house fic: The Darker Days of Me and Him 2/10
Title: The Darker Days of Me and Him
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1004
Spoilers: Minor for 'Love Hurts' and will sort of grow from there.
Rating: Harmless PG for now.
Summary: ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I we sit beside the headstone thus,and wish that name were carved for us the moss reprints more tenderly the hard types of the mason's knife, as heaven's sweet life renews earth's life with which we're tired, my heart and I.
A/N: Part One is here.
ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, My Heart and I
i.
Weeks later, Wilson corners her in the conference room.
She hasn’t reached the days where she’s going to start regretting her return to the hospital. She’s still jumping from moment to moment, hours to minutes, and those irreplaceable seconds that have been whisked away into an abyss of desolate memories. Those seconds will haunt her later and it’s the later that she knows she’s unprepared for the most.
She thinks nothing of that fateful night or even the week that followed. And the week after that. Work becomes easier to hide in. Face melt. People become one person. Mundane conversation is always a yes, I’m fine I’m just tired today or a no, I need go home because of this and hides successfully the truth. It’s the truth that can crush her.
“Allison,” he says gently. And she’s always caught of guard because Wilson is really the only one who says her name to her.
There’s no secret to what this is about.
She stands and clears the mess of files and journals she’s been barely glancing over. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she mumbles, “Don’t worry about it.”
She avoids him, keeping her gaze low or directed to corners. It’s been easier now. There’s a cold, clinical distance between her and House. His attempts to goad her into an argument have lessened considerably [curiosity grows]. She’s become too good [again] at finding that alternative answer and training herself away from directly confronting his curiosity.
“How did-”
She cuts him off. “It’s written all over your face.”
Wilson shakes his head, making no effort to hide his amusement. “The two of you really creep me out sometimes.”
She almost laughs at the unintentional [intentional] meaning [reasoning] being his comment. She sighs and leans against the desk, her hands clenching and unclenching to control herself.
“Is that it?” She asks calmly, waiting for the second time Wilson will pry. Assumptions. Questions. Intentions. Honest. Curious. It all melted into the same thing sooner or later.
“Something happened, didn’t it.” He doesn’t ask.
She says nothing. Grabbing a binder she had borrowed from Dr. Cuddy, she straightens her jacket and sets herself ready to leave. Even unintentional vulnerability is dangerous now. This time she has to protect herself.
“Allison.” Second time.
She stops in the doorway and stiffens.
Wilson continues. “He won’t say anything. You won’t say anything. And I have never, ever seen anyone effectively avoid him like this- particularly when you spent most your time standing right in front of him. It’s like you’ve invented a new silent treatment.”
“Nothing happened.” Her mouth is dry. Her words taste bitter.
Wilson’s hand is on her shoulder. It feels heavy. Too heavy. Too wrong. She can’t do the nice friend thing right now.
“Something obviously did,” he murmurs. “I like you. And on some days, I like you better than him. But you need to talk to someone. So just talk.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Words form and fall as explanations in her head. She tries logic, wills it against the need to vent, emotionally rationalize. She’s been in this situation before. Younger. Naïve. Struggling against the need to talk to someone and overshadowed by her fear of inadvertently sounding selfish.
She shrugs off Wilson’s hand, nodding in its direction. “I wore one once.”
Stunned, Wilson’s mouth opens and closes. His wedding ring shines as his hand hovers in the air. A smile of mixed amusement curls on her lips. She waits for him to get himself together.
“You’re married?”
“Was,” she corrected, nodding to reaffirm her non-confession.
His eyes are wide. “Does he know that about you? Was it-”
“He knew. And no, I’m not divorced.”
Cameron finds herself growing uncomfortable under Wilson’s gaze of disbelief. She isn’t used to telling people. She shouldn’t to be. [one more wall]
“Widowed at twenty-one.”
Leaning against the doorway, her shoulders sag in exhaustion. Widowed at twenty-one. Her voice is still cold. Her apathy is distant. It scares her that she’s gotten used to the fact- to saying it to herself. Widowed at twenty-one.
“Christ,” Wilson breathes. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “Happens.”
“How did he die?”
Flat. Monotone. It’s as if she could close her eyes and rewind back to that part of her life. There are some days she can still taste the acid in her mouth when he finally told her the diagnosis.
[i’m dying ally i’m dying i don’t want you to stay i’m making you put your life on hold there’s always something better]
[i’m your wife]
[i’m damaged you need me]
[you need me]
[need me]
“Cancer,” she answers finally, shaking out of her trance.
[me]
The doctor in Wilson momentarily appears. “What kind?”
“Just cancer.” And she’ll go no further than that. “The aggressive spreading kind.”
Wilson doesn’t push and she is grateful for that. That time in her life is always remembered like snapshots. The good. The fading. The ugly. And the desolation. The loneliness. Black and white with little color. Red.
Lost.
Black.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. She gets the feeling that he’s apologizing for more than he’ll let on. Or she’ll acknowledge. She hates this. The pity. The change in perception. Assumptions. It’s human nature.
Cameron will give him this.
“I don’t have any desire to fix him. If I did, this would have been over a long time ago… But I’m not going to be walked all over. Or blamed for something I didn’t do.”
Wilson stares at her with that same look as he did earlier, as if he were really seeing her for the first time. The only time. And smiles. His pager beeps.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, picking up his pager.
She nods, moving so that he can pass.
“And I’ll tell him how much of a lucky bastard he is.”
Her lips curl. No smile, but a sour taste. It’s about the distance, she reminds herself.
This time it’s about walking away.
[i will not get hurt again.]
I'll pick up the pieces
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1004
Spoilers: Minor for 'Love Hurts' and will sort of grow from there.
Rating: Harmless PG for now.
Summary: ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I we sit beside the headstone thus,and wish that name were carved for us the moss reprints more tenderly the hard types of the mason's knife, as heaven's sweet life renews earth's life with which we're tired, my heart and I.
A/N: Part One is here.
ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, My Heart and I
i.
Weeks later, Wilson corners her in the conference room.
She hasn’t reached the days where she’s going to start regretting her return to the hospital. She’s still jumping from moment to moment, hours to minutes, and those irreplaceable seconds that have been whisked away into an abyss of desolate memories. Those seconds will haunt her later and it’s the later that she knows she’s unprepared for the most.
She thinks nothing of that fateful night or even the week that followed. And the week after that. Work becomes easier to hide in. Face melt. People become one person. Mundane conversation is always a yes, I’m fine I’m just tired today or a no, I need go home because of this and hides successfully the truth. It’s the truth that can crush her.
“Allison,” he says gently. And she’s always caught of guard because Wilson is really the only one who says her name to her.
There’s no secret to what this is about.
She stands and clears the mess of files and journals she’s been barely glancing over. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she mumbles, “Don’t worry about it.”
She avoids him, keeping her gaze low or directed to corners. It’s been easier now. There’s a cold, clinical distance between her and House. His attempts to goad her into an argument have lessened considerably [curiosity grows]. She’s become too good [again] at finding that alternative answer and training herself away from directly confronting his curiosity.
“How did-”
She cuts him off. “It’s written all over your face.”
Wilson shakes his head, making no effort to hide his amusement. “The two of you really creep me out sometimes.”
She almost laughs at the unintentional [intentional] meaning [reasoning] being his comment. She sighs and leans against the desk, her hands clenching and unclenching to control herself.
“Is that it?” She asks calmly, waiting for the second time Wilson will pry. Assumptions. Questions. Intentions. Honest. Curious. It all melted into the same thing sooner or later.
“Something happened, didn’t it.” He doesn’t ask.
She says nothing. Grabbing a binder she had borrowed from Dr. Cuddy, she straightens her jacket and sets herself ready to leave. Even unintentional vulnerability is dangerous now. This time she has to protect herself.
“Allison.” Second time.
She stops in the doorway and stiffens.
Wilson continues. “He won’t say anything. You won’t say anything. And I have never, ever seen anyone effectively avoid him like this- particularly when you spent most your time standing right in front of him. It’s like you’ve invented a new silent treatment.”
“Nothing happened.” Her mouth is dry. Her words taste bitter.
Wilson’s hand is on her shoulder. It feels heavy. Too heavy. Too wrong. She can’t do the nice friend thing right now.
“Something obviously did,” he murmurs. “I like you. And on some days, I like you better than him. But you need to talk to someone. So just talk.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Words form and fall as explanations in her head. She tries logic, wills it against the need to vent, emotionally rationalize. She’s been in this situation before. Younger. Naïve. Struggling against the need to talk to someone and overshadowed by her fear of inadvertently sounding selfish.
She shrugs off Wilson’s hand, nodding in its direction. “I wore one once.”
Stunned, Wilson’s mouth opens and closes. His wedding ring shines as his hand hovers in the air. A smile of mixed amusement curls on her lips. She waits for him to get himself together.
“You’re married?”
“Was,” she corrected, nodding to reaffirm her non-confession.
His eyes are wide. “Does he know that about you? Was it-”
“He knew. And no, I’m not divorced.”
Cameron finds herself growing uncomfortable under Wilson’s gaze of disbelief. She isn’t used to telling people. She shouldn’t to be. [one more wall]
“Widowed at twenty-one.”
Leaning against the doorway, her shoulders sag in exhaustion. Widowed at twenty-one. Her voice is still cold. Her apathy is distant. It scares her that she’s gotten used to the fact- to saying it to herself. Widowed at twenty-one.
“Christ,” Wilson breathes. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “Happens.”
“How did he die?”
Flat. Monotone. It’s as if she could close her eyes and rewind back to that part of her life. There are some days she can still taste the acid in her mouth when he finally told her the diagnosis.
[i’m dying ally i’m dying i don’t want you to stay i’m making you put your life on hold there’s always something better]
[i’m your wife]
[i’m damaged you need me]
[you need me]
[need me]
“Cancer,” she answers finally, shaking out of her trance.
[me]
The doctor in Wilson momentarily appears. “What kind?”
“Just cancer.” And she’ll go no further than that. “The aggressive spreading kind.”
Wilson doesn’t push and she is grateful for that. That time in her life is always remembered like snapshots. The good. The fading. The ugly. And the desolation. The loneliness. Black and white with little color. Red.
Lost.
Black.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. She gets the feeling that he’s apologizing for more than he’ll let on. Or she’ll acknowledge. She hates this. The pity. The change in perception. Assumptions. It’s human nature.
Cameron will give him this.
“I don’t have any desire to fix him. If I did, this would have been over a long time ago… But I’m not going to be walked all over. Or blamed for something I didn’t do.”
Wilson stares at her with that same look as he did earlier, as if he were really seeing her for the first time. The only time. And smiles. His pager beeps.
“I’ve got to go,” he says, picking up his pager.
She nods, moving so that he can pass.
“And I’ll tell him how much of a lucky bastard he is.”
Her lips curl. No smile, but a sour taste. It’s about the distance, she reminds herself.
This time it’s about walking away.
[i will not get hurt again.]
I'll pick up the pieces