A/N: Please accept my deepest apologies for the unintended hiatus. I couldn't get out of this weird, what I like to call, "idk my bff jill" mentality – where everything I wrote came out so colloquial and juvenile. I wasn't happy with anything I was writing. Actually, I'm still not, but this is much better than what I had previously written. Plus, classes just started up again, so I had to prepare myself for those extraordinarily fun times. Anywho, an update is here, now. Hopefully I've still got some readers. And hopefully they'll like this, too.
Allison and Wilson we're having a thoroughly enjoyable, albeit quiet and slightly awkward, lunch. It was filled with small talk and formalities. They didn't touch upon anything more personal than, "What's your favorite movie and why?" Wilson's favorite movie was the Hitchcock classic Vertigo, which Allison had expected, since the poster was hanging on his wall. Allison's favorite movie was West Side Story, with its sweeping story, romance and thrilling and touching music.
"Why not Casablanca," Wilson had asked her curiously, considering her tendency to love all things romantic – although West Side Story was a great choice.
Her reply was simple and easy. "The ending. There's no reason for Bergman not go off with Bogart. It makes no sense romantically."
Wilson had smiled at her and nodded. That was the answer he had expected. "All of a sudden I feel like we're Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally," had laughed.
Allison had laughed, too. "Don't worry. No fake orgasms today." She had smirked and forked a few pieces of lettuce from her Asian salad.
She was too busy with her salad to notice that Wilson had started to blush wildly, unable to stop his mind from wandering. He had taken a large bite of his chicken BLT, giving himself a reason not to speak for a bit.
They finally finished their lunch just as their waitress was approaching them. "How was everything?" They nodded approvingly. "Very good! Can I interest you in a small dessert or coffee? Our raspberry mocha latté is delicious." The waitress gave them a sweet smile.
Allison smiled back at her sympathetically. She was a waitress during her college years, always trying her hardest for a good tip. She looked to Wilson and raised her eyebrows questioningly.
"If you'd like something," he said cheerily.
She nodded at him and turned her head to the waitress. "I'll have that latté you mentioned, please."
The waitress scribbled Allison's order down quickly and looked at Wilson. "Anything for you, sir?"
"The same, please." She smiled at the two of them curtly and headed toward the back of the restaurant.
Allison let out a slight giggle. "The same, huh? Again, I'd never peg you for a 'raspberry mocha' man."
"What can I say," he began, "I like the finer things in life." He glanced at his watch and saw that his hour lunch was almost up, though no part of him wanted to go back to work. He was enjoying his time with Cameron – getting to know her a little better, finding out that she was what she always seemed. She could hold a conversation easily, which was something his wives could never do very well.
"You have time for coffee," Allison asked, breaking Wilson's train of thought.
He nodded. "Of course. There's always time for coffee."
She bit her lip. "Are you sure? I don't want to get you in trouble or anything, though I doubt Cuddy would say anything to you. You don't have any appoint-"
"Cameron – it's fine. I'm sure. Unless you don't want to stay." God, he hoped that wasn't it.
She looked down, a little embarrassed. She did want to stay. "No, I do. I definitely do."
"Then it's settled: we're staying and enjoying the lattés heading our way right…now."
Just as he uttered the last word, their waitress walked up to the table, still smiling and still cheery. "Here you go, guys. Two lattés – our finest." She placed the mugs on the table carefully. Spilling piping hot coffee all over your customers never was good for business.
"Thank you," the two doctors said in unison.
The waitress smiled at them and placed to napkins on the table. "Anything else," she asked.
"Just the check, please," Wilson asked kindly.
"Coming right up, sir." She turned on her heels and walked over the register to prepare the bill.
Allison picked up the coffee mug gingerly, blowing on hot liquid slowly. She sipped it and closed her eyes. "Mm," she began, "this is delicious."
Wilson watched her lips in shock. Oh, god. This is not good, he thought. He felt as though he had been reduced to a shell of the usually mature, composed Dr. James Wilson. He was a teenage boy, now, mooning over the girl he knew he could and should never have. He was the geek, she was the cheerleader.
Twenty minutes later, after five minutes of awkward silence, ten minutes of hospital talk, and five minutes of bickering over who would pay the bill (Wilson won that battle), the two companions made their way out of the restaurant.
"What are you going to do," Wilson asked, voice deep with concern.
Allison frowned. She hadn't thought about that. "I…don't know. I mean, I'm supposed to be taking sick time right now, but I guess I could go back to the hospital. House probably needs me to do his clinic hours."
Wilson chuckled. "I'm sure he'd love that." They stood by Wilson's car awkwardly, unsure of what to say or do.
Allison suddenly realized the time. After two o'clock. "Oh, crap!"
Wilson, who had been performing a thorough examination of his dress shoes and pant leg seams, shot his head up urgently. "What? What's wrong?"
Allison waved her hand. "Nothing, nothing. I just forgot to call my mother and confirm our dinner plans. She's going to flip out."
Wilson bit his lower lip, trying not to laugh. She sounded as though she were sixteen years old. "You can do that now, if you'd like."
"You don't mind?"
"Not at all. I'll just hang out in the car, catch up on some reading, try to avoid any flying objects that may head my way out of anger." He smirked.
"You're funny," she replied sarcastically, though there was amusement in her voice. She grabbed her phone from her bag and flipped it open. She held her finger on the number "3," which was her father's speed dial. She tapped her foot impatiently as she listened to the ringback tone.
"Hello," a confused and muffled voice asked.
"Dad! Hi! It's Ally," she said loudly. She knew her father wasn't very good with anything technological. He still used a typewriter – and it wasn't even mechanical.
"Oh, hello, sweetie! How are you?" He was screaming, and she had to hide her amusement.
"I'm…okay. Look, Mom wanted me to call to confirm our plans earlier, but there was so much going on. Where were you guys looking to eat?"
"Oh. Hm. Well, you know what? I'm not sure, really. It was up to either you or your mother. Let me ask her. Beatrice," he yelled, "where would you like to eat for dinner?"
Allison merely shook her head as she heard her mother call back faintly. She couldn't make out what she was saying, but Allison was sure that she was using the words, "darling," "lovely" and "exquisite."
"Ally," her father began, "are you still there?"
"Of course, Dad."
"Good. Your mother said she was 'absolutely dying' to go to Mediterra. Apparently it comes highly recommended."
Allison laughed at her dad's subtle mockery of her mother's voice. Naturally, he did it very well. Almost frighteningly well. "Oh, I've been there before – it's a great place."
She remembered going there with Chase and Foreman a few times.
"Wonderful. Do you think we need a reservation?"
"You know, I'm not too sure. We might. I've got their number somewhere in my bag – I'll give them a call and make a reservation for some time around five. You guys like eating early, anyway. Is that all right?"
"Oh, that's great, Apple! Thank you. You're the best."
She could hear his smile through her small, thin magenta phone. "You're welcome, Dad. I'll see you soon."
"Love you!"
"Love you too, Dad!" She flicked the phone closed and threw it in her bag. Sighing, she opened the door to Wilson's Jeep and sat in the passenger's seat.
"Hi," he said, smiling at her and putting down the book he was reading.
"Hi." She stared out the windshield, contemplating whether or not she actually wanted to have dinner with her parents. She was completely exhausted, and just wanted to relax with somebody who didn't make her feel inadequate at every moment possible.
Wilson was watching her intently, studying her porcelain features. He saw them twist and contort until they settled on a combination of exhaustion, dread and sheer unhappiness. Every bone in his body wanted to take her hand and give her comfort; his muscles ached to hold her and wash away any pain she undeservedly felt. "Cameron, do you need to talk," he finally asked. He decided that it was the better question. Definitely better than, "Do you need me to hold you, stroke your hair and tell you that everything is going to be okay?"
She looked up at him, blue eyes faded from exhaustion and grief. "I just…I need to relax. Lunch just now was great, but I need my couch and my own coffee and a good book to read."
He grimaced. He couldn't give her that. But, perhaps, he could give her something. "Look," he started, earning her attentive smile, "why don't you borrow my hotel room for now? It's not home, but it's something – better than a hospital bed, that's for sure."
Allison was taken aback by the offer, unsure of whether or not it was a good idea. Hadn't she imposed on him long enough? "Dr. Wilson, I-"
"James," he interrupted. "Please. Call me James. We're co-workers, Cameron," he said flatly, hating that it was true – that all they were to each other were co-workers, barely acquaintances.
"Well, then. If we're such good co-workers, why don't you call me Allison more often?" She elbowed his arm lightly and smiled.
"I might just do that. Allison," he said, adding a light-hearted emphasis to her first name.
"Good. Good…look, you've showed me much more kindness than I deserve, really. I would feel awful using your room. And, besides, wouldn't that get you in some sort of trouble with the management?"
Wilson shook his head. "Absolutely not. They love me there – I tip well. And you haven't been an imposition, Allison. You've been quite the opposite, actually. I offered, and I meant it. If you'd like somewhere comfortable to relax, please let me know. The hotel isn't very far from here."
Allison sat in the all-too-comfortable passenger seat in thought. "Well…okay. I'll take you up on that offer." She gave him a coy smile.
"Great! I'm glad. Let's get going, then, shall we?" He buckled his seatbelt, starting the car only after she had buckled hers. And in a flash, they were off, James glad to be doing something right – something entirely helpful, and Allison glad that she might find some peace of mind – some calm and rest before her very long evening.
Allison awoke drenched completely in sweat. She felt her heart pounding and her pulse racing. She had had that dream, again. She stared perplexedly at her surroundings. Dim lighting, a lumpy bed, ecru walls and a red-patterned comforter that encased her quite coldly. Suddenly she realized where she was: Wilson's…James' hotel room. She glanced at the clock. "Crap," she screamed. It was four o'clock and she was set to meet her parents in a little over an hour. And in her work clothes, no less. She threw the covers off of her overheated body and headed toward the bathroom.
"Oh, wonderful. I look like Bloody freaking Mary." She sighed angrily and splashed some water on her face. Sighing again, she dried her face off and hoped James had some kind of hair tools – even just a comb would do. She poked around the room and found a plethora of hair care products – expensive shampoo and conditioner, an ionic hairdryer, hairspray, hair mousse, and three different kinds of brushes. It seemed impossible that he was the only person residing in the room. And yet, it didn't surprise her that James could be a high-maintenance kind of guy. He was always neat and put together. He seemed so completely infallible to her. As she giggled at the thought of James fighting a pesky little cowlick with his stylish, up-scale hair tools, she grabbed a brush and a can of hairspray, hoping to make the best of her messy, matted mane.
Twenty minutes later, after much anguish and struggle, Allison was quite pleased with her hair – she had managed to sweep it up into a lovely, albeit a little bit messy, French braid. She examined herself in the mirror again, groaning in distaste at her work clothes. She decided the best she could was to remove her vest, revealing a lavender shirt with small and feminine ruffles. She wasn't sure why she had actually bought it – she preferred deeper, richer colors, but something about it appealed to her. Much to her delight, it worked very well with the charcoal pants she was wearing, and she agreed with her appearance – she looked fresh and rested. The complete opposite of how she looked (and felt) only a few hours prior.
Noticing the clock, she knew she had to call her father to let him know she might be a bit late for dinner. Ten minutes, the latest. There was bound to be traffic and she knew – "Oh, crap," she yelled for what seemed like the umpteenth time, breaking away from her thoughts. "I don't have a car. I have no way to get there. Other than walking or taking the bus, of course. And the bus won't actually take me there and – shut up, Allison," she scolded. "Calm down. You're stressing yourself out over nothing." Talking to herself was a habit she could never break, no matter how hard she tried. Knowing her parents would have no idea how to get to the hotel, she called the only other person she could think of.
A/N: Dinner with the parents and date with the cute police officer to follow. Finally.
