Fellow Travellers – part 2

Midnight. The hospital's sounds are muted, subdued; because it's late, because most visitors have left for the day and because a woman, who it turns out, has a surprising influence over the mood of the building is still unconscious.

You went home, but when it became clear you weren't going to be able to settle, you came back. Not because you expect to find peace here, you have long since given up expecting to find peace at all, but because there is nowhere else to go. Now, you are lingering in corridors, avoiding people, feeling like an interloper, yet still heading inexorably closer to her room. You want to believe that you are going to be able to stay outside, be satisfied with looking at her through the glass. But you know that when it comes to it you will want to know for sure that she is recovering – because, after all, most of her Doctors are idiots.

You take great pleasure in taunting her, defying her authority and ignoring the limits she attempts to impose on you. You like to believe you don't like her, that you aren't friends – but this is just another of the many lies you tell yourself. The truth is, things between the two of you are more complex than that and you couldn't categorise the relationship you have, even if you were inclined to try.

Her chart is in the room – to reach it, to actually check on her you are going to have to go inside. You realise there is no chance of doing that without being seen. There are a lot of people around who you are sure will all enjoy gossiping about this visit. It is the kind of situation that would have you throwing in a joke about sex, the non-existent affair the two of you are having. It is the kind of situation you would relish – normally.

As you glance at the readings it occurs to you that it is odd that there is no one else here, no friends or family sitting by her bedside waiting for her to wake up. It doesn't seem right that her only companion is a crippled colleague, driven by remorse, who has taken over 6 hours to get here and who might still bolt at the drop of a hat. But perhaps this is how she wants it.

The chart is informative – but it doesn't tell you the whole story. It tells you nothing about those first, chaotic moments. Of Foreman abandoning a patient to rush to her aid, of his urgent efforts to stabilise her, efforts that left him with a lab coat drenched in blood – which he discarded in disgust as soon as she was whisked away to the OR. There is nothing written down about Wilson sprinting along hospital corridors to reach her, to hold her hand for a few moments; or of people standing together in small groups, speaking in hushed tones, numb with shock – as though too much noise would somehow add to her injuries. You piece together these details through snippets of over-heard conversations, adding them to the tide of shock that had eventually found even you, lapping at your feet like an in-coming tide.

'House?' her voice sounds far more fragile than usual.

'Yeah.'

'Oh God, this has to be hell.' As an opening remark it isn't too promising, but there is just something so – Cuddy-like about the statement that you concentrate on the relief you feel and decide to ignore everything else.

'You're right – for you hell is this hospital and me as your Doctor.' At her horrified expression you add, 'relax - I have absolutely nothing to do with your treatment. You might want to send Foreman a nice note though – poor guy pretty much saved your life.'

'I'm sure you'll thank him enough for both of us. How am I doing?'

'Don't you want me to let the gaggle of anxious Doctors out there know Mom's awake?' She brushes aside the question, making you wonder if she somehow believes that if there is bad news to be delivered, you will do it with a modicum of brutality – no sugar coating from Dr House.

'No, I want you to tell me how I'm doing.'

'You're recovering nicely – a model patient in fact.' You watch as she processes that, and then you take pity on her and hand her the chart so she can see for herself.

'My eye?'

'Not as bad as they thought at first, you won't lose it – but some of the lacerations are pretty severe – including the facial ones.'

'There'll be scars,' she says, handing you the chart back.

'Its too early to tell, but I'm reliably informed that this hospital has some very good plastic surgeons. I'm sure they'll all dying to operate on you.'

'It doesn't matter,' You open your mouth to argue, but the words elude you. And perhaps this isn't the moment to point out that, despite all the time you spend deliberately not looking at her face, her eyes are easily her most expressive and arresting feature; or even that you have ever noticed such a thing. You aren't used to seeing her like this, aren't used to the stillness, to the vulnerability, to the feeling that if you say the wrong thing you might just shatter her into so many pieces no one will be able to put her back together again.

'I'm pretty sure it does matter – don't scare the plastic surgeons away, OK? I know

they aren't the kind of people you would normally enjoy spending time with – but not hearing what they have to say would be stupid – and however much of a pain in the butt you are – I know you aren't stupid.' When she doesn't reply you know that you have lost her. 'Well, this has been pleasant – but since you aren't at death's door there's really no need for me to be here.' As you hoped the deliberate cruelty of your words force a response from her.

'Hoping I might not make it?'

'I had the party all planned.'

'Sorry to disappoint you.'

'I thought that was what you lived for?'

You wince at the unintentional meaning of the words but you don't look back as you take a couple of steps to the door and that is why you almost don't hear her whisper,

'Stay?'

'I don't know Cuddy – people will talk; I wouldn't want anyone to think I like you.'

'Believe me, no one is in danger of thinking that. I could use the company.' You nod and, sighing heavily as though it is an enormous favour, settle in the chair beside her bed.

'Well, if you insist. So – can we watch TV?'

'I'd rather be dead.' You don't point out that a couple of hours ago she almost was – but the words are there between you, like loaded missiles.

'Oh come on. The Comedy Channel is re-running Friends – actually its always re-running Friends – but that's not the point.'

'There's a point?'

'I'm sorry.' You've been working up to this since she woke up and both of you know it. You are interested to see how she will react to your apology, to the amount of power you have given her– after all its not as though she doesn't already have too much power over you.

But when, after a long, tortuous silence she says, 'OK' as though that is it, you can't quite believe she is letting you off the hook so easily. You start to object but when you look at her she is watching you out of the one eye that is not swathed in dressings and her expression is carefully neutral. That is when you realise that you are not the only one who is afraid to confront guilt and what it might mean. You have to applaud her attempt at bravery, her determination not to add to your demons, even if it is ultimately a strategy that can not hope to succeed. But you don't know too many people who would even have the nerve to try and it is because of this that you are finally willing to admit that you admire her.

You seldom touch people, not just patients, although you have a particular antipathy for touching them, but people in general. You also know you have a penchant for the grand gesture – although other people don't put it so kindly. So, both of you are surprised when you reach out and take her hand, letting the warmth seep from you into her. You are giving her something to hold onto – even though it is clear she is desperate not to admit she might need such a thing. Yet, after a moment, her fingers curl around yours.

'Tell me about the hospital,' she says at last. You aren't surprised by the choice of subject – because she is more like you than either of you want to admit. If you have solving mysteries as the thing that matters to you, then she has a sprawling hospital with a permanent hole in its finances. And who are you to say whether this is a good or a bad thing?

'I'm going to tell you about a patient Chase admitted last week – I'm actually surprised you haven't heard about this already - the complaint must be taking longer to get here than I thought.' You start to talk, describing scenes, winding stories together, bringing characters to life with vivid descriptions and some wicked imitations. You pause only when Wilson steps into the room, but he nods at you to go on, pulls up a chair and joins in the telling of the story, adding a few laconic asides of his own.

You watch her, out of the corner of your eye, see her relax and finally give in to the insistent pull of sleep. Cuddy will make it, you decide, probably to spite you – and she won't hold this over your head, won't wield it as a weapon in your frequent disputes. Which makes her a better person than you.

Wilson is sleeping too – stretched out in his chair; you could sneak away, leave them – but you won't. You pop a vicodin and wait for the pain in your leg to even out. Something tugs at you, something that is almost contentment – and then you remember that you are a screwed up son of a bitch and that if this is contentment you are in a worse state than you thought. But, actually, if you are, at least you aren't the only one – and sometimes to be among fellow travellers is all we can ask for.

The End