Disclaimer: Don't own anything except the old couple and cashier, who are so insignificant that they don't even count. : (
AN: This is my first true Cameron-centric piece, so I hope I got her okay. This is set between Airborne and Act your Age, probably a day or two after Airborne. Ever so slight Chase at the end, and if you're looking for fluff this isn't the place to find it. Anyway, let me know how you like it!
She hates Sundays. She hates everything about them and everything they represent and everything they mean. (Supposed to mean. Used to mean.)
There's a sense of coming dread as she packs her bag. It's Saturday night and they've solved another case. No work tomorrow. She wishes there was.
She doesn't mind the sleeping in or the lack of insults hurling in her direction. It's the silence she minds- the memories, the solitary soul that can feel there's no one around and that no one's going to be around.
She hates housework, too. Week after week, Sunday after Sunday- the same dishes, same clothes, same dust. The repetition is maddening, useless movements, wasted movements, when really, there's no other movements for her body to go through.
She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and glances around to see if she's forgotten anything. Foreman's already left, and so has House, but Chase remains at the glass table smudged with puzzles and debates and a select variety of swirls of fingerprints that have earned their place there. His eyes are glassed over as they stare at the center of an open file.
And memories flow through her- of him, of them- of what they were and what they aren't anymore. Something nags at her and pulls her to him, tells her to stay and help and change. But as it pulls she pushes, and she turns to leave without another glance, without anything.
She wakes on Sunday at 7:30. It's as late as she can sleep, as late as she'll let herself sleep. She doesn't have plans; she never has plans. There used to be church. There used to be family brunch. There used to be meaning.
But now there's nothing.
She remembers when she had faith. When she believed. But her life is proof enough that there's no god, proof enough that she was lying to herself the whole time.
She remembers when there was family, too. But now her parents reject her, for marrying a dying man, for never calling, for rejecting them. She never bothered keeping up with the others, either. She wanted to start fresh and leave all of the shadows that chased her behind. But really she's just put them on pause and can't draw her eyes away from the screen.
And she almost feels like House, she realizes, as she sits to watch the news that means absolutely nothing to her. she lives for cases, for puzzles, and nothing else. She supposes it's a pattern to fall into when working for him. The life from before drifts away just to be replaced with a new one, a single-focused one. Work, and nothing more.
She likes her job, though. She's worked hard to get here; she's given up a lot, given up everything. But they function well; they save people. And while they argue and lie and change who they are, they still work as a team. It's been a long time since she's fit in so well.
She walks away from the screen, but leaves the newscaster's voice echoing through the empty halls. It's a poor substitute for any sort of contact with humans and she knows this, but it's all she's got and all she'll ever have.
She sits at the small kitchen table built for two (used for one) and commits herself to the weary task of paying her bills. She slides her glasses slowly over her eyes and attempts to wither away the Sunday that's hardly started.
She never gets any mail from friends or family. she never gets anything worth keeping after it's been paid. All she gets is blaring scam headlines and expenses on living.
She's never liked tedious work. But when she thinks about it, there's never a never and there's never an always; there's an exception to every rule- a gray area that bleeds into the black and white until they're gray, too. So really, she wouldn't mind the work if it accomplished something, changed something, saved someone.
As much as she tries to rid herself of her husband, he's left a stain behind that can't be scrubbed away or covered up. And she can't put the wedding picture on her bedside away. And she can't stop bringing him into her present. And she can't move on. She wonders how life would be now if he were still alive. Would they be happy? Would they still be together? Would they have even been together at all?
And House was wrong, she thinks sourly. She's not attracted to broken people so she can fix them. It's because she's broken too, and she's looking for the missing pieces. She wants to fix herself too.
She shuts off the TV that's now just getting on her nerves, undresses, and steps into the shower. The water stings at first, but she grows used to it as her thoughts shift to meaningless tasks that need to be fulfilled. she's currently living off half a loaf of stale bread and some canned soup, so she figures she should get to the grocery store before another sleepless week begins.
She steps out of the shower and grabs for the off-white towel. Quickly wrapping it around her body, she steps out, rests her hands on the counter, and stares back at the stranger in her mirror.
She doesn't know who she is anymore; she hasn't known for a while, she realizes as she draws her hands away to dry herself. she looks down at the wet skeleton marks left behind and wipes them away. There's no time to learn who she is now and she's not sure that she really wants to know, anyway.
She dresses swiftly to try to eliminate the cold air engulfing her. She moves on to her makeup and she's not even sure why she's bothering. She's used to the mask that it offers; she's dependent on hiding who she really is because she doesn't know what there is to be found.
She toasts a slice of bread and a wave of fatigue hits her hard. She blindly collapses onto the couch and tries to replay the week again to count the hours of sleep she got. But she drifted off by the time she hit Tuesday, and didn't wake until the evening.
And just like that it's almost seven and dark clouds fill the graying sky as she walks into the large, fluorescently-lit grocery store. She clutches a basket and sighs as she passes by the produce. She doesn't bother buying fresh food anymore because all it odes is die and decay and she doesn't need to waste the money of the food. She usually eats at the hospital anyway, and even through twists of time and space and herself, Cameron's still reminded of eating this way when her husband was dying.
She passes by an elderly couple as she bakes some canned food off of the shelf. They smile warmly as the man gently places his hand to the woman's back and guides her to the next aisle. She hesitates, then smiles back weakly, hoping her misery and jealousy and loneliness don't shine through her facade.
She rounds the corner into the frozen foods and pauses over a cooler of microwave pizza. she looks down and reaches out just an another (familiar) hand does the same. Her gaze linger before drawing her eyes up slowly to his.
Chase.
She hears his breathing hitch and realizes hers has stopped altogether. Their eyes lock and she almost lets a laugh escape at the irony of a meeting over microwave pizza. Their arms remain extended over the box, mere inches away from each other, and neither can break their gaze. She sees the hurt of the recent rejection in his eyes, and for a moment, she's almost sorry. But the moment passes and she looks away and pulls her hand away too.
Her basket's barely holding anything but her face still burns, so she steps into he check out line. She left without a single word, but her ears are ringing and her tongue is tied.The teen behind the counter rings up her small purchase while eyeing her curiously, prying her for answers that aren't hers to know.
Outside it's pouring and the elderly couple climb into their car. The man holds an umbrella and guides the woman into her seat.
Cameron halts in the middle of the barking lot, and maybe this time she really is sorry. Maybe she wants to run back in and chase Chase and fall into him and have something real to hold onto. But really she's got nothing except for regrets and shards of failures and two soaking wet plastic bags.
She gets in the car and sits for a minute, eyes fixed on a point an infinite distance away; unreachable. She starts the car and pulls out. (Maybe) she hates Mondays, too.
AN: So for those of you looking for a happy ending, sorry if you didn't find it here. I promise there will be more Chase/Cam in upcoming fics, but I really felt like I had to write this. It's different style-wise from my other fics, but I like to change a little each time. So, whether you liked it or not, let me know what you think!