Title: The Good Samaritan Stopped By
Fandom: House m.d.
Summary: What will happen to House after Tritter is through with him. The joys of rehab! House/Cameron
Rating: What about NC-13?
Disclaimer: Written out of fan-appreciation I do neither own House m.d. nor any other characters that appear on that brilliant show, I just borrowed them to play around with, so don't sue, please?
He sat at the window staring out at the courtyard. He wore a faded band t-shirt which he had pulled out of the closet in a state of being semi-awake, not caring what colour it was or what was on it. People here insisted that six a.m. was a good time to get up. If you asked him six a.m. was a good time to get thrown out of a bar or to turn in bed, but definitely not to get up. It went against his biologically dictated sleeping pattern and anybody in his right mind knew that I human being couldn't possibly function like that. Then again these people were all crazy; they had this cheery enthusiasm about them that made him want to puke. Actually he had done a lot of puking during his first week here. He had almost felt like a human fountain, except that it hadn't been water coming out of his mouth. He let out a hoarse chuckle. Being a doctor, there wasn't a lot that would actually disgust him anymore. You got past that yuck-factor once you'd finished your residency.
Usually he felt superior thanks to his profession, as if he was part of an elect circle of individuals who set themselves apart from the herd, other times he felt that knowledge truly was a curse – like now, for example. Unlike all the others he knew exactly what was to be expected from rehab – the joy ride that detox was, with all its lovely seizures, the cramps, the night sweats, depression and of course, the crappy therapeutic sittings where he was supposed to get indoctrinated with that bull-shitty twelve step programme. He had not bothered hiding his aversion to group therapy which made up for a bad start with the therapist. Also introducing himself to the rest of the druggies with the words, "Hi, I'm Gregory House – a doctor and if you want to trait in porn or booze against prescriptions feel free to ask," hadn't been the smartest idea in retrospect.
His musings were interrupted by a hesitant knock at his door, he didn't bother turning around, because he really didn't care to see who the newcomer was. Usually some stout nurse came by this time of the day to place his bills on the nightstand and she really was anything close to eye candy, so he decided to save his time and energy. Then he heard a familiar voice say, "Hi." It was Cameron.
He let out a sigh, but didn't turn around nor care to reciprocate her greeting. There was absolutely no point in doing so when all he wanted was to have her out of this room in particular or better yet, out of this rehab clinic all together. "I thought I drop by to see how you're doing," he heard her justify her presence.
"Yeah, you came, you saw, now you might as well leave again." He started scratching his arm again. Sometimes his skin felt like there were bugs crawling underneath it and though he could see that his skin was getting raw and angry in that particular spot, he just couldn't stop running his fingernails over it. There was also that maddening tingling in his leg - the healthy one - that made him kind of hyperactive. It was feeling like he had been cooped up in a tiny room for too long and needed to be moving around, have a good run, but damn, those days were over because of his bummer leg. His knee started bouncing up and down nervously. He tried focusing on those little ticks, but his willpower didn't suffice to make them go away.
"It's been a two hour drive, so I'm not leaving yet." He heard the familiar creaking of the bedsprings, telling him that she had sat down behind him.
So what do to now? She wouldn't leave unless he persuaded her to do it. Two ways to go, but do it quick. Ignore her or lash out at her, just make her leave – quick. He wanted to put in minimal effort, because he didn't have the energy for a verbal attack. He couldn't keep it together and administer a verbal trashing all at once. So he just sat there and pretended like she wasn't in the same room as him, attempting to persuade himself that he couldn't hear her breathing or smell her perfume. Some one called Allison Cameron didn't exist in this universe. His eyes stared out of the window, without really looking. He was seeing but not seeing all at the same time.
"I know what you're trying to do and it isn't working," she said calmly. He didn't answer, which oddly enough encouraged her to continue talking. "Next you're going to try and say something hurtful, something that will make me leave, so you can be alone again. You can save us both some time and trouble and just accept that I'll be here for a while no matter what you'll say or do."
"Feeling like playing the Good Samaritan again, Cameron?" He threw her a brief glance over his shoulder. The lines on his face were more prominent now. She could tell he had lost some weight, because his cheeks looked kind of hollow. The shadows under his eyes spoke a tale of nights spent waking and exhaustion. She could see this much in a blink of an eye because she had spent the last few years cataloguing every line of his face, every expression it wore in the course of a day.
"Maybe a little, but mostly I'm doing this for me," she acknowledged after a moment of contemplation.
"What? You want to see how low I've fallen so that you can finally put me down from the pedestal you decided to place me on in the first place for some odd reasons only you alone can understand?" By the end of the sentence he had fully turned around, his blue eyes sparkling at her challengingly.
"I never put you on a pedestal, House. If anything the last year has shown, that you're nothing but human."
He looked at her with a mock serious experience on his face. "Oh, I'm sorry, did this little experience make you doubt your belief in inert goodness of mankind? Bohoo! You make me want to cry, because I'm such an evil, bad, bad man!"
"Do you never let anybody close to you?" she looked at him with a frown on her face. An expression she sometimes wore during differential, when she was thinking hard about something.
Normally his walls of defence were made of denial. Denial was thick like granite, almost impenetrable, but yet again she had always managed to reach him some way or the other. Now that the walls were only paper screens he could no longer hold her of, it seemed. He just didn't have the energy. "Just go," he said between clenched teeth. His hands were curled into fists, the nails digging painfully into his palm. The pain gave him something to focus on.
Cameron shook her head. This simple gesture seemed to mock the seriousness of his request. "You don't have to do this alone," she offered after a while.
"What if I want to?"
"Nobody wants to be alone."
He ran his hand through his hair, actually pulling at it. He muttered something unintelligible then turned back towards the window. It seemed they sat like that for an eternity until she finally spoke again. He could here the rustle of her clothes, as she got up from bed. "I'm going to leave now," she announced somewhat regretfully.
When she was almost at the door she could hear his voice, "Come back tomorrow?" The way he had said it, was somewhere between a neutral question and an order.
She paused, "Why should I?"
"Because I tell you to?"
Cameron turned around and was surprised to see him look at her. "Try again," she said softly.
He made a face as if the next words were painful to utter. "Because I want you to."
"Okay, that will do," she slowly nodded her consent and left the room.