Author's Note: Again, another really random fic. It doesn't really fit anywhere in particular, so apply it wherever you want, lol. I'm on a roll this week, it looks like. Please read and review! I mean, I take an hour or more to write these. You can spare me five seconds and write a review. :) This'll have two parts...perhaps three, depending.
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"For someone who doesn't care about patients, you take it really hard when they die."
Her voice is an unwanted interruption to the silence of a nearly empty bar. Like a bomb, only more intrusive, he thinks darkly and with a scowl. He reaches for his glass and downs the remnants of amber, resting his chin on his hand like a perturbed child. His only reaction beyond is to shift his weight in his chair and strech his leg out further, pleased at the lack of aching. He takes the vicodine to make his leg stop hurting -- he drinks to forget that it ever hurt at all. He taps the glass against the counter peevishly, and the bartender is there in an instant, already brandishing tonight's drink of choice without question. He swishes the dark liquid around in its confinement and seems to be utterly transfixed. In reality, he thinks that if he ignores her long enough she will go away. But of course she won't, and he is fully away of it; duly aware, in fact, for he's tried to drink her into oblivion before. When the variables don't change, the solution doesn't either -- otherwise it wouldn't make sense. And if something doesn't make sense, it cannot exist. It means you were wrong somewhere along the line.
And that is exactly what brought him here.
He is House. He is never wrong, and knows it. He is smug in his genius and takes comfort in the solidity of his frame of mind. He can diagnose anything. It's the only reason he still has a job, and he knows it. He credits his success to rationality. He always has logic behind his theories, even if he doesn't share it. When he tells Cuddy or his ducklings that he just has a 'hunch,' or a 'feeling,' he is simply testing them. Testing their trust. He could rationalize anything until the cows come home. And this time he had gone the extra mile, proved his thesis aloud. Except this time he was wrong.
He was wrong.
He hears her shoes clatter mutedly against the grainy, hard-wood flooring. He takes a sip of his drink. She knows he's drunk. She has seen him drunk on more than one occasion. The way his cane has fallen to the ground, the way he doesn't notice the must-be uncomfortable position his leg is in. She can't see his face, because he hasn't turned around, but she is sure if he did she would see that he is drunk. She shuffles forwards silently, and places a hand on his shoulder. Like butterfly wings, like the waves rolling over the sand -- there is nothing much to it, it is quick and ginger. He shifts slightly, uncomfortable, shrugs her off. She sits down beside him, utterly undeterred.
"I don't care about the patients," he responds finally, pursing his lips. "I care about myself. And it's typically bad for me when my diagnosis is wrong, in case you haven't picked up on this yet. In Cuddy's book, patients dying equals bad." His voice is low and gravelly, and she smells the alcohol on his breath. She sees the accentuated, dark circles beneath his eyes, the ashen palor to his face. He sips his drink again. Yeah. He's pretty much wasted. But she doesn't focus on that. She picks apart his words carefully like a doctor should. Because if she treats him like a case, then she can detatch herself from him completely, and treat him with the kind indifference she treats any other patient. It's so much simpler that way. She wonders how he manages to detatch himself from everybody constantly. It must be a singular talent, she decides.
She clasps her hands in front of her, and neither he nor her looks at the other. "Everyone messes up, House."
"Oh, wow. You're right. Thanks Dr. Cameron, I feel so much better now."
"House..."
He always insists she doesn't know him. And she doesn't, but she knows his habits. She knows that something is seriously wrong if he gives someone a straight, witless answer. She knows that he is a master of arguing. That if you have a bone to pick with him, you might as well jump off of a cliff, because he's going to smash any oral curve-ball you can throw his way. And she also knows that if something is bothering him he becomes glib and rationalizes too much. He always insists she doesn't know him. And she doesn't, so she doesn't argue. But she's pretty close.
She watches as he throws back the rest of his drink and bangs the glass against the counter with renewed vigor. His head is bowed slightly, his eyes open and thoughtful. He looks at her through the corner of his eye, and she feels his gaze, she always does, but she doesn't react. Cameron continues to stare at her steepled fingers.
"I thought you of all people would be crying yourself to sleep." She knew that was coming. She rolls her eyes, a precise, practiced motion that House is used to. But somewhere within it strikes a chord of resonance, and a note trembles within her.
"I guess I learned a few things from you," She murmurs in response, her tone succint and biting. She is done with the conversation, and he smirks darkly and bobs his head in what she can only assume is a nod, though a sloppy excuse for one. He takes another sip of his newly-refilled beverage, savoring the searing path it forges to his stomach. Cameron frowns, though still doesn't look up. She knows his little habits and quirks, but she doesn't know how to deal with him when he's closed off like this. When he shuts down, glacial contempt swallowing his features, she feels helpless. But she also feels bitter, because it proves his point -- she is fairly sure there is nothing she can do to help him, but she has to try anyway. Her scowl deepens. She turns to him. "A patient died. So what?"
"So...the family is going to have to spring for a coffin ahead of time."
"So?" She presses, annoyed with his evasive sarcasm.
"So, it might not fit into their financial plan." His return is instantaneous, almost like he knew what she was going to say. Cameron hates how he does that. "What is this? Twenty questions? I don't recall signing any forms."
She quirks a brow and shifts back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap as she thinks. She bites her lower lip pensively and he downs another glass, banging it off of the counter a little harder than last time. She raises both brows, now. She knew House was drunk -- he doesn't show it like other people, doesn't get irrational and unintelligent. He gets colder, more sarcastic, rougher. And occasionally a little crazier than usual. But he is drunk. And he is human. She leans forwards again, interlacing her fingers and resting her elbows on the counter, her chin atop her fingers. He shifts so that he's looking at her now and doesn't even notice as he bangs his leg very slightly off of the chair. "Sure. Yeah, alright. We're playing twenty questions."
"Wait, I thought I was your boss!" He exlaims, taking a long sip of the dark liquid. She snorts. "I wasn't aware I'd been usurped. It's common ettiquette to inform the president before you impeach him." House. As president. She shivers unconsciously.
"And I wasn't aware you were afraid of drinking games." She keeps her cool, her voice is ice. Smooth. His face barely shifts, but she can tell he is intrigued.
"You conveniently left out the drinking part."
"I hadn't thought of it yet."
"Ah," he breathes, curiosity piqued. Perhaps it's how much alcohol he has had to drink already, the shock of losing a patient, the internal anguish of finding out that his theoretical capacity for error is in fact less allegorical than previously thought, but the very corner of his lips turn upwards as he looks at her almost appraisingly. If anything, he is praising the job he has done molding her. She is so different from how she was when he first hired her. He likes his version better. Cameron two-point-oh.
"Okay," Cameron says finally, drumming her fingers on the counter to get the bartenders attention. He comes over expectantly and she holds a finger up attentively. "We'll ask eachother questions. About anything. After you answer you take a shot."
"You should work for Milton-Bradley," he responds with a roll of his eyes, but he sits down his glass and she knows he has conceded. The bartender reaches down and places two shot glasses before them, followed by a rather large bottle of who-cares-what.
"Ready?"
"Shoot."