Here's the next chapter. Apologies that these chapters aren't as long as my ones for S&S were (6pages instead of the usual 9-10) but I'm trying to get them out in a timely manner, and also, I think that sometimes less is more. Eesh! Found FOUR typos after I posted this. PLUS, I forgot to thank everyone who reviewed the prologue. I'm glad you all are enjoying it. So far it's been fun and interesting to write.
Chapter 1
D-Day Take 2, Minus 1
Thursday and it was still too hot. So far the only good thing about the morning was the fact that he hadn't been assaulted by the sight of Stacy looking all blasé and professional and I've-moved-on, as he'd entered the hospital. He hadn't seen her all day, as a matter of fact. She seemed to have a knack for showing up in his peripheral vision whenever he least desired to see her, which made him wonder if she'd taken the day off, because he especially did not want to see her today.
Eleven o'clock and he'd already made three diagnoses on the same patient as his team started the afflicted woman on various drugs only to have new symptoms pop up along with a nasty drug-induced seizure. It was about par for the course but it kept his mind somewhat busy, if not quite busy enough. He sat behind his desk awaiting word from Foreman or Chase and contemplating the stack of mail in his inbox. Cameron, he was not expecting to see, at least not without company. In two days she'd managed to perfect the art of dodging him. He was even considering using valuable date-time to ask her for tips to avoid Cuddy. That assumed there was still going to be a date.
He admitted that he had hoped she wouldn't discuss their after-work plans while at work, but he'd expected some sort of acknowledgement that such plans existed and were going to be followed through on. Maybe a little mail sorting, a little coffee making, a little something to show that things were going to revert to normal.
Then again 'normal' was such a relative term, and was that really all he wanted to achieve by asking her out? A return to a not-so-comfortable routine? When he'd first begged her back (and yes, he could admit that it was begging) he'd told her and himself that he just wanted things back to 'the way they were'. Admitting anything else was out of the question. Normal wasn't going to cut it anymore. He was fumbling and groping around for more with 'turn back you fool!' only a pesky annoyance in his brain.What had changed? Because something had definitely changed.
The obvious answer was Stacy. She seemed like the alternate 42. The answer to everything. Why he was crippled. Why he was a bastard. Why he was emotionally stunted. Why he was taking five more vicodin a day and why he washed the last ones down with scotch. Why he suddenly felt the need to reach out to another emotionally damaged person for… something. Yes, she was a very convenient answer, and a satisfying one too. Demonizing her was even fun. He'd mocked up a picture of her with horns and a tail and emailed it to the entire staff. That had been good for a laugh. Unfortunately he wasn't as good at lying to himself as he was at lying to other people. He did it often enough, but somehow the truth always bored into his brain like a particularly annoying worm. He couldn't even truthfully say that he hated Stacy. He sure as hell wanted to, but he couldn't do it, anymore than Cameron could hate him.
And that was the reason things had changed. He'd lied to himself one too many times; saying that he wanted Cameron to hate him; that he wanted her to get over her pesky crush and move on. The truth was in the split-second of instantaneous relief that he'd felt when he'd seen her eyes shift after she'd actually told him that she had.
I hate you.
He wondered what his expression had looked like as those words registered in his brain. Then he'd seen the subtle change in her face and the feeling of harsh, quick nausea had disappeared as if he'd never felt it, and he'd taken a breath as if he hadn't momentarily forgotten how, and he'd grinned at her, mockingly as usual, and continued on his regularly scheduled bastard routine. It had taken him another week before he'd admitted his relief.
Grabbing up half the mail in one hand and a letter opener in the other, House admitted something else. He wanted something beyond 'normal', but he had no idea how to get it.
At last, at seven thirty-nine in the evening, a cold front started moving in, but House was still in the hospital and couldn't smell the sharpness in the air that came with autumn, or feel the wind - no longer a breeze, but a wind - that swept through the trees outside his office and sent leaves spiraling to the ground. He tossed his oversized tennis ball into the air, caught it and placed it almost reverently on top of a folder on his desk. Denise Simon's file. Their patient du jour. They'd come close to losing her twice, but she was stable now. Stable and afflicted with a disease that had her remaining years on earth guaranteed to be debilitating. Sometimes discovering the disease didn't actually help much.
He'd watched Cameron give the woman the bad news, surrounded by her husband and three grown children. He hadn't told her to do it. He hadn't even know she was going to do it. Foreman had popped his head in to tell him. Apparently he thought House would want to know. House had sneered, given a mildly sarcastic reply and watched while Foreman shook his head and walked away. Then he'd limped down to the patient's room and stood outside like some bizarre stalker.
She wasn't crying. She didn't even look emotional, but the caring in her face was unmistakable and the way she rested a hand on the woman's arm, and looked regretfully at the husband, spoke volumes. House had walked away before Cameron had spotted him, and he'd been in his office ever since, wondering about things. Wondering about her. Was it only news of imminent death that ripped at the underpinnings of her professional demeanor? Or was it particular patients that did it? Patients without family. Without support. Patients who reminded her of her husband. Or of herself.
Blue gaze intent on the colored ball, he only looked up when her shadow was already falling over his desk. He'd thought she'd gone for the day.
"Forget something?" he asked, attempting to keep the natural flow of sarcasm to a minimum.
"No," she answered without explanation. Her hair had come loose from its knot at the back of her head, and her lab coat was unbuttoned and listing off one shoulder. "Tomorrow's Friday."
"Yes, yes it is. TGIF and all that."
Familiar reliance on comic relief from House, followed by a not-lately-familiar wisp of a smile from Cameron.
"I wanted to make sure…"
"You backing out?" he said abruptly and she blinked a few times in surprise.
"No. That's why I'm here. I wanted to make sure that you're not backing out. I don't mean backing out of the date… but that too, I guess. I mean, are you backing out of whatever the hell is going on here… if there is something going on… If you are, just tell me now, okay? Don't show up and cut my legs out from under me."
House was surprised by the question, but he could understand her need to ask it. "I'm not backing out." No need to tell her that he didn't know what exactly he was doing.
Nod. Tight little smile. Brief glance. "Good. I'll see you tomorrow then."
"Tomorrow. Right."
He was tapping his cane lightly against the floor but Cameron pretended not to notice the nervous action. She gave another nod and walked out, her sensible shoes barely clicking along the floor, the sound fading long before she was out of sight. House stayed motionless in his chair for a few more minutes and then used his desk to hoist himself to his feet. He shoved his gameboy in one pocket and his iPod in another before reaching for his cane and his jacket. Computer… off. Light... off. Blinds… closed. His lanky gait brought him to the door where he gave one more visual sweep of the office before leaving.
Most of the other doctors were already gone for the day, and the halls were fairly deserted as he made his way to the elevator. With the tip of his cane, he pushed the button, then leaned his weight on the strong wood while watching the little numbers light up sequentially.
"Hey, House!" Wilson's restrained shout made him pivot back around. "I thought you'd still be here. How about grabbing a drink?"
The elevator doors opened and House stepped in, followed closely by Wilson who was wearing a curious combination of a puppy-dog expression and genuine concern.
"Avoiding Julie again? I hope you've kept your divorce lawyer on retainer."
"I'm not avoiding her," Wilson countered. "She's having one of those tupperware parties at the house. Except I don't think it's tupperware; I think it's baskets… or make-up."
"Good to know you pay attention when she talks to you," House quipped. "Maybe you'll get lucky and it'll be one of those sex-toy parties. I hear they're all the rage in suburbia."
Wilson waited patiently for House to run out of steam. "You done now?"
"For the moment."
"So about that drink."
For a second, House considered it. Going home and drinking didn't sound much more enticing than going out and drinking. It did, however, have the great advantage of allowing him to avoid conversation. And by the looks of it, Wilson was in a chatty mood.
"I'll pass."
"C'mon, House. You've spent the last month becoming the human equivalent of Fort Knox. Hell, have you been anywhere other than here or your place in the past two weeks?"
"The 24Hour grocery store, last Saturday at 2am, and the triple x bookstore on Trapello," House answered with a sneer while keeping his eyes focused on the elevator buttons.
"Oh, well that's okay then." Wilson rolled his eyes. "Real healthy, buddy."
House didn't reply, and the silver doors parted. He thought he was keeping up a fairly brisk pace, but Wilson kept up with him.
"Look," Wilson made his final last-ditch effort, "give me a place to hide out and I'll spring for Chinese."
A look of exasperation passed over House's elastic features, but Wilson knew he had him. He never turned down Chinese food.
"Fine," House bit off at last, "but it had better be from Golden Palace, and don't forget the lo mein."
"Deal."
House grunted out his own acquiescence and limped quickly over to his car before Wilson completely lost it and gave him a hearty slap on the back. He sped out of the parking garage, leaving a trail of rubber on the last ramp, and headed towards his townhouse. It was only ten minutes away but he managed to cut the trip down to seven, and soon he was flinging open the door and tossing his keys onto the table beside it.
At least a week's worth of newspapers littered the coffee table, but other than that the place was relatively clean. It was a state of organization attributed more to the fact that he didn't do much there, than to any cleanliness compulsion on his part. He generally came home, ate, drank, played the piano, read, watched whatever tivo had recorded and went to bed. When he was in the mood, he smoked a cigar while improvising jazz standards, and lately, when he was really in the mood, he chased the cigar with a fifth of scotch and fell asleep on the sofa.
Shrugging out of his jacket, he made his way to the bedroom, where he pulled off his belt, unbuttoned his shirt collar and grabbed a new bottle of vicodin from the dresser. He made a detour to the kitchen on the way back, and grabbed a beer for Wilson and a glass filled with ice for himself. The beer was that terrible old Pabst Blue Ribbon that they'd gorged themselves on back in college. Apparently it was back in style, and Wilson had never lost the taste. His glass was for the Glenlivet he kept conveniently next to the piano.
He sprawled out on the sofa and waited to hear Wilson's footsteps outside the door. Expensive shoes, strong step, House could pick that footstep out at twenty paces. Thirty minutes later Wilson was letting himself in and dropping a paper sack onto the still-littered coffee table.
"You remembered the lo mein, right?"
"Yes, I remembered," Wilson's voice had that special tone that infuses those who have been asked the same question fifty times.
"Good," House said as he rummaged around in the bag, grabbed one box and a pair of chopsticks.
"You know, I only forgot it that one time. You could let it go."
House started jabbing at the noodles and shoveling them into his mouth. "Never."
The next few minutes were interrupted only by the sounds of chewing, swallowing, bottles being opened, and the occasional 'gimme that'. Then, food decimated, the two men leaned back in their seats and let out the sigh of the well fed. House picked up the remote.
"What, no talking?"
The blue eyed stare that was tossed in Wilson's direction, became more intense with each second. House's brows drew together and his mouth quirked down in annoyance. "There was no tupperware party."
"No."
Another inch of amber liquid sloshed into his glass and he stood up and limped heavily to the piano. "Just had to get me alone, eh? Well don't try anything. I'm not that drunk, or that easy."
Wilson chuckled and shook his head. "No fear there. I like you, but I don't like, like you."
"So let me guess, then; you're worried about me." How very ironic that Wilson should go all mothering when he was finally starting to take some small shuffling steps in a direction other than backwards.
"Something like that," Wilson answered, keeping his eyes fixed on House's stiff body and watching it slowly relax as he clipped the end off a cigar, lit it, took a puff, set it down, and started playing the piano.
"Well you can stop it." Strains of In a Sentimental Mood lifted into the air.
Wilson huffed out a breath of air and took another drink. "Right. Because you're so well adjusted." He drank again while he waited for House to finish the bridge. "You closed yourself off after Stacy got here. You've alienated everyone, even Allison. A few weeks ago, when you were treating Andie, I thought maybe you were having some sort of epiphany, but no. You go out, buy a Triumph, and now you're back to closing yourself into your office and barking out orders like a crippled Napoleon. Have you even ridden the bike since you bought it?"
"It's a delicate machine. No sense messing it up."
"House." The one word held a thousand others.
"I asked her out."
Wilson's double-take was so broad it was nearly audible. "Wh-what? Who? What are you talking about?"
"I asked Dr. Cameron out. Happy now? For at least one night, I won't be shut away in my house or my office."
The word dumbstruck, definitely applied to Wilson at the moment. Not because he couldn't think of what to say, but because he had too many words fighting to get out. Too many words that would no doubt cause House to lock down and add armed sentries to the walls.
"She said yes?" It was the logical first question.
House tilted his head slightly, one eyebrow raised. Even he was still a little surprised. "Yes, she did."
Wilson was silent for a minute. He was weighing his options. Last time, he'd given advice. How much of it had been taken, he'd probably never know, but the outcome had been less than happily-ever-after… not that such a thing would ever be possible with House.
"Well good." They were the only words that were both supportive, yet non-pushy.
"That's it?"
"If you want condoms, you know where to find them."