Scrubs/House FIC: Anniversary (1/1)
For monanotlisa, the last of the ficlets promised for this meme: Dr Cox and Dr Cameron.
*
She stopped going to visit his grave. She knows that she should have gone every week - twice a week, even - and hates herself a little for not going. In the end, though, it's just too far way to manage the round trip each week. Slowly, it moved from every week to every other week, to every month, to every other month. She settled herself at Princeton-Plainsboro and learned a little bit about her new boss, and remembered that only a very selfish person indeed would want a day of rest rather than a day of mourning.
House calls her damaged, maybe for this very reason. She wonders if he's ever lost someone close to him - lost, not pushed away and tugged close again, like a mouse with a toy. Lost - to cancer, to a car crash, to - don't think it - his third marriage, to a childhood illness - no. No, somehow she can't see House standing by anyone's gravesite. He's one of those people who lives life for as long as it is around and wraps himself up in the warmth of Vicodin when it isn't, and he might bitch and snark at everyone around, but he wouldn't stand at anyone's gravesite and weep. It's why she's at work, instead of back in Pittsburg, on the long walk from the station to Trinity Cemetery, with Sacred Heart inevitably halfway between the two.
She's not religious. She's not.
(It doesn't make it any less a pilgrimage.)
"Don't tell me what we don't know, tell me what we do know!" And House's off again, popping pills and scribbling on the whiteboard and assigning tests to Chase and Foreman. She stands uselessly by the kettle, her coffee in hand; her ring finger bare.
(She cannot bear to wear it anymore, and locks it away in a box with her wedding photo and bridal veil.)
"What about me?"
He didn't even look at her. "You've got someplace else to be."
So, here she is. It looks much the same as the last time she was here: green grass; tall, strong trees; the odd lonesome bird perched on a gravestone, picking listlessly at the dying bouquets of flowers.
She finds his grave without even looking and sits by it a long time, silent.
"They're not actually telepathic, you know," a voice says from behind her.
She looks up; he seems familiar, all curly brown hair and lines on his face. "I'm sorry?"
He nods down at the grass. "The dead. Surprisingly not telepathic. You have to actually talk to them if you want to say anything."
She frowns at this, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets. "I'm not sure I have anything to say," she says truthfully. "I - I haven't been here for a while."
"I know that feeling." He hesitates, then squats down by her and offers her his hand. "Perry Cox."
She takes it. His fingers are warm, calloused in odd places - calloused in the same places that hers are, oddly. "Allison Cameron."
He glances down at the gravestone; reads the inscription. "Brother?"
"My - my husband."
He nods. "Car crash?"
She gapes a little at his bluntness. "Thyroid cancer," she says, then, wanting to reciprocate - because she'll be damned if she's taking this lying down -"yours?"
"My best friend. Leukaemia." His eyes are kind, and she's sorry she even asked. "I don't come here as often as I should. Ben would kick my ass. He'd say I was afraid of my 'feelings'." He rolls his eyes a little as he says this.
She's almost smiling. "I think - I think that Thomas would be pleased. I live quite a long way away now and -"
"And it's no fun spending your entire weekend at his grave? Yeah." He smiles back, a little ruefully. "You know, it's been three years, and I still can't quite get used to coming here."
Allison looked back at the gravestone. The inscription was as crisp as ever, six years on. "It gets easier," she said.
*
*
She stopped going to visit his grave. She knows that she should have gone every week - twice a week, even - and hates herself a little for not going. In the end, though, it's just too far way to manage the round trip each week. Slowly, it moved from every week to every other week, to every month, to every other month. She settled herself at Princeton-Plainsboro and learned a little bit about her new boss, and remembered that only a very selfish person indeed would want a day of rest rather than a day of mourning.
House calls her damaged, maybe for this very reason. She wonders if he's ever lost someone close to him - lost, not pushed away and tugged close again, like a mouse with a toy. Lost - to cancer, to a car crash, to - don't think it - his third marriage, to a childhood illness - no. No, somehow she can't see House standing by anyone's gravesite. He's one of those people who lives life for as long as it is around and wraps himself up in the warmth of Vicodin when it isn't, and he might bitch and snark at everyone around, but he wouldn't stand at anyone's gravesite and weep. It's why she's at work, instead of back in Pittsburg, on the long walk from the station to Trinity Cemetery, with Sacred Heart inevitably halfway between the two.
She's not religious. She's not.
(It doesn't make it any less a pilgrimage.)
"Don't tell me what we don't know, tell me what we do know!" And House's off again, popping pills and scribbling on the whiteboard and assigning tests to Chase and Foreman. She stands uselessly by the kettle, her coffee in hand; her ring finger bare.
(She cannot bear to wear it anymore, and locks it away in a box with her wedding photo and bridal veil.)
"What about me?"
He didn't even look at her. "You've got someplace else to be."
So, here she is. It looks much the same as the last time she was here: green grass; tall, strong trees; the odd lonesome bird perched on a gravestone, picking listlessly at the dying bouquets of flowers.
She finds his grave without even looking and sits by it a long time, silent.
"They're not actually telepathic, you know," a voice says from behind her.
She looks up; he seems familiar, all curly brown hair and lines on his face. "I'm sorry?"
He nods down at the grass. "The dead. Surprisingly not telepathic. You have to actually talk to them if you want to say anything."
She frowns at this, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets. "I'm not sure I have anything to say," she says truthfully. "I - I haven't been here for a while."
"I know that feeling." He hesitates, then squats down by her and offers her his hand. "Perry Cox."
She takes it. His fingers are warm, calloused in odd places - calloused in the same places that hers are, oddly. "Allison Cameron."
He glances down at the gravestone; reads the inscription. "Brother?"
"My - my husband."
He nods. "Car crash?"
She gapes a little at his bluntness. "Thyroid cancer," she says, then, wanting to reciprocate - because she'll be damned if she's taking this lying down -"yours?"
"My best friend. Leukaemia." His eyes are kind, and she's sorry she even asked. "I don't come here as often as I should. Ben would kick my ass. He'd say I was afraid of my 'feelings'." He rolls his eyes a little as he says this.
She's almost smiling. "I think - I think that Thomas would be pleased. I live quite a long way away now and -"
"And it's no fun spending your entire weekend at his grave? Yeah." He smiles back, a little ruefully. "You know, it's been three years, and I still can't quite get used to coming here."
Allison looked back at the gravestone. The inscription was as crisp as ever, six years on. "It gets easier," she said.
*