Hey everyone! Sorry for the lateness of the update, but I've been starved for inspiration where this story is concerned. Actually, no, I've got all kinds of inspiration. There are so many plot twists I want to write. The problem with plot twists is that you have to have a plot to twist and I haven't exactly decided what my objective is. I personally, am usually against stories that are all about romance for the sake of romance, so I don't want to write a story in which that's the only conflict. I considered trying to turn House 'nice,' giving him amnesia, or some other impairing defect, but I'm afraid that'll be too much of a cliche. As it is, I plan to continue writing what comes at the time to mind. This will undoubtedly make the writing a little more flimsy than most would like, but as soon as I'm finished with the story, I plan to go right back over it and do a little 'cleaning'. Thanks for the patience and as always, reviews and feedback of any kind are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Don't sue. For the love of God, don't sue.
The phone rang once. The occupants of the sparsely furnished room stirred in their sleep, mussing the bedspread in their fight against wakefulness. The woman buried her face into the mans cotton t-shirt, but unfortunately the action did little to stop the incessant alarm of the telephone (though it was decidedly adorable.)
The female, after a brief struggle, (during which her husband fell again into an easy sleep) slowly opened her eyes; glaring at the electronic device responsible for her abrupt wake-up call.
She glanced towards her significant other who was happily drooling on his pillow. Her eyes narrowed in an expression akin to spite, momentarily resolved to wake him for the sake of revenge, before they softened dramatically. He was rather cute when unconscious.
She sighed, but the action's frustration was negated by the fond smile crossing her lips. She ruffled her already unruly dark hair, indulging in a brief yawn before reaching towards the phone in a unquestionably sluggish manner.
Half-way there, agreeably enough, the answering machine picked up the call. The woman's own voice, distorted by machinery, came to the fore giving a brief introduction into the workings of an answering machine before suggesting to the caller that they should, in fact, leave a message. Then the beep sounded.
"Hey, it's Lydia. Pick up, please! There's somethin' goin' down at the hospital."
He stared at the door for a while, half sure he should go after her. He'd even started to stand, putting on a pair of wrinkled jeans before he sighed, flopping down on the bed again. He looked over to his wife's side of the mattress, the side of the bed that she should be sleeping in right now.
A bitter smile ghosted across his face. Instead, she was off doing who knows what without saying a word to him. Typical Stacy. She'd always had an independent streak a mile long. He'd fallen in love with her headstrong nature when he was younger, but as he grew older it seemed to be less exciting and more frustrating.
His hand stretched out across the empty side of the bed, trying in vain to capture the warmth his partner had left behind. How many times had this happened? How many times had he gone after her worried and scared? How many times had he stayed up waiting for her? How many times had he been criticized for not giving her enough freedom?
Enough was enough, this time he would let her have her precious independence. He'd just go back to his blissful dreams without so much as a thought to her well-being. He stubbornly stuck out his chin, this time, he resolved, he wouldn't worry in the least, and yet . . . He still tossed a wary glance at the door.
Lisa Cuddy smiled ever so slightly, a sign of the greatest enjoyment. Her House fears had been temporarily relieved by the sound of Wilson's voice. He'd called to check in, after his shift, just to tell her that everything was fine. Obviously he knew her well.
He'd chatted for a while, about House's latest antics (concerning a patient in a sinfully short skirt) and about the various gossip floating around, leaving no detail unreviewed. It had relieved her. The queasy nagging sense of wrongness had been replaced by a touch of jealousy and more than a bit of hope. Maybe House was finally growing up. Maybe she had something to do with it.
She was content, a rare thing in such a hectic life. Later, she'd realize how very nervous her oncologist friend had sounded. Later, she'd realize how very familiar the background noises had been, but for now, she'd remain in her impenetrable bubble of denial. The bubble she had built.
Yes, Lisa Cuddy was enjoying herself, blissfully unaware of the events taking place outside of her favorite sitcoms. She'd soon surface to a most desperate reality, but on this night, for a time, she was at peace.
Wilson set down the phone, overwhelmed by mixed feelings of guilt and relief. Cuddy didn't know, didn't suspect a thing. Such a fact could soon change, considering who the woman was, but hopefully, by the time she found out what had happened House would already be well on his way to recovery.
James fidgeted with his clothing, straightening his collar unnecessarily. He may not of been able to contact House's parents, but he'd gained some amount of solace in giving Cuddy a fair amount of peace. Not to mention, he hadn't violated any of his friend's rules in the process, a fact witch filled him with an understandable amount of pride.
He made his way back to the cafeteria, determined to avoid looking at his best friend's prone body. He wouldn't look at House that way. He couldn't. Seeing the stubborn pessimist so very weak seemed to zap his own will to fight.
He couldn't afford that now. Couldn't afford to be a sobbing mess. Couldn't afford to loose his cool. Couldn't afford to make a mistake, because that would mean he'd failed House.
It would mean years of trust were easily broken. It'd mean House couldn't depend on him after all they'd been through. Did Wilson think he could live in any manner of normalcy without House there? No. No, he didn't. Why? It was probably because the oncologist relied so heavily on his friend for entertainment, but he wasn't ready to admit that just now.
It'd mean that House was his everything. That he'd lost his ability to think and function without him. Pathetic, that's probably what the cynic would say. He'd say that Wilson was just holding on so desperately to him because he needed to feel needed and House needed him most of all. In different words of course. More realistic, less emotional. That was House.
In a way, that was James too. He wasn't sure if it was his association with the diagnostician, some desperate facet of his personality, or years of having to be the bearer of bad news, but he'd grown detached. He felt, oh he felt, but it was no longer as if he was in the moment. Some small part of himself always seemed to be standing from a distance, untouched. His inner House.
As he sat down to a lack luster meal in an empty hospital room, he wasn't sure if he was thankful for that. On the one hand, besides a few ripples of shock, he'd already adjusted and accepted House's condition. On the other, House could die and he was wondering how he would feel afterwards. Way to prioritize.
For a second he rethought his decision to keep the doctor's parents and pupils out of the loop, but ultimately decided it was for the best. What would they do if they were here? Some would cry, some would yell, but it wouldn't help anyone.
If House got better, than his comrades would be saved a lot of grief and guilt. If he didn't, well, than the other's could comfort themselves with the false belief that if they had been notified they could've done something to help the miserable man.
They'd hate him, probably, but maybe that's what he wanted. He'd always had a masochistic streak. If House died then having other's blame him would make him feel as if some type of justice was served. They'd feel better too, the grief stricken, having someone to fault without dragging a dead man's name through the mud. It was a win-win.
He wasn't in the right mind frame to think the situation through properly, he realized that. Maybe after the smoke cleared, regardless of the outcome, he'd regret depriving people of their final goodbyes, but now, his reasoning made sense. He was in no hurry to wonder about it any further.
He was in no hurry to wonder about it at all. It inevitably circled back continually to one conclusion. If House died, inevitably, so would some part of Wilson. Even if the errant doctor did survive, the dynamics of their relationship would be changed irrevocably. House was no longer some vague idea of truthful greatness, he was real, he was human, and he was mortal. For some reason, this idea scared Wilson the most.
Cameron had always wanted children. It had seemed like the natural conclusion to her perfect fairy tale happy ending. A loving family. She also wouldn't settle for just a few kids, she'd wanted a whole heard. Past tense.
Growing up, she'd only had an older brother who still considered her a 'brat'. In the lonelier times when she had nowhere to go and nothing to do she often wished for a younger sibling. A younger sister.
Maybe she'd look like her. Maybe she'd have the same dark hair in ribbons and curls and an obsession with singing old folk tunes off-key. Maybe she'd idolize her older sister, maybe she'd hate her. Regardless, it seemed perfect. A sister was someone who you couldn't ever get away from.
Someone who could look up to her as she looked up to her big brother. Someone to teach things and someone to share secrets with. It was an idealistic version of a relationship, she knew, but she'd always been envious of those who came from large families.
Not wanting to deprive her own offspring of that deeply rooted support system she'd long felt had been missing in her own upbringing, she'd resolved just to have several children close together. It had seemed so very simple. Past tense.
She was a doctor, she knew the mechanics of labor. She knew it was painful. She knew it was strenuous, but reading about it in textbooks and actually seeing it were two totally different things. Seeing her patient, Marie Thomas, give birth to a squealing purple imp had effectively sterilized her.
After it was all over, the mother had held her purple imp in her arms and claimed 'it was all worth it'. Yeah, right. She still wanted her fairytale ending and she still wanted the big family, but now she would be more than happy to adopt. Thrilled, even. She'd beg if necessary.
She'd staggered out of the maternity ward in relief and had no plans of making a second trip there anytime soon. Seeing something so horrific had ruined her plans to go crash at home, so she was now stuck at the hospital.
There wasn't much to do, but the cafeteria was open to the staff. She had no appetite, of course, but a soothing cup of hot coffee would probably help her nerves. She wasn't exactly sure why the whole experience had affected her so much.
The more she thought about it the more she realized that it had shattered her idealistic view of parenting. Those people had nothing to look forward to. Their little imp would grow up too fast with too many problems. She'd date a biker and get miscellanies piercing for no reason.
She'd probably end up pregnant before she hit eighteen and drop out of highschool. Statistically speaking, the proud parents that now rejoiced over their 'bundle of joy' had doomed their own offspring.
Opening the swinging door with barely restrained fatigue, the brunette sighed. Within a few hours, her entire outlook on life had been changed, further shattering her optimism. In this line of work, one had to be realistic and realistically she'd never remarry. She couldn't love someone like she once had. . . . and it seemed she had little reason too marry for the sake of a children alone.
The woman continued inside, absentmindedly picking up a tray full of stale finger sandwiches. The hospital's cafeteria stayed open for staff 24/7, but that didn't mean that the food was of any real quality. At this time of night, expecting much else besides a few unwanted scraps and discarded processed foods was setting yourself up for disappointment.
Thankfully, the famished Cameron had enough disappointment to last a lifetime and would not force any on herself unnecessarily. She was more than happy to accept the cheese-stuffed pieces of bread . That's not to say she wouldn't prefer something better, but in true Allison Cameron fashion she couldn't complain.
Setting her tray down on a nearby table, she preceded to stuff her face. You'd think after the traumatizing experience she'd just witnessed, she'd be queasy, but you'd think wrong. Yes, originally the thought of anything solid had turned her stomach, but after the first bite her survival instincts kicked in and she was suddenly famished. She'd finished her tray in record time.
After dumping the remainder of her food in the trash, she decided she'd just casually hang around the cafeteria hoping that someone she knew also caught the case of the munchies. Bad idea. For one, no one else came in and her lonely condition attracted the pity of nearby janitors and for another, she was tired, really tired.
Not the, ' I could use a nap' tired, either, the 'I probably shouldn't drive' zombiefied tired that only a select few overworked individuals ever had the bad luck to experience. Her eyes were open and her body still moved, but no form of thought process was behind any of her actions. It was like some instinctual creature had taken control over her nervous system and had only one desire in mind; a bed.
She wandered the hallways in this dazed state and a part of her was even surprised by the lack of care her colleagues seemed to have for her own well being. That train of thought was snuffed out quickly. She looked into a few rooms to see if their were any beds open, but it seemed the hospital was packed full. That left only one option; the coma-ward.
That wasn't its real name, but it was the slang term doctors often used for the area of the hospital inhabited by long term care patients in a persistent vegetative state; the coma ward. It really was a lovely place. Exhausted interns and experienced slackers alike could come to this place and steal a few z's undisturbed in one of the many visitor's chairs.
It was uncomfortable, but sleep was a truly precious thing for one in the medical profession. With any luck, a patient died and left a bed behind for a certain fatigued physician. Cameron's conscience, ever alert, slapped her baser urges good for that thought. It was wrong to wish people were dead, especially if it was purely for your own selfish causes, even if the veg-heads were just wasting away and taking up valuable space that could be used to help those who could still be helped. Bad Cameron!
Cameron finally came to the 'wing' and peeked her head in the first door. There was no one there, besides a coma-guy and . . . an empty bed. The woman barely contained a squeal of joy. Judging by the sparse furnishings and surprising lack of fresh flowers and cards, this guy's family hadn't visited in a while.
It was sad, but it did work to Cameron's advantage. She could sleep there the rest of the night and no one would be the wiser. In fact, ever prepared, Cameron had brought along some work clothes in her bag . . . . which she'd left in the car, but if all went well she'd have plenty of time to change before duty called.
She made her way to the bed, ready to collapse. Some small part of her feared not waking up in time, but the larger part of her consciousness was concerned with rest. As she turned down the covers and prepared for a slice of heaven served on starchy white sheets, her hand was stilled by one word.
"Cameron?"
Feel encouraged to review. I've decided to start taking votes on the pairing, so if you'd like to request one, now's the time. Cameron/House and Wilson/House are currently tied, with one vote. No other pairings have yet to be suggested, but all of them are welcome. Once again, thanks for the patience.