A/N: This part was beta'd by my friend, jesmel on livejournal. I have a sequel in mind for this story, but whether or not I will get the time to write it is the question.
Disclaimer in chapter one.
8.
Outside the window snow flies through the air in a frantic mimicry of the mobs inside the airport desperately trying to get out of Baltimore. Above the hum of the crowd, you hear the grating scrape of the plows working to clear the tarmac. Seeking a quiet place to think, you limp through the melee, utilizing your cane to clear a path when necessary. You spot an unfinished area that has been cordoned off for safety and make your way over, Stacy's phone clasped in your free hand.
You think of Cameron in the quiet of her apartment, imagine her curled up on her bed, and you wish you were there, tucked around her like a quilt. The thought gives you a sense of peace that is all mixed up with desire and desperation, fear and need.
In this abandoned section of the airport, the smell of sawdust hovers in the air. Behind the temporary walls, construction has halted for the night and you are alone with your thoughts. In the distance, where the airport is still abuzz with life, you see a kiosk with stuffed bears lining the shelves. Involuntarily, your vivid imagination conjures up a vision of a small boy with eyes like yours and a soft brown mop of hair. He drags a teddy bear behind him as he climbs into your lap and lays his head against your chest. You swear you can even smell that little boy scent in his hair--sweat and sugar and grass and sky all rolled together and you feel an indescribable sense of... possibility.
Becoming a father was never on your list of priorities. Your experiences with your own dad has warped any sense of paternity you might have had. And after Stacy and your leg and your subsequent drug addiction... well, the idea became even less appealing. You're still not sure you'd actively seek it out now, but with Cameron, you think you might be able to handle it if you got another chance.
Sitting on the cold hard tiles, you dial her number. It's late and you know she's probably sleeping, but that doesn't stop you. You really need to hear her voice.
Four rings and you're about to hang up when...
"Hello?" she answers, and there's an uncertainty there that weakens your resolve to tell her... well, everything.
"Hey," you say. "Did I wake you?"
"House?"
"Yeah, who'd you think it was?" The sarcasm makes you cringe because you didn't mean for it to come out that way.
"Caller ID said Stacy Warner," she replies, and suddenly you feel stupid because you forgot you had Stacy's phone.
"Right. My phone is dead. Had to borrow Stacy's." Running a weary hand over your face, you think of the case she solved and say, "Heard you speak aphasia now." You pause because you've been cruel to her for so long it's almost instinctive. She may be strong, but you know she's not invincible and you don't want to hurt her anymore. You don't want to break her.
"I'm... proud of you," you manage to say, almost choking on the words even though you mean it. Or maybe because you mean it. Sincerity is a language you don't speak fluently.
There's a long awkward silence, and then finally, softly, she says, "Thanks."
"How did your appointment go?" you ask, because you are genuinely concerned. Medically you know what's happening to her body, how traumatic even a first trimester miscarriage can be to a woman, at least physically. But you want to know the emotional effects as well, to know if she's okay.
It occurs to you now that you had actually looked forward to watching Cameron's body change as the baby grew. The rounding of hips and belly and breasts--the mental image of her carrying your child is surprisingly erotic.
"It... went fine. Everything's fine," she states, detached, matter of fact. "Is that why you called?"
You wince at the cynicism in her voice and decide that now is confession time.
"No." Elbows on your knees, and one hand smoothing across your face, you take a deep breath and press on. "I just... wanted to say I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?" she asks, and you can tell she's genuinely puzzled.
"Everything." You're prepared to start listing all your sins against her if you have to, but then, she probably doesn't need a reminder.
"O...kay," she responds, and there's so much in that pause. Forgiveness. Skepticism. Like she thinks you're suffering from temporary insanity, and she fully expects you'll still be a bastard tomorrow. She's not humoring you, she just believes that this streak of kindness won't last. And you realize that you really don't want to hurt her anymore and that you've got your work cut out for you if you're going to regain her trust.
And then you start talking, confessing things you never thought you'd say.
"Did you ever want something so much that you would do anything to get it?" You don't wait for an answer because you might just lose your courage if you stop now.
"Stacy invited me up to her hotel room and then she kissed me. And I didn't... feel anything." You let out an ironic laugh and hope Cameron won't hang up on you.
"And then she kissed me again and...still nothing. And Wilson called and told me you solved the case and I realized I... I really wanted to hear your voice." Your heart clenches at the little gasp she makes and you continue, words spilling out of you like the little pills from your prescription vial.
"So here I am sitting on the airport floor and it's snowing and all I really want right now is to curl up beside you and sleep." Sure you've never said anything that corny out loud in your entire life, you let out a little huff of a laugh and wonder if she thinks you've lost your mind.
The silence piles up like the snow outside. And then...
"That sounds nice," she murmurs, and with those words, she's plowed the runways around your heart and cleared it for takeoff.
"I miss you," you admit, and you think you hear her sniffle. It was not your intention to make her cry, but you suppose you've done just that many times before.
"Cameron," emotion thickens in your voice like syrup, and you try in vain to swallow it down, "will you give me another chance?"
"Yes." There is caution in her voice and you can't say it's not justified, but she said yes and that's all that matters. If you got what you deserved, she'd have hung up on you by now.
"Good, that's... that's good," is all you can manage to get out when Stacy's phone starts beeping and you discover her battery is dying as well. You really don't want to disconnect. In fact, you'd be perfectly content to just listen to Cameron breathe all night. Sappy as that is, you crave whatever connection you can get right now.
"House, I think your phone is dying."
"Is that what all that beeping is?" you snark, and then instantly regret it. You don't want to take your frustrations out on her.
"You'll be back tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah, tomorrow," you answer. "Cameron?" The damn phone is beeping more urgently now and it's pissing you off.
"Yeah?"
What you really want to say is "I love you," but you can't. Not yet. So instead you say, "Have a good night. I'll see you tomorrow."
"'Night, House," she says, and her voice pours over your skin like liquid warmth. You can only imagine what her touch will do, and you wish you had taken the time to really feel everything the one time you were with her. That's a mistake you won't make again.
9.
You're still sitting on the cold, unforgiving airport floor when you spot Stacy coming toward you with her phone charger in hand. Gone from her face is the cheap drugstore makeup, but not the perpetual look of tolerant affection she wears in your presence.
"Thought you might need this," she says, holding it out to you.
Instead of taking it, you simply hand over her phone, unaffected by the touch of her hand as she reaches for it.
She slides down the wall until she's sitting next to you, twining the charger cord between her fingers. "So... that's it then?"
You don't have to ask her what she means. She's always been pretty good at reading you, and you her.
"Yeah," you mutter, chancing a look at her face.
Her hand unconsciously reaches for her missing silver cross and she sighs. "Just like that? Greg we were... What happened? Is this because of Mark?"
It takes you a moment to find the right words to explain everything, but all you can say is, "There's someone else." After a brief pause, you say, "I didn't know she was... I didn't know she meant so much to me until today."
"And she... feels the same way?"
"I think so," you answer, scrunching up your face at the doubt you suddenly feel. "I hope so."
As she walks away, you realize for the first time why you and Stacy didn't, won't, work. You're both selfish people, unwilling to compromise. She wants what she wants and you want what you want and rarely ever the twain shall meet. The flirtatious sparring was fun for a while, but it was never anything either of you could sustain indefinitely. You wonder why you didn't see it before, but then you know it's because you have the contrast of Cameron in your life now. She's equally as stubborn as you are, if not more so, but she's never selfish.
You've been chasing Stacy, thinking you still loved her, but now you know you just wanted to recapture the life you had when you were whole, as if that were even possible. And maybe a big part of you just wanted to prove that you could win her back. You add that to your list of reasons why you hate yourself sometimes. But you're not so selfish that you want to hurt her anymore, and you sincerely hope that she can repair her marriage and be happy.
10.
You manage to catch the first flight back to Newark, and you find yourself more eager to get to work than you think you've ever been. Beneath your eyelids, Cameron's image drifts like snowflakes, one fading away to be replaced by another. Always with you, always there. She pulses beneath your skin like the blood in your veins. It's the thought of her sad, sweet face that does you in. You want to reach out and cup her cheeks, press your lips to the spaces where her tears would fall if she'd let them. Every latent romantic tendency you've ever felt rises within you in a desperate wave of need.
When you arrive at the hospital, she's not there yet and you feel a keen disappointment and a nervousness that you haven't felt since you went on a date with her and bought her a corsage. Foreman and Chase are in the conference room, oblivious to your presence. You slink down into your desk chair, hoping to keep it that way. And you wait.
Over an hour has passed when she strides into the conference room all fluster and frenzy, looking like she only just woke up. She doesn't see you either as she shrugs her coat off and settles her bag onto the desk. Foreman teases her, wanting to know if she got lucky last night and she scowls and tells him she overslept. Before you know it both Foreman and Chase are mocking her about her feelings for you and placing bets on whether you slept with Stacy or not. They are getting far too much enjoyment out of her pain for your liking, though she is making a valiant effort at appearing indifferent. You really want to go in and smack the smug smiles off their faces with the handle of your cane. Instead, you decide that slow, prolonged, torture will work better.
You sweep into the room, a scowl on your face, and point your cane at Chase. "You, go do my clinic hours."
He casts a look of disbelief at Foreman, who shrugs, and then he tosses his pen on the table and leaves the room.
Foreman was harsher with Cameron, so you've saved the worst punishment for him. You turn your cane in his direction and say, "And you, go down and check in with Brenda. I'm sure she could use your help with bedpan duty."
"Right," he laughs, like he thinks you're kidding.
Without blinking an eye, you retort, "I heard her saying she was short on nurses today. Me being the generous guy I am, I thought we could help. And by we, I mean you."
He rolls his eyes, shakes his head and mutters, "Guess you didn't get lucky last night," as he exits the room.
It's just the two of you now, you and Cameron. In the soft winter light shining through the window, she looks ethereal, a Botticelli painting come to life. You don't know how you've resisted her for as long as you have.
With a nod, you gesture for her to follow you into your office.
11.
Standing beside his desk, your arms crossed over your abdomen in a gesture of self-protectiveness, you're sure, despite those amazing things he said to you on the phone the night before, that he has returned to bastard mode. You're just waiting for whatever lame excuse or explanation he'll give for his behavior last night.
He seems nervous and can't seem to hold your gaze for long. But then, you are surprised when he reaches forward, tentatively, and takes your hand, stroking his thumb across your knuckles.
"You okay?" he asks, and you nod, trying not to cry because tenderness from him is almost harder to bear than cruelty. It's so unusual. So unexpected.
A promise, unfulfilled, lingers in the air between you.
"You wanna come over tonight? Have dinner?" He pauses and you're blinking and nodding and smiling a little because he looks so vulnerable and you can't believe that he could ever be afraid of you.
12.
The weather is indecisive, the skies pouring forth a mix of rain, sleet and snow. The roads are only wet so far, but you know they'll freeze over if the temperature drops even a few degrees. You pull up in front of House's apartment, but there are no open parking spaces so you continue down the street. And continue.
The nearest open space is two blocks away.
You park and briefly consider driving home and calling the whole thing off. Anxiety has a vice-like grip on you all of a sudden. A dozen doubts and what-ifs attack your mind like a swarm of gnats, and the weather isn't helping. You didn't bring an umbrella or even wear a hat and you don't feel like walking two blocks in this maelstrom of precipitation. But... you always feel as if any chance with House will most certainly be your last. You're no coward. If you get to his door and he's suddenly changed his mind, well, at least you followed through.
In seconds you are drenched. Pellets of sleet, like tiny heat-seeking missiles, sting your face as you half run down the street. By the time you reach his front door there is not a dry spot on you and you're shivering so much your teeth are clacking together painfully. You probably look pathetic, like a wet stray dog, but you knock and there's no turning back now.
13.
You open your door and she's standing before you, your Botticelli caught in the tempest. She's soaked and shivering and looking as miserable as a person could possibly look. She seems to know your first question because she answers before you even ask.
"Couldn't find a parking space," she chatters, between teeth that won't stay clenched.
Unable to help yourself, you pull her into your apartment and into your arms, gathering her as close as possible and rubbing your hands over her back and arms in the hope of infusing some of your warmth into her. Strands of wet hair catch in your stubble as you nuzzle your cheek against the top of her head. You realize right away that she won't warm up as long as she's still wearing her wet clothes. The only thing you've accomplished is making yourself wet and cold too. Drawing away just far enough to look down at her face, you note that her teeth are still chattering, so you pull back and lead her to the bathroom.
"Hot shower," you say, pointing with your cane. "Get in. I'll get you something to wear."
She nods and shuts the door. You wait until you hear the water running and then you go to your room and begin rummaging through your drawers until you come up with an old pair of sweatpants you wore in college when you used to run track. They'll probably be miles too big for her, but they're the smallest thing you own. Grabbing a clean pair of socks and one of your button down shirts, you limp back to the bathroom where you place them on the lid of the toilet, along with a clean towel.
Heading back to the living room, you start a fire in the fireplace. And then you go and check on the pizza you bought from the freezer section at the supermarket. Knowing what she likes, you added some ingredients of your own so it would appear you made some effort on her behalf. Your cooking skills are just about on par with your social skills, but you can cut up vegetables and cook a frozen pizza in the oven when necessary.
She emerges from the bathroom just as you are pulling the pizza out, and you freeze at the sight of her. Baggy sweat pants have never looked sexier, and your button down... well you'll be having dreams of her in that for years to come. She stands by the fire, her dark hair in a damp and tangled mass falling over her shoulders. You watch her with a sense of deja vu, or maybe (hopefully) it's foreshadowing. All you know is that your apartment has never felt more like home, as if something has been missing and you didn't know it until you got it back.
Before you know what you're doing, you've limped over to her and your fingers are skimming her smooth cheek like skipping stones across a placid pond. Gently, you move them over the bruise you caused, as if you could erase it with your touch.
"Better?" you ask, and she nods wordlessly, her gaze roaming from your eyes to your lips.
Your heart taps out her name in Morse Code. Unable to stop yourself, you lean in and touch your lips to hers in a whisper of a kiss.
And you feel it. Connection. Like the lights have come on after a long blackout.
It's always there between you, but now you feel it physically and there are no words to describe it. You just know you want more, but you break away because she's not ready. Her body needs time to heal, and maybe her heart does too.
"C'mon, let's eat," you say, and she follows you to the kitchen.
The two of you sit at stools pulled up to the butcher block in the center of your kitchen and you serve her pizza and wine. It's not the most romantic setting, but you figure it's better than sitting in front of the television. The candle you lit flickers between you and puts a flush on her cheeks that tempts you to kiss them.
She's quiet, almost eerily so, and you think that maybe she's waiting for the other shoe to drop, like this is all too good to be true. It's then you realize you're not so different from each other. Screwed over by life so many times that you instinctively flinch and wait for it to happen again whenever something good comes along.
While she may be quiet, she's eating voraciously. Between the two of you, you polish off the entire pizza and then you lead her into the living room and settle on the couch with another glass of wine.
"I got you something," you tell her, and pull out a book from beneath the cushion, passing it into her slender hands. Your romantic skills are rusted over from lack of use, but you hope she won't notice or care. Her eyebrows rise and she smiles as she reads the title. Gently, you take it back and open it to the page you marked and begin to read.
"Love me, sweet, with all thou art,
Feeling, thinking, seeing,--
Love me in the lightest part,
Love me in full being.
Love me with thine open youth
In its frank surrender;
With the vowing of thy mouth,
With its silence tender.
Love me with thine azure eyes,
Made for earnest granting!
Taking color from the skies,
Can Heaven's truth be wanting?
Love me with their lids, that fall
Snow-like at first meeting;
Love me with thine heart, that all
The neighbors then see beating.
Love me with thy voice, that turns
Sudden faint above me;
Love me with thy blush that burns
When I murmur "Love me!"
She stops you with a hand on the page, a tear like a liquid diamond clinging to her eyelashes before sliding down her cheek. Ever so gently, she reaches for you, her fingers tracing over your face like silk on sandpaper. Her eyes tell you what she can't seem to say with words as she draws you down and kisses you.
Instinctively you know, she will change you for the better, like a steady stream bends and shapes the earth as it moves. Here, with her in your arms, you are at peace.
You are at peace.
Fin
A/N: The poem is A Man's Requirements by Robert Browning.