(no subject)
Title: Kakorrhapiophobia
Pairing: Cuddy/Cameron
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: House, M.D. is not mine.
Memories linger far after pain ebbs or scars fade. When Cameron was fifteen and digging the penknife against the inside of her thigh for the first time, she neither knew this nor cared.
The funeral had been held that afternoon. When she closed her eyes, Cameron could trace the black outline of the coffin on her skin, but the impassive faces of her mother and her siblings didn’t go away. Neither did the feeling that she had failed somehow.
When Cameron was seventeen, she threw the penknife away. She remembered sitting in her father’s study before the funeral, breathing in the smell of the books lining the shelves and the faint traces of his cologne on his chair. The penknife had been just sitting there, so she had pocketed it.
Cameron graduated high school at eighteen and spent the next eight years working to get her doctorate, which was followed by a yearlong internship. At twenty-seven, House hired her for a fellowship at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
It wasn’t until four years later, when Cuddy’s fingers traced the faded scars on Cameron’s inner thigh and asked, “What happened?” that Cameron told her about her father.
With time, the scars had faded and Cameron’s hatred for her family had dulled; with time, she found that she could speak about her father.
“He died of cancer.”
After that, the memories came easily, and at thirty-one, Cameron realized that memories linger far after pain ebbs or scars fade.
Pairing: Cuddy/Cameron
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: House, M.D. is not mine.
Memories linger far after pain ebbs or scars fade. When Cameron was fifteen and digging the penknife against the inside of her thigh for the first time, she neither knew this nor cared.
The funeral had been held that afternoon. When she closed her eyes, Cameron could trace the black outline of the coffin on her skin, but the impassive faces of her mother and her siblings didn’t go away. Neither did the feeling that she had failed somehow.
When Cameron was seventeen, she threw the penknife away. She remembered sitting in her father’s study before the funeral, breathing in the smell of the books lining the shelves and the faint traces of his cologne on his chair. The penknife had been just sitting there, so she had pocketed it.
Cameron graduated high school at eighteen and spent the next eight years working to get her doctorate, which was followed by a yearlong internship. At twenty-seven, House hired her for a fellowship at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.
It wasn’t until four years later, when Cuddy’s fingers traced the faded scars on Cameron’s inner thigh and asked, “What happened?” that Cameron told her about her father.
With time, the scars had faded and Cameron’s hatred for her family had dulled; with time, she found that she could speak about her father.
“He died of cancer.”
After that, the memories came easily, and at thirty-one, Cameron realized that memories linger far after pain ebbs or scars fade.