Is that an invitation?” he asks.
Her voice is dry. “The weekend’s still young.”
His mouth curls. She smiles too. She doesn’t wait for him to say anything either. She takes her chopsticks and digs into his carton, stealing a piece of chicken, as he looks on, half-amused, half-not. Her lips turn and she shrugs.
He says nothing though. He leans forward and puts his carton down. She studies him and then turns her gaze to the television, just as he leans back. She feels his arm brush lightly against her shoulders, resting it against the couch.
She looks up at him, but his gaze is on the television. She bites her lip. She puts her carton down and then shifts back, quietly, carefully leaning into his side. She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t think she can.
She breathes first. Then slowly, his arm shifts closer, his fingers curl lightly over her shoulder. She feels his thumb as it starts to trace her skin, over the strap of her tank top, and can’t help but sigh. She drops her head against the crook of his neck.
“This is a terrible movie,” he says softly.
Her mouth curls. “It doesn’t matter,” she says.
In the morning she’s up early, in the kitchen. The coffee isn’t hard to find.
She’s humming softly. House isn’t up yet. She went to bed before him, the night before. This seems too much like a brief habit and she’s okay with that too, she decides. She’s still standing with an open mind.
But she’s vaguely aware of a door opening. Her hands over the coffee pot and she shuffles it into place. Something drops and she thinks house, shaking her head.
“Cameron.”
Her hands stop. She doesn’t turn. Her mouth curls slightly.
“Wilson,” she says.
house md ; house/cameron ; 4,052 words
there’s an old wives’ tale about having nine lives. spoilers for lockdown and a tiny finale one. PG.
notes: Fifth in a series following check your facts, you could be more understanding, when writing distance, and chicago the windy city. For the wonderful, ever-so supportive blueheronz, as my love affair with this series wouldn’t be possible without you. I say tiny finale spoilers for timeline purposes. This part is going to be split into two because this is how the piece wants to roll, lol. Enjoy!
-
Cameron takes a deep breath.
The door opens before she knocks. He stands, gripping a glass. He glances down at the bag next to her. His mouth shifts.
“There was an accident,” he says grimly.
It takes her a minute to put her suitcase in the guestroom. Wilson’s room, he doesn’t say. There is a conference brochure on the table and she makes the assumption.
They stand in the kitchen. House pours himself another drink. She frowns, sliding out of her jacket and hanging it behind one of the stools. She didn’t know what she was walking into with him, she tries to reassure herself, but it feels empty and expected. She lets herself ignore it.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks instead. She watches as he drops a few ice cubes into his drink and then turns to face her. He sighs and she sits finally, resting her elbows on the counter. It’s an island, and it’s in the middle of the kitchen; appropriate, she thinks, remembering House’s old apartment.
“No,” he says. He flicks his wrist and brings the glass to his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d come though.”
She shrugs.
“I wanted to,” she says simply.
He nods. He leaves it alone too. She’s not going to push. She’s here and it’s the first, strange step in being here. There are apples and oranges in a bowl. Wilson, she thinks in amusement. Brushing her fingers against the counter, she shifts and reaches forward for a piece of fruit.
The apple rolls between her fingers and she catches it between her palms, rubbing it lightly. House makes a soft sound.
“Nobody knows you’re here.”
She looks up at him. “Okay.”
“Not that I was going to tell them,” he adds. “Chase punched me again. I’m really not into being punched by the guy. Not unless I get to hit him back.”
“You sent me the email,” she says. She avoids the mention of Chase, taking a bite of her apple. She looks around the kitchen, then out to the living room. She really hasn’t had time to process this.
But she remembers the email to. Just us, he had said. It means everything and nothing, and is exactly that, what needed to be said.
Just us, she thinks. “I did,” he says, taking the apple from her. He takes a large bite and she scoffs through a laugh, shaking her head in amusement. “And you read it,” he adds. Neither of them are pushing and the care, the kind that she’s used to, feels almost too planned.
She reaches for his drink though, when he doesn’t give her apple back. She pulls it gently from his hand. Her nose wrinkles but she picks an ice cube out and pops it into her mouth.
“This is strange,” she says, and then sighs, tucking her legs underneath herself. The stool moans softly. “All of this,” she says too.
“I need strange.”
Her lips curl. She shakes her head. She watches as House finishes off her apple. She doesn’t touch his drink though and there’s this small exchange between the two of them: he smirks, she rolls her eyes, he pushes his drink closer to her, daring her even, but she pushes it back.
He picks it up then and finishes off the drink. The glass returns to the counter and House’s hands follow, pressing hard into the top.
“I had two accidents before I left.”
It’s not a reassurance, she thinks. She doesn’t tell him. If he knows, he knows. If he doesn’t; he wouldn’t tell her, she thinks.
He doesn’t blink. “Two?”
Her mouth curls, but then it fades, the smile brief. “Two,” she says. “The night before, Thursday or Wednesday, it was five and then three. In variations - accidents are accidents. It’s - ” she looks over at him, shrugging, “it’s something that you know, that you’re supposed to know, but then you still learn it.”
He stares at her. He says nothing. There’s no barb, no heat, but he’s watching and she’s wondering if he’s really listening.
She sighs softly. “Accidents are still hard.”
It’s not hard to tell him, but it’s hard to tell him and open up this way. Professionally, it’s always been different. She thinks she outgrew working for him for a number of reasons, and whether he admits it or not, there was a resentment from him because of that for a while. She knew it wasn’t because he respected Chase or Foreman more, or her any less, it was because she left and left on her terms, the way she wanted to. She’s always had that outside of him.
But he watches her, and then draws back, pushing himself away from the counter. He moves around her and out to the living room. She’s quiet. She doesn’t move. She listens to the television as it comes on and the room is filled with the odd murmur of the news, or the game - she just guesses.
She takes a deep breath before she stands. When she enters the living room, he’s sitting on the couch. His legs are stretched over the coffee table. She sits next to him, but he doesn’t look up.
“You’re not upset that I didn’t tell anyone.”
She blinks. He picks up the remote between them. He turns the volume down.
“Why?” she asks.
“I’m looking for something,” he mutters.
She’s quiet. She looks away too.
There it is again, she thinks. Another time where goes and says something, and she doesn’t even consider it as something he doesn’t know he’s doing; this isn’t House and everything he says, everything, was considered and has a purpose.
“I don’t know what you’re looking for.”
She’s pointed. The corners of his mouth rise slightly.
“We’re going to talk about it again?”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “No,” she says. “You’re right. We can’t. We shouldn’t. It’s stupid.”
“You said it.”
“The thing is, I came.”
“And you expect something,” he says. It’s not an accusation and that surprises her. “You came and you expected something.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
There’s a smile, or something like a smile, the kind she’ll see again and fall into the speculation of doing something right.
“There’s a game on.”
“You would,” she murmurs.
They’re quiet then. She pulls a blanket off the sidearm of the couch, drawing it over her legs and tucking herself against the side of her couch. She’s tired and it’s finally hitting her now, really hitting her as she watches him and then turns her gaze to the game. In the corner of her eye, she catches him as his head drops back against the pillows. He sighs loudly.
“At least, it’s not a metaphor,” he says. She almost smiles.
She falls asleep somewhere between the hockey game and a movie, next to him as he talks to someone on the phone. She doesn’t remember hearing it ring, or House telling her anything else, but she picks up on bits of the conversation, her eyes opening and closing before she shifts.
“Look again,” he tells someone gruffly. His voice is hard and unforgiving. There’s something missing and she’s entirely sure what. “I’m not coming in,” he adds.
“An MRI,” she says sleepily. She must’ve caught more than she realized. She blinks and sits up, too close to House. He peers down at her, his mouth curling in amusement. But she sits back on her knees, rubbing her eyes and then watching him. “You should see it.”
He says nothing. Cameron rubs her eyes.
When he hangs up, there are credits on the television in front of her. He holds the phone in his hand, staring hard at it. She studies him, confused. House closes a fist over the phone, his knuckles whitening, and then tosses it next to himself.
“Not a total waste,” he says. And then it’s like the call never happened. He doesn’t stand, but he’s still tense.
She feels worried. Her teeth tug at her lip.
“Are you going in?”
He shakes his head. “They can screw it up themselves,” he says. “They’re getting better at it too. I’ll go in tomorrow to make an appearance because that’s when I’m supposed anyway.”
“Right,” she says.
Accident, she thinks too. Accident, the old team; it’s easy to think about putting two and two together, but she doesn’t. It’s not hers to put together. She’s promised herself that she wouldn’t do this again.
“Do you miss it?”
He asks suddenly but quietly, turning to look at her. His eyes are dark and for a moment, she thinks of him as angry, something that she’s never really fully seen. None of them have, she thinks. It’s always halfway there. He never shows too much.
But she takes him in, the hard lines in his face, his mouth, and under his eyes; she reaches forward and brushes her fingers against his face, over one of the creases next to his mouth. He sighs into her fingertips but then turns his face away.
“Do you miss it?” he asks again.
“Working for you?” and it’s such an easy question, she thinks. She’s surprised and doesn’t try to show it, “No,” she says. “Not really. I told you once that I learned all I need to know from you. I knew when it was time to move on.”
“But you didn’t.”
She laughs. Her hands drop into her lap.
“I did,” she says.
He frowns. He shakes his head. It’s not what he wants to hear. She’s not stupid.
“It’s complicated,” she adds. “We’re complicated. This is complicated. I’m not going to lie. You make me feel like I’m in over my head.”
“So you tell me,” he says dryly.
“I mean it.”
“You’re the only one who isn’t waiting,” he says, and he says it not to her, but to himself. It’s something that she finds out and different. It’s never happened before. Her mouth curls and he sighs, softly even.
“Waiting?” she asks carefully.
He shakes his head. “Whatever.” He stands too, stretching. He rubs his leg. “I’m hungry,” he says too.
He stares at the television. He turns to look at her, looking down. She won’t ask, she wants to say to him. She’s not going to ask unless he makes that effort too. It disappoints her, almost too much, that they’re back here again.
He disappears behind her.
She hears him in the kitchen and then sighs, dropping her elbows to her knees. The blanket is still around her legs and she presses her face in her hands. You made the decision to come here, she tells herself. You made the decision to let him see you. She came with no major expectations, but small ones, the small one haunt her.
Cameron forces herself to stand. The blanket drops onto the floor and she picks it up, folding it into her corner of the couch. She follows him to the kitchen. He’s standing over the stove, and places pot over one of the burners, studying it.
“Wilson got together with his ex,” he says lightly.
“Oh.”
He nods back to the living room. “The conference -”
The coffee table, she thinks. “I don’t need to know,” she says dryly.
“Then why are you here?”
She looks down, pressing her hands against the counter. She doesn’t sit at the island and House moves over to the sink.
“I’m here for you,” she says.
He starts to wash his hands. “You can help me cook,” he says.
Dinner is strange, quiet. It’s closer to midnight now, but neither of them make a point about it. House asks her about her place in Chicago.
She thinks for a moment. “It’s not home yet,” she says.
He is gone in the morning. She doesn’t expect anything less. It’s just strange being in Princeton, being a secret or being something like a secret, something more and nothing less.
She’s in the kitchen with lunch, cutting carrots just as he comes in. She hears a scoff and bites back a smile. It feels different all of the sudden.
“You went out,” he says and he comes closer, dropping his keys somewhere behind her and then moving to counter next to her. She looks up briefly, then back at the carrots, reaching for another one to start cutting.
“I went for a run,” she says. “Then the store,” she says. “You have nothing in your fridge but a few beers.”
He grunts but says nothing, walking out of the kitchen. She can hear him move down the hall and she tosses the carrots into her soap, putting a lid over the pot and then brushing her hands over her jeans. She moves back to the island and then sits, reaching for her glass.
She brought some work with her. She half-expected to make a last minute jump into a hotel room, just before she arrived, but decided to trust him.
When he comes back, he heads straight to the stove. She reaches for a pen. She sneaks a glance as he takes the lid of the pot. She catches something that looks like a smile but doesn’t say anything, returning to her work.
“Soup?”
“It’s lunchtime,” she says. She writes a few notes in the margin, watching him as he comes over to her. He stands behind her. She hides a smile.
“What?” she asks too.
He peers over her shoulder, reaching for an apple. “Work?” He points to paragraph, over her shoulder, leaning in and studying the file. “That’s not right,” he says.
“I know.”
“Case study?”
“Yeah,” she says. His nose wrinkles. “I’m putting it together,” she says. “A favor for a colleague,” she adds.
It’s nothing that she wants to talk about. The problem with working for House for a number of years is that you forget about the politics and the norms of working in a hospital, working with other doctors. She was fortunate enough to be the one that could handle all the odds and ends.
Now, she doesn’t have that weight. There are just additional turns and added responsibilities. She’s allowed move much more than she used to. She’s older and wiser in many ways and it’s how she knows how things are changing, how her perspective is, and why she went back into the ER.
House points to another paragraph. “That’s you.”
“That’s me,” she says.
He sits next to her then. He peeks through several of her files, each moment stopped as she smacks his hand. Her eyes narrow and he smirks.
He points to a copy of film.
“It isn’t the same.”
“Don’t,” she murmurs. She grows serious, fidgeting. “You know my answer to that. I thought we said we weren’t going to talk about that again.”
“I didn’t promise.”
“Don’t you get tired of that conversation?” she half-snaps. She doesn’t want to touch work. Not now, not yet; they always use work as a fall back.
He doesn’t smile. There’s no barb. She waits though, but he’s serious. “I never wanted to give you credit,” he says.
She looks away.
It takes her a moment to collect herself. Her fingers brush against the file, over the papers, and she picks up the film, tucking everything back into the folder. She pushes it back over the counter.
Turning to House, she touches his arm. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They are quiet. He lives on the other side of city, further away from where she used to be but closer to the hospital and the university. There is a park just outside the area, flanked by shops, and the odd row of apartments, something that she liked and didn’t like about the city.
But it’s a cooler day, odd for the start of summer, and she brushes her hands against her arms as she walks next to him. It’s comfortable and slow; neither of them makes the effort to really change the pace or start arguing. She keeps coming back to these old expectations, but he changes and then surprises her.
“You’re not her,” he says suddenly. “You’re not any of them,” he adds. “I need something from all of them, something that they give and I -”
He pauses and quiets. A couple passes them, holding hands, swinging their arms; they’re young and she almost smiles, catching House as he studies them absently.
Cuddy, she thinks. He’s back there again and she remembers, oddly, how he talked about Lydia too. For a moment, they all seem one in the same, like he’s compensating for what he wants, if he even knows at all.
She doesn’t think House as naïve though. It doesn’t work.
“Then what am I?” she asks, and she can’t help herself. She bites the inside of her mouth, trying not to sigh. It’s not what she wanted to say to him.
“I haven’t figured it out yet.”
He says it quickly, but not too quickly, fast enough where she can catch the lie. She’s careful though, studying him. It seems too soon, but then again, there’s never been any sort of timing between the two of them. Sometimes she likes it, sometimes she doesn’t, but then she recognizes that this is what he does and it’s not going to change.
Quietly, she links her arm though his. His mouth twists. Her fingers spread over his arm and he stands straighter, letting her lean closer. They slow for a moment, passing under a few trees and walking by the park gardeners; there are a few flowers here and there, spread out and carefully placed.
House clears his throat, meeting her gaze. “Leaving Monday?”
“Early,” she answers.
“Early,” he repeats. He looks away. “Early is good.”
“Is Wilson coming back?”
He shrugs. “Do you care?”
“No,” she says. “But you do.”
“Yeah,” he says.
Her lips curl in amusement. She shakes her head and he seems to pull her closer. His hand slides into his pocket and his wrist hits her hip.
“I want you to stay,” he says then too, and carefully, too carefully, as if he were waiting for her to call him out on it. Another test, she thinks. But there’s something that makes her hesitant and she doesn’t know what is; or maybe she does, they’ve been here before, over again and again, that same question.
They stop at a bench. There’s exit around the turn, but House sits on the bench and sighs, bent over his leg. He rubs it hard.
She shakes her head. “No.”
He sighs loudly. She hesitates before she sits, sitting close to him.
“What do I have to do?”
It’s not a plea and she wonders if he’s really asking her, if she’s supposed to be the one hearing this question. She’s still honest though.
“It’s not that simple,” she says quietly. There’s something different about the way he looks at her and she has to sit back to continue. “It doesn’t get to be that simple. I know you know that, House.”
She leans forward; her fingers curl around his arm and he stares at her, brows furrowed. He still hasn’t said anything yet.
“I don’t -” she stops and sighs. “I don’t want this be anything that you think you have to do. It’s not how I work and - well, you know how successful the last relationship I was in was. But don’t think you’re doing me any favors.”
“It’s hard,” he sighs.
She doesn’t want to know what that means. She lets it go. Her lips curl. “It isn’t.”
He shakes his head. “I told you - you’re different.”
You’re different. Again, it’s there. Again, she’s thinking of things that she’s not quite ready to face or know or even need. She doesn’t want him to do this to her, but it’s not something she can push herself to ask.
She says nothing in turn. They stand then, Cameron before House, and start to walk once more. The phrase still plays in her head, over and over again. It shouldn’t matter, she thinks. She came. She came to see him.
They get to the end of the park though, where the exit finally stands. Over the entrance, she can see the hospital. It looms for a moment and she blinks. It’s almost as if it’s not supposed to be there, but it is and it’s a reminder, heavier than most.
When she looks up at House, he offers her his arm.
The couch seems smaller later. She wonders if it’s just her instead of how close the two of them have decided to sit.
They’ve ordered Chinese. Cameron sits with her legs curled underneath her, picking at her dumplings with a set of chopsticks. There’s a movie on, but she’s not really paying any attention. She feels better, she thinks. It’s not that talking makes this something, and they’ve never not talked, but she feels like they’re being honest with each other and it’s a good feeling to have.
House points to the two beers on the coffee table. Hers is untouched.
“There’s no wine.”
“Beer’s fine,” she says. He smirks and she rolls her eyes, offering him the takeout box. She sits next to him. “And you’re such a classicist - lo mein.”
“I didn’t say anything about your dumplings.”
She laughs because she can’t help herself and it’s such a strange conversation to have with him. But she’s let go, let go of that, the strangeness of what this means, or really could me. She leaves it alone.
They still sit arm to arm and she tries and focuses on the movie at hand, stealing a glance at House. She can’t tell if he’s paying attention or not. His burrow is furrowed. Then he smirks, as if he’s caught her nonetheless.
“Do you want some?” She offers her carton.
“No,” he scoffs.
She’s quiet. Maybe, she should push. She’s been thinking of it briefly, knowing full well that she’s going to have to go home again and there’s very little to do about that. She wonders what he’d do if she comes out and says you need to meet me halfway. But she hates ultimatums, the very kind that have hung over her head for years, and until recently. She wouldn’t do that to anyone else.
She wants the truth, she thinks. “You know,” she says slowly. “If this keeps happening, you’re have to start coming to me. I hate doing things on a whim.”
“Is that an invitation?” he asks.
Her voice is dry. “The weekend’s still young.”
His mouth curls. She smiles too. She doesn’t wait for him to say anything either. She takes her chopsticks and digs into his carton, stealing a piece of chicken, as he looks on, half-amused, half-not. Her lips turn and she shrugs.
He says nothing though. He leans forward and puts his carton down. She studies him and then turns her gaze to the television, just as he leans back. She feels his arm brush lightly against her shoulders, resting it against the couch.
She looks up at him, but his gaze is on the television. She bites her lip. She puts her carton down and then shifts back, quietly, carefully leaning into his side. She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t think she can.
She breathes first. Then slowly, his arm shifts closer, his fingers curl lightly over her shoulder. She feels his thumb as it starts to trace her skin, over the strap of her tank top, and can’t help but sigh. She drops her head against the crook of his neck.
“This is a terrible movie,” he says softly.
Her mouth curls. “It doesn’t matter,” she says.
In the morning she’s up early, in the kitchen. The coffee isn’t hard to find.
She’s humming softly. House isn’t up yet. She went to bed before him, the night before. This seems too much like a brief habit and she’s okay with that too, she decides. She’s still standing with an open mind.
But she’s vaguely aware of a door opening. Her hands over the coffee pot and she shuffles it into place. Something drops and she thinks house, shaking her head.
“Cameron.”
Her hands stop. She doesn’t turn. Her mouth curls slightly.
“Wilson,” she says.