poly_chromatic | ☤ eighty-eight

Entry tags:

house m.d. - allison cameron

☤ eighty-eight

[VOICE]

I do remember, I always used to wonder what it would be like to leave and come back... Whether I'd know where I was, or whether it would seem vaguely familiar but foreign. I know I didn't remember any of this at home... [which is probably for the best. She pauses a long moment before continuing.] It's a little fuzzy, but I know where I am, so it could be worse.

Or maybe I'm only imagining I've left. It wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen, here. That much I'm sure of.

I guess I'll see at midnight. That's still how it works, isn't it?

[ooc; Age Reversal, or rather... fast forwarding. Replies from her blonde account,

popsong_wisdom-- just pretend she's, uh, heavily pregnant. Open to action around the City, she's just sight-seeing. Hit me ooc if you've questions or want anything special <3]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

We can't move on. [His voice gets a little loud on that so he stops, trying to reign in some of his incredulity. Leaning in across the table helps him lower the pitch.]

You're not serious—you can't just not tell me. Legally, you—

[Slow down. Deep breath. There is the light of reason at the end of this tunnel, surely.]

You're having my kid. [Nothing slows him down like saying that out loud.] I wouldn't want to move on from that.

It's not that simple. It doesn't change--

[Anything. Any of what happened between them, or any of what will happen.

Except it does.]

I'm not saying you don't have a right to be upset. But... if you never know...

[She shrugs.]

Look at it this way. For all either of us know, this is just City trickery.

[It's a transparent attempt to change the subject.]

[It's not working, although Chase has switched to the deep breathing technique that means he's trying to have a reasonable conversation without the need to shout (or cry). Being in a three year relationship taught him that.

It still doesn't always work.]

If I never know, then he - or she never knows either. I'd like [Oh god, these words are hard to form: breathe.] my kid to know they have a dad. Who loves them.

You're assuming I'll be alone forever.

[Her lips are in a firm line, disapproving and uncertain. Maybe none of this is real. Certainly things would be easier, if it's not. If it were her first husband's. If it were someone else's. If she never ended up this way at all.

At the moment, though, this is the only reality she's aware of.]

I wouldn't assume you'd be alone for a day if you didn't want to be. [she can take that however she'd like - he certainly means more than one thing by it.] And my stepmother adores me.

[The woman who calls maybe once every couple of years, usually after another one of his sister's drunken disasters. Those are the days Chase spends ready to punch a hole in a wall. Allison - his wife, will know this.

He presses his palms flat to the tabletop.]

Can we head outside? I'll walk you back to my place.

[Going outside, at least, means less chance of making a scene. She can't fault him for being upset, but she's never liked having an audience for their personal lives. Particularly when they're fighting.

Maybe that comes of living too near to people who breed strife for fun.]

All right.

[No comment on his other comment; she's only taking it as an avenue she doesn't want to take. Pushing her cup toward the middle of the table, she stands up, gathers her jacket off the back of the chair.]

[There have been enough tearful scenes in cafes during their relationship. He can't help taking a minute to watch her as she stands and collects herself, the silhouette so different to what he's used to. Then he stands too, and they make it outside with him forcing himself not to offer an arm.]

You look beautiful.

[There is that, though. Which may be just as unappreciated, but it's true.]

[It's more appreciated than he'd think, but under the circumstances she couldn't fault him for guessing otherwise. She's parted on better terms than he has. Still, she smiles; not widely, but genuine.]

Sometimes I think people say that to pregnant women because they're afraid anything else will set them off crying.

[Though, it's not an accusation, just an observation.]

Sometimes, people probably do.

[And some pregnant women might not be bloodhounds for catching some people in a lie. Chase knows better. And, it was as honest as it comes.]

Have you been having moodswings? Cravings?

[God help him, he wants to know everything. He'd listen to stories of swollen ankles with rapt attention right now.]

I'd have to be inhuman not to get moody, sometimes.

[She shrugs slightly, walking close enough alongside that he might as well have offered the arm, though maybe she'd have refused on principle. Who knows. It's always been a gamble at the best of times, making nice gestures.]

Overall, though, it's not bad. [It helps that she's knowledgeable, and moreso, that she's always been careful of her health. Minding someone else's is second nature.] Not much morning sickness, thankfully.

I've never seen you cry because someone didn't think you were pretty.

[Moody, yes. That part of her he knows. It's that he wants to be a part of this, and everything new about her now.]

You're probably past the worst of the sickness, by now? Have you— do you know what it's going to be?

I decided not to find out beforehand.

[The smile fades a bit but doesn't vanish entirely. Being here, the decision of whether to confess taken from her, she may as well take the opportunity to share. It's not even that he deserves to know-- though certainly that's a part of it-- but it's been difficult, keeping this to herself. The pride and wonder and frustration and crabbiness.

She stops walking suddenly, reaches for his sleeve.]

You can... If you want,

[She begins, cheeks pink from the cold and the awkwardness of being here, like this, unintended, grasping his wrist to pull his hand onto the curve of her stomach, as long as he doesn't pull back. ]

[If he wants? He looks at her for a moment, confused, then as if she's unlocked a gate he's been trying to peer over half his life. He lays his palm flat against the curve of her stomach, turning inward to face her in a quiet moment of communion. And then - his eyebrows raise as he feels something - the tiniest fingertip shove back against his hand. And he laughs.]

Think that was hello?

[She catches a comment about voice recognition on the tip of her tongue and swallows it, laughing quietly instead.]

Must be.

[If the look on his face isn't an argument for telling him, then nothing is. If this is real, and she's half-convinced it can't be-- that her present is only some imaginary future. If that's the case then she hopes doubly that she won't remember.]

It's-- even when you're expecting that to happen, it's still kind of amazing, isn't it?

Kind of.

[If he were trying to think of the understatement of the year. He doesn't move for a minute more, feeling those little flurries of activity until they subside. Meeting her eyes.]

I'm voting girl. More like a catfighter than a footie player.

I'm sort of hoping,

[She confesses, though as long as it's healthy she'll be as happy either way. Maybe a little girl would be less obvious a reminder, too, of who's not there.]

Though who knows. A lot of girls go in for soccer these days.

[It's the principle of the thing. Who would she be if she didn't challenge a comment like that? She rests her hand near enough his that their fingertips almost brush.]

No reason she can't be good at both.

[Yes, a catfighting daughter is fine, as long as she wins. And if she's got his genes she'll be handy at sports. He'd teach her to be, if he had the chance.

And then he straightens up, curling his fingers back in for just one, hesitant moment before he ducks in a little closer, in an awkward, nervy attempt at instigating a hug.]

[She doesn't even stiffen, as she likely would have the last time he saw her (at home or here alike). Maybe that's a biological imperative at work. Maybe it's only time, softening the edges and blurring the hard lines and adding a gleam to the good memories.

The truth is, for the longest time, even she assumed she'd run back in the end. She hasn't; she's come to think, in fact, she won't. But it is different, now, and not only because of the baby; she's less resentful. That's part of why she hasn't told-- she'd almost rather wish him well from a distance, let him move on, sever all their ties neatly if they can't be together.

For now, though, she squeezes his shoulders apologetically.]

This, definitely, isn't how I would have wanted you to find out.

It doesn't matter.

[He's never assumed she'd run back. Not in the brief time he'd spent at home - too brief for him to remove his wedding ring - and not in a full year here. But, for a long time, he'd thought maybe he could re-win her.

It seems less likely, now. And there's a stab of guilt that this year without her might have let him even begin to come to terms with that. But he holds her - gently, gently - as if there's a way he might not have to let go. He rests the side of his head against hers, still used to the difference in their heights if not the width that his arms have to accommodate.]

Allison... I would love this kid so much, if you let me. If staying out of your way's the price for that then I'll pay it, but... however long this lasts, if you get to remember one thing when you go, remember how much I'd love them.

[The funny thing is, here he might have had half a chance of it. Here, she knows enough to know there's not much to look forward to; and for a long time she thought perhaps they might make the most of it. Now and then she still entertains the possibility, but the truth is with everything unsaid there's no solid ground to start from, and bringing everything into the open might well ruin the chances. It's easier on her to assume he's through with it.

Or, it was yesterday and it will be tomorrow. Today is an entirely different matter, with a different end.

She pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, cupping his face in her hands.]

That has never been the question. Not for a moment.

Does anything, really, matter more?

[He can't help but lean into her, bowing his head and closing his eyes. There's no way to explain how pulled apart his heart is right now, how strange it is to spend working days with a woman he's afraid will stop loving him, before she's even started. How long he's been walking on eggshells.

And it doesn't matter. Because she's the end result. Whatever happens, if they can end up here, things might just be okay. That old faith in forever can't be kept down for good.

He sighs, resting his head against her hand.]

I'll give you all the space you need in return for weekends and holidays, if that's what you want. It's been a year, here and I'm... coping. It hasn't always been good, I'm not always proud of what I do. I'm not going to pretend part of me won't always be waiting for you, Allison, but I'm coping. You don't have to cut yourself and [A wordless, downward glance] out of my life to help me get by.

It's not about space.

[She rests a hand on the back of his neck, leaning back against him easily. They don't fit together as well, with three of them there, but it's as comfortable as ever.

What it is about isn't so easy to define. Partially it's about Dibala, about what he did, though truth be told time has eased that a little. It's more about his refusal to admit it was wrong; and mostly, perhaps, about what he chose over her. That he wouldn't take the out she offered.

Whether that would have worked... is another matter, and she's more or less come to terms with the thought that it would have torn them apart to run, too. She can't help but think there should have been-- should be-- some third option.]

I can't... I won't remember, you know. I don't want to make a promise I can't keep.

[He may never believe that what he did was wrong - hard to live with, yes, but debatably no more difficult than watching the news reports having let a mass murderer walk out of the front doors - but the decision not to go with her he'll always question. At home he thought there was a point to prove. Here, it's seemed less and less valid.

Holding her now, the point - his reasons - have all but faded away. He'd promise her a move to Chicago tomorrow. But he can't, and she won't remember.]

I know. [The smile's gentle, bittersweet.] I just have to hope it's not the only chance I get to plead my case.

[He looks up at her, looking for something.]

Are you happy? Happier?

[She flashes a brief, tight smile. It doesn't quite touch her eyes.]

I was angry. For a long time, but... [She takes a breath.] I'm not sure I can say I'm happy. I'm working on it.

[She looks down, or tries to-- it's no small feat since they're so close together.]

I think... I'm better than I would have been if I'd tried to stay.

[And she looks back up. She ought to ask in return, but for the moment she has the advantage of time, knowing what's in store.]

[Perhaps he'd rather not have known, but he needed to hear it said. That she sticks by her decision.

He reaches up, gently, to take one of her hands.]

We should get going so you can get off your feet.

(no subject)

popsong_wisdom - 2013-02-08 01:58 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

intheblanks - 2013-02-08 02:05 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only