| |
Swimming Metaphors
by Treacle_A
Title: Swimming Metaphors
Pairing: House/Cameron
Spoilers: None whatsoever. This one is set a couple of weeks pre-series and - to my mind at least - fits strictly within House-canon.
Author's Note: This is basically a love story - with swimming. Which is fine, because I love swimming.
X
Main Entry: swim
Inflected Form[s]: swam / swimming
verb
3: to float on liquid: not sink: not go under
5: a floating or reeling sensation
X
House swims. Every morning. Usually around seven-thirty am. The slot they like to call 'Sunrisers', although he chooses never to recognize the irony. The place opens at seven and, apart from a hard-core of four, maybe five old-timers with middle-age spread and a housewife who looks like she's on a fast track to deep-vein thrombosis, the pool is always empty. Twenty-seven meters of clear, still water, with nothing but the soft rhythmic chug of the filter to disturb the silence. It's the closest thing to a state of complete mental calm as he ever comes.
It hadn't been his idea, not originally at least. Anderson, the boss-eyed physio, had suggested it, one afternoon when the pain had gotten so bad it must have showed in his face. Swimming improves blood flow, strengthens the core muscles, improves stability...he didn't have to go on. Swimming was fine, but House wasn't a swimmer, had never been. He was a runner, a golfer, a weekend basketball player. House needed to sweat.
"Yeah? Well House needs to stop living in the past."
When he'd seen him in the lunchroom the next day, Anderson had handed him a flyer: the schedule for a local health club that offered discounted memberships to medical staff and, on the way in the next morning, he'd swung by and checked it out. Three blocks from the hospital and with a reasonable standard of hygiene. An old guy was leaving; stretched-out sweater vest and a cardboard belt, and he'd stopped him on his way out the door.
"Get busy in there this time of the morning?"
"Busy? This place is a mortuary."
His name is Joe, although that's the only thing House ever learns about him, or any of the other regulars. It's one of the things he likes about the place. After the initial head-nod as he climbs down into the water, they leave him alone. No questions, no chit-chat and no interest and, looking at them, he knows why. They have no time for anything but their own weary misery and the dull, grey age-induced pain he knows they must all carry with them. He shudders to think what would happen if they knew his profession.
At first, he's awkward. Eyes narrowed and fixed on the lone lifeguard as the kid watches his halting progress from the changing rooms and slow, painful entry. After a week or so though, it gets easier. He leaves his cane hooked over the rail at the deep end and takes a smooth header straight in. The turquoise water closing down over his ears never fails to trigger a powerful sense memory of childhood. Even his right foot, always breaking the surface a second too late, can't spoil it. The water is always warm, warmer still when he remembers to tip the kid a sawbuck the day before, and after a while he finds he doesn't even need to take his third Vicodin of the day. His leg is buoyed, tensionless; the pain receding to a dull hum that he barely notices while he's there and, as long as he sticks to freestyle, relying on his arms to carry the bulk of his weight, for the first time in five years, he feels normal again.
As his arms get stronger and his shoulders more powerful, so his lap-time increases and, what was at first barely more than a slow crawl, becomes a long, rangey stroke that carries him faster and further with every passing week. After a while he even begins to time himself, shaving a second, two seconds off his time every day. It's just a small thing, but it means something, something he can't or wouldn't try to explain to anyone else, but every time he betters his own previous best it puts him in a good mood for the rest of the morning.
He doesn't tell Wilson. He's not sure he could stand to hear his friend's doctorly noises of encouragement. Or maybe it's because he's afraid he might want to 'come with'. He isn't sentimental about the place - jesus, who could be? - but the fact that it is his; his clear space, his quiet before the storm, means...something. It's not precious, just personal. Like his piano, it makes him feel better. It smoothes out the edges.
So when Chase asks him if he knows somewhere local he can swim, House freezes. The other two new recruits are there as well, Foreman and the beauteous Cameron, and he knows that recently they've all started to socialize together. Comraderie: the natural consequence of persecution.
"There's the YWCA."
Chase snorts at him, pushing back in his chair, but now Cameron sounds interested.
"Is that on Robeson?" she shakes her head, "God, I have to find a car this weekend."
Two weeks pass and he's almost forgotten. Chase has probably joined the The Country Club instead, if he wasn't already an honorary member from birth. Even so, he's wary, checking through the glass now in the morning before he walks in, but the same four bald heads greet him every day, the same four jerky, awkward breaststrokes, the same varicose veins. On Tuesday he shaves three more seconds off his best lap-time. On Wednesday, another two. On Thursday, he's just getting into his stride, lap ten, eleven, when he looks up and feels his stomach go cold inside.
No-one comes out of the women's locker room in the morning who weighs less than two-hundred pounds but there, stepping self-consciously through the doorway, is someone of no more than perhaps ninety-eight. Her long, dark hair tucked up under an insanely unattractive bathing hat and wearing a suit that even the His Holiness The Pope couldn't disapprove of, Dr. Allison Cameron is heading straight towards him.
It takes him exactly twelve seconds to make up his mind what to do, although admittedly the first ten of them are spent staring at her legs and wondering if she ever wears stiletto heels to bed. Ducking his head low down into the water, House averts his eyes as she draws level with him and then pushes off in a long, unhurried stroke to the other end of the pool. If he stays one lap ahead of her all the time, it's unlikely she'll see him, let alone try to start a conversation. This is probably a one-time thing anyway. She'll see how dark the place is, how old and chipped the tiles are and she'll go looking for somewhere more her style, somewhere more Cameron. Or maybe take up Pilates.
As he reaches the other end, House pauses, treading water with his good leg and risks a glance backwards. The pool is empty, save for Joe and his friend with the goiter making the usual painful circuit and, for a moment, he's confused. Had she seen him? Chickened out before she'd reached the water? Craning his head round, he's looking towards the women's locker room, wondering if he has time to make it to the steps when, with a soft gasp, Cameron appears a few meters in front of him.
Her head barely breaks the surface, before it's under again. Her arms slipping forward to touch the wall just beside him, she bends fluidly, curving round in a sleek, perfectly-executed tumble-turn before heading back in the other direction. Under the water, her slim angular body is impossibly pale, hands sliding out with barely a ripple to slice back in a meter ahead. Her technique is flawless and, watching her, House is dumbstruck with admiration. She swims thirty-five laps in just under twenty minutes and, when at last she exits the water, pulling off her hat and letting her hair tumble to her shoulders, he's left standing in the shallows next to Joe and his friend wondering why he suddenly feels so in tune with them.
When he enters his office an hour later, she's sitting at his desk. Her sleek hair pulled back into a ponytail, she has both elbows on the table, poring over at a letter she's opened on his behalf.
"The New England Guild of Diagnostic Physicians want you to give the address at their annual conference."
"Is it in Waikiki?"
She stares up at him, cloud grey-blue eyes, and a small frown, "No. Maine."
"Then I regret to say that Dr. Gregory House will be unavailable."
"I haven't even told you the..."
"Sorry. No coconuts. No go."
He has no way of knowing, but he's fairly sure Cameron doesn't realise he was there. She's the same as she always is with him; pleasant, a little uptight, borderline shy. At lunch, she joins him and Foreman at their table; a small pasta salad and a carton of milk and, when Foreman makes a joke about her needing to bulk up for the New Jersey winter, she grins at him crookedly.
"I had a big breakfast."
Resting on the table beside his own, her bare arm still smells faintly of chlorine.
The next morning, she's there again. Seven forty-five on the dot, only this time he's ready. Already positioned between Joe and...the other one, and knowing how ridiculously mindful of personal space Cameron is, he guesses he's relatively safe. She's gotten rid of the hat, her hair tied back in ponytail instead, but the suit is pretty much the same: demure, utilitarian. The neckline is practically Victorian, but House can't help but notice the shape of her breasts through it. Round and soft like summer peaches.
"Reminds me of my late wife."
Joe's voice at his shoulder starts him and he jerks round to see the old guy standing next to him, pot-belly rising up out of a meter of water. He grins and House sees the thick, brown tartar on the back of his false teeth.
"That one ain't got much of an ass though. My Clara had a great ass."
A week goes by, and then two and, almost without realizing it, House begins to relax. Cameron's routine is as rigid as his is and, despite the pool being virtually empty, she never shows any sign of having seen him or, if she has, caring that he's there. Her thirty-five laps sometimes stretches to forty, but she's always out of the pool before he needs to be, always neatly pressed and scented at work at hour later. One afternoon, when he's bored, he pulls her personal file and spends an hour thumbing through her pre-college years. It's not too much of a surprise now to discover that she was head of her high school swim team; state championships three years in a row, silver medal winner twice. Half-closing his eyes, House thinks about the sleek curve of her latissimus dorsi as it rounds into her breast. Her flat, hard-muscled belly as she twists over in the water like a fish. Cameron. Allison. He has trouble saying her first name, and talking to her about anything other than work always seems impossibly tortuous. But screwing her? That he can imagine all too easily. Against the wall of his office, over his desk, or better still in the warm, dark waters of the swimming pool after hours. Cool wet arms slide around his neck and warm lips trace the line of his jaw as she slides into position. Her body buoyed up by the water, she winds herself around him and together they sink like crazy, fucking sea-otters beneath the surface. It's a wonderfully vivid and satisfying fantasy that colors his mood for the rest of the day.
"Dr. House. Please. They've come all the way from Conneticut."
She's clenching again: her eyes that special shade of pleading grey, but this morning she'd worn a new suit, a cherry-red one that had made him think of Baywatch, and he decides she deserves a reward for that.
"Gimme the file."
The grateful smile that lights up her face makes him think of a Coke ad. Rolling his eyes, he reaches over again and steals half her lunch.
"And call Cuddy. Tell her you'll be taking my shift at the clinic today."
"Fine. But you still owe me for that sandwich."
She's different with him now; easier, more relaxed and less...meek. At first he thinks she's competing, the little girl trying to keep up with the boys, but after a while he realizes that, no, this is the real her. Allison Cameron is gutsy and ballsy and any number of other visceral adjectives. Sometimes, as he sees her walking to pool's edge now in the morning, he finds himself standing a little straighter in the water, wondering what she would actually say if she did see him. She smiles at the lifeguard now, even stops to exchange words sometimes before she steps away and takes her neat, understated dive into the water. House is so busy watching her that it's a week before he notices the kid is doing the same.
He's on his seventeenth lap, head down and trying not to think about her semi-naked proximity, when he looks up and sees him ask her out on a date. He can't hear the actual words of course, but the body language is unmistakable and he feels his heart contract at the look on her face; surprise, discomfort and a sudden, total vulnerability. In the space of one second, Allison Cameron goes from sex-goddess to high-school girl and the transformation is utterly mesmerizing.
"Anyone have a date tonight?"
It's Friday, so he guesses the question probably sounds innocent enough, although, judging by the shocked look that appears on Cameron's face, maybe not so much. Chase is game though.
"Me and some of the guys from the clinic are playing softball, maybe going for beers afterwards. You're welcome to join..." he flinches visibly at his own clumsiness, "Uh...for the beers that is."
"Subtle. Thanks but no. Team sports confuse me."
He wants to ask the question, but he knows the moment is gone now. Another enquiry would be too obvious and he doesn't know why he's interested anyway. What Cameron does in her own free time is her own business. What he does with Cameron is own head however, is between him and his God.
On Monday, she's a little late and, he can't help but notice, wearing her original catholic schoolgirl suit again. The hat is back and - gods - now she even has goggles. As an ensemble piece, it's the swimmer's equivalent of a chastity belt and it isn't without a touch of satisfied glee that he sees the lifeguard kid's reaction to it. The big, tanned Californian smile has turned into a weak hand-lift and, when she passes his chair, he can almost sense the icy wind blowing between them. Putting his head down and stretching out in the water, House feels the strength coursing through his arms as Cameron draws level with him in the next lane, before slowly moving past. As always, her technique is faultless, putting his own to shame, so he's surprised to see that, even without trying, he's shaved another three seconds off his time.
On Thursday, Joe dies.
It's a full thirty seconds before the lifeguard kid notices and by then House has already got him to the side, one hand cradling the old man's bald head, whilst the other pulls the false teeth from his mouth. Jamming his ear against his chest, he's listening to nothing when Cameron falls to her knees beside him.
"Anything?"
"No." He's crouched agonizingly half in and half out of the water, his bad leg stuck straight out behind him, and it's hard to get purchase. "Breaths."
She's already bent forward, raking her hair back from her face as she seals his nose, tilts back the head.
The air rushes in: a sound like a child blowing up a balloon, and they both watch. One breath, two and then he's on the sternum, beginning compressions, but it's like tenderizing meat. House doesn't believe in souls, but he knows already that this one is gone, that their attempts to save him are just pantomime. Some you know you can bring back, and some you just can't.
They're still trying when the paramedics arrive though. Quizzical looks at them both and, House notices, at least one inappropriate smirk. Cameron stands with a fist balled on her hip, watching them go, before turning round to help him up. Her hand wrapped around his forearm looks tiny, but she pulls him upright, her other hand going out to cup his shoulder, steadying him. Leaning his weight on her for a second, House looks down at his leg. His thigh muscle is shaking; the livid red-pink scar standing out like a fresh knife-wound.
"You ok?"
"Yeah."
He winces as he lowers his foot to the floor, and feels her grip on him tighten. Her body moves in against his, the cool, wet fabric of her suit sticking to his side and her arm encircling his waist.
"Where's your cane?"
Her eyes are serious, doctorly, and, not trusting himself to speak, he motions with his head. His position is ridiculously humiliating; a full-grown man being held upright by a pale, skinny schoolgirl, half his size and practically half his age and, to make things worse, now the kid is bringing his cane. Clutching the handle like a lifeline, he shifts his weight from Cameron's shoulder and draws himself upright. When she moves back from him, she crosses her arms over her chest.
"You know there's no shame in accepting help from someone when you need it."
"That's what they told South Vietnam."
She raises an eyebrow, but doesn't move. She's blocking his exit and she knows it.
"Do you want me to thank you?"
A small sigh and the guarded look drops, to be replaced with weary exasperation.
"What I want is to be able to come here every morning and for us to acknowledge each other's existence."
She has a disconcerting way of making direct eye-contact, although he realizes that it's not the contact that bothers him so much as the way she looks. Like she can see right down inside him, past all his pit-falls and booby traps, to the tender fleshy part of him. It's a sensation not unlike the famous dolly-zoom shot from 'Jaws' and he hesitates before replying. Studying her face, trying to figure out what it is she needs to hear from him.
"OK?"
Her face softens and the blue comes back into her eyes.
"Thank you."
And then they're just two people again. Half-dressed, wet people, standing awkwardly at the side of a swimming pool.
At lunch later that day, she's sitting with Chase, although they're not saying much to each other. Approaching from an angle with Foreman in tow, House slides in beside her, enjoying watching her stiffen as his bare forearm brushes against hers. She's eating a yogurt, eyes fixed firmly on the bottom of the pot, as Foreman tells them both the same story he's just regaled him with. Something about some guy holding up a 7-11 with a salami. House unwraps his sandwich, systematically removes the pickles.
"Hey, that reminds me, did you find a pool in the end?"
Chase's mouth is half full of meatball sub, but he can still make out the words. Cameron's wrist, resting against his own, shifts slightly, opening up an inch, half an inch gap, between them and she clears her throat.
"A...pool?"
"Yeah, you were talking about starting swimming again? In the mornings? Before work? If you're still up for it, I could do with the exercise."
Foreman voice interrupts, "You don't know what you're asking," a hand descends on her shoulder, "You know this girl was state champion three times in a row back in high school? She doesn't swim, she eats the freakin' pool."
Cameron shrugs him off and House looks up just long enough to see that she's embarrassed. Pleased, but embarrassed.
"It was only silver. And only twice."
"So what? I was on my high-school footie team, but I still have a kick about with my mates at the weekend. Or do you take it that seriously still?" Chase's grin widens, "Oh my God, you're not one of those girls with the rubber hat and goggles are you?"
The look she gives him could wither grapes on the vine, "Let's just say you'd have trouble keeping up with me."
Finishing her yogurt, she gets up to go but Chase is up before her. Eager little fuck buses her tray for her while Cameron hangs back waiting for him.
"I checked in on Joe."
Glancing up from his plate, House sees her looking straight down at him; a sad, involved little frown on her face. Surprised, he waits a second before nodding. Swallowing.
Her lips purse, "He didn't make it."
"No."
"You checked too?"
"No."
The frown deepens, and then she gets it. Her face drops and she gives a small shrug of resignation that doesn't suit her. It's oddly affecting and, unable to help himself, he reaches out, touches the back of her wrist. No words. Just one touch. But it's more than he's done in a long, long time and, looking back into her all-seeing eyes, he sees that she knows it.
"You coming?"
Chase is hanging dog-like at her elbow, oblivious of anything but his own studly jaw-line and, looking back at his plate, House picks up his sandwich again. Watches them sideways as they both move away.
"Who's Joe?"
Foreman eyes him curiously across the lunch table as he pulls the last stray pickle from between the slices of bread.
"Old guy. Bad teeth. Big ass man."
X
Cameron swims. Every morning. Usually around seven forty-five am, although sometimes a little earlier. The place is almost always empty save for the four, five guys that come regularly and, apart from the occasional short-stay new-comer, that's the way she hopes it'll stay. It's her quiet place, her own clear space, where she can think, focus her mind before the start of the day. Her toes lined neatly on the pool's edge, she takes a deep breath, filling her lungs, before launching forward into her dive. As the water slips closed around her, she usually gives herself a mark for entry, before she starts to count her strokes. Six. Seven. Before she needs to come up for air.
As her head breaks the surface, he's there in front of her. Three meters away with his head down; a long, powerful stroke with these great muscled forearms of his that make her feel a little shivery to look at them. As he passes her, she starts to smile as she realizes he's seen her. She slows. He slows. As they slide past each other, she has to lift her head to speak.
"Dr. House."
"Dr. Cameron."
There is a pause, in which, she thinks, anything could be said. Or nothing. His intensely blue eyes are wary, and, treading water, she lifts her chin, indicates his arms.
"You know, you should really try to bring your elbows in. It's causing a lot of drag."
Her hands cut in ahead of her, slicing through water and, as she moves away, she looks back over her shoulder and sees him grimace. A wry shake of the head that makes her want to laugh and then, after a moment's pause to adjust his stroke, House swims smoothly away.
FIN
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|