And Time Ticks On, a house, m.d. fanfic

And Time Ticks On

By: Emmy

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

Spoilers: None really.

Summary: You don't feel so claustrophobic anymore, with the road stretching out beneath your tires.

A/N: Um. Wow. I'm just shooting them out. Well I don't think there will be anymore for a while. RL and all. But I hope this one is adequate. I don't know if she's in character. But I think that sometimes people just… snap. And this is what happens to Cameron. It's got very soft undertones of almost House/Cameron. Whom I adore together. Review if you would…

035. another orphaned field, another broken shield;
another voice that whispers: escape, escape, escape

At a quarter to ten you decided it was time. The four of you were done being another patient's second chance at life. Now there were mountains of paperwork and chores. Boring, boring, boring. You felt claustrophobic in the silence. You'd been talking with Chase before about Bush but the conversation had run to silence.

You snapped your pen down with a click! Stood up. Grabbed your coat and shoved bits and pieces into your bag. There was a moment's pause as you gathered your courage and, ignoring Chase and Foreman's gazes, you turned and knocked on his door.

He lets you in with a role of his eyes and a spin of his cane. You close the door behind you. Stand awkwardly just in front of it. You fiddle a little with the bobby pin in your pocket before meeting his eyes with your own.

"I'm taking a week off," you tell him.

He stares at you a little while. Rolls his shoulders and pops some Vicodin. You can see him spin the tablet in his mouth before swallowing it. "Are you," he eventually deadpans in return.

"Yes," you reply. You pull as many reasons and excuses into your head as fast as you can. He studies you a moment longer before turning his attention to a pen on his desk. Lazily rolls it back and forth.

"Okay," he murmurs at last, "sure."

It takes you an hour to pack everything. You aren't really paying much attention as you stuff things into your travel bag. You bring three books and your iPod and speakers. Some clothes. A spare towel. Two pillows. Toiletries. A drink bottle. A six-pack of beer.

You sit on your bed and ignore the phone when it rings. You're rewarded with a long message from Foreman. Apparently he thinks you're sick. Never mind. You aren't and he can think you are if wants.

You leave at about twelve. You aren't hungry so you don't eat lunch. Dido is singing through your speakers. You shove your sunglasses that Tiff bought you last Christmas on your face. You know you should head home. Surprise your parents. Be a good daughter. That doesn't bother you. You're too busy being spontaneous and a little bit stupid.

You don't feel so claustrophobic anymore, with the road stretching out beneath your tires.

You decide to buy dinner at seven thirty-five. There's a little general store in whichever town you've made it to. You buy a frozen pre-made pizza. You defrost it with the heaters in your car as you keep driving. You park in a McDonalds car park and watch people as you eat it. There's a smile on your lips and you blame it on your ironic humour.

You're full by the third slice so you drive on. You've left suburbia far behind you, by now. You're somewhere towards the middle of nowhere. You don't mind, and when you can't find a motel, hotel or any other type of accommodation you decide to sleep in your car. You climb into the back and curl up into a ball. You grab your towel and pillows to make yourself more comfortable. You fall asleep fast enough.

There's still a smile on your face.

You wake up with a kink in your neck. You stretch your back and admire the view from outside your window. According to your watch it's nine past nine. You go to the toilet behind a bush. You're in the car and driving by twenty past.

You hit another town at ten. You buy a small packet of rice bubbles, a two hundred and fifty millilitre carton of milk and a spoon. You drink half the milk and pour rice bubbles in to the space you've created.

You don't care when you dribble a bit of milk on your top. When you come across a park with ducks in it you stop. You grab the rice bubbles and feed them, sitting on the bank. You've decided to call them Jenny and Jack. It's half past twelve when you leave, and Jenny and Jack know your life story.

You're pretty sure they'll keep all your secrets.

It's dark when you realise that you still haven't found a place to stay and that you might be a little bit peckish. So you finish the pizza and stop in at a petrol station. The guy gives you a map and a smile and wishes you luck.

You highlight your trip so far, so that you'll be able to get home. There's a town two hours away, but you're tired and want to spend the night under the stars.

It's nice being able to see them, you've decided, and wish you could every night. That night you park your car on a farm, a little way away from the road, and sleep on the ground next to it. You're lulled to sleep by a distant herd of cattle and the whisperings of the wind in the grass.

You beat the sun up and scamper into your car half awake. You had a nightmare that the farmer found you and stole your socks for some reason and blame it on the pizza. You don't stop driving until the sun is up and you're sure that he wouldn't be bale to catch you.

There's a nice enough looking café at the next town, but it doesn't open till eight. So you sit and wait in your car. At half past seven a kindly woman with a wide smile invites you in early and cooks you the best pancakes ever.

You chat comfortably enough about anything and everything. After you've paid and are saying your goodbyes she suggests a little bed and breakfast owned by an old English lady about half an hour's drive away. You thank her and leave her to her work.

True to her word, there's a gorgeous little cottage that's surrounded by part forest part farmland. You go inside and ask if you can stay. She seems delighted and shows you upstairs. It's got a small kitchen, a bed and a bath in the corner. It used to be a normal attic, you can tell, but it's done up beautifully. It's all yours, your told, and you're free to come and go as you please.

You love it and say so, and when she pulls you into a hug you pat her back awkwardly.

You end up spending most of the day sipping tea from a chipped china cup and listening to her stories. You've been told to call her Maggie with a chuckle and a gentle pat on the hand. You learn so much about her and try to imagine England during spring with the scent of roses and apple blossoms drifting on the breeze.

She paints the most beautiful pictures with her words that sometimes you're afraid you're about to cry. And when she tells you about her husband you fall a little bit in love with him too. He's sitting on her mantle piece, in a delicate silver frame, gazing down at her lovingly.

You fill some of the silences with anecdotes of your own and when you cry a little at the end of one that happened back when you were married she hugs you tight and understands. So you cry for the both of you and wish you were braver.

She fills you with wise words and when she asks if there's anyone else in your life now you accidentally think of House. You tell her too quickly that no, you don't. But you feel transparent when she blinks and smiles slowly. You rush off to clean the cups then, and hope that she missed the blush that's staining your cheeks.

You doubt it, though.

She cooks you dinner by eight o'clock despite your protests and smiles modestly when you fill her with praise. It's one of the best meals you've had in a long time, and your stomach forgives you for not eating lunch. When it's done you wish you weren't so full because then she pulls out the most delicious smelling apple pie.

You eat a slice anyway and ignore the voice in the back of your mind screaming at the sheer amount of calories you must have consumed. She goes off to bed then, when you insist on doing the dishes, blaming it on old age. You're careful to be quiet so as not to wake her.

By ten you've started all three of your books but given up on them all. Instead you opt to lie on the bed and let the stories from earlier that day drift through your mind.

When you sleep you dream that England was your home and you weren't a widow anymore.

She wakes you up at a quarter to eight with the smell of a real English breakfast. She greets you with a bright smile and a warm 'hello'. You scoff it down and try not to notice her appraising smile. When you ponder what to do for the rest of the day, she suggest to go exploring on the property and offers to pack you lunch. You can't refuse and thank her repeatedly.

You track about the entire day, stopping at about twelve by a stream that you discovered. It's shaded by pines and runs smooth and deep. You're surprised by the speed and strength of the current. It's also freezing cold and your fingers are stiff when you take them out of the water.

You're surprised to find yourself hungry and manage to finish the sandwich she made you. It's been awhile since you last ate lunch and you feel a little guilty and promise yourself that you won't eat dessert tonight.

You remember the apple pie and expect to break the promise.

You find yourself awake at one o'clock with dessert still lingering on your tongue. You don't feel tired and you're sure that Maggie is still fast asleep. You remember stories of dramatic midnight encounters and the light in her eyes as she described the thrills.

You decide to rebel against your practicality and grab a towel. You sneak downstairs and skip the second last step because it squeaks. You borrow the torch she keeps in the cupboard in the hallway that's reserved for emergencies and sneak out.

It's quiet and you're spooked by the too-woo of an owl. Everything looks a little different bathed in darkness, moonlight and the light of the torch. You have good eyes though, and an even better memory. That log there. The ditch over there. And that tree that looks a little like an old man. It doesn't take you long before you can hear the distant gurgle of the stream.

You've never been skinny-dipping before. Never really felt the need to. But when you switch off the torch and all that's left is the stream, the night and you it's irresistible. You strip off and shiver as goosebumps prick your skin. You squeeze your eyes shut and wrinkle your nose when you slide your foot into the water. Cold snapping at your toes. You finally gather the courage to jump in. Arms wrapped around your legs and head ducked.

The water swallows you greedily.

When your head breaks the surface and you breathe in it sounds more like a gasp. The water pinches at you and you feel you're abs clench. You tread water for a second and try to adapt. Instead you end up numb.

After a while the sharpness fades to a fuzzy breath of awareness. The cold isn't screaming for your attention as much as it's a part of you and this experience. You stroke around for awhile. Distantly recognising the memories of swimming instructors complementing you on your style or the smoothness of your strokes.

You get out when your teeth begin to chatter and wince when your skin prickles painfully as it wakes up. You towel yourself off as quick as you can, and throw your clothes on. You feel clumsy as you walk back. And cold.

You're still shaking when you climb the stairs to the porch.

At three thirty you're still awake. You've got all your jumpers, two pairs of pants and three pairs of socks on. You aren't cold anymore. But the memory of water is still clear and sharp in your mind. It's enough to send the occasional shiver down your spine.

You've got your iPod playing Matchbox20 and your humming along. Your hair is nearly dry and you feel a little soft and pliable. As if your clothes and the music are the only things keeping you from going everywhere at once. It's a nice feeling, and your dosing off when your mobile rings.

You start with a jump and nearly fall off the bed in your attempt to find it. Right there. On the bedside table. It's an unfamiliar number that's flashing on the screen. So you warily press the button and murmur to the darkness:

"Allison Cameron speaking, who is it?"

"Cameron," a familiar voice croaks on the other end, "how's the week off?"

You wonder for a moment why he's ringing you at three thirty-five in the morning. Drunk. Or maybe high. You think that you don't really care either way and that you're too tired to be anything other than honest.

"Lovely," you confide slowly, "I just went skinny-dipping."

The silence that echoes between you sets your cheeks on fire. You're glad that he can't see you. Because that would only make him tell you with his eyes just what kind of an idiot he thought you are. And you don't need that. Most definitely not. You're fairly sure you know, anyway.

You are unbelievably relieved when he ignores that confession. Only moves on with the conversation. Leaves you to do the mocking.

"We have a new patient."

That makes you want to cry. Not because you're sad for this person. You aren't that selfless. In fact, you suspect that you are simply selfish. Because you don't want this to end. You knew it would. Good things always do. But you buried that knowledge in the future and left it there.

"And you want me to come back."

He sighs and you hear his phone get knocked. You suspect that he's just run his hand across his face. You can see him doing it now. In your mind.

"Yeah."

And you know won't, can't, say 'no' to him. So you sigh and mourn what you've lost.

"Okay," you murmur at last, "sure."

.end.