Always Me
by adrift for fanfiction (dot) net
"A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on."
(--Carl Sandburg)
A/N: Thanks for the reviews, but I need more! I give you the next installment, so please enjoy. Oh, and the next chapter of 'Reluctance' is coming soon, don't worry.
My pager beeps while I'm eating lunch all by myself in the courtyard; a new case. I toss my uneaten apple into the trash and wipe the last remnants of tears from my eyes.
The patient is eight months pregnant and suffering from severe headaches and hallucinations.
House only takes this because he's bored (we all know it). He drills us for a diagnosis, and I am unusually quiet. He notices this.
"Dr. Cameron! Differential diagnosis?" he fixes those horrible blue eyes on me and I freeze.
"Ah…" I can't see past the tears that blur my vision.
He stares some more and I avoid his gaze, a habitual practice. When his pager goes off, I sigh inwardly. Saved by the bell, literally.
House reads the message and frowns, clipping the device back onto his belt. He jerks his head towards the door.
"Our patient's in labor," he says grimly.
Two hours later, the lifeless body of a teenage mother lies on the operating table. We never did find out what was wrong with her.
I watch through the glass window of the nursery as the baby, born one month too early, sleeps soundly in her bassinet.
The maternity ward is dark and empty, save for a few on-duty nurses. I tiptoe through the nursery door, steps light on the tile floor. Immediately the warm milky scent of babies reaches my nose. I inhale, remembering and savoring the warmth of it all.
Baby Girl Johnson is the last in the row. She looks so small, face scrunched up in sleep, the soft fluorescent light casting a soft glow over her sleeping form. A pink hat covers her head, which is already dusted with dark brown hair. Matching pink booties, too big for her premature feet, complete the picture.
My hand involuntarily reaches out to touch the curve of her rosy cheek. Baby Girl Johnson opens her eyes and looks at me, the clear blue spheres huge and round.
I stare down at her, and it's the first time in forever that I've felt so connected to another human being.
A nurse shuffles in, a guilty look on her face, as if she's interrupting something. I look up and smile in greeting, beckoning her forward. A bottle of formula is in her hand, and without her speaking, I know it's for Baby Girl Johnson.
"Would you like to feed her?" the nurse asks me.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. She hands me the bottle and leaves without a look over her shoulder. I silently praise the understanding people.
There's a rocking chair in the corner of the room. I set the bottle on the table beside it, returning for the baby. Her small body is warm against my breast, and as I settle us in the chair, she squirms in my arms.
"You're a fighter, aren't you?" I murmur.
She yawns, little mouth opening wide, and I remember how long it's been since I've held a baby. I put the bottle to her mouth and I cry.
I cry for her, motherless and alone already, so purely innocent, so perfect. I cry for another perfect baby, Baby Girl Cameron. She lived long enough to get a real name; Olivia.
The roof is my haven. I can see Princeton in the night, brightly lit. I wish I could see the stars.
I lean on the wall, head resting on my elbows, and stare across the vast city. I feel immeasurable against its size, but more often than not it's a relief to be forgotten for awhile.
Footsteps sound on the stairs and the creaking of the door follows. I know someone is behind me, but I don't turn to see who (the voice tells me).
"Allison," he says with a hint of question.
I turn my head and he steps forward beside me.
"Dr. Wilson," I reply in greeting, sticking to formality.
We're silent for a long time, simply standing side-by-side, watching as the moon rises.
"Rough day?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
"You have no idea," I say.
He sets something in front of me and turns to leave. It's a cup of coffee from Starbucks (the only Starbucks around is three blocks from the hospital). I take a sip.
He lays a hand on my shoulder, warm and strong. The briefest squeeze and it's gone, along with Wilson.
I look at my coffee, take another sip, and fling it off the roof into the night.