bek (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} aliora) wrote,@ 2006-10-11 23:14:00 |
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| Current mood: |  time will tell |
| Current music: | The Servant in my head |
| Entry tags: | cyclical, fic, house, house/cameron, incomplete |
[FIC] Cyclical 1/11 - House, M.D. - House/Cameron
...well, I'm guessing there's eleven parts. I'm still not 100%, but I have planned out each chapter, so unless I combine a couple or extend some, that's how many there should be.
So. It had to happen eventually. I get an obsession, I throw myself into the obsession by reading lots of fic and then writing my own. Here we are at the beginning of the cycle, and I can only hope I don't fizzle out before the end is out.
This one...it's probably been done to death. I know it has in other fandoms/books/movies, but the reason the idea lingers is because it works in some way. It strips characters back to basics, turns them raw, makes their emotions honest and real because there's no preconceptions. What am I saying?
HERE BE AMNESIA!FIC
Yeah, I didn't think I'd write one either. My standards drop every day. :P
Let's see how I go.
Title: Cyclical
Series: House M.D.
Pairing: House/Cameron
Words: 2972
Rating/warnings: M, I think. There's some blood and gore but hey, it's a medical show. A couple of bad words and violence.
Author's note: Beware the cliched fic. Also, integrated spoilers through the fic to 3.04. And the first scene is in present tense; subsequent ones are in past tense. There is a reason. Thanks to darkenedsakura for getting me into House and being my beta. ♥
Summary: A moment changes everything. Not all change is bad.
“Which one of you is House?”
It's a repeat viewing, this dream. He's had it enough times to recognise the slight tremor in the man's voice, an undercurrent of fear. He doesn't turn yet, though; he never does. Too busy writing nonsense on the whiteboard, riddles and gibberish about a patient that doesn't even exist. He thinks there are different symptoms in every version, but the little things don't matter because the big things never change.
The man comes and shoots him and then he wakes up. Regular as clockwork. Every time the same.
He scrawls something on the whiteboard, words and letters that make no sense. Not that it matters. Maybe next time he'll write a sonnet and the time after that he can try an equation or two. Algebra was never his forte, but he'd never done badly on it either. Too good for his own good. It sounds amusing in his head.
“Skinny brunette,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. The man is sweating, his face pale and scared. The man's eyes slide past Foreman and Chase, over to Cameron, who is getting up from the table, irritation briefly crossing her face. She tries to damp it with a look of welcome. He wonders how long it will be before someone refutes the claim.
The man says nothing, just looks at her. House turns fully away from the whiteboard and observes them both. Cameron starts a hesitant smile and stretches out a hand – an offering, of something. Please? Thank you? “Hello,” she says, taking a step towards the man. “I'm Doctor --”
The man moves in slow motion, pushing through molasses. There's something in his hand. There's something in the air. It takes House a second to realise it's noise and it's a gunshot but there's nothing on his stomach and he's not on the ground.
Cameron is toppling, falling, drowning and there's bone, blood and brain matter suspended in the air. And then it splatters against the wall and his chair hits the floor and time is moving again, he is moving again, but his leg – his damn leg – is hindering him and he drops to the ground as well.
“Cameron!” someone's shouting, or maybe it's a whole lot of someones because her name is ringing through the air. He barely heard the bullet but those three syllables – two, really - are reverberating and he's dragging himself across the carpet, trying to reach her side.
The other two reach her first, of course, because they are closer and not crippled and not a useless – pathetic – bastard who can't help – save – anyone who matters.
He's nearly with her now, but it doesn't matter after all. There's a hole in her skull the size of his fist and her open eyes – staring, accusing – have taken on the pearly sheen of death. Her mouth is open – swab in and out – and it's his fault, his fault and the pain hurts more than his leg ever did.
He stares at her because it's all he can do, even as Foreman punches the wall and Chase tries desperately to scoop her brain up and put it back inside. He watches her bleed into her hair and thinks dully that he'll never let the carpet be replaced.
But carpet isn't Cameron, not really, and she's gone, she's dead, and he doesn't know how to make it right, and there's nothing, he is nothing, and he has to do something, anything --
House woke up.
Well, that won't be going in the good dream journal.
He didn't like dreams. People tended to read far too much into them – much more than the dreams themselves deserved. Dreams were a by-product of the subconscious mind induced to keep the brain active through REM sleep, and were neither psychologically enlightening nor portentous in any way. Technicolour imagination showing at an all-night movie marathon. They meant hardly anything and proved absolutely nothing.
But damned if he wasn't feeling like shit after that one.
He rolled over and stared blearily at the clock. Five thirty-six AM. A fine time for the exercise junkies and around the best part of the day, according to his mother. Honestly? Sparrow's fart. He didn't like to do anything until the sun was directly overhead (“As opposed to shining out your ass?” Cuddy had said when he'd mentioned that element of his work ethic) and right now it was only just peeking over the horizon like a shy schoolgirl.
He grimaced. Bad metaphor. Schoolgirls were off limits for a long while. But the damage was done; the dream and the pale wash of sunlight slanting in through the window had joined forces, so now he was awake. Not wide-awake, but there'd be no chance of slipping back into peaceful slumber.
And really, it hadn't been that peaceful anyway.
Flinging out a hand, he fumbled for his cane, knocking the clock off the nightstand in the process. Feeling somewhat vindicated, he wrapped his fingers around the smooth wood and steadied himself as he got out of bed.
Hobbling to the bathroom, he pushed the dream from his mind. It meant nothing. Nothing. Ignoring his psyche was healthy, because his psyche lied just like everyone else. He was just tired and cranky and sick of having that dream almost every night. The change was a good sign. He was moving on. Next time the man would kill Foreman, and after that, he'd get Chase. It wasn't symbolic; it was just a natural progression. Maybe at some part, Cuddy and Wilson would appear.
He hooked his cane over the towel rack before dropping his boxers and peeling off his t-shirt. The only advantage about waking up early was having as long a hot shower as the shared water supply would allow. The tidy Asian couple next door left for work by eight o'clock. If he got the water first...
Allowing himself a small smirk of victory, House flushed the toilet and spun the shower tap. Maybe today wouldn't turn out too badly, after all.
Cameron pushed the completed chart away and leaned back in the chair, stretching to get the kinks out of her neck. She needed a break. Paperwork was all well and good for – no, that was a lie. Paperwork was never good. Especially when it wasn't even her own.
She glanced across at Foreman, who was making notes on his clinic sheets. “I'm going to go stretch my legs. Want me to get you something to eat?”
He barely glanced up. “No, it's fine. Thanks.”
She nodded and stood, stretching her arms over her head and rolling her neck again. “Where's Chase?”
Foreman twirled his pen distractedly. “Not sure. He could be at the clinic.”
“Okay.” She picked up her mug and took it to the sink, pouring out the dregs before giving it a quick rinse. Chase had left his half-finished drink on the counter, and she had the ominous feeling that she'd have to scrub that cup before it was safe to drink from again. It didn't matter how many times she lectured them on keeping the dishes clean – and honestly, they were doctors, the should know this stuff, they worked with bacteria all the time – they just didn't seem to understand --
“Going on a scavenger hunt?”
Cameron stiffened. How a man with a cane managed to sneak up on her, she'd never know. But...it was probably a good sign. If she were hyper-aware, it would mean she still had feelings for him. Which she didn't. So it was a good sign. Definitely good.
She put the mug down to drain and turned, giving House a tight smile. “I'm going to grab some food, yes.” She didn't repeat the offer she'd given Foreman because feeding House was like throwing money in the bin. There was no return and the money was gone. Forever.
He didn't seem fazed. “Good. While you're downstairs, get me something.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Please?”
“Oh, I know it's an honour, but really, you don't have to beg. As my favourite immunologist, you get the automatic gold star.”
She stopped resisting. It was, as ever, futile. “I'm your only immunologist.”
“Well then.” He raised his eyebrows and started the trek back to his desk. “I'll have the cake with the stripper in it.”
She grabbed her purse, feeling resigned. “One Reuben it is.”
He threw a thumbs-up over his shoulder as she let herself out the room.
And, it figured. The one day she had next to no cash in her wallet (only enough for her meal, and she didn't dare going back without food for House now) would be the one day the cafeteria's credit facilities were down.
“I'm sorry,” said the harried-looking register lady. “Blame the bank, not us.”
Cameron sympathised despite her irritation. No doubt the poor woman had been explaining the problem all day. It was probably a blessing House hadn't come for his own lunch. She could just imagine what he'd say. No, wait. That fantasy relied on the erroneous assumption that he'd pay for his own food.
She really was too naïve for her own good.
“It's okay,” she told the woman. “I'll just run down to the bank and get some money. Can you keep my tray until I get back?”
The register lady nodded and signalled to a kitchenhand, who took the tray and put some cling wrap over House's sandwich and her salad. She flashed them both a grateful smile before heading out the cafeteria and through the clinic, leaving via the front doors.
The sun felt nice on her face and she took a deep breath, savouring the breeze. It wasn't often that she was out and about during the week, but House had dismissed all the cases Cuddy had given him, for reasons known only to himself. Privately Cameron had thought the thirty-year-old pilot with shattered eardrums seemed rather intriguing, but she wasn't taken enough to want to fight House over it. Besides, his pile of charts never seemed to get any smaller, so it was a good chance to at least catch up for the time being. She was fairly sure she was going to be shackled to his paperwork for the rest of her life.
The elegant pillars of the bank loomed up ahead and she felt almost disappointed that it was so close. She could have done with a longer walk, but at least she'd caught a few minutes of fresh air. Some was still better than none.
Automatic doors parted with a barely-audible whoosh, and as she stepped inside the air-conditioning brushed her skin with a cool caress. She joined the line behind a young mother and child and glanced at her watch. Twelve forty-three.
The bank was quiet. Someone coughed and a teller pushed down hard on a stamp, but the hush was relaxing and Cameron tried to forget about the hospital and House and the fact that she couldn't think of one without the other. She tried to just appreciate the calm, ignoring the muted whoosh as the doors opened again. She'd almost succeeded when someone bumped into her back; turning, she gave the young man behind her a look, but he was looking over his shoulder and missed her reaction.
She shrugged and turned back, trying not to glance at her watch again. She should really be taking a perverse delight in making House wait for his lunch. Yes, that was a much better idea. She should--
“Everybody get down on the floor, now!”
A gunshot rang out, and then another one. Cameron had half-turned before a rough hand pushed her to the ground. She hit the tiles hard, arms and legs slapping down at different times, and in the time it took her to catch her breath, the young man from behind her had shot two more bullets into the air.
Cameron forgot to breathe. Man – gun - again. The last time this had happened she'd nearly lost...what? A boss? A friend? There was no time to be thinking about what House meant to her. Not now. And, it seemed, facing a gun once couldn't prepare her for staring one down again.
“I mean it!” The man's voice cracked on the last word. Cameron stared until she'd memorised his face. Short brown hair, brown eyes, maybe five-eleven or six foot. Jeans, white t-shirt. Checked overshirt. Dirty laceups. Black bag, gun...gun. Her perusal stopped. Did it matter, in the end?
He shot into the ceiling again and the mortar cracked, breaking apart in a sheet and crashing to the ground. She covered her head reflexively, bits and pieces raining down and scratching over her bare arms. After a moment the shower stopped and she opened her eyes, lowering her arms.
Nervously, the man licked his lips. Behind her, a child whimpered.
“Gavin!” Cameron turned again, in the direction of the cry. The young mother from before was looking at her son, face pale. “Oh, Gavin!”
Cameron swallowed. The little boy hadn't been as lucky as she'd been – a piece of the ceiling and plummeted down and lodged in his neck. Blood gushed from the wound - caught the jugular, heart keeps pumping, boy keeps bleeding - and soaked his shirt, pooling around him and staining the white, fluttering fingers of his terrified mother. “Gavin!”
“Shut up!”
He punctuated the shout with another bullet, angled this time so it hit the roof over an empty stretch of floor. And then the bank was quiet again, but Cameron couldn't relish the calm this time around. Someone was sobbing. A man at the front of the line looked to have wet his pants. One of the tellers had silent tears tracking down her cheeks. Cameron's heart was throwing itself against her ribcage, but above everything she thought she could hear the whispering flow of the young boy's life leaving his body. She had to do something.
She took a shaky breath and slowly pushed to her feet.
“What do you think you're doing?” The man, the gun – oh, the gun - were both looking at her now. His eyes were bright and his shirt had a line of sweat down the front. She blinked and her eyelids sounded thunderous; she cleared her throat and thought the walls rumbled with the noise.
“I...” she couldn't talk.
“What are you doing?!” He screamed it this time, the gun waving around, up, down, up, up, left, down, right. It was still looking at her, the cold eye of the barrel, unbiased yet judging at the same time. She tried to ignore it. She couldn't, of course.
“I'm a doctor,” she managed.
“I don't care!” He was lying, of course. Everybody lies. He hadn't anticipated harming anyone; more than likely he was high and needing some quick cash for his next fix. The boy behind her gurgled softly and she hoped it didn't mean what she thought it did. She hoped he still had a little time.
“You do care.” She spoke softly, carefully, trying to calm him down. The man who'd wet himself sniffled a little and the teller who was crying swallowed a hiccup. The gun was still eyeing her, but the barrel was turned down slightly, so she chanced a step backward to where the boy still lay.
The man was breathing rapidly. “What do you know?” The line of sweat was longer now. She fixed her eyes on his face and took another step back. Her heel caught on a piece of rubble and she stumbled slightly before regaining her balance.
Cameron swallowed hard. “You don't want to do this. You think you have no choice, but you do. You don't want to hurt people because you shot up into the roof, not at anyone here.”
He was looking at her now, his eyes locked on her own. His chest rose and fell and the gun dipped lower still.
She tried again, taking another step back. She wasn't trying to negotiate a victory; she just wanted to save the boy. “You don't want to hurt anyone, but this boy is in danger of losing his life. I need to treat him. You have to let me help him.”
The gun lowered to his side. “You can fix him?”
“I don't know.” It hadn't occurred to her to lie, but the moment the truth had left her lips, the gun was up again, pointed at her chest.
“Can you fix him?!”
“Yes!” she cried, but it was too late to correct her mistake. He strode forward, gun arm steady, the cold, black eye of the barrel trained upon her.
The man's eyes glittered and his face was almost red with exertion and fear. “You can't change it!” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. He stopped in front of her. Cameron's eyesight burned and she wondered who she was crying for, the dying boy or herself. “You can't change anything!”
She wasn't sure what he was meaning, but her chance at doing something – anything – was slipping away fast. “You can always change,” she pleaded, feeling her nose start to run. “You can try, you can. You don't have to do this. Change your mind. Turn around. Things will-”
“No!” he screamed. And then his hand was moving and the gun was coming and it hit her head with a crack. Then the world blurred and faded and went completely black long before she hit the floor.
Please let me know what you think!
