Chapter 14: Shootings and Nightmares

Cameron injured herself. A lot.

It wasn't on purpose, and it wasn't for attention. It was just the fact that years ago when she was a child, there were houses where no one took care of her. So she took care of herself. And while she was proud of herself for doing a damn good job, there were times when she slipped. There were times when she was a child and then there were the ones from when she was an adult.

Letting the patient cough blood on her.

Letting House get to her.

Sleeping with Chase.

The meth.

Foreman stealing her article.

Being stabbed with a tainted needle.

And more recently,

Letting the patient get close enough to attack her.

Going out with House. Been there, done that, she should've known that she would get hurt.

Letting Tina take pictures of the all of them.

Falling down (and getting back up.)

And now, because of her slip-ups, she was sitting in the clinic with House and her burned arm.

"These are definitely second degree," House muttered under his breath. He patted her hand with a washcloth of cool water. Their anger – their pointless anger, seemed to be forgotten now.

"House, its fine," she protested. "It's not even bad. I can take care of these. I'm sure you have work to do."

"Damn it Cameron! Let me do this." He scolded. "Besides, it counts as clinic time."

That got a snort from her. "Glad that I can be of assistance."

"Aren't you though?"

"Sure."

"Want to help me with something else?"

"Not particularly."

House ignored her. "Want to go to the funeral with me?"

"No. I can't help you with your problems House. I'm not going to be there as a buffer." House froze in dressing the wound. He hadn't expected that.

"Why not?"

"This is something you have to do on your own. You don't want me there anyway. I don't do funerals well. And I'm not going with you to play nice with some strangers for you."

"Why not? You love me." At this Cameron pulled her arm from his grasp.

"Let's get this clear House. I don't love you. I don't even like you some days. I hate funerals. They make me think of my dead brother. My dead foster mother. And yes, they make me think of Ron. And I know for a fact that your father was in the military. Which means that they're going to fire guns. I hate guns."

"You were fine the day I got sh…"

"Stop." Her voice was deadly.

"You were shot and bleeding on the floor. Ask Foreman. The moment they took you into surgery I had a breakdown. Managed to convince them that it was because I was worried for you, but called my brother a half hour later mid panic attack in a bathroom stall hyperventilating. I could still see Ron with the gun. Could feel the bullet going through my leg. Alice had to come to the hospital to make sure that I was semi-okay. I did a vigil by your bedside, because I wasn't going to lose another person I cared about to gun violence."

Her voice cracked and she sniffled, tears starting out of her eyes.

"Something I never got to do with Jake, because he was already dead. He was dead, and I was still alive. My dad stopped hunting because of me. He went once and a while, but every time he did I would freak out because I thought it was going to be the last time I saw him. So don't pull that House. I hate guns. I cannot stand them. And I didn't know your father. Half the time you spend pushing me and driving me crazy. I'm not going to a funeral of a man that I don't know for someone who doesn't know when to stop pushing, unless you have a very good reason." Wound half dressed she stormed out of the clinic blinded by tears.

House sat down with a sigh. There was a real reason.

He had been having nightmares.

Nightmares where a young Cameron, adorably dressed up (because that was the only young picture he had ever seen of her) held an equally adorable child on her hip and the got shot to death, the song Hey Jude on repeat in the background.

After she died she would morph into grown-up-Cameron where she would proceed to taunt him, that she was dead, and he never really loved her or he would have saved her.

Every night since she had told him in Alice's restaurant a week ago he had woken up in a cold sweat. It wasn't until the next day when he was able to see her in the ER that he would feel better. A few days with no Cameron would be hell on his mind.

Not that he could admit that to her. For all of his bravado, what she had told him had scared and startled him. That night, as he had started calling it in his mind, he had acted like her story hadn't affected him.

But he couldn't get the image of her out of his mind.

House stood up and left the clinic with determination. She would go to the funeral with him.

Cameron stopped running when from House when she reached Wilson's' office. She barged in without knocking and Wilson looked up from Houses' PSP, expression startled when he saw her.

"Al!" The nickname made her smile, albeit slightly. In the hospital they usually addressed each other as 'Dr. Cameron' and 'Dr. Wilson'.

"What happened?" He was already out of his seat and over to her.

"House wants me to go to the funeral with him."

"Okayyyy," Wilson drawled out. He sat her down and was rummaging through some drawers for his First Aid Kit.

"I may have flipped out on him and stormed out."

"You've been doing that a lot lately, haven't you?"

"He just frustrates me so much!" She sounded like she was a fifteen year old girl complaining about her first crush, and Wilson couldn't help but smile. Having found his kit, he walked over to her and began to finish what House had started.

"I bet he could say the same thing about you."

"I don't do it intentionally."

"Does he?"

"Yes."

Wilson paused and raised an eyebrow.

"I know he used to, but do you think that he intentionally drives you crazy now?"

"I don't know." She paused. "Yes. No."

"He asked you to go to the funeral with him."

"I don't do funerals."

"Do you think that he does?"

"Wilson, the last funeral that I went to was my husbands, and I collapsed and had to be taken to the hospital. Before that it was Jakes funeral. I don't do funerals."

"He's been worried about you." Cameron cocked her head at the subject change.

"What?"

"Ever since you told him about your life growing up. He's been worried. House doesn't talk about things like that, but I can see it in his eyes. The first thing that he does every day is go down to the ER and watch you for a few minutes. You're usually very busy, so you don't notice, but after I saw it on Wednesday, I watched him, and he did it for the next six days. I wouldn't be surprised if that's why he wants you to come with him. He's scared for you."

"I don't like being treated differently because of my past Wilson. I told him that."

"He's liked, maybe even loved you for years, kid. You sprung something on him completely out of left field."

"I hate sports metaphors," Cam grumbled.

"Doesn't make it any less true."

"Make what any less true?"

"He likes you. You scared him. He wants to keep you close."

"Or he's pushing me."

"Pushing you?"

"If you harass someone enough they leave."

A lesson well learned from her childhood. If you acted like a terror no one wanted you.

"He's still the five year old boy at heart who pulls your hair on the playground and runs away, but that doesn't mean that he likes you any less. It just means he's scared. Something I'm sure you can relate to. And his dad just died."

"I don't do funerals."

"Did I ask you to go?" Wilson asked with patience.

"No." She was sulking now, and Wilson hugged her.

"Can I show you something?"

"Depends."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'."

He went to his desk and found the pictures he had yet to give House and handed her the one that Tina had told him to harass House about.

"Did you see these yet?"

"No." She flipped the photo over and smiled. "Tina at it again."

"He likes you."

"Are we in middle school?"

"Elementary school," Wilson corrected. "We're still at the pulling hair and then running away to laugh about it stage, remember?"

Cameron chuckled and glanced back down at the picture. If she didn't know any better she would have assumed that they were together. Maybe not in love, but something.

And with that realization, Cameron knew that she had to go talk to him.

She had a song - a Beatles song, just like Jake. She used to sing Hey Jake to him, because a long time ago, before that, she had a foster father who loved The Beatles. Ever night a different song before she went to bed. And, sometimes, he would sing Dear Allie to her. It never failed to make her smile.

But now, sitting in Houses' apartment, the Beatles playing softly and hearing her song – she flinched. Tina would have known to change the song, but Tina wasn't there. She had no buffer.

House watched her with a raised brow.

"Are you going to sit there all night and examine my wall or tell me why you came?"

"Neither." Cameron hesitated. "I was shot House. There is a scar on my leg from a bullet. And it hurts. And I know you were shot, but you don't understand." She paused again.

"The first day at Linda and Ron's, they took us shopping and Linda bought us stuffed animals. That night we had dinner, and I helped Linda cook it. Ron – Ron didn't like the potatoes she made. He threw the plate at her, and it shattered. I learned that night how to stitch someone's arm up. The day after that Ron came home from work with flowers for me and Linda and a baseball and bat so he could teach Jake how to play baseball. The next day when Jake didn't catch all of the balls that Ron threw at him, he was hit for every one he missed. We were used to it, of course," she continued on, oblivious to the horror on his face. Her hands were interesting and if she stared at them, she didn't have to look at him.

"So, it was no big shock to get the crap beat out of you one day and hugs and kisses and jokes the next. It's the way I grew up, and when I was re-placed after everything that happened I was so confused as to why no one was hitting me that I actually asked my foster mother why my foster dad hadn't beat me yet."

Cameron drifted off to another place, one House couldn't see. The shock on her foster moms face, the way she had immediately called Social Services to ask what the hell had happened to the girl while she was in the system.

"You see House, I don't do this stuff. I can act out the touchy-feely, the emotions, connect with the patients even, but there comes a level where I can't anymore. And one of those levels would be going with you somewhere that I may never be ready to go." She stood up. "The truth is that I'm damaged. Yes. And I'm broken. More then you, and more than you could ever imagine. I didn't let it get me down, but its there. It's there right on the inside. Just below the surface there is a ten-year-old girl who screams run as fast and as far as you can because you're going to get hurt. And it's going to be badly. Very badly. And that is the real reason why I can't go to the funeral with you."

She stood to leave but House caught her wrist.

"When they took out my thigh I lost a part of myself. You lost part of yourself too. And you still haven't found it." House hadn't either, but he covered it up with snark.

"Why did you want me to go to your dad's funeral, House?" It was an off topic question and House froze. "And the truth please. Not the BS about me being a buffer. You don't care about what others think of you."

"I go to sleep," House explained softly, "and you're dead."

Cameron froze. She knew those dreams. Had lived them more then once. Knew that the argument but I'm not dead wouldn't help.

So, instead she tried a variation. Something that the therapist she had once went to had taught her mother.

Cameron took a step towards him and placed a gentle hand on his cheek.

"I'm right here." She searched his face, looking for something, anything to show that he knew she meant it. "And I can't go to that funeral, House. But you can call me. And I will answer my phone. I'm not dead, just damaged."

She had shown him most of her visible scars – except for one of the most important ones.

The wound in her thigh from when she was shot. It held more emotional baggage then any of her other scars combined.

But, trust had to start somewhere. And what better place then at the crux of so many of her problems?

Cameron took a deep breath and shoved down her jeans. "Ron shot me." Tears glistened in her eyes as House took in the old bullet wound on her leg. "Ron shot me and it broke me. It shattered whatever I had left of little girl dreams and fairy tales and happy endings. And he killed Jake. My little brother. My only friend."

He hobbled to a stand and carefully removed his jeans to his knees. "My thigh."

Cameron stared at his face, until he met her eyes with the slightest nod. She looked down, but didn't gasp. She moved forward slowly and touched his leg with gentle fingers. He let out a quiet hiss, but Cameron didn't remove her hand until she had finished tracing the scar. She looked up at him, and there was no pity.

It was always one of his bigger fears. Women didn't want a broken man unless they wanted to fix him. But Cameron was just as broken as he was, if not more so.

She let out a deep sigh and slid her pants back up. There were more scars on her person. There was one particularly intimate one on her inner hips, on her pelvis that she had gotten from a baseball bat and a swift kick. To this day she couldn't recall exactly what had happened, but there had been a knife as well, a concussion and a matching scar for Jake.

House shifted, painfully drawing his pants back up and then popping a vicodin.

"So…" He started before letting his voice trail off.

Cameron echoed him.

"This isn't going to be easy," House warned her. Even as he was speaking he had no idea what 'this' was.

Cameron gazed at him for a moment. "No one ever said it was going to be easy House. They just said it was going to be worth it."