Title: Tragic - PT 16
Pairing: House/Cameron
Rating: PG
Summary: Cameron's life (Cam's POV) - To be or not to be... to forgive or not to forgive... how to move on when House claims she had 'Daddy Issues.'
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...
Note: S2 does not exist in this story.
Beta: Many many thanks to the wonderful yutamiyu who has been very busy with finals and who was also sadly not feeling well last week! - Very glad she's feeling better and survived finals! Also, she was kind enough to read and suffer through the horrible version of this chapter! Many thanks! ;) Also many thanks to missymeggins for taking a gander at that version, telling me it was good, but making me realize I really had to be happy with it! -- I wasn't at the time! hugs and kisses Also many thanks to many of my LJ friends (you know who you are) who have been more than supportive as I have been writing this story! xoxo

Note: Sorry for the delay! I had wanted to get this chapter out a lot quicker, but fate intervened. Shortly after I posted Part 15, my computer crashed and I lost everything (no joke) including what I had written of Part 16! The second version I wrote was horrible. You'll have to believe me -- I'm not being super critical -- but it was. So, between getting this darn computer basically running, nutty work schedule, and my normal migraines it's taken a bit longer than I would have liked. I hope you like it none the less! Would love to hear your thoughts & comments (good or bad!) - and I will try to answer all comments as soon as I can. I hope everyone is well! S.

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Your week has been horrible. You walk around with a knotted hard ball in your stomach and a pounding and painful head and heart. Your anger fluctuates and rides along like the motions of the ocean waves, sometimes huge squalls, sometimes calm blue waves. You feel like you spend more time sighing, hoping those short breaths will swallow the pain in the empty ventricles of your heart. Your nights have been sleepless, spent tossing and turning or woken by Pearl's nightmares -- a new occurrence since your return trip from Princeton. You are exhausted.

Wilson has called you twice, but you have started screening your calls and have not returned his messages. House must be a real piece of work this week, more so then usual, or you wouldn't be getting these phone calls. You do not blame Wilson. These were your own actions. Part of you regrets running out as abruptly as you did, but you were infuriated. Part of you still is. But when you think about House's words, you are hurt and cold with hot tears burning your eyes. You haven't been able to lose the chill in your body, no matter how many hot showers or baths you take, no matter how many sweaters you add even on these warmer June days. You do not like who you are right now or who have become. Even your daughter is angry with you, acting fussy all week, pushing you away with her baby arms. You didn't think she would start pushing away until she hit double digits, so you're not quite prepared for her behavior at this early age.

You try to keep House out of your mind, brush him out with a broom to keep the cobwebs clear and dust from settling, not wanting anything to live and nestle in your mind and heart. But what you find is that is a mistake, because it just leaves space for new boxes of thoughts and emotions, new packages of turmoil to enter. You don't know what to do, and you don't know what's going to happen. Right now part of you thinks you need to start saying goodbye to him for good this time.

You hate saying goodbye. You've had to say goodbye to too many people in your life, now you try to hold on desperately to the ones that mean something to you. So this is killing you. Letting go has never been easy for you. You still walk around with hidden secrets, bits of your past that don't need to be behind a curtain, but you can't seem to open the curtain, lift the window, and throw them out. You know that some things will always be a part of you, will live inside of you, but letting go was never your strong point.

You were never so glad for a Friday to arrive before. You are emotionally and physically drained. You feel so alone, your apartment a tower stage in which you are trapped, no walls to keep you safe, no ceiling to shield you from the elements, your life just exposed and raw. The city noises seem overwhelming and loud, not comforting like they are at times. Pearl has drained whatever energy you have tried to give her, not the normal pink cheeked happy baby she normally is. You just want to sink into the middle of your bed like quicksand, let the mattress suck you in and bury you in feathery and foam softness, soothe you for a night, but it just hasn't happened.

You get Pearl into bed early. She's cranky and cries for a long time. You're upset by her tears, and you can't seem to comfort her at all. You know there is nothing you can do for her, you have to let her cry herself to sleep, and you hate it. You fight back your own tears listening to her. You stand at the kitchen sink, gulping tears into a glass of wine, talking in hushed tones in the hope she can hear your heart and love from two rooms away. You clean up the kitchen, put the mail away and decide you'll try to turn in early tonight too. Maybe you'll get some actual rest.

You are still chilled. A cold, almost ghostly feeling that has shadowed you all week long. You take a shower and try to find something to comfort you. You find a silk robe your husband gave you as a gift. You haven't worn it in years, keeping it tucked away in a drawer. You slip cool, pale silk over your shoulders, hoping that his memory will start warming you. Cameron. Yes, Cameron Brosnan. You remember the day you met him. His soft brown hair, graying at the temples, twinkling, kind brown eyes reacting to yours. Your meeting was accidental, the first of many dominoes to fall, fated meetings, that instant spark, the beginning of change in your life, change you know you were always meant to make. You didn't intend on falling in love with a man twenty plus years your senior. You didn't intend on falling love with a professor, you were just happy he wasn't your professor. You didn't expect that you would fall in love with a man who was dying of cancer. You never expected this dying man to teach you more about living and loving and who knew more about your soul than you did. He would be angry at you now for running, for hiding.

Your husband reminded you on his death bed not to do it again -- not to ignore love. That you should love again, that you should let it into your life. Your face was too full of tears to see the honesty, truth an selflessness in his eyes, though your ears took in the message it didn't want to hear as your heart was breaking. He always knew that you fought against letting love, or some semblance of it, into your life. He knew you could fake it too. He knew that you would never find love easy, you never did. He said it just wouldn't be worth it otherwise to you.

You didn't have to get married. You did because you both loved each other deeply, and partly because he wanted to protect you after his death. You tried not to think about that. Your father was not an easy man, he bordered on dangerous. He was controlling and emotionally abusive at times. He held your mother and your sister under an unusual spell. It was a life you were never happy in. You don't know how your mother survived as long as she did.

You flip pages of your photo albums, some old and distant memories staring back at you like forgotten companions -- eyes full of laughter and glee, other with dark emptiness and unwanted dreams. There are some photographs where you do not recognize yourself, not because you look so different but almost like a ghost of yourself -- a hollow empty cavern that just went through the motions. Fingertips pass through collages of picnics and birthday parties, you a girl with dark braids and without a smile never quite looking directly at the camera. You see the soft familiar face of your mother, her curly hair and her never-ending smile somehow always softening the life she had. She was happy, you don't know how, but she was. You miss her. It upsets you that you can never go home again. It upsets you that it's too difficult to visit her grave. You have tried to send flowers for Mother's Day, her birthday and other holidays and special days, but your father -- then your sister -- have them sent back to you in a box when they're dead and rotten.

You are lucky to have the photos you do have -- few and precious, faded and dog-eared memories. Your mother knew you were going to take a different path, she must have, otherwise she would have never started to send you these few photos, one by one... blank envelopes filled with three or four photos at a time. No note. No return address.

You hated your father, for his controlling and possessive nature. You used to cry to your mother and ask her 'why?' And why didn't she leave him? She never cried and she never frowned. She smiled and told you that sometimes you just can't help who you love. She would hug you and kiss you and tuck you in bed. She always had a faith you didn't understand. You didn't understand why this faith didn't ever help her or guide her better, to a better life. When she started getting sick, you knew it. You saw it. But she ignored it. You urged her to go to the hospital, to see a doctor. Your father said she was fine. Then you were off at school and got married. Your father was furious and disowned you. You were glad to have Cameron's warmth and companionship, you tried not to think about it ever going away.

An old high school friend contacted you when she heard your mom was in the hospital. She was dying. You were furious that this was what happened. You were angry that neither your father nor your sister saw it necessary to get her to the doctor sooner, no matter what you said. You tried calling home to find out what was going on, but your father and sister kept hanging up on you. You decided a trip home was necessary.

Cameron drove you through stormy weather four plus hours to see your mother. He was feeling strong, having good days. When you got to Sacred Heart you were surprised to find your mother alone and in the horrible condition she was in. You made it just in time; she wasn't going to last much longer. She had pancreatic and colon cancer that had gone undetected. She had whittled down to nothing and was frail and ghostly gray.

She opened her eyes when you kissed her on the head. She smiled at you weakly and spoke your name softly. "I knew you would come."

You didn't know. You wanted to cry, but you choked back your tears and held her bony hand even tighter. Cameron was at your side, his warm hand on your shoulder, his heat permeating through the ice in your blood.

Mom, this Cameron, you told her with a weak smile, my husband.

"I know," she smiled, her eyes twinkling. She reached out to him. "I'm so glad to finally meet you."

He took her hand and clasped it gingerly between the two of his. "Mrs. Marks, it's a pleasure."

"I saw you two," she gasped slowly, her breathing labored.

What are you talking about mom?

"I saw you two the day you got married," she smiled warmly at you, her little secret out now. "At the University Chapel. I ran into your friend Leslie at the super market who said she'd see me on the twelfth. That's how I knew when the wedding was." She beamed at you both.

Mom, why didn't you call me? Why didn't you tell me?

"I couldn't let your father know. I made the drive out there, sat in the back row, saw you two exchange your vows, and then drove back. You looked very beautiful and happy, sweetheart."

She reached out to touch your cheek. You were incredibly saddened by her reveal.

"I must say, after all your goings on about God, I was surprised about the Chapel," she laughed lightly.

Cameron chuckled, "No, I wanted that. Allison fought me tooth and nail on it. But it was also the easiest and most convenient. I wanted our marriage to be blessed, and she understood the importance to me."

You were numb. You were shocked by the secrets that comprised your family. You were shocked to see your mother a pale waif before you, acting like having this conversation was the most normal thing in the world.

Mama, you pled, why didn't you call?

She looked at you with deep sadness and regret in her eyes. "I'm not perfect darling. No one is. I loved a man who made life very difficult for me. And I'm sorry that I wasn't strong enough for you..."

Mama, you were more than strong! You told her she held you together!

"...but I should have done more, and I couldn't. And, well, things are the way they are... and I'm sorry... life is just sometimes complicated." She smiled weekly at you. "I'm just glad to see that you're happy. Please try to forgive your father and your sister. They just think differently."

Mama...

"Listen to me now," your mother spoke quietly, "try to remember some of the things we have talked about in the past...they'll come to you over time, one day when you'll remember them more and more. I love you, so much."

Mama, stop it!

You didn't hear it...

"What are you doing here?"

You turned abruptly. Your sister. Caroline. Your polar opposite. And completely under your father's spell.

Caroline. How are you?

"YOU, are not supposed to be here!" Her face red, her body grew larger with each angered breath.

Caroline, calm down. You tried to explain to her that you've come to see mom. That you wanted to see mom, that you wanted to spend time with her, you're entitled to it.

Caroline started yelling and screaming. Your mother began to get upset. Cameron tried to calm everyone down. Caroline finally noticed him and started yelling obscenities at him. You asked her to stop. She stalked over to you and grabbed your shoulder and began to yank you out of the room.

Cameron followed, trying to separate you both, but he was not as strong as was before, chemo and radiation had weakened him. You were yelling at your sister, how could she do this to you? You just want to see your mother... the mother that you both share. Your own flesh and blood! She told you that you were no longer her sister. You asked her how could she say that? What gave her the right to kick you out of your mother's hospital room? She stopped dead. Security just arrived. She produced a piece of paper, a legal looking document.

"What gives me the right to kick you out of that hospital room is this document!"

The security officer took it from her hand, read it and passed it to you. You could not believe your eyes. Your father obtained a restraining order from allowing you to visit your mother. Your visitor's pass was under Mr. & Mrs. Brosnan, so security missed it.

You felt defeated. You want to say goodbye. They wouldn't let you. You could not see your mother from where you are. Tears rolled down your face. Cameron wrapped his arms around you and walked you to the car, basically holding you up. You stayed four days in a hotel. You knew in your heart the exact day she died. You watched the funeral from afar, not allowed to attend or be anywhere near it. You watched the bitter man that is your father. You watched the woman that you thought was you sister. Both carrying on and grieving like they really loved this woman who had just passed away, but they didn't love her. They just wanted to own her.

You walked away feeling broken and black. Cameron fed you hot tea and love for weeks until you are felt a bit more like yourself. You were glad to have some of those photos your mother sent. You looked at them almost every day for four weeks, your fingers traced the lines of her face, recalled old memories and hugs and kisses from her.

Cameron took care of you, you didn't ask him to, but you were glad to have his shelter during this storm. Then you swapped roles.

He tells you that after his death he wants you to sell the house. He put it in your name. He wants you to use it for medical school. He left other money for his kids, who are grown and out of college. They never come to see him nor call, and they know he's dying. He wants you to change your name to something new, something that will keep you safe. He's afraid of your father. He's afraid that your father might come looking for you again. You think he's being silly, but you see the seriousness in his eyes. You hate talking about these things, but he doesn't do it often, so you have to listen to him when he does. You just don't want to think he's ever going to go away. He tells you he'll always be with you. You decide he will be.

In the chill of these memories and dreams of ghosts and angels, you drift off to sleep amongst your photo albums and with your lamps on.

You are awoken by a light touch on the bare skin of your shoulder. For some reason you do not jolt up off the bed. You lazily open your eyes and see House's deep blue eyes watching you. His arm extends toward you, hand slightly under the robe that is falling off your shoulder, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

Hi. You say quietly, barely moving. You are exhausted, you know it must be late. His eyes are tired and full.

"Hi." He sits on the edge of the bed.

You ask him if he's really here or if you're asleep.

"I'd pull a piece a hair out of your head or pinch you, but that wouldn't be nice, would it?" he says. "My leg is telling me that driving stick through the Lincoln Tunnel on Friday night is a really bad idea, so yes, I'm really here." He rubs at his thigh.

You have that stunned, confused feeling that one can feel when being awoken during REM sleep. You start to pull yourself up a bit, a warm blush covers your body from sleep. Your robe is still cinched at your waist but barely covering you, you pull it closely to you.

How did he get in your apartment?

"Duh." He shrugs. "Key."

Key?

"Yeah, last time I was here, I had one made," he looks around your room, his eyes taking everything in, remembering.

He had one made?

"Yeah, c'mon! You remember!" He looks at you like you're crazy. And like you two can have a normal conversation right now. "Don't you recall adding me to your security list?"

Vaguely. You're confused, but you let it go for now. Another larger question looms, what is he doing here?

He's silent. Moments pass awkwardly. Finally, he turns to you and looks at you with a seriousness you've never seen before. You can see how tired he is...he looks more tired than you feel.

"Please." He urges. "Please, do not ever do that again."

You raise an eyebrow a bit. You don't reply. You wait for him. You feel like he's not finished. He's not.

"Please, don't run out like that again," he sighs, looks at his hands. "I was worried sick all week, and of course, you know me, too stubborn to call."

You tell him that you're a big girl...

"I know, I know... you're a woman...blah blah blah blah... but," he sighs again, glances at you, "I'm allowed to worry."

Allowed? Oh really?

"Cameron."

Allison.

He looks at you.

You ask him to please call you Allison.

You watch him gulp and nod.

You ask him if he highly encouraged Wilson to call. He doesn't look at you or answer. You have your answer.

"You didn't call him back."

No. Hence his impulsive drive to Manhattan?

"Perhaps?" He smirks. "I'm just a little late following your impulsive trek back into Manhattan."

The room becomes icy again. You lower your head, fingering the silky sash on your robe. The things you haven't discussed.

"How's Pearl?"

Cranky. Fussy.

"Hmm." Silence. "How are you?"

Cranky. Fussy. A small smile tugging at your lips. Tired, very tired. How is he?

"Tired." He pauses. "Cam...Allison..."

Your shoulders lift up with hope. You don't expect the words, but you're not sure what you expect.

"Stop running."

You know that he's right. You didn't expect the words "I'm sorry," but some kind of apology would have been nice. Though, you know that this is Gregory House that you are talking about.

"I'm here," he says and looks at you dead on, "I'm listening, I'm not going anywhere, and...and I don't want you to go anywhere. I don't want to go anywhere..."

You are shocked by his admission. And warmed by it, down to the bone. He has you speechless, but you refuse to drop your guard or your jaw.

What makes him so sure of himself that you have or will forgive him?

"I'm not sure of myself," he smiles, "I'm sure of you."

He leans over and places a kiss on your shoulder, the spot he had just discovered with his fingers. He wraps his arms around you, giving you a big hug. You shift with his movements like a doll. Your anger with him has disappeared into the mattress. He came to you. Toeing his sneakers off at the end of the bed, he stretches out next to you. He kisses you once, strongly, your face between his palms, his eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks, his tongue a soft gentle sweep across your lips and tongue. He inhales your breath as if he needs it to breathe. He holds you in his arms, his face in your neck like it belongs there.

He molds his body and your body together into one, making you warm again. He's not tentative, he's gentle and his movements are deliberate. You can't see his eyes or face. You hear can hear the rhythm of his heart...heavy and steady. His breathing, quiet and soft. And even though you don't speak, there are words laden in this silence, words that neither of you can say at this moment. That he was wrong and don't leave him -- like that ever again. That you will talk to him, you will tell him about your ghosts and angels. That maybe now, you both will love now. His arms are tight around you.

You start to fall asleep in his arms, just exhausted from the emotionally draining week and short conversation, your mind and heart full and aching. His thumb runs up and down along the silk of your robe, you feel the warmness of his skin under your hand, his breath and bristle on your neck, strong arms hold you like a safety belt. You don't want him to protect you from everything. You just want him, to share in the pieces that he gives you, to not feel so alone, because when he's around and when you're with him, you don't feel alone. Ever.

END PT 16