Disclaimer: I don't own anything (oh, but I wish...). Nor House & Co., nor Billy Idol, neither Jack Daniels.
Spoilers: this takes place in the future, so there could be spoilers for everything has happened in season two till now.
What we leave behind
You feel her sitting down beside you on the bench.
There is no need to acknowledge why she's here.
You and Mr. Jack Daniels have been hiding on the roof since noon.
This has been a bad day.
A young guy dying. No clues. To cure illness is the only skill you've been left with.
You hate feeling useless.
Her poor attempt to make a diagnosis.
At least she tried something logical, while the other two were babbling.
But she was strained, not only by the status of the patient.
She was strained and that put you out of balance.
You asked if today was Mourning Day – Why? Why can't I ever hold my tongue? – , and you know, the question was not at all innocent. She never answered and things just escalated. You have no explanation for your anger, usually you vent on her, sure, but not this way.
You remember clearly your own voice lowering a bit, mocking, If you can't fix him you can always marry him. You remember the resentment beneath the words.
As you could claim any right.
You didn't expect the reaction you got. You thought you figured her out.
She always provides you with new addictions to her puzzle.
Her first line was "you're a bastard!"and then the following outburst had been worth of fireworks.
Cuddy is probably giving a party in her honour right now.
The bastard component of Gregory House is still pissed that a girl beat the shit out of you – metaphorically. The other part, who shall remain nameless, feels slightly quite… guilty. It's been a while since the last time you've been a total ass to her. But this morning you didn't restrain yourself.
Ah, restraint on hurt her. Pffh. House, you're getting soft.
Furthermore it's mildly disturbing that you refer to yourself by your last name in your own mind.
She's sitting beside you. Waiting. You wonder what she's waiting for. Apologies is the first thing that comes to mind.
But first thoughts and first impressions don't work with her so much.
You just want to have back what the two of you had before this morning.
Oh, come on, honey! Do it for the children!
It would be laughable, if it wasn't painful, to acknowledge that there is something between you and her. Something that you can't grasp and can't label. You don't want to.
You are not sure when the two of you developed this kind of connection. It's been among the weeks, the months, a question of time.
Friendship's a question of time and habit, your mind says with Wilson's voice.
But you are sure enough this thing you and her have is different from the familiarity you have with Wilson. You never feel compelled not to hurt him. You and Cameron have this… this…
Relationship? This is not.
Different from the one you had with Stacy. There… there was no spark. Good chemistry, ignition, passion for the puzzle, yes. No radiance.
Here… you've never even touched her. Most likely you'll never have the nerve to.
Because you know the light would leave you blind and addicted.
And withdrawal would tear you apart.
You used to not feel the need to apologize. I don't apologize. Period.
Now that you feel the need you can't quite remember the words.
She does it for you. It figures.
"I'm… I didn't mean to snap at you. But today…Today I'm a little over the edge."
This does absolutely nothing to soothe your guilty conscience. You're an ass, but you know when you're at fault. To tell it, it's clearly a whole different story.
And you need desperately to say something wrong because self-destruction is an art you mastered long ago.
It's your funeral, girl.
You two are sitting on the roof of the hospital and this situation is totally ridiculous.
Some sneering comment is already on the tip of your tongue but what you see when you turn to look at her…
Oh, Jesus Christ.
She's got rid of her lab coat and under that she wears something like an high school uniform, the kind you've only seen in a porn.
Billy Idol starts to sing "Sweet Sixteen" in the background of your always dangerous mind.
Stop leering at her! Damn you! Say something, anything!
"Tryin' the high school outfit to monitor the effects on the male population of PPTH?"
Great. Just great. Let's piss her off again and again.
She seems amused. "Don't know what you're talking about."
Her low, soft voice, sexy smile. Bright, sad eyes.
Nice way to make you feel old and lecherous.
Stop. Staring. At. Her. Now!
You redirect your gaze on the lights of Princeton, New Jersey.
Then you feel her hand snatch the bottle of Jack Daniels from you.
And the sun goes down.
End of the day on PPTH.
You two sitting on the roof. You know how to feel when she's around.
This is anything but ridiculous. You don't know how you feel when she's around.
And you are afraid you'll end up embarrassing yourself.
Easy task.
Or embarrassing her.
Easier task.
She's become an ally you don't want to lose.
She knows you as you are.
It's been a surprise she decided to hang around to be your friend.
Martyr complex? Fix you complex? Don't. Ask! Been already there. No good.
Silence.
Can ask Wilson later. Maybe not. Gone there too. Worse.
More silence.
"He was like the charming prince in fairytales."
She wakes you from your reverie. A single glance to her is sufficient to tell who the Prince was.
So, this morning I was right.
Her left elbow on the armrest of the bench, hand to support her chin, the other is toying with the bottle. Golden brown wavy locks in front of her eyes.
She looks at the horizon when she says "Today is not a mourning day, it's the day we married. I try to celebrate his life, not his death. "
So, this morning I was… wrong?
You start to feel extremely uncomfortable. Billy Idol is losing voice and appeal.
Till the music stops.
Now you could really use one of the "emergency exits" Stacy has always been so good to find.
Oh, mercy me.
She never talks of him.
This is gonna get ugly. For you.
For her.
Fucking shit. Where the Hell is Wilson when I'm in need? He could just well be a cop. Damn him.
During the past months Chase has become stuff good for jokes and banter.
Not Him.
You learnt to not prod her any further about that argument a Friday night, months ago, when your big fat mouth had at the same time you slapped a first for her, her in tears not a first for you, and Wilson hiding in the kitchen his usual.
Never Him.
He's a black hole for her like Stacy is for you; with the difference that you can freely blame, accuse, despise, hate and recently be quite indifferent to her. Cameron can't.
Wants not.
Can't.
At 1130 a.m., today, you broke this unspoken, almost, rule of your "something-ship", and it seems you're about to pay.
Her gaze lost somewhere in the horizon, her dreamy smile. You don't want to put a name on the painful pang in your stomach or the sudden crave to crunch some Vicodin. One, two, possibly twenty, pills.
This is worth to double my doubled prescription. Should tell Cuddy.
And then she answers the question you've never asked. Because you used to praise yourself of being able to see right thru her.
"When he told me… calling off wouldn't had lessen the pain of losing him. I married him and I'd been his wife for six months. After, I put his ring on this chain. I'vekept it with me for eight years."
She removes her right hand from the bottle and waves it in front of her. The chain is wrapped around it, and from the chain is dangling an object that shines in the fading light of the day.
You won't look at it. Because you can't.
Instead you choose to consider her face.
Not a good idea, in the end.
The dejected smile she wears is unbearable.
The cane is thumping on the floor almost furiously, in a rhythm you don't recognize anymore.
And I was the one who has to learn to let go?
The realization that you could realistically have been wrong on your first and only actual date hits an instant after. That you really could have been projecting.
She stayed with him long after he was gone. This is not pity.
Insanity, with good probability, but not pity.
And insanity speaks volumes about her. And about you.
Clarification is such NOT a beautiful thing.
And you want to go, to run, to limp, to creep away from her. You can't.
You want to say she's insane, you want to say you are sorry. You won't.
You need to solve the puzzle, to hear her speak the words, to hear her tell you what you shouldn't wouldn't know. You yearn for ask what a prince is like…But what comes out of your mouth is… different.
"So, you did love him." It's not quite a question. It's an admission of defeat.
She's insane and so am I.
She answers, anyway, and confirms to your eyes she's nuts because she tells you the truth.
When a convenient lie would have been functional.
"Did I? Yes. No… I was twenty-one. I still believed in fairytales. I didn't even really have the time to know him. But I loved him enough to do what he asked."
"You married him to not let him die alone." You presume to understand so much of her.
The look she gives you. Maybe, maybe you don't get her at all.
There's something else, something you haven't grasped yet, another reason. Then you remember what she told once, "It's easier to die than to watch someone die".
The line is fine. So thin, but… This is not going to end well.
You think she's going to say that for a genius you're very dumb.
In its place she gives away what you truly would have never wanted to hear.
"I married him because I loved him. And I married him to not leave him alone… I married him because he and his parents disagreed on the therapy, and he needed…"
She stops, turns her face from you.
Her voice is faltering when she speaks again. Oh, please, no. Not this. Don't say.
"Well… you know what a proxy is."
You know full well. You don't want to go there.
It ruined your life.
And it ruined her life too.
It's easier to die than to decide when someone has had enough.
Now, you feel sick.
Go? Stay? Go. Go. Go. Go.
Stay.
The pause is awkward and long, she sighs.
She is tired, you can see it, tired and drained. If only you'd be able to express some sort of empathy this would be the moment.
But this has never been your thing.
You try to change the subject as an alternative. Try to turn the tragedy in farce.
After all, you are a joker. And a good pretender. You can pretend you don't care. You can pretend you've not hurt her. You can even pretend that good part of this conversation has never taken place.
You want to pretend.
Wonderful line of thought, pick something previous and twist this mess in a fine bantering session, you two are talented at that.
"And then you passed from the prince to the toad, I hope you know, Dr. Cameron this fairytale thing is supposed to work in the other direction."
Oh, holy shit. Stupid mouth. Synonymous of failure, other than Greg House, kids?
She seems to be not surprised by the abrupt twirl of the conversation, nor by the bitter quality in your voice. You're slightly surprised by the amount of self-loathing in the words, instead. And there's no way to pretend the Toad could be Chase.
"Now, I know."
Oh, low blow Dr. Cameron. Very, very low.
This is different from a screamed I hate you or a detailed description of the many ways in which you are a bastard given during a heated argument. Her warm, caring voice has just stated that now she's aware, as you've been right from the start, of the fact that you're not worth her.
Fine, she's moved on.
After all, I've never been into her.
Yeah, fine.
Everybody lies. Especially me.
You don't even want to imagine the expression on your face. Forgettable, just forgettable.
Your left hand darts in the pocket of your jacket and the bottle of pills is already popping open when you feel her hand covering yours.
Then, all your world freezes. Her hand is strong. Strong enough to keep all your pieces together.
You don't dare to look her in the eyes, afraid of what you may see.
Pity, commiseration, mercy? No, thanks.
"Cameron…" If anyone might ask, your throat is sore because of the cold. May is a very, very cold month.
"It took me eight years to learn that this fairytale thing doesn't work for me."
And then her hand is gone. And you are ready to crumble and fall.
You are sure you'll end up breaking her and this will kill you.
She's already broken.
You'll end up taking her down with you in your own misery.
She's already been miserable longer than me. More than me. Often because of me.
She'll hate you and this will kill you.
This IS killing me.
Your knuckles are white around the cane.
It's self preservation, you tell yourself, to push her away.
But before you can muster any defensive line, before your stupid mouth can open and be your salvation ruin, she speaks again.
"By the way, you are not as green as you're supposed to be", she murmurs when you lift your disbelieving eyes to hers.
Neither are you. Have you just thought this? Have you said it aloud?
It doesn't matter, because she's smiling.
And the world starts to spin once more.
You start to think that hers are the eyes you'll see again and again in every dream and in every waking hour for the rest of your wretched existence. These eyes are the puzzle you'll never be able to unravel. But you want need to try.
You shouldn't, the logical mind says, we are not ready for this.
Yet you can't help but lean towards her and…
Your phone rings, her pager goes off.
She jumps on her feet, you sit up straight.
Your leg screams, her face blushes.
Oh, wonder! What are we, teenagers?
Obviously it's Mother/ Officer Wilson calling.
By the time you answer the phone she's already at the door to the stairs chanting something on the line "clinic's on fire, clinic's on fire". You struggle to stand on your feet and turn to look at her.
"Whaaat" the Hell do you want? You yell into the mobile.
She turns towards you and whispers " Don't drink it alone. Wait for me.", pointing to the bottle left on the bench.
Fine. You nod, stunned by her smile.
"Where are you? House! You're not gone the bike is still here, where are you?"
Nnhhg…Wilson.
"We're on the roof. What do you want?"
"We? You and who?" Damn.
"Who what?" Yes, play dumb, always works.
"You said We Are. So you're not alone. Hence: With. Whom. Are. You. On. The. Roof?"
"Bye James." She says out loud with a smile before disappearing down the stairs.
"Oh, bye Cam- House? What…?" Traitor! She'll be the death of me. Definitely.
"We weren't doing nothing!" you're roaring. Oh, please. Can I retract this last fucking statement?
"Ooook. Sure…" Mmhh. "…Oh, boy! You're SOOO in trouble!" Fuck.
You cut the line while he's still laughing and turn the mobile off before burying it back in your pocket.
The topic of conversation, this evening, will be "Where to conceal Wilson's body after all the evil things we'll have done to him?". This for sure.
The bottle of pills is on the ground.
The chain with her wedding ring is there too.
You bend down to retrieve them both.
There are some things that you and her are not ready yet to let go.
Yet you can't refrain from notice.
You never heard them falling.
Author's note: Made sense? First attempt at fanfic ever. Please, please review.
err… English is not my first language, nor the second… :)