Ok, I know, not much happening. Not much happening really. But I have to say I have always liked to look behind the surface and deal with whatever is not said or done. House is just such a perfect character to write about, he is so round and tangible, yet always surprising. He might do just anything, ya know. wink Thanks for reading, and for the reviews! PS I apologize for the shortness of the chapters… PPS I don't own anyone in the story. (DUH.)
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When she leaves him alone in the dark, she can almost hear his sigh following her into the lab, like a trail of unconscious longing, a cloud of unspoken desire and surrender. His presence lingering around makes her feel safe and dizzy. She finishes the calibration, marks down everything meticulously, and for a brief ten minutes or so she forgets all about him. But when she shuts the lab, he is back inside her head again. She doesn't have to see him in the flesh, she can envisage his tall, slightly stooping figure, the slender fingers toying with his cane, the sarcastic expression that is his trademark, and that, in a weird way, gives her immense supplies of stamina and resoluteness. Her mornings, uncertain beginnings that used to burn into her heart, are now rich in the knowledge that he is there, Gregory House, MD, mature man, sometimes a child, extremely obstinate and abrasive person, occasionally a dear. And she loves him. She has known it for a while now; beyond physical desire at the sight of his muscular arms or incredibly blue eyes, she loves the man, the faults, the weaknesses, the dreams, the lost hopes. She wishes she could endear herself to him. If only he saw beyond her looks. If only he could believe that she can love him for who he is. But for now, he is too lost in the maze of his deceitfulness and long buried emotions. She knows it will take a long time to make him let her in.
Night has taken full control by now; the building is quiet, but for the occasionally passing nurses and the few doctors in charge there is no one in the hospital. Cameron ambles thoughtfully without any reason, takes a peek here and there, greets this person and that, remembers faces, thinks about her work, ponders about cases and cures. Life with its unexpected twists and corroded moments of bliss takes over inside her head. Regrets and joy mingle in that flow of self-evidence, which she has come to accept, and even embrace, at a very early age. Her soft-spoken nature and almost innocent look have fooled many people, but deep inside, Allison Cameron is strong, willful if needed, and surprisingly aware of the world around her. Death makes her cringe, but she knows it is a must, the essential end to everything. Where there's a beginning, there's always an end. Seeing a dying patient will always make her shiver, but she has learnt to accept that. It is only when she holds the hand of a little child, stricken with a terminal illness, that Cameron starts questioning the purpose of it all, and at night, she lies awake sleepless, confused and bitter.
Her headache returns with a vengeance after the pills she had taken in the afternoon. There is no explanation to it, but she refuses to get alarmed. She knows her helter-skelter ways of eating are not the healthiest, but her appetite has also been acting up. In fact, she doesn't remember what her lunch, or breakfast had been that day. Reprimanding herself, she makes a mental note of sticking to daily routines from now on. But for now, another pill will do. Or, maybe more.
Several times he has fiddled with his pager, deciding to call her, then deciding against it. He feels like a fool, like a wuss, and he thanks his luck that Wilson had left hours ago, or he would have most probably discovered his friend alone in the dark, and would have started enquiring, first cautiously, then more boldly, and then, like a hound, would have sniffed it all out, as usual, and House would have never been able to wash that complacent smirk off his face.
Behind his closed shutters he can see the moon sprinkle her silvery sheen onto the world. He gets up with difficulty and limping to the window, lets the light fill his office. The moon is large and almost scary, her pale face dabbed with gory orange, silently residing over the city. He contemplates the strange object in the sky, suddenly wondering at the bizarre and yet perfectly understandable way the universe is made. He knows a lot of things; he knows how to heal dying people. His knowledge saves lives. A lot of people would be happy with half of what he knows. If only he knew what to do about his more petty affairs. Such as, Cameron.
It is late, but he doesn't want to go home. Unlike on other evenings, the thought of tv and a bottle of scotch, some piano playing and Vicodin does not make him long for the solitude of his apartment. A sad feeling comes over him, something he had always tried to shut out, and that he had always dreaded: emptiness. His way of life, however fulfilling to a point, now seems to be a waste of time to Gregory House, standing in the window of his office at eleven minutes past midnight, on Thursday. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to hold onto. Nothing to cherish.
As the man stands on his left leg and stares into the wan, eyeless face of that round night-watchman, he just doesn't care. He feels neither alive, nor dead. Ending his own life was never an option, he is too self-righteous for that. Plus, he has a theory that the world of the dead would not want him. But at moments of complete dejection he is too alone to care about his theories.
Cameron puts the key in the door and slowly walks to the hospital bed. It is where Nick, the ten year-old boy had breathed his last breath in her arms. His parents had been too late. She had to watch the whole ghastly spectacle of mother and father die of pain, and get resurrected in the next moment into a gray, endless, purposeless world. The bed is smooth now, dark, empty. The presence of the boy doesn't fill it any longer. And tomorrow the same bed will hold another person doomed to leave this life behind. Endless lines of ghosts file in through these hospital rooms, she is aware of them in her subconscious, she welcomes them and tries to accommodate them as best she can. Taking down her gown, she pulls her hair loose. Her headache is gone, but she feels a wave of exhaustion wash over her. Legs, arms, neck, hands all refuse to operate properly, and as she literally drops to the bed, her eyelids flutter, then close. All is well, is her last conscious thought.
He wanders in the hall, aimlessly willing his legs to work. Two pills have only taken the edge of the pain, and he already sees Cuddy's furious face when tomorrow he will come in with sunglasses on, in a dirty shirt and a smug face. Wilson, inquisitive, Chase, his pretty face curious, Foreman, one big shrug of confidence. Cameron… one long glance, warmth in her eyes. Hot cup of coffee. No questions, just coffee, and the fleeting touch of their fingers above the red cup. For that one glance it would be worth it.
The silence on the corridor is broken by some object falling in one of the rooms he is passing. He sees no light through the key-hole. Is there anything at all, or was he just imagining? His legs want to take him further, but his innate curiosity force his fingers to carefully turn the knob and push the door in.
There is darkness, and silence. As his eyes get used to the gloom, he discerns a slight figure lying in the bed. Unmoving, sleeping. He finds the white gown, and as he smells her scent, he senses a terrible loneliness creep onto him from the silence of the room. His first impulse, to shut the door and flee the premises, is drowned by his utmost desire to be near her, even if she is asleep. He closes the door, inaudibly, and holds his breath as she fidgets a little. When she is motionless again, he limps to the bed, and his eyes, now completely accustomed to the dark, devour the sight of her lying on her back, her hair afloat on the pillow, her arms thrown next to her body in total oblivion. He stares at her shapely breasts showing fully under her stretched shirt, and feels his throat run dry. Remembering to breathe, he lets the air out in a rushed gasp, and inhales quickly. Her peaceful beauty is like a balm to his roughened senses, the pain and the bitterness. Just watching her he feels an endless wave of gratitude for being alive, and he wonders if these are his own feelings; he had not felt honest, genuine abandonment toward anyone for… for a very long time. He had feared he might need time to adjust to what he felt, but standing there above her sleeping form he feels he's in the right place.
A car alarm goes off in the street, and as he curses inwardly, she shifts in bed, then turns around slowly, like in a dream. Her open eyes look at him with their warm gaze, and he can hear his own deafening heartbeat…