I'm really pleased that this story received such a warm reception, especially given its slightly uncommon second-person POV. Here is the next part, which I hope you all enjoy. As to questions regarding my health… I am currently still home on a short term disability while I recuperate from surgery, and feeling a bit better every day!
II.
You'd both agreed that telling anyone about your relationship would be a bad idea. You didn't even like to call it a relationship, but it sounded better than affair and after three months you were clearly past the one-night-stand moniker. Still, you weren't exactly dating either, because dating implied going out and for the most part the two of you spent all of your time together at your apartment.
You didn't even tell Wilson, but that's as much force of habit as vow of silence. He's your best friend, but that doesn't mean you tell him everything… or even anything, unless it's to your advantage. You briefly thought that you should feel guilty for keeping it from him after all his persistent nudges and hints and outright statements about you and Cameron. Then again, he kept his little romance with his patient a secret, so maybe this made you even. You doubted that he'd see it that way when it eventually came out.
So three months after that first kiss, and you were the one who was sick of the secrecy. The irony was like a swift kick in the jewels.
Her reasons for wanting to keep things quiet were rational and reasonable. You might not care about your reputation, but she worried about hers. And who were you kidding? A relationship with her could only improve your reputation. She, on the other hand, still lived in the shadow of that one ill-conceived, drugged-out night with Chase.
You never told her, and you never will, but you wanted to rip his head off and pull his spine out through his neck when you found out he'd slept with her while she was high. You'd taken the path of macho posturing to cover what you were really thinking. You hadn't wanted to admit for even a nanosecond that maybe if you'd shown the slightest bit of concern, maybe offered to take her out for a drink yourself, or hell, just refrained from being a complete asshole, then maybe she wouldn't have felt the need to spread her wings and fly the chemically induced skyways.
That was all in the past, but clearly she still thought about it because she cited it as one of the reasons for keeping silent. She didn't want to be known as the whore of PPTH, which was a pretty reasonable request. You thought that part of it was also that she didn't want the looks of pity to be directed her way when this thing between you inevitably ended. You weren't sure why, but it pissed you off to think that she was already expecting that and then you reminded yourself that you were the one foisting that thought off on her when she hadn't said anything of the sort.
At first you readily agreed with her plan to keep things secret ,so it irritated you that you were the one to rethink the arrangement. It wasn't as if you wanted to shout the news from the rooftop. Hell no. You were just sick of having to tip-toe around the situation. Just that morning you caught yourself asking her if she was in the mood for Chinese and then you noticed that Mason, your resident neurologist, was in the corner fixing himself a cup of coffee. You had to cover with a quip about being hungry half an hour after eating it and then telling her to go check and see if your patient had any appetite problems.
You thought about asking Wilson for advice, but that would entail telling him what's been going on for the past three months, and you weren't in the mood to see his face light up like a pre-teen schoolgirl's or to hear him whine because you didn't tell him sooner.
Cameron walked in just as you were about to finish the final level of your game and before you'd formed any response to the words you knew were going to come from her mouth.
"Nice save with Mason," she said with one hand on her hip and sarcasm on her tongue. Okay, that wasn't exactly what you thought she was going to say. "If you aren't careful, everyone's going to find out." Ah, yes, that's more like it.
So what was there to say? You're sorry? You don't care who knows? You're tired of worrying about being caught playing grab-ass in the lab?
"Wasn't thinking," is what you muttered while beginning to feel some resentment that she put you in this position.
"We promised. Remember?" As if you could forget.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Necessary discretion. Professional demeanor. I've heard the speech."
She looked surprised at your grumpiness. "What? I thought you were thrilled that I didn't announce our relationship status through the hospital PA system. You sure as hell didn't want anyone to know last time."
"Last time I expected it to be one damn date and I didn't want to get crap about it."
She looked annoyed and offended in equal measure. That's how West found you when he came in to give you some lab results.
"Am I interrupting?" he asked, as if it wasn't obvious.
"As a matter of fact you are," you said forcefully, stabbing your cane down onto the floor and rising from your chair. "Cameron and I are having a lover's quarrel, so if you could give us fifteen minutes of peace, that'd be great. Of course if the lab results are urgent, you shouldn't be asking if you're interrupting, you should just be shoving them at me."
West looked from you to Cameron and back again, and then he just dropped the lab papers on your desk and started backing away. You weren't sure if he believed you or not, but he definitely looked suspicious. Maybe the rumor mill had already been hard at work.
"No. Nothing urgent," was his response as he reached for the door.
"Good," you shouted after him. "And remember to tell everyone that we've been screwing for three months. Wouldn't want to spread false information."
Cameron's eyes appeared to have turned to ice and her tiny fists were balled up inside her pockets but you could still see them outlined in the crisp white of her lab coat. You could count the knuckles if you wanted to.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked, and you're surprised that she's so angry.
You never thought about her being angry because it so rarely happened. Upset, frustrated, annoyed, exasperated? Yes. Angry? No. You could probably count the instances of true anger on one hand and now this is upping the number.
"I'm clearing the air," you said and then thought that perhaps flippant wasn't quite the right tone to take with her.
"You know it's going to be all over the hospital in half an hour."
"Probably sooner."
"And you don't care at all."
"Why should I?"
"Why should you? Why should you?" she started getting louder and you wondered if Wilson could hear her voice carrying through the open door and across your connected balconies.
"Maybe because I didn't want everyone to find out yet. Especially like this! Maybe it doesn't bother you, but I don't feel like having my professionalism questioned."
"Why didn't it bother you three years ago when you first bribed that date out of me?" you countered, and that shut her up for a second.
She started looking upset and you hated that look. You remembered when you used to be immune to it.
"I was a lot younger then."
"Three years, to be exact," you said. "Come on, Cameron. Do you honestly believe that no one's suspected anything? I guarantee you that people have been making bets since you first agreed to stay past your fellowship."
Her lips pressed together and she just shook her head. Never a good sign.
"So how much did you win?" she asked and you had to admit that stung.
Your face must have shown it because hers softened slightly.
"We're consenting adults," you said reasonably, and it was amazing that suddenly you were the reasonable one. "Two weeks from now, we'll be old news, and the hospital will be buzzing about whether that ass Harrison had hairplugs put in. The answer is yes, by the way."
You tried to lighten things up, but it wasn't really in your nature to be consoling and you were fairly certain that you were doing a poor job of it. That just made you pissed off that you were even trying. Why had you gotten into this relationship in the first place? You must have been temporarily insane. Oh, wait, it was the near lap-dance she gave you in your office. That was what had snared you. Goodie. That made it all her fault.
You weren't surprised when she pulled her hands out of her pockets and crossed her arms. It was her classic protective stance.
"Our patient is stable and I'm sure West's lab results are going to confirm our diagnosis of hemolytic anemia. I'm going home."
You didn't have to ask which home she meant and you sat down and turned your game back on while she walked out.
Maybe it was the hospital grapevine, or maybe Wilson had heard you fighting, but it only took fifteen minutes for him to appear in your doorway looking aggrieved.
"You and Cameron?" he asked. "And you didn't tell me?"
Yes, there it was, that wounded puppy look, barely covering an undercurrent of excitement.
You tried to stop him from going on, but short of walking out, it was clear that wasn't going to happen. Instead you were forced to listen to him giving you relationship advice for half an hour. At one point you commented that you might as well be taking sailing advice from Captain Ahab, but that didn't stop him. You had to admit that listening to him talk was better than sitting there alone and listening to your internal monologue.
When he thought he'd convinced you to drive to her place and patch things up, he gave you a pat on the shoulder (when was the last time he'd done that?) and finally left you alone. It was after five, the hemolytic anemia was confirmed and you thrust your arms into your biker jacket and headed for the elevators. Then you got on your bike and headed straight to your place where a large bottle of scotch was waiting for you.
Six hours passed and you were definitely drunk when you called her at one a.m. and she definitely didn't sound amused.
"It's one in the morning," she said and that tired sound in her voice was more than just lack of sleep.
"Wilson thinks we should make up."
"Wilson didn't just have you humiliate him and break his trust."
"Oh please. I humiliate him on a weekly basis and the fact that he had to hear about us from his nurse is proof that I've broken his trust too."
"Goodnight, Greg," she said just before she hung up, and you considered that perhaps antagonizing her wasn't the best tactic, but at least she was still calling you Greg.
If not for the alcohol, you never would have called her. You would have sat around feeling bitter and sorry for yourself and blaming her for her own troubles. You certainly wouldn't have called her a second time.
"Don't hang up."
"I'm trying to sleep."
"If you were really trying to sleep, you would have let the machine pick up." Surprisingly, even drunk, your logical mind worked well.
"Fine. What did you want to tell me?"
"I dunno."
If rolling eyes made a sound, you know you would have been able to hear hers.
"Goodnight--"
"I'm sorry." You cut her off with those two words. "Is that better?"
"It's only better if you mean it."
"Hell no, I don't mean it!" you exclaimed. "It was an accident, but I was sick of the cloak and dagger crap. I'm too old for that." And even with all the alcohol swirling in your system you were feeling particularly ancient.
"Well maybe telling me that would have been better than announcing our relationship status to the whole fourth floor," she told you flatly. "I'm going to sleep now. Don't call back."
She hung up again and you poured yourself another drink.
Half an hour later, you were sitting at your piano with one arm draped forward across the top, hand curled around your drink. The ice was making the glass sweat and it dripped onto a pile of sheet music. With your other hand you were playing the treble clef part of a Mozart sonata, except you missed every third note and it sounded more like an avant garde invention.
When the phone rang, you were surprised but you didn't consider letting the machine get it.
"I know you're not sorry, but do you even care that I'm upset?"
There it was. Your chance to end this. One snide remark and she'd hang up, and wouldn't call back. You'd be forced to interview new immunologists, but you'd done that before and it wasn't so bad.
Later, you'd blame the alcohol for your response, even though it was the truth.
"Yes," you said, the word coming out slowly and dragging its 's'.
"Why didn't you just tell me that you weren't happy?"
It was a stupid question and you thought she should have known better. Why would you have told her anything like that? You didn't talk about feelings and the two of you didn't discuss your relationship. You skirted neatly around anything that even presumed to define it. You ate together, you watched television together, you talked about everything except anything personal, and you slept together. Sometimes that word wasn't just a euphemism for sex and you just fell into bed beside one another and went to sleep. You always told yourself it was easier than thinking of an excuse to make her leave.
"Happy's a relative term," you told her, realizing even as you said it that for you, the past months actually had been happier than you'd expected. You'd never thought of happiness just being contentment and relative peace
"So is this it, then?"
Even in your intoxicated state you knew what she was asking. You were less surprised by her question than by your answer.
"No. I'm more stubborn than that, and it would be pretty stupid to call it quits now that everyone knows our dirty little secret."
"I've been happy," she said suddenly, as if in answer to your earlier statement. Apparently it was just something she wanted to let you know.
She was funny that way; always making random comments and statements and whether or not she was trying to judge your reaction to them or just making sure you knew what she was thinking, you could never tell. Maybe she felt the need to make up for your reticence.
"Yeah?" was your less than intelligent reply.
"Yeah."
"Not happy enough to spread the joy to your coworkers though."
"Involving other people didn't seem to do me any favors last time," she said, and there was the crux of the matter.
"Long time ago," you muttered, and you wished you hadn't had that last drink because alcohol always loosened your tongue. "I was an asshole."
"I thought I knew you so well I could make you tell me what I wanted to hear," was her admission.
"Whaddaya wanna hear now?"
"Nothing," she said but you knew she was lying.
"No psychoanalyzing each other this time," you said.
"I think we're past that."
"Yeah. The great sex probably made all that Freud bullshit irrelevant."
She laughed then and the fact that it made you relieved also made you want to hit something, because feeling something for her – really feeling something – had never been part of your plan. But then again, you'd never really had a plan.
"You coming over?" you asked her.
"It's two a.m."
"You coming over?"
"I suppose since everyone knows, it would be incredibly stupid to end things now," she said, repeating your earlier statement.
"I thought we'd moved past that too. We agreed that nothing's ending. Now, back to my question."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," she said, and hung up before you could make a snarky reply.
Somehow it made you feel better to think that she didn't sleep very well without you anymore, either. You thought about how you were always embarrassed to wake up tangled in her arms, and about the way she usually skittered away from you after her eyes opened. Neither of you had wanted to admit to needing the other. You wondered how long that was going to last. Your first fight and things weren't ending. You were surprised. You were happy.
