Title: Stormy Weather
Rating: T for language
Fandom / Pairing: House; H/Cam
Summary: Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
Notes: For Teenwitch.
Disclaimer: Yes! I own House! TAKE THAT FOX! Oh, look, it's the nice men in white coats with my happy pills...
You are running, hard and fast and far, eyes not completely on where you're going. You don't care that your feet are going to crack and bleed if you go one more mile, you don't care that you're probably killing yourself because you're running on coffee and adrenaline, and if it wasn't for the big bottle of water in your hands you'd probably have keeled over miles ago. You're running aimlessly, taking solace in the steady count of your feet on the pavement and the drumming of the rain.

"You're useless!" He shouts, in a moment of frustration. Behind you, you feel your compatriots' discomfort, but you ignore them. You are tired of rolling over and taking his abuse; you are neither doormat nor puppy, and you think maybe Allison should start reasserting herself over Cameron.

"As I recall, you're the one who begged me to come back," you snap, and Chase and Foreman freeze, and the office is silent. You are standing, posture defensive, but your clipboard is clutched in one hand like a weapon or a shield, you don't know which. You are tired and running on empty, and he knows this, has seen what you have done for this patient, has seen you go above and beyond the call of duty, and he has no right to insult you or your work.

He ignores the MacGuffin and aims for the core of you. "Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn't have."

Something inside of you snaps and you feel your face harden into a passive mask. It's the first time he's seen this face, and God willing it'll be the last. You rise, grab your purse, and walk out, pulling off your ID tag and throwing it at his face before you make your dramatic exit. You're certain the white lab coat flaps out dramatically behind you as you make your way to the elevator and it couldn't have happened better if you'd planned it out.

The door closes slowly and you hear Foreman shouting at House, calling him an asshole and a bastard, protecting you as he is wont to do. Chase stands aside glaring daggers before shifting his gaze to you through the window. You can feel his eyes on your back and you wonder what's going through his mind.

You take the stairs so that they won't follow you.

You have your cell phone with you out of sheer habit. There are three messages from Foreman and even one from Chase. House hasn't called once, and you don't care. You turned off the ringer because you were (are) tired of explaining yourself and letting yourself be talked into situations you don't need. You're done with it all and you don't need that kind of treatment from anyone.

You're running on blacktop, spongy tar that feels good under your running shoes, with the brightest yellow paint you've ever seen. You pant and pant and pant, the sound of your breathing an insane samba in your ears, all chaos and noise and discord that seems to work when mixed with the percussive slapping of your shoes on the pavement and the frenetic tambourine of the rain. You are running uphill and you are far beyond soaked at this point; your sweatshirt is black with precipitation and perspiration and sheer wetness.

You are pushing, always pushing. You pushed yourself to excel at medical school. You pushed yourself to love your husband and eventually to honor his memory. You pushed yourself to apply for this fellowship. You pushed yourself to prove yourself. You are unsure of where you stand in the world, shaken by death and the frailty of human life that you are forced to encounter with fair regularity in your life. You wonder if maybe you should have headed to Africa after all; your specialty and AIDS are as intertwined as the snakes on the caduceus, and Sebastian Charles would have appreciated your worth.

You come to the crest of the hill and brace your hands on your knees, suddenly very, very tired and unsure of where you are or how you're going to get home. You're unsure of a lot of things, you realize. You don't know if it's day or night; the clouded sky is darkened by the ominous shadows of thunderheads and the light is little as is.

You take a swig from your giant Dasani bottle (you could probably club a man to death with it and still drink it down, it's so big; you wonder if you should club someone just to test your theory) and start your cool-down, walking down the hill that you just crested. The rain is harder now but it feels nice against your hot skin and you pull off the sweatshirt. You're in a jogging tank and perfectly decent, so you don't think twice about it. Your dark hair is pulled back but down, and you can feel tendrils of your hair stick to the back of your neck from rain and sweat; you pull out the hair band and shake out the dark tresses before braiding them up again and securing the end.

At the base of the hill is a children's playground, all mulch bedding and plastic slides. Only the swings aren't gleaming; they are older but better for it. You stop and contemplate the swing. You remember playing with your sister and brother on playgrounds like this. You remember jumping off the swings and feeling like you could fly.

You remember Daniel kissing you on the swings for the first time.

You sit on the worn black pleather seat and kick off. The chains are wet, the seat is wet, and it's raining harder and you don't care. It's been years, and you are not the woman you had thought you would be the last time you did this, but you still remember the kickoff, how to pump your legs, how to gain altitude for the swing. You still remember the sensation of flying, you feel it now and it's wonderful even if (or maybe because) it's wet. You close your eyes and let gravity and friction do their thing and you feel yourself slow to a halt.

You open your eyes and he is there.

Your breath hitches and you have no idea how you're supposed to react. (You're tempted to club him with your giant water bottle, but it's just out of reach, sadly.) You squeeze you eyes shut for a long moment, willing him to go away.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm making you go away."

"Well, it's going to take more than clicking your heels three times and saying 'there's no place like home,' so I'd quit while I was ahead."

You roll your eyes and kickoff again, only pumping a little to keep your feet from skimming the mulch pit. The surprise comes when he sits in the swing next to you. You raise your eyebrows at him. He cocks an eyebrow at you, tosses his cane to the ground and kicks off himself. You're both just swaying back and forth, and you honestly have no idea. At all.

"Why are you here?"

"I was jogging and figured I may as well live a little." You shrug and hide a smile but you're sure it shines in your eyes.

"Har, har." He shoots you a withering glance. "No, seriously. Did you just jog over here? From your apartment?" You nod, not quite looking at him. You're craning you neck into the sky, savoring the rain on your face and neck. You catch him shaking his head out of the corner of your eye and smirk.

"Are you following me?" Mutely, he shakes his head and points across the street you were jogging along. In the driveway of a duplex is a red Corvette under protective covering. You blink mutely and bite your lip. Even your subconscious is plotting against you.

"I take it you forgot," he comments dryly.

You shake your head, half astonished and half disbelieving. "Shut up, House." You pump your legs more to gain momentum and glide for a long, silent moment. The only sound is the rain and the squeaking of the hinges.

Suddenly, you're very tired. It's the silence, it drains you. (It drains Cameron; Allison would rather fill the silence.) You come to a skidding halt and stand, stretching. You grab your club-cum-water bottle and the sweatshirt and make to leave.

"Wait," comes a gruff voice, and a rough hand curls around your wrist. You turn and he is standing, straightening.

"What?" You sound resigned, even to your ears.

"Look, I..." He looks everywhere but at you and drops your wrist. "It was a late night and I snapped." He stops and it dawns on you that this is the closest you'll ever get to a real apology out of the man. Cameron would take it.

Allison wants more. You remain quiet and watch his discomfort.

"I...I shouldn't have picked on you. The wombat probably needs it more than you."

You're still watching him with a carefully blank face and he is getting agitated.

"Look, just be there tomorrow, okay? Foreman told me Natrona--"

"Natalia," you correct, and you know you've lost.

"Whatever. She's apparently asking for you."

"You just want me for my coffee." You smirk as you slip the sweatshirt over your head.

"You know me so well," he snarks and taps the cane against the ground. Nervous habit, you realize.

"But don't I?" You smile mysteriously back at him and jog away without a second look back.

Or maybe you've won. You smile to yourself and turn the corner out of sight, the rain applauding you as you go.

Her criteria were:

> House/Cameron
> Rain
> Angst

She didn't want to see:

> Slap-worthy!Cameron
> Fluff
> post-No Reason with Cameron at House's side.