DISCLAIMER: I own a house, but not the House. On second thoughts, the parents own the house. So I own nothing.
xOx
DEALING WITH DEMONS
xOx
Allison Cameron did not usually go to bars. For starters, being an immunologist was a demanding and often exhausting profession. There were often not enough hours in a day for eating a decent meal and having a sufficient sleep, let alone for sitting in bars, staring aimlessly at an amber liquid swirling around in a glass. Being a doctor, she had also treated her fair share of patients for alcohol abuse and the sight and smell of a person vomiting over her shoes always served to remind her that getting extremely drunk was really not as much fun as it was made out to be.
Not that she had been a real fan of alcohol when she was still young and carefree. She had never liked losing her wits, and that was the precise effect drinking too much alcohol had on her. She did not have a strong stomach. That, added with the fact that whenever she entered a bar, some sleazebag was bound to start giving her unwanted attention, was reason enough for her to stay away.
It wasn't that Cameron feared she would mar her reputation by being charged for assault when she kicked the sleazebag in the groin for assuming that just because she was a pretty little girl, she wanted her ass spanked. Rather, she feared she wouldn't kick the sleazebag. That she wouldn't question his advances, that she'd pretend he was genuinely interested in her, that she would wake up in the morning, alone in an unfamiliar bed, smelling of cheap cologne and feeling the need to vomit.
After all, she only drank when she felt that no-one in the whole wide world gave a damn about her, when her life seemed meaningless, worthless. It was a feeling she had experienced throughout much of her childhood and early teenage years, despite the fact that most people believed her childhood had been perfect. Not that it had been terrible, it was just that she had spent most of it feeling the need to prove herself to others. It was exhausting, always trying to convince people that she was more than just the family princess, that she was not interested in becoming a model when she grew up.
It was so exhausting that at the tender age of ten, Cameron stopped protesting and lived life as the stereotype that everyone saw her as. She modelled on Mondays and Wednesdays, took singing lessons on Tuesdays (which came in handy for her choir duties on Sundays), and dancing lessons on Thursdays and Fridays (which were handy for the cheerleading she took up at school when she was told there was no room left for her in the science club). She hated it all.
When relatives came around on Sunday afternoons, she was not allowed to play sports with her cousins because "Allison is fragile". Instead, she had to sit at the table and endure childish questions such as whether cheerleading was getting her lots of attention from boys. Every week, her answer was the same, always "a little bit of attention", because that way, everyone would start their usual discussion about the type of man they thought she'd marry and she could quietly escape to her room. Once or twice, she considered giving everyone the more honest account, that boys often tried to grope her, which for some reason, made the rest of the girls on her cheerleading squad jealous of her, which ultimately meant she had no real friends because every other girl hated her for being a cheerleader.
In her sophomore year of high school, she broke her leg while cheerleading. Cameron was never mean to people on purpose, but when her doctor asked her if she was feeling okay, she replied, "you're a doctor, you should know that having just broken my leg, I must be on top of the world". She had instantly regretted her words, but the old woman had just laughed and when she arrived home, she was amazed that the doctor had been so helpful and kind to her despite her rudeness. By the time her leg had healed, Cameron had decided she, too, would become a doctor. Parading down catwalks and hanging off the arms of men was a meaningless life, helping people, heck, maybe even saving a life, was not.
By this stage, she didn't simply want to prove to other people that there was substance to Allison Cameron. She had to prove to herself that she was not a worthless person, that she could make a difference in the world. When she announced her intentions to her family the following Sunday afternoon, everyone laughed at her. One uncle's comment particularly stung. "But you have to be smart to be a doctor." If there was one thing her singing and dancing classes (which she pulled out of that week, along with the modelling and the choir and the cheerleading) had taught her, it was that one must have determination to succeed. Cameron was a determined person. One day, she would wipe the amusement of their faces. They would respect her.
Allison Cameron did not usually go to bars. Except when she was feeling extremely sorry for herself. Which she was feeling right now. Which explained why she wasn't at home, catching up on sleep but receiving winks from a random bartender instead. She knew she would loathe herself tomorrow morning for doing this. It was pathetic, really. Someone could be dying back at the hospital, and here she was, throwing herself a pity party. So much for helping people.
Then again, helping people, saving people's lives, no longer seemed to be enough. She was no longer judged according to the way in which she helped people. Now, she was evaluated according to how well she could tell a patient they were dying. Which, suffice to say, wasn't very well. It had never been her strong point, it never would be, but the fact she couldn't casually tell a person they had six months to live was causing other doctors to believe she was better suited to another job.
It was these little rumours that made Cameron realise she had no more respect from people now than she did when she had told her family she was going to become a doctor all those years ago. She had known, at the time, that she was going to have to work hard for that respect. That her family would be the first of many to laugh at her for pursuing a career in medicine.
Throughout all her years at medical school, respect was the one thing she struggled to attain. Now that she was a practicing doctor, working under the renown Doctor Gregory House, she believed, no, she knew, she had earned that respect. And yet, she was still struggling to be respected. It didn't help that House was the one who was constantly dismissing her. What made matters even worse was the fact that she liked the man.
Cameron ordered her second glass of whiskey, ignoring the bartender's attempt to flirt with her. Why on earth did she like House? He was the type of man she would've normally avoided because, really, his behaviour towards her was no different to that of most other men she'd met in her lifetime. They thought she was a nice thing to look at but whose opinions were surely of no significance. There'd only been one man who hadn't treated her like that, but she had lost him long ago.
"Why, Dr House, I must admit your sex change turned out better than I thought it would. You actually look attractive!"
Cameron had been so deep in thought that she had not seen House's best and perhaps only friend, Dr James Wilson, enter the bar. For his part, Wilson had not immediately recognised the woman sitting next to him. He was not used to seeing her looking so lost and miserable. She hadn't responded when he'd called her name, so he'd moved closer to her, cleared his voice and said something ridiculous which was bound to catch her attention.
Wilson was hoping he'd get a laugh. Instead, he had to grab Cameron's arm to steady her from falling off her chair, such was her shock. That, and she spurted out half the whiskey she'd been about to swallow while choking on the small amount she had already swallowed. Wilson had to admit, this wasn't the usual effect he had on women, but at least he had got her attention.
"Dr Wilson," Cameron said, still spluttering. When she had finally caught her breath again, she turned to look at him with wide eyes. "You scared the living daylights out of me."
"I figured," he replied, smiling and offering her a tissue. She took it with an embarrassed smile and wiped her mouth dry.
"I've got to hand it to you though, that's the most original pick-up line I've heard in years."
Wilson chuckled. "Maybe you could help rate my other ones for me."
"Any time."
Despite her answer, Cameron didn't sound overly enthusiastic. Wilson glanced over towards the immunologist and saw she had returned to looking morose. He sighed and proceeded to order a beer, noticing that the bartender was eyeing him with disapproval.
"Lost in thought, huh?" he asked, his attention turning from the bartender who was still glaring at him, to Cameron.
"Something like that," she replied.
Wilson realised he was going to have to initiate conversation. He had a pretty good idea as to why, or rather, who had made his colleague so depressed. It was most probably, or rather, most definitely, the colleague who had demanded Wilson meet up with him for drinks, and who as usual, was late. Heck, he probably wouldn't even show up in the end, and even so, Wilson would still have to deal with the consequences of his behaviour, which in this case, was the glum Dr Cameron. He drank some beer.
"Let me guess. House?"
"Not everything revolves around House, Dr Wilson," Cameron answered, turning to glare at the oncologist, even though he was right.
"I should hang around you more often, Dr Cameron. I'd started to forget that." Wilson had had enough experience with women to know not to take offence to her response. A light-hearted reply was often the best way to diffuse such situations, and he was relieved to see her smile. She was a better smiler than she was a glarer.
"He's part of the problem," she admitted.
"And the other part?" Wilson enquired.
"The choices I've made in life, I suppose. At the time, it seemed like I was making the right ones, but now..."
"You're not so sure?" Wilson concluded, then sighed. "Welcome to my world."
Cameron turned to look at him, surprised at the resignation in his voice. She patted his arm. "If this is to be one of those reflective conversations, I think I need another whiskey." Almost immediately, the bartender began to pour her another glass. Wilson watched with some amusement as she yanked the glass away before the barman was finished saying, 'here you go, sweet'art'.
Leaning over to get a straw he didn't need, Wilson whispered to his colleague, "I think he likes you."
Cameron pushed away the straw container. "I think you just volunteered to go first."
Wilson's smile widened. "What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't adhere to the golden rule of ladies' first?"
She rolled her eyes. "Please tell me you haven't used that as a pick-up line."
"Unoriginal?"
"Lame."
"I'd be crushed, if it wasn't for the fact that you're trying to avoid answering the matter at hand."
Cameron turned her attention to her glass. "You know how it is. I bought an ugly pair of shoes. Never been able to forgive myself."
"I know the feeling. I cried for days myself. How about the real story?"
Cameron could feel Wilson's eyes on her. She knew she wasn't going to get out of this easily. "I'm not an interesting person. That is the real story," she replied, inwardly wincing at how dismally she'd failed at trying to sound dismissive. Why had she offered they have a reflective conversation? A part of her wanted to spill the beans because she was so sick and tired of having no-one to express her pent-up emotions to. Yet if she did, Wilson would probably think she was a self-absorbed drama queen.
"Even if you weren't a terrible liar, I'd have trouble believing that a dedicated doctor such as yourself would deem an ugly pair of shoes as the greatest tragedy in her life."
"Yeah, I'm such a dedicated doctor that I plan to get drunk in a bar because my boss hates me. Yep, I'm real dedicated," Cameron retorted, laughing bitterly.
The self-criticism and bitterness in the statement told Wilson he'd struck a nerve. He actually felt relieved. He was used to sarcastic snarkiness. He was on the receiving end of it every day, and knew how to deal with it. Either back off or get to the root of the problem. He would try to do the latter. It almost never worked with House, because the Vicodin-popping doctor only ended up belittling Wilson's advice. Maybe Cameron would listen to him.
"For starters, I'm not going to let you get drunk. Trust me, facing House with a hangover only exacerbates the pain. Secondly, he doesn't hate you. Thirdly..."
"Oh, I get it, when someone tells you they think you're an incompetent idiot, it means they like you! Thanks for clearing that up for me, Dr Wilson! Goes to show what an incompetent idiot I am for never having realised that before!" Cameron turned to face him, tears stinging her eyes, challenging him to defend House's actions.
Wilson sighed, lowered his head and closed his eyes. So much for Cameron listening to him. Why was he always the one expected to fix House's mistakes? His friend really could be an ass. He had suspected that some sort of argument had occurred between House and Cameron. His friend had been in a worse mood than usual, and was particularly adamant that Wilson join him for drinks. But he hadn't known just how insensitive House had been until now. He wasn't going to excuse his friend's behaviour, but he had no idea how to diffuse this particular situation.
Sensing Wilson's discomfort, and feeling guilty about it, Cameron returned to looking at her glass. "That's another stupid choice to add to the list. Yelling at someone who didn't deserve it. I'm sorry."
"Don't beat yourself up about it." Seeing that Cameron had calmed down, he added, "House may be my friend, but I'm not going to deny he can be an ass. Don't let his insults get to you."
"I know, and I wouldn't care so much if it wasn't for the part of my mind telling me that maybe there's truth to his words. That I'm so angry because he's right."
"Cameron..." Wilson began to protest.
"No, Wilson," Cameron continued in a forceful tone. "You wanted to hear about my screw-ups and you will. Choosing to become a doctor wasn't easy for me. Everyone laughed at me when I told them, they didn't think I was smart enough to be a doctor. When I got accepted into medical school, my family realised that perhaps I did have the brains. But they still didn't really believe in me. They weren't overly supportive or encouraging, probably because they had become so accustomed to doubting me. They probably still doubted me.
"Most people in medical school did. So I could handle the theory, so what? The real test was applying the theory, and that became the next thing people doubted I could do. They thought I'd pass out at the sight of the blood or chuck up after seeing a dead body. It hurt, but I learnt to ignore it, learnt not to care that no-one believed in me because I believed in myself. It kept me going. But now...I don't believe in myself anymore. Everyone was right. I'm not cut out to be a doctor."
Wilson studied her. He believed in her, but he suspected that validation wasn't what Cameron needed. "Why? Because you freeze up when it comes to telling people they're dying? It's something to work on, not something to throw your career away over. It will become easier over time."
She looked at him sharply. "I wish I could believe you, I really do." She turned away. "But each time I go in to tell someone they're going to die, I can't help but think back to my husband." She tried to muffle the sob rising in her throat.
Wilson was unsure of how to respond. He could understand that Cameron would empathise in such a way, but he didn't want to be the second insensitive bastard to her today by asking her if she'd ever undergone counselling. He was spared the job when Cameron spoke again.
"I should have said no. I should never have married him."
At first, Wilson thought he had misheard. Then, quietly, he asked, "You didn't love him?"
"No, I loved him. He was the only person who ever believed in me. And I betrayed him. I always told him, that when the moment came, I'd be there by his side, holding his hand, telling him not to be sad or afraid. When the moment came, I wasn't there. He was alone." Cameron made no attempt to wipe away her falling tears
"It's not your fault, Allison," Wilson said, knowing that his words were of no comfort anyway.
"But it is my fault," Cameron replied in a strangled voice. The guilt mounting in her heart was overwhelming. "Tim was a dreamer. Even though he knew it was impossible, he'd suggest we go fishing or have a picnic in the park. The week leading up to his death, he made countless suggestions. I think it was his way of saying goodbye to life. One night, he suggested we spend an afternoon on a sailboat. I don't know why, something in me snapped. I'd always known he was going to die, but when the weeks went by and he was still with me, I just put off thinking how life would be without him. Seeing him so close to death, I realised that this time next week, he'd be gone, I'd be alone. And when that hit me, I was so terrified, I didn't want him to leave me, but I knew he would and when he spoke about the sailboat...god, you know what I said? I told him, and these were my exact words, 'you might die tomorrow, but hey, I'll go and book us a Caribbean cruise, ok?' I regretted those words as soon as they left my mouth. The look on his face, my god, I've never seen anyone look like that, he was so incredibly hurt. I couldn't look at him, I couldn't face the pain I'd caused him so I went and had a glass of water and just stood there, feeling so ashamed of myself. When I got back...he was gone. It was my fault. I destroyed his will to live. I never got a chance to tell him how sorry I was." She buried her head in her hands to hide the onslaught of tears.
Wilson met people who were encountering tragedy in life every day. He had listened to many stories over the years, and shared some of his own. None were as heartbreaking as the story he had heard just now. There was something so horribly wrong about the sight in front of him- a guilt-ridden, broken down, shaking, crying Allison Cameron. She wasn't supposed to be like this. He knew that everyone hid behind a mask, that everyone had their secrets, even pretty, young immunologists, but it just didn't seem right that hers be so painful.
He could feel guilt of his own beginning to set in. Up until a few minutes ago, Cameron had been the young, pretty, overly-sympathetic doctor that worked with his best friend. Wilson had never really considered her beyond that. He had never thought of her as a complex human being. He was so accustomed to House's bitter, sarcastic way of dealing with tragedy that it amazed him that Cameron could conduct herself in such a kind and caring manner on hospital grounds, all the while concealing this kind of grief and guilt, and for how many years now. It had eaten away at her, that was obvious.
Ignoring the looks they were receiving, Wilson placed his right arm around her sobbing frame and rubbed her back. "Let it out, sweetheart, let it out," he whispered.
After a few minutes, the crying subsided. Slowly, Cameron raised her head and avoiding Wilson's concerned gaze, looked directly at the bartender, who now appeared extremely nervous. "Get me another whiskey." His eyes darted towards Wilson, who shook his head. He knew what Cameron wanted to do, but he'd be damned if he let her numb her sorrows with alcohol. He knew from dealing with House after one of his piss-ups that it did more harm than good.
Standing up, he put an arm around Cameron's shoulder. "Come on, I'll take you home."
Home was the last place Cameron wanted to go, but she didn't have the energy to protest, and deep down, she knew she didn't need another whiskey. She mumbled a defeated "fine" and stood up, watching the bartender practically run away from her as she finished the remainder of her beverage. "Guess my emotional baggage isn't as sexy as my cleavage then, huh" she called out to him before turning her back and walking out the bar, a wide-eyed Wilson following behind her.
The first half of the car ride back to Cameron's place was spent in silence. Occasionally, Wilson would glance over at her, but she was staring out the passenger-side window and he couldn't see her face.
"Whenever I prepare to tell someone they're going to die, I see a shadow of that look," Cameron announced suddenly, face still turned away. "That's why I can't do it. I may not be the disease that's going to kill them, but I'm still ending their life."
"You didn't end his life, Allison. It was his time to go."
"If I hadn't have married him, he wouldn't have died hurt by the woman who loved him."
"If you hadn't have married him, he may have died hurt by the woman who loved him." Cameron turned to look at him. "The truth is, you don't know what your husband's last thoughts were. The way I see it, if you truly love someone, you don't need to hear them apologise to forgive them."
Cameron turned to stare out the window again. Tears were forming in her eyes. Up until a few minutes ago, Wilson had been the trusty, charming, middle-aged oncologist that her boss liked to ridicule. She had never really considered him beyond that. Which was a shame. She had been missing out on the company of a really good friend.
By the time they had arrived at Cameron's apartment, both felt considerably more relaxed. There was an unspoken understanding that the discussion about Cameron's 'screw-ups' was over and that all that had been said would be held in confidence.
In the middle of unlocking her apartment door, Cameron stopped and turned to look at Wilson. "You know what I just realised?"
"You didn't see the barman's face after you turned him down? Priceless, I can assure you."
"You never ended up telling me any of your screw-ups," Cameron said, in a serious tone. A smile quickly assured Wilson that she was approaching this situation light-heartedly.
"What can I say? I buy horrible, horrible ties," he smiled back. He was relieved to see Cameron laugh and return her attention to unlocking the door. Knowing that neither of them needed melodramatic goodbyes, Wilson took this as his cue to start heading back down the stairs. He descended down a couple before turning around to add, "For the record, I believe in you."
Cameron opened her door then turned around to face him. "For the record, your ties aren't that horrible."
Both of them went their separate ways with a smile on their face, Cameron realising that home wasn't such a bad place to go to after all and Wilson realising that this was the first time, ever, he would thank House for standing him up.
xOx
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Writing my first fanfic for House MD, I realised why I hadn't written any fanfic at all in half a year. It takes me a long time to write a story, even though the idea for it always seems pretty basic. This one took me three days, but I decided to persist. I hope it was a worthwhile decision, like I said, I'm new to the House fandom, so this may not be all that good, but I just couldn't resist exploring Cameron's character a bit and having Wilson be her friend. Reviews would be greatly appreciated.