A/N: Forgot to mention, there's a tiny bit of dialogue from "Sports Medicine" in here. Also, I'm having trouble with the PM system here, so I can't thank everyone individually for your reviews. I do appreciate them though. Thank you everyone who reviewed. :D
Sometimes you wonder how it all went wrong with Stacy. It's not as simple as saying she betrayed you while you were in a coma, though that is a big part of it. She says she was lonely while she was with you, while Mark makes room for her. It's the one thing you didn't see, didn't observe, and it baffles you now that you were so blind to it. Before the infarction you were quite content with your life. It didn't occur to you that Stacy needed more, that while you could easily spend hours solving medical mysteries, she might have wanted your attention. How long would she have put up with your solitude before she ended things, you wonder. Would she want to be with you now, with your leg and the Vicodin, even if you could guarantee that you wouldn't shut her out this time? You're not so sure.
In one week you will have to attend the hospital fundraiser, with Mark and Stacy, Wilson and Julie. Hell, you've heard even Cuddy has a date. For once in your life you don't want to show up alone, the pathetic cripple, while your past parades around with her fully functioning husband.
Setting aside your cane, you take a tentative step and then another, and then you try to put your full weight on your right leg and nearly topple like a Jenga tower. Crying out, you grab the back of the couch and prop yourself up, rubbing your hand over the concave flesh of your damaged thigh as if you can erase the pain. You are pathetic. No wonder she left you.
Downing two Vicodin, you plop down on the couch and lift your leg up and into place on the cushions. You will never be whole again; there is no pretending anymore. She took something from you that you will never get back, and yet here you are pining for her. One way or another, you need to move on.
Later that night Allison sits in bed beside you, reading a medical journal she pulled from your bookshelf, her glasses perched cutely on her nose. You put aside your own journal and turn to look at her.
"There's a hospital fundraiser next Saturday night," you say. "It's black tie."
"O...kay," she replies, an open, questioning look on her face.
"As a department head, I'm required to attend."
"Oh. Well... that sounds nice."
You almost laugh at that, because the way she says those words are the way one might say, "That sounds excruciating and I would rather rip out my body hair with duct tape." You couldn't agree more, but if you are going to convince her to be your date, you will need to make it sound more pleasant than a root canal.
"I want you to come with me."
That gets her attention enough to put down the journal and take off her glasses. Turning toward you, her face all screwed up in uncertainty and what you hope isn't disgust at the very idea, she says, "Like... a date?"
"Exactly. Except for the date part."
She just blinks at that, and you continue. "Stacy will be there. She's bringing her husband."
Her eyes widen and her mouth hangs open for a moment, and then she replies, "And you want to make her jealous?"
"God no," you say, stunned, because that thought hasn't even occurred to you. "There'll be a lot of doctors and lawyers and snobby people there, all with their spouses or their mistresses or lovers or whatever. Wilson's even bringing his wife. I'll look pathetic if I'm the only one alone." Crap, that hadn't come out right at all. It sounds downright, well, pathetic.
"You don't strike me as the kind of man who cares what people think."
"I don't," you answer, an audible puff of breath escaping your lips, because it's a relief that she understands that much about you. "Look, it's just... it'd be nice to have someone there... Like I said before, you're a nice distraction. That's what I need."
Her mouth turns down, conflict all over her face, and she sighs as you wait for the financial ramifications of the situation to register with her. "I work on Saturday nights," she says, and you almost laugh at her predictability. "I mean, I might be able to switch for a Sunday night shift that week, but... I don't have a dress or..."
"I'll buy you a dress, shoes, whatever you need." You hold your breath, preparing to be slapped. It's an insult to her, you know. You might as well have called her a worthless whore, but it's a risk you're willing to take.
"No," she says, nostrils flaring like a fire-breathing dragon. You half-expect flames to come shooting out and burn you to ash.
"You'd be doing me a favor, so let me do you a favor in return."
"No," she repeats, low and dangerous. "I'll figure something out."
Turning away so she can't see your smile of victory, you grab your medical journal again as if the matter is settled. You know it will cost her, both financially and emotionally, to spend even one dime of the money she's saved since she began working at the coffee shop. She'll be taking a chunk out of her dream, postponing the life she wants, in order to do something nice for you. It is exactly that self-sacrificing part of her nature that you're counting on.
mdmdmdmdmdmd
The next day you skip out of work early, just to avoid Stacy and Wilson and a clinic full of hypochondriacs. Your apartment is quiet when you arrive home, the smell of black walnut and ginger lingering in the kitchen. Allison's mug stands on the counter, a bit of her tea still floating in the bottom. Usually she is nearly obsessive about cleaning up after herself, so it is unusual to find the remains of her breakfast left out as if she'd gone off in a hurry.
You pull out the bread, intent on making yourself a sandwich, when she comes through the door, a vinyl garment bag slung over her shoulder.
"You got a dress," you say, startling her as she shuts the door behind her.
She simply nods, a sort of distraught look in her eyes that makes you suddenly lose your appetite.
"Uh oh. What's the problem?" you ask, as she plops herself down in what you've begun to think of as her chair.
Her head hangs low and she begins to speak in the tone of voice one would use in a confession booth. "There's this boutique. Tara has an arrangement there with the owner. We just had to tell her that Tara sent us and we were given whatever we wanted."
She looks up at you then, her eyes so full of regret and self-loathing that you have to look away. You feel sick. She is trying so desperately to remove herself from that life, and for you, she's taken a step back into it, lied to get a dress she can't afford. For you.
"Come on," you say, standing suddenly and grabbing her hand. "You're taking it back."
You drive her back to the shop, the silence broken only by her quiet directions. When you arrive, you park and go in with her, feeling overcome with a sudden protective urge. Hovering in the background, you watch with a mixture of pride in her and regret in yourself as she confesses to the boutique owner that she no longer works for Tara, that she lied. She returns the dress, apologizing with a teary-eyed passion that you would normally mock if you weren't feeling so crappy about the whole situation.
The woman behind the counter is in her sixties at least, with strikingly smooth skin, high cheek bones, and vivid green eyes. Her silver hair is styled to curl beneath her chin just right, and she wears a fashionable suit. You can easily imagine her as a model in her youth. She listens with her mouth hanging open, her hands poised mid-air as she holds the garment bag that Allison has practically thrust upon her. "I'm sorry," Allison repeats one last time, before turning to leave.
You are nearly out the door, when the woman calls out, "Wait!"
You would've kept going, but Allison, ever polite, turns, blinking teary eyes as she waits for retribution.
"Take the dress," the woman says, thrusting it back into Allison's hands. "You bring it back to me when you're through with it. I won't charge it to Tara's account."
"I don't understand," Allison says, scrunching up her face in confusion.
"I used to work for Tara too," the woman says quietly. "She set me up with this shop when... when I reached a certain age. I know what it's like to want to break free. To feel trapped. You take this dress. If you can't pay for it, that's fine. Just bring it back. I have a very lax return policy," she says with a wink and a teary smile.
"That's very kind of you," Allison says, while passing the dress back into the woman's hands. "But... I really can't."
"I understand," the woman replies with a nod. "I wish I'd been as brave as you when I was your age. You take care of yourself."
The two of you leave the shop, you pressing your fingers to your head to suppress an oncoming headache. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out your Vicodin and pop two into your mouth while you hold the car door for Allison.
"Will you please let me buy you a dress now?" you ask, as you slide behind the wheel and start the car.
"No. But I've got a little money. If you can take me to the mall, maybe I can find something on sale at one of the department stores."
And that's how you end up at a shopping center on a Monday afternoon, dodging mothers who seem determined to run over anyone in sight with their strollers, sticky toddlers all hopped up on sugary treats, and senior citizens wearing fanny packs and speed-walking the perimeter as if their bowels are about to explode.
"You could've just dropped me off," Allison says, glancing sideways at you with sympathy in her eyes as she strides toward one of the anchor stores. "This can't be any fun for you."
"It's fine," you say, by which you mean, "I'll suffer through it."
You made it to your destination, finding a chair near the dressing rooms where you can plop yourself down, nearly hidden by racks of poofy gowns. All you need is to hold Allison's purse and you'd be the perfect image of a whipped man. Wilson would have a field day, you think. Probably take pictures and post them all over the hospital.
"Could you hold my purse?" she asks. There is a twinkle in her eye, and she pauses only briefly before adding, "I'm kidding. I saw an arcade just outside the store. If you want to go, I'll meet you there when I'm done. I'll try not to be too long."
"Sounds good," you say, already on your feet and limping off toward the store's exit as if you are fleeing a fire.
You spend about an hour or so, zapping aliens, eating ghosts, and beating a teenage boy at foosball when Allison appears, several bags hanging from her arm. Foosball boy spots her first, his mouth hanging open for a second before he mumbles, "She's hot."
You turn to look and can't disagree. "I'm hitting that," you say with a smug smile.
"No way" Foosball boy scoffs.
"Way!" you reply, as she meanders over and asks if you're ready to go.
"Yup," you say, pressing your hand to the small of her back as you guide her out. Over your shoulder, you throw another smug look at Foosball boy, who stands with his mouth gaping open in disbelief. Hell, you can't blame him; you know she is way out of your league. Sometimes you can hardly believe it yourself.
"So you found something you like, or did you settle for something you found on the clearance rack?" you ask, nodding toward her bags.
"Both," she answers, with a little smile. "I got lucky."
You can't help but think you got lucky too.
"Good," you reply, "I'm starving. Let's go get some food."
