A/N: Part two in a series. Cameron's POV on five events/time periods beginning in Season 3 through Season 4, so spoilers for all.

Paralyzed

Can you see him in his lounger
Watching TV in the dark
Waiting for the spark
Till the sun turns black
Till the Sun Turns Black by Ray LaMontagne

Chapter 1 – Change

"All change is bad? It's not true you know."

You stand in his doorway, envying the casual grace with which he leans against the frame. He turns to look at you, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his face, and you wonder what he is thinking. Probably that you are still every bit the naïve little girl he hired three years ago. You wish you could tell him how wrong he is, but even if he stopped dismissing you long enough to listen he wouldn't believe you. Everybody lies, after all.

You reach out your hand to touch him, thinking that perhaps invading his personal space in the way that he hates so fiercely will really get his attention, but he is no longer there. You look around in confusion. You are no longer in his office, but in his apartment. You're standing right in front of him, but he stares through you at some trite comedy on the TV as if you aren't even there.

The lights are off, only the subtle glow of the flickering screen behind you illuminates him. It shouldn't; you're standing between him and the TV, but the ever changing light plays across his face and you forget to be concerned about why you feel like you aren't really there.

He looks so much older. You tell yourself it is a trick of the light, even you look old in such a position, but you can't fool yourself. His hair is grayer; his face more deeply lined. He reaches through your leg for a glass of some amber liquid on the table and you notice a small tremor. You wonder how much time has passed. How old is he now? How many nights has he spent exactly this way?

Will nothing in his existence ever change?

You jerk awake with tears on your cheeks. You close your eyes and let one silent sob escape you, the scream you wish to voice so enormous you choke. You can only remember feeling such complete and perfect sadness one day in your life; it is a day you mark by laying flowers on a cold grave every March. You know it was only a dream, but that image of him is so powerful it's as though it has been indelibly etched into your consciousness, so that even scrunching your eyes closed tightly does not divest you of its presence.

You mourn a little for him at that moment. You mourn for all that he will never see, never hear, never feel while he is living out his days as a zombie. You mourn for the joy he denies himself, and the terrifying prospect of the years stretched out before him, bereft of hope or love, for as far as the mind's eye can see. You mourn him as you mourned your husband; because without the ability to change they are equally dead.

You climb from your bed and venture into the living room, drawing a throw blanket over your slim shoulders as you sink into the sofa with a sigh. You will likely not reclaim sleep tonight.

You try not to think how eerily you resemble that image of him from your dream. You will not succumb to that future. He is wrong. You can change.


"Wow" he laughs at you when he enters the office the following morning. "You look like crap."

"Look familiar?" you snap at him. You are tired and cranky; no amount of caffeine is sufficient to improve your mood. And despite how you mourned him and his solitary future last night, today you are annoyed, even angered by it. It is self imposed, stupid, lazy and worst of all it is cowardly.

He tilts his head at you and shoots you a curious gaze. You hate that look. That is the look he gives you when he feels you're stepping out of character. It means you have intrigued him in some way and you hate it. You hate it because it thrills you and you no longer want him to thrill you.

"They don't actually make a caffeine IV yet, but I'll bet we could rig something up," he says.

"What makes you think I need caffeine?" you ask senselessly.

"I don't care what the Revlon commercials said, those dark circles under your eyes aren't going anywhere," he says, but he speaks with less than his usual degree of sarcasm. He sounds genuinely interested…almost friendly.

"Didn't get much sleep," you mumble, knowing he won't leave this alone but embarrassed to admit a bad dream drove you from your bed like a little girl. "Nightmares."

"Yeah," he breathes, and you look up quickly. Your eyes meet his for the briefest of milliseconds, but it is long enough to read the agreement in his expression. You wonder if he is plagued by bad dreams. "Don't kill anybody while you're in the clinic then," he continues and you simply nod as he casts a quick glance at his carpet and enters his office.