Prescription Words
fandom: House
title: Prescription Words
chapter: 1/1
prompt: hc_challenge #13, housefic50 017. Truth
ship/characters: House/Cameron
rating: PG
summary: Just what the doctor ordered.
Disclaimer: I don’t own.
Inspiration:
hc_challenge:13,
housefic50: 17 Truth, "Aluminum Can" by The Ditty Bops, "Friday I’m In Love," by The Cure.
"Prescription Words"
Just what the doctor ordered.
Friday, 2:36 p.m.
Speaking the truth, as well as falsehoods, came naturally to Gregory House. He was a performer; he sang the truth, grabbing the microphone with enthusiasm and belting out words that no one wanted to hear. His songs of truth hurt, cut into people, destroying any hope they still clutched on to. But by the last note, the wound was usually healing itself. When he told a lie, his face remained the same. It was hard to tell when he was lying.
The truth, as told by House, was just as good as a prescription. His words were like antibiotics and everyone around him had a cold. He was just out to cure the world of a deadly strain of the stupidity nasopharyngitis. People should really thank him more often; he was doing them a great service at the expense of his popularity.
Cameron, although she respected the truth, was never one to be so harsh. The truth could hurt, and she didn’t like to hurt people. She preferred to ease them into the truth without them even knowing it. She would start off with their potential diagnosis, go onto treatments, explain to them what it was all about. Her voice was kind and understanding. She would accommodate, using any euphemisms that came to mind. "You’re chances are good," she would say, forgetting to mention that "good" is not the same as "cured." When Cameron lied . . . well, Cameron tried not to lie.
These differences between Cameron and House are perhaps the reason that they always found themselves right next to each other, always debating, always clashing.
It was probably the reason why she liked him so much and the reason why he didn’t like her. He was something that she wished she could be-a leader-and she was something he knew he could never be-nice.
"I gave you one thing to do," he said, walking around his desk and standing in front of her. He towered above her, and she fought the instinctive urge to cower.
"You wanted me to lie to him," she replied, folding her arms across her chest. She straightened her back, trying to make herself feel taller. She wished that she had worn taller heels that day.
"The guy’s wife is going to die and you’re worried about lying to him? I think the death of his wife might hurt him a little more than the knowledge that nice Dr. Cameron lied to him."
She sighed. "I was just . . . I’m sorry."
Her last words caused him to look sharply at her, surprised by the resolute tone in her voice. She was looking him straight in the eye, and, for once, he couldn’t tell if she was angry or not. It was like there was a sheer curtain over her face, shielding her emotions but still revealing her facial features. "Sorry for what?" he asked cautiously.
"I’m sorry I can’t be like you."
The resolution was tinted with sorrow.
"I don’t want you to be," he said softly, turning away from her and focusing on the tree outside of his office. "I want you to do your job."
"And I’m doing my job, House."
He nodded, and she realized that was the closest thing to a compliment she was ever going to get from House. They stood there awkwardly, Cameron unsure if their conversation was over, House unsure how to end their conversation.
He wanted to say something crass, something that would make her sigh and maybe even roll her eyes. He couldn’t think of anything. He settled for a deep breath instead, and nodded again, telling her silently to leave.
She left. She always left when she was told.
But she came back a few minutes later to inform him that their patient had just experienced trouble breathing and had to be intubated.
"Well, that’s interesting," he said, standing up. "It means that you didn’t have to lie to the husband, after all."
Friday, 4:39 p.m.
Her hands were on her hips. She was in her lecture stance, now, serious and maternal, as if she was scolding him for something. "Sometimes the truth is better than lying."
"I always tell the truth," he said. "Sometimes I embellish it, but otherwise, I’m a very honest man."
He was standing, his right hand clenching his cane and his left hand hanging comfortably by his side. He was in his annoyed stance, now, standing just slightly to the left of her, as if he was going to attempt an escape from her moral lecture.
"Would you like me to tell you that I’m really sorry and I’ll never ask you to lie again?" he said.
"No . . . ."
He waited patiently. "Then what do you want me to do?"
"I just want you to . . . well, to tell . . . ." She took a deep breath. "I want you to tell the truth."
"The truth about what?"
There were many things she could say to answer that question. She could say something like "Everything," and reenforce the persona of "bleeding-heart romantic" that she carried with her wherever she seemed to go. The word that did pop out of her mouth, however, was decidedly more selfish.
"Me. I want you to tell me the truth about how you feel. About me."
He paused, contemplating how he should reply. "Want to go out to dinner?"
"Excuse me?"
"Dinner. Do you want to go get some?"
"Why?"
He shrugged. "It’s Friday."
"So you only like me on Fridays?"
He raised his right eyebrow in thought. "No, I’m just hungry on Fridays. Never hungry on Thursdays, though. Strange, uh?"
"I’m busy tonight," she said, before turning around and walking briskly out of his office.
Friday, 5:15 p.m.
"I’m sorry," she said. "I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. It was rude."
Her moral sense of obligation and civility never ceased to astound him. He grimaced.
"Is the offer still open?" she continued.
He gasped. "Oh, but Cameron! I thought you were busy tonight. Don’t tell me you lied!"
She averted her eyes, feeling like she had foolishly fallen into his trap. "I know this place, just down the street . . . ."
She glanced back up at him and was surprised to find him staring right at her. His eyes were judging her, looking for her intention, perhaps searching for the joke-the "Dinner? Never! I so fooled you!"
But this was Cameron; her sincerity oozed off of her. It seeped from her pretty green eyes and her thin red lips. It mingled with her flowery perfume and followed her around like a proverbial rain cloud, pelting her with little drops of niceness.
It drove him mad.
Friday, 6:03 p.m.
"So do you like it?"
He flicked his eyes around the room. "Their band sucks."
"I wasn’t asking about their band. I was asking if you liked the restaurant."
"The band comes with the restaurant. You can’t separate them." He took a bite of his dinner and looked back up at her. She was staring at her plate, pushing the food around with her fork. "The food’s good," he said, licking his lips.
She smiled widely, as if pleased that she could please him, and opened her mouth to start a conversation. A young man, however, interrupted her.
"Excuse me," he said, "but do I know you? You look awfully familiar."
He was wearing a business suit, his tie pulled loose. A glass of beer was in his hand, and his green eyes sparkled at her in the low lights. His hair was thick and dark and his teeth were white. In fact, he seemed particularly impressed with how white his teeth were and insisted on showing them off rather proudly.
House sat up straighter and looked at the intruder with superiority.
The young man’s eyes registered House with mild surprise, and he said,"I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude on your dinner with your father . . . ."
Cameron nearly choked.
House simply held out his hand. "You mean her boyfriend. I’m Dr. Gregory House, and you are?"
"Tim," he said, shaking House’s hand. "Well, it was nice meeting you . . . ." His voice trailed off as he wandered away, discouraged
.
Thank you," she said, wondering how he felt about the "Father" comment. It wasn’t that he looked really old, or at least not old enough to be her father. She thought it might have been the cane. Canes were generally seen as synonymous with senior citizens, and it wasn’t completely far-fetched for a stranger to assume that he was over sixty.
"I’d imagine that happens to you a lot," he said.
"Sometimes."
Friday, 10:54 p.m.
"Thank you for dinner, House," said Cameron, handing his helmet back to him.
"You suggested it . . ." he replied, getting off of his motorcycle. He rested the helmet on the seat, his hand still gripping the handlebar.
"Yes, but you paid."
"Guess I’m just a gentleman."
If they were on a date, they would kiss right then.
They were not on a date, though, and the goodnight kiss time was spent in silence.
" . . . Well, I'll see you on Monday."
"Yeah, Monday."
"Goodnight House." She turned slowly away from him, somewhat hesitant to return to her car.
She wished he would call her back.
It took him a few seconds, but eventually he called out, "Night."
It wasn’t a "Come back!" call, but it was something sincere, and she loved it.
He watched her climb into the driver’s seat of her small, blue car. He made sure that her car started just fine, before getting back on his bike, revving the engine impressively, and riding away.
Cameron sat in her car, watching him as he rode off down the street, framed by glowing street lamps. After he turned the corner, she put her car into gear and backed out of the parking space.
The end.