Title: T.G.I.F.
Pairing: House/Cameron. Duh.
Spoilers: Up to and including 'Kids'. This takes you up to the last scene and then veers oddly sideways.
X
Woah. Deja vu.
The hallway leading down to Cameron's apartment isn't long, but, as House looks down it for the second time in as many days, it telescopes out in front of him like a scene from 'The Shining'. Taking a firmer grip on the handle of his cane, he's irritated to find his palms are a little sweaty. Putting himself 'out there' isn't something he's ever enjoyed doing. Hell, these days, it's something he avoids at all costs, but Wilson is right and, as hard as it is for him to admit it, he needs Cameron back. Without her, the whole thing is thrown out of balance. Like his leg all over again, he keeps going to put weight on it, only to find it missing and the sense of loss is...disconcerting. For the others too. If nothing else, it'd be nice just to have Foreman back to normal again, not staring at him like he's planning to shiv him in the exercise yard.
When he reaches her door, his courage deserts him for a second. It's early evening already and a Friday. What if she's not alone? She has friends right? Angry-eyed, self-righteous girlfriends who'd be sure to be rallying round her in this her time of need. Maybe they were all inside right now; Kelis on the stereo, a bottle of Southern Comfort and a tube of Pringles:
"What the hell, girl? Why you want to go gettin' hung up on some crazy ol' cripple twice your age anyhow? When you know you could have any damn man your lil' heart desires?"
"Yeah! His loss honey! You hear me? His. Loss."
How come her supportive girlfriends were always black in these scenarios?
Lifting his cane to shoulder height, House leans on the door frame for a second, listening. No Kelis. That part he'd imagined at least. No sound of glasses or loud derisive laughter either and, mildly encouraged, he raps hard. Four times.
On the ninth rap, she opens the door.
She's pale. Paler than usual. Her skin is the colour of cream and her blue-grey eyes are shadowed and hugely luminous in her face.. She hasn't been sleeping well, that much he can tell at a glance and, although she's lightly made-up, her hair is hanging loose and uncombed over her slender shoulders. Her expression is weary, a little guarded and his chest constricts a little as he realises that she's been waiting for him. She knew he would come.
"I don't want to interview anyone else."
She raises her eyebrows.
"You're interviewing?" Her chin lifts, eyes connecting directly with his. "I thought you'd just have them send a head-shot along with their CV."
The ice-cool, calculating gaze isn't terribly convincing. Especially teamed with the shadows and the virginal white peasant blouse she's wearing. Trying hard not to wonder if she's wearing anything underneath, House nods, gives a small, dry laugh, allows her to keep the moral high ground.
"That's good. And why I need you around. To keep me in my place."
A soft noise from inside the apartment draws his interest and, leaning forward, he peers past her. It's something he does all the time, invading her personal space, but this time, Cameron's not playing. Closing the door up around her, she smiles at him thinly.
"I can't come back, I told you that."
There's something she hasn't told him yet. A card she's keeping face down. Calling her bluff, he shakes his head.
"Wasn't listening."
"Right."
There's a hardness in her eyes now that wasn't there before. A toughness. Two days has given her the chance to think up a strategy, plan her next move and, not for the first time that day, House feels a sudden stab of uncertainty. That he needs Cameron back has been a tough admission to make to himself, but, having made it, the idea that she might now simply reject his request seems unthinkable. Narrowing his eyes, he tries like hell to read her, to say what she wants to hear.
"You want me to listen to you more? I can do that."
"Right." She smiles and he knows she's guessed what he's doing. "I already accepted a position somewhere else."
It's a Royal Flush and she knows it. Their eyes lock and there's a tightness in his throat that he doesn't want to feel, a muscle in his jaw twitching that he knows she has to see. The seconds spin out between them and he finally, unable to hold her gaze any longer, he looks down. Nods slowly.
"Ok."
Her whole body is tensed, waiting for him to show his hand, but for some reason, he suddenly realises he doesn't want to play any more. Lifting his head, House looks her straight in the eyes.
"What do you want from me, Cameron? You want me to say I need you? That I miss you? That you were right all along and that, deep down, I'm just a simmering cauldron of barely contained teenage-angst? That I lie awake at nights thinking about you, imagining what it would be like hold you? To smell your hair?"
The bitterness creeping into his voice surprises even him and, choking back a laugh, he rolls his eyes, looks up at the ceiling.
"You want to know what keeps me up at nights? Pain. Want to know what I miss? Running. Want to know what I need?"
Taking the bottle out of his inside pocket, he holds it in her face, pops off the top one-handed and palms the pill.
"I need this."
And he dry swallows it. Something he does every day. Twenty times a day. Sometimes twenty-five. But today is different. Today his throat is scratchy from weariness, he's tense and the muscles in his jaw are tight and constricted. The saliva that he'd normally produce to ease the tablet down, has all been used up in the lengthy pause between the moment he asked her to come back and the moment he realised that she wouldn't. There are any number of variables that cause freak accidents to happen, but these are the only four House has time to think of before he starts to choke to death on his own pain medication.
"House!"
The breath he struggling to take is jammed in his windpipe and, reaching a hand to his throat, he doubles over, claws at his adam's apple. Jesus, what a cliché.
"House!"
Cameron's face is as white as milk, and the rising tide of panic in her eyes is oh-so-sweetly-familiar that he almost smiles at the sight. Or at least he would were he not about to lose consciousness. He's falling backwards now, sliding down the wall of her hallway, his cane fumbling from his grip as his right leg collapses under him. Her hands at his waist feel ridiculous, feebly tugging at his body, pulling him round against her, her insubstantial body driving in hard against his back.
Her balled fists drive into his lungs below the rib-cage, and he snaps double, his hands are flailing out in front of him, clutching at the carpet, at her fingers, anything. Weak and boneless. Again, and this time he feels as if she's going to break him into. Her breath is desperate, rasping against his ear, hissing: "Come...on. Come...on."
Her hips snap back in time with her voice, once, twice. And then air explodes out of him like water. Like a dying man's gasp. And they both fall to the floor, her body collapsing over his as his face mashes down into the carpet, tangling like a shipwreck.
The air he draws in feels like razorblades, hot and ragged and he can't move. Not yet. Somewhere in the dim distant reaches of his memory, he recalls a fall from a tree-house. Ten feet onto hard-baked earth that left him hollowed out with pain and gasping like a landed fish; "Breathe slow, Greg. Slow. Small breaths." His Mom's voice speaking steady and calm, talking him through the pain.
"Small breaths. Slow."
Her hands are cupping his shoulders, levering him up from the ground like roadkill and he lurches, leans on her with all his weight, all his strength, and she doesn't falter. Doesn't shift.
"Can you walk?"
She works him like a marionette, making his feet move for him, one arm around his waist, her hip braced against his. His cane is gone, somewhere, and the realisation that she has suddenly become his cane, his one support, sinks into him like a fresh bloodstain and he tries to stand, tries to move away from her.
"I'm...ok...I can...I'm fine."
"What are you...?" Her voice is high-pitched with disbelief and the arm around his waist rachets tight. "You're not fine! Jesus...you almost died! Are you insane?"
Her strength is surprising considering her size and, shifting him bodily, she manouevers him through the doorway of her apartment and then the few more steps over to the couch. The book she was reading is lying open, interrupted like her evening, and shoving it impatiently out of the way, she lowers him down onto the cushions.
"Stay here."
He's still having trouble focusing. It's a bit like being drunk, although without the pleasant warmth and bravado. Letting himself slump backwards, he's only half listening to her as she walks quickly away. The kitchen and the sound of running water, and then she's back again, her hand closing over his, pressing a glass into his palm. His head rolls loosely on his neck, but somehow he manages to co-ordinate the two actions; head forward and glass up to meet it. Her hand is still on his. Almost half a year's worth of shying away from any physical contact with her and now he wonders why. What the hell was all the fuss about.
He clears his throat, "I'm ok. Really. You can stop hyperventilating."
She shakes her head and takes the glass from him. Sets it on the coffee table. Faces him.
"Have you any idea how crazy you sound?" Her face is naked; wide-eyed and full tilt and there's no where for him to run. "You almost died! You almost choked to death. Just now. Right on my doorstep. And now you just want to forget it? Brush it off like nothing happened?"
She pulls back, turns her face away and he almost smiles again at the familiarity of it. All her mannerisms, her tells, all the things that make up Cameron. The raised eyebrow, the incredulous look of disbelief. Even the smug smile, the one she always gives him when she knows she's done well, surpassed even his high expectations, he realises he knows every one. Has secretly catalogued every one.
Her eyes move back to him, and they hold him in place. Her sadness is like a blanket she uses to comfort herself.
"What do you want from me?"
It's her lower lip that does it in the end. That and her white little hands, lying broken in her lap like lilies. She's all angles and bones, big eyes and soft pale mouth and he can't look at her any more without touching some part of her. So he reaches a hand out. Traces her lip with the pad of his thumb. She's origami, folding in on herself, but he catches her before she can.
Their foreheads touch; breath and softly tangling fingers, before he tilts his head to one side and gently takes her mouth. She's shaking. Great deep quakes that pass up through her arms, under his hand, as she leans into him, small gasping breath like she's afraid to pull away, afraid to break contact.
"Oh..."
The sound goes straight to his balls.