Note: This is a post-ep to the finale of S4, "Wilson's Heart".
The Undiscovered Country
Her mind feels muffled. Everything around her feels muffled. It's as if the entire world has turned into cotton candy, and the only thing clear is--
"You're kidding me," Amber says flatly.
The tall figure standing in front of her shrugs, as if saying, C'est la vie, or more accurately, C'est la mort. It sounds like someone shaking a box of dice.
"God," she says, rolling her eyes. "It was depressing enough believing that there was nothing after death. Having a cliché is worse."
ONE DOES NOT ALWAYS GET WHAT ONE WANTS, says Death, in a voice that would have felt like liquid steel running through her bones, had Amber's bones been corporeal enough to feel anything.
"Oh, come on." She raises her eyebrows in disbelief. "Have you been talking to House?"
I AM AFRAID INANIMATE OBJECTS ARE NOT WITHIN THE REALM OF MY RESPONSIBILITIES.
"No, I meant Doctor House. Never mind."
AH, I REMEMBER. THE FELLOW WITH THE ATTITUDE OF A COMMANDER OF THE WATCH WHO HAS JUST BEEN INFORMED OF HIS PROMOTION.
"You mean excited?"
SUICIDAL.
"Oh. Yeah, that sounds like House."
WE HAVE, INDEED, CHATTED RECENTLY. ON A NUMBER OF OCCURRENCES, IN FACT. NONE OF THEM TERMINAL, EXCEPT THE ONE INVOLVING AN ASSOCIATE OF MINE, he says, gesturing at the floor.
Amber lowers her gaze to the surprisingly endearing rat skeleton sitting on the hospital floor. SQUEAK, it says.
"Okay," she admits, "that part wasn't a cliché."
A small smudge on the hospital floor catches her attention. The cleaning crew must have missed it, she thinks with annoyance, and turns to looks around the room, searching for whatever else is wrong so she can complain, when her eyes fall on--
"Oh."
The cotton candy evaporates. Wilson is lying on the hospital bed, and his eyes are wet, and he's making a suppressed kind of sound that she's never heard from him before, and one of his hands is caressing her cheek and Amber's heart--
--this is what it feels like to have your heart stop.
She spins back around. "Take me back."
Two blue, glowing orbs look back at her with something akin to sympathy. If skulls are capable of looking sympathetic at all.
"Shut up," she says, aware that he hadn't said anything. "I don't care about the rules. Take me back." She really wants to poke him in the ribs, but she's afraid of her finger going through.
MISS VOLAKIS, he says, and oh god it's going to stay 'miss' forever, and it feels like a spike in her chest -- WE ARE CURRENTLY STANDING IN WHAT IS REFERRED TO AS A ONE WAY STREET. FIGURATIVELY.
"That's crap," she spits out, and the Death of Rats takes a miniature step back. "There's always a way. You think I'm just going to take this lying down?"
UNTIL YOU ARE DISCONNECTED FROM THE MACHINES AND MOVED ELSEWHERE, YES.
His words hit her like a cold splash to the face. Her body is lying behind her. Her dead body. And Wilson. Wilson is--
"I'll challenge you to a game." Her voice is raw -- from the machines, she thinks, maybe she was intubated, she can't bring herself to look around again and check. "Chess. Blackjack. Fucking dominos, anything. You can't do this to him."
I AM DOING NOTHING TO HIM, Death points out, ONLY TO YOU.
Amber wants to scream. She wants to be one of those girls who can close their eyes and pray that they'll wake up and discover it was all a dream, that she's still lying on the stupid rock-hard mattress with Wilson's arm curled around her and his chest smelling like laundry detergent and soap, because at least then she'd be one of those girls who has hope, instead of being a rational, pragmatic bitch who knows from bottom of her heart to the soles of her feet that he will carry yet another loss forever and that she will never, ever be with Wilson again.
She screams.
Death flinches. THAT WAS NOT NECESSARY.
"You don't even have ears," Amber snaps. The Death of Rats points to his cowl and shakes a tiny fist, and for a moment she considers grabbing him by the tail and throwing him into a wall, because she is dead and Wilson is grieving and this is not the time to be concerned with offending the sensibilities of an anthropomorphic personification of a fucking mouse. But she resists the urge; partly because she is rational and pragmatic and knows she'd look ridiculous throwing a temper tantrum, especially now when no one is watching. Partly because the skeleton might crumble into little rat bones and the thought of it really creeps her out.
Neither Death nor the rodent give her any response other than blank stares, but as inanimate craniums go, they're pretty expressive.
Grow up, Amber.
And finally, Amber takes a deep breath. She knows how this goes. She's been on the other side before. She'd just never expected this side to have a welcoming committee.
"So, what happens now?"
THAT IS ENTIRELY UP TO YOU.
Something shifts; it's as if a sense she wasn't even aware she had has suddenly switched off. The air has no smell, and she feels like she's standing on the floor and floating at the same time, and while the hospital room is still around her, it's like her grasp of it is starting to fade.
She will not panic. There is nothing left to panic over.
"How about once more, without the crypticism. What does that mean, up to me?"
WHAT YOU BELIEVE WILL HAPPEN, WILL HAPPEN.
"Oh, come on! Are you telling me the answer to the afterlife is a slogan from a self-help book?"
AH -- ARE THOSE THE ONES LIKE WHO MOVED MY CHEESE?
The Death of Rats sheepishly raises a paw.
"Okay, look," Amber says, and starts pacing on the maybe-floor. "If I've never believed the existence of an afterlife, does that mean I don't get one?"
PRECISELY, replies Death, and raises his scythe.
And Amber thinks:
Poof, blink, and you're gone. Completely wiped out of existence. No waiting for eternity for an apocalyptic battle between good and evil; no purgatory; no rebirth as a small ant in the Himalayas. No fear, no pain. No worries over those left behind. Just... a void.
It's not as comforting a thought as it was when she was alive.
Amber considers her options. She wishes she had a whiteboard and marker, and hates the fact that just a few weeks with House had had such an influence over the way she approached problems. But finally, she just states, "You know what? That's bull. Now that I've seen the evidence, I've changed my mind."
Death lowers the scythe. THAT IS... UNUSUAL.
"But it's legitimate. Right?" She raises her voice triumphantly. "Believing in nothing isn't believing, it's just not believing in anything. But now I believe. And I believe I can choose what to believe."
Death looks confused.
"It's logic," she says.
AH, LOGIC! Death's stance relaxes. ALL CATS ARE CUTE. ALL CUTE THINGS ARE CATS. THEREFORE, ALL CATS ARE CATS. QED.
Amber blinks. "Um. Whatever works."
Death grins. Amber tries very hard not to make an internal joke about it, because there are times for quips and times for figuring out what you want to do with the rest of your unlife, and this was the latter.
AMBER VOLAKIS, Death booms. WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE?
And that is an unexpected obstacle.
Come on, she tells herself. Believe. Believe in something. Heaven. Hell. The frigging Fields of Elysium, reincarnation, a messiah with trumpets and horns, something. There's a higher power, there's a higher meaning to our lives, it's not just the wishful thinking of mundane superstitious fools who trust faith over reason, there's something out there,
believe.
Her mind blanks.
"I can't," she whispers.
The Death of Rats lowers his head. SQUEAK, he says sadly. Death begins to turn; her hold on reality falters even more.
This can't be over.
"Wait!"
Death turns back to her questioningly. YES?
"Please," she says. "Help me. I don't want to disappear."
BUT YOU BELIEVE IN NOTHING.
"I don't!" she says. And she will not turn this into a sentimental speech –- I believe in excellence and in the pursuit of happiness, and I believe in genius, and that the water bed is man's most idiotic, counterproductive invention, and I believe that what I had with James Wilson was real. "I just... don't believe in the right things. Not for this." She swallows. "Please, help me. Is there anywhere else I can go?"
Death hesitates.
Amber notices, and latches on. "You. You're here. You have to be going somewhere after this, right?"
Death and the Death of Rats exchange a look, which is not unlike a skyscraper catching the eyes of a mailbox. IT WOULD BE... HIGHLY IRREGULAR.
SQUEAK.
I TRIED THAT ONCE BEFORE. YOU SAW HOW IT WORKED OUT.
SQUEAK SQUEAK.
Death tilts his head. HMM. THAT IS TRUE. BUT I WAS UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THEY ONLY TREATED CREATURES WITH FOUR PAWS OR MORE.
The Death of Rats starts waving his paws enthusiastically, minuscule scythe slashing through the air. SQUEAK! SQUEAK SQUEAK.
REALLY? THAT'S WHAT SUSAN SAID? BRANCHING OUT, INDEED. WELL, WELL.
Amber holds her breath. Not that it matters. "Well?"
Death taps his scythe on the floor decidedly. IT APPEARS THAT THERE IS A NEED FOR DOCTORS AT ST. SANDERINE'S MEDICAL FACILITY FOR QUADRUPEDS & MORE, IN THE CITY OF ANKH MORPORK.
The only reason this isn't the weirdest thing to ever happen in Amber's life, she thinks, is that she's not actually alive when it's taking place. Then she narrows her eyes, because a girl will only settle for so much. "What exactly are they looking for?"
I DO NOT IMAGINE THEY ARE VERY PICKY AT THE MOMENT. HOWEVER-- a skeletal hand reaches into the depths of the black robe and pulls out an ancient looking hourglass. Death glances at it for only a moment, nods, and puts it back in. YES, AS I SUSPECTED. THE POSITION OF DEAN OF MEDICINE WILL QUITE SOON BECOME AVAILABLE AS WELL.
And something lights up inside her. She can do this. And then she shakes her head, which is becoming less and less shadowy by the moment; she is Dr. Amber fucking Volakis, of course she can do it! She is young, and smart, and pretty, and she is going to kick her afterlife's ass, and she will be Dean of Medicine within a year and House can just suck on that.
Oh, she thinks.
House.
Her bright grin diminishes. The hospital room around her begins to, too. She thinks she hears the drum of hoof beats coming nearer, and a distant whinny.
ARE YOU READY? Death asks.
"Just -- one more thing, please," she says. Something white and big flashes in the corner of her eyes.
The Death of Rats shakes his head, but Death says: I AM UNFORTUNATELY SENTIMENTAL WHEN IT COMES TO WOMEN WHO RESEMBLE MY GRANDDAUGHTER. WHAT IS IT?
"You said we were in a figurative one way street," Amber says "I just want to make one small stop on the road."
A huge horse suddenly appears in front of Death, who runs one bony hand across its mane. The horse snorts with approval.
Death sighs. VERY WELL, BUT MAKE IT QUICK. He picks up the reins, and climbs across the horse with more grace than one would expect from... well, anyone lacking muscles. THERE IS, AFTER ALL, A SCHEDULE TO KEEP.
"Don't worry," Amber says, and climbs behind him, smiling. "I won't even get off the figurative bus."
The end.
None of the characters are mine, but belong to Terry Pratchett and to Fox etc; title from Hamlet.