Title: Styrofoam

Author: Bellsie

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: House/Cameron

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summary: Cameron and her thoughts.

Author's Note: I've been reading "All the King's Men" so there is some stylistic influence from that. This doesn't really go anywhere, by the way.

I never loved nobody fully

Always one foot on the ground

And by protecting my heart truly

I got lost in the sounds

Right here in my mind

All of these voices

I hear in my mind

All of these words

I hear in my mind

All of this music

And it breaks my heart

--Regina Spektor, "Fidelity"

After a while, you start to understand. It's an unconscious reaction that occurs at first, but you start to understand. You commence comprehension. You begin.

It's unintentional, really. You never set out to learn how he takes his coffee or how he used to play lacrosse and loved the slamming bodies and thrusting arms and how now all he can feel is nothing because there is nothing there to feel for him. Missing muscle is simply that, you know, missing. No cells, no atoms, no protons, no neutrons or electrons, just emptiness and space, space, space. And there aren't any stars.

So you know this and you know that and you're not a stalker, you swear to God you're not, you're just observant and that's how it is. You observe. You're quiet. You're the statue in the lobby; you're the "piece of ass" hired to look pretty. (And occasionally you're the immunologist, but every noun is affixed with an adjective of beauty and sometimes you wonder what would happen if you chopped off all of your hair and you grew a mustache.)

But you've been pretty forever and you don't know anything else and while you secretly hate it, hate it, hate it, sometimes, you know that if all else fails you could get by on it and you wouldn't have to worry about money and bills and worries that you normally have. Stick your gorgeous face out there and your high cheekbones and smile and fawn and say your "pleases" and "thank-yous" because who's going to say no to a polite girl with hair like yours?

No one.

And here you are again. Mail's in front of you and you think you do his mail for so many different reasons, even as yours at home sits untouched. Yes, it's the patients and their pleas and their needs and doesn't everyone deserve a chance in this world that gives too few? But it's also a need to be close to him, to open his mail, to live a facsimile of married life again. Doesn't everyone deserve a chance?

You don't know and you get a paper cut and your finger bleeds because it's the thinnest thing, the smoothest blades that cut the deepest, that make you bleed the hardest. Chiseled points and fine edges and everything that you miss and that you think is innocent, but can cause just as much pain as the biggest sledgehammer, as the most powerful gun. You know, it was a sharp, sharp, beautiful, shiny scalpel that took away his muscle and therefore his freedom and you can withstand a moment of discomfort because he's living a lifetimes of them.

And, dear Lord, when did you ever get this maudlin? Before or after your husband bought the farm with your heart or was it when Joe and you were walking the one day and he said how much he loved you and how wrong, wrong, wrong it was because his best friend was dying, but he couldn't help it, because can anyone ever control their emotions?

No. They can't and now you're crying and this is just fan-freaking-tastic because you're at work and haven't you gotten a hold of yourself yet? Wipe your hand across your face and take away those tears descended from your eyes and your ancestors and the ancient sea and ocean and that are salty and filmy and leave stains, stains, stains on your cheeks that are darker than wine on your white carpet. Yes, your mascara runs, too. (Even though you shouldn't be wearing make-up in the hospital…Bundle of contradictions you are. Vain and ashamed of your looks at the same time.)

House approaches you and you can always tell because a man with a cane can never creep up silently on anyone. And that's the only reason you're happy he's got a cane because then he doesn't have every advantage.

"Cameron," he says with his face a mask of seriousness. "Cameron. You can't save them," he tells you and points at the pieces of paper.

"I know. I just—"

"The trees were going to get cut down anyway. Honestly. They didn't feel a thing. Scout's honor," he smirks and holds up two intertwined fingers.

"Oh, you…"

But there aren't any words that you can grasp because he completely avoids definition. Of course he's an asshole, but he's a smart asshole, but that doesn't matter because both of those categorizations wildly underestimate both those two unique qualities. And you know what's funny? You're still in love with him.

"Oh, you, what? Do you need a tissue?"

"Yes, that'd be terrific."

See, your mother told you when you were a child that if you killed 'em with kindness everyone would acquiesce to your every need. What she didn't tell you was that your prim words and polite manner would throw off men with canes and missing membranes. Oh, yes. Mother lied on that count, you think.

"Well, that's why you're here. You're a woman. You do my mail, get your tissues, make my coffee. Yup, that's your purpose here."

All men do it, you notice. Fall by on misogyny when there's nothing left for them to say. But maybe he's right and you're not sure anymore and everything for the rest of the day fades to black because he's not in it and you're still a lost little girl…

…So it's nighttime when you're finally fully recuperated. Long, tough day at the hospital and every day, it seems, drains your energy more and more. You've just taken a shower and you're introspective and in a Mood and you're lying on the floor on your towel and you're staring at the ceiling fan going around, around, around in circles. You stretch out your arms and there aren't any thoughts except that you're naked on the floor and the gentle breeze feels good against parts too long untouched by someone whose name isn't yours. You've got music, you've got air, and you've got yourself. It's a great trio, a triumvirate of truth and justice and cheap romance novels. La-la-la-la-la-la. And you can't block out the white noise and static that sometimes creeps up and you think it's raining outside, but it could be the wind that is pummeling your house like a boxer in the fight of his career. You decide it's rain because there are little 'pings' and 'dings' on your bedroom window and only water makes that noise…

Or does it? Because now you're standing up with the towel wrapped around your body and you realize that the insistent noise against the glass is not rain because there is something awkward about the rhythm of impact; it's not consistent, it's got an unusual pattern—almost human.

And you know it's him before you reach the window because sometimes a woman's intuition is the only thing she has and that's what you have right now and what you're relying on and it's him, him, him and you see him when you get there and you see the rock poised in his hand and it's something out of a screwed-up fairy tale, but this is your life. Yours, yours, yours.

You open the window and stare down at him, making sure the confusion is evident, really obvious, on your face. Why is he here, outside your window, at night? You're not objecting to it, per se, but you'd like some answers since you've worked with him for a long time now and you're tired of deciphering all of his glances in your direction, all of his ulterior motives. What you would do for a straight answer.

"House? What are you doing here?" You shout down.

"The neighbors called. You're disturbing the peace. Christmas music? For God's sake Cameron, I didn't know you were that much of a sap," he shouts back. "Now, because of my stature as an upstanding citizen of this city, let me in the house so they don't arrest me."

So you slam the window shut and you open your door and you wait for him to come upstairs. And he does and his hair is windswept (because the boxer was pummeling your windows and the boxer was pummeling the man outside your windows) and he's breathing a little heavier because of a walk up the stairs with missing muscle and wooden cane. And there's something off about the way he swaggers, it's not his jaunty stance and he looks broken, broken, broken. But maybe that's just the effects of the wind that fought his back for the championship, for the title.

"Are you okay?" You ask him because you're still irrevocably you.

"You're playing Christmas songs. The utter goodness of it all is making me sick," he retorts and pushes past you and into your apartment.

You close the door after he storms in and you survey the scene now that the addition to your living room is in place. You think that it's funny, that you two could be acting out a marriage or a real relationship right now, but you're not. You watch as he walks over and he turns off the music and faces you.

"Any real music around?" He asks.

You point to the shelf above the stereo. You watch as he peruses the titles and he picks a few off the stacks, scrutinizes them, and then rolls his eyes. You're very sorry that you're disappointing him with your choice of music; you hate to disappoint him at all.

"Well, this might be suitable," he murmurs and takes out a Led Zeppelin CD.

I don't know how I'm gonna tell you…

"Oh, how appropriate. I am a genius aren't I?" He smirks. You cross your arms and he sits on the couch.

"What do you want House?"

"Oh, stop it. You know you love me sitting here, on your couch. Reclining. Giving you good views," he says and raises his eyebrows suggestively.

So, you think 'screw him' (figuratively) and plop your butt down on the couch next to him. It's unexpected, but isn't this all? And now it's you and him and him and you sitting in your living room with painful rockers and old songs filling the room and you're touching his leg (the one with the missing muscle) and somehow you just know something's going to happen next. It's that woman's intuition and you know, know, know.

And you can't prevent it when he starts to play the piano on your hands and you close your eyes and think of how much you love to be an instrument especially when he moves down your leg, letting his fingers fall and rise and rise and fall in a beat that is unfamiliar to you and you let him and he's humming low in his throat and is this just a dream? Or is this really House sitting next to you?

"Cameron? Would you shut up please? I can't deal with your rapid-fire questions right now. You're killing the mood here," House whispers in your ear and you realize that you've been muttering out loud.

So you do the only thing you can possibly do and that is giggle and lean over and give him a kiss on the nose.

And, at the end of the day, the dawn of night, you learn the planes of his face and the exact length of the hairs in his three-day old stubble and this whole, odd experience is like you're making a map and you're slowly surveying and filling in the details. It'll be years before you know everything, but the world wasn't mapped so quickly and things still remain hidden and maybe it's better that way, too, not to know everything about everything. Mystery isn't bad, isn't bad, isn't bad at all.

You're content right now to know the slope of his nose and the width of his eyes. You're content right now to know that he likes (loves?) you enough to come over and throw stones at your window, while being pummeled by the wind. Yes. Yes. You are content with his mouth on your collarbone and his hands removing your towel and yes…you are content.