Must Get Out
NOTES: It's a plot bunny that won't go away—ever since that fatal date in "Love Hurts". Events in the Tritter arc and my present "shipper ennui" have forced this plot bunny out of its holding pen and demand ficcage rights. From a first person POV—an original character. It may not seem it, but I do assure you its a House/Cameron fic!
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I pulled into the parking lot ten minutes ahead of the appointed time. Before killing the engine, I take out my orange notebook and re-read Al's directions to the meeting place.
For the gazillionth time, I wonder why she has to cut her heart out for this House person...
--
The meeting place is a small pizzeria with a forgettable name, taking up a minuscule fraction of mall space. In the farthest corner of this geometrically adorable restaurant—a hexagon, I believe—my good buddy Al is hiding behind a red-and-white checkered menu. Frankly, if you are the lone customer in a shabby-looking pizza parlor of uncertain health fame, hiding behind a brightly-colored menu becomes an exercise in futility.
As quietly as possible, I take the seat across from her and settled my butt on the worn leather upholstery. I place my purse on the extra chair next to me before picking up the spare menu left on the table.
"If you're hiding from the Mafia, a pizza parlor is not the best place to hide," I whispered loudly. "Although, hiding in the last place they'd look—that's kind of shrewd. Good thinking!"
This made Al drop the menu she was holding—no startled reaction, like surprising a live wire. How disappointing—obviously, working a few years with this House guy has made Allison Cameron inured from my surprise tactic.
I hate him.
"I haven't received any horse heads on my bed yet," Al said in a voice tinged with sarcasm. "But it does have some appeal compared to—" here, she waves a hand aimlessly overhead, like she's sweeping unseen flies away from her head "—this."
"Does 'this' have a name, perchance?" I ask her, pretending to be dumb. Al scowls at me, and I am saved with the arrival of a freckly-faced waitress blessed—or hit—with an unholy shade of red ringlets. After our orders were taken, the waitress steps away and leaves me with a deflated-looking Al.
I sigh and contort my features into the best "what the hell?!" look I usually reserve for incredibly stubborn clients, relatives, and friends.
"Why do you do this to yourself, Al?" I moan. "Do you have a thing for pain? Guys who are in pain? Men who are pain?" Her answer is to stick the heel of her hands into her eye sockets. Good God…
I gave up. "What's he done this time?"
Obviously, this is not the first time she has unburdened herself to me about House. After the first two or three sob-fests (one over the phone and the rest during scheduled outings like this), I developed a way of blocking out her voice whenever she starts mentioning him and his atrocious behavior.
I'm not that heartless; Al had to stop me from committing outright murder after her HIV scare a year ago. When she told me about the stunt he pulled to get a swab of her spit, I told her to take revenge by swapping his pain meds with laxatives.
It would have worked, if it weren't for her pesky conscience.
"Girl," I said, cutting in her tirade—something about House testing her with a trick question and drinks—"You have to stop this."
"You think I don't want to?" Al whined.
I snort. "Really?"
"Really!"
The waitress arrives with our order—a medium-sized pepperoni pizza with lots of mozzarella. I scrutinized it carefully before asking Al, "Do you have to return to the hospital soon?"
"No—it's my day off today."
"Good." I turn to the pizza girl and announced, "My compliments to the chef if he can whip up some pasta to go along with this pie. We're going to be here for a while."
I finished giving Miss Red the additional order and turned to my purse, which is big enough to be a dog carrier—for an English bulldog. After excavating it, I found my trusty orange notebook and leafed through it until I found a blank page.
"So, you wanna stop mooning over House?" I challenged her.
Al looks at me in the eye and nods. She wrings a cloth napkin in her hands so tight, I was afraid she would draw blood.
Good.
"Okay—I believe I might have the solution for you," I said. I hand over my notebook and pen to her and explained, "First, I want you to write in here the humiliating things House said or did to you. Don't hold anything back—just write!"
"Even the—"
"Everything!"
I hear a squeak somewhere behind me and a tinkle of glass. I turn my head and apologized loudly.
Al hesitated at first—I thought she might not go through with this at first. However, after I ate my third slice of pizza, she filled up about ten pages—back-to-back. Her fettuccine alfredo was cold (I sentenced mine to digestion as soon as the plate was set before me) by the time she filled the 20-something-eth page.
"Shit," I whispered, chugging my iced tea down like a man.
"I'm surprised myself," Al said in awe. "I feel a bit better!"
I smile. The moment she sees it, Al's good mood drops fast. She knows me that well—thank goodness House didn't get rid of that.
"Good," I said. "Now, I want you to rip those pages out of my notebook and put them where you can read them quick and easy."
Her eyes almost pop out of their sockets as she surveys the scribbling she wrought within the pages of my poor notebook. Somewhere in those aquamarine depths, I could see a glimmer of understanding.
"Quick and easy for you to whip out and read whenever you start feeling sorry for that lug," I add. "But you have to make sure only you get to read them, so those pages have to be with you at all times."
Al paused in the process of ripping the pages off my notebook to give me a weird look. I look at the amount of unfettered pages piling up beside my desecrated notebook and blink.
"Okay—just get three or four pages at random and stuff them in your wallet."
Al looks at me with an uncomfortable look on her face. "I dunno…"
"Look, you said you wanted my help, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, this is me helping you!" I slap my hand on the pile of notepaper, making the plates on our table jump. "Listen: you are too good for this son of a bitch. You shouldn't become his doormat just because you feel sorry for him. You're a doctor, not his secretary—stop giving him coffee unless you're planning on slipping him some laxative. Let him sort his own mail for once! If he whines, tell him it's a good distraction from the pain. If he's asking you what you're doing in the lab, give him the crazy wisecracks for once, like, like—jello shots and an orgy!"
Al giggled like crazy in between mouthfuls of pasta—a good sign. I gave her a critical eye and continued, "Damn, Al, what happened to the rest of you? Doesn't he let you eat?"
--
An hour and a half later, Al and I parted ways near the entrance to the mall.
"Thanks, Joy," Al whispered into my ear as we hugged the hell out of each other.
"No problem, kiddo," I whispered back. After untangling from each other, I added, "I want some progress reports from you, okay? I'll be in San Francisco next week attending a cousin's wedding—Mom won't be able to make it, and someone's gotta represent the family."
"Yeah—family honor and all that," Al shot back, grinning at me.
"Good luck."
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