mute_mime (mute_mime) wrote in enigmaffliction,

House: Parts of a declaration 1/3

Title: Parts of a declaration
Author: mute_mime
Characters: Cameron, House, HouseCam
Disclaimer: Don't Own House
Spoilers: All seasons
A/N: This story is AU-ish. House is pre-season 6 and Cameron is I think up to date. There is mention of rape and violence but nothing too in depth. I must thank 0penhearts for being a great beta.
Prompt: Here at lines_crossed

Part I:

What happens is this:

She barrels into his house late in the evening pointing her finger at him and yelling at

the top of her lungs. He is Charlie Brown and her lips are smacking of ‘Wah wah Wa ‘ and

her face is red like a


with the wind coming from the open door freezing, just ice cold. She screams at him and

all he can focus on is the green of her scarf choking at her neck and the beginnings of frayed

ends in the thread. Somehow he manages to catch Chase’s name and this is when he begins

to pay attention to her words and not just her lips.

“What the hell did you say to him!? What did you do!?”

“What are you talking about?”

His voice is normal, maybe even soft, and it’s not because he’s not mad, but because

somewhere inside of him he is


that she is breaking and he is becoming whole. It’s sick, twisted, and

it’s cruel, but he’s not fooling himself with thoughts of having a

soul or even a heart.

“Chase and I were leaving Princeton! We were going to leave this horrible place!” She

inhales and with it her chest heaves, or what she has of it. “We needed to get out

here! And then he comes home today and suddenly he has to stay!”

“I’m failing to see how this is my fault.”

“I saw you!”

She swallows and it’s loud.


“I saw you leave the OR!” Her eyes are going crazy, wild, like a bug. “How did you get to him!?”

And because it’s fun, right now it’s so much fun, he smiles and brings his face closer to hers. She

smells of tequila and cooked hope; it’s delicious.

“Want a drink?”

“No!” Her brain is close to exploding and it’s damn exquisite. She’s just about to become

perfect. “No! You son of a bitch! You stupid, stupid, son of a bitch!” Her trembling hands wrap

the neck of his shirt into balls and she shakes him to her, trying to bend him, just to shape

him into something not straight and whole.

“I’m stupid?” Now he’s getting warm. Now he’s feeling the burn and his body leans into hers

with glaring eyes and a sharp mouth. “What did you think moving was going to solve? You didn’t

really think putting 500 miles between you and Dibala’s ghost was going to fix all your problems,

did you?”

Her mouth starts moving in little tilts and turns but it takes a second more for her words to start

pouring out into his glass. “That’s not what this is about.”

He almost feels himself to start laughing because her voice has turned down and her eyes are as

sharp as his have become. It’s about time he rub off on her. “That’s exactly what this is about. You

do realize what he did, don’t you? He killed someone.” His finger ducks under her chin like a gentle

lover’s would and she pulls back, lips nearly snarling with foam like a rabid dog. He’s turned on.

“And it wasn’t nearly as noble as when you did it.”

They don’t talk about these things, these truths. It’s understood between them, but everything’s changed

and they’re not the better for it.

“Stop it,” and she means it, he knows.

“You might even say he murdered that guy, wouldn’t you?”

“He was a despicable excuse for a man. Everyone knew it.”

“’First do no harm.’”

Her hand whips across his face and leaves fire in its wake. He tumbles, catches himself on his sofa, and

leaves his mouth hanging open for cold air to rush in and soothe it.

This is when he laughs:

And it’s no chuckle or rumble in his throat. It’s laughter that no one has heard in years, including

himself. And it feels so fucking good, so damn


motherfucking hella good. She stares at him in shock as he lets go, or falls off his rocker, and

it makes him laugh harder.

“Who are you?” She asks.

The fuck if I know, he wants to say, but tears are forming in his eyes and he has to wipe them

away. It’s quiet then as he cools to a smirk and her face is stony like Mount Rushmore under

a grey haze of drizzle. There’s his girl.

“Oh, come on. It’s not like you’re surprised.” His bite is bitter. “You didn’t want this to work

out anyways.”

“He’s my husband!”

“That doesn’t prove anything but your sordid attempt to have a normal life with a second rate


“Why do you think you can say that?” This is the point she bursts between his legs and her

heat is mixing with his own and if they were to meld into one volcano the eruption would

bring about the extinction of all life. Period.



“What gives you the goddamn right to say anything?”

“Because I’m always right. History proves it.”

His back straightens in bravery and his chest brushes against her jacket and his hands grip at

the silver dollar buttons so cold between his fingers. She doesn’t realize it and his fascination

at hearing the rip of the fabric so close to her skin is tangible and wild in his mind.

“What did you tell him, House? Tell me.”

“You already know.” He tugs at her with a whisper. “You tell me.”

He waits for her to give up, to wave the white flag so he can shoot her in the back. Because that’s

what he wants to do – break her until her pieces are splinters of shards and nothing can make her

whole. Like he has been this


time all alone.

“Why are you doing this?” She whispers and there’s no softness in its quiet utterance, just hard edges.

The past year has changed him. It’s as simple as that. He is healed and whole, so the joke goes.

“I’m in love.” Her eyes widen and somewhere in those depths he sees the old Cameron. She’s

stunned and hurt, and for a second so is he. So is he. “I love Cuddy.” And it’s made him do this.

This since he’s happy with Cuddy and her dark hair, the high breasts, hell, even her bastard kid.

It wont’ make sense to the blonde in his arms, but it doesn’t matter to him. He’s in love and it

scares the shit out of him just like his old man did when he was five and








his milk at the counter. He is scared and this is what he does – kill

everything in sight.

Here is the point she stops loving him:

His hair is too short and his eyes too big. His mouth too lined and his leg too ugly. She finds

herself disgusted with him, with herself and she bends slightly at the waist. The need to

tear at his skin and bite his existence away rolls under her fingernails.

“Fuck you.” Her hand grazes over his skull. “Fuck you.”

“Will you?” he smirks.

“I was almost happy.” She feels the pull of her mouth, can feel the pulsing of her blood through

the veins in her hands as they press harder to his head so that he winces. “I was so close.”

“Too close,” he murmurs and catches her wrist before digging his nails in.

“I hate you. I’ll never forgive you.”

He snorts derisively. “And?”

“You should know.”

When he looks up into her eyes he finally sees it. She’s not kidding. She’s broken

and she means to stay that way. But she’s not going down alone.

Cameron has finally given herself up. She has left the building. The lights are on but no one’s

home. She could blame House, and she does, hell yes she does, but there’s always truth

in his sermons. Always, and she’s tired enough to accept it. She’s torn enough to play his

game because she’s getting


at it too.

“She’s going to hate you too.” His body stills and she wants to smile in his face. It’s not so

fun on the other side, and she keeps going. “She wants you, House. But real fast, she’s going

to see there’s nothing much behind you. She’s going to get bored because even though you

think you’re this




you’re not.

You’re a brute, and you’re miserable. She’ll hate you. God, she’s going to hate you.”

“No, she won’t.”

He sounds like a little boy and she thinks it’s because the vicodin is gone and all that’s

left is him and his buddy pain. She’s glad.

This is how it ends:

They’re fuck ups. They’re good at it.

She digs her fingers into his thigh and rips across his scarred tissue until he shoves her

away so forcefully she nearly trips on her two feet. He’s yelling in pain and holding his leg

like the baby he wants to be a father to. The tears are coming down his face and she feels

like laughing this time.

She doesn’t. She still has something of a heart.

“Bitch! What the hell are you trying to do!?”

He rocks himself and eyes her with menace. She’s not scared. Why would she be? He’s

twice her age and a gimp at that. “You screw with my life I screw with your leg. Fair trade,

I think.” His breathing is ragged and fast, like they’ve just had sex and they’re still reeling

from it. It strikes her as funny in its grotesquely maudlin hope and she smiles. This is what

she has become in the run of a day. She makes no apologies for it and it’s


her fault. Is it? Her dreams are crushed and the sole man responsible couldn’t give a

damn. Ruined, she’s broken, gone.

“Get the hell out of here!” He rubs and he rubs. “I don’t ever want to see you again!”

Cameron stares at him.

“Go! I hate you!”

She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

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Tags: char:allisoncameron, char:gregoryhouse, fic:house, partsofadeclaration
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