Title: Leave Out All the Rest
Author: texaswatermelon
Fandom: House, M.D.
Pairing: Thirteen/Cameron
Rating: Strongish PG-13; little bit of language
Summary: AU; "Remy doesn't usually go for blondes, but the dirty part of her brain tells her that she should go for this blonde."
Disclaimer: I don't own House or any corresponding characters. No infringement intended.
Archiving: at inkyxfingers
Word Count: 4,328
A/N: Written as a swap fic for aphrodite_mine. Prompt was an AU fic involving a certain picture that I no longer have the link to. AU because Cameron is a blonde before she's supposed to be, is from Nebraska, and has a younger sister named Katie. Also, Thirteen is not Thirteen because she hasn't come to work for House yet, and therefore could not have attained the nickname. Unbeta'd, like everything else in my life.

The black leather is sticky and hot: on her hands, where the gloves cling mercilessly to her long fingers; on her waist, where the skirt is suctioned to her hips with all the force of a black hole; over her breasts, which are exposed and heaving with an effort to get enough air into her lungs; across her ass, which appears to be obnoxiously large as she checks it out somewhat self-consciously in the mirror.

Two days ago, this super-slutty faux police costume seemed like an appropriate piece to wear to a party full of super-slutty college girls. That was before she actually thought she was going. That was before she'd put it on. Now, costume fully donned, hat, nightstick, and all, Remy Hadley thinks she looks like one of those specialized hookers down on 43rd Street. The thought is not appealing.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," she says for the third time, nose wrinkling up in disgust as she looks herself over again. Her bright eyes shift, glaring at the boy sitting behind her through the mirror, all dressed up in a James Bond outfit. How cliché.

"Aw, come on, Rem. You look incredible," he assures her brightly. Something in his voice tells her that he'd say that with or without her current attire. Remy's not clueless; she knows Jonah's in love with her. She also knows that dating your best friend is a magnificently bad idea. And while she's taken part in quite a few bad ideas, this is one she's not stupid enough to go for. Jonah is the only thing constant in her life, the only one that's stuck with her for all these years, loved her unconditionally, no matter how many reasons she gave him not to.

Besides, he knows all of her dirty secrets, including the one where, at some point in her life, there's a very good chance that her nervous system might complete turn to shit and rape her into non-existence. Of course, Remy doesn't know if it'll happen; she refuses to get tested for Huntington's. If she's honest with herself, it's because she's a coward, but since Remy's not honest with the world around her, she's even less honest with herself. She reasons that there's no reason to know. She knows what the symptoms look like; if she's got Huntington's, she'll know it sooner or later without all that damn foreboding.

"I look like a cheap whore that nerdy guys bring to parties so that they can pretend they've got a hot date," Remy replies bitterly.

"Well that saves me from hiring one, then," Jonah replies happily, and Remy whirls around to attack him playfully with her plastic nightstick.

"Alright, I give!" he cries finally, after being properly chastised by the prop. Remy backs away and he hops off of the bed to assess the damage. There isn't any visual proof. "Christ, that thing stings!"

Remy raises one delicate eyebrow just below the rim of her cap, dangerous smirk on her face. Jonah stares for a second too long, and it's moments like these when she realizes that she really isn't fair to him. The liar in her brushes the guilt away and turns back toward the mirror.

There are way more people at the party than Remy expected would be, at least a million more her mind helpfully exaggerates. The frat house smells like sweat and booze, a fairly unattractive combination as far as Remy's concerned. But Jonah's already-eager face lights up the minute they cross over the threshold, and Remy promised him she'd have fun tonight.

The two of them are barely through the door before Jonah runs off to grab drinks, and Remy can already feel eyes gluing to her like some freak of nature just walked through the front door. Guys ogle, girls glare, and the few scattered lesbians gape. Remy wants to leave now.

"Here you go," Jonah says brightly upon his return, handing her a non-descript bottle of beer. Remy shoots him a false smile and takes a swig. The beer is absolutely terrible, but she wouldn't expect anything else at a party like this. She figures it'll take at least ten of these just to get her loose enough to actually enjoy herself. And, if she's going to be here, she might as well do that at least.

Jonah makes a valiant attempt to stay by her side, but it isn't long before some redhead dressed like an angel catches his eye, and he apologetically runs off to chat her up. Remy doesn't mind; she thinks she'll go find a place somewhere out of the way (close enough to the beer) until she gets warmed up enough that she actually feels like socializing.

The costume is already making her sweat, but Remy tries to ignore this as she moves through the tightly packed bodies that obscure just about every possible inch of living space on the first floor. She considers just grabbing herself a couple of drinks and running upstairs, but the chances of finding a bedroom not occupied by a couple of lusty party goers is slim to none. It's not too cold outside; Remy decides that's her best chance at marginal peace.

In the backyard, there's an in-ground pool already filled to the brim with half-naked idiots who got their party started far earlier than she did. As she avoids a cascade of water that comes flying out at her, Remy thinks that it might just be better for her to go back in. Her eyes catch a bench, however, a few yards out and away from the splash zone. The bench is mercilessly empty, and Remy grabs a handful of beers from a nearby bucket and rushes over to claim her seat.

There's a little part in the back of her mind that reminds her that sitting on an empty bench with several unopened beers in an attempt to avoid all human contact at a party is the complete opposite of having fun. The larger, less honest part of her mind continues to insist that she's just trying to warm up. The little part retorts by telling the big part that warming up generally involves some socializing, and a lot less alcoholism. Remy ignores them both and pops open her third beer.

Sometime into the fourth beer, one of the pool boys hops out, soaking wet, and joins her on the bench. Remy moves as far away from him as possible, not caring that it probably seems extremely rude. She chose this seat because of its distance from the water. If she wanted to be dripped on, she'd have already jumped in.

The guy looks over at her, notices what she's wearing, and gapes. She gives him a heated glare, warning him against whatever insidious pickup line he's about to use, and he turns away. After a few more moments of awkward silence, pool boy returns to the pool.

Remy realizes that the alcohol is starting to take its toll when, after her sixth beer, the water park festivities are starting to look like fun. She considers, briefly, that a dip in the pool might not be a bad idea. She is feeling kind of flushed. The semi-sober part of her brain points out that if she's uncomfortable in what she's wearing now, she's going to want to kill herself after jumping into that pool. The totally shloshed part of her brain says that there's no clothing requirement to go swimming. Remy decides to let the seventh beer settle the argument.

Beer number seven is about to make a ruling when the proceedings are interrupted once more. Remy doesn't notice the shadow that's cast over her because she's too busy staring down at her little collection of dead soldiers, wondering who first invented beer and if his ancestors are very rich by now.

"Is this seat taken?" someone asks to her right, and it isn't until Remy has to straighten herself to look at them that she realizes that her body as somehow slumped over the side of the bench in a very trashy sort of way. Remy's eyes lock on the person in front of her, and she finds herself staring in the same way that pool boy stared at her just a little bit ago.

Remy doesn't usually go for blondes, but the dirty part of her brain tells her that she should go for this blonde. The woman is dressed like she just walked out of the early 1920s, golden hair pinned up neatly underneath an ornately beaded headband. Her pale breasts are full (fully visible) at the top of the deep black corset that makes up the entirety of the woman's outfit. Her lips glisten with dark red lipstick.

"You know, generally it's the boys I expect to be staring at me like that."

"Huh?" Remy asks stupidly, eyes finally focusing on the other woman's face. She's older, older than probably anyone else at the party. Remy is thankful for that. She doesn't go for drunken college girls either.

The woman smiles in soft amusement, green eyes sparkling in a way that Remy can't remember seeing ever. "Do you mind if I take a seat here?" she tries again.

"Oh, yeah, uh go ahead," Remy stutters, trying to straighten herself even more.

The flapper settles herself comfortably on the bench, looking a little bored and a little out of place. Through the haze in her mind, Remy wonders who she is, what she's doing here, where she'll go after. She takes another sip of beer and decides not to ask.

"This is quite a party. Exactly like I remember from when I was in college actually," the woman muses pleasantly. She turns her gaze towards Remy again and smiles. Remy thinks that she can't help it; she's just one of those people that has to be happy, kind of like Jonah. "You don't seem to be enjoying the festivities, though."

"I didn't really want to come," Remy says slowly, making a conscious effort to articulate. Something about this woman makes her especially determined not to look like the drunken ass that she feels like right now.

"Yeah, it's not my thing either, but I had the night off and my little sister begged me to come. I guess I have a harder time saying no to people than I'd like," the woman replies, her smile becoming apologetic as though she owes Remy some explanation for her actions.

"My best friend dragged me. I've been working a lot with med school and he insisted that I get out and have a little fun. As you can see, my friends and I are having loads of it," Remy says dryly, gesturing toward the little army of bottles at her feet.

The woman's response is to smile again, but instead of making any remark about drinking habits, she leans over and steals a cold one from Remy's unopened stock. As she does, the dirty part of Remy's brain whistles at the very impressive view of soft cleavage. The decent part of her pretends not to notice it. Remy just stares.

If the flapper woman realizes that Remy's eyes are glued to her again in that unwholesome kind of way, she doesn't say anything. She settles back in against the bench, body angled toward the brunette, and flicks the cap of her beer off, taking a generous swig.

"Med school, huh?" she asks finally, looking at Remy like she's trying to determine her life story within the course of two minutes. "What made you decide to become a doctor?"

The honest part of Remy's brain hooks up with the totally shloshed part and makes a quick attempt to tell the truth. My mommy died of an incurable genetic disease when I was twelve, and there's a good possibility that I have it too, it wants to say. The larger, stronger, dishonest part of her brain steps on the words before they can ever make it out. Remy shrugs.

"Seemed like a good idea."

"Well," the woman says, shooting her a knowing smile, "some days it is. Others, not so much."

It takes several seconds for all of the parts of Remy's brain to line up and make the connection. "Oh, you're a doctor?" she asks.

"Allison Cameron," the woman replies simply, holding out a small hand. Remy fumbles with her beer bottle before grasping the hand with one of her own.

"Remy."

"Nice to meet you, Remy," Allison smiles brightly as their hands drop. Remy nods, grasping at the neck of her beer bottle like it's a floatation device.

The silence that they fall into doesn't seem to bother Allison very much, but it bothers Remy a lot. Her brain is much more active than she thinks it should be at this point, half of it arguing that she should be conversing with her bench companion and the other half absolutely refusing to let her do so. What would she say, anyway? She's far too drunk to have any decent conversation, and any other kind of conversation could inadvertently lead to discussing medical things, such as Remy's possibility of dying within the next twenty years. She doesn't need some pretty stranger feeling sorry for her before she even knows anything about her. She doesn't need anyone feeling sorry for her at all.

Besides, just looking at Allison Cameron makes the dirty part of her mind say a lot of things that her "warmed up" body can't really handle at the moment. Remy thinks it actually might be a good time to say goodbye and go home.

"You want to get out of here?" Allison asks suddenly, and for a moment Remy suspects that it's just the dirty part of her mind using her inhibited mental state to play tricks on her again. When she looks up at the doctor to see if it's true, she finds the woman gazing at her expectantly.

"Uh, do I want to…"

"Get out of here, yeah," Allison confirms, smiling her reassuring kind of smile again. "Neither of us are having very much fun at this party and I'm starting to feel like I could really go for a pizza at this point. We could go and come back before anyone even notices we've left."

Remy contemplates the fact that, logically, Allison is right. There's no reason why they can't leave the party behind for a little while. And really, for all the good it was doing her, Remy could use a break from the beer.

"I should tell my friend where I'm going. He likes to worry sometimes, and it'd be my luck he'd come looking for me right as we left," Remy replies finally.

"Great!" Allison says, smiling brightly. "I'll go tell Katie then."

Remy assumes that Katie is Allison's sister, but doesn't stop to ask as the two of them stand and make their way back into the house. Allison splits off at the door, heading into what appears to be the kitchen. It takes Remy several minutes to locate Jonah through the throng of bodies in the living room, exactly where she left him an hour ago.

"You want me to take you home?" he asks, clearly concerned when she tells him that she's heading out for a little bit.

"No no, don't worry about it. I'll be back, I just got a sudden craving for pizza, and since I didn't see any rotting on the food table over there, I decided to go grab some," Remy replies, her grin dripping with sardonic appeal.

"Okay," Jonah relents easily. "Call me if you want me to come get you."

Remy nods, kisses him on the cheek, and turns to walk out the front door. She's not sure why she didn't tell him the truth, why she didn't just admit that she'd met some hot doctor that wanted her to leave the party and "chat" at some pizza place. The dishonest part of her brain decides that she didn't want to make him feel bad. It's only partially a lie.

Allison is waiting for her when she emerges onto the front lawn, ever-present smile glowing up at her. Remy gives her a surprised little smirk, because she can't quite help it. The two of them set off down the sidewalk, in no particular direction as far as Remy can tell. They're silent for a while, and she wonders exactly where they're headed, and just what this mysterious blonde has planned. It's not until they stop in front of an actual pizza shop that Remy realizes that she may just be a little full of herself after all.

"We can't go in there," she protests, looking up at Allison, eyes wide.

"Why not?" Allison asks curiously, frowning slightly for the first time that night. Remy gives her an "are you kidding me" look, gesturing toward their outfits as justification. Allison laughs, a cute, bubbly giggle. "Oh come on, it's not like we'll ever see these people again. Look, let's just grab a quick slice, and then we can go back to the party. No harm done."

Remy sighs, relenting. She doesn't dare look anyone in the eye, but she can feel people staring at her absurdity as she follows the trail of Allison's very determined feet. Allison orders a slice of olives and mushrooms for herself. She asks Remy if she wants anything, but the brunette shakes her head mutely. Remy finds them a booth as far away from the nearest patron as possible.

Allison chatters amicably as they wait for her food to be ready, and suddenly all of the questions Remy asked herself when they first met are answered. She attempts to stay aware of the conversation, while simultaneously ignoring the continuing glances of people as they trickle in and out of the little shop.

Allison is from the Midwest: Nebraska specifically. She has an older brother, Rich, and a younger sister, Katie. She's intelligent, compassionate, and stubborn. She interned at the Mayo Clinic, which in Remy's mind is equal to competing in the Olympics. She fell in love with a cancer patient at age twenty-one and married him, only to have her heart broken shortly after when he died from it. As a result, she moved cross country to New Jersey to finish her schooling. Now, she works at the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital as a diagnostician for an asshole of a doctor named Gregory House, who she also respects very much. And, as a side note, she asks for a puppy every Christmas, though she has yet to get one.

Remy is impossibly amazed that they were able to cover so much ground waiting for a single slice of pizza to come out of the oven. She doesn't complain, though, because Allison is mercifully not curious. She doesn't ask Remy a single question about herself, whether due to disinterest or some sixth sense that allows her to detect the fact that Remy would either lie, deflect, or flee. Remy doesn't care; she's just thankful that Allison is extremely gifted at conversing.

For as tiny as she appears to be, Allison inhales her pizza amazingly fast. When she's done, the two of them leave and head back the way that they came. As they walk, Allison links their arms together like they're old friends on their way to some supremely fucked up high school reunion. Remy glances at their arms curiously, wondering how it's possible for someone to be so comfortable with strangers, as Allison obviously is. For all she knows, Remy could be a psychopath. For all Remy knows, she is.

It turns out that Allison was right: no one at the party missed them, not even Jonah, who just grins when he sees them pass by. He catches sight of Allison, still attached to Remy's arm, and his smile falters only slightly before he gives her a wink and a thumbs up. Remy rolls her eyes, but Allison giggles.

"Well that's encouraging. I'm glad he approves," she half yells over the blasting music. Remy smiles apologetically.

"He usually does," she replies sheepishly. Allison doesn't seem put off by the last few moment's events, though, probably suspected it even. Anyway, she doesn't pull her arm away, but she leads them upstairs and directs them, as if by magic, to an empty bedroom.

At this point, Remy's convinced she's going to get laid. And yet, she's not. She can't get a proper read on Allison, even though she's already learned practically her entire life story. Allison, meanwhile, seems to be reading Remy like her favorite piece of classical literature, and Remy has yet to say a single thing about herself. She marvels at how that can be possible, and decides that it just annoys the hell out of her.

"What are we doing?" Remy asks with slight irritation, tired and buzzed and sick of playing games.

"I'm getting away from all of the noise. I figured you wouldn't mind doing that as well," Allison replies easily. "Of course, you're more than welcome to go back downstairs. Or you could stay and talk, and let those seven or eight beers you had filter their way through your system."

Remy searches the bright green eyes, but if there's any sign of an ulterior motive in them, she can't find it. She frowns, bites her lip, and thinks for a moment. Finally, she nods slightly and sits next to Allison on the bed with a tired sigh.

"You don't like to talk about yourself," Allison states after a few moments of resonating music, far off laughter, and slow breathing.

"I'm not interesting," Remy responds quietly.

Allison smirks. "A paradox." Remy turns her head to the side, eyebrow raised in question, watching Allison watch her. Allison chuckles at her unasked question. "You don't like to talk about yourself because you don't think you're interesting. But by not talking about yourself, you become interesting. It's a paradox," she explains.

Remy shakes her head. "You're strange," she insists. Allison laughs once more.

"Maybe you just don't have a good sense of humor," she retorts. Remy doesn't reply, and as Allison looks at her, she gets the feeling that she's having her mind read. She doesn't like it. "I think you're interesting."

"How do you figure?" Remy snaps. "You don't even know me." She looks away, thinking that maybe if she doesn't allow Allison to look into her eyes, then the blonde can't possibly read her mind again.

"Okay," Allison relents softly, her soft hand falling onto Remy's cheek, "then I think you're pretty."

Despite herself, Remy looks up again. Allison is looking at her softly; for once she's not smiling. Her hand glides up to the hat still perched atop Remy's head and pushes carefully until it falls off and lands on the ground. Remy dares to hold Allison's gaze as the hand trails back down, tracing Remy's square jaw, smoothing over her pale lips. She wants to kiss Allison, but she's not sure if she should.

The corner of Allison's mouth quirks ever so slightly, as though she can hear the internal argument raging through Remy's head. Remy finds herself frustrated again, wondering why Allison should get to know her thoughts while she's locked completely out of Allison's. To make up for it, she closes the gap between them.

Her lips slide stickily over Allison's red lipstick. Allison tastes like pizza and beer, and something else, impenetrable, despite whatever else might have entered the doctor's mouth that day. Remy thinks it tastes like surrender.

She's on top of Allison now, hovering over her, supporting her weight on both arms. She doesn't know how she got there, or when, but when she breaks away Allison's hand is still resting gently on her cheek, brushing the skin of it with her thumb and her eyes are sparkling. Her cheeks are flushed, past the light dusting of blush she'd put on to accompany her costume, and her lipstick is smeared beyond repair. Remy can taste it on her own lips, her teeth, and her tongue.

"Why?" she whispers, her breath barely tickling the fine hairs on Allison's face.

"Huh?" Allison asks distractedly, eyes trained on the movement of Remy's lips.

"Why do you think I'm pretty?" Remy clarifies, and both of them know that what she's really asking is why do you think I'm interesting, but by this point Remy knows that she doesn't need to ask because Allison is the opposite of her, and will answer her question truthfully, even if Remy can't ask it truthfully.

"There's tragedy in your eyes," is Allison's quiet reply. Remy breathes in and out, looking down at Allison like she's a blessing and a curse all at the same time. Allison doesn't dare smile now, and Remy kisses her because of it.

Sometime later, hours, days maybe, when Remy is shaken awake by a gentle hand on her shoulder, she finds the bed empty beside her. Jonah looks down at her carefully, like he's far more curious than he wants to be, and far too afraid to ask her what happened. He doesn't need and explanation, though. Remy's obvious state of undress is answer enough.

The hat that had landed on the floor just seconds ago (or was that years?) was now resting lightly on the pillow beside her. Inside of it is a phone number, carefully scripted in blue ink on a tiny scrap of paper. Remy holds it between her thumb and forefinger as though it's some lost, ancient artifact before she remembers that it is, or will be.

As she redresses herself and cradles the number in her palm, the honest part of her brain says that she'll call, catch up with Allison Cameron someday. The dishonest part of her brain smiles, and knows that she won't. Remy takes the number with her anyway.