Always Me
by adrift for fanfiction (dot) net

"Death ends a life, not a relationship."
(--Robert Benchley)

A/N: Multi-chapter, based on Cameron and her history. Written in first person from Cam's POV. The pairing will either be Cam/House or Cam/Wilson, I haven't decided yet. Revamped, thanks to some constructive criticism. Cameron's godmother dies.

Wilma Jones is going to die today. She is forty-three years old.

"Don't cry, dear."

She pats my arm, soothes me, as I struggle to hold back my tears. Her husband stands beside me, his hand resting on my lab-coated shoulder. I shudder as she coughs deeply, her chest besieged with the need for air. When she finally catches her breath, she looks up to her husband and nods. My shoulder is chilled when he removes his hand to squeeze his wife's frail one. With a look over his shoulder, he leaves. I'm alone with her.

Small cell lung cancer; it's a killer.

My knees feel week and I allow myself to collapse into the chair beneath me. My head rests in my hands, elbows on my knees, and I peer at Wilma through my linked fingers. She is smiling at me, and her dark brown eyes full of love make me want to cry harder. She reaches out a hand to me, and I manage get control of myself and sit up to grasp it tightly between my own. When she speaks, her voice is raspy and low.

"Allison, I'm going to die."

I swallow thickly, nodding as tears fill my eyes again, threatening to spill over. She squeezes my hand and continues.

"You doctors, all of you, have the God complex. You think you can fix everybody. You can't. Sometimes--"

She is seized with another fit of coughing.

"--sometimes people aren't destined to be saved. Death is my destiny."

I try to interrupt her, try to tell her that it is my job as a doctor to save her, but she stops me.

"Don't you dare be upset about it. I'm not worth grieving over, Art will tell you that much."

I chuckle at the mention of her husband Arthur (she affectionately calls him Art), my godfather. She smiles and I follow her gaze. She watches her husband as he watches us, through the glass door of the room. Dr. Wilson is by his side, a grim look on his face.

For a moment, I curse him. I curse him because he couldn't save her. I curse him because I need somebody to blame my pain on.

And now I ask the age-old question; why me?Why is it my godmother laying in thebed, dying of cancer, while another patient of his smiles happily as she is released from the hospital?I want to scream at Wilson, hurt him, take out all my frustrations of the past two months on him. But it's not his fault.

I realize that I'm staring at him with malice. Wilma presses her cold fingers into my hand and I look away. The look on her face says that she knows what I'm thinking.

"Dr. Wilson is a good man. Don't blame him for what's happening to me. Don't blame yourself either."

I can't look her in the eye. I'm ashamed. We're quiet for a long time, me sitting there like a rock, her doing the comforting. I finally speak, my eyes dry.

"I'm going to miss you, no matter what you say."

She laughs lightly, the rise and fall of her chest reassuring me that there is still time for a goodbye.

"Thank you, Allison."

She drops my hand and makes a motion for her purse, on the bedside table. Pain hits her as she tries to sit up, so I take the purse and put it gently in her lap. She offers me a grateful smile. I sit quietly as she rummages among the contents, most obviously looking for something. She finds it soon and pulls it from the purse, clenched tightly in her fist.

It is a silver necklace. A small pendantdangles from the end, swinging back and forth as she hangs it from her fingers. I reach out my hand, holding it flat beneath the necklace. She drops it onto my palm, and I finger the silver charm with amazement.

"It's Guatemalan, a symbol of love. I want you to have it."

I nod my thanks, hardly trusting my voice. Reaching up with unsteady hands, I fasten the clasp and let the necklace fall softly against my neck.

"It's beautiful. Thank you."

She starts to cry. She gestures to the door, where Art is standing, and he soon is by her side. He perches on the edge of the bed and holds his wife's hand fiercely to his chest, a single tear rolling down his cheek. The end is near.

I stand from the chair on wobbly legs and back away, sensing the need for the couple to be alone. However, Art grabs my hand and gives me a look that screams for me to stay, so I do.

Amidst her muffled sobs, I catch the words 'why me?', and I wonder again about God's sense of humor.

I lean forward and wrap my arms around her frail body, as if mere physical contact will keep her in this world. She whispers something into my ear.

"Take care of Art for me, won't you?"

I nod and pull away.

With a final 'I love you' for her husband, Wilma Jones breaths her last breath.

The beeping of the heart machine rings in my ears but I make no move to turn it off. I stand there, frozen, watching as Art cries softly into his wife's cold fingers.

Suddenly the room is quiet. Dr. Wilson's voice echoes off the walls, his fingers grazing the buttons on the monitor.

"Time of death, two fifteen p.m."

Art wipes away his tears and approaches me. With a solemn look, he places both hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye.

"She thought of you as a daughter. Thank you, Allison."

Art's strong arms wrap around my body, and it's not unnatural formy godfatherto be comforting me as I cry into his chest.