I don't own House MD… if I did, things would have happened a lot differently in the fifth and sixth season. So yeah.
Cry For Me
The bed was white. The walls were white. Everything about the place was so white, clean, pure - boring. It drove her crazy - why hadn't she noticed it when she was the one handing out death sentences?
It felt so wrong, so out of place, to be on the other side - to be the helpless one, the one hoping, praying, crying. This is what it's like to be the patient. She wished she didn't know the feeling.
Ten years wasn't enough, and it had gone by so fast - she needed more time, more time to experiment. She was dying, and she wanted to do everything - but it was all off-limits. Instead of sky diving, or getting married, or doing something else stupid and crazy and fun, she was lying in a hospital bed having muscle spasms. Three months to live. Live? They called this living? She couldn't have sex. She couldn't practice medicine. She couldn't get through a few sentences without her muscles seizing up, forcing her to writhe like a worm. She had no control.
Control was the one thing she had always been good at - other than diagnostics, other than sex. She couldn't sing, or write, and she wasn't too good with numbers, but god dammit, she could control - more specifically, herself. She controlled her emotions, never overreacting, never getting too worked up. She controlled her words, what to say and when, how much of herself to reveal. To this day, they probably still think of me as "Thirteen". Those Jerks never did bother themselves trying to memorize my real name.
"Those Jerks" were her co-workers. My former co-workers. She reminded herself. House, (that ingenious bastard), Taub (the big nose-man), Kutner (I'll be seeing you over there soon, and I've got some questions.) And Eric. Eric Foreman.
Speaking of Foreman, visiting hours start now, I think. Sure enough a white-clad nurse escorted the tall, dark man into the room.
Just like yesterday, and the day before, he pulled up a chair, and his hand found hers. He didn't say anything - he never did - he just crushed her hand with his, looking down into her eyes. They didn't talk - she wanted to say something, rather than let her death build up between them, a line not to be crossed, but silence always choked her throat. Cry for me. Cry for me, because I can't cry for myself. If Eric would just shed one tear, she could brush it away, she could be the one who did the comforting. The pity that glared down at her was unbearable, so why wouldn't he just cooperate and be the one in pain? Come on, Love, please. Let me control the situation.
Her arm swung out involuntarily, and her fingernails scraped his face, hard enough to draw blood. "Oh god, are you o-" he reached for her hand again, cutting off her words with hand on hand action. Which is the only kind of "action" I get now a days.
Outside the oh-so-white room, footsteps padded, nurses gossiped, and surgeons in blood spattered scrubs laughed and told jokes. Inside, there was a quietness that seemed so large it pushed all other thoughts out of the way.
Damn it. We're in love. We should be able to talk about this. She didn't want to be the one who shattered the wordlessness that had arisen between them after the announcement - three months to live -but she knew she had to. She wouldn't waste any more golden time.
"We should talk."
"..."
"He-looo? Eric? Remember me? Rhemy Hadley, I also answer to 'Thirteen', I sometimes slept with you? Ringing any bells?" He stroked some hair out of her face but still didn't say anything.
"It's going to happen, you know." He blinked at her. Cry for me.
"I'm going to die." Cry for me.
She was being cruel, she knew, but she needed to break past Foreman's calm exterior. Cry for me.
Her head swung to her shoulder and back again as her neck muscles decided to have a little dance party.
"I hate not being able to choose when, how. Do you think you could -"
"No." His voice didn't waver, there were no tears, but his eyes were widened with anger and sadness. She'd known he'd refuse, but it still pissed her off - she couldn't control her life, so wouldn't he let her control her death?
"... Will you miss me?" Cry for me.
"... yes. Of course. Don't you know...?" He trailed off, let her fill in the blanks. Don't you know I love you?
A smile filled her face - a real smile, not the kind she gave strangers... or friends. He loved her, and that was almost enough to make her look forward to the three months she had left. Because love wasn't the kind of thing she had to control; this love wouldn't hurt her. He didn't try to force her into a box, he didn't judge her or label her, she just saw her for what she was, and held her tight. He kept her from falling apart.
Her arms started shaking again, but he didn't let go of her hand.
Cry for me.
"What do you think it's like? Death, I mean." She had never spent too much time worrying about it; when she had a life she had been to busy too think about dying. But now the question kept tugging at her mind, demanding an answer.
"I'm Christian, sort of, so I guess I believe in heaven." He didn't sound so sure, and Rhemy was even more doubtful than he was.
"...Do you know what I think? I think House is right about this one. Maybe there is no "after". Maybe there's only this."
"..."
"But I also think that if you remember me every now and then, then maybe... it'll sort of be like I'm living on. God, that sounds cheesy, but do you think you could remember me, just once in a while?" Remember me, please, and shed a tear for me now before it's too late. Cry for me.
"I could never forget you." his lips turned a little bit, but still, his eyes were dry.
Deafening silence reared it's ugly head once more. When all else fails, deflect with a joke.
"Does this blanket make my butt look fat?"
Finally, he cried. What the hell? Am I... am I crying too? They cried together, their hurt spilling from their eyes and on to the blanket. Then they laughed - laughed at the feeble joke, laughed at death, just laughing, letting noise bounce off against the annoyingly white walls. Thank you.