And the Melody Haunts, a house, m.d. fanfic

And the Melody Haunts

By: Emmy

Betaed: binomialtheorem (who is awesome)

Spoilers: Here and there. Nothing major

Summary: She turns to face her window, where droplets of rain shatter the streetlamp's glow into thousands of shining points. Her smile slides to nothing and she places the frame face down next to her. She turns up at work early the day after, and nothing's changed.

A/N: Sorry I haven't done so much writing recently (if you care) and that this is such a bad return to it all.

026. we are flying on wings in winter sky;
with fire burning deep inside

This is her life:

Sighing into a glass of wine. Sprawled out on an old, old couch with Bono whispering from her speakers. Tracing the smiles in her wedding photos. Pretending not to notice the way Joe was looking at her. Building a monument to the past with happy memories.

The phone rings and she lets the answering machine take it. Maybe she's lazy. Maybe she's not. And yet, there's an itch in the arch of her foot that she can't scratch without tickling herself.

Get off your ass, Cameron, echoes in the room. I don't care how comfortable you are. There is an awkward sound as he knocks something over, the echoes of it dancing in her mind.

I dropped my fucking cane.

The laugh is hers, but he won't hear it. She hasn't moved except to flick at her hair.

He almost says something, but drowns it in the dial tone instead.

She turns to face her window, where droplets of rain shatter the streetlamp's glow into thousands of shining points. Her smile slides to nothing and she places the frame face down next to her.

She turns up at work early the day after, and nothing's changed.

Hey, he used to whisper when the chemo made him exhausted. In a way it scared her more than the times when he was angry or depressed or frustrated.

She used to twist her fingers with his and kiss him angrily.

Don't, she'd murmur, her voice thickened with emotion, don't you dare.

He'd smile, lips pulled tight, and shake his head condescendingly. His eyes would close and he'd fall to the easy safety of dreams.

Everyone gets nightmares, House insists, interrupting whatever Foreman had begun to say. All the time. And I'll get Cameron to back me up since she doesn't have to worry about maintaining her masculinity. You get nightmares, don't you? He says, eyes sparkling darkly, Puppies dying, world hunger, children with scraped knees…

Foreman and Chase share a glance and she closes her eyes briefly, only to make the ghosts glow.

Every night, she replies, without fail.

There's something in the way her voice falters, the way she tilts her head and doesn't blink. It ends the debate and they rush awkwardly on in the diagnosis.

She waits until they're alone before she continues, this isn't something she wants broadcasted.

I see him, she whispers, her voice perfectly haunted, and he never… I… she swallows, but doesn't continue.

His eyes are wide and searching, and neither of them move for a time. Finally he ducks his head in acknowledgement. There's a moment when they drift a little too close, but it ends. Gone.

Lost in the grand scope of time and eternity.

What's your name? he murmurs, eyes sad and accent singing.

The music's muted by space, she's stepped outside, because the alcohol was making her too happy.

Allison, she replies, she's still got that goofy grin on her face and his eyes are brown and twelve kinds of dreamy.

Allison, he repeats slowly, like he's trying it out. Would you like to be the love of my life?

There isn't really an answer for that question, yes and no seem mundane in the juxtaposition. It might have been her that leant in to kiss him first, but her memories of that night have never been very clear.

She left with his number burning in her pocket and no idea what she'd gotten herself into.

He pats the bench next to him when she walks over. He decided that it was their turn to break in. There's a part of her ashamed at how ordinary this has become, but she's mostly learnt to ignore it.

He's got some pilfered chocolate in his hand and he seems perfectly content to munch on it and swing his good leg. He doesn't give any indication of intending to move or be interesting in any form.

She's halfway off the bench and ready to actually finish what they'd come to do when he stops her with his cane. He watches silently as she struggles awkwardly back to her original seat and turns to frown at him. She's surprised when he offers her the last piece and almost smiles her thanks.

Sometimes I don't get you, he admits casually, breath twisting with the scent of chocolate.

She heaves a sigh and looks away, traces a pattern on her thigh. Gathers her courage and turns to face him again.

I… He silences her with a gentle hand, carefully pushing her hair behind her ear. Hesitating almost innocently before pulling away and getting down.

No time for dilly dally, he informs her gruffly.

She smiles at his back and shakes her head, filing it away in her mind.

He asleep? Joe whispered as he passed her a coffee.

Yeah, look Joe about… He silenced her with a shake of his head. Sat down next to her and ghosted a finger along the line of a tendon in her hand, pausing significantly above her ring.

Don't go there, Ally. It's just been a bad run and I—it doesn't have to— no— it can't work. Can't even happen.

She ducked her head and nodded, but wasn't sure she agreed.

They sat in silence, except for the toning of the heart monitor.

Who would give me wine? House asks her, brow furrowed and a grin hovering tentatively on his lips.

Lucy was very grateful—

Lucy just figured expensive wine would ensure the continued silence on—

Except she interrupts him with a laugh. He stands still and watches her, fingers dancing over the bottle on his desk.

Wine! Wilson observes as he enters the office, gravitates to the bottle, and almost manages to pick it up.

My wine, House corrects, as he pulls it away possessively.

You hate wine though, Wilson argues.

So? Is the only reply he gets.

She just shakes her head and walks out, picking up her bag as she goes.

When she gets home she finds the opened bottle and a post-it note on her bench. I hate wine, it says and she'd laugh if she wasn't so bewildered.

It's good wine and after her second glass she's brave enough to entertain the thought of a quick thanks over the phone.

His name is Joe, he told her, teeth scraping along her collarbone. His parents knew mine back—He was my roommate. I went to stay with him during vacation after—

She just nodded breathlessly and tightened her grip on his shoulders. Their lives had become fast and desperate, fighting to keep the tragedy in tomorrow.

Just months now, he would whisper, pushing her against the wall until it hurt, Soon I'll be gone and you'll still be beautiful.

Today you're here, she'd reply and wish for an end that wouldn't hurt.

You're such a killjoy, House tells her.

She spins sharply to face him. Well I'm sorry if you get a thrill out of screwing up someone's liver, but some people find it hard to live without one. He watches as she turns again and shuffles through some sheets on the desk.

Please, he scoffs, you're just being melodramatic now.

There is a moment when she considers slapping him, she catches herself though, and finds that the cons out-way the pros. It takes a few moments longer for her to find the blood work details. See?

He takes a careful look at them before nodding slowly. We're both wrong, he tells and walks off self-importantly.

Everything points to—

No it doesn't. Her temperature is fine, she isn't nearly anaemic enough and there are about seven other diagnosises that fit better than yours.

She follows him, matching his pace silently, with her anger rolling off her.

I got a place with Dr House, she told him over coffee.

Joe frowned disapprovingly. The bastard?

She smiled slowly and nodded. Traced a hand along the edge of her napkin, the complement of it all glowing pink on her cheeks. Just the best got places with doctors like Gregory House.

What happened to England?

England will still be there in a few years, she replies casually.

But, you've always wanted to go, you've been looking forward to it since—

Joe, she interrupts softly, this is a fantastic opportunity I—

No, Ally, I know you, he informed her. He wouldn't want you to give up England just because—

Don't, she cut off, the lack of volume in her voice made up for by her tone. Just don't.

She jolts awake to Cameron! and nearly head-butts House in the mouth. He's standing over her with a peculiar half-grin curling his lips. He steps away and sits on his desk, watching his cane as he taps an obscure pattern on the floor.

Have a nice nap? He asks her.

She rubs a weary hand over her eyes and stretches her neck to the side, counting the one-two of its protesting cracks. She doesn't answer him, just stands up and brushes at the wrinkles in her clothes.

And who, he asks faux-casually, is Joe? And what's he meant to—

Don't she whispers fiercely, please don't go there.

He nods, gaze plastered to the ground. Shuffles a little closer and finally lifts his eyes to meet hers, mouth hovering just off from her ear.

Alright Allison.

They didn't kiss.

He was pronounced dead at three-forty-seven am. The funeral was six days later and everything he wanted. She didn't cry nearly as much as she wanted to and Joe was standing next to her the whole time.

They walked from the graveyard to a conveniently close bar that he'd pointed out one day when they were driving back from the hospital. Both of them got off their faces with burning liquor and still the pain wouldn't drown.

There was a moment where they were sitting a little close, heads tilted just so, where their breath twined and twisted. The air was thick with everything between them, moments and lies and tragedies.

He had opened his mouth and she could hear what he didn't say. She nodded her reply and almost lived for herself. Just once. But her ghosts swam in his eyes and she couldn't.

They didn't kiss.

She sits on her bed, dangling her legs in ghosts and memories and shadows. All hers. All slipping and sliding against her skin, and she could swear they're really there.

She looks at her phone, the screen glowing in the gloom of her room. House is painted across the screen and she presses 'call'. He picks up after the second ring.

What do you want, Cameron? crackles in her receiver.

She closes her eyes and imagines him sprawled on his sofa, with a glass of alcohol and tablets spilled on the table next to him. Reaches a hand forward and opens her eyes, watches as the image in her mind shatters under the crushing weight of reality. Pushes the strap of her tank top back up.

He won't stay in his grave.

.fin.