A/N -
Thanks for the kind reviews! I hope you continue to enjoy this one!
Disclaimer – I own nothing but my OC, and it's debatable if I own her at all. She's like a cat, she makes you think that you own her, until you realize that it's the other way around...
~ Consciousness ~
Greg House felt warm. Hot in fact. I must have a fever, he thought. He didn't want to open his eyes. At the moment, he was blissfully pain free, and he feared that once he opened his eyes, he'd see the damage. Then the pain would begin. If he couldn't see it, he couldn't feel it.
You need to get up. Where had that come from? Was he alone? Was that a thought he had. He didn't want to move. Moving would hurt. No, it won't. You'll be fine. If he could gasp he would. You can. Just open your eyes. You'll see.
He reluctantly did as he was told, more out of curiosity than anything. When he did open them, he found himself laying down, fully clothed. His clothes were dry, and other than a few residual aches and pains, he felt fine. The accident must not have been as bad as I thought, he wondered. He heard a quiet snickering sound, and he sat up, looking around.
Across the room, leaning up against the wall, was the girl he had saw before the accident. Her emerald green eyes burned as if from an inner flame, and this close, he could see the glint of silver rings in her eyebrow, nose, ears, and lip. He idly wondered what else was pierced.
"Wouldn't you like to know," her green painted lips twisted up into a teasing smirk. He was momentarily stunned, then, he realized, he must have said that aloud. The girl arched a pierced eyebrow in a questioning manner, but she didn't say anything. He stared at her, wondering how old she was. She had a heart shaped face, and a cupid's bow mouth. Her lipstick was the same shade of emerald as her eyes, and her eye shadow matched. Her eyebrows were blond, a stark contrast to the black and green dye job. Her straight hair was cut off at the chin, and her bangs were held back by plastic green barrettes. Her black tights had strategically placed tears.
She looked like a pixie from hell.
"For all you know, I am," she told him. He frowned at her, wondering if he had really spoke aloud that time. He felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he suppressed a shiver. Something was going on, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. Probably just an after effect from the accident, he told himself, trying to shake of the feeling. He swore he heard her snort a response, but when he turned to give her a dirty look, she was gone.
He sat up quickly, twisting his head around back and forth. He must have suffered a head injury in the wreck. Yeah, that was it. His heart rate had sky rocketed, and he could feel his blood rush through his ears. He looked around the room, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. As he felt his pulse slow, he was surprised at where he was. He had been stretched out on an exam table in one of the Clinic's exam rooms.
He stared at where the emo punk wanna be had been sitting. It was one of the stainless steel counters in the room, just below the cabinets where they stored the gauze and other medical supplies. He noticed that steam was rising from the spot where she had sat. Curious, he swung his legs over the table, sitting up completely.
He expected to be in pain, but he wasn't. Not at all. Even the consistent throb had waned, but it hadn't disappeared. "Morphine," he thought to himself, and again, he heard her snicker.. He frowned, swinging his legs over the edge of the paper covered table. He inspected his arms and legs, and he patted his chest. No torn clothing, no blood. No nothing. Frowning, he hopped off the table. He rummaged through the drawers in the exam room, but he couldn't find a mirror. He rubbed his face with his hands, sighing deeply. It wasn't of any matter. He needed to figure out what was going on.
He opened the door to the exam room, and he found people milling about in the Clinic. The nurses all had subdued looks on their faces, and some of the doctors did too. The patients in the Clinic wore there usual looks of pain and discomfort. He snorted, trying to figure out why he had been taken to the Clinic, then shrugged, deciding to head up to his office. Maybe his minions could give him some answers.
He headed over to the elevator, and he hit the up button with the rubber end of his cane. He waited, watching the lights above him ding. He leaned on his cane, still wondering how he managed to scrape out of that accident uninjured. He rubbed the back of his head, and the thought came to him; maybe he hadn't been in an accident at all. Maybe he had fallen asleep in the Clinic, and that's why he was there.
The elevator's big double doors opened, and he slipped into them. There were a few other doctors in the tiny space, but they just ignored him, like they always did. He twisted his face up into a familiar scowl, warning them to keep their distance, and not to talk to him.
"Do you like knowing that they're afraid of you?" His head whipped around, and there, his green friend stood, standing in a back corner of the elevator. The other doctors ignored the teen punk wannabe, keeping their eyes forward. Her too thin arms were folded across her body, but the body language wasn't projecting a lack of confidence, quite the contrary. She was challenging him.
"Who are you?" he asked, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice. That seemed to amuse her, and her lips curled into a brighter smirk. He could feel his teeth gritting together, as if he knew that this girl knew much more than she carried on.
And besides, what was up the the green and black fetish.
"You don't like it?" Her heavily mascaraed eyes widened, but the smirk never left her lips. Before waiting for his answer, she shrugged, nonchalantly. "I like green. It's the color of growth, of new life," her eyes burned into his. "And it's also the color of of envy, and jealousy.
"What are you, some kind of teenage philosopher? God help us, we don't need another one," he spit out, irritated at her presence. "Now, who the hell are you?"
She tilted her head, obviously pondering the question. "Elysa. You may call me Elysa."
"Elysa?" he repeated, incredulous. "You cannot be serious! What the hell is with you kids and all these friggin' goth and emo names. I bet your real name is Samantha, or Jessica, or something All-American and normal." He rolled his eyes, showing her what he thought of the name.
"I thought you said 'normal's over-rated,'" she said, keeping her infuriatingly calm, placid demeanor. He grunted, she was obviously hard to ruffle.
"No, I said 'humanity's overrated.'" he snarked back, sneering. She just smiled, and that made his sneer deepen. After a few strained seconds, he blurted out, "Who the hell are you?"
She shrugged, "I'm..."
"I know your name!" he cut her off. "I mean, around here, I've never seen you before! Why the hell are you haunting me!"
Her knowing smirk widened. "I believe this is your floor," she told him, serenely, unfolding her arms to gesture towards the opening door. He turned around to exit, and several of the other occupants of the elevator exited with him. He glanced back to answer the teen, and once again, she was gone.
He rubbed his face nervously with his hands. Maybe he was having another delusion, though why his subconscious would pick an emo, anorexic teenager as the guide to his Id, he didn't have a clue. He turned back to the exit, and she was standing in front of him, the knowing smirk she seemed to wear giving him even more discomfort. "Are you even real?" he muttered, suddenly self conscious. He glanced around, wondering if the other doctors walking down the hallway saw him talking to a blank wall. Not that he cared, but...
"I'm always here, as for real, that's up for interpretation." He froze in place, just outside of his office doors, and he slowly turned towards her. Since last summer, it had been his deepest fear; to have his subconscious rebel and take over again. To see and hear things that just weren't there.
He swallowed, and with great trepidation, he asked, "what are you." His voice was hoarse and shaky; he didn't want her to answer that question. With bright emerald eyes fixed on him, she tilted her head. Then, she nodded at the room next to his office. He walked up to the glass, and he peered inside.
His team sat at the table, all looking subdued and in shock. Foreman had his arm around Thirteen, who was staring at the table, tears in her eyes. Chase sat back, a mixed expression of disbelief and shock etched on his overly handsome features. Taub was slumped across from the head of the table, where House usually sat.
He reached out to grab the door handle, to ask his team what had happened, and his hand passed through it.
He jumped halfway across the hallway. "You have to concentrate," the girl informed him, boredom filling her voice. He looked up, and she was inspecting her black and green (go figure) fingernails. She looked up at him, and her voice was indifferent. "You have to concentrate to manipulate items on the physical plane." She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Something in his mind clicked. He thought back, to the accident. How he wasn't injured. How his clothes were intact. How his leg didn't hurt. He staggered back, dropping to one knee. He hadn't seen the light on the elevator up arrow light up when he thought he pressed it with his cane. His breathing became ragged and he felt a pressure in his chest. But if he was...
"You can still feel emotional pain." He looked up, and he found her eyes burning into his. "You're in between planes," she told him, the calmness of her voice laced with a touch of compassion. "You're stuck, until you can move on."
He licked his too dry lips. He had a good grasp of what was going on. He was dreaming, or in a drug induced coma. That was it. That HAD to be it. Nothing after life existed.
"And the bus from two years ago? What you saw when you shoved the knife into the wall socket? What about when you arrested after your initial surgery to restore blood flow in your leg?" His eyes widened even more at her as fell backward, still in shock. She sat down beside him, her presence warm. "You spend a lot of time preaching that something doesn't exist, when you've seen it for yourself."
He shook his head. "But those were all chemical reactions caused by the body dying," he mumbled.
She rolled her eyes. "Sometimes, things don't have a scientific answer." She spread her hands out wide in front of her. "Sometimes, they just are, without rhyme or reason."
He looked over at her, numb with shock. In a low tone filled with disbelief, he whispered, "I don't believe you." Her eyes flared, and she fixed her fiery stare on him. He could see the inner flames flicker and spark. "Wh...what are you," he breathed shakily, feeling heat radiate from her body. This close, she seemed to shimmer, like the air on a hot summer day.
Her lips curled up in a feral-looking smile. "I'm a djinn."
