Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.
A/N: jeevesandwooster: I know what you're saying. While I was writing a few of these chapters, I felt the same thing in the pit of my stomach. Because it's real to me. I'm not just playing with my readers' emotions - twisting a knife into their souls for the mere sake of having power to do so. What Cameron and House are experiencing - it's heartbreaking, but it's beautiful. Ultimately. And that's what I hope to portray. Thank you for your words.
I appreciate my faithful readers. Your reviews make me squeal with glee. (Literally; I think I woke everyone in the house up. It was an accident, really.)
Chapter 7: Drink This
The elevator doors slipped open and House wearily slipped out. Guided only by the midnight oil burning brightly from a nearby office, he dragged himself across the lobby and stopped in front of a water cooler. He looked down. Cane in one hand, Game boy and iPod in the other. His hands were full.
"Darn," he said in mock disappointment, cocking his head to the side. Guess he couldn't get Cameron some water after all. It wasn't very Greg-like anyway. She might think he was being sensitive, or that he cared . . . or something stupid like that. And besides, his hands were full. He couldn't get the water if he wanted to.
So he turned away.
And then he turned back.
"Darn again." He couldn't stand himself sometimes. Undecided over a cup of water. He made life and death medical decisions almost every day of his life. And now he stood second-guessing himself over a simple cup of water from the cooler. Just get the water, Greg. She'll probably throw it back at you anyway, and then you can say something sarcastic. It's the perfect cover. "Nah, not good enough."
He again turned to walk away.
And again, he turned back.
You're not doing this to be sweet. Cameron just threw her guts up. Medically, she needs to drink some water. It appealed to his sense of logic. Exactly. Makes perfect sense. He stuffed his Game Boy into the bag on his shoulder, then stuffed the iPod in after it. He swallowed his hesitations and reached for a paper cup.
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
When he got back to the car, the first thing he noticed upon approaching was that the passenger seat was empty. Cameron wasn't there. Had he underestimated her intentions? He looked through the lighted structure to the place where her car had been parked and . . . her car was still parked there. Just where it had been before. The first thing to hit him was confusion, but the feeling that followed was dread. House felt immediately lightheaded and his heart rate went crazy in his chest.
If something happened to Cameron, he would . . . well, he would add it to the list of things he could never forgive himself for.
But when he neared the driver's door, his dread was replaced with a sweeping sense of relief. A beautiful young woman lay sleeping in the back of his car - snuggled against the seat. For a moment, he forgot that he hated sentimentality, and he stood watching her through the window.
Quietly opening the door, House slid into the driver's side and placed his bag on the passenger's seat, with his cane propped on the floor below it. He rested the cup of water in a holder between the seats. Before starting the engine, he twisted around to look at Cameron. Her back was to his face, and soft brown curls fell over her neck to lay in a pile on the leather seat. House sat in awe. His rental car was suddenly acceptable. In his mind, to be graced by curls like that made any man - or car - indisputably lucky.
Those curls were so inviting. He had to touch one; he just had to. But the angle wasn't right. His fingers would have to wait.
But not for long. Once at his house, he pulled into the shadowed driveway and silenced the whistling engine. He could hear Cameron breathing, heavy and deep. The mere feeling he got from listening made him suddenly nervous. He left his bag in the front, but took the cup of water with him as he opened the door in the back. It was time to wake her up, and he didn't want to be rough or abrupt.
Placing the cup on the hood of the car, House peered down at the girl. Her sweet face and adorable innocence possessed him to turn around and lower himself backwards to sit on the backseat floorboard. This was a new experience. He wasn't sure he'd ever done this. With his feet still out on the pavement, he shifted to get more comfortable and refocused his attention to her hair. A curious hand tenderly made its way to her head and a long finger wound itself into a curl.
House couldn't help but moan. It was a deep, throaty sound of escaping, satisfied air. A touch of a feather to his all-too calloused fingers. Calloused from feeling, and immune to pain. But this pain was beautiful. This girl was magic.
The finger found its way to her neck and, before he could stop himself, he was touching it. Just one finger - just the light brush of it next to her sensitive skin - and Cameron was awake.
Bad electricity. But she was too weak to protest. Her stomach was still unsettled and her head still pounding incessantly. Aching. Throbbing. Pound. Pound. Like the ceremonial beat of an Indian drum. Pound. Signifying the death of a villager. Black shrouds envelop the village and they mourn for all of three days. Aching, throbbing. It's of no use to fight or deny it. The plague has swallowed her body. Has swallowed her spirit dry.
"Cameron." He knew she was awake. But she refused to look at him. "You're sweating." A strong hand slipped against her jawbone and lingered to absorb her warmth. "You're burning up. Are you having nightmares?"
"House," it was a soft plea, "don't touch me."
He let go. "Roll over."
"My head . . ." Cameron groaned, squinting from the light on the ceiling as she struggled against the seat to roll over. The smell of fresh leather inebriated her nostrils. It was the only thing that eased the pain as she came face to face with House.
He was on eye level with her, cleverly where she couldn't avoid him. He studied her. Eyes so clear, and yet so clouded. Green pools of simplicity, yet so full of dying life. He wanted to dive right in. Swim while the sun was down, and still be lost in the morning. "Sit up."
More squinting and more struggling. She was finally back to a seated position and House pulled himself up to join her. A brief step outside the car to retrieve the cup from the hood, and he was back and at her side again. "You need to drink something," he extended the water in her direction.
"No thanks."
"You got the 'thanks' right, but the 'no' is unacceptable. Take the cup."
And she obeyed. Maybe it was the headache. She didn't want tolisten tohim any more than she had to. One sip of the water and she winced - every muscle cringing in peristalsis, attacking the newly-found substance.
Obviously, House couldn't carry her, so she had to get out of the car. And somehow, she managed to. House was there to help her - to catch her if she fell - and that's exactly what motivated her to continue standing on her own. Forbid that she shouldfeel the warmth of his arms around her and find herself breathing into his chest. Never again.
She didn't deserve warmth. Or comfort. Or strength to hold her steady.
House unlocked the front door and ushered Cameron in. His number one priority was getting her something to eat. To make her warm, give her comfort, and steady her mind and body. She needed her strength back, and if he could give her that, just maybe he could move on to the rest. He could giver her what she really needed.
