Wait For Me, a House/Cam angst in 3 parts

[moonstruck88]

Rating: R
Summary: To sit on the roof with a gun and a girl, puzzling at the color of the world.

After sitting on the roof in the rain tonight, the words finally came. And I wrote them down. Thanks to princessklutz04 for letting me bounce if off her.



i.

Black windows. The night is black. A blur of headlights - passing cars. Again. And then silence. Again. And then silence. Again, and a swoosh of air and metal. Strangers, like her. Heading home. One here; another there. And then silence. But she's running from home as fast as she can.

Intersection: green, and red. Like Christmas. But without the bells and holly and snow and reindeer and House and everything familiar. Just the green. The red. The implications... She closes her eyes. And still sees red around the edges.

She runs a red light. It was yellow. She thought she could make it.

She can't.

She's driving too fast. Her thoughts are too scattered. He's standing on the roof, and she knows there's -

Her foot hits the brake, but it slips, and she swerves into another lane. Beating. Beating. Her pulse in her throat. The horn beside her keeps blowing. They're rolling down the window and shouting. She pays them no attention.

She hears nothing. Sees nothing. Feels her way down the boulevard. The night is black. Black and yellow. Like rain. It's a painting of a smudge on a sidewalk. And she knows she's going to get there too late.

"Cameron. He's on the roof. He's got a - "

She hears a bang and he drops the phone.

"Oh my g- " She chokes. "Wilson? Wilson! James!!!"

There's nothing but silence in the background.

"Jame- "

"Allison." His breath is thick. His words are heavy. "Cameron, please come." He's quiet. But his voice is shaking.

Another swoosh of headlights. Her left hand pulls on the wheel, pulls toward an oncoming car. She wants a smash of black and yellow and metal like a smudge on a sidewalk. But her right hand keeps the wheel from turning. She stays in her lane, and the car swooshes by. They'll never know. And she'll never tell.

"Wilson..." It's a whisper. "What's going on?"

But there's no response.

She doesn't hang up. She listens to the sound of her breath in the speaker. The echo of the bang in her ear.

She suddenly remembers: she's out of gas. She'd forgotten to stop after work. Empty. The needle's in the red. Needle. Red. It's a blur of pictures, and she slams on the brakes. Red light. Christmas. Out of gas. Her tires are squealing and she finally stops. She's over the line, but she doesn't care. She's knows. She's too late. And she isn't prepared.

It's bang bang bang. All the way there. The echo of a bang and she whispers Wilson. James. What's going on. And things like don't do it and wake me up. All the way to the gas station. He's on the roof. He's on the roof. And she's at the gas station, wasting time. But she's too late. Too late.

She can't be.

There's a terrible noise when she opens the door. A grinding. And her seatbelt is choking her. Her seatbelt is sliding in the wrong direction. Tighter, and tighter, and tighter. Final Destination flashes through her mind while she gropes for the seatbelt release. There's a lever somewhere. Her fingers can't find it. Tighter and tighter. The noise getting louder.

And then it stops. Her fingers stay resting on the lever. She breathes and wonders if this is a joke. People are watching. People with beer and sodas. And chips. People with cigarettes stand watching from the corner as she shimmies underneath her seatbelt.

Holding her throat, she steps from the car. She feels bruised and angry and He's on the roof. And she's late. And she's lost. And when she closes the door, the noise resumes. "Damn it!" The grinding gets louder. Her yelling gets louder. "Damn it! Damn it!! Damn it!!!" She's kicking the car and people are watching and her foot hurts worse than her throat. "Damn you!! Fuck you!! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!!!" It's all she can think of. She punches the window.

And immediately cries out in pain. "Ahhhh!" With her fist at her stomach and her face toward the ground. She's jumping up and down and the tears burn her eyes. "Ahhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh!" Clenching her teeth and flailing about. She wants to yell until her voice is gone. Until He's on the roof. He's got a- begins to fade.

It's when she sees the cop car that she leans against the window - unscathed by the punch - and slides all the way to the ground. To her knees. And cries. He's coming toward her. She knows it. She knows she's too late, and she'll never get there. She'll never see him. She'll never fall asleep again. She'll never...

He steps from the cop car, and she hears him coming. She doesn't look up. Merely cries in the shadow of the flashing blue lights and knows that she'll never... She'll never.

ii.

"Ma'am, do you need assistance?"

Her crying is silenced. Her eyes are closed. She's rocking back and forth on her knees.

"Ma'am?" Louder. "Are you okay?"

She doesn't look up. It's a terrible nightmare. The flashing blue lights, the ma'am, ma'am? Bad news is always to follow.

"Fine," she mumbles.

"Are you in pain?" Calculated words. He does this often. Yells over the sound of the few passing cars. The black. The yellow. The night. "Does your stomach hurt?"

She almost laughs. Knows it's a joke. The roof, the seat belt. In the midst of a nightmare, does your stomach hurt?

"No." It's humid. She waits for the rain. A perfect ending to a perfect cliche. "My hand." She tries to be civil. She's late. And she doesn't need this. "My seat belt just... I hit my hand."

"Why don't you stand up, so I can see it? Do you need a paramedic?"

She sits up straighter and looks at her fist. It's red. Red. Like the needle in the red. Like Christmas. Like House. Like being late.

"I'm fine." Her voice is scratchy. She needs to get gas. She needs to leave. She wonders if she should tell him...

"Will you stand up so I can look?"

She gropes for the door handle. Pulls herself up. There's a grimace when she uses her toes.

"How much have you had to drink tonight?"

She swivels and gives him a look. "What?" There's a flashlight and she's losing her patience.

"Have you been drinking tonight?" He lowers the flashlight. "Any drugs? Cocaine? Maybe some Crystal?"

"What are you- My seat belt malfunctioned. I need to go." She walks around her car and he follows.

"I received a call from the convenient store owner. He says - "

"I was kicking my car. My seat belt malfunctioned." She opens the door to retrieve her purse. The grinding noise starts up again. "Damn it!" Violently, she digs for a credit card. "I'm fine!"

"He says you were cursing - "

"Well it's being a bitch!"

" - very loudly." He eyes her as she pumps the gas. "You're being a public disturbance."

Her left hand pulls on the nozzle. She wants to douse him. She wants to kick him. She needs to call Wilson. She needs to wake up. But her right hand stays on the trigger, and the nozzle stays in the car.

She watches the numbers. Scrolling. Numbers. Higher and higher. He's on the roof. 15. 16. 18. 20. "I'm sorry, officer." He'll never know.

"Ma'am, are you sure you're alright?"

Hang up the nozzle. Close the gas cap. "I'm fine." She opens the door.

Grinding! Grinding! She doesn't yell.

"I'll let you off with a warning this time."

Fuck you. And she thanks him politely. She shimmies underneath her seat belt. The officer walks away. She turns the key and presses the gas and...

"No! No!" She tries it again. "No no no!!!" Her car won't start. "Why! Why me!" She opens the door and shimmies out. "Shut up!!" And she kicks it closed.

Flashing blue lights and passing headlights and what's going on?, and she's running. Doesn't even look before crossing the street. "Ma'am?" It's distant and she doesn't respond. "Ma'am!" She keeps on running.

Between the median and the crickets and the pounding of her heels, she hears that her car will be towed. But she's breathing too loudly to care. Her foot hurts. Her throat hurts. There's an echo of a bang in her memory.

And then she hears the siren. It's short, and loud. Like Wilson!. Like a bang. Like a swoosh of air and metal. She takes off her flip flops, and takes a turn. She knows where he lives.

She can't remember.

She doesn't know why she's running.

The cop car pulls up, and he rolls down the window. "You can't just leave your car at the gas station!"

"Then," she huffs, "Then take it!"

"Where are you going?" He's driving along. Inching down the side of the road.

She wants to tell him. She wants him to know. He could help. He could... Make it worse.

"A friend's house!" she sputters. A drop hits her shoulder. She brushes it off. Another one hits her on the knee.

"Get in the car! This is dangerous!" But it's only an echo on the side of a building. She passes the building, the cop car, the world. She throws her flip flops in the grass; the pavement is rough on her feet.

"No!" She knows that he's already gone. "I won't!" She yells it anyway.

Black windows. The night is black. And she passes another building. A droplet on her nose. On her forehead, the sidewalk. It's a smudge of her scent and her sore aching muscles, her pain and the crickets and... Black. The street is black. The rain is black. The grass beside her is black.

House is on the roof. Or the sidewalk. In the back of a van, under a sheet. On his couch with a pillow watching tv. She should call. She should see how he's doing. Ask him to go for coffee. Banter with him, maybe. She looks for her phone.

Her phone is in the car with her purse.

This is a joke. She knows it is. People are watching; she keeps on running. "You think this is funny?" She doesn't stop. Rain drops and eyelashes soak to her soul. Soak through the pores in the pavement. "You think it's funny?" She's looking at the sky, but she can't see a thing. Running barefoot and feeling her way. "It isn't! It isn't funny!!"

His motorcycle. She sees his motorcycle. It's parked on the walkway and she wants to ride it. Ask him to go for coffee. He'll go with her; she knows it. She scrapes her toe on the asphalt. "Ouch!" Wilson. She can see him. She's wet and her hair is stuck to her cheek.

The next thing she sees is House.

iii.

This isn't what he wanted. A crowd. A scattering of spectators, waiting and watching. The neighbors, the police. The just-passing-by. He wanted to die alone.

The first shot was a test shot. The noise. The backfire. He wanted to know what it felt like. But the neighbors came out, and the pressure was on. He no longer had the control. Who would watch, and who he'd hurt. The legacy he'd leave behind.

In Loving Memory of Gregory House. The madman on the roof with a gun.

So he stalled and yelled and waved it around. Go back in the house. But nobody heard. It was calm down and we can work this out and all the other phrases he hated. Wilson just stood there. Smokey and still. His eyes like a painting of a father's consent. It was his final confession: that House would be House, and at the end of the day - at the end of this crazy progression - he wouldn't shed a tear.

He'd go back to sleep and never remember. Wake up with the burden gone.

So now he's just sitting, with the gun in the air. Nobody daring to move. It's a standoff, a struggle. And he wants his control. To live or to die. To feel the cold droplets as they soak through his shirt. To shiver without anyone watching.

He's scanning the spectators. One by one. Most of them strangers and cowards. Wilson is wearing a suede leather jacket. His hands in his pockets, his muscles tense. He's helpless and wet and he's staring. Four policeman on the sidewalk. Two brushing the crowd away; two looking up. Another case, another number. Another stack of papers to sign.

January 11, 1961 August 16, 2006
He is survived by his parents...

And then he sees bluegreen pushing through the crowd.

He is survived by his parents and a girl with green eyes.

She pushes all the way to the front. "Allison!" Ma'am? "Cameron!" Ma'am! She doesn't hear a thing. The policemen rush over, to pull her back.

And then bang. Everybody ducks and screams.

The crowd is silent. Wilson is silent. House keeps his finger on the trigger. "Move," he eyes the policemen. And suddenly he's back in control.

Cameron keeps blinking. The rain is too heavy. Her jeans are sagging and her legs are shaking. Her spine feels cold. And crooked. "How did you get up there?" she yells above the rain.

"Hey! How's this for unfixable?" He waves the gun in front of his face. It's silver. The world is black. "I'm broken!"

She stares. And blinks. Sees the fallen ladder. And wraps her arms around her body.

"You're not very good at this doctor stuff!" Through a stream of water at his lips. People are watching and waiting. Listening above the sound of the rain. "You know, this world is pretty fucked up! Nobody knows anything. If I could stop the world from spinning, I'd know what everyone's thinking! Like you..." he trails off. And fingers the trigger. "I'd know exactly why you squint like that, and that stupid clenching thing you - "

"I love you!" She shouts. And it isn't angry. Or desperate. She's just telling him - letting him know.

"...that stupid clenching thing you do!" He continues like she never said it. "When you answer the door." Rainwater - running down the sides of his face. He shakes his head. His hair's full of water. "You think I know! But I don't! You're so fucked up!" He swallows the rain. "You're so messed up..." And rubs the cold metal on his face. "Come here!"

She obeys too quickly. Wilson almost grabs her and holds her back. But suddenly House is flailing with the gun. Pointing it everywhere. The street, the sky. At the policemen. At the crowd. At him.

The onlookers are running and ducking for cover. The cops are in position. Ready to shoot. A helicopter hovers overhead.

"House!" Wilson stays planted on the sidewalk. "House! Don't hurt her!" Desperation is coming to a head. "You're screwed up! Miserable! Insane! Because you just can't figure it out! But leave Cameron out of it! Damn it, House! Let Cam - "

"Oh, shut up! Jimmy Boy... It was her choice to come and fix me. You're just jealous! Cancer patients can't do it for you!"

"House! I'm serious! She's young - she's got her- Listen to me!"

He points it back at himself. "Right there with you, Jimmy!"

"House! I love you!"

"Desperation, desperation... The world revolves around desperation. Love me tomorrow, would you? Your timing's a bit off!"

Cameron almost slips on her way up the ladder. The metal is cold. And silver. Reflecting the blue, and the flashing. And the thunder. She blinks. And steps. And blinks. And steps. And can feel the gun, tracing her steps. Keeping the cops away. She climbs to the top without looking back. Grips the shingles and gropes around. Searching for something to hold to.

"Kick the ladder." When she's on her knees.

And she does as he tells her. There's a clatter when it hits the ground.

The roof is scratchy; the angle is steep. Her jeans are too wet and it's hard to move. She keeps her arms out, trying to balance. And tiptoes carefully over.

He doesn't watch her. He's watching Wilson. Like they're fighting over Cameron and House is gloating. That she's on the roof instead of the ground. There's a smirk on his face; he's won his last prize.

And Wilson lets him have it.

Lightning. Let the girl down! The world flashes white. It's no longer black, for a moment. Don't hurt her, House! His jeans are bluer than they've ever been. The trees are greener. The rain is colder. It's a joke - the colors. A fucking farce. "Nothing makes sense..." Nothing ever does.

Cameron sits idly beside him. She's far too calm, and he wants to know why. Why she hasn't told him to put the gun down. Why she's wet and gorgeous and shoeless. Why she's sitting beside him.

She's picking at her feet. He doesn't watch. But he knows, and he wants to know why. Another flash of lightning turns everyone white. They're all just ghosts, pretending. To live. To care. To sit on the roof with a gun and a girl, puzzling at the color of the world.

He breaks the gaze with Wilson. Looks at the shingles, between his legs. They're rigid. And wet. Black, and he's cold. He should be inside with a blanket. With the tv. Alone. The piano keys. His scotch has turned to rainwater - poking him, bugging him. Soothing and burning the moment.

"My toe is bleeding." With her arms on her knees. Avoiding his eyes as he does hers. Bleeding on his roof, instead of him. She's blinking in the blue lights. And sharing his roof. They squint together in the rain.

He sighs. And tips his chin to the blackness above. "Why?"

She sniffles. A moment of truth. "I was running - "

"Why're you up here?" A droplet hits him in the eye.

"Because you're up here."

He laughs. It's bitter. "You do everything I do?"

Lightning His gun is a glint of silver. Nothing makes sense in the context. "No." Her eyelashes rise to reveal her sadness. He's caught in the color, and doesn't look away. "You asked me to come."

"You're pathetic." And he grips the metal more tightly. "If I asked you to shoot me, would you do it?"

It's something she wasn't prepared for. The absence of sarcasm. The birth of this ... thing. That he wants, and wants to share.

But he knows her answer, and she knows it too. And all she can say is, "No."

The earth disappears when she says it. Wilson. The cops. The helicopter. The sadness is all that's left. His. Hers. The mesh of color and confusion.

"Why?" It's rough, and raw. And she senses he's caving. "Because of the guilt?"

Cameron looks at Wilson. But she looks away. Because He's on the roof, he's got a- is the distant past. Her seat belt. The grinding. The Wilson! James! Her car's out of gas. The needle's in the red. There's a swooshing of air and metal. Everything's black, and yellow. And blue. White as it flashes and thunders.

But she doesn't have a car and she isn't really here. This isn't her boss. She isn't in love. Nothing is really alive. "Are you going to kill yourself?"

She looks at his face. He looks at her hair. It's limp and stringy. "I don't know." And full of knots. Because of him. "Are you?"

She takes her bottom lip into her mouth. "Yes." And looks away. "If you..." She's playing with her toes again. Bleeding on his roof. "...I couldn't live."

"Oh, have some backbone!" he shouts. And she jumps. "People are idiots! People are no reason to live. They don't make sense. They live, they die. You're forced to watch. And you're forced to make a decision." He's pointing the gun at the shingles. "Don't hang this on me."

"Why?" She's breathing more heavily. "Because of the guilt?" Throwing his words in his face.

The barrel is now at his temple. "What guilt, Cameron! Huh? What guilt!"

She squeezes her eyes closed.

"It's your own fucking choice! To come here, get up here! And sit here! And watch me! Yours! Your choice!"

"No! Now it's yours, House!" Tears are flowing down her rain-soaked cheeks. "Why do you think I get up in the morning?"

"To save the world from- "

"You, and your stupid red cup! That's why I get up, House! To see you and your stupid red cup!"

"That's not a reason to live..."

"It's my reason." She covers her face with her hand. "All I want is to be yours." And shakes with the cold and the crying. "Your reason. You pull that trigger, and I pull it too. So shoot me now, and I won't have to watch." She peeks at him through her fingers, then closes her eyes. "It is your fault."

Bang! Bang! Bang! Cameron screams. Black and yellow. Needle. Red. Christmas, House. Wilson! A funeral. Flowers, a gun at her head.

She's backed away, and she's holding herself. And looks through the rain at his face. Blue eyes are staring at hers. "One left," he says. "It's you or me." Not both. He won't give her that.

She lays on the roof. On her stomach. And cries until everything hurts. She cries at the image of a hole in his head, and his blue eyes staring instead. She cries at the image of her husband in the earth. At watching them lower House in too. At sitting in the office with his bright red mug. Pretending. To be living. To be feeling more than air and the ink on her paper. At sitting with a wine glass and the covers turned down. No one but her to cry in the pillow. No one but her to remember.

He watches her crying. Under limp, stringy hair. Scratching her face on the shingles. Crying over something that hasn't happened. Over him. And the pain he's causing.

One last bang, and it's over. The gun is still resting in his hand.

She doesn't look up; she doesn't want to. She can't. She can't. She can't see his face. And the red. And the bullet. And the mug he'll never hold. She can't look up. Because she's lying on the roof, beside his body. Still warm on the inside. Cold on the out. His hand has fallen and is resting against her. She can feel his knuckle on her thigh.

But then she hears a click. Of metal on metal. A trigger and a hammer; no bullet. Slowly, carefully, she lifts her head.

Another click. "It's empty." He watches her. And then he sets the gun on the roof. Gestures at the crowd below. His voice is quiet and gravelly. "They want something to watch. I'm not going to give it to them."

Cameron doesn't think, or see them, or care. She flings her arms around his middle, and buries her face in his stomach. His t-shirt is cold on her nose and cheeks. She presses her lips to the wetness. "House..." She can't breathe. She can't take it in. "House..."

"Something has to change." His voice is broken. She knows he's crying as well.

She nods against him. "It will." It's cracked. It's a whisper. Lightning makes a daytime of the darkness, and Cameron sees the cops closing in. "I want to stay here."

"I don't think either one of us are staying here tonight." He knows he's going in for questioning.

"Not ... here." She shifts on the shingles and squeezes him tighter. Digging her fingers into his ribs. "Here."

And he knows what she means. He slides a calloused hand against her neck. And slides it into her hair.

fin.

In Loving Memory of Phillip Michael Turner.
January 11, 1988.
August 16, 2006.
Wait for me, man.