Where are you?
Frowning down at his phone, House rubs at his scruff. The text is from Wilson, who will likely be wanting to know if he should consider him when placing an order for takeout. Contextually unimportant in other words, although the greying doctor has to admit that it sums up the mood of his evening nicely.
Where are you?
He had considered sending Cameron a similar message when he'd finally made his way out of the office at a little past 6 PM. He'd even pulled out his phone to do so- checking to see if he'd received any missed calls after shutting himself in his car and waiting for the windscreen to demist- but in the end, having received no communication from the blonde, he'd decided against it.
If Cameron remains intent on ignoring him, he doesn't want to give her any reason to feel smug.
She wouldn't.
No. He knows. And after a decidedly hair-raising trip driving off of Hospital property- thick veils of snow pushed to the sides of the roads to create soft white banks that will be grey and lethal come morning- he'd carried on past the intersection taking him directly home, and now sits in his car, parked within viewing distance of Cameron's apartment building.
What are you doing?
Directed towards himself now, as he is fairly sure loitering outside the blonde's home goes directly against her expressed desire to be left alone, but old habits die hard, and he has never been one to adhere to the demands of others.
He tells himself that it is for this reason he shuts off the engine and exits his vehicle, and not for any other.
Not because he's felt uneasy ever since his discussion with Chase and Foreman this afternoon.
Not because he needs to know that she's alright.
He just... Needs to know where she is.
She's his coworker now, after all.
Limping towards the building, his cane making narrow divots in the snow, House repeats his former trick to gain entry by simply pressing all six buzzers at once. A moment passes before a young woman answers, but even over the crackly quality of the intercom, he can tell it isn't Cameron. She sounds too cheerful; too friendly, and after she greets him, he catches excitable giggling in the background, proving to him that it isn't the blonde.
"I dropped my key. I need to get in to get my spare."
He lies, and he catches the young woman on the other end hiss at her friends that he isn't there to deliver their pizza, before offering amiably
"Okay. It's open."
A low buzz confirms this, and he pushes open the front door to the building and steps into the warmth of the hallway. Glancing over at a neat row of mailboxes above a line of lockers, he frowns as he notes that the box A CAMERON for has been stuffed with several advertising leaflets that have yet to be removed. He supposes it could just be that the blonde hadn't checked her mail upon arriving home, but he doubts it. Limping over and pulling out circulars for Thai Palace and Perry's Gym, he pockets them and makes his way over to the elevator.
As he makes his ascent, he catches the aroma of Chinese food coming from Cameron's floor.
It won't be from her apartment. Too much salt. Too much grease.
He sighs, meaning for it to be an act of disdain, but all that he feels is a growing sense of discomfort.
He approaches her door and knocks but receives no answer.
"She might have gone out."
He reasons, although he finds this unlikely given the weather, and so continues with this strange act of deja vu and locates her spare key from on top of the lintel, before letting himself into Cameron's apartment.
Not bothering to call out for the blonde- the living room silent and the apartment dark- he flicks on the lights and pauses as his breath catches in his throat.
Whisky.
Jack Daniels- not fit to be considered a beverage.
The bottle stands on her coffee table, a couple of fingers away from empty next to a glass he knows will carry the lingering aroma of gin.
His attention switches to the sofa before he can help himself, and he notes that the cushions appear flattened and have lost their original symmetry.
"Damn."
He hisses, closing the front door and taking a few steps further into the room. He is surprised that she hasn't tidied away evidence of their night spent together, but imagines the fact that she hasn't yet has little to do with nostalgia or longing, and a lot to do with emotional exhaustion.
A lot to do with his actions.
Or lack thereof.
Tearing himself away from leftover liquor and the accusatory disorder of the blonde's soft furnishings, he checks her bedroom without any real expectation that he will find her in there, before making his way over to the bathroom.
It's empty.
It's clean.
The enamel white, not red.
The tub free of bloodied fingerprints and scarlet smears of idiocy.
He'd known it would be- of course, it would be, it had been the last time he was here- but all it takes is for him to close his eyes, and he can picture the gore streaking the bath as clearly as if he were looking at a photograph.
"Idiot."
He mutters, turning away, and he imagines he will forever think of her in this way, as he can find no other word to describe the ludicrousy of what she'd done.
You'd call me pathetic, I imagine...
Boring. Sensible. Predictable. I know...
"No."
He disagrees quietly with Cameron's previous statements as to her understanding of how he sees her and limps stiffly back into the living room. Heading for her kitchenette, he pulls open the cupboard he knows houses her liquor and helps himself to a bottle of vodka before making his way to her sofa and taking a seat after a moment's hesitation.
He recalls the blonde's soft weight and pleasant warmth as she'd sat splayed over his lap where he sits now and wrenches the lid off of the vodka bottle; closing his eyes as he chokes down several large mouthfuls of the stuff.
"Terrible."
He accuses the bottle darkly; vodka far from his drink of choice, but the only other option had been gin, and he doesn't think he could stand that right now.
Doesn't think he could handle the taste of the blonde's kiss as she'd pressed herself into him and made good on the offer she'd claimed had been open to him all along.
An offer he should have taken more seriously; accepted with a greater sense of responsibility.
I tried. I tried to keep her from getting hurt.
Although, as Cameron had pointed out to him herself, he hadn't so much strived to keep from hurting her as he had tried to keep her away from him. He'd kept her at arm's length with a litany of warnings and deterrents, rather than considering her both just as strong, yet just as fragile as he is himself.
All I would have had to do was look at her.
Talk to her.
"I came here to talk to her!"
He growls, casting a glance up at the clock in her kitchen, before pulling his phone from the pocket of his jeans.
One missed call.
But it's from his mother, not from Cameron, and he ignores it in favour of finding the blonde's number and placing the phone to his ear.
Again, it rings four times, before her voice- tinny and recorded- invites him to leave a message so that she can get back to him as soon as possible.
You haven't though. You haven't got back to me. Why not? Why not just send a text to acknowledge you received my message? Why aren't you here?
I came here to talk to you.
To try to make things okay again.
I made that decision.
This pathetic move.
You should be here right now, glowering at me in that moody way that doesn't suit you but is somehow weirdly appealing at the same time; making me sweat. Everyone thinks you're so nice, such a sweetheart, and you are, you can be, but you like it when you know you have me in your crosshairs- when you have me depending on your favour- and who can blame you? You earn it...
You should be here with your eyes shooting daggers at me, but your lips soft and allowing just a hint of a smirk as you keep up the rest of your act; silently suggesting everything might just be alright.
You should be here so I can call you an idiot. Not for the first time, and not for the last. An idiot for cutting yourself up in the bath, and why? Because you scared me. Not in the way you scared the others- not because I feared for your state of mind or wondered just when and if you'd gone crazy- but because you could have really hurt yourself. You could... Well, you could have not been okay.
An idiot. A stubborn idiot. Confusing. Perplexing, and I never meant that in a bad way.
It was a compliment. Truly.
Perplexing idiot. Complex idiot. The prettiest girl in most rooms, especially that night in the bar. Especially around those beautiful specimens, dressed to impress and willing to play nice. With all that was on offer- I am a doctor, after all- I would still choose you every time. I just didn't think to say so.
Didn't think to say a lot of things.
Wasn't sure what to say.
What to think.
We should have talked.
Need to talk.
I'm here to talk.
Humbling, but true, yet seemingly irrelevant as the blonde is nowhere to be found, and as the beep of her voicemail service signals that he should start talking, he is unable to keep his irritation from his voice
"Cameron! Where are you? Answer the phone, you're too boringly mature to be playing this game!"
He growls, and when he takes in a breath, he is met by damning silence on the other end of the line as it continues to record his message.
"... It's a workday, it's snowing, and I just don't find it in character at all for you not to be at home doing a crossword puzzle or knitting... As for how I know you're not home, take a guess. The reason is quite in character for myself I would say, so... Come home and tell me to get lost. Storm in and get pissed that I violated your privacy. Or storm in and have a drink with me, whichever you prefer. Just... Don't make me call the others to check if you've been in touch. You and I both know my ego can't take that kind of humility. Don't force me to act like I care... That's not the man you fell in love with."
He warns the receiver, aware that he's treading thin ice, but, even when faced with simply leaving her a message, he can't help himself.
And he almost leaves it there, almost hangs up on that gruff, teasing note, before muttering reluctantly
"Just let me know you're alright."
He hangs up immediately, giving his phone a disapproving scowl, before taking another sip from the potent bottle in his hand. A second later, his cell phone vibrates in his lap and he snatches it up and answers immediately
"About time!"
"... I could say the same..."
Wilson replies with confusion evident in his tone, before he continues impatiently
"So? Are you coming home for dinner?"
"Sorry, honey, something came up."
House mutters, digging the vodka bottle into his thigh to illicit a gnawing, throbbing ache, and he can hear Wilson sighing on the other end of the phone as the oncologist asks
"Where are you?"
Question of the day.
The hour.
The minute.
Where?
Where are you?!
"I'm at Cameron's."
"... Allison's?"
"Must we keep pretending I know so many women with names not synonymous with sweet treats or woodland animals?"
"... House, what are you doing there? You know this isn't going to end well."
"Way ahead of you."
"What?"
"She's not here."
"Oh... Then, where is she?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."