Title: Lazarus Falling 1/?
Word Count: 946
Characters/Pairings: A little House/Stacy, House/Cameron
Rating: PG-13, may get up to R
Warnings: Character death, angst
Summary: "Time of death, 2:47 A.M." He does not let go of her hand until the warmth has faded, giving way to the eerie chill of death.
Disclaimer: C'mon guys, if I owned House I would have better things to do with my time than wander 'round the intarwebs.
Author's Notes: Not beta'd, although I did self-edit the piece. I would love to have a beta, so please let me know if you're interested! I could beta your own fic in return, if you wish, because I have lots of spare time lots of school work and turn to fanfiction as a form of escapism. Also, I apologize for the awful title, it is subject to change.

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"Time of death, 2:47 A.M." He does not let go of her hand until the warmth has faded, giving way to the eerie chill of death. Her skin was always pale but now it is alabaster white, and it contrasts starkly with his ruddy flesh (deader than hers, even now). Mark Warner runs into the room, breaking the heavy stillness. Horror and disbelief are etched in his face.

"Stacy!" Mark snatches her other hand and kisses the frigid fingers. Mark's eyes move from her face, which is remarkably peaceful and relaxed, to the brown at her middle (the blood has dried now, and hardly looks like blood anymore). "Stacy!" He repeats the mantra again and again, his voice growing ever more mournful.

At last House sighs and gets up. "There... was nothing they could do," he says, and exits with as much tact and quiet sincerity as he can muster. He cannot bring himself to snap at the man who has been his enemy for so long. Their grief (almost tangible) unites them, though House denies it. He even has the upper hand now, because he was the last one to see her alive. He collapses on a shiny leather couch, once outside the small room, and tilts his head back against the wall, eyes falling shut.

He tries to clear his mind, thinking of a blank wall, focusing on the vast expanse of white, leading nowhere, coming from nothing; he can't do it, but instead finds himself wondering if it's all some kind of dream, designed by his frustrating subconscious to make him think about Stacy, and what losing her could do to him. He feels a hand fluttering across his neck, to settle on the padded shoulder of his blazer. Instinctively, he knows the hand is Cameron's.

Now he is sure that this is reality, because he couldn't invent a touch like that, so warm, so soft, so strong. Only she could be that pliable and hard at the same time: a rock and a teddy bear simultaneously. The part of him that misses Stacy, the part of him that makes stupid decisions, the part of him he trusts least, wants to cup her rosy cheek in his hand and offer her a half-smile of thanks, of guilt, of acceptance. That part of him, though, always leads to pain.

"You marry another dying guy, or are you just here for the cool t-shirts?" He opens his eyes and stares at her, gaze unyielding. He wants to see her eyes go dark with anger and the corners of her mouth droop even lower. He wants to watch her to stomp away, heels clacking. He wants her to feel just an infinitesimal fraction of what he was feeling right now: the emptiness and the numbness that has infiltrated his whole being.

Allison Cameron is predictable—invariably and unfailingly. He has her all figured out. Right now though, she is a mystery, because instead of running away, she comes closer. She gives a wry laugh, and says, "Yup, I'm on number two now. Pity the cancer isn't terminal this time, though--if only I'd known that when he'd proposed to me!" She pauses, and he searches her face (trying to pry away the mask). Three years ago, she never would have said something so wonderfully flippant. What's changed? (She's gotten stronger.)

"You know, some people would say that being married twice before reaching the age of thirty shows immaturity and lack of decision making skills. Not me though, I'm open minded."

"I'm here to see you, House." Her voice is quiet and sounds like trouble. He hates her for not leaving, for laying siege on his defenses and dragging down his guard with those eyes, blue or green or hazel (he can't decide which) and those lips (turned down even when she smiles).

He rolls his eyes. Leave it to Cameron to spoil the mood by being serious. As used to her as he is, he can't help but be a little surprised. A moment ago she was sarcastic, now she is utterly (beautifully) earnest.

"How the hell did you find me? Have you forsaken your little crush in favor of stalking me?"

She shakes her head. "I was in the city visiting some friends, we heard the shots walking down Third. I'm sorry, about Stacy." (She will never tell him that she heard he was going out for a night on the town with Stacy, and got jealous. That she followed them. That she saw the bullet hit Stacy hard in the chest and send her crashing to the ground with a dull thwump.)

He shoots her a long, appraising stare. She has to be lying, it's too much of coincidence to be believable. But how else could she know? He needs time to think, to let the ache in his gut fade, and right now she isn't helping. The way she is looking at him makes him want to run, regardless of throbbing in his thigh, run and run until everything goes away. Or, shoot up morphine. "Go away," he orders Cameron.

"I have a hotel room booked for the night. Two beds."

"Much as I'd like to be taken advantage of in my sleep, I'll get my own room, thanks."

"Fine," she says with a dangerous smile. She walks away and he senses she is trying to tell him something with the gentle swishswish of the hem of her jacket against her jeans. And for once, he doesn't know what.