house fic: The Darker Days of Me and Him 4/10
Title: The Darker Days of Me and Him
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1045
Spoilers: Minor for 'Love Hurts' and small mention of 'Honeymoon'.
Rating: Harmless PG for now.
Summary: And this loneliness, it just won't leave me alone.
A/N: Part One is here. Part Two is here. Part Three is here.
Cause a child roses light,
Try to reveal what I could feel,
And this loneliness,
It just won't leave me alone, oh no,
And this loneliness,
It just won't leave me alone.
A lady of war.
Portishead, Numb
iii.
In a perfect world, Stacy Warner would not scare her.
But this isn’t a perfect world. She’s scared, terrified even, of the woman with darker eyes than her and softer lips. The secrets- between him and her- make her feel too small and too insignificant. And despite every reassurance she can think of, Allison Cameron feels herself drowning in loss.
Again.
And again.
And again.
[i have to let go]
It’s a cold spring night and she walks to her car, tugging her jacket closer to her body. She had to say it. [i understand why] She had to say and make a break [even though it wasn’t one at all]. She had to force herself to take that step back and place a wall between him and her and the added distance. Even she had a limit to her loss. Too many ghosts and anniversaries and things.
Her cell phone rings. “Hello?”
“Hey baby girl,” comes the smooth greeting of her father’s voice on the other line. She relaxes gratefully and cradles the phone against her ear, searching for her keys in her pocket.
“Hey daddy.”
She tries and keeps her response soft and neutral, forcing the lump in her throat to struggle back down her throat. Too many ghosts and anniversaries and things. New things.
“I’m just calling to check up on you,” he says.
And almost instantly she smells the lie. The rising and fall of the tones in each world. She senses the nervousness. The agitation. Years of being a doctor. And losing herself in empathy.
She pulls her hand out of her pocket. “What’s wrong daddy?”
She reaches her car and stops, dropping her bag on top of the trunk and waiting for a reply. She leans against her car to support her weight. She can feel answer, almost as strongly as a lie and a secret. She closes her eyes and her hand clenches into a fist. She can feel the rising instability of her father’s emotions and it’s beginning to scare her.
“Daddy,” she tries again.
He swallows. “Your mother, baby girl, had her checkup today- and they found a large lump in her breast. It’s how they determined that she’s-”
Breast cancer. Breast. Cancer. A shaky breath escapes her lips as she tries to listen to the rest of her father’s words. There’s it explains why she’s tired and she fainted the other day so I made her go. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
[i’m dying ally i’m dying and you’ve got to let me go]
“… we need you home, baby.”
The rise of bile in her throat is nearly successful in escaping, but she forces herself to swallow and take a deep breath. She forces herself into her clinical mode. Careful. Concise.
She hates how calm she sounds. “All right. I’ll make some calls, daddy.”
The sigh of relief on the other line nearly breaks her heart. Or the pieces that are left now.
“Call me when you get everything together,” her father says quietly. “I love you, Ally. We both do.”
She’s shaking and the words that leave her mouth don’t fair as well either. Her keys fall from her fingers and echo loudly in the empty garage.
“I love you too, daddy.”
Except this is what she really says, “I know. I know.”
[let me go]
It isn’t until she hears the dull sound of a dial tone that she realizes that he’s gone and hung up and there’s a lump in her throat that will not move. Placing her phone on top of her bag, she lowers herself to her knees and picks her keys up. The keys chime together as she rising slowly.
“Treat her here.”
And then screech when she drops them.
Her eyes widen as she sees House standing a few feet away from her, his bag slung on one shoulder and his cane tucked under his arm. His gaze is unreadable.
“Treat her here,” he repeats. “Wilson will do it.”
Her hands are shaking. She wants to laugh. Or better yet, she wants to cry and then scream and then cry some more. She’s pulled into several directions- she used to be so good at hiding emotional instability. Carefully constructed masks. She should be used to this.
But all she can manage is a, “Why?”
He takes a step forward. Then another one. And she wonders why all of this is suddenly so damn awkward and confusing and unreal.
The laugh that rips through her throat is bitter and painful. “You don’t even know what’s wrong.”
His response is careful. “It’s your mother,” he begins. “And it’s cancer because you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The answer to how long have you been standing there is clear. But what scares and confuses her is how vulnerable- no matter how hard she tries- she is around her. This thing between them is violent and in knots and somewhere along the lines of this conversation, she’s beginning to realize that it’s inescapable.
She can’t even run away.
[let go]
He offers her a hand and repeats for the third time. “Treat her here. Wilson will do it,” and then softly, “I’ll give you a few days off.”
She takes the hand that is offered to her against her will, allowing him to help her to her feet. She is trying not to stare at him in disbelief or crumble into further pieces. But this, this is just unbelievably-
She doesn’t know what this is.
Him, showing up like this.
Or her, allowing herself to lean on him.
There is no romanticism now. Never between them. There are no confessions of a greater love or everlasting promises. A terrible confusion lingers and twists. There are ghosts and old wounds. There is this thing. She hasn’t let go of his hand and he hasn’t moved away. And the world- this god awful world- won’t stop spinning.
“Fine,” she relents. Her voice is stronger than it should be. “Fine.”
He nods and reaches for her keys and phone, slipping them into her pockets. With her free hand, she manages to grab her bag and then they make the walk back inside.
He won’t let go of her hand until they reach his office instead.
Promises, Promises
Pairing/Characters: cameron, house/cameron
Words: 1045
Spoilers: Minor for 'Love Hurts' and small mention of 'Honeymoon'.
Rating: Harmless PG for now.
Summary: And this loneliness, it just won't leave me alone.
A/N: Part One is here. Part Two is here. Part Three is here.
Cause a child roses light,
Try to reveal what I could feel,
And this loneliness,
It just won't leave me alone, oh no,
And this loneliness,
It just won't leave me alone.
A lady of war.
Portishead, Numb
iii.
In a perfect world, Stacy Warner would not scare her.
But this isn’t a perfect world. She’s scared, terrified even, of the woman with darker eyes than her and softer lips. The secrets- between him and her- make her feel too small and too insignificant. And despite every reassurance she can think of, Allison Cameron feels herself drowning in loss.
Again.
And again.
And again.
[i have to let go]
It’s a cold spring night and she walks to her car, tugging her jacket closer to her body. She had to say it. [i understand why] She had to say and make a break [even though it wasn’t one at all]. She had to force herself to take that step back and place a wall between him and her and the added distance. Even she had a limit to her loss. Too many ghosts and anniversaries and things.
Her cell phone rings. “Hello?”
“Hey baby girl,” comes the smooth greeting of her father’s voice on the other line. She relaxes gratefully and cradles the phone against her ear, searching for her keys in her pocket.
“Hey daddy.”
She tries and keeps her response soft and neutral, forcing the lump in her throat to struggle back down her throat. Too many ghosts and anniversaries and things. New things.
“I’m just calling to check up on you,” he says.
And almost instantly she smells the lie. The rising and fall of the tones in each world. She senses the nervousness. The agitation. Years of being a doctor. And losing herself in empathy.
She pulls her hand out of her pocket. “What’s wrong daddy?”
She reaches her car and stops, dropping her bag on top of the trunk and waiting for a reply. She leans against her car to support her weight. She can feel answer, almost as strongly as a lie and a secret. She closes her eyes and her hand clenches into a fist. She can feel the rising instability of her father’s emotions and it’s beginning to scare her.
“Daddy,” she tries again.
He swallows. “Your mother, baby girl, had her checkup today- and they found a large lump in her breast. It’s how they determined that she’s-”
Breast cancer. Breast. Cancer. A shaky breath escapes her lips as she tries to listen to the rest of her father’s words. There’s it explains why she’s tired and she fainted the other day so I made her go. Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
[i’m dying ally i’m dying and you’ve got to let me go]
“… we need you home, baby.”
The rise of bile in her throat is nearly successful in escaping, but she forces herself to swallow and take a deep breath. She forces herself into her clinical mode. Careful. Concise.
She hates how calm she sounds. “All right. I’ll make some calls, daddy.”
The sigh of relief on the other line nearly breaks her heart. Or the pieces that are left now.
“Call me when you get everything together,” her father says quietly. “I love you, Ally. We both do.”
She’s shaking and the words that leave her mouth don’t fair as well either. Her keys fall from her fingers and echo loudly in the empty garage.
“I love you too, daddy.”
Except this is what she really says, “I know. I know.”
[let me go]
It isn’t until she hears the dull sound of a dial tone that she realizes that he’s gone and hung up and there’s a lump in her throat that will not move. Placing her phone on top of her bag, she lowers herself to her knees and picks her keys up. The keys chime together as she rising slowly.
“Treat her here.”
And then screech when she drops them.
Her eyes widen as she sees House standing a few feet away from her, his bag slung on one shoulder and his cane tucked under his arm. His gaze is unreadable.
“Treat her here,” he repeats. “Wilson will do it.”
Her hands are shaking. She wants to laugh. Or better yet, she wants to cry and then scream and then cry some more. She’s pulled into several directions- she used to be so good at hiding emotional instability. Carefully constructed masks. She should be used to this.
But all she can manage is a, “Why?”
He takes a step forward. Then another one. And she wonders why all of this is suddenly so damn awkward and confusing and unreal.
The laugh that rips through her throat is bitter and painful. “You don’t even know what’s wrong.”
His response is careful. “It’s your mother,” he begins. “And it’s cancer because you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The answer to how long have you been standing there is clear. But what scares and confuses her is how vulnerable- no matter how hard she tries- she is around her. This thing between them is violent and in knots and somewhere along the lines of this conversation, she’s beginning to realize that it’s inescapable.
She can’t even run away.
[let go]
He offers her a hand and repeats for the third time. “Treat her here. Wilson will do it,” and then softly, “I’ll give you a few days off.”
She takes the hand that is offered to her against her will, allowing him to help her to her feet. She is trying not to stare at him in disbelief or crumble into further pieces. But this, this is just unbelievably-
She doesn’t know what this is.
Him, showing up like this.
Or her, allowing herself to lean on him.
There is no romanticism now. Never between them. There are no confessions of a greater love or everlasting promises. A terrible confusion lingers and twists. There are ghosts and old wounds. There is this thing. She hasn’t let go of his hand and he hasn’t moved away. And the world- this god awful world- won’t stop spinning.
“Fine,” she relents. Her voice is stronger than it should be. “Fine.”
He nods and reaches for her keys and phone, slipping them into her pockets. With her free hand, she manages to grab her bag and then they make the walk back inside.
He won’t let go of her hand until they reach his office instead.
Promises, Promises