Title: Tragic - PT 8
Rating: R (language)
Summary: Cameron's life full of tragedy... (Cam's POV - kind of) in her eyes, and how she copes - or doesn't.
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...
Note: PT 8 - I hope you like it... writing the H/Cam interaction after PT7 was a bit difficult! Thanks for sticking with it.
Note: As always, I hate good punctuation, I am horrible with grammar, and I reserve everything to be a work in progress... (oh, and perhaps created my own word or two here! ;) oops!) - And I've read it a 100 times, so I apologize if I screwed up tenses with this POV...grrr

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You are holding your daughter's hands, examining each and every finger and nail. Her hands are small and warm, and her fingers instinctively curl around your index finger in her sleep. You are trying to decide if she has your hands. You know you have your mother's hands - the lines and wrinkles around the knuckles exactly the same as hers, the shape of your fingers so similar. The only thing different is the shape of your nails, where yours are long, your mother's nail beds were short and square. You wonder if Pearl's hand will be like yours and if she'll ever think of you one day and think of your hands. You lift Pearl's baby soft hands and kiss the palms, gently lowering her arms down beside her and tucking a blanket around her.

You go back to work today and you are stalling. Pearl was up at five and you fed her, now she's sleeping again. The sitter is here, and you know you need to leave, but it's killing you that you have to leave your daughter all day. It's almost eight, you know you will be late, but you don't care. You know you have a long day ahead of you, and you don't have enough time to come home during lunch to see her. You are fidgety, rushing around the apartment to make sure you have everything and the sitter knows where everything is, though you both know you're being a bit ridiculous. You're heart is feeling something new that you can't put a name to. But all you know is that you don't want to leave Pearl home, and you do feel guilty about it. You don't know if you would ever really be ready to leave her.

You leave the warmth of your apartment for a cold car. The car is finally feeling warmer when you reach the garage of the hospital. Your heels click quickly across the concrete as you enter the corridor and start heading toward your office. You are dreading going there. Not so much for the work, but just facing House, and the prospect of what he will or will not say to you, and what you will or will not say to him. This is another game that you really don't want to play with him. Not anymore. You just want to do your job, and go home to your daughter.

When you enter the Diagnostic Department, it is empty. By the coats hanging on the coat rack, you know that everyone is here, but they must be with a patient. You also know that you are a bit late. You haven't worked much with the two new fellows, Scott Donovan and Jeremy Tate, so this will be an additional adjustment for you. They seemed nice, but you were in pregnant-hormonal world before you left and just didn't give a crap about work at the time. You decide to start a pot of coffee, because you notice the pot is empty and cold, and you desperately need it. You ignore the overflowing mail box; you are not going to be House's glorified secretary anymore. Let one of the other guys do it, for a change. Or let an intern do it. There were going to be some changes around here, at least for you.

You are sitting at your desk catching up on twelve plus weeks of email, deleting as much junk as you can, when Donovan and Tate enter the conference room laughing. They are genial and welcome you back with pleasant greetings asking you about your daughter. They quickly update you about the patient currently under their care, and how they're just monitoring her now. They ask you how you are and are very warm, which is nice (although they're no Foreman and Chase, you like them). They ask when you'll bring Pearl in, because they met her once or twice when House was watching her when you had a doctor's appointment (House was discrete! You're shocked!). And like his ears are ringing, House enters with Wilson in tow.

"Aha, the Mother Hen returns!" he smirks to you. You glare as Wilson comes over and gives you a nice-to-see-you-glad-you're-back-hug. "Welcome back," House continues, "the coffee hasn't been the same."

Ah, nothing has changed.

Right away you jump into a new case and the whiteboard is full of symptoms. As you are about to leave the conference room and jump right back into work, House calls you into his office. He instructs you to have a seat, as he settles behind his desk. You raise an eyebrow, curious as to his motives. You two were always better when things were left un-discussed, so whatever this is, it can't be good.

You cross your legs and fold your hands over your lap. You start tapping your foot impatiently as he fiddles about his desk like he doesn't have a patient dying down the hallway. He looks at you and you raise the eyebrow again in question.

"So, how are you?" he asks.

Seriously? What is this, tea time? You question him. His face displays no emotion, no response.

"Cameron," he continues, "I would like you to start back to work slowly. Catch up on your paperwork, emails, journals, do a bit of lab work, get out of here by five o'clock, no exceptions."

Sounds like probation. Or his he babysitting you?

He smirks. "No, just do it. No patient interaction for two weeks unless I give the personal okay. Do you hear me?"

You tell him you're fine.

"I'm sure you are, but I would like to see you ease back into work and get used to the pace, plus the new schedule with Pearl and all before you dive right in."

You tell him Pearl and your schedule with her is your concern, not his. He points out to you that he doesn't want to see you have a breakdown in the office and then abruptly gets out of his chairs and leaves his office. Your face is red hot. You run to the ladies' room to rinse it with cool water.

You decide to use your lunch hour to get out and get some fresh air, regardless how cold it is. You use the time to walk, to get a little bit of exercise, to clear your mind. You call home while you're walking and check-in on Pearl. Everything is going okay, though you miss her and still feel guilty about leaving her home. You wish you had enough time during lunch to go see her.

You return to your glass-based work space with red cheeks and a runny nose. Foreman comes to visit you. He has a cup of coffee and asks about your holiday. You joke with him that he better come over and take down that Christmas tree. You know House overhears your entire conversation. He asks to see some recent pictures of Pearl. When you pull them out, House comes over and pulls up a chair next to Eric to see them too. You and Eric eye each other but just continue flipping through the little brag book you had in your purse.

As you close the book and are about to put it away, House asks if he can see it again. As he exams the pictures, he sighs, "I can't believe how much bigger she has gotten already." He voice sounds heavy and quiet. You ignore him and take your book back, putting it away. You leave him in the conference room and head to the lab to work on some tests he has allowed you to run.

Three and a half weeks later and work is back to the state it was before you left for maternity leave. You don't want to tell House that he was right; you did need some time to get used to the pace again, especially with a baby at home. You are definitely more tired than you used to be, but you're coping. You still try to get a walk in during lunch or sometime during the day, it helps. Your hours at work are getting longer, you hate that, and you miss Pearl.

You have perfected avoidance, even more so than House. You are constantly finding busy work, lab work, clinic duty to fill-in, other departments in need of your help, anything - to keep you busy during your work hours. You have been able to avoid any type of scrutinization by House, and any exploratory conversation with Wilson, his trusty sidekick. You just don't feel like being put under a microscope for examination. You don't need to be cut up by House, and you don't need to play his games. You just stay away from him and keep it as professional as possible. Whatever friendship you thought your may have had is now dust blowing in the wind.

There comes a day when straws must be picked for overnight observation. You pick the short straw. Despite Donovan and Tate's protests, you won't allow them to treat you any different any longer and allow one of them to switch with you. Your sitter doesn't have a problem staying for the night, you had made an agreement with her before she started that this may happen on occasion and here it is. You wish you had time to run home for an hour and see Pearl, but you can't. You won't. You have to be part of the team, and the guys are always willing to cover you and you won't let them do it, you want to do this.

The hospital gets dark and quiet and as the evening progresses. You grab something to eat and check in at home again. You ditch your heels, you change into scrubs, and they are more like pajamas, so maybe you'll be a little more comfortable for a few hours. You catch up on some paperwork and head back to the patient's room. It's about midnight, you just rechecked the patient's vitals, adjusted some medications, you're sitting in the chair making some notes in the patient's chart when the ICU door slides open. You look up and see House.

"Ok, get up, go home, I'll cover," he tells you, "You've proven your point."

What point? You tell him you're not trying to prove a point.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he grabs the chart from your hands, "Martyr mother can do all. Now go home and be with your daughter."

You tell him, you're fine and you've got everything covered. Besides, at this point, she's sleeping anyway.

"You couldn't have just been a silly girl, and let Donovan and Tate do the courteous gentlemanly thing and cover you, nope! No, you couldn't do that. Had to prove to me that you're all good and fine and all the crap, okay, I got it, you're fine, you proved your point, you can do your job, blah blah blah," he spat, "now get out of here. Next time, you don't get to pull a straw. I'll pull one instead."

You tell him you don't need him pulling "any straws for you."

And, again, you're not trying to prove anything. You're just doing your job, just trying to be a doctor, a doctor that you trained to be. A fully functioning doctor.

He stops and glares at you. "You heard me."

You tell him, as always, he talks in riddles and you're tired of trying to decipher his puzzles, especially at this hour of the night.

He sighs and stares at the ceiling, one hand in tight white grip around his cane, the other hand puts the chart down and runs through his hair. "You overheard my conversation with Wilson, didn't you? That's what this is all about. All this fucking coldness . . . why you suddenly turned into a crazy ice-queen, why you think you're avoiding me, but you're not, I'm just letting you . . . why you think you're just fine, but another reason you're not, why you stopped talking to me . . . "

Talking to you? When did you two ever (really) talk? You were always better when you didn't talk. Again, you do.not.know.what.the.hell.he.is.talking.about.

"Right," he smirks. "I guess it's like the same kind of pretend I play about the time when you kissed me."

You don't realize what you did until you hear the sound, but you slap him across the face. You shock yourself. You turn to leave the room, but he grabs your wrist so hard you have a slight bruise the next day. "Good, you're finally angry. You're finally showing some kind of REAL emotion, thank god."

You laugh at him. And this from the man who has fortress walls built in the fourteenth century. This from a man who doesn't believe in "sharing." This from a man who doesn't know what the term "letting go" means. This from a man who couldn't put words to emotions, because he does not have words for them in his vocabulary, you spit at him. You shake yourself free from his grip, the hair coming loose from your ponytail, your cheeks flaring. Fine, you tell him, he can stay the night, you're going home and you'll be late in the morning. You don't look back at him, you can't. You paralyzed yourself.

You drive home like a robot. It's like your car is on tracks that guide you home. You pull in front of your apartment. You are steaming. You are so many emotions you can't even begin to list them to figure them out, but you know that they are filling you up inside so much that you want to vomit. You don't park. You do something you haven't done in a long time.

First you drive to 7-11. You know you're a doctor, but vices are hard to break sometimes. Marlboro Lights 100's. An old habit from high-school. You quit when your husband was sick. You started again when you waked him out. You buy a lighter too. It's a little after one in the morning. Closing time is two. You drive over to Murphy's. It's a few blocks from your apartment. You're still in your scrubs. You haven't been to Murphy's since before Ryan died, you two would go sometimes to watch Monday Night Football. You know the bartender, Charlie. He sees you as you take a seat at the end of the bar, you nod to him. He remembers you and brings you your drink, scotch and water (House never asked you why you had Scotch your apartment, but you've always been a drinker). You appreciate someone knowing what you need without you having to ask for it.

You light a long cigarette and take a drag, feeling the burn in your throat. You hate the nasty habit, but you love the way it makes you feel sometimes. Maybe it's the breathing. You're alternating between bringing the cigarette to your lips and cool rim of the glass to your mouth, you don't let your mouth be free for a second. Dangerous things could happen. A night like this and a mood like yours could align you with a stranger for angry sex. Of course, you brought yourself to the right place. Your belly is hot and aching. You let the scotch roll over your tongue and you savor the flavor in your mouth, the richness of the alcohol floating over your teeth, before you swallow it. You're hot, you're in heat. You better go home. You stub out your last cigarette. Place your tip on the bar and go home.

The apartment is dark and quiet. Annie, your sitter, is sleeping in your bed. You didn't call to say you were coming home, so you grab a blanket and crash on the couch. You toss and turn, you let one hot tear fall from your eye, before you grit your teeth and roll over. Eventually, you fall asleep.

You are jolted awake by Annie shaking your shoulder. "Allison," she's holding Pearl, who is crying, face red, tears rolling down her face, "something is wrong with Pearl."

You jump up and take Pearl from her, kicking yourself for not hearing Pearl's cries. She's hot, real hot. You take her temperature and she's running a fever. You are thinking it's just a cold, but you decide to stay home with her today just in case. You send Annie home after her long night, and leave House a voicemail saying Pearl is running a fever and you won't be in today. You emphasize that she is really sick, so he doesn't think that you're just avoiding him after the conversation from last night (if you want to call it that).

It's a long day. Pearl is extremely fussy, and for a baby who is usually good as gold, you are exhausted. You're still wearing your scrubs from last night and you feel tired and dirty. You've given her Baby Motrin and it seems to have taken the fever down, but she's tugging at her ears, so you think she probably has an ear infection. You'll take her into work tomorrow yourself for a little checkup. Trying to get a last minute appointment with the pediatrician is a bitch. You'll have Foreman look at her ears and write a prescription, which would be more appropriate.

You finally get her down for what you think is probably going to be a short nap (and enough time for you to jump in a shower) when the door bell rings. It's House. You lean your head against the door, you feel defeated. He bangs his cane against the door just where your head is (you are in hell).

You open the door. What?

"Is she really sick?"

Yes.

"Can I come in?"

Why?

He doesn't answer, just gives you some kind of puppy dog eyes that are supposed to charm you, but you won't let them. "I came to sell Girl Scout cookies, interested? I know how you love those Tagalongs!"

You glare at him.

"C'mon, I wanted to see how she's doing."

You let out a heavy sigh and step back from the door admitting him.

Taking in your messy living room, "Rough day?"

You tell him you're tired. You've been up with a crying baby all day, you want a shower, you're hungry and now you're getting cranky. What does he want?

"Honestly, I wanted to see how Pearl was."

What? Did you not believe that she was sick?

"No, I believed you. I'm just worried about her."

You can take care of your own child, thank you very much.

"What happened to the sweet angelic Cameron I once knew?" he asks.

You tell him that he chewed you up and spit you out many moons ago, as you head to the kitchen for two beers.

You don't know why you're getting a beverage for him, you don't really need to be having a friendly conversation with him, in fact, you don't need to be having a conversation with him at all. And friendly is an adjective you highly doubt would ever be attached to a conversation you might have right now.

"How is she?"

You tell him she has a fever, a slight cold, and maybe an ear infection. You will bring her for a checkup tomorrow. He asks what you gave her. You glare at him. "Just checking," he shrugs at you, looking up from you from his beer bottle. "You know I really care about her."

You tell him you know. You let the silence ensue. You would rather not discuss it. It was something that you knew; you didn't need for him to put words to it. Besides, it's shocking that Gregory House just said that he cared for someone. What sucks is that someone is not you, but your daughter, which is nice, but part of you still wants to fuck him, no matter how much your try to deny it. (Your mind starts to wander . . . lust or love? Maybe you just really lust him and you really don't love him, maybe you're tormenting yourself for all the wrong reasons.)

"Cameron, you smell like you slept on a barroom floor last night, where the hell were you?"

You tell him you made a little pit stop on the way home last night. You laugh.

"What's so funny?"

You tell him it sounds like something he would do.

"Why don't you go jump in a shower and wash the scum off you while I'm here? If Pearl wakes up I can take care of her until you're done."

You eye him suspiciously. He looks at you. "What?"

He sighs with defeated shoulders. "Don't make me say it."

Fine. You head off to the bathroom. You know he misses her.

END PT8