This takes place after the season three finale, after Cameron tells House she's leaving. Though I suppose it's ultimately Cameron/Chase...it's very much laced with Cameron/House and the belief that Cameron will never get over House.
And for those of you read my other story, don't worry, I'm updating soon...This just came to me and I've found myself concentrating on finishing this one-shot.
XxX
The rain came down unapologetically, offering no end in sight. She sat timidly, always so cautious, knees pressed together, back stiff and straight. Only her youthful face saved her from looking every bit the part of a rigid school teacher from the 1800s, eyes expressionless and lifeless, all angles, all of her harsh.
Eyes shoot open at the slightest sound of movement. The door creaks. Her chest rises, neck straining slightly to peer around the corner of the living room wall. Her chin freezes in anticipation. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen.
Nothing.
The fan in the bedroom was on. Perhaps that had been the culprit of the noise.
Her hands are folded in her lap expectantly, like she's waiting to be called back for a job interview. She is all too aware of the fact that she's stuck, glued to the white couch, unable to go back into the bedroom and unable to walk out of the door. Undecided and unsatisfied with either choice, she sits on Chase's couch, her own private limbo, secretly thinking that it feels more like hell.
He'd spent the better part of the evening sharing his career opportunities with her. He'd received offers in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and most recently, Arizona. He assumed she might like Arizona. He assumed she might miss the west coast. He assumed so much about her.
If he'd half a brain when it came to dissecting her, he'd know without a doubt that she'd fled from her home, much like she'd fled from her college after graduating, running from place to place to place, never stopping, never looking back. While going to Arizona wouldn't be returning to her past, it would inevitably be running away, again, a habit she was trying desperately to break.
Chase hadn't understood. You'd be coming with me, he'd said simply, as if it was that cut and dry, as if her mind was incapable of fathoming that basic reasoning. He was assuming incorrectly, yet again. He was assuming that she was the girl looking to be rescued. She knew what people thought of her. She wasn't oblivious. But, while they'd been right about her damage and baggage, they'd been drastically wrong about the most fundamental characteristics. They assumed that because she was pretty, she didn't work as hard as other people. They assumed that because she was nice, she was incapable of standing up for herself. They assumed that because she was a girl, whenever she did get upset, she was merely pms-ing. They assumed that when she was nine years old she dreamed, like most girls, of being rescued by a prince charming.
She'd spent her entire life running so as not to be rescued. She spent her entire life working harder than most in order to prove that she was worthy. She wore her congeniality as a mask, designed to keep people at arm's length; to give them the illusion of knowing her.
Chase didn't recognize just how deeply buried she was. She'd wrapped years and years worth of protections and defenses around her like gauze, and now she couldn't find her way out of her labyrinth of self preservation. Every turn she made was wrong. Every chance she took backfired, yet now he expected her to move across the coast to be with him when she wasn't even fully capable of being with herself.
I don't know what I want to do, was all she had said to him. The moment the words glided off of her tongue, she saw the hope shatter in his eyes. She watched as she hurt him, trying to ignite a reaction from her heart, attempting to summon some sympathy from deep within herself. But the only emotion she'd felt was guilt...guilt that she'd romanticized their relationship again.
Jesus, Allison, he had muttered under his breath, prone to cursing in a muffled voice. She found his devotion to god unnerving. How one person could be so sure of an immortal being's presence was far beyond her grasp. Perhaps this faith in something intangible was what helped him remain so committed to her. Faith in the impossible, she thought. She liked this about him. His unrelenting faith in her.
Or was it unrequited? She shook her head. It was too soon to be that negative.
Well, what do you want to do? This was not a question. It was a demand. His demand. He was insisting that she answer so he knew how to plan his next move. It was an unfamiliar feeling. She wasn't sure when they'd gotten to this level. His plans were not supposed to revolve around her. She hadn't wanted that.
I thought...when you quit...His voice faded, lined with anguish. When she'd quit, she'd only meant to tell Chase that she decided he was important to her. She didn't want to never see him again. She was scared. She knew she was quitting her job and she needed encouragement. She hadn't lied to him. She did want to explore their relationship. She just wasn't ready to move in with him and set up house in another state.
She wasn't willing to give up her life for him.
You need to decide what you want, he'd warned her. He was standing his ground, digging his heels down. He was telling her that he wasn't going to wait forever.
You should schedule your interviews, she told him quietly, but not coldly, never coldly. His brows fell in silent recognition that she wasn't ready to take the next step with him...that she might never be ready.
She heard him curse quietly again before turning away and heading for the bedroom. When he slammed the door, her sobs broke free. She cried uninhibitedly until he met her back on the couch and kissed her softly. The brushing of lips led to the release of their different heightened states of emotion in the bedroom, his frustration molding with her inability to change. They both laid silently afterwards, neither daring to utter a word. His hand didn't slide under the small of her back, scooping her towards him, the way it had done so expertly before. They were both too afraid to speak, because they were certain that their dance was over. This was goodbye.
Cameron's eyes opened and closed painfully, eyelids raw and pained. Her vision was glazed and everything appeared to be rounded off at the edges. It was like she was drugged...
Snapping automatically back into her head, Cameron propelled herself slowly off of the couch. She wasn't going to say goodbye. Chase was probably sleeping...or worse, he was waiting for her to change her mind. She couldn't hang around any longer. She had to leave before she hurt him even more.
She left her key to his apartment on the bookshelf and slithered through the front door, shutting it noiselessly. The rain beat down upon her, punishing her, as she struggled through the gray to her car.
She'd learned in college, in a psychology class that the body learns to complete certain routine or mundane processes automatically, without thought. She assumed that this autonomic process was responsible for getting her home in one piece, for it was only after parking the car in her lot that she realized she couldn't recall one second of the ten minute drive was Chase's house to hers. This should have scared her, but she was too weary to worry. She was too bruised.
The lukewarm pounding of the shower water simulated the rain outside, pounding roughly down on her skin, turning her color from white to red. She might have been in the shower for hours. She couldn't be sure. Time made no sense in her newly strained state of mind. When she finished, she dressed in the same clothes she had worn earlier, unable to consider slipping into anything more comfortable.
She curled up on an afghan on the wooden floor of her bedroom, too tired to think anymore. She understood what Wilson had meant all those years ago about giving in, about how easy it was. She let the darkness engulf her and she wasn't ashamed of her pain.
XxX
It was somewhere near three a.m. when her eyelids popped open, eyes exploring the darkness around her, searching for something she couldn't quite put her finger on.
She pushed herself up onto her knees, mind dazed but slowly awakening. Her senses were heightened in the blackness, the fine little hairs on the back of her neck horizontal with warning. She tiptoed cautiously through her own familiar hallway, wondering if she was losing her mind. She wasn't certain why she was so alarmed or alert, but something felt different.
She patted the wall in the living room, groping for the light switch, which she found after several unsuccessful attempts. She flicked the switch up and squinted in response to the bright orb of light filling the room, shielding her eyes with her hand as she adjusted to the brightness.
There was no one lurking around in her apartment, that much was clear. Despite the relief this revelation induced, Cameron still felt weird. She'd heard a noise. A clatter. A metallic clatter.
The front door gave way to her forceful push, and she winced through the rain, eyes falling upon her unlevelled mailbox lid. Stepping barefoot out of her door, she reached inside of the black box, retrieving a manilla folder. Rapid hand movements rescued the folder from the harsh rain, drawing it fairly dryly into her apartment. She opened the metal tab, spilling its contents onto her coffee table.
An eyebrow was raised.
A letter of recommendation?
She slammed the envelope down. She hadn't imagined it. He'd been here. Just outside. Moments ago.
She fought between the urge to pick up the phone and dial his number and to go back to bed. There would be no sleeping, she decided. She wanted something from him. Closure? An explanation? An apology?
With a sudden urge of desperation sweeping over her, she descended back out into the rain, this time, her car keys firmly cupped in her fist. She hadn't bothered to put shoes on or to change out of her wet jeans and tan tank top. Her mind was a blur, but she had a goal set. She would get some answers, even if they weren't the ones she wanted.
She'd spent her entire life as the pretty girl. He'd overlooked that. He'd hired her because she overcompensated for her looks. He noticed how hard she worked. He noticed everything.
He didn't find her annoyances irritating. He found them amusing, worthy of being examined. He found her passions intriguing. He questioned her motives, not because he mistrusted her, but because he wanted to know why. He always needed to know why. He needed to know what made her tick.
She didn't care if he did this to everyone. She didn't mind not being special. That didn't matter. What mattered was that for the first time in her life, somebody was seeing her, whether they'd intended to or not.
She wondered if she'd hurt him by leaving. She wondered if he felt anything at all. She wondered if she could handle the answer.
Or if she'd even get one.
XxX
It took less than five seconds for him to answer the door when she knocked, and she assumed he had been waiting for her. But, the look of shock upon his face when his eyes met hers, told her that he hadn't been expecting this. She'd surprised him. She'd managed to render him momentarily speechless.
It was dark and still as she stepped inside, her tiny hand pressing against the door just as his cane smashed into it, sealing it closed.
She gasped involuntarily, knowing she was no longer in safe territory. She was terrified and she loathed herself for that.
She watched as his lips parted, curling at the edges, undoubtedly about to impart a sardonic witticism that she'd be forced to suffer through. But just like that, his lips snapped shut, and she realized that he was as baffled about what to do next as she was.
"I um...I heard you...outside," she said dumbly, arms wrapped across her wet chest, clothes thoroughly soaked now. Chills ran up and down her body, coursing painfully through her bones.
His expression twisted humorously, slowly regaining his usual snark. "Didn't want you to have to start relying on your looks to get hired somewhere," he said sarcastically, referring to an earlier conversation.
The corner of Cameron's lip tugged upwards, cracking into a curious half-smile. "Well, I could just go to interviews dressed like this," she suggested, referring to her lack of clothing coordination and sloppy appearance.
House's eyes ignited. "You would most certainly get hired," he said firmly, his eyes scanning her from head to toe.
Cameron blushed, realizing her mistake. Her clothes clung tightly to her body, outlining her every contour. Somehow, in her soaked jeans and top, she felt more naked under House's greedy eye than she'd ever felt with Chase.
"Change your mind?" House asked, lightening the mood as he ambled over to the couch, his cane clinking with every step.
Cameron traced his steps with her eyes. "No," she said softly, instinctively knowing he was talking about her resignation. "No," she began more firmly.
"You're an idiot."
She stood still as a mannequin, knowing that part of her thought he was right. She'd loved her job. She loved the cases and the thrills. She loved knowing that no day would be like the preceding one. She loved the drama of it all. She loved him.
Well, working with him...
"I can't work for you forever," she offered weakly, gliding slowly around House, lowering herself onto the floor. She faced him, nothing but the coffee table interfering with their distance. He watched as she tucked one foot under the other until she'd bent her legs outwards, sitting indian-style just inches away from him.
"You could," he said with a shrug. "It'd drive Cuddy crazy."
"Why?" Cameron asked hesitantly.
His eyes bore into hers. You know why, he was telling her.
"Where's Chase?" he asked, his mocking tone only chosen to cover up the undeniable trace of bitterness.
Cameron's gaze faltered. "It's three in the morning. Where do you think he is?"
"You two are...?" It was phrased as a question, but it sounded like a statement.
"Friends," she said, finding that to be the only suitable word.
House eyes her suspiciously. "Really?" he asked theatrically. "Guess I should have started being your friend a long time ago."
Cameron's eyes rolled naturally. "You're assuming I'd want your friendship."
"Oh," House began, coyly. "You'd want it."
Cameron challenged him with a powerful look. "Why'd you come to my apartment?"
"Why'd you come to mine?"
"You..."
"And don't say because I came to yours," House remarked, rolling his eyes. "It's the middle of the night. You wouldn't just come here unless..."
"Unless you had something to say," Cameron finished, flipping his statement around. Her shivering was involuntary now. House's watchful eyes flickered.
"You're an idiot," House began, finishing his prior statement, "because you're a doctor and yet you're dumb enough to nearly induce pnemonia." He paused. "This is just a ploy to get your hands on one of my infamous tee shirts, isn't it?" He dug his cane into the carpet, using it as leverage to hoist his body up. Cameron stood at the same time, smiling at his joke.
"I just..." She froze, her body suddenly aware at how close she was to him. She could hear Foreman whispering in her ear. How's your tummy? Her eyes tried to fight through whatever bliss her body was melting into. She maintained her strong gaze, not wanting to look weak. She could look silly and even sad, but not weak. House couldn't handle weak.
"This isn't going to change anything," he remarked, his voice raspy and uneven, his change in demeanor allowing Cameron to relax slightly, knowing that whatever was going on between the two of them, it was affecting him too.
"Yes it is," she insisted, softly, her lips teasing his as the warmth of his body overwhelms her. She succumbs to him at last, their lips trying each others on for size, battling for command, for control.
She breaks away roughly, tugging at his shirt, pulling him on top of her, dragging him down to the floor. She wants him like this, on a hard surface, on something flat and firm and real. She's not fooling herself with romance anymore. She wants this to be exactly what it is, crude.
He's wrestling with her jeans as she gasps for breath, her hands already roaming underneath of his shirt. She lifts it off of him with ease and it's only a matter of seconds before he's throwing her shirt onto the floor.
She doesn't remember how his pants came off, just that they did, and seconds later her head collides with the carpet, as he rolls on top of her. She feels a tiny bit of hesitation on his end and her eyes instinctively collide with his. He's searching her face for some hint of longing, for some hint of love? She won't show him anything soft though, she knows better. She ignores his scrutiny, closing her eyes as she arches her neck.
"House," she moans, pushing her body closer to his, gasping as the stubble on his chin rubs against her skin, his lips on her neck, hands exploring her body.
Her fingers curl in his thick hair, and no sooner does she touch him than his lips eagerly meet hers. He's taking his time, she thinks, and she's surprised that she never pictured him this way.
"Bedroom," he whispers gruffly into her ear, his voice tickling her senses. She takes a moment to consider. She hadn't wanted this to be intimate. She wanted it to be rough and impersonal.
But still, she finds herself following him nakedly to the darkness of his bedroom, her foot closing the door behind them, She knows instinctively that when it came down to the two of them, it had always been personal.
xXx
She walked comatose to the spot where her clothes were strewn, forgotten and still slightly damp. Her head was pounding out a steady beat; run, run, run. She stepped in time with this beat, her bare feet cold on the thin carpet.
Shame hit her harshly as she felt her embarrassment mixing with the unforgiving sunlight streaming through the blinds. She dressed hurriedly, fully aware that House was similar to a ticking time bomb. And she was too afraid to find out what might happen if he woke up. His usual, expected easy cruelty would be more than enough to break her right now. And much as she couldn't bear his sarcasm right now, the thought of his sympathy, the idea of him being understanding or compassionate seemed a far worse fate. She didn't know how to handle House if he started acting like a human being. She didn't know how to handle him when he wasn't crouching behind his indifference, clinging to all of his silly defense mechanisms.
With one last belligerent look at the bedroom door, she donned a brave face and vanished from the apartment, leaving no tangible trace that she'd ever stepped foot inside at all.
Xxx
Her hair burned from the strength of the bleach and the smell of chemicals was making her dizzy and slightly nauseous. She eyed herself in the mirror accusingly. She was through making decisions based on what she thought other people wanted her to be. And, she was certainly done making decisions based on what she thought he wanted her to be.
This doesn't change anything, he had said. She could have laughed wildly right then and there at his face, except that her body had been trembling and she didn't trust her voice. He'd said it so fleetingly, so easily, as if he wasn't interested in her response...like he was trying to convince himself rather than her. Like saying it made it true....
Yes it does, she had told him. It had changed everything, it had changed...was changing her.
As she sat in her bathroom, hair dye saturating her scalp, she couldn't help but think back to the day when she'd first been told she'd be able to interview with him, Dr. House. His name was legendary, even then, and when Lisa Cuddy told her she and ten other candidates had been selected to fill one spot, she knew she needed to convince him that she was more than ready for the position.
She felt the eyes of the other doctors at the Mayo Clinic on her, judging her harshly. She'd overheard them discussing her interview. They didn't think she'd get the job. She was too young, too green, too, well, blonde.
It was only a hair color, she'd thought. It was natural. She couldn't help it. But the more she mused it over in her head, the more convinced she became that the blonde hair was not an asset in the medical world. It could prove to be detrimental to her career.
The night before the interview, she'd transformed herself into a brunette in one last grueling effort to be taken more seriously. She traded the stylish business skirts for pants suits and carried her reading glasses without shame. She nixed the makeup and to take further emphasis off of her looks, kept her hair in a slick ponytail. She'd spent years downplaying her femininity so as not to be mistaken for a lesser version of herself.
Now, looking at her sticky hair in the mirror, she could have laughed. She was through hiding behind a mask of all of the things she wasn't in order to be considered all of the things she was. She was a blonde and she was smarter than most of the people she encountered in her day to day activities. She wasn't afraid of being misjudged anymore, because the need to please people had been stifled somewhere throughout the years of her fellowship.
Though her hands are still shaking and her stomach is churning, she feels more like herself than she has in a long time.
The timer dings and she jumps, her eyes widening. It's more than time.
XxX
"I don't want to move to Arizona," she remarks, finding Chase's apartment door unlocked. She pushes it open a few more inches and squeezes her slender body inside.
He looks up from his place on the couch. "I got the hint," he remarks, clearly still hurt.
Cameron walks over to him, a bag of thai food in her hand. A peace offering of sorts. "I really want to make this work," she says, and means it. "I want to try...but I'm not ready to move in with you."
Chase looks momentarily startled, but he takes the bag from her and surveys her stoic face. "You mean it?"
She nods, sitting down across from him. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess." It's a pathetic apology, but she's doing the best she can. She can't remember the last time she was a girlfriend. She can't remember what she's supposed to be doing.
"You can't..." he begins shaking his head and sighing. "You can't run away every time we disagree," he challenges, meeting her green eyes.
She nods. "I know that now. I don't want to run anymore."
He can tell that she's not just talking about their relationship anymore, but he doesn't press her for answers.
"Let's just take some time," she suggests. "If we're going to do this, it has to be slow. You can't just expect me to..."
She doesn't finish. She just sits staring at her lap.
"It's okay," Chase says at last, cupping his hands over hers. "We can do this however you want to."
Her eyes flicker upward, the familiar sense of deja vu jolting her. She recognizes that look in Chase's eyes, that look of perfect understanding and willingness.
The revelation creeps over her slowly. She's just like House. And Chase is just like her. They've switched places somewhere along the way and she's not sure how she's missed it. She's been stringing him along the same way House kept her running back for more.
She pushes the thought into the depths of her mind. She won't think about that now. She can change. She can love him. She can be happy.
She's not like House, she tells herself. She can let Chase in. She just has to figure out how.
XxX
He watched her for almost three minutes before she turned around. She was busy traipsing around the ER, rushing from nurse to nurse, from patient to patient. The new position of power worked well for her.
She hadn't called him ever since that night, and he hadn't made any effort to contact her either. He found himself relieved to discover that she'd left before he'd woken, cancelling any chance of post-sex awkwardness. He hadn't, however, expected to feel oddly empty when he checked in the living room and found her clothes were gone. Not a trace of evidence remained.
Except that damn smell. Her shampoo had taken free reign over his entire apartment. It smelled like green apples, juicy and inviting, and he found himself looking for her every time he caught the scent.
The smell vanished from his living room in a matter of hours, but it took almost a full week for the smell to evaporate from his sheets. Her scent haunted him at night, reminding him of what he had lost and what he might never get back.
As her inviting, lopsided grin pulled him back into the moment, he watched her closer than before, even intrigued by the way she slid off her latex gloves. Her presence commanded attention now. It never had before. Her hair's blonde and he's been wondering why the change, when he realizes how flawless the color is on her. He realizes it must be natural. He also then realizes that she must have been dyeing her hair brown for the past three years. For him. She wanted him to take her seriously. She wanted him to respect her. And now...well, she either thought he did, or she no longer cared about his opinion.
He wasn't sure how he felt about the change.
"Three weeks," she says glowering at him as she holds up three fingers. "For someone who never misses something small, you missed something big."
Her casual manner comes easily. She isn't hiding behind it. He finds himself strangely curious.
"You're an idiot," he remarks, not for the first time and certainly not for the last.
She seems ready for the exchange. "The hair, where I'm working, or both?"
He's up to her challenge. "The hair makes you look like a hooker," he remarks, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "I like it," he emphasizes and he means it. He lets his eyes trail over the background scene in the ER. "Pulling pieces of windshield out of car accident victims and reattaching fingertips sliced off cutting bagels. At least Chase's move is only one step down."
Her eyebrows are already raised, in preparation for his attack.
"I can do good here. Get it out of my system."
It's such a Cameron response...incorporating her desire to do good and the getting it out of her system comment in order to tease him for teasing her about her willingness to help. It leaves no room for a rebuttal.
"Why'd you rat your patient out to NASA?"
He blinks. He hadn't been expecting her to know so much about his case. She doesn't work for him anymore, and he almost reminds her of this.
"I don't know who's been gossiping about ethics instead of sex, but I hope they've already been fired," he remarks, still a bit put off by her interest in the conversation. "Which number was it?" he asks, making a mental note to fire whoever came running to Cameron with rumors.
"Greta," she says.
"Number," he remarks, even more obnoxiously, making it known that he doesn't know or care to know his potential new fellows by name.
"No number," she insists, not backing down. "The patient. How do you think she got your pager number? She came into the ER, didn't want to talk..."
"I didn't rat her out," he remarks, unsure of why he needs for her to know this. But he does.
"You lied?" Her tone is light, almost teasing. She knows him too well.
"Suppose I should tell her that before she keys my car." He doesn't want to be the one to end their easy conversation. He wasn't expecting to fall right back into step with her.
"Why lie?" she asks, and it's obvious that her concern extends beyond the patient.
He peers around her head, looking everywhere but her eyes. "Had to stop some leaky faucets," he remarks, hoping she'll drop the subject.
"What did it matter?" Her expression transforms into that vulnerable, doe-eyed one he used to know so well. Then, just like that, the emotion is swept away.
"It was no one's business," he remarks firmly, trying to convince her that his concern ended there.
"Right." She makes no move to make him believe she bought his sad lie.
"She's going to be the safest astronaut up there," he rambles. "Certainly more vigilant than the guy next to her who's got no clue about the aneurism in his head, ready to pop."
"Right." She smiles exaggeratedly, and then turns away from him, a contrary theory already well-formed in her head.
By this point, he's become thoroughly annoyed. "You got a better reason?" His tone is light, but a hint of sarcasm can be detected. And if anyone can spot his humor, it's her.
She turns back to him, her face lit with nostalgia. "You couldn't kill her dream," she offers, and it isn't a question. It's not even a statement. It's an answer.
"I'm not going to crush you..." His own words flood back into his thoughts and he hates that he can remember that far back. He hates that she's able to bring him to this dangerous place in his mind.
Before leaving, he finds himself searching for one last glimpse of her. She's kneeling at a patient's stretcher, her body willowy and angular, but her presence seems larger than ever. He smiles as he watches her scratch the back of her head, knocking the brown barrette she wears sideways, releasing strands of golden hair, until they spill out sloppily. She doesn't fix her hair, just as he knows she won't.
So much had changed, but he found himself brimming with the knowledge that she was still very much his Allison Cameron. She might be stronger and better prepared than before, but at heart, she was still the same intelligent, hopeful doctor she'd been when she first arrived at PPTH.
Her hair might be lighter, but she still wore it the same way she always had, tucked hurriedly behind her ear, pulled irritably into a ponytail, or hung carelessly in a silly barrette, a poor facade disguising the fact that she didn't much care how she looked.
It was comforting to know that after so much adjusting and accepting, she still wore her hair absent-mindedly, like an afterthought.