Understanding, a house, m.d. fanfic

Understanding.

By: Emmy

Disclaimer: disclaimed.

Summary: He doesn't comfort her. That's okay. She doesn't want to be comforted. Just understood.

A/N: Hope this is alright. The prompt is from 50lyricschallenge community at LJ. I'm not officially doing it cos I don't have an account or anything. But whatever. They rock. I'm not doing it in order. So I don't know how many I've done. Anyway, enjoy (if possible) and review (if you're nice).

005. we just can't stop believing,
because we have to try;
we can rise above, the truth and the lies

Everything's crumbling around the edges again. There's a quiet monotony to this. In this. Sometimes they're friends. Sometimes they're enemies. Sometimes (in those seconds before he opens his mouth when its him and her and no one else) they're lovers. It's there in the shifts and changes between them.

The patient isn't doing well. They're all stressed and tired. She always hates these moments. Until they're gone. Then she sees the beauty in them. The way everything they do fits together. It's not teamwork so much as it's them. Because they aren't a team. Not really. Just a couple of people trying to be doctors.

Not healers.

They figure it out. She isn't surprised. But she is. And they can't fix it. That doesn't surprise her. Not a bit. She's always been good at lying to herself. Just not anyone else.

He makes her tell the family. They're crying. So is she. She's not meant to but she's tired and sad (and everywhere she goes the echo of His last breath haunts her).

When she's out of the room he's standing there. She stands in front of him. Neither talks. It's quiet in spite of the noise. He spins his cane in his hands and watcher her. He doesn't comfort her. That's okay. She doesn't want to be comforted.

Just understood.

Foreman finds her sorting mail. It's not that she's doing it because she has to. She does. And that doesn't matter all that much to her anymore. She's just doing it for the distraction. And the smooth, cool brush of paper on her palms.

He doesn't talk. Not at first. He just stands and watches her. His shoulder supported by the doorframe. He sighs after a while. She doesn't look up. Not even when he sits on a chair directly opposite her.

"Let's go get a milkshake."

She does then. Tilts her head up. Meets his gaze. He's resting his elbows on the table. Fiddling absently with an empty coffee cup. His attention is all on her. For her. He's worried. She's not surprised. Not very at least. She's just tired and sad. And she knows she isn't very good at hiding it.

"Sure."

They don't talk about much. Bits and pieces. It's a little awkward. She doesn't mind though. And when her phone rings and she tells him it's Tammy he nods like he knows her. He doesn't. But she distantly recalls telling him some anecdote that involved her. That night he'd taken her to some jazz performance just because.

"Howdy there girly!" She's greeted, "How's life?"

Tammy. All colour and sparkle. Once they were the party pair. Dancing and laughing and smiling. Sometimes they still are. Not today, though. Not now. She's not brave enough. Not strong enough. So she sends a glance to Forman and twirls on chair. Wraps her free arm around herself. Answers.

"Not so good."

She hates how small she sounds. Hates how transparent she is. Hates the little waver in her voice. Hates that she's not brave like the others. Hates that she can't escape the memory of His cold hand in hers.

"It's not The Bastard is it? Look, Al, You and I both know that he isn't worth it. Seriously, I don't-"

With a sigh she just listens as her friend rants on. It's not that she doesn't appreciate the sentiment behind the words. She does. It would help if she wasn't so completely off track. She's too tired to correct her.

This is her dose of comfort, she decides, and hopes she won't drown in it.

She doesn't go home that night. She elects to stay the night and be there for the family and the patient. She's there at the end. And regrets that it isn't the first time for her. She's brave this time. Doesn't even cry. Much.

He surprises her when she walks in to grab her jacket and bag. He's in his office twisting a glass in his fingers. There's a bottle of scotch sitting on his desk. It isn't full enough for him to be sober.

"Allison."

That catches her so, entirely, off guard that her bag clatters to the ground. Half its contents spill across the floor. Her glasses case rolling across the room. And she dips her head to hide her blush. He doesn't offer to help. Just sits and stares. She doesn't mind. Not much. So she scrambles about picking everything up.

If she was braver she might've entertained the idea of murmuring his name in return. She isn't. Not now. So she settles with tilting her head up and raising an inquiring brow from her position on the floor. Once she's sure her face isn't bright red. She's not ready for him to see that. Maybe she won't ever be.

"No," He says with a very much un-sober frown, "still Cameron."

They don't talk anymore as she gathers the rest of her belongings (and her thoughts) from their jumbled mess on the floor.

It's her day off the next day. A part of her is glad for the rest. Another part misses the company. She's found that ghosts (words and people and emotions) tend to stay away far more when she's surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the hospital. She finds it funny. Trading ghosts for ghosts.

Her radio is on loud enough that she's reasonably sure Mrs Jennings is going to complain. Not that she cares all that much. She doesn't like Mrs Jennings and her too smooth son. She does half an hour on the treadmill. Her shirt is sticking to her when she's done. Never mind.

She's always loved to push herself.

Mid afternoon she finally decides to tackle the answering machine. The little flashing number has been annoying her since the last time she checked. Three days ago. Six, it tells her. You've been called six times. Six calls unanswered.

Two are from home. She doesn't ring her parents enough. Apparently. They miss her, Ma says, and she should come home sometime soon. Susan misses her too.

One is from Tammy. Asking her out. They both know she'll be working, but it still feels good to be asked. She suspects that Tammy knows. Tammy knows a lot about her. Even if she hides it all in her smiles and charm.

One is from the electrician. Giving her that quote she needed but not really. She's sick of Dad complaining about that faulty switch, which turns out to be a bit more then a faulty switch. She just doesn't have the time to hang around while a stranger fiddles around at her place. She'll tell him that it was to expensive and, no, he can't help pay for it.

One is from Kathy. A uni friend who she hasn't spoken to in over a fortnight. She's a tiny bit guilty. But she has a million excuses and they are enough for now. She smiles at the awkwardness of the one sided conversation. Tries not to miss her too much.

The last one came in last night at two in the morning. It's mysterious because there's a long pause before a sharp sigh and then whoever it is hangs up. She muses that maybe she has a stalker (it wouldn't be the first time) but decides that she doesn't care even if she does. It's probably House, she rationalises. Drunk House, she corrects.

She'll call home and Kathy. She'd just spoken to Tammy, so that could wait, and she had no intention of actually going through with that faulty switch fix up. And if she thought about the mystery call during both calls then it was simply because she was intrigued.

The day after isn't anything special. They finish off the paperwork. Foreman's not there because it's his day off. So she and Chase talk occasionally. She isn't as close with him, and she blames it on circumstances. And that she can still remember the feel of his collarbone under her fingers. She doesn't like him. She's decided. Not as anything more then a friend.

She doesn't see much of House. But that doesn't bother her much. He likes to avoid paperwork. And she's noticed that Wilson was acting a little off lately. She has her own suspicions locked away. She decides that he must be doing clinic duty when Wilson and Cuddy walk past your office. She tracks them with her eyes and buries the urge to smile. When she turns to glance at Chase he's grinning despite the former mood.

"I don't care what Forman says," he informs her, "they are definitely sleeping together."

She smiles despite herself then, because (secretly) she agrees. It wouldn't be so hard to believe, she tells herself, they're already friends who spend a lot of time together. She refuses to acknowledge the fact that she first started noticing things like that when she overheard Wilson copping it from House.

Sometimes it's nice to pretend that she comes up with her own ideas.

House comes in later when Chase is off eating his lunch. She isn't hungry and can think of nothing better to do then lying on her couch and watching Titanic (she's rented it and is in the mood) so she skips in order to finish early. He goes to get some coffee and makes an annoyed noise when he realises it's cold.

"You're a hopeless office bitch," he tells her with some emotion.

She can't think of a reply so doesn't. She's nearly done and all she wants to do is go and lie down. It's her own fault for staying up before. She decides that patient death is a suitable excuse though, and let's herself off with a sharp reprimand.

It's quiet except for his pottering and the gentle tap tapping of her typing. She's singing My Heart Will Go On (or whatever it's called) in her head and losing interest in what she's writing. He sighs then and sits across from her, in the seat that was next to Chase's.

"We should probably talk."

She doesn't know what about. There are several possibilities floating in her head. She just can't be bothered choosing one. That would require too much thought. She's living her life now with the firm belief that she should avoid thinking, pondering, debating, evaluating and classifying whatever messed up relationship she has with House.

"Yeah," she agrees, "probably."

He seems satisfied with her answer. Nods and gets up. Moves off into his office. A smile twitches on her lips at the lack of conversation. He needs time. If she was to be truthful with herself she'd admit that she does too. And maybe, maybe, this is what she needs. What both of them needs. No more lies. No more battles to find secrets. Just this.

Understanding.

.end.