A/N: Happy Canadian Thanksgiving! I am thankful for all the great House/Cam fanfic people out there!
Letters from Home, Chapter 4
He enters his apartment, drops his backpack just inside the door and hobbles straight for the couch, acknowledging the other occupant of the room with a glance. Sitting down, he fills a glass of scotch from the bottle conveniently located on the coffee table and takes a large swallow. He can feel some of the tension in his shoulders dissipate as soon as the fiery liquid slides down his throat. Only after downing the rest of the glass and filling it again, does he reach down and pull off his sneakers. He turns sideways and shifts around until he's half-sitting, half-laying on the couch. He reaches over and grasps the corner of the coffee table, hauling it towards him until his glass of scotch is within easy reach, not even cringing at the sound of the heavy table scratching the hardwood floor. His companion, however, does not appreciate the noise and glares at him with half-closed eyes.
It had been a bitch of a day. He'd lost not one, but two patients: a mother and her infant daughter who had been suffering from the same inscrutable disease. The husband and father had refused to allow an autopsy to be performed, so it looked like it was going to be another case for the unsolved file. He fucking hates when that happens. He picks up the remote, flicks on the TV and tries to distract himself with some stupid reality show. Stupid really is the only word for it, but at least the girls are hot. The brunette one looks a little like Cameron if he squints. Hmm, Cameron. That reminds him... He arches his back at bit to allow himself access to the hip pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a folded piece of yellow paper. Unfolding it, he lays it flat on his left thigh and tries to smooth out the deep creases in the paper that had resulted from his folding and unfolding it several times over the course of the day. He snorts. The day...try the week, since that's how long he's been carrying the damned thing around. He reads it again, although there really is no need to since he's long since had it memorized.
House,
Nope, no puppies rescued. I did recently help my next door neighbour coax her cat out of a tree. Does that count? So my replacement isn't as hot as me huh? What happened, you go for brains over beauty this time? Tell me about her.
Cameron
PS Who says you miss me? You're writing to me, aren't you?
This second letter had shown up on his desk Tuesday morning. He'd been expecting it and had therefore gotten into the habit of flipping through his mail every day before tossing most of it in the trash. He may have been surprised that she'd written back the first time, but this time he knew she would. If anyone is going to end this little game between them, it's going to have to be him. He honestly isn't sure why he hasn't already.
He'd pulled out his desk drawer and looked at her first letter nearly every day for two months. And nearly every day for two months he'd resisted writing back. She missed him, or thought she did anyway. And now she thought he missed her too. He'd only be leading her on if he wrote back. It was in everybody's best interest if he did not write back. Including his own. The last thing he needed was for her to start thinking there was something between them and show up here expecting something from him.
He's not sure what happened to make him change his mind.
Actually scratch that. He hadn't changed his mind. He'd ended up writing a little note back to her after one (or three) too many Vicodin, and then before he knew it, he'd mailed it and it was too late. And now she's written back. Again. So now it's his turn. Again.
He's so screwed.
"What the hell am I supposed to do now?" he asks his companion. He doesn't expect an answer and he doesn't receive one. He throws the letter on the coffee table and picks up his drink instead. Maybe if he ignores it long enough it will just go away.
A couple of hours and several glasses of scotch later and he's half-dozing on the couch, his eyes closed and his thoughts wandering every which way as they tend to do when his body is ready for sleep but his mind just isn't. He starts off considering possible diagnoses for his case from today. He comes up with a couple of new possibilities but knows there's no way of testing his theories now. The bodies have already been released. Breaking and entering a funeral home is going a little far, even for him, though he does consider it. If he could get his team to do it...
He shifts slightly to a more comfortable position, throwing one arm up over and around his head.
His team. What a useless bunch of idiots. They probably would do it too. Since Vogler, Chase has crawled so far up his ass that he's practically coming out of his mouth. He'd do anything he's told. Foreman would argue just for the sake of arguing, but in the end he'd go. Not knowing the answer would be bugging Foreman almost as much as it was bugging him. And in the final analysis, he wouldn't really give a shit about the family's wishes. And Taub, well he was still pretty new. If the other two went along with it, he most likely would too, whether he objected or not. Not that he probably would object since he was basically just another Foreman. Why the devil he thought he needed two of them he'll never know...
He twitches from a sudden feeling of falling. Hypnic jerk, his ever-helpful mind supplies.
Now if she was here, she would object. Strenuously. She'd probably go to Cuddy to stop them. Actually no, she wouldn't need to because he wouldn't be able to convince the others to go along with his nefarious plan if she was there to argue against it. They'd listen to her. Hell, he might even listen to her. Not that he'd let her know that.
Jesus. Now he's gone and done it. Now that she's back in his head, he probably won't be able to get her out until he falls fully asleep. Maybe not even then. He drifts back to the last time he saw her. She looked so sad, standing there in his doorway.
"I was sad."
His eyes fly open. She's sitting beside him on the couch wearing the same blue shirt she'd been wearing that night.
"What are you doing here?"
She ignores him. "I didn't want to leave. But you didn't do anything to stop me. It's your fault I'm gone."
"But I did try. I went to your apartment to make you come back. You had already moved, but I did try."
"Too little, too late. Why'd you let me leave? Why wouldn't you shake my hand?"
"I...I don't know."
"Yes, you do. Why?"
"Because if you stayed, something would have happened between us. I was resisting, but I knew I couldn't hold out forever. It never would've worked so it was better for you to just go."
"Why wouldn't it have worked?"
"Because you didn't really want me. Not the real me. You just wanted a project. Someone you could fix."
"How did I describe you?"
"What?"
"My neighbour knew you from my description. How did I describe you? As a cripple?"
"No. She knew me by my eyes..."
"Right." She smiles enigmatically and stands.
"Cameron, wait..." He reaches for her, but she's already at the door.
"I am waiting."
He jerks awake and looks around quickly. He's alone. Well, mostly alone. He swings his legs off the couch and onto the floor as he tries to remember whether there's any blank paper in the house.
"I suppose I could tell her about you..." he says aloud, looking over at his sleeping companion.
