A/N: Oh jeebus, I am the most evilest person in the world! I'm sooo sorry I left y'all hanging like that. I am so grateful for all the responses I've gotten; thank you A TON! The positive feedback convinced me to write a second (and final) chapter, so let me know whatcha think. Merry Christmas, everyone::kisses::
It took House exactly two minutes before he could remember how to walk and then he was off. Mentally cursing himself for being such a dumbass, he limped as fast as he could to the parking lot, praying she was still there.
A blast of cool air hit him in the face, and he shivered slightly before scanning the lot. In his peripheral vision, he saw headlights coming his way. His heart leapt to his throat.
"Cameron!" he yelled. House gave up on his cane and hopped to the curb. "Cameron, wait!" She was almost to him. She'd stop. She must've seen him.
Gravel crunched, wind blew, and as Allison Cameron reached him, House's eyes widened where her wheels did not stop turning.
She wasn't going to stop.
As he watched dumbly, Cameron merely slowed and locked eyes with the man she'd come to love. Smiling softly, she gave him a wink before accelerating once more and turning onto the street.
For the second time that night, House found himself watching her go. Only this time, he knew, there was no amount of chasing that would make her stay.
In this world, there is nothing more jarring then waking up in more pain than when you went to sleep. It is perhaps one of the worst feelings to open your eyes and immediately wish to be dead. Your day can be determined by your emotions upon waking up in the morning.
House knew his day was going to suck.
His thigh was throbbing, even more so than usual, and his hangover nearly brought him to his figurative knees. And then there was the odd, tightening feeling in his chest.
Fuckin' Cameron.
He'd stayed outside in the cold for an hour, staring at the pavement and replaying the events in his head:
"How dare you."
"Love."
Kiss.
Gone.
He swallowed a Vicodin for his leg, put on a pot of coffee for his hangover and punched a wall for his heart. Counterproductive, yes, but it helped, in a childish sort of way. House didn't know what the fuck was going on, but he wished it would go away.
Tuesdays, he decided, were worse than Mondays. On Mondays, at least you expect it to suck. But Tuesday was the day that you actually had to deal with all the crap that had inevitably transpired the previous day. Tuesdays blow.
Apparently the weather agreed with his diagnosis; gusts of wind barreled into House as soon as he stepped out of his building. He sighed, pulled his hat lower on his head and walked slowly to the corner to wait for a bus. No way was he riding the bike in the weather. He was dumb, but he wasn't stupid. Paradoxical, but, House figured, given his actions the night before, very accurate.
The wheels of the bus screeched to a halt, aggravating House's hangover further. A woman that looked vaguely like Cameron stepped onto the pavement and gave him a pitying look; he glared in return. An ad on the side of the bus showed a girl laughing in a restaurant. The caption read: "How can you dare pass up a meal at Alfonzo's?" He instantly thought of Cameron's accusations. Groaning, he struggled up the steps and into a seat, its stuffing poking out through a hole in the cushion.
He couldn't stop thinking about her.
Blah.
Tuesdays were definitely worse.
He took it back. Wednesdays were even more awful than Tuesdays. Exactly in the middle of the week and exactly when everyone schedules everything. Something about the security of the middle.
The sixth perspective duckling stomped out of House's office, ripping off the glasses the diagnostician had correctly declared fakes designed to make him look intelligent. Cuddy watched the man storm away before pulling open the glass door and scrutinizing her best doctor.
"That guy has probably collapsed into tears in the elevator and you don't look remotely smug. Should I be alarmed?"
"If he's bawling, it's his own fault," House muttered. "And this is my new 'smug' look. It's very similar to my 'someone kill me now' face."
She took a seat on his couch and picked at her nails. "Interviews that bad?"
"If someone to a machine gun to all these morons, Charles Darwin would breathe a sigh of relief for humanity in his grave."
"How many more applicants do you have?"
House shuffled through the numerous folders spread across his desktop. "Seventeen. Plus a very promising discussion with the man that sells me my newspaper."
"Sounds exciting." He grunted and Cuddy stood to leave. "Just give them a chance," she added. "Hiring someone new doesn't mean you've forgotten Cameron."
House blinked and she was gone.
House was sensing a pattern. Thursdays were somehow even more depressing than any of the previous days. Perhaps it was that he could not stop thinking about what Cuddy had said. Or that he'd actually found a decent hematologist by the third interview of the afternoon, who actually looked unsettlingly like Cameron from behind. Or the steady sheet of sleet that pounded against his windows, waking him up at the crack of eight. Either way, a cloud of gloominess was hovering over him, despite many attempts from both Wilson and Cuddy to cheer him up.
He was seeing her everywhere. Every hand on his shoulder felt like hers, and he'd taken to parking on the street so he didn't have to hear her tires crunching. He was on sensory overload and it was slowly driving him crazy. At first, he'd chalked it up to being a psychosomatic reaction to finding out deep Cameron's feelings for him actually ran. By 7:37 P.M. on Thursday, House had given up on that theory and mulled over the puzzle further. At 9:40, he found himself tossing around the concept of love. He called Wilson at 9:42.
"House, you don't believe in aliens," James sighed. He was lying on his friend's couch, staring at the cracked ceiling while House thought aloud.
"Doesn't mean they don't exist."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "If you insisted I come over so we could debate the existence of spatial life as a reason to explain your obsession with a former employee…can I at least make coffee?"
House resumed banging on the keys of his piano in response.
"At the risk of sounding trite, have you even considered the possibility that you might be pining over lost love?"
"This is not a Shakespearian tragedy, Wilson," he snorted. "I am not pining."
"Fine. Bad choice of words. But you know what I meant."
"I'm not through with aliens yet," House said, plunking out 'I Love You, You Love Me' on the keyboard.
Wilson got up to make the coffee.
He spent Friday in the clinic, avoiding patients and occupying his mind with General Hospital reruns.
Love.
A fly was flitting around his head. House swatted at it and gave up on the portable television. The fly continued to flit, undeterred by the barrage of attacks sent his way. House gave up, and watched it land near his foot.
Love.
So far, Friday was holding steady as the most miserable yet. The first of his new duckies moved into Cameron's old desk. His leg was killing him. He was tired.
And he was in love with her.
It had taken her memorable departure and three torturous days before he gave up the fight and let the feelings flood his body and soak into his heart.
He felt like he was drowning.
She was gone. It didn't matter if he shouted his love from a rooftop, she was still gone.
Better to just deny her existence and move on.
"There is one flaw in your argument," Wilson stated as he pointed his fork towards his friend. "You know where she is. Cameron hasn't disappeared into the fog; she left you a forwarding address, for chrissakes!"
"It was a figurative 'gone,' Jimmy," House muttered.
They were sitting in Alfonzo's, waiting for the waiter to bring them their entrees.
"Oh, shut up!" Wilson was saying. "I knew you were dramatic, but this is ridiculous." He threw down his napkin and motioned for the check. "Here's a tip: either chase after her, or draw yourself a figurative bridge and get the fuck over it! God!"
With that, the oncologist stomped away, leaving House to foot the bill and stew in his own self-pity.
Saturdays. Saturdays were by far the cruelest.
He gave up trying to measure the crappiness of the weekdays about two hours into the trip. It shouldn't be taking two hours to drive from New Jersey to New York. But of course, that was his luck.
House had been stuck behind a green minivan for at least forty miles. The driver was being a menopausal bitch, or she was taking out the stress of parading herself around as a glorified soccer mom on him, but any attempt made to pass was immediately rejected. He was stuck. Behind a Christian, no less, judging by the 'Jesus Loves You, Sinner' bumper sticker. How ironic. A Christian with road rage on a Sunday evening.
House glanced at his watch. 9:45. He figured it would take him another hour to even get into the City, and then there was traffic and parking and actually finding her. Groaning, House mentally kicked himself before laying on the horn once more. Virgin Mary responded with a middle finger stuck out the window.
Bitch.
He'd told himself it was just a quick stop at the store for some more scotch. He'd ended up on the highway. In traffic. Wonderful.
At 11:52, a man with a cane stumped into New York Presbyterian Hospital. Nurse Walker knew this because she had three minutes left in her shift. Hell, her career. She was retiring and moving to Vegas, dammit. In three minutes.
"Where can I find Allison Cameron?" House asked.
Nurse Walker sighed and tore her eyes from the clock. "Sorry? You'll have to speak up."
"I said, where can I find Allison Cameron?"
"Well, there's no need to yell. Spell it, please," she droned. Two minutes.
How does one not know how to spell Cameron? He glared but complied. The nurse's fingers tapped in the letters. Slowly.
"We don't seem to have anyone by that name. Do you know what ward she's in?"
"Immunology. She arrived Tuesday."
"Hmm. There's an Alison Kramer in maternity. Perhaps you muddled the name up?"
"No," he growled, frustrated. "Cameron. Immunology. Tuesday."
"You might try Mercy Hospital. It's right down the street."
"She's not a patient! She's a doctor!"
"I'm sorry, sir. I can't help you anymore. Shift just ended."
House watched incredulously as the nurse shrugged on her jacket and shuffled out the door. No one replaced her at the desk.
"House?"
He looked up at the bank of elevators to his left and to the voice. Her voice.
Cameron's expression was one of shock, confusion and curiosity. She took a step in his direction.
He couldn't move.
"How dare you."
"Love."
Kiss.
Gone.
Images flashed across his brain. Her crying in the chapel. Her lying to Cuddy for him. Her lips on his. His heart clenched the way it had when he'd watched her headlights disappear. His hand pounded like it had when he'd punched the wall. The steady buzz of a fly was drowning out any sound.
And for the first time in his life, he was speechless.
"What are you doing here?" she asked softly. He lifted his eyes to hers. Green. Brows knit. Concern.
His mouth wasn't working. He could only stare.
And then, his hands were on her cheeks, holding them as her kissed her deeply. He felt her fingers in his hair, her body pressed so perfectly against his. House pulled back to examine her, to commit ever freckle to memory. The clock behind her read 12:02.
It made sense that this was happening on a Monday.
Everyone likes Mondays.