title: progress is a comfortable disease
author: eithne
disclaimer: not mine; not yet.
rating: r - language?
summary: weird works for me.
•
a date with cameron; holy shit.
he stared at her door like a deer caught in headlights. or a middle aged man; terrified of a woman not half his age, but?close, a woman, which he's just agreed to take to dinner. the term 'colleague' is not allowed to enter into the equation.
if it weren't automated, he'd surely forget to breathe.
is she really that good a doctor? a performer of miracles on a daily basis? is she also a superhero with a cool nickname and brightly colored cape?
a date. date.
date.date.date.date.date; he needs to sit down.
oh, wait, he can't. because, he's outside cameron's fucking front door, having just agreed to take her on a date.
he blinks, slowly, clearing his vision,
liar: mind,
edging his way back to reality, or as close to it as he gets.
and walks to his car, quickly, almost falling twice, gets there, and drops his keys once. inside the loud color of the car, safe from the having just occurred fumbling parade; re-evaluation time.
perspiration and trembling.
differential diagnosis?
pre-date jitters.
pre-pre-pre-date jitters.
resting his head on the steering wheel, "damn," he mutters, reuben breath hitting him full force.
"damn," he says, again, because now's not the time to contemplate breakfast choices.
he rubs his eyes until unnatural hues make him nervous, and then stops, immediately. onetwothree ... and, now, a headache. great. a date with cameron and a headache.
who knew such a tiny woman was a sign of the apocalypse? not him. at the very least, there should have been, maybe, a memo or cameron clearly stamped with a picture of a laughing nostradamus. sick bastard.
he starts the car and puts it in drive, somewhat violently, but, mostly angry with himself, and drives home.
•
date night, or as he refers to it, 'holy shit' day of the week.
wilson is talking, he's trying to knot his tie and wilson is talking. he's always there, all the time, it's normal, and wilson's like human furniture. a bit decorative, showy, but mostly supportive. it's nice-- but not when he's fooling with a tie. and lou costello should be of no concern.
he gives up on the tie, briefly, not in the mood, ever, for decorative or showy.
at the refrigerator, right along with wilson, he wishes for a beer, a pre-date beer, to loosen things that need loosening. instead he comes face to face with the corsage, purchased with his own money; his signature (at the time of purchase) cemented his position, particular point of time, guaranteed what he'd be doing tonight. it's a symbol of how bad he wanted cameron--
working with him?
under his watchful gaze?
in his thoughts, his company, his bed, his heart, a permanent ray of sunshine in his life?
to be left to his devices, curmudgeonly devices, would be great. but, no, cameron sent what logic he still had packing, two suitcases, cab fare, and a firm slap on the ass. he'll never recover from this date, no matter the outcome.
his sweaty fingers wrap around the corsage and he pulls it from the shelf, mentally wincing. upon the mention of no beer, wilson is curious and walks over to him.
"this is pretty lame, right?" he asks, turning to wilson, with a sigh. he sounds tired.
he and wilson stare at the corsage. neither says anything. waiting for the corsage to speak, perhaps.
wilson, then, smiles, that way he does; it makes all the nurses stammer and blush.
"i think she likes lame," he says, matter-of-factly, with his oncologist's air.
the corsage is dumped back onto the shelf and the door shut behind it, fast, as if it may escape and tell secrets.
he waggles his eyebrows, "well, fuck," he says, passing wilson, eager to get his the tie on, "this is going to be the night of her life."
•
thinking back, it may not have been the night of her life. he's okay with that.
during the date, he was himself; she should be appreciative. yeah, and he should be able tie a necktie without moral support from wilson, but everyone's got their crutch.
she looked good, smelled good; she is good. that's part of the problem. what if she gets some on him?
her husband died when she was young, hell, they were both young. and he does, he does feel genuinely sorry for her because that shouldn't happen to anyone. people die, but, they also live and it's too frustrating to concentrate on both at the same time.
if he met her under different circumstances, (
at, who knows,
a bookstore; both reach for the last copy of catcher in the rye, laughing at the cliché in which they found themselves, still, they both tug on the book because they want it.
he wouldn't know anything about her, the husband she buried or tears she's cried for people she's known only for their symptoms. she'd know about his limp, seeing the cane, but he'd be a stranger. she wouldn't know that most people assume he's unhappy, lonely, and typically misanthropic.
he's cried,
along with the quiet brutality expressed in beethoven's moonlight sonata and once, only once, he smiled when he saw a puppy. no one knows him, definitely, knows him and he's more than words and whether or not he's shaved in the past three days.
they could date for a while; long enough for him to give her a badly wrapped heartfelt birthday present and for her to use his razor just to piss him off. among the variables there'd be a chance in there, between his rough edges and her bumper sticker optimism, for them,
for something)
but these are the ones they are stuck with, and he'll make do. he remembers in daydreams, nightmares, and in the plain white lab coat he will never wear, the smell of burning, when the muscles in his thigh took his life for a sharp left turn, that he had to be shocked back into existence, and, so, yeah, he'll deal because he's got no time to pretend.