Disclaimer: House isn't mine. If it were, there would be much more gay love. Also, this fic was inspired by Regina Spektor's song "Somedays," from which the title and first line of this story have been shamelessly stolen. Not mine either.
Summary: "Some days," reflected Dr. Allison Cameron, "just aren't yours at all." What starts as a bad day could end up changing two lives for the better… If they don't screw it up. 13/Cameron.
A/N: This story contains femslash. That means two girls are probably gonna get it on at some point. If this offends you, go away.
Silence permeated the air of Chase's apartment, draping itself around Allison's shoulders like a purring cat, settling in for the day. At 5 in the morning, no neighbours could be heard in apartments adjacent; no heels clicked, no floorboards creaked, not a single coffee machine whirred and not one lone kettle whistled as it boiled. Due to the thick, soundproofed walls of Chase's lush apartment, this phenomenon was present throughout the day, silence not so much broken but reinforced by the quiet hum of the air cleaner in the living room.
Allison lay on her side, relegated to the edge of the king-sized bed. As always, Chase sprawled, spread-eagled, across the vast expanse of hideous, aquamarine sheets. Propped up on one elbow, Allison lay with these sheets that she hadn't picked out bunched around her hips; she was terribly hot but Chase was sometimes cold, so the too-thick sheets were left on regardless of weather. Allison considered. She couldn't push them down to her feet without disturbing the fabric across Chase's back, whereupon he would wake up. Cameron studied the man before her: his smooth, regular features, his regal air, the lock of hair that fell across his forehead in an effortless arc and pointed the way to his long eyelashes, the boyish pout of his full mouth. She pondered the idea of touching the muscled back, the downy hair on his unmarred neck. Just then he twitched and grumbled in his sleep, and Allison was reminded that this was not a statue, not a portrait of a beautiful man but Robbie, her fiancé, and that if she touched him he would wake, and not only would he be annoyed, he'd want to have sex. So, Cameron carefully untangled her limbs from the confining sheets, extracting her body with the utmost care not to disturb her fiancé's sleeping form. After some small struggle, during which she had to clamp her lips shut in order not to break the silence with little frustrated sounds, she managed to extricate herself and stand up without disturbing even the smallest fraction of the sheets that lay draped across Chase's tangle of sturdy legs and muscled arms.
Allison looked around for something to cover her nakedness. She stood awkwardly in the sunlight that leaked through Chase's windows, already uncomfortably bright even at this early hour, and considered her clothing options. There was no space for her clothes here, Chase's closet full to bursting with his impressive array of shirts and pants and ugly ties, and no room in the chest of drawers either. She wanted to take a shower before changing into her own work clothes, and anyway, those were located in her duffel bag, tucked into a corner of the front entrance, and she felt uncomfortable walking naked through Chase's silent apartment. She felt constantly as if the hard, sharp lines, the harsh light of the walls, and the unforgiving, stiff floors were judging her, excluding her from their unbroken symmetry. Settling on a clean shirt of Chase's, she attempted to skirt around the edge of the large pile of laundry obscuring the floor without losing her balance. She teetered precariously, one foot in the air and the other on its toes in a small clean spot between a pair of stiff socks, before she managed to regain her equilibrium and make the final leap to the doorway. She couldn't stand the filth, but Robbie cut her off when she brought it up. "It's my apartment," he would say, "These are my clothes and this is my life. You want to be in it, don't you, Cameron?"
"Yes," she would say, uncomfortable as ever with the use of her last name when they were naked, both of them, and lying in a bed in which they had recently made love, "Yes, of course. It's just that… Don't you think it would be nice I cleaned up a bit? I mean, I spend so much time here." She would suggest it tentatively, but he would knock her down every time. It was his apartment, after all. But Allison couldn't help but feel that she should have some say in it, some claim to some part of his life. Wasn't he her fiancé? Wasn't he supposed to give as well as take? Wasn't he supposed to comfort her sometimes, instead of expecting her to be there for him, constantly, and ignoring her when she tried to bring up her own feelings? Wasn't he supposed to move over, wasn't he supposed to make room?
The coffee maker in the kitchen was finicky, and Allison was forced to watch it constantly instead of making herself breakfast. Not that there was much to eat, anyway, or many means by which to cook it. It was obvious from Chase's choice of apartment and trappings that he did not cook much: the kitchen was small and cramped, especially compared to the rest of the apartment, and he owned only one pot and one pan, the bottoms of which were both blackened from what Allison could only assume were previous unsuccessful attempts to make use of them. She had no idea what Chase had ever cooked in them; she had never seen him make so much as an egg, and he had never shared the stories of the burnt pot and pan with her. Allison wiped up some coffee grounds that had decided to spew from the coffee maker with her hands, grimacing at the mess. She had never been able to find any rags, and Chase had never told her where anything was. She brushed her hands off into the garbage and surveyed the result. Well, the counters were clean. Her hands were another story, and she ran them under cold water to clean them off. She was just searching for something to dry them off with, holding her dripping hands awkwardly above the sink, when a sleep-roughened voice sounded behind her.
"Hey, Cameron." The woman in question jumped and spun around. At least, she intended to spin around, but was caught at the jumping bit when her head slammed into an awkwardly positioned cupboard door above the sink. Letting out a low moan, she rested one hand, still wet, upon the top of her aching head. Water made its uncomfortable way through her hair and down her neck, creeping into Chase's borrowed shirt and settling into the fabric to stick against her sweaty skin. Chase was laughing.
"Robbie!" she scolded, turning at last to rest her gaze upon his form, folded up in laughter. He was already dressed.
"It's Robert," he corrected, his laughter quickly tapering off. He pushed his way past her and the kitchen seemed even smaller, his legs and shoulders settling heavily into the atmosphere. Allison thought that she would be squeezed out if he took up any more space, that she would choke if he used up any more air. She shifted her weight to her other leg. Chase poured himself her coffee, leaving half an inch and the dregs at the bottom of the machine. She felt a bit like crying, but instead she took out a red mug from the cupboard, the one whose door had caused her head to throb and continue throbbing, even now, and felt a bit lighter. She liked red. She poured the last half-inch into the mug and tried to avoid the dregs, but they slipped in anyway. She took a gritty sip.
Chase was already making his way into the living room with his coffee, and Cameron watched him leave before realizing that no matter how long she remained in the tiny kitchen, no sugar would ever magically appear in a cupboard or on the counter top. She followed a safe distance behind her fiancé; it was always in the mornings that he seemed the most smothering, when the day was new and Allison had hoped he might have changed overnight. It was not that Chase was a large person. Not at all; he was slender, if anything, but every aspect of this house seemed infused with his presence, and an impenetrable barrier of heavy air seemed to surround him as he moved. Watching him walk in front of her, Allison couldn't help but compare his heavy limbs with Thirteen's loose ones. Cameron had seen the younger doctor walk away from her only yesterday, just like this, and the other woman's form seemed etched into her eyelids, her mind. She saw the image of Thirteen's lightness, her fluidity, her long nimble fingers and ever-changing face superimposed upon the sight before her in Chase's apartment: her fiancé, his limbs heavy and thick, sturdy and unchanging, his solid form rejecting any invasion, any breach of his solid walls.
Allison shook herself a bit before perching on the edge of a chair across from Chase, releasing Thirteen's ghostly image from her mind. She rested her coffee cup on her knee. He rested his on the coffee table. Her hands itched to fetch a coaster, but there weren't any and she knew it; besides, the table was already covered in rings from mornings past. Not one belonged to Allison: not one morning, not one ring.
"Robert, I was wondering – " began Allison, shifting a bit on the chair. The material of Chase's shirt was scratching her breasts and the cold metal of the chair was uncomfortable under her bare legs. Chase, sprawled on the couch, interrupted her.
"You woke me up this morning. Don't be so loud, okay, Cameron?" It was phrased as a question, but Allison heard the command. She looked at Chase in annoyance and he shot her his charming smile. It just annoyed her more.
"Fine," she said curtly, "but this can't go on after we're married, can it, Robert?"
"What can't?" Disinterested, already distracted by a magazine on the table.
"This apartment. There's no room for me here, Robert. Have you given any thought to moving, once we're married? Finding a place together?" Together. That would be nice, thought Cameron.
"What's wrong with this place? I love this place. I want to stay here." Flipping through the pages, furrowing his brow when interested, smiling when amused.
Allison was getting fed up, her frustration building, boiling and singeing the air around her; it was bubbling so close to the surface already. "Robert, what about when we have kids? This isn't a place to raise our children, you've got to see that!"
Chase looked up, finally. "Sorry, kids?" His expression was incredulous for a moment before his brow smoothed again and he attempted, half-heartedly, to placate the woman across from him. "Listen, even if we do have kids," there was a slight note of laughter and disbelief in his eyes, and it was cruel laughter like how he had laughed at her pain this morning, and she wanted to strangle him just then, "it's not going to be for a while, right? For me, this apartment is fine. You just need to get used to it, okay? For right now, it's just me and you, and my apartment is perfectly suitable."
"Me and you? Your apartment? How about us? How about ours?" She wanted to scream it at him, she wanted her voice to grow steadily louder and stronger until she tore down the walls with the force of it, until the soundproofed building couldn't hold her in anymore. She wanted to lunge at him, she wanted to wrench at his hair and make him love her, make him care for her and make space in his life for her, but instead she held it all inside, all the words and screams and leaps she couldn't take, because he wouldn't understand, he just wouldn't. She held it inside herself and felt her frustration grow, felt it trying to force tears from her eyes, felt it heating the air around her to unbearable temperatures. The mug she clasped between her hands grew hot, her coffee boiled again. Allison seethed.
"Well, must be off." He threw the magazine on the floor, set the coffee mug on the table, and stood to fetch his briefcase. Allison gripped her coffee mug impotently, feeling the heat wash over her. Chase was almost at the door when he turned around and looked back. "See you at work, Cameron. Oh, and could you not use that mug? It's got sentimental value, and I wouldn't want you to break it." With that, he walked the remaining steps and left the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Allison sat in the hard metal chair, Chase's shirt scratching her skin, and increased her already white-knuckled grip on the mug. She was tempted, in fact, to smash it right there.