Author's Note: I have most of this written and I'm going to post another chapter tomorrow, and then I'm away until next Thursday, so I won't be updating. I have this story mostly done, so…. thanks for the reviews!

I have squandered my resistance

For a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises

All lies and jests

Still a man hears what he wants to hear

And disregards the rest.

--Simon and Garfunkel, "The Boxer"

It's been nine hours since we entered this waiting room. We've been in here for so long that our eyes are starting to play tricks on us. At least mine are. Stacy is conversing quietly with Chase in the corner. He taps his feet in some internal melody—he's been in hospital waiting rooms before. Wilson has been pacing for a good eight and a half hours now. There are some other people in the room, but his quite footfalls provide the constant melody for all of us.

It's not that he's pacing or that Chase and Stacy are chatting that is making me doubt my eyes' capacity to relay information to my brain. No, it's now when Cameron lifts herself resignedly from the chair, takes Wilson's arm, and pulls him back to the seat next to her that makes me doubt my vision. It's a gentle, caress-like touch that makes me second-guess Cameron's adamant love of House. Could she be doing…

I shake the thought out of my mind and go back to the three-month old Sports Illustrated on my lap. Chase isn't doing a crossword, so I'm stuck with reading about the Super Bowl. Something's wrong with the world tonight. If a meteor struck right around now, I'd be the least surprised guy. Everything has been so…off…tonight.

Speaking of meteors, I suddenly remember something my ninth grade science teacher once said. He told my class when we were studying astronomy that there were more people working in McDonalds than people watching for asteroids. I guess that means we're in deep shit since we need a lot of time to stop one of them from destroying life on earth.

We're in deep shit if he dies, too.

I got this fellowship with House and I'm happy I did, but he makes life so miserable sometimes. The jabs about the criminal history bother me less than they used to, but they bothered me at one point in time. We make mistakes; it's not like he hasn't.

What the hell are we going to do if he dies? Chase and I are going to be lost without those comments—we hate them, but we expect them. Dr. Wilson—this is the man's best friend. Stacy—she broke his heart. Is she ever going to forgive herself for doing that if he dies? And Cameron. The poor girl's heart can't stand any more beating.

It's funny, thinking about it now. House has his own little "damaged" team. Chase with the alcoholic mother and his controlling father. Me with my little bit of a criminal past (I like to call it a "colorful" history.) Wilson and his divorces (I don't know the guy very well, but anyone who puts up with House gets pretty high marks for respect in my book.) Cameron with her marriage to a dying guy (Chase and I did some research—we're not stupid.) Stacy and just—everything.

Cameron tells us he hired her because she is pretty. He tells us he hired Chase because his father called. He tells me he hired me because I'm black. He lies. He hired us because we're like him—damaged.

I cannot concentrate on the magazine and I throw it back on the table. Some chatter stops and several people look at me.

"This is ridiculous. Should it take this long?"

I pace for the now-sitting Wilson. I know the answer to my question (I'm a doctor), but I want reassurance. House the bastard is invincible. He is not the evil villain who dies; he's the dark hero of medicine—Batman with a stethoscope.

Cuddy is sitting through the medical procedures being taken to save him. All of us want to go in and tend to him, but ultimately she is the most objective and can do her job most efficiently. She's the dean of the hospital; those surgeons know she'll kill them if they don't do everything they can to save him.

My eyes again fall on Wilson and Cameron. He has always worries about her; he thinks she's too nice for medicine (Chase and I hear the worried discussion between House and Wilson on whether she can handle the job or not). But he also thinks she's very good for House. Now, though, she has her head on his shoulder and I can't help but notice his hand lying on hers, which itself sits on the shared armrest.

"Call me crazy," I murmur.

No one hears, because everyone else is engrossed in their own conversations—silent and otherwise. We're making up our reasons why House isn't going to die and what we're going to do if he does. We're all doctors (except for Stacy) and we deal with death on a basis more common than other professions. House is demanding a differential diagnosis from his bed. And if he dies, small pieces of us die.

It's funny, Cameron has been sitting there muttering every now and then about House's cane. Where's his cane? It's pathetic to watch; she sounds like a lost kitten that has been beaten one too many times. She's senseless and perhaps cane is the only word she can grasp.

It's also Cameron who realizes he won't make it first and it's her sobs that are the first to penetrate the barrier of stoicism. Wilson holds her and Stacy and I exchange looks—we've known each other for a few days, but already we're thinking the same thing.

"He'll be fine. It is House," Chase reminds her gently from his corner with Stacy.

"And everyone knows Greg is a resilient bastard," Stacy chimes.

"You—no one saw him. His face…"

She trails off and she's right. None of us saw him except her, Wilson, and Cuddy. She called me and I called Chase. Wilson called Stacy. But she brought him here in the ambulance. She's the reason he's probably even alive.

Footsteps and not mine. Someone's coming out. We all wait patiently and with our breaths held. Make a wish.

It's not Cuddy. She makes promises that she keeps. She told Cameron and Wilson that she'd be the first one we'd see if something happened.

Someone else's family gets good news. I like giving good news. It's rare in this job, but I like giving it. Enough good news evens out the bad stuff.

So now it's just us damaged people in the waiting room. Sniffles from Cameron remind me of the gunshots I used to hear in the dark growing up. The light breaks through the window. Sunrise.

"I hate literature, but isn't sunrise the symbol of life in a poem or something?" I ask to the air.

"Yeah, it is," Stacy replies.

"You like literature?"

"Love it."

"You think it means something?" Chase asks me.

"No."

I grew up in a tough neighborhood. After a while, you start to know when things mean something and when they don't. Sunrises mean a dawn of another day. And the conversation ends as soon as it starts and we're no farther than we were before. Just a bunch of middle-aged people thinking on mortality.

The time is 6:14 when Cuddy emerges with her blue scrubs badly bloodstained. I stop pacing. Cuddy's got a good poker face. Stacy sees the bad news in her eyes immediately and her hand goes to her mouth.

It's a simple shake of her head. No.

"Time of…"

She wants to tell us, but she can't.

"Cause of…"

She tries, but the words fall into silence as soon as she attempts.

"Too much trauma," Chase informs the room.

"Yeah…yeah," her voice cracks and she bows her head.

Cameron's sobbing resumes and Wilson's tears mix with hers. Chase is too shocked to do anything other than hold Stacy's free hand. Cuddy takes off her gloves and shouts "damn it!" to a god she hopes exists.

The world shakes beneath my feet. I imagine CNN will report later that a meteor hit the earth.

House is dead. Nothing surprises me anymore.