A/N: Hey, it's me - elh1997. I've changed my name to be the same as the one I use on LJ.
Disclaimer: I don't own House, Cameron or any other fictional doctors
Clarity
The business suit has been relegated to the back of the closet and she's wearing her pink scrubs again, today topped with a white cardigan to ward off the slight chill in the air. As it turns out, white was a bad idea, blood stains you know; how could she forget that in only a day? Her blond hair is in disarray. She shoves a stray lock behind her ear as she leans forward to sign her name to a form. Maybe she should dye it brown again or at least find the time to get it trimmed. The paperwork never ends and, this week especially, she's had enough paperwork to last her a lifetime. It's quiet in the ER at the moment and though she knows it won't be for long, she just can't bring herself to fill in any more forms or sign her name even one more time. She wants to lay her head down on her desk. She's tired. Just tired.
She knows that she's let Lisa down and that was the last thing she'd wanted to do. She likes Lisa. It's still a little disconcerting to even think that way, considering that she was trained to think of her as an adversary. In some ways House had raised her; it was hard to shake the ideas and ideals he had instilled in her, and while she's overcome the idea that Lisa is the enemy, she hasn't entirely overcome the idea that House is the real boss. It's why she'd had to do what she'd done.
It's why she does a lot of things.
She's still too much like him, even after all this time, and not enough like him at the same time. After all, he would have no problem saying no to himself. She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the image him standing over her, demanding she see things his way, do things his way, be his way.
It doesn't seem to work, because suddenly here he is, opening her door, walking in, sitting down like he owns the place. Maybe he does. He seems to own so much of her.
He leans forward in the chair and rests his elbows on her desk. There's a suggestion of a frown on his rugged face. "So, scared you off, huh? I thought you'd last longer than a day." He shakes his head. He's fake-disappointed in her. "You didn't seem any more annoyed with me than usual. What happened to 'I'm inoculated'?"
"Guess I missed a booster or something." She's not really up to explaining herself just now. But of course, if he pushes, she will. Because it's him, because it's her and because she's too tired to pretend otherwise. She can't help herself.
He pushes.
"Oh come on, Cameron. You pride yourself on being one of the few people who can stand me. I must've done something really bad for you to give up so easily. What was it? You know, so I can keep on doing it."
She sighs. He would think that and how could he think that? And is that hurt she hears underneath the thin veneer of sarcasm? No. Of course not. She flips through the file in front of her – sign here, initial there, turn the page. She thinks about how to explain herself. She doesn't think about why she has to. A few more pen strokes and she closes the file and meets his eyes.
"You didn't do anything," she says. "I didn't quit because of you; I quit because of me."
Just for an instant, she thinks he looks confused, or possibly surprised. Relieved, maybe, or something in that vein. The look is gone before she can decide. "Explain," he demands.
She plays with her pen as she considers her wording. She wants him to get it. Get her. "The hospital needs someone who can be your reality check. I'm…I'm too close to you. Too close to be objective. I know how you think, because it's also how I think. How you taught me to think. It's like you said; I used to do the job. I can't be the one that gets in the way of the job, knowing, knowing, that you're most likely right, or at least on your way to being right. And because of that you'll save a life. Multiple lives. I know myself well enough to know that I'll always say yes in the end, if only because of our history. Because you are…who you are. I can't do anything else, so I can't be your Cuddy." She's not making sense. She's aware of this, but he seems to understand anyway. Symptom of the disease, she thinks.
He shrugs. "Cuddy always says yes in the end too."
"She shouldn't."
He nods once, and rises. She reaches for the next file, knowing she's been dismissed, though he's the one leaving. But he surprises her by speaking again. "You told her, Cuddy, that it was because of me. That I drove you away. Why?"
"I didn't," she replies in confusion, looking up to find him facing away from her, leaning heavily on his cane. "I told her the same thing I just told you." Though with fewer words. "Did she tell you I said that?"
"I must have misunderstood," he says, moving awkwardly to the door and reaching for the knob.
"You're limping," she says without thinking, concern overwhelming good sense.
He turns back around and looks at her oddly. "I always do."
"No, you don't." The odd look grows increasingly odder. "I mean, yes, of course you always do, but there's your normal limp, and then there's this." She waves a hand vaguely in his direction. "What's wrong?"
"Too many stairs today," he mutters, pulling open the door and walking through. The door closes with a whisper and she is once more alone with her thoughts and her papers.
Stairs?
Let it go, she tells herself. Let it go. He is, once again, Lisa's responsibility. She can deal with whatever's going on because, of course, with him something is always going on.
She gives into her fatigue, rolling her chair back a little and resting her head on the crook of her elbow.
After all, Lisa's not the enemy.