Stockholm syndrome
A.N. I end this chapter with a reference to the Greek hero Diomedes' assault on the god Apollo, during which the latter not-so-quietly reminds the former of his place in the order of things (Iliad, Book 5, lines 431–4).
Carter had suggested that House continue to exercise between sessions at the hospital, and Cameron had most definitely taken this to heart, for when he next wandered into the living room she was already clearing space. The complaint on his lips felt a touch redundant, however, when he caught sight of her workout clothes: the exact outfit worn when he had knocked on her door asking her to return to work following Vogler's departure: black shorts, blue top, high ponytail.
Since she was still busy rearranging furniture and unaware of his presence, he decided against making himself known. Instead he took a few moments to check her out, something which his own decency compelled him to keep to a minimum. Granted, restraint in this respect was becoming increasingly difficult. For the last couple of weeks he had received the distinct impression that they were both planets caught in each other's gravity, slowly orbiting ever closer. Or perhaps not planets. Cameron, at least, was a star. He still could not fathom how she found the patience to endure him at close-quarters. A real puzzler.
Another puzzler concerned something he had learned a couple of days ago. Working at the coffee table as normal, Cameron had left her cell face up while she went to use the bathroom. House, occupying the adjacent seat, couldn't help but glance over at the 'new message' alert: Foreman asking if she were free to head out that evening with he and Chase. On her return, she quickly typed out a reply and resumed her tasks. Given that she had not gone out that night, she had obviously declined the invitation to socialise.
As he stood there ogling her butt, House realised that, actually, things were kind of messed up. One of them here was suffering from a severe case of Stockholm syndrome. And seeing as this was his apartment, that sufferer had to be Cameron. So many opportunities to head out on the town with friends; to spend nights in a proper bed; to further her career doing a job more suited to her talents. Instead, more often than not, she had stayed at Baker Street. That wasn't normal. And she called him a freak. He had already expressed his surprise at this behaviour; had already suggested she stay back in New York following her symposium. But perhaps the situation had developed to a point where a more direct approach was necessary.
The woman is a work of art, though. Designed by the gods.
"I think we need to talk", he blurted out. It would be best if he dealt with this before the trusty old cerebral cortex sent signals to parts of his body that really ought not be at attention.
Cameron had been so engrossed in her task that she visibly jumped at his words. She quickly recovered, turned, and fixed him with those green eyes. "No, I'm not buying different laundry detergent. No one thinks your clothes smell of 'girl crap'".
House blinked a couple of times. "Not about that".
As it happened, he quite liked the smell of her usual detergent. As he quite liked a good number of the changes she had wrought on his apartment over these last several months. Most of them were very subtle, and he would even have been hard-pressed to pinpoint each of them. Nevertheless, the apartment seemed lighter, cleaner, warmer. Nicer. The result of some sort of black magic, probably.
"Then what?". She stood with hands on hips.
"Would you…?", he asked, gesturing towards the sofa.
Cameron tilted her head curiously but obeyed the instruction, sitting cross-legged on the right cushion. She wasn't particularly worried about his apparent seriousness. Seared into her brain was the set of his face, the feel of his mood, the sound of his voice when they had first broken up, and she could detect none of that here. Instead he seemed just a little self-conscious, even awkward.
House hobbled over and sank into the neighbouring seat, ensuring an appropriate distance remained between them. "Cameron".
"House".
"I know I said I wouldn't be telling you what to do, but there's something I'd like to raise".
"When did you say you wouldn't be telling me what to do?". Cameron couldn't remember such a conversation. This was unusual, since she remembered most things to do with Gregory House.
House thought back for a moment, then his mouth opened. "Actually, now that you mention it, it was Wilson who told me not to tell you what to do".
"Oh. When was this?".
"Why?".
"Because you've been giving me orders for roughly three years now".
"Sure, as your boss, but not in the personal…sphere? Yes, sphere".
"Really?", she wondered. "Because I distinctly recall a number of-".
"-look, it doesn't matter", he interrupted quickly, holding up a hand. "Will you just listen for a second?".
"Go ahead".
"I think…I think you should see other people".
Her smile faltered a little. "But we aren't even together. How can we see other people?".
"I didn't say we should see other people. I said you should see other people", he clarified.
"What does that mean?".
"Ahh, how can I put this…", he ruffled his hair with a hand and looked at the floor. "I'm…concerned? No, that's not the right word…I'm, er, wondering whether you're spending too much time on me and not enough time doing 'Cameron' stuff".
"Ohh, OK. This is a personal conversation, then". Immediately her heart was put at ease, for she knew how to navigate conversations with House like she knew the back of her hand. As she had long since appreciated, there was very little he could say that would render her truly speechless.
"Yes. A personal conversation", he nodded. "Exactly".
"Are you bringing this is up now because you're trying to get out of our rehab exercises? Because I can tell you it's a plan doomed to failure". Cameron laced her hands in her lap. Since she was wearing her running shorts, all this did was draw his attention to her bare legs which, in turn, led his fertile mind to conjure up images of her water-soaked limbs glistening before his eyes in any number of their shared showers. Sleek blonde hair, tight t-shirts, short shorts. He knew what lay beneath. After all, he had tasted it many times.
I've not had sex for months.
My tolerance is in the can.
Fuck.
House cleared his throat and plastered a look of mild concern on his face. He also mirrored her posture, hands in his lap. Unfortunately, the trusty old cerebral cortex was sending signals that could not easily be ignored. But they could be hidden. So that was something.
"No", he countered as naturally as possible. "I'm in rehab for the long haul, actually, and I resent the implication that I would hide my desire to stay idle behind my concern for you".
"Oh, it wasn't an implication, Greg; it was an, er-".
"-it was a what? Finish that sentence!", shouted House suddenly. Struck as if by a thunderbolt, he had been immediately reminded of a conversation he and Wilson had shared last year in the hospital lobby during which the former had been unable to land on the correct vocabulary for the opposite of 'implication'. English really could be a bitch. In his view, the sooner America cut ties with the coloniser and invented its own language, the better for everyone.
Cameron, somewhat taken aback by the sudden outburst, not to mention the change in subject, tried to regather her poise: "I, er…I don't, um…", House was gazing intently at her, "why are you-? What the hell is wrong with you?", she demanded eventually.
"Nothing. What's the opposite of 'implication'?".
"You mean the antonym?".
"Yes! The antonym. Goddam antonym. That was the term I wanted. Stupid Wilson confusing me for no reason". House snatched up his phone and rapidly typed a message, presumably to the oncologist. "Moron", he muttered under his breath. Whether this insult was directed at himself or his friend, Cameron couldn't say.
Message finished, House looked back up at her expectantly. "I want the antonym of 'implication' right now".
"Um, well, I don't think it has, like, a one-word antonym", replied Cameron slowly. "Thinking about it, though, 'explication' would be a theoretical option but-".
"-yes, exactly-!".
"-it's not a word", she finished.
"Who the fuck knows anymore?", he grumped, returning once again to his phone. Alas, 'explication' had been his suggestion at the time. As soon as it had left his mouth, he'd known it was wrong.
"Maybe something along the lines of…'an explicit statement'. I feel like that covers the right ground, semantically speaking. You know?".
House scowled, but soon lost himself in texting again. Sometimes he hated his brain more than he hated clinic patients and faith healers. Not often, of course. But sometimes.
Cameron, long familiar with her roommate's weird trains of thought bordering on temporary insanity, waited patiently until his phone returned to its place on the coffee table. "Are you OK?".
"Me? Yes. What were we discussing again?".
"Something about me seeing other people", she reminded him.
"Yeah, right". Where House had just been forceful and single-minded, he returned once more to avoiding eye contact. This time he focused on an area towards the top of her forehead. "I think you should see other people, go out a bit more, live your life. I'm obviously not saying you're not already. Only that you gotta take some more time for yourself. Especially now that I'm improving; reckon I could manage more solo, and so free you up to, sort of, do what you do and stop ignoring yourself".
"Hmm". She had been sitting cross-legged with her feet drawn up to the sofa through their whole exchange, and so was able to search his face even as he looked away. The fact that he seemed so awkward suggested his seriousness. "What makes you think I've been ignoring myself?".
"Nothing in particular", he lied.
"You saw Foreman's text the other day", she stated levelly.
"No". It never ceased to annoy him how this woman could cut through his dissimulation with what seemed to be little conscious effort.
"House, I think it's a bit too late for me to start getting precious about my privacy as far as you're concerned".
"OK, look, maybe I saw the text. But I didn't go hunting for it".
"Regardless, I didn't refuse Foreman and Chase out of some fear of leaving you-".
"-I never said you were afraid", he noted quickly, finally meeting her eyes.
"Whatever. I refused them simply because I didn't wanna go out with them the day they asked. That's all. There's no grand reason".
"Sure, but you've spent most of your days here".
"So? I like spending time here. With you". She reached across and covered his hand with her own. "With you", she repeated.
"Cameron, I'm not that interesting". As usual, House didn't really understand the appeal he held to the other. Most things about him were plain unlikeable, and the things that weren't unlikeable ranged from annoying to tolerable. It had always been this way. For as long as he could remember, at least. Women didn't tend to stay long; generally, that was how he liked it. And now Cameron was here: younger, more attractive, kind; but also strong in her own right. Not at all what he had expected upon first meeting her in that interview several years ago.
"You are to me. Sorry".
House sighed. "Fine, but I'm not happy with how you're sidelining your own life here just to take care of me. This is exactly why I think your overly caring nature is a massive drawback".
"D'you recall after your accident I was sitting at your bedside and you noted how much time I spent there?", she asked, conveniently ignoring his pointed remark.
"I do. You said you had nothing better to do; that you had no life".
"Right".
"So what you're saying is that you're secretly a loser who sits indoors all day drinking Coke, getting into arguments on the internet, and masturbating?".
Cameron exhaled through her nose. "Hmm, no, I think you're mixing us up…".
"Ah, yes, could be", he grinned suddenly. "But, in my defence, it's only 'cos walking is real painful. When the leg's better, I'll be heading back to my private booth at the all-night movie theatre".
"Gee, well, thanks for keeping me informed", she replied drily.
"Look, be that as it may", he said, back to business, "it's not just for you. I think heading out to see Homeboy and Skippy is a good idea. Cuddy has kept me in the loop, but I wouldn't mind getting some first-hand information".
"Understandable", she nodded slowly. "You could always tag along, if you wanted?".
"Nah. They won't be honest with me there sticking my beak in".
"Not like they'll reveal anything juicy to me either, though. They already know we live together". Cameron, who was still wearing her workout clothes and had not anticipated sitting still for any period of time, shivered slightly. Unfolding her legs from their crossed position, she stretched them towards House, being careful not to invade his space.
But he simply reached out and pulled her feet into his lap, casually massaging one of her calves. "Yeah, but you have a trusting, caring face that makes people wanna confide in you".
"I thought my caring nature was, and I quote, a 'major character flaw'". She flexed her foot each time she felt his movements lose momentum, enjoying the physical contact and the touch of his familiarly long fingers.
"It is, but that's no reason not to use it for the greater good".
Cameron extended both arms towards the ceiling as she thought on his proposal. After a few moments, she sighed softly. "Fine. I'll text the guys after our workout and organise a meetup. Happy now?".
"More or less. Shall we get started?", he asked, his eyes flicking surreptitiously up the length of her body. Designed by the gods indeed. The image of her in his fever dream, an Aphrodite emerging from the waves in her white bikini, shimmered before his mind's eye.
"In a sec. You've got another calf to massage first", she smiled mischievously, prodding him in the chest gently with a foot. "Looking after you is very stressful".
House made a sniff of slight annoyance but soon got to work. Like Diomedes before Apollo and the walls of Troy, it was not for mere men to disobey orders from Olympus.
