You Say Intuitive Aptitude (Quote-Unquote), I Say I'm Just Surrounded by Morons
House M.D. crossover. House, Cameron, Sylar. PG13.
.
.
The next time House visits the patient's room, John Doe is awake, complaining loudly of a headache and dizziness from the slew of meds they currently have him on for the jumble of symptoms he has (blood loss, amnesia, headaches, dizziness, fever to begin the list). He cocks his head to the side, studying House in a disturbingly reptilian fashion he's mirrored so well before, wets his lips and speaks in a voice cracked from disuse.
"You're like me, aren't you… Dr. House?"
"Oh, yes. Two peas in a pod, " House lazily drawls. "We should buy matching sweater vests from Dorktown USA."
He looks up to see John Doe, heavy eyebrows set in a clear scowl. "Unless you're claiming amnesia as far as dressing yourself goes too."
"Where am I?"
"Princeton-Plainsboro hospital. No ID, no family, no visitors. What's your story?"
"I…" he pauses for a moment, thoughtful. "I don't know. What did you say the small man's name was that was just in here?"
"Taub," Cameron replies reflexively, before gritting her teeth together in obvious annoyance at their unknown patient.
Interesting.
"I was a Taub once, I think," he says dreamily, as if searching for a fond memory. "And a Petrelli once too. Neither stuck very well." John Doe turns, staring at a quivering Cameron who squares her jaw, despite her shaking hands holding his IV line. "Come now. If I wanted your power, you know I would have already taken it. Would you be a dear and bring me something to read?"
Power?
House watches the exchange with mild interest, filing it for later use and possibly blackmail. If this guy has teeth enough to work up Cameron, surely that juicy tidbit will be worth hanging over her head one day for a favor, maybe he can at least get her to write him a new vicodin scrip later, sans sanctimonious lecture.
.
.
.
Ever since he first hired her, he's always known how to pluck the strings and play his immunologist just right, and it's no exception when he corners her in his office later, watching as her body visibly tenses when he pulls up a chair right next to her instead of across, and whispers in the shell of her pretty little ear. They've had plenty of encounters like these in this very room, bordering on illicit, the memories of which flit through his brain in perfect detail as if he just experienced them, remembering the shape and weight of each fondly. How his hands still could span her tiny waist like then, how perfect her lips tasted, how she looked when tiny tears clung to her eyelashes and wanted him to be things they both knew he never could.
"Cameron, how do you know our John Doe?" He asks, voice low, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear, before pulling back and staring at her with the same resolute intensity that he knows instantly attracted her, blue eyes boring into her, searching for clues to suss out this particular part of the greater puzzle that is John Doe.
"And don't tell me it's because you two are suffering in the same world of delusions and you have a pretty power you aren't telling me about."
Cameron's eyes widen as she takes a nervous gulp at his statement. He watches her as she reflexively tugs at the hems of her sleeves, drawing further in and away from him like a wilting flower. Whatever it is, it's something she's been hiding, tamping down in an attempt to forget. The whole situation screams of latent trauma, but something is missing from that diagnosis too.
If only he could write it down, scribble it out and search for a pattern…
Maybe later.
"Our John Doe… his name is Gabriel G-Gray," she begins shakily, stammering as she says his name. "He's wanted for questioning and a suspect in his mother's murder."
Well that explains a lot, but something still doesn't make sense, isn't fitting into place, like how a girl from the Midwest living in New Jersey knows about a killer in New York.
One of these things is not like the other, a child's voice sing-song's in his head as he recalls the information he knows. "His chart says he was found in Queens. You watch a lot of New York news, Cameron?"
"I have a friend personally affected by the death of Virginia Gray," she replies a little too fast to be true and a thrilling tingle goes up his spine as he sees through her lie.
By golly, Cameron, you make a terrible liar.
"Try again sweet-cheeks, this time with a little bit more conviction if you want me to believe it," he drawls, touching her cheek with the back of his hand softly before resting it on her shoulder, gently reminding her you can't con a misanthrope who lives by the mantra everybody lies.
And she crumbles, shies away from his touch and falls apart while he completely and utterly fails at comforting her. "He tried to… House, but I didn't let him. I fought," she finally chokes out, silent tears running wet tracks along her face, and he should have known, should have easily guessed. "I was visiting a friend who moved to Queens a few years ago and my car broke down. He just… appeared out of nowhere and knew, but I was able to get away."
"Did you-" he begins, wondering if Chase knows or if it's one of the few secrets only theirs, before finding that much sought after tact he rarely displays, abruptly shutting his mouth and letting Cameron continue.
"He looked different back then, but I know it was him."
And that admission, he knows is the truth.