Title: And Unto Him She Shall Return (10b/?)
 Characters: Cameron/House
 Spoilers: None
 Summary: She would always return.
 a/n: Part 11 is already up here somewhere... 

 

  Wake me up inside
 "Bring Me to Life" - Evanescence  

 She'd forgotten how much she hated traffic during major events at the
hospital. Egomaniacal doctors, already tipsy from the airport lounge,
driving overly expensive and powerful rental cars. Tonight, however, was
doubly special due to the rain coursing down at a steady rate. She sigh as
yet another person cut her off. This was not a good indicator for the rest
of the evening. 

 She nearly slipped as she trotted the half-block between her parked car
and House's apartment. Even with the large umbrella she held, she could
feel her dress being ruined. "Damn you, Wilson," she muttered for what
seemed like the millionth time. Finally reaching the sheltering haven of
his building, she slowed her pace. He never cared about being on time, so
why should she? 

 She rolled her eyes at the garbled response behind the door after she
knocked, reluctantly letting herself in. House was in the middle of a rant
about ties and drinks which she paid little attention to as she
meanderingly perused her surroundings. 

 True to his nature, he'd changed little of the place since the last time
she'd seen it, nearly eight years ago. Her eyes skimmed over book titles,
wondering which he had read and when. Her path took her nearer and nearer
to the piano, which, unlike everything else, looked extremely well taken
care of. A pang of longing shot through her spine, and she could barely
restrain her hand from reaching out to caress the smooth surface. 

 Suddenly, she stood up straighter. There was silence. She turned around
to see an astonished House ridiculously clad in a white tuxedo shirt and a
pair of boxers with light blue stripes. "You're not Wilson." She could
feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, but she was also amused. He would
try to spin this, she knew. Either that, or avoid it completely. Knowing
him was sometimes so...comforting. 

 Her response gave him enough time to devise a plan, however temporary,
and then he was gone again. As he questioned her, voice somewhat muffled
through the semi-closed bedroom door, she responded absently, her
attention refocused on the instrument before her. 

 It was as though she could no longer think - merely feel and act. She
sank onto the bench, hands nervously gripping the smooth wood. Gently and
delicately she grazed the keys with her right hand. Their glossy
perfection caused her to sigh as a dozen memories fought to be recalled
behind her eyes. 

 She told herself to get up, to walk away from the piano. But the rain.
And her dress. And the memories. It had been so long since she'd felt a
song coursing through her. Why had it been so long? Bringing her left hand
up to join her right in a weightless dance above the keys, she closed her
eyes. It was too much, but still not enough. Unconsciously, she slipped
off one of her new shoes. The metal pedal was cool and resistant against
her foot. 

 I dream, she threw her thought out at the piano through her hesitant
fingers, letting go. She'd played this song so many times in her life.
She'd played it to achieve perfection, to obtain approval. She'd won a
gold trophy once for playing it, had searched her mother's face for pride.
She'd played it for David - both in the beginning and at the end. She'd
played it only once after his death, back when she couldn't get out of bed
for a week. She was surprised at how well she remembered it. And though it
wasn't perfect, she felt it perfectly (perhaps for the first time ever) -
of that, she was sure. 

 After she finished she felt something inside her release itself, felt
something else take its place. House was giving her a look of alarm and
unease - she almost laughed. His assumptions about her had only ever
gotten him into trouble instead of saving him from it. 

 "Thirteen years." She would offer him something. Something in return for
her invasion of his sacred instrument. "Mr. Harrison's living room. Always
smelled like mothballs. And the keys always stuck." She wanted to give him
more. She wasn't sure if she knew how any longer. Wasn't sure if he could
accept. If he would. 

 "You know," he tried to sound deceptively noncommittal, but she could
feel his pressing intensity. "That piece is a duet." 

 "Oh, I know," she would keep it light. "Mr. Harrison always made me play
the lower part. Said I didn't have enough legato and phrasing in me for
the melody." 

 "He...was an idiot," he said. She wanted him to ask her why she had never
told him that she played. But then again, she was glad he didn't, for she
didn't know the answer. She wanted him to ask why that song, wanted to
tell him the "when's" and the "why's." But at the same time, she didn't.
She knew he wouldn't. 

 He was sitting next to her. Her body was reacting to directions from
somewhere deep within that she hadn't realized was still functioning.
Hands, feet, ears - it was sensually heartbreaking and fulfilling all at
once. So, she thought, in the few moments before feeling and music
overtook her mind, it will be here. 

 It came, the second time, like a rush. Notes and phrases skipped and
scattered until there was nothing. And everything. She couldn't breathe as
the last note faded into the history of Them. IdreamIdreamIdreamIdream, it
drummed in her head, keeping her sane, keeping her lucid. 

 What had she done. 

 She turned her head toward him at the very last moment of his
uncertainty. He knew something now, she realized in the seconds before
They and Them. But he'd always known so much more than she about them both
and what it meant and what it was. It. 

 When his lips questioned her, she froze for the merest of seconds. Then
she leaned into him in response. Her hands, which had been clenching the
bench and the piano relaxed and made their way up to cup his jaw. Near, so
near, were her hands to touching him - she could swear she felt the
prickly bristles on his cheek - when he pulled away. 

 It was smooth, it was swift. As though he had changed the channel on his
mental tv. "Wilson will think we died," he muttered, maybe, or something
to that effect. His back was her only companion as she floated down to
reality, like a blazing autumn leaf fallen too soon. He was out the door
and down the hall before she could get her shoe on. 

 When he walked back in to get his cane, she was still in a haze.