title: let's just call things monochromatic (there are too many shades to describe anyways)
description: For him, life has always been grey.
a/n: for leofitzsass on tumblr (for the Stitchers Fan Appreciation Day).
For him, life has always been grey.
Nothing special.
Nothing shocking.
Nothing exciting.
Just pale, smokey, undeniable grey.
Yes, Cameron you have to go to the party. Very important people are there, and we have to show them how nice and smart our family is. No, you can't bring a friend, Cameron, this is a business party and you will have to be on your best behavior.
Cameron, tuck in your shirt! Cameron, get off the phone and start the extra credit problems your teacher gave you; your friend can wait. Cameron, don't put away your dishes, one of the staff can take care of it.
Cameron, stop.
Cameron, don't do that.
Cameron, I won't tell you again.
Cameron. Cameron. Cameron.
His heart beats steadily (for the most part) underneath his favorite plaid pyjama shirt; it's comfy and warm and none of the cashmere sweaters or crisp dress shirts in his closet can compare.
Cameron, you look like a delinquent! Change out of those clothes immediately, and put on something more suitable. You're a part of the Goodkin family, and a Goodkin always looks their best.
He's 10 when the colors shift (just a little bit, but it's something).
He's rushed to the hospital after collapsing on the playground at school, and it's not just grey anymore. It's flashing from white to black to grey to a sickly green, and back again, all too fast for him to really get a grip on anything.
When he wakes up between surgeries, it's always just grey again, maybe a bit darker, a bit more like charcoal instead of a pale dove color. But still, it's grey. Grey and cold and unwelcoming and boring.
No, you can't come home Cameron. You need to stay at the hospital until you get better. I don't know how long it'll be, Cameron, you'll just have to be patient.
It's been months, and he's still stuck, wasting away in a hospital that's supposed to make him feel better (not worse, not like he's drowning in expectations and rules).
They let him walk around a bit now, though; he's no longer confined to his bed. That, at least, is something good.
Right now, he's sneaking out because having only seen those four, fake-cheerful yellow walls for over three months is driving him absolutely crazy. He's not supposed to leave the room alone, but honestly, he couldn't care less. It's pretty late, too, so it's not like the halls will be bustling with people.
He pokes his out the door, and seeing no one, steps out. Absently rubbing his scar, he makes his way down the hall. He's only taken a few steps when he's stopped by one of the nurses that takes care of him; he freezes and is about to groan in defeat and go back to his room when she sighs and lets him go, but only if he promises not to exert himself or be gone for long.
It only takes him another minute or so of walking to come across the first open door so far; peeking in, he can see a woman, hooked up to a lot of the same machines he used to have, asleep in the bed. There's a man snoring from a chair in the corner (her husband? Brother? No, they have matching wedding rings, they're probably married). The position he's in seems uncomfortable and his snores are getting louder and louder, but it's the blonde girl standing beside the bed that's capturing his attention.
She has a small bottle of nail polish with her, and she's slowly painting the woman—her mother, probably—'s nails. Her nose wrinkles a bit as she squints, concentrating on making the bright pink polish smooth and even over each nail.
He takes a step into the room, and he knows she hears him— she stiffens for just a moment before quickly glancing up, for less than a second, then continuing to paint her mother's nails. She doesn't acknowledge him other than that, though.
"W-what are you doing?" he asks hesitantly, curious.
"I'm painting my mother's nails." she states matter-of-factly. "This, way when she wakes up, she'll be happy." She swiped the brush across a nail one more time before screwing the bottle shut and setting it down. When she looks up, her hair swishes over her shoulder a bit and he can see her face for the first time.
"What's wrong with her?" he asks, stepping into the room just a little bit more.
"We got into a car crash. But it's gonna be okay." She looks him in the eye. "Well, why are you here?"
He winces a bit. "I had heart surgery. I'm better now, but I'm not supposed to get 'too excited.'" he laughs a little bit, choking it out.
Her eyes are wide, innocent. "I'm sorry about your heart."
"I'm sorry about your mom." he responds.
"It's okay. My dad has an idea to help her, he's really smart." She sniffles, eyes growing wet.
Cameron panics for half a second ("Crying girl, crying girl, oh gosh what am I supposed to do with a crying girl?!") before he places a hand comfortingly on her arm. "Hey. It's going to be fine." She's still almost crying. "Your dad's really smart, remember?"
She almost looks better at that, so he tries to get her to talk a bit more. Something about this girl… "What's your name?"
She looks away from her mother and back towards him. "Kirsten," she supplies softly.
"I'm Cameron." He smiles just a tiny bit. "Your mom is going to be okay, Kirsten. Trust me."
Something about this girl makes the grey fade away.
Something about her turns the dull, boring grey into a shimmering, glowing gold.
Just like her hair, and just like the sun.
A few weeks later, he's home. He's finally home.
But this isn't a home, it's just somewhere to live, somewhere to sleep. There's nothing homey about it, not like the house Kirsten and her parents must have gone back to.
It's his 12th birthday, the first one since he left the hospital (11 was while he was recovering at the hospital, and his parents couldn't even show up. They were "busy," and the only thing he got was an extra pudding cup from one of the nurses.)
"What do you mean I can't have any friends over for a party?" he exclaims in disbelief. "You always let me have someone over on my birthday."
His parents exchange looks and sigh fake-sympathetically. "Cameron, honey, you're still recovering from your surgery! Having people over might hurt you, so you can't have anyone over this year." his mother says.
"We're sorry, Cameron." his father adds. "But we just can't let you."
That gold hasn't come back, no, not yet. He misses it so much, having light in his life. Having color.
Grey isn't a color, is it?
Oh god, please let it be one, life shouldn't be all in monochrome.
It's his last year of high school, and he hasn't had a real birthday party since he was 10 years old, and he had to give up soccer, too. He wasn't on a major team or anything, but he had to quit anyways.
You have to stay safe and healthy, Cameron. That means staying inside, no sports.
College is probably the best thing to ever happen to him. He's on the other side of the country, hundreds of miles away from his parents and that cold, empty house.
His classes are hard, sure, but life is better (less grey).
He's made more friends in the past three months than in the entirety of his time in high school. There's a guy, Linus, who's in one of his classes, and they are on their way to being best friends (or, at least, he hopes so- he hasn't really had a best friend since he was around 8).
Maybe it's still a bit grey. But now it's a bit blue, a bit more green, a bit more colorful.
The last year and a half have been a crazy blur; he's turned down a job at MIT, joined a secret branch of the government, and begun to sift through the memories of the dead.
Marta's gone, though, at the hospital. If only I could have gotten her out of the stitch earlier… now the program is searching frantically for a replacement, with next to no luck.
Grey.
Then in barges in a blonde woman with no facial expression or cheerfulness to speak of, and long blonde hair that seems sort of familiar. She's rude, bossy, she has a comeback for his every remark, and she argues with him at every turn.
Red.
It takes him a while to realize just how alive he's been feeling. How much his life has shifted from dull, unexciting. How much brighter, more colorful, it is.
Orange.
Something about Kirsten makes him forget about the many surgeries, about his parents, about he never felt at home in his own house. It's something so familiar but he just can't place it.
Yellow.
Damn. When did he stop thinking, "Kirsten the impulsive annoyance" and start going off into a mental tangent of overprotective thoughts about her? When did he start blocking guns for her, disarming bombs by her side, risking his life to keep hers safe?
Green.
It bugs him. It bugs him and he has no idea why; he has no right to be annoyed. She called him a nobody, so what? She was just playing a part, undercover work.
Blue.
He never noticed how pretty her eyes were until now.
Indigo.
What is this? His heart is aching and his palms are sweaty and logically, he knows what's going on, but he can't understand it. Because this is Kirsten, Kirsten his coworker, his friend, dammit why does it hurt whenever someone mentions Liam?
Violet.
She's so familiar and he has no idea why. He's been wracking his brain for days, trying to figure out when else was his life anything but grey.
Nail polish. A hospital. Unshed tears.
Gold.
Well. At least it makes sense. Risking everything, putting his life on the line, just barely waking up, all for one person.
Love is, after all, what brings color to a black and white world.
And Kirsten makes his world shine like a rainbow of colors.
He'll never feel monochromatic again.