Summary: Like the moon rules the tide, you feel his pull no matter how far you go from him.
A/N: Inspired by David Cook's song, Permanent. Major character death warning, in case that wasn't obvious. This was written well before Cameron married Chase or House started seriously pining for Cuddy, so those bits of canon are not dealt with in this story. Many thanks to jesmel, everytimeyougo, and blueheronz for notes and input on this.
"Will you think that you're all alone
When no one's there to hold your hand?
And all you know seems so far away and everything is temporary rest your head.
I`m permanent."
Heat hovers over the streets of Savannah like a mist-coated mirror. The air is thick, almost visible with humidity. Sunset manifests itself as a pink cloud, like cotton candy floating through the sky, and you think of monster trucks and the heady smell of exhaust and the first genuine laughter you ever heard from your former boss.
Jogging across the square, the massive oak trees stretch their branches above you, dripping Spanish moss like stalactites. The shade offers you a brief respite from the August heat as you head home and wonder, not for the first time, what he's doing at that very moment.
There's always something, you think, some insignificant thing you notice or some trick of the light and you are lost in a memory. Today the sunlight hit the wall in your little office and turned the robin's egg blue into a deeper shade that reminded you of House's eyes. And you've been stuck ever since, accomplishing nothing.
Nine years and you're still not over him. Time and distance have done nothing but increase the yearning. Pathetic, he would say. If loving someone is pathetic, than yes, he'd be right. But you don't think of yourself that way. Pathetic is sticking around trying to win his unwinnable heart. Pathetic is never trying to find happiness with someone else. You didn't stick around, and you tried, really tried to find happiness elsewhere. You're not pathetic. You're just a woman in love.
Rushing up the steps to your small townhouse, you pull the key from the pocket of your shorts and let yourself in, sighing with relief at the blast of air conditioning that hits you. On your way to your bathroom, you grab an apple from the bowl on the counter and remind yourself that you need to go to the market soon.
In your bathroom, you inspect yourself in the mirror, noting the new lines around your eyes and a few strands of silver in your hair. You still look younger than you are; a fact which is as unimpressive to you as the beauty so many claim you possess. But in your eyes is a new maturity that you didn't have at PPTH, and that makes you proud.
Fresh from the shower, you wander onto your balcony with a cup of tea, your satin bathrobe cinched tight around your waist. The curtains at the door stir in the early evening breeze, and the heavy fragrance of jasmine and magnolias from the yard below rises to meet you. Savannah looks best in the glow of sunset, lures you outside every evening and awakens an artistic bent in you that you never knew you had. Tempts you to take up watercolors or photography. Despite the often oppressive heat, you love this city, love living here and working here.
Shortly after you moved, a few of your new coworkers invited you on a private ghost tour. Faintly skeptical, you'd gone along, sure that if nothing else it would be a distraction from the melancholy that had settled over you after leaving Princeton. By candlelight, you walked with your new friends through places where the distant past melded with the present until the two were almost indistinguishable. And while you hadn't seen any apparitions, you couldn't deny the hair-raising sensation that something was there, watching you. A sense of anticipation swept over you. It was as if history had held its breath, as if something was about to happen and had already happened at the same time. What that was, you weren't sure. But it was very like the feeling you used to get when House's gaze swept over you and held you in place.
That's when you knew you would love living in Savannah.
And yet it's never quite held the feeling of home for you, like Princeton did. It's as if you've been a guest here for nine years. Or one of the ghosts, caught between the past and the present.
The phone rings in the other room, and you head inside, leaving the French doors open to the night air. On the line is Wilson, and the tone of his voice has the effect of an Arctic wind on your still-damp skin.
"Cameron, he's dying."
Clutching the phone, your knees give out and you plop down onto the hardwood floor.
Funny how three little words can alter your world forever. You haven't seen him in all those years, but you've kept up with him through Wilson. Somehow you thought House would live forever, like a deity. Since the day you met him he's been a permanent fixture in your life. Like the moon rules the tide, you feel his pull no matter how far you go from him.
"How long?" you ask, holding your breath as you wait for the answer. The phone threatens to crack beneath your tightening grip.
"Not very." A long pause. "He wants you."
"I'm on my way," you say, and disconnect. Rushing to your bedroom, you begin throwing clothes in a bag haphazardly, wishing someone had invented time travel. You want to be there yesterday. Or nine years ago. Suddenly you wish you'd never left him.
On the plane you call your boss and explain your absence, then you call Wilson for more details about House. Not much else registers except the word "terminal," and you can't believe that cancer could beat House. The man survived a double shooting, two overdoses, a bus crash, an electrocution and the trashing of his liver from years of drug abuse. And that's just since you met him. You're sure his self-destructive ways started well before you came into his life.
When you finally arrive at PPTH, you don't even bother to look around and ruminate about what's changed and what hasn't since you left. Purposefully, you jog through the halls, dodging people and medical equipment and then running full throttle up the stairs, reaching his room in a breathless flurry. Propped up against his pillows, he is watching the doorway as if he's been waiting for you.
"What's the rush?" he jokes. "Someone dying?"
His voice is exactly the way you remember it, deep and throaty with a cocky lilt, but the sight of him stops your heart for several beats. Skin, like a sheet of vellum, stretches over his bones and what's left of his hair looks like dandelion fluff pasted onto his scalp. His eyes, though, are as blue as ever, like marbles set into his sunken eye sockets.
Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks, but you blink them away and smile. His name escapes your lips in a breathy whisper, and you move to his side, taking his hand gently as if the slightest pressure will crush his bones.
"Hey," you say, and he "heys" you right back.
"You look good."
"Thanks," you respond, and barely refrain from answering "You too," because he does look good in a way. As long as he's alive he looks good to you; this beautiful man you fell in love with all those years ago.
"Wilson said you asked for me," you murmur, giving a gentle squeeze to the wasted remnant of the once muscular bicep that inspired lust in you all those years ago. "Why?"
He huffs out a raspy little laugh and motions toward the chair. You slide it closer and take a seat, renewing your grasp of his hand and running your thumb over his fragile knuckles. Touching him now is involuntary, you realize, but you don't want to think about the why of it.
"Still want to psychoanalyze me, I see," he says good-naturedly. "Got any Freudian theories? You know, for old time's sake?"
"It's a simple question, House. I dropped everything to come here."
"I know. Kind of pathetic," he mocks.
"Excuse me for caring," you retort, with a roll of your eyes. But you're smiling at him, because you've missed this back and forth thing you've always had.
"Maybe that's why I asked for you," he responds seriously. "You still care."
"So does Wilson."
"But he's not nearly as nice to look at. Tell me something. All those years ago, why'd you finally leave?" The look in his eyes changes, darkens like a snuffed out candle, and you cringe inside at the thought that you might have caused him pain. Over the years you convinced yourself that any feelings you thought he had for you were just a figment of your imagination.
"I left because... I loved you, and I couldn't get past it. I thought that maybe, with distance, I could break free."
"Did you?"
Shaking your head no, you choke up and begin crying in earnest, burying your face in the edge of the blanket that hangs off his bed as you mourn the years lost, both past and future.
Reaching out, he rests his hand on the top of your head, a mere shadow of a touch against your hair.
"You're my one regret," he murmurs, his voice husky and intimate.
Blinking rapidly to clear your vision, you look into the depths of his eyes and it's as if the little dark flecks there are tiny words of love that only you can read. And you know now, they've always been there. You wish you'd never let yourself doubt.
"Come here," he urges, patting the side of the bed as he eases himself over to make room.
Ever so gently you lie down beside him, keeping your body as stiff as possible so as not to hurt him.
"Unclench please," he orders. "You're not gonna break me." He curls an arm around your back, encouraging you closer, and you relax in his embrace.
"I'm still a selfish bastard. I wanted you here even though I knew it would hurt you. But let's face it, you wanted to be here just as much. Comfort the dying, that's your thing."
He's right, you know. There's nowhere else you'd rather be than by his side, no matter how painful it might be to say goodbye to him.
"You probably even want to marry me," he jokes, but his words are edged with longing, as if he wants that very thing himself.
"I would," you answer seriously, "if that's what you wanted."
Puffing up his sallow cheeks with air as if he is contemplating his response, he finally says, "Suppose it wouldn't suck too much. Wouldn't be much of a honeymoon though," he warns, "but I guess you're used to that."
He planned it all along, you realize. For some reason that you can't fathom right now, he wants to marry you, and your heart is tripping over itself in bittersweet anticipation.
"I don't care," you say, ignoring his jibe and placing your palm against his cheek, his silvery stubble prickly on your skin.
"Was hoping you'd say yes. Counting on it, actually."
"It means that much to you?"
"Yup. I want you to take over diagnostics."
The effort of processing all of this is giving you a headache. You feel like you've missed some vital clue, which, as you recall, is not an unusual feeling around House. "You want to marry me because you want me to take over diagnostics?"
"Board's been trying to get rid of me for years. I want another House to take over, just because..." he pauses, grimaces in pain as he adjusts his hold on you. "It'll piss them off."
"You still want to control everything." Typical House, ordering everyone's life, even from his deathbed. The thought makes you smile a little. He never changes, and that's comforting.
He nods at your understanding of his motives, his chin nudging the top of your head. "Cuddy has already approved. She'll get it past the board."
"You think I can handle it?"
"Wouldn't have asked you if I didn't. You're a great doctor, and you can deal with all the administrative crap."
His fingers begin sliding over the curls of your hair, soothing the throbbing in your head, but upping the throbbing in your heart. "So," you say, "is that the only reason you want to marry me?"
"Nope." The motion of his fingers stops momentarily, and then resumes as he continues speaking. "Feels like you've always been a part of me. Guess I thought I'd make it legal."
"When..."
"Shhh," he interrupts. "I've got maybe a week left, so shut up and let me talk. I've already put my condo in your name. You can move in... whenever. Do whatever you want with my things. My office will be yours as well. Just... when you hire new fellows, try to be a little bit of a hardass, will ya? I don't want my name besmirched with too much niceness." He shudders in faux horror at the thought, and you nod your head and smile as he continues.
"I don't want a funeral. Just dump me in a hole in the ground and call it a day. Maybe throw in some bourbon while you're at it," he quips, but you can't find humor at the idea of House's burial. "Wilson arranged for a judge for the wedding ceremony. Should be here soon."
"Awfully sure of yourself, aren't you?"
"That surprises you?"
"No," you acknowledge. Even in his disease ravaged condition, he wears arrogance like a GQ model wears Armani, with a natural, casual air that steals your breath and makes your pulse flutter erratically beneath your skin. It's always been part of his charm.
"You wanna change?"
Shaking your head no, you joke, "I didn't think to pack my wedding finery."
"Just as well. You look beautiful in anything. Even better in nothing."
Laughing, you respond, "You've never seen me in nothing."
"I've got a vivid imagination," he retorts, and you can't help but wonder at his ability to make you so happy even as he's dying. It's a sobering thought. You've spent nine years without him, so why does the sudden prospect of the rest of your life without him seem so impossible?
Tears clog your throat; the words you want to say are stuck behind the congestion. Clutching his hospital gown as if you can keep him with you forever just by holding on, you sob into the hollow of his neck.
"You'll be okay," he reassures, one hand stroking up and down your back in a comforting motion. "You're strong. Besides, there's really no getting rid of me. I'm like an incurable disease. Or clinic duty. I'm permanent. I'm..." he stops and thinks, a comical expression on his face. "I'm the wind beneath your wings."
An indelicate snort escapes you at that, even though there is a grain of truth to the cheesy words, and he knows it too.
"That confidence of yours," he says, serious again. "I gave you that. I'm the reason you're a great doctor and not merely a good doctor."
"Conceited," you say, with an attempt at a smile.
"True. But I'm not wrong."
"I'd like to think I had something to do with it too," you argue, one hand swiping at your tear-streaked cheeks.
"Sure," he admits with a grin. "You defied the odds and worked your bodacious little butt off." He gives you a little squeeze, kisses the top of your head and says, "I'm proud of you."
XXXXXX
The wedding takes place in his hospital room, with him propped up in bed and you seated beside him, still holding his hand. A warm patch of afternoon light slants across the two of you like a spotlight. Wilson teases House about being the one in the "white gown," and you all share a teary laugh.
The judge, a somber, barrel-chested woman wearing thick black-framed glasses and a designer business suit that is at least one size too small enters, followed by a harried assistant, who looks like he's about to wet himself at any moment.
Cuddy rushes in behind them and thrusts a bouquet of fluffy pink chrysanthemums at you and then hugs you awkwardly. She steps back and grabs Wilson's hand, sniffling, and the ceremony begins.
As you and House exchange vows, he slips a simple platinum band on your ring finger. There's a tense silence when you reach the 'til death do you part section, until House tacks on, "Which won't be long," with a comical twist of his features. And then the judge says "you may kiss your bride" and House grabs you with a strength that surprises you and plants a tender kiss on your lips. He only releases you when the click of a camera sounds, and he glares at Wilson, who gives a half-guilty, half-pleased smile and tucks the camera in his pocket.
With Wilson and Cuddy as your witnesses, you sign a paper and it's all over. Just like that you are Allison House, and you are crying in your husband's arms, aware only of his shallow breaths and the soothing of his hands up and down your spine as he holds you to him.
XXXXXX
He wants you close to him, but you're afraid to share the bed lest you hurt him in your sleep. Wilson solves the problem by rolling in a large bed normally reserved for the rare, morbidly obese patient. It's big enough that you can sleep side by side, holding his hand or resting your palm against his chest, and he seems content with that.
Wilson and Cuddy make sure you have your privacy, stopping by only briefly each day to check in and see if there's anything either of you need. They've already said their goodbyes.
XXXXXX
It's been two days since your wedding. Your things are scattered around the hospital room: a temporary honeymoon suite. Champagne flutes and chocolate covered strawberries sit on the tray beside the bed, thanks to Cuddy and Wilson. The lack of physical intimacy, the joining of your bodies as one, is the only thing missing, but you try not to think about that. All that matters is that you're together.
You've spent almost every second by his side, only leaving when he shoos you away to the shower each day. But you know it's because he wants Wilson to take care of some of his needs. He always said there was no dignity in death, and yet he's still trying to hold on to some scrap of it with you, and you know it's more for your sake than his own.
He allows you to sponge bathe him and to suction the gunk that has gathered in the back of his throat, and permits you to change his IV's, and you feel privileged to have this form of intimacy with him, bittersweet as it is.
"Did I ever tell you that I hallucinated you when I was shot?" he says.
"You did?" The idea stuns you, because by that time you were sure he'd lost interest in you as anything more than a passing intrigue. "What did you see?"
"I woke up and you were sitting by my bedside. Kind of like now. You'd been there for three days."
Blinking, you're not sure what to say. You were by his bedside at that time, but not for three days. Cuddy, Wilson, Chase and Foreman all took shifts too, so that he wouldn't wake up alone. But you would've stayed by his side for three days if they'd have let you.
"Everything was weird. I had no pain in my leg and we were trying to solve the case of swollen tongue guy."
Nodding in remembrance, you urge him to continue.
"I wanted to show him how the surgical robot worked, so I used you as my guinea pig." Pausing he glances over at you, studying your face briefly. "I started undressing you with the robot," he confesses. "It was kind of hot."
Laughing, you ask, "How far did you get?"
"Not far enough," he laments. "Be a shame to die without ever seeing you naked."
"I suppose that could be arranged. If you really wanted," you add with a saucy smile.
He waggles his eyebrows in encouragement and you find yourself standing and slowly removing each garment. Over the years you have imagined many scenes in which you undressed for him, but never would you have imagined it quite this way. In his condition, he is unable to get aroused, but he watches you with the eyes of a man with a keen appreciation for beauty in all its forms.
When you are standing before him, naked and self-conscious, he attempts a low whistle and beckons you to him. You lay down beside him, watching him carefully and cataloging every reaction.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, and begins gliding one hand over your body. He touches you gently everywhere he can reach and you adjust to accommodate him, your gaze following his hand. His fingers are dry and cool and remind you of the leaves of the Chinese Elm in your back yard, brushing against your arms and legs as you scrambled up it to hide in the tree fort when you were a child.
One fingertip circles your nipple and you shudder with pleasure and arch into him, before reminding yourself that this is not about sex.
A moment later, he pauses, his hand resting heavily just above your breast. Looking up into his eyes, you find them shiny with tears and you raise a hand to rest against his cheek.
"What?" you ask, as the tears escape and pool against your thumb.
"I'm sorry," he gasps, and raises his arm to cover his face as his body shakes. In those two words you hear the regret of years of denying you; the longing for what he's missed.
"Hey," you respond, coaxing his arm down and pulling him to you. "It's okay, it's okay," you murmur over and over again as you cling to him and the two of you cry together.
XXXXXX
When you emerge from the bathroom the next morning, he's struggling to sit up and you rush to his side to help.
"Today's the day," he says gravely, and an endless stream of tears begins to fall from your eyes. It's not as if you haven't noticed his deteriorating condition; it's just that you tried so hard to deny it. If you didn't acknowledge it, it wasn't true.
After eight days of lying beside him, easing his pain in whatever way you can, eight days of learning things about him you never thought he'd tell you, eight days of shared regrets, you will have to let him go.
Eight days. It's all you will get. It's not nearly enough.
A summer storm blows in, casting the room in shadow. Rain flings itself against the window panes and lightning flashes in the distance. It suddenly feels like the end of the world.
"Are you scared?" you ask, one hand covering his, palm to palm.
"No," he says, without hesitation, but there's a sliver of doubt in his eyes that makes you wonder. He's died before, several times in fact, but this time there's no coming back from it. This time it's permanent.
As you cry and clutch his hand, he tells you he loves you, and you mumble the words back to him through the clump of tears caught in your throat.
"Don't cry, love," he comforts. "I'll be around. Remember? I'm permanent."
Clouds crash violently outside the window, their vibrations shaking the hospital's very foundation. As he takes his last breath, the thunder fades away, a feeble echo in the distance.
XXXXXX
The day of his burial, the weather turns unseasonably, freakishly cold. A raw, biting wind blows across the tombstone strewn field, but the sky... the sky is bluer than you've ever seen before. It feels appropriate, as if mother nature is memorializing House in her own way.
There's just Cuddy and Wilson and you, standing before a marble grave marker that simply reads, "He was right," beneath his name and the dates of his birth and death. You stand there clutching their hands, with tears frozen to your cheeks like crystals. By some sort of silent agreement, nobody says a word. The words haven't been invented yet that could describe how amazing and unforgettable House was, nor express the depth of your grief. So you just stand there clinging to the hope that he's still with you like he promised, because otherwise... life will be unimaginably bleak.
XXXXXX
In his townhouse, you settle in like you've come home after a long absence. Surrounded by his things, you feel an unexpected comfort. There is so much of his personality in his belongings, all the musical instruments, antiques, knick knacks and medical books, that it feels like he's right there with you. It's all so... him, that you can't even fathom changing any of it.
Even the very air seems charged with a different kind of energy. It's the same feeling you used to get when you knew House's eyes were on you, puts all your nerve endings on high alert.
A friend packs up your clothes and personal belongings in Savannah and sends them to you, and you leave your furnishings to be sold with the house. Everything you really need is in House's (your) home.
Wilson comes to the condo two weeks later. Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched in grief, he glances around the place, taking it all in. He is taking the loss of his friend harder than you anticipated, and your heart squeezes in sympathy. You know he's come to be reminded, surrounded by all the things House loved. To feel that connection again. It's one of the reasons you won't change things. You both need the comfort of the familiar.
Wordlessly you nod him to the couch, and head to the kitchen, returning with two beers.
"He's not really gone, you know." Spreading your arms, gaze roaming over the shelves and all the nooks and crannies of the rooms that contain House's treasures, you say, "He's here." Then placing one hand over your heart and one over Wilson's, you continue. "Corny as it sounds, he's here too. He never really left us. He's... permanent."
"You really believe he's here? I mean, here in the apartment?" Skepticism colors his tone as he turns away from you, his hand inching across his neck. "He never believed in the afterlife."
"He changed his mind," you answer, confident. Certain.
"What makes you believe he's here?"
"I can feel him. Sometimes I hear his voice, smell him."
"Allison, it's just sense memory. It doesn't mean..." Throwing his hands up in surrender, he changes his tone. "Maybe you're right. I mean, who am I to say?"
He stays for a while and you talk, share memories of the man you both loved so much, taking comfort from one another.
When he leaves, you crawl into House's bed, gathering his pillow into your arms, and wonder if maybe Wilson's right. Maybe all you're experiencing is sense memory, a subconscious trick of the mind.
Just as the undertow of sleep begins to drag you down, you hear the tinkling of piano keys echoing from the other room and then fading into the night. The outline of his tall form shimmers in the doorway for a brief second. A moment later, you swear the bed dips and the ghost of an embrace surrounds you.
No, you think. He's still here.
He's permanent.