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Personality Change, chapter two.
by enots
Chapter Two.
Allison Cameron sits in front of her dressing room mirror backstage, elbows supporting her hands as they flick a few loose strands of hair forwards and backwards. Why on earth she mentioned her singing at work, she has little idea. 'Suppose,' she questions inwardly, 'you want him to see you; that's really it, isn't it?' She looks up at her image, making an inventory of all the things people look at, noting disdainfully the hopelessly sincere face blinking back at her with its delicate mouth, childish nose and glassy blue eyes. What people often referred to as 'pretty' seemed to her so provisional, so mollifying. In agitation, she stands up to confront the full length of her reflection, skimming over her figure before returning to her face and the look of resigned reluctance mirrored back. 'Traitor,' she thinks. At that moment, she wonders how much of her personality has been, and continues to be, determined by the looks of others: her parent's look of pride, the appraising looks of men, her husband's look of anguished devotion, the trusting eyes of patients. The doubt was never far from her mind. Its inception could be traced to her first meeting with House. Never had her looks been read so harshly and openly. He glared, glowered, scrutinised, squinted at her, actually, but she had yet to receive a single look and it both confounded and preoccupied her. Her husband had delighted in looking at her, and she had been happy to oblige if it meant he was distracted. 'And what use was that, in the end?' she admonishes her vanity. Unlike most men, House regarded her clinically, mistrusting her appearance and appealing to it when it became useful, a means to an end. In the midst of all these thoughts, Cameron automatically pulls at the waist of her dress, adjusting one last time before her performance. She is about to turn her back when she has an unexpected insight: she had been a slave to her face for as long as she can remember.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
'This is a bad idea,' House says to himself, ploughing through a cluster of suits. It was a bar, sure. There were also people: drunk, professional people and they rated up there with people in the clinic. He would have to leave, he decided, because he was already in a world of pain. Chase catches his eye and gives a half-hearted, beer bottle wave.
He approaches the table, then stops. 'Oh crap,' he says.
"House," Cuddy looks up at him, eyes challenging.
"Yup," House motions at a passing bartender.
"Your perverse sense of curiosity prevails," Wilson greets him and moves his chair over to accommodate his already sprawled legs.
"You know me, any excuse to partake in a little fraternising with work colleagues. Strengthens morale."
Foreman harrumphs. "I wouldn't miss this for the world. A tiny white girl belting out some Motown."
"And nothing quite strengthens morale like the humiliation of a fellow colleague," Chase says.
"And who says she's going to humiliate herself?" Cuddy interjects.
"Please. Motown and Cameron? Just saying those two words in the same sentence is wrong," Foreman counters.
"Dusty Springfield," Wilson says simply.
"What?" Foreman glares at him like he has just grown two heads.
Wilson clears his throat, "Dusty Springfield was white and she could sing soul."
"I'm not saying white women can't sing Motown, I'm saying that this white woman can't." Foreman is smug, folding his hands and sitting back in his chair.
"Well, we'll see," Cuddy nods towards the stage, "She's on after this guy. Have all the bets been placed?"
House rolls his eyes. From his position he can see Cameron in the wings with her arms crossed in a pose he identifies as 'Cameron: A study in self-examination'. He notes with precision rather than emotion, that the expression she carried on her soft features was rough - very un-Cameron. She had been acting odd lately and his mind begins to make connections. There were dark circles under her eyes, the kind that come from trying to sleep, as opposed to being tired, and she was distant, not just with him, but with patients, escaping to the lab whenever she had the chance. The other day she had thrown him a withering look that spiked his attention because she seemed not secretly delighted (he had always detested that), but weary, the look intended as a barrier. He continued to observe her with this information, watching as she smoothed down a rather fetching red dress.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The soft, tinkling clinks of glasses being stacked together mingles with shuffling legs and chairs and lowered voices. The sense of anticipation in the room casts Allison further into reverie. She wondered whether a part of her really believed doing this would matter. Not to him, anyway. She did not believe he was 'looking down at her'. 'He's gone', she thought, coldly. Hearing a Four Tops song, Allison cringes at herself. She is awash, fresh, with remorse. Music was her consolation, but she could feel herself disintegrating, wrenched in all directions by a distinctly shameful blend of grief. It had taken her three years to do this and she questioned whether the motivation came more from her own ego than the respectful memorialising of her late husband. That's when she gave in to the nostalgia. He had requested a song, always Motown, for every day he was in the hospice. As a result, the memories of this time, are musical memories. One particularly harrowing day, she had started to sing under her breath in a vain attempt to calm them both. His eyes (sallow and frightened and flickering back and forth) had paused and settled on her mouth. Later that night, as she monitored his morphine drip, he had dropped a restless hand to her hip and said thickly, "Sing. Tomorrow," before the drugs pulled him to sleep. She had murmured a pathetically appeasing "okay". On the brink of this recollection, Allison crosses her arms and bites her lip. 'Why do I need to verify myself to him?' her shoulders bow at her own accusations. His presence once again strays into her mind. Now she wanted to be rid of him, to physically shrug these feelings off and leave things well alone. She rubbed sorely at her neck, telling herself that it really didn't matter if he was there or not. With her resolve set, she has a brief, but luminous thought: 'this might actually be fun'.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"You know," Foreman whispers loudly, "It's not too late for me to grab her off that stage."
"You do what you have to do," Chase drawls.
The opening strain of an old Marvellettes song cuts into their exchange. House, for one, is sceptical. He had expected a far more sentimental choice, if he was even expecting (which he wasn't). The music, however, is irritatingly catchy and half the room begins to instinctively tap their feet. Wilson manoeuvres around and cocks a superior eyebrow at him. House grimaces: fifty bucks down the drain. He had never considered the Marvellettes.
Cameron approaches from the back of the stage. Adopting a coquettish pose with her back partially turned to the audience, she takes the hem of her skirt in her hands and sashays in time to the music. House stares at his drink. He did not want to watch this, to see the defiance in her face and think that it was directed at him. Just as she sidles up to the microphone stand and is about open her mouth to sing, he turns in time to catch Foreman and Chase's mouths drop at the foreign sound of her voice. Her tone is full and warm and strong, with not the slightest hint of reticence. House himself experiences a momentary lapse of character. He finds himself riveted, and his mind, blank. Seeing her tossing her head back, hair flying about her shoulders, made him want to laugh in disbelief that people could still manage to surprise him. She was better than anything he had seen on American Idol. He'll give her that.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Allison's knuckles are white they grip the microphone so tightly. 'Its so hot up here', she thinks calmly. At some point, somewhere, she spies Foreman and Chase in the audience, gawking at her. She moves on, thoughts scattered as she hears the music swell. She shakes her head back and forth to deliver the last urgent verses, her playful smile gone. When the sweet three minutes fifteen were up, she whirls around to catch her breath. The band nod appreciatively to her. Caught off guard, she turns slowly. Her former, more reserved, self returning, Allison puts her hands together in a light gesture of thanks, winking at the ecstatic crowd before hurrying off.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Foreman - who had until that moment been watching the entire performance in shock - puts two fingers to his lips to let out a loud whistle, then pounds his hands together. "Was she miming? What the hell?" He looks wildly about him. "She sounded like a record, a freaking Motown record. What the hell!" he yells over the applause more to himself than to the others.
Chase shakes his head in astonishment as he claps numbly.
"Looks like we might lose Dr. Cameron to a record contract," Cuddy remarks with a flushed smile. An excited buzz settles over the crowd.
"Who would of thought," Wilson says, unable to keep from grinning idiotically.
"That was hot! Totally hot!" Foreman is still yelling.
"I'm not even sure that was Cameron," Chase pushes some hair back from his face.
"I'm gonna go backstage," Foreman gets up. "You coming?"
"Are you kidding?" Chase is dubious.
"C'mon, man! The girl deserves a drink."
House watches as the ducklings stand and grab their beers.
"Her first groupies," he says. "How adorable."
"I'm gonna join you guys," Cuddy says, pointedly ignoring House.
"It's okay, Wilson," House deadpans. "You can go."
"Me? No, I'm fine. Tell her I thought she was great, super."
"Super?" House says through a gulp of beer. "Well, gosh Jimmy, I'm sure she'll be just pleased as punch to hear that."
Wilson looks at him, weighing up his reaction after the others are out of earshot. "Even you can respect talent," he says.
House gives his usual shake of the head that was half-impatient, half-confused, very mocking, shock.
"Oh, please! You couldn't take your eyes off her," Wilson goads.
"She was wearing a very short dress. I didn't want to miss anything," he shoots him a malicious glance.
"Fine," Wilson looks about him. "But I, for one, am impressed."
"I, for one, am creeped out. Is this an episode of 'Ally McBeal'?"
"What?" Wilson sputters some of his beer. House reaches for his cane.
"She's got one more song to go. You can't leave. Oh, wait a minute. I was going to say that would be rude. What was I thinking?"
House downs the remains of his beer and stands.
"Next two rounds are on me?" Wilson says.
"That goes without saying," House reaches around for his jacket. "What do you want me to stay so bad for? Are you scared to sit at a table by yourself?" He waits for a reply, knowing very well he won't receive one. He sighs dramatically and makes a show of setting down his cane and leather jacket. "Did you say two or four?"
"I said two...You watched 'Ally McBeal'?"
"Whatever," House mumbles.
"Now I'm creeped out," Wilson inches ever so slightly away from him.
House grabs greedily at the beer set down in front of him. "Cameron should sing more often. Brings out your generous side."
"You like this music," Wilson says.
"And I like beer, and motorcycles, what's your point?"
"Do you have to torment people to enjoy yourself?"
"It's either that or answer twenty questions. I choose the former."
It is Wilson's turn to sigh dramatically. "So enigmatic. Such a tortured, lost soul, crying out for attention. Maybe you should get up there, belt out your angst."
"I'm here, aren't I? I lived up to everyone's expectations," House's voice is pure sarcasm.
"Yes. Everyone's here because they wanted to see if you would turn up. That's why there's no one at our table."
They fall silent for a moment.
"You're just sore because you can't stand being wrong," Wilson says.
"And I suppose you're the one in the flush? Always the believer."
"Hey, I like a long shot. And you know what they say about the quiet ones."
"Apparently that they sing like Etta James," House quips, hoping he can make it out of here without losing a fifty.
"You know she's a perfectionist. Being crappy isn't her style, it's more...yours. Anyway, I may have had a little inside information."
House looks at him with disinterested cynicism. "You mean to say you didn't 'believe' she could sing, you knew she could?"
"I walked in on her, singing to herself in the lab."
"So you made a calculated decision to use that information for your benefit. That's not your style, that's more...mine."
Wilson shrugs. "I accept cash and cheque."
"Then again, you've just committed to spending at least fifty dollars on the proviso that I stay here and baby-sit. Let's call it even."
"You can't admit that you're enjoying yourself," Wilson's tone is exasperated, but not without some humour.
"I can. When I am." House swigs half of his drink, avoiding eye contact as Foreman, Chase and Cuddy return to their table.
"Can you believe that? Chase says.
"Think she might get it too," Foreman sets down a round of beers.
"There's a cash prize of five grand," Cuddy explains more to Wilson than to House.
"Interesting," Wilson comments.
"Yes. She's also more calculating than I give her credit," House says blandly.
The room quietens and the lights go down.
"She'll nail this one," Foreman predicts confidently.
"A minute ago you were prepared to kidnap her just to get her out of here," Chase points out to him.
Foreman grins sheepishly, "I didn't want her to make a fool of herself."
"Sure," Chase looks ahead of him as Cameron takes the stage.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Allison is smiling. She had never expected to be so exhilarated. It was baffling: her mind oscillating between blank and petrified at a million miles an hour.
"You're on in one minute. You all set?" someone hisses from behind.
She clings to the shadows at the back of the stage and keeps her head down as she adjusts the microphone stand down to her level. This was the song she was saving for him, the one he explicitly asked for; the one she couldn't listen to but knew by heart. She climbs gingerly on top of a stool and feels the enveloping warmth of the spotlight.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Wilson becomes abruptly aware of his surroundings. He surveys the captivated room. Filled with no other sound but her voice, it pulls him back to his own thoughts, his own life, with a surge of something like panic. What he was witnessing overtook any interest in the seat beside him, empty but for a beaten leather jacket.
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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.
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