Disclaimer: I don't own House M.D., the characters, or anything else that is related to the show in this story. It all belongs to Fox. However, David Shore is my bitch. Just kidding. Love ya David.
Cameron reaches into a cupboard, retrieving a glass and filling it with water. On her way out of the kitchen, she grabs the trash can, and brings the items into the living room. She pokes the warm mass on her floor with her sock-covered foot. She sits the trash can down.
"Get up," she commands softly, because she isn't a loud person, especially at 2:00 in the morning. The mass stirs and lifts its head.
"Don't poke the cripple when he'd down. It isn't fair." House slurred.
She extends her arm forcefully, spilling some of the water, the droplets colliding with his rough face.
"Sorry," she mumbles.
"It's amazing how you can be sorry and furious at the same time."
Instead of looking away, at anything else, anything besides his face, she stares at him. Unblinkingly. Stares with emotionless eyes.
He blinks, trying to focus his eyes on the unwelcoming creature before him. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't have come. She was the closest. The cheapest cab fare. He lies to himself to justify his actions.
"I do not play second fiddle," she spits harshly, venom dripping from every word. When he says nothing -like she knew he wouldn't- she retreats back into the kitchen. She rattles things, reorganizing and moving. Being still is not an option. She has never been still because it isn't productive. If she keeps moving, the pain can't catch her. Being still would kill her.
Besides, she can't let him know what a lonely home -just home? Ha.- life she leads. She can't let him win. Not this time.
Strains and the sound of liquid hitting plastic creep up to her. She stops rattling. He coughs.
"You don't know where I've been Cameron."
And it begins.
"Of course I do. You were at the bar. The smell of scotch kind of gave that away."
"Stop playing stupid," -she flinches- "You know that's not what I mean."
"Sorry. I must have taken acting lessons instead of fiddling ones." She sighs at the childishness of her comment. He is the only one that can do this to her.
She peeks into the living room and sees his lip twitch into an almost smile. He hasn't seen her yet. She walks over to the couch and sits down. He would've play stupid too, had the situation been reversed. She knows Stacy left today, and she doesn't really give a shit.
"You weren't alone."
"I know. Wilson was with me."
She knew it. Actor.
"You know that's not what I mean."
Two can play this game.
"You don't know. You don't know what it was like. She wasn't there."
"What would you have done? Do you think you could watch someone you love waste away?" Her voice rose. "Do you? It's hard you know?" She knew he didn't, and it made her angry. She wasn't sticking up for Stacy. She was sticking up for herself. At last. She didn't realize that she was screaming. "At least you didn't die!" She was mad. At him. At Stacy. At Michael. At herself. He had to die. He had to leave her. "She shouldn't have left, but be fucking thankful that you're alive! I know you'll say you wouldn't have cared, but you know you would have! Nobody really wants to die!"
He was silent for a moment. So was she. Sometimes . . . he says stupid things.
"This is about your husband, isn't it?"
"You're goddamn right it is! And it's about you. And Stacy. And me."
She was tired now. The fight had become harder.
"You?"
"Yes. About me. You came into my home, drunk, and I helped you. Now you have the nerve to insult me and my husband's memory?"
"Did you expect anything else?"
"I had this crazy idea that you would at least try to be civil."
"But you knew I wouldn't."
She shrugs.
"Funny," he quips, "I had this crazy idea that you would be all nice and caring."
She shoots him a cold look.
"But you knew I wouldn't be. And you don't give a damn if I am."
He grabs his cane and pulls himself up.
"The insult, the imposition, it's not why you mentioned yourself."
She shouldn't have let it slip. She quirks an eyebrow.
"No."
He motions to the coffee table littered with pill bottles.
"Take some."
She looks at the clock and selects a pill bottle. Somehow it doesn't surprise her that he knows. She swallows two small, red pills dry. Her acquired skill doesn't surprise him.
"Stacy is not your problem. And fiddling is your business."
He moves toward the door.
Her voice sounds smaller out loud than it does in her head.
"I don't want to die."
He nods mutely and leaves. There's nothing else he can do.
"You won't."